Archive of Our Own

Morrell had to fight not to frown, years of training and clinical practice helping her keep any untoward microexpressions off her face.

Stiles wasn’t doing so well. It was obvious in the way he kept fidgeting with the mesh of his lacrosse stick. How his right leg couldn’t stop bouncing.

There was a gauntness to his features that hadn’t been there before.

Not to mention the deeply carved bruises beneath his eyes…

He signed. “I'm fine.” Morrell couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t maintain eye contact. “Yeah, aside from the not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant overwhelming crushing fear that something terrible is about to happen.”

“It's called hyper vigilance.” Morrell paused for a moment. “The persistent feeling of being under threat.”

He looked away, and Morrell wished that she wasn’t bound by her oaths as an emissary. Wished that she could provide comfort to this boy who had already endured so much already. “It's not just a feeling though. It's…it’s like it's a panic attack.”

Amber eyes met hers for just a moment. “You know, I can't even breathe.”

“Like you're drowning?” She asked softly, almost afraid of the answer but knowing what it would be.

Stiles paused, before softly uttering “Yeah.”

Where the hell was her brother? Wasn’t Alan supposed to be helping the Hale pack? Why was he letting this brilliant boy suffer so horribly? Why was he allowing Stiles, a boy who shined so brightly, let his spark burn out?

No…not burn…

To become engulfed and smothered under the deluge…

She couldn’t let that happen. “So, if you're drowning…” She swallowed, “…and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment…what if you choose to not open your mouth, to not let the water in?”

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes.“You do it anyway. It's a reflex.”

“But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in. You have more time, right?”

Stiles scoffed. “Not much time.”

“But more time to fight your way to the surface.” Morrell continued, willing Stiles to understand. Willing him, with every fiber of her being, to keep fighting.

“I guess.” Was the hesitant reply.

“More time to be rescued.” Because she had to believe that if he kept fighting, that someone would rescue him. That his pack would save him.

“More time to be in agonizing pain.” Stiles said, tears in his eyes. “Did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's exploding?”

Morrell breathed in deeply, realizing just how terribly they had handled this. How completely the druids of Beacon Hills had failed this boy. “If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it?”

“What if it just gets worse.” Stiles asked brokenly. “What if it's agony now and then...” He swallowed. “…then it's just hell later on?” He finished in a whisper.

Where was his pack? Where was Scott?

There was a misconception about druids among the denizens of the supernatural world.

Mysterious. Secretive. Elusive. They had gained a reputation as cryptic recluses, as likely to speak in riddles and half-truths then provide an honest answer. And there was some validity to that statement.

Because words held power.

And as entities who’s lives were intertwined with the supernatural, druids understood that better than most.

Deaton chose to acknowledge this truth by saying as little as he possibly could. To hoard away his knowledge and power. To keep his words locked away. Morrell had always believed it was better to refer to the wisdom of those who came before. Their words echoing truth through the ages.

Which is why, when Stiles looked up at her with that broken look in his eyes, she chose the most powerful words she had.“Then think about what Winston Churchill once said. ‘If you're going through hell... keep going!’

Morrell watched Stiles leave her office, shoulders heavy and head bowed.

If this kept up…Stiles wouldn’t survive…

And it seemed that his pack wasn’t helping him. She had thought that Scott at least would have been looking out for his supposed best friend. But it seemed all Scott did was take and take and take, until there was nothing left.

Merde.

She needed to do something. She needed to try and correct this before the balance shifted irreparably. Before something happened and Stiles…

But what could she do? It’s not like she could call one of her mercenaries for hire, like Braeden, to come and take out the problem. Not when the problem was a pack of idiotic teens who’s greatest issue was the bite affecting their prefrontal cortex in ways they couldn’t possibly imagine.Their pathologically guilt-ridden alpha, who habitually sought out suffering in a complex and destructive pattern as some form of atonement.

Not when the problem was her brother with his over-inflated ego, and unshakeable belief in his own infallibility.

No. She couldn’t call one of her usual contacts.

But that didn’t necessarily mean there was no one left to call.

After a quick check to ensure her wards were still intact, Morrell carefully dialed a number she had been given years ago and hoped she’d never use.

It connected after several moments. “Yes?”

If she did this…there was no going back.

With a deep breath, Morrell spoke. “I petition for idirghuí in Beacon Hills.”

There was a pause. “Granted.”

As Stiles pressed his foot down on the accelerator, engine revving, his heart splintered.

He didn’t know how this could hurt so badly.

It was just a car. A car that was held together with duct-tape and sheer stubbornness.

It was just a car.

Yet somehow it hurt worse than the bruises or busted lip. Ached in a way burns or broken ribs never could…

Because it was her car.

It was one of the last things he had of his mother. One of the only pieces of her that hadn’t been tainted by illness or death. Memories of sitting in her lap and pretending to drive. Of singing along to their favorite songs. Of not so secret Saturday morning runs to the Polish bakery to get paczki…his dad pretending not to know anything about it despite the smear of jelly on Stiles’ cheek or the powdered sugar all over his shirt.

It was just a car…

And Scott…and Lydia…and Derek…and Isaac…

…and Jackson…

They needed him.

And as he drove through the wall, bricks denting, pipes crushing, blue metal twisting…the memory of two little boys giggling in the back seat played through his mind.

”Don’t worry Mischief. When we grow-up, we’ll get married.” The other boy said, gap-toothed smile beautiful even with a bright purple smear of jelly. His blue eyes sparkled. “That way, we’ll be together forever.”

Stiles grimaced. Forever…forever hadn’t been as long as he had hoped…

It wasn’t Lydia or that stupid fucking key she held up like some goddamned talisman, that made him pause.

No.

As long as he’d been with her, it had never actually been about love. It had always been a game to them…Lydia needed him to stay at the top of the teen hierarchy, popularity assured with the lacrosse captain as her boyfriend. Jackson…Jackson needed her to forget…

Forget about the boy with mousy brown hair and Bambi eyes…

So no. It wasn’t her, or that key.

It was the car.

Mrs. Stilinski’s—Jax, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Claudia!—car.

Roscoe.

It was the memory of riding in it for Friday night sleepovers.

Saturday morning trips for punch…paunch…those jelly filled pieces of heaven.

Epic adventures to imagined far-off places. Getting picked up from school to go to his best friend’s house.

It was knowing that under the passenger seat, there was a sharpied heart hidden from parental eyes. “Mishciff ‘nd Jax” written in a clumsy 3rd grader’s hand.

Mischief.

How long had it been since he’d thought about that? Thought about Mischief and Mrs. Stilinski’s car?

And now it was gone. Destroyed in the aftermath of this teen werewolf drama.

No. Not destroyed…sacrificed.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? It was a sacrifice made by a boy who had never stopped caring. A boy that had tried to hold onto what he loved as tightly as he could.

Why? Why still care after everything?

Before Jackson could even try and find him, movement in his periphery vision caught his attention.

‘Kill them. Kill them NOW.’ A voice in his head commanded. Before, the voice’s orders held a compulsion he couldn’t fight no matter how hard he tried. But now…now with his Mischief’s beloved jeep smashed through a wall? The scent of pain and tears in the air?

Jackson sneered. No.

Sidestepping the claws aimed for his gut, Jackson slashed downward. Derek gasped, eyes wide. A quick flick of his tail had the wolf behind him crashing into a support beam.

Scott growled, and Jackson couldn’t help the reptilian hiss that escaped his lips. “Jackson, you don’t know what you’re doing. We’re trying to help you.” Really? That was what McDumbass thought after he stole my Mischief?! Before the other teen could even blink, he was thrown painfully through the wall that had demolished Stiles’ jeep.

“Jax…uh…I mean…Ja-jackson?” A hesitant voice asked.

Yellow eyes flicked over, a purr rumbling deep in his chest. Mischief.

Jackson took a step forward, only to pause as Isaac—stabbed, bleeding, and still trying to protect Stiles—growled with all the ferocity of an overgrown were-puppy. Jackson was much gentler paralyzing him, knowing Stiles had a soft spot for the other teen. Had often packed an extra sandwich for the sad eyed boy when they were little, and snuck them into Isaac’s lunch pail with little notes of encouragement and Batman stickers.

Stiles swallowed, and yellow eyes tracked the way the other’s pale throat bobbed. “Ja-“. His tail wrapped around a slim waist, before pulling the other boy closer.

“I like it when you call me Jax.” He said, voice slurred.

It was a lot harder to speak with fangs than he’d thought.

Bambi eyes stared into yellow, fading into a familiar shade of blue.

“Hey Mischief.”

Stiles stared.

The kanima’s scales slowly receded to reveal a familiar smirk. One that featured prominently in his memories before Scott. “Jax.” Stiles breathed out.

Before there was a Scott and Stiles, before his mom got sick and forgot who he was. Before his father disappeared into the bottle only to crawl his way back out…

There were two little boys who had met in kindergarten, neither able to pronounce the other’s name. So they chose names for each other.

Before there was a Scott and Stiles, there was a Mischief and Jax.

There was a history there, one that had eroded when Jax had discovered he was adopted. When Jax had become Jackson and Mischief died with Claudia Stilinski.

Stiles had watched as his best friend—his only friend—walked away from him. Had stared broken-hearted as the boy who used to smile so sweetly, sneered. When Danny came along and replaced him. When Lydia had come in her strawberry-blondeness and stole the soft smiles and bright laughs that used to be solely his.

And then Scott came along.

Scott, who was new to Beacon Hills, and often on the sidelines due to his asthma. Mischief was gone, Jax had left him, so the broken boy that became Stiles clung to the first semblance of a friend he could find. And when Scott had asked him why he was constantly staring at Lydia and Jackson…

The boy that was Mischief never lied. Mischief was precocious. Hyperactive. Smart. But not a liar.

Claudia Stilinski had always told him words had power…that to misuse words to hide and conceal…to harm…was worse. So Mischief never lied.

But the boy that became Stiles, the boy with the open wound left with his mother’s passing and his father’s distance, with his best friend’s abandonment?

Stiles lied. He told Scott it was because he was in love with “The strawberry blonde goddess that was Lydia Martin.”

And when suddenly the whole school thought he liked Lydia?

When Jax—Jackson—stared at him with betrayed eyes.

When Lydia and Jackson started dating in the 7th grade?

Stiles had blustered through…never once addressing the fact his “friend” had betrayed a supposed trust. Never considering what would have happened if he had just been honest. That he should have simply said it was because he liked Jackson.

Because words had power.

And Scott didn’t know that, and Jackson didn’t care anymore.

So Stiles continued to lie through meaningless tangents. Continued to hide behind words and bravado and packed away the memories of Jax and Mischief, and tried to pretend that it didn’t hurt when Jackson pushed him. When his once best friend sneered and taunted.

But looking into those blue eyes, hearing the name of the boy he’d once been…

“J-Jax?” Mischief asked brokenly, lips trembling.

The tail around his waist tightened, but it was comforting rather than painful. Jax smiled.

Maybe…

A glint of silver. A bang. Pain. So much pain.

Jax’s face, mouth open in a silent scream…

Darkness.

Alan frowned at the spiny evergreen shrub with its bright yellow flowers.

Gorse didn’t grow in this part of California.

But there it was. Tender sprouts peeking through charred earth, bees softly buzzing amongst the sweet scented buds.

Alan shrugged. It wasn’t as though he had the opportunity to ascertain every plant and animal which resided in Beacon Hills. But he was never one to question a gift. Gorse had a handful of beneficial qualities, especially in purification—the ancients especially loved to include it as the tinder in their bonfires for Beltane.

Maybe this is a sign that my efforts in cleansing the Nemeton are working.

With a pleased smile, he kneeled down to collect a small cutting. Retrieving the sickle from his basket, Alan sent a quiet prayer of thanks.

Except…

”Aw!” Alan flinched. He’d been stung. The bee that stung him laid upon a fragrant petal. As though comforted in its last moments by the flower it had died protecting.

The buzzing grew louder.

Stiles whimpered.

Why was it so bright?

Someone must have heard him because immediately the light dimmed. Next he knew, a warm hand was gently running through his buzz cut. It was nice. A comfort he hadn’t felt since his mom died, since Jax had left him.

Claudia Stilinski had been the one who had gifted her son with his curly brown hair. His dad had often lamented that Stiles seemed to be a little Claudia clone, the mother and son duo giggling every time. When his mother had cried as her hair fell out from the chemo…Stiles had gone home and buzzed off his hair himself.

When she saw what had happened, Claudia was horrified at the damage done to her baby’s hair. It looked like he had gone through a wood chipper, hair cut to short in certain places while stray locks stayed long. A little boy had looked up at her defiantly. “We’re clones mama. If you don’t get to have hair, neither do I!” Claudia had laughed so hard she cried. Jackson had taken one look at Stile’s buzzed head, and the next day had come to school with a crew cut.

Stiles had always privately wondered if Jackson had kept his hair so short in honor of his mom.

“Shh, sleep Mischief.” He knew that voice…didn’t he? He must have said something, because the voice seemed to be smiling when he heard it again. “Sleep.”

Stiles slept.

When he woke next, it was to the sight of Isaac curled up on the side of his hospital bed—hospital? Why am I in the hospital? How is dad going to afford this?—hand loosely wrapped around his ankle, thin black tendrils crawling up Isaac’s wrist. Stiles couldn’t help the fond smile.

Hours, or maybe days later he couldn’t really tell, Stiles woke to the sight of Peter Hale looming in a shadowy corner of his sick room. “A-aren’t…aren’t y’posed to b’dead?” He slurred.

Peter laughed. “Death didn’t agree with me, I’m afraid.”

This Peter seemed…different from the one he and his friends set on fire. Before he could ponder it further, Peter crept closer. “Just sleep sweetheart. Your pack is watching over you.”

Stiles blinked. “D’nt ‘ave a pack…” he mumbled. Why were his eyelids so heavy? “‘nd d’nt call m’sweetheart…creep’rwolf.”

There was bright chuckle which warmed his chest, and before he lost his battle with concisousness he heard Peter mutter fondly “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

I’ll have to get him back when I can keep my eyes open for longer than 60 seconds…

His dad smiled at him tiredly the next time he woke. “Werewolves Stiles?”

Shit.

Of all the things that his son could have gotten mixed up with, it had to be the supernatural.

John wasn’t an idiot. You didn’t get elected sheriff by being dumb, and you’d have to be oblivious not to notice how Stiles had carefully sidestepped any and all questions without actually outright lying to him. Because John still remembered how carefully Stiles chose his words. A remnant of the boy he had been before Claudia’s death…

Stiles had omitted. He deflected and avoided, and rambled on tangents—feeling the space between them with empty words. But he never lied.

It had taken an ex-fugitive, a boy he’d recently just seen declared dead, and a coma-patient that had been declared missing, for John to discover the truth Stiles had so carefully skirted around.

And what he had learned…

Werewolves, kanimas, werewolf hunters, vendettas, alphas…

Christ kid, what did you get mixed up with?

It was the Lahey kid—and John vaguely remembered Stiles making an extra lunch when he was little for an Izzy?—that had haltingly told him that Scott was a werewolf, and so was Derek Hale. Except Derek was an alpha, and Scott wasn’t pack and Boyd and Erica were missing…

Scott being a werewolf, surprisingly, was what sold him. Before the lying-not-lying and the secrets, John remembered Scott as the athletically challenged kid that had wanted to play first line. It was a huge shock to see him suddenly going up against experienced players like Whittemore like he’d been doing it his whole life.

And to mysteriously no longer need his inhaler.

Yeah. That wasn’t as much of a surprise as it could have been.

Realizing that Argent was the one who had beaten his baby boy? Ooh, that was a surprise. It had taken Peter-fucking-Hale, the missing coma patient, to fill him on the Argent’s delightful family history.

We hunt those that hunt us? What a load of shit. A part of him wanted to drive down there and pistol whip the fucking bastard that had looked him in the eye and told him he had no idea where his only child was.

And then punch Gerard in the face.

Finding out Allison—Scott’s Disney princess little girlfriend—was also behind two of her classmates going missing, and the bloody holes in Lahey’s shirt?

The entire family should be thankful he had better places to be, otherwise he might have been tempted to burn their house to the ground. A sentiment Peter seemed to share.

So maybe it wasn’t quite so shocking that out of all the things his son could have gotten mixed up in, it was the supernatural.

What was surprising, was the group he had gathered in his hospital room.

The Lahey kid made sense from a certain point of view—Stiles had always tried to take care of him the best a fourth-grader could take care of another kid.

And that logic might be extended to Peter Hale too…Stiles used to read to Hale when his mother was in chemo, and he knows Stiles had continued after Claudia’s death. Although news that Stiles had been privy to setting a burn victim on fire, didn’t necessarily sit well with him, although Peter had guiltily admitted he’d needed to be stopped.

Whittemore?

Whittemore was the most surprising thing out of everything. John still remembered that snot-nosed little kid with a gap-toothed smile that looked at his son like he hung the moon and stars. Had had Jackson over at his house so many times, the kid had his own place-setting. He remembered all the tomfoolery “Mischief and Jax”, got up to.

He also remembered holding Stiles as he sobbed broken heartedly, his mother and best friend gone. And John will admit he hadn’t taken it well, disappearing into the bottle only to crawl his way back out. And when he had, Mischief was gone.

In his place, Stiles looked back at him with haunted, broken eyes.

Yet here Jackson was, quietly running his hand through Stiles hair like he used to when Stiles got sick, as though nothing had changed. As though the distance that he had created didn’t exist.

Maybe it didn’t? Maybe something had changed?

John shook his head. “Only you kid.” He said fondly, eyes resting on his slumbering son. “Only you.”

In a coffee shop in downtown Beacon Hills, an overworked barista anxiously worked the till. It was only their second day, and three people had called in sick and the manager had decided how better to learn the ropes than a trial by fire?

Kyle was three hours into an eight hour shift, and already wondering if the bookstore might be hiring instead.

Skinny, non-fat mocha latte with almond milk and cinnamon powder. No ice, no whip.

Matcha green tea frappuccino, soy, with almonds.

Salted caramel macchiato, extra caramel, extra salt, extra whip. No dairy.

—How do you do a macchiato with extra whip, with no dairy???—

Suffice it to say, it had been a hectic morning, which is why he could be forgiven for not noticing the bell ring from the slumped over position he’d taken after the morning rush had ended. It wasn’t until he heard a quiet “Excuse me?”, that he knew anyone was there at all.

Pasting on his best “customer-service” smile that had begun to wear down after the fifteenth complicated drink order, Kyle looked up to ask what they would like to order, only for the words to die in his mouth.

Standing between what was a verifiable wall of muscle, stood a petite figure.

Strands of pale hair gathered in the most complicated braid he’d ever seen. A mask covered the bottom half of their face, but he could make out the two mismatched eyes gazing back at him. One brown, one blue. An oversized yellow sweater paired with skinny jeans and…pale feet? Where were their shoes?

A not so subtle throat clearing had him startling back to awareness, and he glanced guiltily up, and up, and up, at the blond Adonis that was scowling threateningly. Okay, so don’t stare at the tiny fey-like creature too long or you get murder brows. Awesome.

Blondie wasn’t the only one. The redhead that looked like he tossed boulders for fun had an equally impressive glare. “We’d like ta order if’n ya d’nt mind.” A deep Scottish brogue rumbled out of full lips, and Kyle had never been attracted to men, but hot damn. That voice did things to him.

“U-um…o-of course…that is…I’m um…”

Blondie sighed. “Two extra large coffees. One black, no cream, no sugar. One with two shots and room for cream. And a small vanilla steamer with honey” There was a trace of an unidentifiable accent in the smooth baritone, and it was all Kyle could do to hold back a shiver. What in the what was going on?

A pale hand gently tugged at blondie’s sleeve. “And scones.” A soft voice said. The same quiet, lilting voice that had first said “Excuse me.”

Blondie nodded. “And three scones. One orange, one blueberry, one plain.”

Kyle tallied it up quickly. “Um…and…uh…and a name for your order s-sir?”

The boulder spoke up. “Coinneach.”

How the hell did you spell that? It sounded like CON-ak.

“R-right….I should have that right out in a m-moment…”

Blondie and Boulder—er Coinneach—both glared back at him, as though testing the validity of his statement. It was the fey-like creature between them who responded. “Thank you Kyle.”

Kyle couldn’t help the blush that worked its way up his neck as he nodded dumbly, watching the effortless way they dragged the two hulking male models towards a convenient sitting area not too far from the front counter.

As he made their drinks, he couldn’t help but watch the way all three of them interacted with eachother.

How Blondie had carefully pulled the other into his lap. “Should have brought you a jacket.” He mumbled, just loud enough for Kyle to hear.

Shorty went without protest, curling into the barrel chest like it was something they did all the time. Maybe they did? “I am alright, Eoghan.”

Eoghan and Coinneach?

The newly named Eoghan just frowned as he rubbed bone white hands between his with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his size. “Still don’t like it.”

Coinneach wasn’t one to be left out, picking up equally pale feet and tucking them into his lap. “Ay agree with ta gommy.” Eoghan simply glared, grey-blue eyes flicking towards the red-headed brute next to him, before returning to his ministrations.

“Shut it you overgrown pict.”

Coinneach grumbled.

A few moments later, and their order was ready. Instead of calling for them, Kyle simply packed everything in a to-go bag and brought it over.

He hadn’t even gotten within ten feet of them before blue-grey and dark green eyes pinned him in place with the intensity of a mother bear protecting her cubs. He gulped. “Um…”

It was the tiny fey-person who piped in. “Thank you so much for bringing our order.” Their voice was…so soothing. Like a gentle brook and rustling leaves. Kyle wondered if they had ever considered doing audiobooks.

“O-of course.”

It was Coinneach who grabbed the order as Eoghan set their still unknown third member up, a large hand resting at the small of their back.

With one last look towards him, and Kyle swore Eoghan’s and Coinneach’s eyes flashed red, the three left. Tiny bare-footed fairytale creature once again securely bracketed on either side by a walking mountain. The Scot—he had to be Scottish right?—handed Eoghan the coffee with two extra shots and cream, while handing off the vanilla steamer to their tiny companion.

“‘ere you go Wenyn.” Wenyn. Their name was Wenyn?.

Wenyn took the offered cup, a pale hand tugging down their mask and in that brief moment Kyle caught a button nose and a thick scar.

Morrell couldn’t help but pace. She’d made the call nearly three days ago, and so far she hadn’t heard anything.

Did Alan suspect that she’d asked for idirghuí?

He didn’t seem like he suspected something. He’d been more tight lipped then usual after everything that had happened in the warehouse, but she knew it had something to do with the Argents, and Gerard mysteriously disappearing.

Scott was happily chasing after Allison, and it seemed that Boyd and Erica were back to strutting through the school with all the tact of a horde of rampaging rhinos. Did Derek honestly think his pack was being subtle? Was Gerard with that long-sword?.

No, everything seemed back to normal, with the exception that Stiles was in the hospital. Isaac, Jackson and Peter Hale having taken residence in his hospital room.

It was lucky her credentials as a licensed professional clinical practitioner gave her unfettered access to the hospital’s records. Because she never would have discovered that Stiles had been captured sometime after the game.

That he had three fractured ribs and electric burns smattered across his arms and chest. She would have never known about the broken zygomatic bone or the host of bruises. And then it seemed to add on top of all that, he somehow managed to get caught in a car accident

Hairline fractures on the ulna and radius, common to injuries sustained from bracing for impact. A concussion from where his head had hit the dashboard.

And then the gunshot wound made by a .45, with traces of aconite.

Three guesses as to who was responsible for that particular injury.

It was a miracle he had survived.

She was just about to make another circuit of her office when a familiar scent caught her attention.

A vanilla-coconut…gorse…

Turning around, she was met with three figures standing in front of her. It was the smallest one, the one safely ensconced between the two were-creatures that had her enthralled.

A pale face broken by a thick scar curving down an ear and across a slender throat. “Marin Morrell, emissary and druid, you are asked to stand for idirghuí.” Pale hair cascaded against a soft yellow sweater, their head tilted in curiosity. “Do you accept?”

She swallowed. He was real. “I accept your judgement Arch-Druid.”

He smiled.

Peter whistled, pack bonds thrumming away contentedly. He made sure the bacon was hidden in a spot his alpha’s father wouldn’t be able to find.

And wasn’t that a shock? To have an alpha again?

After the fire, after feeling each bond shatter. After Laura and Derek had abandoned him. He thought he’d go completely feral—and that wasn’t too much of a stretch, except for the fact he had one gossamer thin bond left.

A bond connecting to a mole-covered boy who filled the endless roar of a burning house with words and noise. At first it was simply chapters from Lord of the Rings.

But after several months, tiny conversations started to take place. Like how the boy’s mom was slowly dying, or how his best friend had left. That Canada eats more macaroni and cheese than any other country in the world. How bananas are actually a berry.

Or how the average person will spend six months of their life waiting at a red light, so Peter should just think of this as waiting for a green light. That it was okay to take his time to heal and get better, because did he really want to wake up only to have to spend time in traffic?

It was probably that moment, when Peter felt the beginnings of pack.

Yet somehow, he still wasn’t healing. Even an omega should have been able to heal faster than he was, and a pack bond, no matter how thin, should have helped him heal.

But something was wrong. And so Peter languished in his hospital bed for six long years, barely healing. And Stiles continued to visit him every week, and that connection to pack grew.

And then…Laura happened. A strange wolf that was on his territory and threatening his pack. A monster that had abandoned an injured pack mate like it was nothing. Then the thrum of an alpha spark as it burned through his body, healing him. But there was something that was still wrong, the spark—or maybe him?—tainted. His wolf insisted he find his pack.

Pack would know what was wrong. Pack would help. Pack would keep him safe.

So he followed the only pack bond he’d had in nearly a decade, and instead came upon someone who smelled like pack-but-not-pack. Heard the rattle in his lungs. Smelled the sickness in his chest. Thought about the boy who had once told him the average person spent six months of their life waiting at a red light. That it was okay to take his time to heal.

But he was an alpha now. He could help. So he bit the boy that smelled like pack-but-not-pack, and hoped.

Hoped that maybe…maybe this time pack would be different.

Only Scott turned out to be a colossal disappointment, and Stiles—the boy that was pack, his pack, his name was Stiles—was too busy trying to protect his “best friend” and father to be able to visit. And then Argent was here! Peter wasn’t about to let murderers anywhere near his pack of two!

Except the alpha spark didn’t do what it should have. There was still a sense of wrongness, of something…tainted. Then Derek happened. Hunters. His duplicitous nurse. And the garage where Stiles had rejected him. Then…

Agony.

Death had a remarkable effect in clearing the lingering effects of chronic aconite poisoning over six years. The spark was gone. Cleansed through a rite of fire and blood that was as old as time itself, and Peter could admit Stiles had been right to reject him as he was. To refuse the bite when Peter was more monster than man.

Maybe he had used Lydia to bring about his resurrection because of the way she had hurt his pack mate by stealing a boy Stiles had loved his entire life. Maybe he had made the experience far more…traumatizing…than was strictly necessary.

Maybe he made Derek the vehicle of his resurrection simply because he was petty and wanted his nephew to suffer for leaving him and then killing him. But that was a secret just for him.

But now, here he was. In his alpha’s home as the teen was aggressively cuddled between two blond weres that wouldn’t be leaving his side anytime soon. And since he had officially been declared not missing, he was able to get access back to his finances. His wolf rumbling happily at the ability to provide and take care of pack.

He smelled that distinctive woodsy smell his alpha’s father carried with him and smirked. The view definitely didn’t hurt either, he thought as he took in the half-asleep sheriff fumbling for a cup of coffee.

Peter pressed a mug into the other man’s hands, smirk easing into a smile at the sleepy nod of acknowledgement.

He had a pack.

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

Isaac whimpered at the incessant buzzing sound. He just wanted to sleep.

Bzzt.

What the heck was that? With a growl that Stiles would have said was adorable, the curly haired teen looked for the source of that stupid buzzing.

Glowing yellow eyes locked onto his alpha’s phone, almost mockingly letting out another bzzt. Like it was taunting him.

A furtive look let him know that Stiles was still asleep, but Jackson was staring at him. The other boy nodded, and Isaac grabbed the buzzing monstrosity.

Crunch.

Oops…well…his alpha didn’t need to talk to anyone that wasn’t already there anyway.

There was a warm feeling of approval across his pack bonds, one that felt suspiciously like Jackson—though the other had simply closed his eyes and went back to nuzzling Stiles hair. He sent a thrum of playfulness back, only to ignored. With a sleepy smile, Isaac curled back up into his alpha’s side. Smile growing when Stiles unconsciously curled closer.

His pack really was the best.

Stiles! (6:48am)

Stiles Allison broke up with me! (6:48am)

You have to help me! (6:48am)

Dude! (6:48am)

Dude answer your phone! (6:49am)

Stiles! What the hell man? (6:49 am)

Ugh, whatever! I’ll see you at school. (7:00am)

Stiles, where the hell are you? (9:00am)

It’s almost second period, why aren’t you at school yet? (9:00am)

Dude! (9:00am)

Dude, wtf? (9:01am)

Is this about the car? (9:01am)

Its just a car! (9:01am)

Ugh, whatever if you’re going be all dramatic about it then fine! (9:02am)

Scott huffed. Stiles was always so selfish! Why couldn’t he help Scott out?

Instead he was all upset his piece-of-crap junker bit the dust. It was just a car, and besides it had saved Jackson…he thinks…

The rest of that night was a little foggy after getting thrown through a wall.

But Lydia was still here, trotting around like the queen bee she was. And Erica and Boyd were back to growling at him like he was the enemy. Though he hadn’t done anything to them, except try to save them from being stuck as a werewolf.

Although he hadn’t seen Jackson since that night at the warehouse…

Maybe he should go check on his co-captain. Isaac too while he was at it. Those two had been missing for a few days now. Something could have happened to them.

With another huff, and cursing Stiles for ditching for the third day in a row, Scott closed his locker. He’d come up with a plan to get Allison back. With or without Stiles’ help.

Amber eyes stared on in disbelief.

Isaac wiggled in place, wolf whining at the lack of response from his alpha.

An eyebrow rose incredulously. “You broke my phone.” Stiles said, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation.

The giant were-puppy pointedly did not look at the crushed piece of plastic which laid accusingly on the nightstand. Another moment passed without Stiles saying anything, and Isaac let out a low whine. “It was buzzing.”

A second eyebrow joined the first. “You broke my phone…because it was buzzing?”

Fluffy blond curls nodded, face set determinedly in what was most definitely not a pout.

Stiles sighed before he went back to cuddling his pup. “You owe me a new phone.”

Isaac happily nuzzled into his alpha’s chest.

Downstairs, Peter laughed even as he ordered a replacement.

“Hey…um Deaton?”

The veterinarian turned to regard his young protégé, who had a perplexed look on his face. “Yes Scott?”

“Have you, um, heard anything about Jackson or Isaac?”

That was…concerning`. Before Deaton could ask, Scott started rambling about how neither Jackson or Isaac had been to school in the last few days even though Lydia was. And Allison of course, although she was ignoring him. And the rest of Derek’s betas.

But Jackson and Isaac hadn’t been there, and he couldn’t have Stiles try to find them since he’d ditched for the third day in a row. And when he had gone by the Whittemore house, Mrs. Whittemore wouldn’t let him through the front door. But he had managed to sneak in through an open window and it hadn’t smelled like Jackson had been home in a couple days but if he was okay than surely he would have come back, right? And Erica and Boyd wouldn’t tell him anything about Isaac and Derek was still all pissy about the biting Gerard thing.

Assuring the teen werewolf they were probably still adjusting and perfectly fine, Alan smiled as Scott left. He was really shaping up to be an amazing werewolf with incredible leadership skills. Here he was, showing concern for two potential packmates. If things kept going right, Scott might just become a true alpha.

Except…there was something that didn’t sit right with him. He’d been trying to discover what had happened to the had-been kanima, simply assuming Derek had absconded with him before Deaton had had the opportunity to check him over. But for Isaac and Jackson to still not be at school, while his other two betas clearly were…that didn’t indicate that Derek had everything under control.

Otherwise the entire pack would be there, in order to help reinforce the bonds.

And say what you’d like about Stiles, but his father certainly wouldn’t let him skip school—never mind for a third day in a row. Were the two related?

Perhaps Deaton thought, gathering his coat on his way out, it’s time to pay a visit to the Stilinski residence.

John was most definitely not checking out Peter Hale’s ass, as the other man made some complicated soup, when the front doorbell rang.

Peter had paused what he was doing, head tilted in a way eerily reminiscent of a dog—no wonder Stiles always cracked a dog joke—before he started growling.

From upstairs, he heard a familiar reptilian hiss followed by a whimper. Jackson and Isaac.

The doorbell rang.

Standing up, John silently gestured upstairs. Go and make sure they’re okay.

Peter’s eyebrows did a complicated series of gestures that simultaneously seemed to say No while asking what about you? and John wondered if he’d have the opportunity to be able to catalogue every expression they were capable of making, before he mentally shook that thought off.

Just as quietly, he pointed towards the big brass star on his chest. Sheriff.

Puffing out angrily, Hale sauntered off.

Letting himself have another moment to center himself, doorbell ringing once again, John walked over and calmly opened the door.

Dr. Deaton looked up at him, calm as ever. “Hello Sheriff, I was wondering if I might come in?”

Wards.

There were wards encompassing the entire property. And not some novice’s wards either. These wards were…shoddy yes, but layered with intent and belief.

And it wasn’t just the house, the entire street was protected.

Deaton had passed it twice, mind suddenly seeming to forget where he was going before turning around. A notice me not ward.

This was most certainly not good. Stiles had had a spark of power. But it was just that.

A spark.

Nothing more. Nothing that should have been able to construct such strong magic, without any form of training. But if it was Stiles…how did he manage to access this much magic?

It was a struggle ringing the doorbell.

How could someone this strong come into Beacon Hills, without me knowing?

Finally, Sheriff Stilinski opened the door, and Deaton smiled serenely even he was trying to figure out who this new magic user was and why bother with Stiles. “Hello Sheriff, I was wondering if I might come in?”

Sheriff Stilinski simply looked at him. “Any business you have with me could be conducted during business hours. I don’t take calls at home.” He was already closing the door.

Bracing a hand against it, and even that simple action had him feel as though he was pushing through molasses, Deaton felt his smile strain. “This is more of a…personal nature I’m afraid Sheriff. I was wondering if I could actually talk to you about Stiles?”

The door didn’t open any further but it wasn’t closing anymore so Deaton counted it as a win—except for when a brow rose and a hand went towards the Sheriff’s service weapon. “And why,” Sheriff Stilinski asked, voice dangerously low, “would you want to talk about my son?”

This was most definitely not good. Something had to have happened if even John was suspicious of him. “If I could just come i—“

Deaton’s words died out when the door opened just enough to let him see glowing blue eyes and a hauntingly familiar face. “Hmm…” Peter Hale tsked. “Sorry druid, but we’re not letting you anywhere near Stiles.” With a grin that revealed far too many teeth, the ghost continued. “Now I believe the good sheriff was just about to ask you to vacate the premises. Wouldn’t want to be accused of trespassing now would we?”

Sweat beaded on his brow, and Deaton quietly thanked the charm he’d sewn into his coat to hide his scent. Because he was sure Peter would have been able to smell just how terrified he was to see Talia’s infamous Left Hand alive and well. As Talia’s emissary, he knew all too well what Peter had done to people he considered to be trespassing. The man’s saccharine grin sharpened. “Too-da-loo.” He said, before firmly pushing the door closed.

Alan shook out his hand, mind going a mile a minute as he walked back to his car.

This was definitely not good.

Peter had called him a druid in front of the sheriff. In front of the sheriff who hadn’t even batted an eye. As though not surprised by this reveal of the supernatural.

What had happened? What had Stiles done?

John quirked a brow towards the were. “Did you really just say too-da-loo?” He asked incredulously.

Peter smiled up at him sweetly. “But of course. Threatening to disembowel him should he ever show his face near my pack and then dance on his innards, in front of an officer of the law is surely frowned upon.” He fluttered his eyelashes coquettishly, and John couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped.

Peter’s smile turned more genuine at the sound, and he promptly ignored the hissed Gross! from upstairs. After all, it wasn’t like the delectable specimen in front of him could hear it.

John walked back to the kitchen, and Peter couldn’t help but admire the way those uniform pants hugged that ass just right. This time, a whimpered Peter! echoed down and he signed. Forgive him for admiring the view.

Teenagers.

Stiles looked suspiciously between his dad and zombiewolf, as he sipped the coffee Isaac had shyly presented him with. The other boy blushed happily at the quiet “Thanks pup”, shoulders scrunching up contentedly, before burrowing back into side. Jax wasn’t too far behind, a comfortable line of heat on his left.

He’d been so confused to wake up and see Jackson sitting there like it was totally normal to be in Stiles’ hospital room. Like the other boy hadn’t up and ditched him in 4th grade. A soft “Hey Mischief” greeting him.

They still hadn’t talked about what had happened in the warehouse. About Jackson suddenly being cognizant and free from Gerard, or about Stiles taking a bullet in the gut from Chris who was trying to takeout Jackson. Nobody mentioned Peter’s sudden resurrection, or the older man seemed far too familiar with his kitchen. Neither did they mention Isaac’s sudden clinginess.

Or how his dad and a formerly homicidal werewolf seemed awfully comfortable.

Peter set down a plate in front of him, before placing another before Isaac, then his dad, then Jackson. Stiles saw it for what it was. A wolf providing for his packmates…because injured pack mates always ate first followed by the youngest. And Isaac—for all that he was a few months older than Stiles, was definitely the puppy of their ragtag little group.

He winced as his side ached, before a hand sneaked under his sweatshirt to drain some more pain. And he was definitely injured.

Since when did Peter consider us pack?

After everyone had sat down, Stiles decided that it was time they talked. After eating. Because whatever Peter had made smelled delicious. After. After was good.

“Scott, did you perhaps forget to mention anything about that night at the warehouse?” Deaton questioned.

Scott just looked at him in confusion. “No?” He asked, unsurely.

“Anything about Peter Hale, perhaps?” Deaton pushed.

Scott’s eyes bunched up. “Oh. Yeah, that.”

Oh. Yeah that? Really?

Deaton fought not to lose his patience with the boy. “Yes, Scott. That.”

The teen shrugged. “He’s back somehow. Not super sure how, but he was all buddy-buddy with Derek. Probably trying to talk his way into his pack.” He did a whatever gesture, and Deaton was reminded just how painfully juvenile Scott was when he wasn’t being tempered by Stiles’ maturity. “Not really my problem though. Not my alpha.”

It was times like this when Deaton desperately missed Talia. She had been such an easy alpha to work with, always taking his advice seriously and trying to stay appraised of everything going on in Beacon Hills and letting him know. But she was gone, and he had severed his ties with the Hales to put his lot in with Scott.

Oh well, all in good time. After all, it wasn’t like one made true alphas overnight. “And anything about Stiles?” Deaton queried.

Scott just grunted exasperatedly. “Nope. Haven’t spoken to him since he disappeared after the game.”

Disappeared?

“He’s just acting like a huge baby because his car got totaled when he crashed it.”

He crashed his car? When was this?

“What do you mean,” Deaton started, “disappeared? For how long?”

The teen turned around to put some supplies away. “I don’t know, couple hours maybe? The lights went out on the field and when they came back on, he was just gone. Must’ve ran to his car or something.”

He had a nagging feeling he wasn’t going to like what he heard. Setting a hand on either shoulder, Deaton turned Scott around so the teen was looking him in the eyes. “Tell me everything.”

Morrell slumped over in her seat, utterly exhausted.

His Grace had not been amused by her inaction over the last year. She hadn’t felt like it was her right to interfere. Beacon Hills wasn’t her territory, and Alan was the resident druid—no matter all that blustering about being retired. As his junior and as an emissary of a different pack, she hadn’t felt it was appropriate.

Except, as it had been pointed out to her, it was. As a druid and a healer, it was part of her purview to intercede when the actions of another caused undue harm—especially in a supernatural node like Beacon Hills. Not to mention the fact that through her inaction, one teen had been manipulated into resurrecting a broken wolf. Another had been captured by hunters that should have been reported, and one had been used as a murder weapon at the hands of a sociopath.

Yet despite that, she had passed. Placed on probation, and would be for several years. But passed.

Thank the gods.

As he was leaving, naked feet stark against the tile, His Grace had leveled her with one last look. Brown blue eyes soft. The Arch-Druid looked so incredibly small, so fragile with his bone white feet and thick scar. A scar, if rumor was to be believed, was how he became what he was. On either side of him, each man glared threateningly.

He looked at her, and in those eyes Morrell saw the weariness of a thousand lifetimes and a hundred sorrows. There was something ancient about those eyes that were set in such a young face. She fought back tears as she finally looked away.

Hadn’t she seen eyes like that recently?

And then he was gone, and she was alone.

“So it’s not like I’m ungrateful or anything,” Stiles began, hesitant when three sets of eyes turned towards him. “But uh, what exactly are you doing here?”

His dad sighed at the lack of tact, but Stiles was confused okay. Because last he knew, each person at this table had beef with him—including his dad because of all the lies—and now he was just supposed to believe that everything was all hunky dory? Excuse him for being skeptical.

Isaac looked like he was going to cry, and Stiles had to fight the sudden urge to swaddle him in blankets and tell him everything was fine. Peter refused to meet his eyes, pointedly getting up to clear everyone’s plates, and his dad just looked at him unimpressed. There’d be no help from that corner.

He turned to Jax—Jackson. Jackson who had been glued to his side, who had been soft smiles and gentle words. Jackson who had been so much like Jax it hurt. Because how long would Stiles have this, before Jax left him again. Before Jax became Jackson? Before those soft smiles and gentle words turned into sneers and cruel taunts?

Jackson sighed. “Mischi—“

But Stiles shook his head. “No. You don’t get to call me that. You left.” He didn’t cry, but it was a close thing. “You left me behind.”

Jackson looked down, shoulders curled in. “Yeah.” He said softy. “Yeah I did.”

Stiles then turned to Isaac. “And you. You tried to kill me at the sheriff station the night of the full-moon.” Isaac was shaking his head, tears already forming but Stiles pushed on. “Then let your pack mate club me over the head with my own carburetor and leave me in a dumpster.” A whine greeted his words, and Stiles fought not to care. To not give anymore of himself to this boy that he had only tried to help. Who he’d thought had needed him.

Stiles glared Peter in place before he could retreat to the kitchen once again. “And you.”

Peter sighed. “Me.”

Amber eyes narrowed. “You.”

If it was possible to do a human equivalent of the “kicked-dog” expression, it would be the slumped position Peter had taken since walking back in. “Me.”

“You murdered several people-“

His dads eyebrows shot up. “What?” He asked threateningly, eyes flicking to Peter. Peter’s shoulders curled in a little more.

Stiles ignored his dad for now. “—granted they deserved it, after what they did.” Peter looked up at that, even as his dad let out a scandalized “Stiles”! “But then you chased us. Threatened us! You slammed me into the hood of my own car and then tried to offer me the bite—“ Peter had looked guilty at the other things, but had puffed up a bit with the bite. “And yeah, I’m sorry I had to set you on fire.” He couldn’t believe that he’d had to put Peter through that again. Peter, who had already survived the agony of one fire. Peter, who he had visited every week for the last six years. “But you were threatening to kill everyone.”

Peter looked back down, and Stiles glanced at the others. “So yeah, I’d like to know what you’re all doing here and why we’re suddenly acted like none of the shit that’s happened, happened.”

There was a moment of silence following his declaration. Everyone obviously pondering what to say. “I owe you an apology sweetheart.”

Stiles’ gaze swiveled back to the contrite werewolf. “I was…not in my right mind, but that is no excuse. No excuse to hurt and scare the only person I‘ve had a pack bond with in years.”

What? Mouth falling open, Stiles stared in shock as Peter continued. “I-I don’t know what was wrong. Why it took me so long to heal. But…but the alpha spark, it was…it was twisted. Tainted. I don’t know why. But I know that I shouldn’t have treated my only pack like that.” The look Peter gave him was so earnest, so sincere, Stiles couldn’t help but believe him. “I should have trusted you, should have trusted you would try and help me because you had already done so. And while my death wasn’t the most…sympathetic” Stiles flinched at the choice of words, “…it was necessary.”

Blue eyes met his. “You asked why I was here. I am here because in this life, I am going to do a better job of keeping my pack safe. I am going to do a better job keeping you safe. Because that’s what pack does.”

There was a soft tug in his chest at those words, and Stiles’ eyes widened when he realized it was an honest to god pack bond. One that had been thin and weak, but was now a strong, vibrant blue.

“W-wasn’t trying to k-kill you.” Came a sniffled reply. Stiles turned to Isaac, who looked like he was trying his best to meld into the table.

“Is—“

But Isaac simply shook his head. “W-wasn’t. W-wouldn’t.” Taking deep shuddering breaths, he finally turned so Stiles could see him fully. His eyes were wet and his nose was running, and Stiles had never felt more like an asshat for holding something like that against someone like Isaac. “S-s-smelled you.” The other teen said quietly.

He must have seen something going on with Stiles’ face, because he continued. “S-s-smelled you, and m-my wolf, m-my wolf k-knew you. Wanted to, w-wanted to p-play. Knew you w-would be safe. W-wouldn’t hurt u-us.” And now that Stiles thought about it, Isaac hadn’t acted anything like Scott on his first moon. Hadn’t snapped at him, or threatened to kill him. He’d been almost mischievous in fact, like he was trying to get Stiles to do something. To play. Like actual wolf pups played with pack. Isaac kept talking.

“A-and I, I’m sorry, for what Erica did. Didn’t, didn’t know. Didn’t know s-she’d hurt you.”

Letting out a breath, Stiles carefully heaved himself out of his seat and was hugging Isaac before anyone could so much as blink. The werewolf tensed for a moment, before curling into the hug, tucking his face against Stiles neck. Normally he’d be grossed out by someone rubbing their snot all over him, but for some reason all he felt was warmth in taking care of his pup.

His pup?! Where the hell did that thought come from?

But, if he thought about it, well…

He’d thought of Isaac as his kid for a while now. Had even when they were little, often forcing himself into Isaac’s parent-teacher meetings and sitting down with him when Mr. Lahey didn’t show up. It had definitely made some of their teachers surprised at the fourth-grader looking proudly at Isaac’s gold star on his spelling test, while Isaac himself looked shyly pleased.

“It’s okay Izzy.” He whispered into blond curls, and Isaac just burrowed tighter. Izzy had been a name that was special just for them. It was something that only Stiles and Camden had called him. Isaac was reserved for teachers and Mr. Lahey. Izzy was special. Izzy was the name Isaac had chosen for himself.

“M’sorry momma.” And Stiles felt something inside him unfurl, a soft golden yellow stretching between him and the boy curled up in his arms.

It’s what Isaac had called him back then. Momma.

Because Isaac had never known his mother, and his dad had never really tried to take care of him, and Camden tried but he was his brother, and that was different. But Stiles…

Stiles made peanut butter and banana sandwiches with the crust cut off. Packed little notes that said things like “Have a good day” or “Yer terrific!”. Snuck him Batman stickers when the teachers weren’t looking. Punched Greenberg in the face when he’d gotten gum in Isaac’s hair, spending an entire recess carefully cutting it out so his dad wouldn’t know.

Stiles had been the closest version of a mom that Isaac had ever had. And when he had shyly revealed that to the other boy, Stiles had simply smiled and hugged him. It was, to this day, one of the best hugs Isaac had ever gotten.

His dad had quietly left at some point, obviously feeling like this was something between Stiles and the three of them. “I think—“ Stiles said, voice suddenly tired. He swallowed. “I think it’s time for a nap.”

Isaac whined, and Stiles smiled down at the head of blond curls tucked under his chin. “You’re coming with me puppy. I need snuggles.”

He huffed, “Not a puppy.” Even though he was wiggling excitedly. Peter was looking at them hesitantly, clearly hoping that included him but expecting to be disappointed. Was that what had happened when he was with the Hales? Was that why his own niece and nephew had been so ready to leave him?

Stiles rolled his eyes playfully. “You too, creeper wolf.”

The smile that earned him was possibly the softest look he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing on the older man’s face. “But of course, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of your much needed snuggles.”

As Peter and Isaac helped him upstairs, both tucked close, bonds radiating contentment, Stiles snuck one last glance at Jackson.

Jackson hadn’t looked up once. And there was an aching emptiness in his chest, at the discovery that he could only feel two bonds.

Bonds that didn’t connect him to Jackson.

Derek glared at the continued absence of his first beta and Jackson. Where the hell were they?

Not to mention, where the hell did his uncle slither off too. He’d been furious with Scott after what that little punk had done, after he had used him to give Gerard the bite. And sure, he could admit that he wasn’t the greatest alpha around, okay. Never been trained for it, had literally never expected he’d have too.

But he was trying his best. Sure, maybe he shouldn’t have gone around biting teenagers, but…but he was so tired of being alone. Tired of the aching, torn, burnt remains of what had once been his pack bonds.

So he’d tried to make a family out of the teens that had seemed just as broken as he was. The boy terrified of his own father. The girl who simply wanted to go a day without her illness getting in the way. And the one who simply wanted a place to belong.

He had hoped that Scott would see that. Would see what he was trying to build, and that maybe, just maybe, they could truly be brothers. Like he had told him all that time ago in the woods.

And yes, he was willing to put up with the hyperactive little shit that was Stiles if that meant Scott was a part of his pack. But…

But Scott had betrayed him.

Then two of his betas had tried to leave him, only to come back smelling like Argent and Stiles, telling him that they were wrong. And Derek wondered what Stiles could have possibly done, because it had to have been Stiles right, to have his two wayward betas come back to him.

But then the warehouse had happened, and Jackson had seemed to come back to reality and had completely immobilized him, and Isaac was trying to defend Stiles—and what the hell? Since when were they even close? Why wasn’t Isaac trying to defend his alpha?

Stiles had been shot.

And Isaac and Jackson still weren’t here. His uncle was mysteriously absent.

Maybe he needed to go visit the human, and make some not so subtle threats about what would happen should he try and steal away his pack members.

Like how he’d tear his throat out, with his teeth.

There was a knock on Stiles’ bedroom window, one that went unnoticed by the human slumbering peacefully away. But not by the two werewolves on either side of him.

Glowing blue and yellow eyes stared at the rival alpha threateningly, and Derek growled.

He went to open the window, only to find he couldn’t.

Derek growled louder, crimson eyes burning. “Get out here now.” Pushing every ounce of alpha into his words.

Neither wolf responded, Peter lazily curling closer towards a still sleeping Stiles, who snuggled back. What the hell?

Both betas shouldn’t have been able to so easily deflect the compulsion of an alpha command. It wasn’t possible. Unless-

Derek never had the opportunity to finish that line of thought, as he felt a sharp prick at the back of his neck before his entire body went crashing down the tree he had taken residence in. He couldn’t move.

Jackson hissed at him, tail lashing about furiously. “Ssstay away from my pack!”

Derek tried to growl, only it was a little difficult with his face buried in a potted petunia. He felt claws wrap around his ankle before he was unceremoniously dragged across the Stilinski’s front yard, and hurled into the woods behind Stile’s house.

Jackson was just closing the front door when a familiar voice asked, “Something we should be worried about?”

Whipping around to face his mat—er…his alpha’s father, yellow eyes fading into blue, Jackson shook his head. “No sssir. Not if Derek knowsss whatsss good for him.” That reptilian part of him, the part that was ready to tear threats limb from limb, to unleash all their venom till the threat was neutralized, was still too close to the surface.

The man just looked at him, gaze so focused that Jackson had to fight not to fidget under the scrutiny. It felt so achingly familiar. Sheriff Stilinski had always looked at Jackson like he was wondering if he was good enough for his son. As though he knew about the crush Jackson had harbored on Stiles since they were five.

Although, Jackson hadn’t exactly been subtle about it. Boys didn’t often bring their best friend flowers, or demand kisses instead of high-fives. Or offer to marry them when they grew up. Jackson could feel the beginnings of a blush at that last memory.

God, he’d had no tact as a kid. No wonder the Sheriff had always looked at him threateningly. Here was some snot-nosed little brat making heart eyes at his baby.

After several more moments, Jackson most definitely not fidgeting, the Sheriff clasped his shoulder. “He’ll come around son.”

He looked down. “W-what if he doesn’t?”

A gentle squeeze had him fighting the urge to cry. “Not gonna lie, you hurt him.” Jackson flinched. “You hurt him, and there were times where he was sobbing his little heart out that I wanted nothing more than to hate the little bastard that broke him.”

Jackson refused to meet the Sheriff’s eyes. “But you don’t?”

“Nah.” Sheriff Stilinski laughed. “Stiles gave me the silent treatment for a whole week when I said I did.”

He had?

“My kid loves you, and yeah you hurt him. Broke him.” The Sheriff certainly wasn’t mincing words. Jackson could respect that even if such brutal honesty hurt. “But that just means if you’re serious about this, then you’re just gonna have to spend the rest of your life making it up to him.”

He finally looked up at his alpha’s—his mate’s—father. “Think you can do that, Whittemore.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jackson nodded.

Another squeeze. “Good man.” Then Sheriff Stilinski walked away, leaving Jackson to his thoughts.

Zofia’s Bakery was the only bakery in Beacon County that sold those jelly-filled pastries Jackson and Stiles had loved as kids.

He’d gotten the name from his mom, after quietly confessing he was trying to find a way to apologize to Stiles. His parents had taken news of their son being a were-something surprisingly well. His dad going so far as to call Sheriff Stilinski and apologize for having him placed on suspension.

After taking a quick shower, where he may or may not have thought about Stiles, and deliberating over his outfit for several agonizing minutes, he was ready to go. Right before he left, his mom pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Say hi to Mischief for me.” She whispered.

God, were all moms this embarrassing?

Now he was here, car parked outside a brightly painted storefront, and he couldn’t help but feel nervous. What if Stiles didn’t like jelly pastries anymore? What if they reminded him too much of his mom? If they reminded him of before?

When they were still Jax and Mischief?

Before Jackson had ruined everything.

Look Whittemore, he told himself, trying to psych himself out the same way he did before a game, you’re going to walk in. You’re going to get those jelly-filled things Stiles used to love, and you’re going to woo him till he takes you back.

A bright blue eye winked at him from his rear view mirror. Remember, you’re everyone’s type.

He took a deep breath. You can do this.

There was a soft tinkling as he pushed the door open, scent of freshly baked bread and sugar making his mouth water. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” A lightly accented voice called from the back, and Jackson nodded, forgetting for a moment they couldn’t see attention drawn to the confectioner’s case in front of him.

Beautifully decorated cakes greeted him, snug in their marzipan blankets. Delicate confections dusted in powdered sugar, like tiny little mountains. Chocolate glazed something’s, filled with cream and syrup.

There were a few other customers lolling about, but his attention was on all the sugary sweetness before him and he wondered if he maybe couldn’t buy a couple boxes to bring back.

Finally, an elderly woman appeared from the back. Her grey hair was partially covered with a bright red kerchief, almost the exact same color as Stiles’ favorite hoodie. A floured apron covered her dress, and her smile was warm when she greeted him. “Dzien dobry.“

There was a soft ache in his chest, even as he smiled back. How long had it been since he’d heard the soft lilting tones he’d come to associate with Polish? He remembered the way Stiles and his mom chattered away, words sounding like music. Remembered golden afternoons, bellies full of pastry and faces smeared in sugar, where Stiles softly whispered words to him in another language.

Mischief smiled at him, doe eyes so bright and happy that Jax couldn’t help but grin dopily. “ Lubię cię.” he whispered. Jax stumbled over the words. “Loo-bah…uh…loo-bah…” Mischief laughed. “What does it mean?” He had asked, only for his best friend to look down, eyes hidden behind mouse-brown curls. “I’ll tell you one day.”

Brown eyes looked at him in concern. “Is everything alright dear?” She asked, and Jackson nodded.

“Y-yeah. Yeah sorry.” This was going splendidly. Great job Whittemore. “Um…I was wondering if I might be able to order some, um, jelly filled doughnuts?” At her raised eyebrow, he hastened to clarify. “Um, they’re covered in powdered sugar. They’re called uh, pach—no paunch-, um…” What the hell is wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just order some damned doughnuts for his boyfriend!

Shit, did I really just think that?

Okay, yes. He could admit to himself that that’s what he was hoping for. What he had always hoped for.

But then stupid McCall had spread that rumor that Stiles liked Lydia Martin and Jackson—well, Jackson had been hurt. Had hoped that despite abandoning him, despite leaving him behind, that Stiles had liked him the way he liked Stile.

To find out from Stiles new “best friend” that that wasn’t the case…well…Jackson had been petty.

Had went to Lydia that very day and asked her out, convinced that he wasn’t about to let her have Stiles. Because Stiles was his. And Lydia had never said anything about the lack of affection. About the fact that they still hadn’t had sex, despite dating for years.

Jackson hadn’t wanted to admit that her brown eyes weren’t amber. That her fingers weren’t long enough or that her perfectly smooth skin wasn’t dotted with moles. To tell her, that her slender nose lacked a distinctive little upturn that gave an almost pixie-like appearance, and that her strawberry blond hair wasn’t dark enough.

That she wasn’t Stiles.

Oh he was sure she suspected something. After all, it’s not like Jackson was a complete idiot. He knew Lydia was scary smart—nothing on Stiles—but still a lot smarter than she let on. But she hadn’t said anything, content to simply allow everyone to think that they were deeply in love.

Boyfriend. What I wouldn’t give for Stiles to be my boyfriend.

A soft voice to his left interrupted his thoughts. “Pączki.“

He nodded, “Yeah! That! Could I um, get a dozen?” A quick glance at the case in front of him, and he decided to hell with it. “And um, some of those croissants with walnuts? Maybe half a dozen? And some cookies?”

With a bright laugh, the woman set to work filling his order, leaving him to stand awkwardly before remembering his mystery helper.

Turning around, he smiled. “Thanks, uh—“

The person in front of him was dressed in a soft looking cardigan paired with a lemon yellow skirt. Pale hair braided into a crown, with little glints of black and yellow shining amongst the locks. A closer look revealed that they were little glass beads shaped to look like bees.

A mask covered the lower half of their face, although a blue and brown eye looked back at him. The strangest thing probably had to be that they weren’t wearing any shoes. Pale feet stark against the dark wood, not even a hint of leggings to protect them from the scuffed floor. “Wenyn.”

“Hmm?” He asked confusingly.

A bright tinkling laugh came out, and Jackson wondered how any person could make such a noise. “My name.”

Oh. “Uh, right. I’m Jackson.” He held out a hand, and he fought not to shiver as a slender hand gripped his. Their hands were like ice.

“It is nice to meet you Jackson.” Wenyn said. Jackson discretely tried to get a scent, smelling lingering traces of honey and the distinctive scent of loam and moss, along with a vanilla-coconut smell.

He wondered if they worked in a greenhouse, or one of those botanical shops Lydia had dragged him to. Over the honey-plant smell however were two other scents that clearly didn’t belong to them, layered over so well it was almost as though they’d been scented. Almost like pack.

Despite the mask, Jackson could almost swear that Wenyn was smiling at him. “Good luck.” Before turning around, and walking back towards a little alcove where two men were sitting. They made to sit down in one of the unoccupied chairs, only to be hauled into the lap of the mountainous looking redhead and Jackson heard another tinkling little laugh. The blond next to them wasn’t one to be left out, wrapping a proprietary hand around a naked ankle before shifting so Wenyn’s bare feet rested in his lap.

As Jackson distractedly took his order, laying down enough bills to cover it and then some, he couldn’t help but spare one last glance at the happy threesome enjoying their treats. He watched as the blond playfully pulled down Wenyn’s mask to feed them a piece of cake.

He hopes that one day, Stiles and him could be like that.

Zofia watched the young kanima walk out of her shop, not missing his wistful look. “So that is the one for moje kochanie?“ She watched as he got in his car, wise brown eyes considering. “Eh, I suppose he is handsome enough.”

Wenyn laughed from his spot in Coinneach’s lap, the redhead taking the chance to steal a bite of cake Eoghan had been attempting to feed their tiny mate. Said blond glared at his counterpart, who grinned unrepentantly, bits of cake smeared across his mouth.

Zofia had lived in Beacon County for a long time. She remembered Claudia Stilinski and little Mieszko. Two humans who possessed a spark of magic, an ancient tie to a homeland thousands of miles away.

She remembered the feeling when one of those sparks simply disappeared. The other being buried under layers of grief and exhaustion so profound it made her bones ache.

Little Jax had grown up, and it seemed as though he was trying to redeem himself to her darling Mieszko.

Her boy could do better, but she supposes having a kanima for a protector wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. After all, it was well known that aside from bears, kanima were the most vicious when it came to protecting what they considered theirs.

She turned to the being still giggling softly in his mate’s arms, while his other mate looked on affectionately. “So it has come to this.” She said sadly.

Ancient eyes looked back at her, and Zofia was reminded how painfully young Wenyn had been when he had endured the rites that had forged him into what he was. That made him other. The scar stood out so starkly, yet somehow made him no less beautiful. Almost as though reminding everyone of what he had survived.

He nodded. “So it has.”

And as Zofia turned back to the window to regard the young kanima who was already driving away, something flitted across her face, there and gone in an instant.

Yet if someone were to ask what it was they saw, they might tell you how silver grey hair had sharpened to the brittle dull of cold iron. Would have sworn that delicate features had sharpened, cheekbones gaunt and nose hooked. And her eyes. Eyes that were normally a warm brown, suddenly avian, dark and deep.

Yet surely, it was just a moment. Just that one moment, where not everything was as it seemed. Just a moment where they were surely mistaken.

So it has come to this.

Coinneach huffed. “How come, ye don’t wear more o’ these?” He asked, a meaty paw tugging softly on Wenyn’s skirt. “Ay quite like da view.”

And Wenyn couldn’t help the giggles that escaped as his mate grinned wolfishly at him, Eoghan rolling his eyes but certainly not disagreeing.

Their little mate was delicious in a skirt.

Derek was just wondering what the hell had happened, when a sudden chill entered the loft. Followed by a distinct vanilla-coconut smell.

Hadn’t his mom once told him something about a smell like that?

It was as he was trying to recall why exactly that particular scent combination was important, when the door to his apartment opened, even though he could have sworn he’d locked it. Not to mention his alarm wasn’t going off.

The scent of were creeped through the vanilla-coconut, and Derek growled. There was something in his den.

Ducking low, growl rumbling in his chest, eyes a burning crimson, he flicked out his claws.

Only to be taken down effortlessly by a hulking brute. Meaty paw wrapped around his neck. Claws pricking the delicate skin of his throat.

For the second time in as many days, he found himself with his face planted to the floor.

Struggling didn’t do anything, except earn him a warning squeeze. A growl, so much louder and stronger than his own echoed behind him and Derek could feel his wolf cower and show its belly.

Pale feet entered his field of vision, delicate bones visibly shifting with every step. A lilting voice echoed across the loft.

“Derek Hale, Alpha of the Beacon Hills Pack, you are asked to stand for idirghuí.” The voice paused. “Do you accept?”

And Derek suddenly remembered his mother’s lessons. Remembered why it was so important to recognize the scent of gorse, which wasn’t native to Beacon Hills. Remembered tales about death, and sacrifice, and judgement.

It was with a shaky voice, that Derek accepted.

Stiles looked up in surprise when Jackon came up to his room and tentatively offered him a vaguely familiar blue box. Since Stiles had called everyone out the other day, the blond’s absence had been glaringly obvious.

He tried not to let the other boy’s distance hurt.

If the way Izzy had refused to eave his side, even to go to the restroom, was any indication—he had failed spectacularly.

So he didn’t say anything when Jackson was suddenly there in his room, offering him a box and looking effortlessly handsome in designer jeans and a blue v-neck that brought out the color of his his eyes. Though Stiles did take greedy breaths, the smell of Jackson’s cologne addicting.

Under the sharp musk, was something else.

Something sweet and buttery.

Something he hadn’t smelled in…

Opening the box revealed a dozen pączki, dusted with powdered sugar. Choked up, Stiles looked back up to find Jackson uncharacteristically timid.

“I, um,” the other teen began, hand rubbing at his neck. “I asked my mom for the address.”

Stiles looked down so Jackson wouldn’t be able to see the tears he refused to let fall. Though being a scaly were-something meant that he could probably smell them.

“W-why?” He managed to choke out.

There was a pause. “Because…because its Saturday. And Saturdays were my favorite days because every Saturday I got to wake up to you and these jelly doughnuts.” He could hear Jackson swallow. “Because I took away six years worth of Saturdays between us, and I’m so sorry Mis—Stiles. I’m so sorry.”

Stiles didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t reconcile the boy he knew with the boy standing in front of him. Didn’t know how he could ever be mad at someone who remembered their past so fondly. Who went and asked their mom where to get their favorite childhood treat.

Butter and sugar heavy in his nose, Stiles sniffed. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.” He said tearily, taking a doughnut out of the box and taking a bite.

Jackson didn’t say anything. Only watched as the boy he loved accepted his offering.

Jackson smiled.

And a soft green bond stretched between them, gossamer thin, but slowly growing.

Erica and Boyd stared in shock at their shaking alpha.

They’d come by the loft to complain about Isaac ditching them for Stilinski only to find Derek cowering in the corner. Head in hands, loft reeking of fear, and something else. A lingering scent of vanilla-coconut so faint, they almost missed it.

It was Boyd who ducked down, Erica watching on with wide eyes. “Derek?” The dark skinned teen tried. Derek didn’t look up from his hands. Boyd tried again. “Derek? Derek man, what happened?”

Their alpha looked up, face tear stained. Eyes glowing a vibrant blue.

Deaton frowned, chanting paused.

The Hale Spark…

The spark that was passed down from Hale Alpha to Hale Alpha for generations, one that was so deeply tied to the land that it was almost impossible for the territory to accept another…

The spark that would have gone to Scott.

It was gone.

At the base of an old stump, in the middle of a dead forest a pair of bare feet slowed, their owner gently kneeling down into the loam and moss.

Bone white hands softly cupped a glowing red spark, its light flickering shyly. “It is okay,” breathed a voice that echoed in the clearing. “You may rest now.”

The spark flickered, once, twice, before finally slipping through gaunt fingers. It nestled itself into the roots of the stump, as though trying to get comfortable, before slowly sinking into the earth.

Around the base of an old stump, in the middle of a dead forest, flowers bloomed for the first time in over six years.

Two large hands helped a delicate figure up from their kneeling position, red eyes bright in the darkness of the night.

“The nemeton accepted the spark?” Eoghan asked, even as he carefully picked his mate up.

Wenyn smiled, heterochromatic eyes shining. “The Hale Spark belongs to the territory. It was only hurting Derek, and Peter no longer desires to be an alpha.” He laid his head down on a broad shoulder, smiling when he felt a familiar hand wrap around the back of his neck.

He breathed. “Better to let it return, lest it fall into…unsavory hands.”

Coinneach grunted, even as he continued to draw his mate’s pain. “It was hurtin’, barely blazin’. Too loose.”

It was true. It had been remarkably easy to tear the alpha spark out of Derek. While Wenyn would have been able to do so with little difficulty, such ease meant one thing.

Someone had been trying to steal the spark.

And they all had a vivid idea of who, exactly, would think that was a wise decision.

Monday morning found two wolves, one kanima, and an angry Sheriff glaring as Stiles stubbornly got ready for school. Okay, only one wolf was glaring.

Isaac was pouting.

“Stiles, I don’t really think that-“ the Sheriff began, only for his son to cut him off.

“There’s only three days left of the year dad.”

It was Peter who commented that surely, three days was no big deal in the grand scheme of things.

Ignoring the grumpy wolf, Stiles hid a wince as he slipped on his red hoody. It had been unseasonably cold this close to the end of the school year. No one was sure why, as summers in Beacon Hills were far from cool.

Evidently, he wasn’t as good at hiding his pain as he thought because the next thing he knew a hand slipped up his shirt and began draining his pain. Wolfy-pain drain is awesome. Stiles thought dazedly.

He gave Isaac a bright smile, mussing the blond wolf’s messy curls. “Thanks pup.”

Isaac flushed happily, smile bright even though his momma was in obvious pain.

Before Stiles could try and grab his backpack, Jackson had already done so and was walking downstairs. “Stiles is gonna go, if Stiles wants to. I promise to bring him back home if I think he needs a break.”

Giving his dad what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Isaac still carefully draining his pain and Peter sighing before surrendering his coffee, Stiles followed Jackson downstairs. Determined to make it a great day.

It was not.

Stiles could have ignored the curious glances of his classmates and teachers as they watched him hobble his way to class. Could have totally pretended that people weren’t whispering about the busied cheek that still wasn’t healing, or the way Isaac and Jackson were suddenly hovering over him like protective mother hens.

He could have done it.

Except it seemed that Scott suddenly remembered he existed, because he had just returned to his locker, Isaac draining his pain again, and Jackson carrying his books, when he suddenly found himself pushed against the locker, back meeting metal painfully.

Scott barely got out a snarled, “Dude-“ before the other teen was ripped off of him, landing painfully into the lockers across the hall. Jackson stood there, eyes a reptilian yellow, scales thankfully not showing although it was probably only a matter of time. Isaac was growling, curled protectively in front of Stiles in such a way that he could still see Scott where he was crumpled in the lockers, but his throat and stomach were completely covered by Isaac’s body.

It vaguely reminded him of an article he had read that said wolves often ducked beneath their alpha, almost as though they were cowering. Except, they were actually ensuring the alpha’s vulnerable throat and underbelly were covered, teeth ready to rip into anyone fool enough to try and take a swipe at their alpha.

Scott growled. “Dude, what the hell? You ditch school, and don’t answer my texts! Then you don’t even tell me you’re back!” He tried to get back up, only to find himself knocked back on his ass.

Jackson hissed dangerously. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself McCall!”

It seemed as though Scott had finally been drawn from his one-sided glaring contest to remember the other teens and his eyes widened. “Wha—“

Jackson hissed again, scales beginning to show around his hairline and Stiles hurriedly looked around to see if anyone was watching. Luckily, it seemed as though they were the only ones in this particular hallway, although that wouldn’t be the case for long. They needed to get out of here. They were too exposed.

Scott’s eyes were wide. “Dude! Jackson, you were supposed to be cured!” He kept staring at Jackson, before smiling. “It’s alright. We’ll go to Deaton, he’ll know what to d—“ Another hiss cut him off.

“Cured?” Jackson asked, kanima so close to the surface Stiles would have sworn his tongue flicked out to taste the air. “Why would I need to be cured?” Venom began dripping from his claws.

Scott looked confused. “Because it’s an abomination?” He asked, not noticing the minute flinch Isaac and Stiles shared at the word. Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “How are you able to stay…uh…you? I thought Deaton said you lose, like, consciousness or whatever, especially when your Master calls.”

For a moment, no one said anything, until Scott looked back at Stiles. His eyes narrowed. “Stiles! Are you controlling Jackson right now? What the hell man?”

Stiles was so taken aback that for the first time in his life, he honestly didn’t know what to say. Scott, as it turned out, didn’t have that problem. “How could you? First you ignore me, and now you’re using Jackson? To what? Make me jealous? Is this because of your stupid car? Are you really that upset?” Before Scott could release anymore of his vitriol, Jackson struck.

Slashing his claws across McCalls face, enjoying the pained whimper the action elicited, he watched dispassionately as Scott slumped over. Paralyzed.

Shift slowly pulling back, he turned and began leading his pack towards the parking lot. “Let’s get one thing clear McCall. Nobody is controlling me. I am nobody’s tool.” Right before they walked outside, Jackson said quietly—knowing only Scott and Isaac could hear him, “And if you ever come near my Stiles again, I’ll end you.”

He enjoyed the bright burst of ammonia that followed this statement, and ignoring Lydia’s sharp ”Jackson!, and Allison’s calculating gaze, he walked to his pack.

Smiling at the way Isaac was still protecting their Stiles, Jackon carefully herded them into his car before driving away.

They’d only made it through first period.

Scott came crashing into his clinic. Brown eyes panicked, he stared at his boss. “Deaton! Stiles did something! Jackson, he’s still the kanima!”

Deaton clenched his jaw.

This was definitely not good.

Allison got home, intent on telling her father that Jackson was still a viable threat and that Stiles was responsible when she paused. Her father was speaking quietly with a large blond who had cheekbones that looked like they’d been carved from marble. Full lips, and just enough scruff to cast a sexy shadow over a sharp jaw and Allison found herself wondering when her dad got such sexy friends.

OMG did I really just think that? Shocked, she barely noticed when cold blue eyes assessed her.

DILF looked away, speaking softly to something—no not something, someone—tucked beside them. It was her dad that gestured her over. “Allison, we have guests.” He said, voice somber.

Allison smiled, even as she drifted closer. “Hi. Dad, I really need to talk to you. It’s about my bow.” She said, trying to go for subtle.

A husky laugh caused her to jump, regarding the mountain of muscle beside the blond DILF. Holy hell, but he was huge. And hot. What?

“I am afraid Miss Argent, that that will not be possible.” A soft litling voice said, and it was only then that Allison noticed that there was a person seated between the two hulking hotties. Pale hair settled in lazy waves about thin shoulders. She noticed the pale yellow tea-dress, skirt ending at just the knee and thought that it was definitely cute. Simple, and elegant, especially paired with the light blue cardigan. Bone white feet rested softly against the carpet, birdlike and delicate.

Blue brown eyes met hers. “"Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent?" They asked.

She glanced at her father, who looked tired. “Dad?”

He sighed, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. “I tried to tell you that there are…higher authorities, when it came to this world.” He took a pull of his drink, almost emptying it, before pouring another finger. “I’m sorry Ally, but, you called this on yourself.” He nodded to the three still seated, before leaving, not meeting his daugher’s desperate eyes.

“Allison Argent, matriarch-in-training of the Argent Clan, you are asked to stand for idirghuí.” There was a pause, and Allison felt the thrum of something ancient and unfathomable keeping her in place. “Do you accept?”

She had no idea what the hell idirghuí even was. But what she did know what that she was an Argent. She came from one of the most prestigious hunting families in history. Her family had kept the world safe for centuries, and she was the next matriarch. There was not a single thing for her to be afraid of. With a haughty tilt to her chin, one she did not know was shockingly similar to her aunt Kate, she looked down her nose at the three.

“Yes.”

A sharp smile pulled at thick scar tissue. “Very well.”

Chris sighed as Allison was escorted out. He had tried. He had tried so hard, to keep his daughter away from all this. To keep the Argent family legacy from poisoning another generation, and he had failed.

His daughter had cavalierly hunted down and nearly killed two of her classmates. Had knowingly acknowledged the capture and torture of a third, who was human. Then had, without care or remorse attempted to kill a fourth, all to get to Derek.

It had taken Gerard years to sink his claws into Kate.

With Allison, it had barely been a month.

He took another drink as the Arch-Druid came to stand at his elbow. “What’s going to happen to her?” He asked roughly.

His Grace regarded Allison for a moment. “She has shown no remorse for her failings. To her mind, she has followed the Code. Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.”

Chris finished the last of his drink, enjoying the way it burned. “We hunt those that hunt us.” It was the legacy his family had made for itself, forged in blood and steel.

A cold hand touched his arm, and despite himself, Chris relaxed. “Allison is young, and impulsive. Her mind is not fully formed, and it was easier for her to process her grief by finding a target for it.” The Arch-Druid said, voice still soft. “She will be granted a measure of clemency, she would not have shown to others.” Chris fought not to flinch. “Yet she still must answer for her crimes.”

As his daughter was hauled away, eyes beseeching him to help her from the back of a car as it drove away, Chris looked away. “What’s going to happen now?”

Blue-brown eyes met his. “The Code is no more. Your clan, dissolved.” The Arch-Druid’s mates came, carefully leading him away, although Chris could hear his parting words. “What you do from here, is up to you.”

Coinneach grinned at the way their mate’s tiny waist was highlighted by the dress, pale ribbon tied perfectly. He could feel Eoghan’s appreciation as well, and his grin widened.

Wenyn smiled up at them sweetly.

Coinneach’s grin turned soft. It was impossible not to when their mate was just so adorable. “Ay say we have a night out? Eh?”

Eoghan simply nodded, while Wenyn gripped their hands tighter. “I would like that.”

And as they walked, Coinneach couldn’t help but think their work here was almost done.

“So kid, did you want to try again?” John asked the next day. Secretly hoping that his son would say no, although Stiles was nothing if not stubborn.

A whiskey-brown eye peeked out at him from a tangle of limbs, and John couldn’t help the quick flash of affection for his son’s pack. Even if he didn’t know how to feel at the way Jackson had wrapped himself around his son’s back. Maybe I should have a conversation with him. While cleaning my gun.

No, that wouldn’t work. He didn’t have any wolfsbane, so he’d heal in a few hours. Maybe he could convince Peter to get him some. Making a mental note to wear the jeans his son said made his ass “Look out of this world, daddio!”, he returned his attention to his son.

After a pregnant pause, where John was sure Stiles was going to be stubborn out of spite, Stiles finally shook his head. “No. I think, I think it’s better if I stay home for the rest of the week dad.”

John had to hide a grin, though he was sure Stiles saw it with the way he rolled his eyes. “Okay son. I’ll call the school and let them know.”

He left Stiles to fall back asleep, safe between two pack mates who would do everything in their power to keep him safe.

We’re sorry, the number you are attempting to dial is not available.

We’re sorry, the number you are attempting to dial is not available.

We’re sorry, the number you are attempting to dial is not available.

We’re sorry, the number you are at-

With a huff, Scott ended the call. “What the hell Stiles?” He wasn’t sure what Stiles’ deal was, but that was totally uncalled for to make Jackson paralyze him, especially in the middle of the hallway. He’d gotten detention for skipping class!

Dialing his boss, Scott waited for the call to connect, and idly wondered where Allison was. She hadn’t shown up to home room. There was a click, letting him know someone had picked up. “Hey Deaton! Yeah. Yeah no. No he’s still not here.” Brown eyes scrunched up. “No! He’s not answering.” Scott tilted his head, so reminiscent of a confused puppy that had Stiles been there he no doubt would have made a dog joke. “Go to his house?” He considered this for a moment.

He’d never thought to go to Stiles’ house. Just annoyed his best friend, his brother, had been ignoring him! “You’ll come too?” At the affirmative, Scott nodded before saying he’d be there in about 20 minutes. Looks like the Stilinski’s were going to have some guests.

As soon as he hung up with Scott, Deaton began gathering what he would need. He had no idea how Stiles had managed to bound the kanima, but it obviously had something to do with the wards that had suddenly surrounded his neighborhood and the Sheriff’s lack of response to the supernatural. It was dangerous to have such a public figure be aware of their world, and he couldn’t believe Stiles’ would endanger his father like that.

Not to mention, that he would welcome the likes of Peter Hale into his home. Something was obviously wrong. The erratic behavior, missing school, having the kanima attack Scott in public. Grabbing mistletoe, sage, and St. John’s Wort, Deaton readied himself for the worse. Stiles is no doubt possessed. He thought grimly, as he locked up the clinic. That’s the only plausible explanation for his behavior and sudden ability to access that kind of magic.

He was possessed and not in control of his own actions. For the sake of Beacon Hills, for the sake of the balance, they’d have to be prepared to do whatever was necessary.

I pray that Stiles survives this. Was Deaton’s last thought as he got into his car. But very few survive a possession.

Peter was distracted, eyes glued to the Sheriff and his deputy—if you catch his drift. I didn’t know John owned pants that tight. He thought, a thin sliver of drool escaping as he took in the view. John was talking, and Peter was ashamed to admit he was nodding along mindlessly, but could you blame him? When all of that was available for his viewing pleasure?

So yes, Peter was distracted but not enough to miss that putrid stench of not-pack followed by the scent of cat litter and herbs. Scott and Deaton. He thought murderously.

The Idiot and the Asshole.

Judging from the growls echoing downstairs, both Isaac and Jackson had caught their scent and were responding to the threat accordingly. I’m not about to let anything else happen to my pack! Not this time!

It looks like Deaton needed to be reminded that Peter Hale didn’t warn twice. It’ll be nice to finally eviscerate that dreadful man, and separate his liver from his body. Guiding John upstairs, and if his hand accidentally touched the butt—he was hanging around Stiles too much if he was quoting Finding Nemo—well, oops. Spoiler, the butt was as nice to touch as it was to look at.

John was definitely confused, brows furrowed in a way that was far too adorable for a man his age, only for that confusion to turn to understanding when he heard the doorbell ring. He nodded, eyes lingering on Peter, and all Peter could do was grin.

He was a left hand. It was his job to deal with threats to the pack.

Watching John go upstairs, and he hated to watch him go but he loved to watch that man walk, Peter grinned. Blue eyes burning, claws lengthening, fangs sharpening.

He strode to the door and whipped it open, “Why Deaton, I do believe I warned you what would happen if we were to find your foul stench anywhere near my pack.” His manic grin turned snide at the growl to his left, neatly dodging the clumsy swipe and grabbing his greatest disappointment by the throat. “And oh look! You brought a mangy stray along with you.”

Eyes bright, he watched as the druid watched on detachedly. “We’re here for Stiles.” Eyes attempted to wander past him, to look inside the house and Peter growled. Deaton simply raised an eyebrow. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way Peter.” Hands straying to the satchel at his side, and Peter could just smell the herbs and potions coming off in waves, his eyes narrowed. “What’s it to be?”

Pretending to consider for a moment, claws idly drawing blood at the still struggling Scott, Peter hummed. “Hmm…I think I’ll pick the hard way!”

A flick of his wrist had Scott crashing into Deton’s car, head making a satisfying clang as it connected with the door. Deaton had already pulled out a vial from his bag, no doubt some deadly combination of magic and herbs, and Peter was mid-lunge only for his body to rescues to move.

Deaton seemed to have a similar issue, arm visibly straining as he tried to throw the vial.

They stood there for a moment, each considering the other, each wondering just what, exactly, was happening. It was as Peter was considering if he couldn’t reach through the pack bonds and have Jackson finish the job when a heady scent caught his attention.

A distinctive vanilla-coconut, followed by loam and moss.

A figure appeared at the end of the drive, bracketed by two hulking beasts. Blue brown eyes watched dispassionately, pale feet making virtually no sound as they walked, not even to his heightened hearing. A voice that was like the whisper of an ancient grove, the snick of a blade, an echo of a sacred well, the gargle of a dying breath, reverberated through his very core.

“Alan Deaton, emissary and druid, you are asked to stand for idirghuí.” Hair, the color of aged bone, trailedlazily over a naked shoulder. “Scott McCall, werewolf without a pack, you are asked to stand for idirghuí.“ Beside them, the beasts growled. “Do you accept?”

And for the first time in his entire life, Peter watched gleefully as Alan Deaton visibly lost his composure. Scent gloriously terrified, the reek of ammonia a balm for his soul.

The druid, the man who had failed his first pack, had failed his family, who had abandoned him just as surely as his niece and nephew. This pathetic, deluded fool, who had been so consumed with his own arrogance and importance, and had allowed his family to burn. The sad, pitiful, feeble excuse for an emissary, swallowed.

Deaton swallowed, eyes wide and hands shaking.

Idirghuí.

The simplest translation could be interpreted as intercession. But it was far more than that.

Because in the original Gaelic, it was also supplication. It was the entreaty to a higher power on behalf of the greater good. It was the closest form of sacrifice one could make, without actually sacrificing something. Only a few could answer the petition for idirghuí.

And one of them was standing before him.

Wenyn, Arch-Druid of the Order of Ovates, was a being he had heard of but had never thought he’d meet.

Who had called him here? Why was he there? Why did someone ask for idirghuí without consulting me about it?

But when idirghuí was called, you only had one choice.

Trembling, Deaton nodded.

John wasn’t entirely sure what was happening.

One moment, he was sure Peter was going to disembowel Scott and Deaton—and he should probably feel more conflicted about a potential crime being committed on his front step. But instead all he felt was a warm fuzzy feeling he decided not to pay to much attention too.

Next he knew, the teen wolf and his boss were unceremoniously dumped on John’s living room sofa, Stiles and the rest of his pack taking the love seat, a blond bracketing him on either side.

And then there were the three mystery guests.

Two hulking beasts, something between a wolf and a bear, and bigger then anything he’d ever seen standing beside a short figure.

They sat in John’s usual seat, a sleeveless white shirt John thought Stiles called a tunic, tucked into highwaisted skinny jeans that highlighted just how gaunt they truly were.

A checkered shawl in creams and pale yellows was wrapped around them loosely, a thick torc nestled against a slim throat, hair hanging freely about their shoulders.

Their features were androgynous, thick pale lashes and heterochromatic eyes staring out at him. A thick scar peeking out from where the torc wasn’t quite able to hide it.

A sudden weight landing in his lap had John letting out an oomph, and he turned to regard faux-innocent blue eyes. “Sorry John, but it looks like all the seats are taken.” Peter said, batting his eyelashes.

With a sigh, John resigned himself to his fate.

Only Stiles.

“Um…” Stiles stared, doe eyes wide and confused at the group in his living room. “What exactly, uh, is this irdi-ehder-urdi…”

A soft smile greeted him, and Stiles felt something warm settle in his gut. “Idirghuí.“, a litling voice said.

He gave a quick nod, fingers twitching. “Yeah, that! And, uh,” another glance at a growling Scott and perturbed looking Deaton, “why do they need to be here?”

Before they could answer, Scott interrupted. “Why are you helping them! Do you know what you’re doing?! When I tell Mr. Argent—“ Then, just as suddenly as he began, he stopped. A closer look revealed that Scott couldn’t physically open his mouth. The stranger gave nothing away, but he thought he could almost make out a grin on one of the beasts sat next to them.

Animals don’t smile do they?

Clearing their throat, the individual Deaton had called an Arch Druid, continued. “Idirghuí, is a petition for intercession on behalf of a supernatural community.” They tilted their head, hair cascading down a bony shoulder. “The call for idirghuí, is not one that can be ignored.”

Blue brown eyes regarded him. “They are here, because both have wronged you.” The truth of that statement reverberated in his chest, traveling across his pack bonds, leaving a glittering trail of warmth in its wake. “They are here, because both have harmed the territory.” This time, the echo of condemnation fell heavy in the sudden silence.

The weight of their stare kept him in place, something dark and ancient in their depths. “As Arch Druid of the Order of Ovates and Representative of the High Council of Bards, Ovates and Druids, idirghuí is begun.” There was a finality to their words, an echo of power that reminded Stiles of when he had managed to complete the mountain ash circle.

He could do nothing but nod, curling closer into the warmth of his pack. Burying himself in the overwhelming love pouring through his bonds. Bonds to Isaac, with his golden yellow adoration. To Peter, his cool blue viciously protective. To his dad, the khaki-brown warm and affectionate. And even to Jackson. Jackson, who’s blinding green bond was wrapped so tightly about his center, he wasn’t sure where Jackson ended and he began. The green resonating with love, affection, adoration, and a million other things he couldn’t name.

The Arch Druid turned to Scott first. “Scott McCall,” they began, “you have knowingly ignored the counsel of the local pack. Have endangered humans and supernaturals alike in pursuit of your own, selfish ends.” They didn’t raise their voice once, not a single time as they laid Scott’s sins before his feet. Yet for all that, there was the echo of something unfathomable, that made their words seem so much louder. “You watched as the girl you claimed to be in love with, spiraled and blamed the local pack on the death of her family. Despite knowing the truth of the matter. Despite knowing that Derek Hale only did what he did, to protect you.”

Scott continued to struggle, body trembling in self-righteous fury. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape whatever had been done to him. “You acknowledged the danger Gerard Argent presented to both the community of Beacon Hills, and you accepted when everyone around you became collateral in your pursuit of Allison Argent.”

Guilty brown eyes shot to Stiles for just a moment, and in that brief instant he knew. Knew that Scott had known he’d been taken. And that this boy, the boy who claimed to be his best friend, his brother, didn’t care. So long as in the end, he got Allison. Somehow, the betrayal didn’t sting as badly as he thought it would, though he felt Isaac and Jackson bristle beside him. Stiles looked away.

“Yet you show no remorse over your actions. Still convinced that you are right. Still hoping for this sense of normalcy.” Pale feet made not a sound as they seemingly glided across the floor of the Stilinski’s living room. Bony fingers lightly cradled an uneven jaw, thumbs resting just below each eye. “Wolf you shall no longer be, yet without a pack, you shall remain. Of this world you will never speak, but your memories shall remain. By thine own hand, your judgement has been writ.”

And they watched as Scott’s beta gold eyes faded into brown. “What,” he gasped, beginnings of an asthma attack clear in his voice, “what did you do to me?”

Blue brown eyes ignored him, gaze fixed upon Deaton. “And you, emissary of a fallen pack, are you prepared?”

Deaton, who had remained silent during all of this, could not meet his eyes. “I am, Your Grace.”

It was not a simple thing, the creation of an Arch Druid.

To twist the very fabric of their being. To unravel everything that made them human, to rip out their fragile mortality. It was not a simple thing, the creation of an Arch Druid.

Three deaths.

A death of the body.

A death of self.

A death of being.

It is not a simple thing, the creation of an Arch Druid. Not a simple thing to watch the life’s-blood leave, to watch as they drew their last, gasping breath. To witness the unbearable pain, where they feel as though their head was about to explode. To be there, as they waited until the very, last, moment, before they took that single breath. Trying to buy themselves more time.

Time to be rescued.

Time to be saved.

And yes, sometimes it was utter agony, and yes the pain was excruciating, but if the game was survival…

Wasn’t a little agony worth it?

So no, it wasn’t a simple thing. Creating an Arch Druid. Which is why Deaton knew, that he never stood a chance.

In the aftermath of everything, Stiles couldn’t help but stare at this boy who looked much older than him, yet was capable of so much more.

Wenyn was being aggressively cuddled by his mates—mates! Mates were apparently a thing! A scowling blonde, and a growly redhead, who were both drawing pain from the gaunt druid. Brown blue eyes regarded him, and smiled.

“You have questions?” Wenyn asked, and Stiles couldn’t do anything but nod. Questions falling rapidly, and he knew without looking that his pack was looking at him with amusement and his dad was rolling his eyes. But he couldn’t hep himself. He knew that he needed to stop and take a breath, but it was so rare that someone was willing to answer him.

Yet Wenyn did nothing more but smile. “I am afraid I did not quite catch all that. What is your first question?”

Stiles paused, knowing that this first question, it should be important. A glance at Jackson—no, a glance at Jax—and he knew.

“Why, um, why is Jax still, um, a kanima?” He asked, and he could feel the way Jackson looked at him. Eyes wide at the name Stiles had used. “Derek, um, he called it an…”he trailed off.

It was Jax that finished. “An abomination…”

At this, all three paused. After a long moment, Wenyn spoke. “Jackson is a kanima, because kanima are protectors. It is not an abomination, as many people understand. Wolves forget that they are not the only ones who have the ability to shift.” he paused. “What do you know about Freud’s theory of the mind?”

That startled a laugh out of Stiles, who wasn’t expecting this ancient power to question him about psychology. “Um…there’s three structures I think? The id, the ego, and the uh…the superego right?”

Wenyn nodded. “It was the druids who first learned how to shape shift.” He whispered, words soft. “When Lycaon came with his sons to the Court of Oaks, they entreated that we help them learn how to turn back into mortal men.” Stiles couldn’t help the way he leaned forward, utterly entranced. “We could not help them, but we could teach them how to shift between forms. Wolves, coyotes, jaguars…they are like the id. They give into their most basic instincts, that is why they feel the pull of the moon so strongly.”

Peter interrupted. “That makes it sound like we’re nothing but animals.” The wolf was scowling, though he hadn’t moved from his perch in the Sheriff’s lap. Since when did he get there? Stiles wondered.

Wenyn didn’t take offense though. “The id is the survival instinct, so much closer and stronger as a were. So much more instinctive. This is not to say wolves are more animalistic than others, but there is a reason why they form packs.” The older wolf regarded him for a moment, before nodding. “Creatures like the kanima are ruled by morality. In our comparison they are the superego, so concerned about things like right and wrong. It is why they are not dependent upon a pack for survival—but a kanima unaware of themselves can be tainted…their sense of right and wrong twisted and forged into the shape of a master.”

Jax shifted, and Stiles knew he was thinking of his time under the control of Matt and then Gerard. He reached out, and softly gripped the other boy’s hand. Jax relaxed, and gave him an equally soft squeeze. “And the third? The ego?”

“Are magic users. We keep the balance between the id and the superego—balance instinct with morality. Druids like Deaton forget that when we speak of balance, it’s not the balance of the world, for nature is so very efficient when it comes to maintaining itself.”

They spoke for hours, talking about anything and everything. Sometimes Isaac or Jax asked a question, sometimes Peter. Even his dad asked one. And it wasn’t always Wenyn that spoke. Coinneach and Eoghan chimed in, providing their own unique perspective.

At some point, Stiles found himself moved to Jax’s lap, Izzy curled comfortably into his side and Stiles asked his last question. “What am I now?”

Because he could feel that he was different, following the basement. Different from the boy Jax knew as Mischief. Different from the Stiles he had been for so long. Something had changed, and he wasn’t sure where he would go from here. What new form he could give himself, how much of Mischief and Stiles would remain.

And Wenyn, this boy who looked no older than Stiles yet had eyes that were filled with a profound ancient sadness, who was the mate of two alphas, who effortlessly ripped Scott’s wolf out and bound Deaton’s magic. This being who interceded on behalf of the supernatural. He turned to look Stiles in the eye. “You are whatever you choose to be.”

And as they left, as his dad wished him goodnight, and Peter came to join the puppy pile, Stiles smiled. Because no matter what happened, no matter who he became, or what lie ahead, his pack would be there. Loving him, supporting him, protecting him. They would be there to help him when he felt like he was drowning. They’d be there. Turning darkness into light.

Kyle was seriously considering turning in his two weeks notice. What the hell was wrong with his manager! It was the third time this week, Kyle had been left alone at the register and he was exhausted.

He barely registered the ring of the bell signaling new customers, too exhausted to even try and put on a “customer-service” face. It wasn’t till he heard a familiar voice ask, “Is everything alright Kyle?” that he looked up.

Blue brown eyes met his, a smile on a delicate face.

Beside him, two hulking male models.

Kyle squirmed.