Archive of Our Own

Stiles yawned as he scratched at his beard. He kicked his apartment door open with his dress shoe and tossed his keys towards the table that lay next to the door. He wasn't sure if they actually made it but he was too tired to care.

He just got home from an aggressive case and all he wanted to do was drown himself in beer and the new Loki TV show. Raphael had made it clear to Stiles that he needed a break, which he did, desperately.

He made his way towards his living room. He was pulling his tie off, his dress shoes already left at the front door. He started to unclip his dress shirt when he felt his wards tug at him.

He turned slowly towards the front door.

His wards would have gone off if it were someone he didn't know. But it was a soft tug, as if his wards knew he didn't know the person, but they had someone in common. But, he still listened carefully, holding his breath as he pulled on his spark. He carefully lifted his hands as he faced his front door. He was ready for whoever was on the other side of it.

“Um, I'm behind you.” Stiles screamed as he spun around; his closed fist connecting to the intruder’s body. He hissed in pain; shaking his hand out.

“Ow that was my shoulder dude.” Stiles was bent over, gripping his injured hand, hoping the throbbing pain would magically stop.

“Who the fuck are you and how did you get into my house?” Stiles finally looked up and frowned as he made eye contact. It was a fucking kid!

“I'm sorry, I know I should have called but your neighbor said you were out on a case in Florida.” Fucking Ron, now Stiles needed to take his spare key back from him.

“Who are you?” Stiles dropped his hand, the pain long forgotten as he stood to take the kid in. He had to be about sixteen. That was way too young for this kid to be hiding in a stranger’s house. His hair was long and looked like he had spent the last week tangling it in his hands.

“I'm sorry. My dad, uh, he always told me that if I was in trouble to find you. Popop gave me your address.” Stiles watched the kid pull something out of his jeans pocket. He held it out for Stiles who gently took it.

It was one of his business cards. One of his original business cards. It was faded and the white was turning yellow. But Stiles could still see his address on it. He flipped the card over and a bright purple 77 was written on it.

Stiles gasped as he stared at that number. He had hoped never to see that number again. Yet here it was staring at him, mocking him, ripping his heart out.

Stiles had come up with the number system. A way for the pack to find him, and tell him they needed help without anyone else knowing who was reaching out to him. The only person who had used it before now was Malia, usually when she sent weres that were separated from their packs.

“Where did you get this kid?”

“My-”

“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?” Stiles felt his eyes bleed white, his spark coming alive from the pure rage he felt deep in his bones.

“My name is Eli, Eli Hale. My dad is Derek.” Stiles just stared at the kid. His mind was whirling but suddenly stopped with an alarming loud screech.

“Why-fuck!” Stiles screamed as he bent over, pulling at his hair. He couldn't speak, couldn't think, fuck he couldn't even breathe. If Derek’s son were here looking for a safe space then that means Derek's either in critical danger or he is dead.

“I didn't know where else to go. The only other person I could go to lives in St. Louis. That-Denver is much closer. He-my dad said that you would help me. That you would always help me.” Stiles was still bent over trying to breathe through the panic. He hadn't had an attack in a decade and he wasn't going to break that record.

“Your dad is a fucking prick. What happened?” Stiles finally looked up at the teen and watched his eyes well up with tears.

“This lady attacked him. I don't know who she was but my dad knew her. He looked like he saw a ghost.” Stiles stood up at that, his eyes widening because he had a sickening feeling he knew who he was talking about and that isn't good.

“She had dark hair and shot him with a crossbow. That's all I know.”

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” He watched Eli’s eyes slowly widen, like he figured something out.

“You know her don't you?”

“I have an idea but she's dead. Fucking hell Allison.”

“My dad always said Beacon Hills has a way of bringing people back.” Stiles snorted at that as he turned to walk into his kitchenette. He could hear the kid following him and he pulled out one of his barstools for him to sit on. He then went to his fridge. If this were Allison, he needed a fucking drink. Or ten. He was quick to grab his tequila off the shelf over his fridge and dug a lime out before turning back towards Eli.

“Wait a damn minute. Your name is Eli right? Is it just Eli or is there more to your name?”

“Elias Oliver Hale.” Stiles felt his eye twitch as he stared at him. The Hale kid raised his eyebrows in such a Derek manner that it almost had Stiles laughing.

“Fuck okay, so that's something.”

“My dad said he named me after Poppop’s father-in-law.”

“I'm sorry, you're talking about my dad right? Noah Stilinski right?”

“Yeah, that is Popop!” Stiles thought fuck it and drank from his tequila bottle, grimacing at the burn as it went down his throat. This was a lot of information and it had Stiles spinning.

“Is that a problem?” Stiles opened his mouth just as his phone started to ring. He fished it out of his pocket, seeing it was an unknown number. He swiped to answer it.

“Special Agent Stilinski.”

“Before you start lecturing me, can I speak to my son?” Stiles felt his body freeze at the sound of Derek’s deep and tired voice. It had been almost twelve years since Stiles had heard his voice, and it still affected him. Stiles opened his mouth but Eli was reaching over to grab his phone as he hopped off his barstool and started pacing.

“Dad. I'm okay. Tell Popop I'm fine. I mean besides my sprained ankle. So Stiles said her name was Allison. Was that Allison?” Stiles watched Eli scuff his foot against his carpet. He had to bite back a smile. Eli was clearly protective of Derek.

“So what are you going to do? Should we head back? Why not? I'm fifteen, Dad! I am more than capable of handling myself! You-fuck that dad. You were literally shot in the neck and I was nearly hunted down. I can say whatever I please, I'm pulling a freebie.” Stiles felt his heart hurt as he watched Eli move around his living room. Whomever Derek married, they're good parents. That thought had Stiles taking another shot, for some reason, it really hurt that not only did his dad know about Eli, but neither his dad nor Derek had the decency to tell him that Derek was married with a kid.

“You can't do that, Dad! We both know you can't do this without Stiles. You've repeatedly told me that.” Stiles choked on the tequila he was shooting back. Eli was turning around to look at him before getting distracted by whatever his dad was saying.

“So I'm to stay here? This is bullshit and you know it, Dad! You told me, Fuck you.” Stiles watched Eli hang up, tossing Stiles’ phone on his couch. Stiles could understand how Eli was feeling. The number of times that Stiles and his father fought over the exact thing, it hurts when your parents don't trust you to protect them.

“Hey. Eli, I know it hurts and the last thing you want to do is be sidelined but whatever is going on, you have to trust your dad.” Stiles held his breath as Eli glared at him.

“Look my dad and I have had fights about the same thing. It hurts but you're the most important person to your dad and he's going to do what he can to protect you.”

“So why can't I protect him as well? He is my dad!”

“Trust me, if I had that answer then my dad would be retired living his best life in San Francisco.” Eli’s laugh had Stiles feeling a little more at ease.

“You’re different than how my dad and Popop described you.”

“Oh? And how did they describe me?” Stiles watched Eli sit back on his barstool. Stiles could feel his grief and anger through his spark. There was something off though. His spark could feel a barrier in Eli’s heart. Like a cage around it.

“Well, Popop always gets exasperated when he tries to use you as an example of what not to do. My dad though, always gets sad.” Stiles wanted to ask more but then his spark picked up a new feeling just as Eli’s stomach growled.

“How about I make us a pizza? I was planning on watching the Loki series but we can-“

“It isn’t all that good. I don’t know why Marvel is trying so hard with multiple dimensions but it makes it hard to follow. My dad and I got about halfway through Loki before we both lost interest. Actually, I don’t think my dad was interested at all but was trying to watch it since I love Loki.” Stiles had his freezer half open as he turned to stare at Eli.

“Your dad voluntarily watches Marvel movies?”

“He groans about it beforehand but yeah, he really likes Bucky. I don’t know if it is because he finds him relatable or if he is attracted to Sebastian Stan. Aunt Malia, as a gag gift got him a Bucky body pillow.” Stiles stood there in the middle of his kitchen, the frozen pizza hanging low in his hand as he tried to process everything.

“When we watched Endgame though, Aunt Malia wouldn’t stop teasing Dad about Steve and his ass being America’s ass. You should have seen how red he got. Jordan for weeks wouldn’t stop sending pictures of Chris Evans’ butt.”

“When the fuck did your dad start liking men? Doesn’t that bother your mom?” Stiles had half a mind to punch himself. Not everyone had an obtuse way of thinking, and as a bisexual himself, it isn’t absurd to be attracted to all genders even when in a heterosexual relationship.

“Why? They’re not together anymore. They haven’t been together since I was born. My mom works for the State Department with her husband, my stepdad Hunter. But, my dad convinced them to take a sabbatical and travel for a few months. I think Mom and Hunter’s marriage was starting to break.”

“Wait your dad isn’t married?” Stiles watched Eli squint his eyes, like he was trying to analyze him. It made Stiles turn towards his oven to keep himself busy. He popped the pizza in and started the timer.

“Why? Do you want to marry my dad?” Stiles froze at that. His eyes were wide and frozen as he stared at the oven timer. “I always had the suspicion that Popop and my dad weren’t fully honest when it came to you. Dad can be sometimes worse than Dr. Deaton.”

“That guy is still alive?” Stiles waved his hand around, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. His filter really needs to be worked on.

“Did you just leave everyone behind when you left?”

“In my defense, I was put on probation for saving your dad’s stupid ass. Then I got thrown on an undercover job that lasted a few years. I couldn’t really call anyone.”

“Saved my dad? Which time? Popop said you two had an unspoken rule to always protect each other. I think that’s why Popop and Dad are so close now. There were times dad was busy with the garage and your dad would step in and help. He joked about how I was going to turn into you with the number of times I had to stay at the station with him.” Stiles watched Eli play with his fingers. He had his eyes downcast towards the floor. There was something clearly bothering the teen, but for some reason, he felt the need to protect himself.

“Well hopefully you don’t turn into a delinquent, I don’t think my dad’s heart can handle that a second time.”

“That’s uh well. Popop tried to threaten me with juvy but Popop isn’t all that scary. I think he tries too hard. He’s all mushy inside.” Stiles smiled at that and leaned back against his counter between his oven and fridge. “They’re really going to war and I’m stuck being fucking sidelined. Why aren’t you mad they’re not letting us intervene?”

“If I went back every time something horrible happened, I wouldn’t have left.”

“This is the first time in years that anything has happened. That’s why Dad built our house. He realized Beacon Hills is a lot safer than it was before and wanted a real home. Dad even made some grave markers for Grandma and Grandpa.” Stiles surveyed Eli; letting their conversation end. Stiles’ eyes widen. He figured it out finally; that odd barrier inside Eli.

“Don't get offended, but why exactly are you blocking your wolf? At first, I thought it was an emotional barrier, you know puberty. But, I know you're a wolf but I can't feel it.” Stiles watched Eli closely; his body had gone stiff.

“My dad wants me to be a wolf so bad. We are Hales and we have traditions to uphold.” Stiles grimaced at that. “I want to be Eli; not my last name.”

Stiles understood where Eli was coming from. He could imagine the heavy pressure of being a Hale.

“And now, he is sidelining me. Why won’t he let me protect him?” Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. He remembered his own sixteen-year-old self—how he'd clawed for meaning, for a place where he wasn't just a reflection of his father’s badge or Scott’s abilities.

He regarded Eli, whose chin was trembling with the effort of holding it all together. For a second, Stiles envied how easily the kid could feel, and then hated himself for it. Eli deserved an easy life.

“Okay. Honest answer?” Stiles said, pushing off the counter. “Because it’s a parent’s job to be terrified of losing their kid. Especially if they’ve lost everything else worth losing.” He approached, lowering his voice as if that would shrink the pain. “Your dad lost his whole family, Eli. He’s not about to let that happen again. He'd burn the world for you.” Eli’s eyes turned red as the dam seemed to break.

He blinked furiously, then scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Sorry,” he rasped. “I don’t even know why I’m crying, it’s just—everything’s so fucking heavy, and it’s like nobody wants to say it aloud.” The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered.

Stiles hesitated, watching the way Eli curled into himself, shoulders hunched and fists balled against his knees. It was painfully familiar—the posture of someone who shouldered the world. Stiles crossed the kitchen and slid the tequila bottle aside, then crouched so that their eyes were level. He waited, silent, until Eli finally met his gaze.

“You know, when I was your age, I used to think that if I could just keep my dad from worrying, everything would be fine. Like if I could outrun the pain for both of us, we’d somehow be safe. Instead, I nearly destroyed our relationship and my father’s career.”

“Popop told me once that the worst feeling is looking at your kid and not knowing who they are anymore.” That stopped Stiles. He wasn’t sure if his dad meant lying or The Nogistune. Stiles really hopes it is the lying.

“It seems like every bad thing will blow up the world. But Eli, I promise you it won’t blow up.”Stiles let the moment linger just long enough for both of them to sit with it, then, mercifully, clapped his hands together and leapt to his feet like a man with an allergy to emotional intimacy.

“All right, that’s enough sharing feelings for one day. You’re still a minor and I’m pretty sure there are laws about this much trauma dumping outside of a licensed therapist’s office.” He shot Eli a crooked, conspiratorial grin. “Let’s go rot our brains with the worst television programming we can find.”

Eli, face freshly scrubbed and eyes pupil-black, snorted and pushed himself off the barstool. “You’re deflecting.”

“Damn right I am. Come on, I’ve got a couch with your name on it and at least four streaming subscriptions I don’t remember paying for.” Stiles grabbed the tequila, tucked it under his arm, and pointed to the living room like a drill sergeant mustering his troops. He pushed Eli into his rocking recliner, which he’s fallen asleep on one too many times.

“Now my young padawan. We can breeze through Netflix, HBO, Peacock, or- when the fuck did I get Viki?” Stiles clicked through the apps of his TV and took a second to ponder that purchase. He really needs to start writing down everything he buys or subscribes to.

“HBO has The Lord of the Rings.” Stiles was flabbergasted. The spawn of Derek was a nerd! “My dad hates the movies though. He gets all “book technical” whenever we watch them. It's why we never watch or talk about The Hobbit movies.”

“When the hell- never mind. Your dad also speaks Spanish fluently and never told me! But remind me to thank him. Those monstrosities do not exist in my opinion. Millions of dollars and they pump out that bullshit.” Stiles clicked on the first LOTR extended version. He settled onto his loveseat, which sat directly in front of the TV.

The pizza timer chimed just as Gandalf left Sam and Frodo to leave The Shire. Stiles pulled himself out of the gravity well that was his loveseat, groaning in a way that made him sound older than he was. He returned with pizza, a comically large bowl of popcorn, and two cans of the kind of root beer that could dissolve teeth on contact. Eli didn’t so much as glance at the pizza or soda at first, just stared at the shifting gold light of the TV, his face atmospheric and uncertain. Stiles let him be. There were some things you had to get out of your own system, and Stiles was not about to start lecturing the child of Derek Hale on emotional repression.

By the time Frodo was getting stabbed for the second time—which, Stiles noted, was starting to look less like a “chosen one” narrative and more like recreational masochism—Eli had worked through three slices of pizza and both Root Beers. Stiles had taken one more shot of tequila before digging out some of his beer. This little surprise slumber party reminded Stiles of nights spent with Scott.

A painful shock went through Stules’ heart. He really missed his best friend. Or his old best friend; since neither has spoken to the other in over a decade.

Stiles focused on the image of Frodo and Sam, their friendship elastic enough to survive the end of the world. He'd always, secretly, seen himself as the Samwise—loyal, anxious, hungry—but on nights like this, he wasn't sure either of them existed anymore. He remembered the way Scott used to knock on the Stilinski door, always out of breath and with some new existential crisis, as if saving the world once a week was the natural order of things. Stiles half-expected the phone to vibrate with a text: you up? and it made his chest hurt in a way tequila couldn’t fix.

He glanced at Eli, who was now, chewing his fingernail while muttering whenever the orcs came onscreen. For someone who supposedly hated being compared to his dad, the kid had Derek Hale’s brooding scowl. It had Stiles wondering if this was what Derek was like before losing his entire family.

When Gandalf was dragged to his “death”, Stiles was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He looked over and Eli was slumped in the recliner, fast asleep. Stiles stood up; smiling at the worn-out teen. He grabbed one of his blankets out of the front closet and dropped it over Eli’s body. He stood there for a moment; just taking in Eli.

He wondered, not for the first time, what Derek would think if he could see this—his son sprawled across a battered old recliner in a strange house; shielded from the world. He wondered how Derek would react to seeing Stiles again.

Stiles didn’t know what he’d do if he ever saw Derek again. Or if he could even stand to look him in the eye, knowing what he knew now—about the things he’d missed, the phone calls he never made, the birthdays that came and went like white noise. He thought of all the ways he could have been there, could have helped, and the taste it left in his mouth was bitter as burnt coffee.

He retreated to the kitchen with their dirty dishes and set them in his sink. He stood there. He felt his spark tug at something and with a startling revelation; Eli was forming a bond with him. He felt his spark start to reach out for that tether; he forced it to retreat. He couldn't do that to Eli. As much as Stiles appreciated Eli trusting him enough; Stiles wouldn't ever see him again after he went back home.

Stiles grabbed his phone from the couch; taking one last look at Eli before slipping out onto his balcony. He felt clammy and tight as he scrolled to the last phone number that had called him.

It was obviously an unknown number. His dad must have given Derek his new number. He swallowed his pride and clicked on the number. It was way past the time for Stiles to be brave. Three rings, each one a tiny gut punch, then the call connected—heavy breathing on the other end. Stiles nearly lost his nerve. He steadied himself against the balcony railing, eyes pinched shut, and tried to keep his voice casual.

“Hey. Derek.” The silence that followed quivered, thick as old honey. Stiles heard an exaggerated sigh, like a wolf exhaling after a long prowl.

“It took you long enough,” Derek said, voice low and rough, but not angry. More like someone trying very hard not to sound nervous.

Stiles tried to laugh, and the sound came out strangled. “You know me. Never do today what you can put off until the world is collapsing.” A silence, then both of them started talking at once.

“—Eli’s okay, by the way—”
“—How’s Eli—”

They stopped, and Stiles could hear Derek’s sharp, reflexive huff of a laugh.

“Eli is asleep in my recliner right now. Fuck dude. You could have told me you had a son.” Nothing like getting the pain out of the way.

“You never told me you were off that undercover case.” Ouch. But, Derek was right.

“So Allison is alive? Ain't that some shit.”

“I shouldn't be surprised that the first thing she does is shoot me with an arrow. Brought me back a few decades.” Stiles did laugh at that. In that moment, years ago, it wasn’t funny. But, they all survived so it is funny now.

“So does Scott know? I figured Melissa or my dad would have informed him that his dead ex-girlfriend is back and shooting you up again.” Derek had gone silent which had Stiles slightly annoyed.

“He is here. Along with Lydia and Jackson.” That had Stiles freezing. So there was one big reunion and he wasn't invited. Nice.

“Before you start overthinking. Lydia showed up all frantic about visions and Scott was tracking Allison. I told your dad to call you; which clearly he did not.”

“I can't Derek. You may have found peace living there-”

“I am not asking anything of you Stiles; other than keeping my son safe and away from here until we can figure out what is going on.” Stiles chewed on the inside of his lip. He turned his head to look back at Eli.

“Why didn't you tell me about him? You clearly told him about me.” Stiles needed to know. He needed to understand.

“You would have been on a flight back here to prove I was able to do anything other than brood in a corner.”

“You still could have told me. Fuck man. You’re a dad that's- he’s a good kid man. He loves you.” Stiles could hear Derek’s smile through the phone. “I should go. I should have asked him for his phone so I could charge it for him.”

“I’m pretty sure Allison destroyed it.”

“Of course she did. Well then, I'll have him call you in the morning.” Stiles held his breath; so much he wanted to say. I’m sorry hanging in the air but Stiles ignored it.

Stiles hung up and let the night air press into him, heavy with that old, mountain-cold loneliness he thought he'd left in Beacon Hills. He pressed his fingers into the railing until the wood whined. The sense-memory of Derek’s voice hummed inside his skull, somehow even rougher than he remembered. As if the years had sanded the edges even sharper, as if Derek had stopped pretending to be anything but predatory, protective, bitter-tender.

Stiles didn’t want to go back. He tried to make himself want to, but the idea of returning to that town-of returning to all of them, of seeing Scott and Lydia and Jackson lined up at a kitchen table waiting for him—was like dreaming of his own funeral, then being forced to sit through it. There was no comfort, just the ugly joy of surviving. There was obligation, too, layered thick as that damn mountain fog. He’d promised his dad, once, that he’d never come back.

He looked up at the night sky. The stars in Denver were clear. You could easily try to count each of them. This was his home. And yet, it didn't feel like it in the moment.

* *

Stiles shoved at his alarm clock. He forgot to turn that thing off when he had climbed into bed. He tried to fall back asleep; but he did have a guest in his house. So he begrudgingly got up and out of bed.

He planned on making them breakfast. He needs to ask Eli what he likes to eat. Stiles was scratching at his tummy as he walked out of his room and into the hallway. He yawned and made his way into the living room and noticed Eli wasn't on the recliner or the couch.

He used his spark and he frantically checked the kitchen, but there was nothing. He spun around and ran towards the hall bathroom and nothing.

Eli was gone.

For a full thirty seconds, the world telescoped into a single blaring thought: he’s gone, he’s gone, you lost the fucking werewolf son of your first love after one goddamn night and now you will die of shame and also maybe be murdered by Derek, who will find your bones and grind them into a supplement powder for his next workout.

Stiles’ body moved ahead of his brain, jittering with adrenaline as he lunged around the living room, shouting “Eli? Eli!” like each syllable could conjure the boy from thin air. He turned back to the kitchen; ripping his phone off the charger before something caught his eye.

I’m sorry Stiles.

Stiles took one deep breath before he raced to his front door. Not even bothering to unlock; he just used his spark to push the door open for him and lock it as he raced down the hall.

He barely missed Ms. Allen; effectively spooking the poor old bat. Stiles waved a hand; he was in a rush and didn't have time to apologize. He needed to get to the garage.

Stiles was out of breath by the time he made it to the parking garage. He found his Dodge SUV and made the idiotic decision to drive after the teen.

Once he is out of the garage and down by the pharmacy; Stiles will be able to use his spark to find the kid. Just as he was pulling out; he saw a tan SUV pulled over onto the side of the road. The back of it looked like it was crushed like an accordion. Stiles huffed and pulled up behind it.

Eli had his head against the steering wheel and seemed to be on the brink of a panic attack.

“Usually when running away; you get further down the road before someone notices you’re gone.” Stiles laid his hand on the open window rim. He watched Eli turn his head and Stiles let out a heavy sigh.

“I felt my dad's presence vanish for a moment. Like he just... disappeared. Scared the hell out of me."

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose, jaw clenched tight. "If you're planning to bolt again, we might as well head back together. My week's been absolute garbage, and I'm not about to lose what little sleep I have left worrying about your werewolf ass.” Eli’s eyes widen and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Come back up. I need to pack a few things and you need to eat.” Stiles turned without letting Eli argue and drove his car back into the garage and watched Eli pull up next to him.

“Do I even want to know what you did to your dad’s car?” Stiles watched as Eli climbed out of the car; coming to stand next to Stiles after he got out.

“Oh, Allison happened.” Stiles only nodded; Eli’s answer was all he needed.

After an hour of Stiles packing while Eli ate some eggs. The two were in Derek’s SUV on their way back to Beacon Hills. Stiles was behind the wheel as Eli lay his head against the window.

“I have always been able to feel my dad. He says it is our bond. I used to make fun of him for it but that scared me.”

“Losing a bond is like losing a limb.” Stiles held back a grimace at using Cora’s words. It had been a while since he thought of Boyd. “It is a terrifying feeling.”

“You’re in love with my dad; aren't you?” Stiles swerved hard to the right, hitting the centerline rumble strips. He got control of his steering wheel and re-centered it back onto the highway.

“I will take that as a yes.” Stiles’s first instinct was to deny it, to throw up a glib, defensive quip and bury the truth with sarcasm, but something about the honest question had Stiles holding his tongue.

He gripped the steering wheel, eyes narrowed against the sun coming up violently and orange over the mountains. “Man, are you sure you’re only fifteen,” he said, voice purposely light.

Eli shrugged, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. “I’m not a moron.” He looked sideways at Stiles. “You're not subtle.”

Stiles made a noise in his throat—a note of surprise and reluctant admiration. “You know, your dad was always really bad at feelings. Like, he would rather take on a pack of alphas with a toothpick than answer ‘what are you feeling right now?’”

Eli snorted. “He’s gotten better. I mean it's still painful to get him to open up. It is even more painful once he does. I don't know. He tells me stories of his past but he never explains what it did to him.” Eli got quiet and Stiles glanced at him. Eli had his head against the window; clearly lost in thought.

“He has high expectations of me and sometimes I think he's trying to right his wrongs through me.”

“If I had to guess; I’d say he is trying to make sure you don’t make his mistakes.”

“Yeah, by making me hate being a wolf.” Stiles gave a soft hmph, trying to find a map between those words. He remembered the wars Derek had waged inside himself, all that shame and self-loathing braided into his DNA. Stiles watched what it did to Derek.

Eli looked at him, sharp-eyed. “Is that how you feel? About your spark?”

Stiles was quiet for exactly three seconds, and then he had to grin. “Are you kidding? I wanted to be special so bad I would have eaten a wizard if it meant getting some powers.” He glanced at Eli, who cracked a real smile, and pressed on: “But yeah. Sometimes I think my dad would have preferred I just stayed regular Stiles. Safer, you know? But alas; my mom never told my dad about her ancient bloodline.”

“How did-” Eli stopped and turned to look back out the window. Stiles regarded him. Here was a fifteen-year-old; across states and talking to someone he didn't know about guidance.

“I was actually saving your dad. He was wanted by the FBI and it turned into a gunfight. I don't even know what happened. One minute I was grabbing Derek’s arm and the next I was flying. One of the lead field agents had thrown a smoke grenade and it blew up; taking one of my toes with it. The next thing I remembered was standing over Derek and my skin had these blue runes over them. Your dad carried me out and that was how I discovered I was a spark.”

“Do you miss being only human?”

“No,” Stiles said, though the answer surprised him. He really considered it. “No. Sometimes I miss the illusion of safety. The way you can lie to yourself that things can’t touch you because you’re a kid, or you’re clever, or you’re just... not the main character.” He shrugged, one hand fiddling with the rubber band around the gearshift. “But I don’t miss being helpless. I don’t miss knowing less or feeling less. Even when it’s a lot. Even when it sucks.”

Eli nodded slowly. “I get that,” he said, and Stiles believed it. It was the sort of thing you had to live to get.

The rest of the drive blurred into quiet. The highway unfurled through the hills in long lazy whorls. For once, Stiles didn’t fill the silence with dumb facts or weird music; he just let it sit, companionable and easy, broken only by Eli’s stomach growling.

“Food it is Good, Sir!” Stiles pulled off the highway and found a little diner only a quarter of a mile away. Perfect spot to not get lost.

“So what does a growing boy like you eat? I hope you know I’m saving my dog jokes for when I see your dad.” Stiles beamed as he watched Eli roll his eyes and grab a menu as they scooted into a booth.

“It’ll take a day to get back to Hills so I guess get whatever you'd like here and when we stop at a hotel we can get food there as well.” Stiles watched Eli read through the menu; his eyes scanning the pages before a flash of yellow crossed his eyes.

Stiles felt it. It was a shift in Eli.

Suddenly, Eli was reaching out for Stiles’ hand; gripping it. His menu fell over onto the table as the yellow flashed again.

“Eli?” Eli was whispering words but Stilss couldn't understand what he was saying. All he could feel was Eli’s panic.

“Hello boys, how are we today? Our specials are chicken-fried steak; which comes with two sides. For dessert, we have a mean blueberry cheesecake.” Stiles about jumped out of his skin when their waitress came to the table.

“Uh, can you give us a moment?” Their waitress was an older woman. One of the stereotypical waitresses you would see at an old school diner. He watched her walk back towards the bar and Stiles turned to face Eli.

“I’m okay. Sorry that happens sometimes.”

“You shouldn't fight your wolf, Eli.”

“I wish it would go away. My life would be better without it. I hate being a wolf.” Eli pushed Stiles’ hands away and hid behind his discarded menu. Stiles thought back to what Derek had said to him about his family and their traditions. But then it dawned on him.

“Do-you can’t believe that is the only reason your dad loves you?”Eli slowly lowered his menu. The look on his face confirmed the real reason he hates his wolf.

"You're the reason your dad bothers to be alive, you absolute goon," Stiles said softly. He wanted to laugh, but Eli looked so stricken that Stiles kept it gentle. "Derek—he wasn't built for hope. I don't think he thought he'd get to grow old, or be a dad, or do any of the normal things. Honestly, when you handed me his emergency card the first thought in my head was he’s dead. Eli, I can't imagine the only reason he loves you is that you're a werewolf. Fuck, now you have me defending him.”

Eli ducked his head and muttered something about the menu, but Stiles saw the shimmer in his eyes, the way his bottom lip pressed tight against things he wouldn't let himself say.

It was so fucking familiar it hurt. Stiles could draw the contour of that ache from memory, the bone-deep certainty that the world would always love the strong and beautiful more than you, and only ever because of what you could do, not who you were.

"My dad, when I showed him my spark. God, he looked horrified. His normal son wasn't so normal. But after a while, he realized he didn't have to worry about me anymore. That the wounds from Beacon Hills had finally scarred over. Eli, your dad only wants you safe.”

“But I don't want it! I didn't get a say in it. Every time I even try to look at that side of me; I get nauseous or black out! You were normal and then inherited your spark. I'll never get to be normal. I'm a Hale and we are protectors; it is what we do.” Stiles was going to slap Derek. No wonder Eli couldn't handle his wolf. He is fifteen and Derek’s unloading adult things onto him.

“Are you boys ready?” Stiles made a face; making it known they were not done with this conversation. Eli rolled his eyes and slunk into his side of the booth.

“I will take a hamburger with no tomatoes and extra pickles. I will take curly fries and to hell with it. I will take a chocolate shake.” Stiles turned to face their waitress and smiled up at her.

“And for you sweetie.” Eli glared at Stiles before rolling his eyes and sitting up in the booth.

“I will have the chicken tenders with tater tots and a water for me.” Stiles thanked her as she scribbled their order down and left to tell the kitchen.

“I don't want to hear it, Stiles. I hear it constantly from my dad. And news flash, I don't know you.” Stiles sighed as he watched Eli pick at the menu.

“We're strangers, sure. But when things went sideways, who'd you run to?" He makes a mental note to get his dad something nice—dealing with other people's teenagers is clearly hell. How he survived Stiles and Scott is beyond Stiles.

"Your wolf is a part of you. You can try to deny it and lock it away; but your wolf is Eli and Eli is a wolf. One day you will have to accept that. But for now, I will tell your Dad, to back off. That gives me the excuse to threaten him. I kinda miss threatening your dad.” Stiles watched Eli relax. The weight of what came with his name; diminished. It made Stiles smile.

The two ate with Eli asking Stiles every question under the sun. From how he met his dad to when his dad had almost died in Mexico. It was relaxing but also a reality check.

Here is Derek’s son; so full of life and wonder and all Stiles can think of is that he robbed himself of being a part of Derek’s life. It carved a hollow spot in Stiles’ chest. It also made him realize that his love for Derek has only grown stronger.

What a terrifying thought.

After their late lunch; Stiles drove until the sun had almost set. Eli had fallen asleep an hour ago. So, Stiles pulled off the highway and found a hotel for them to stay in for the night.

He checked them into a two-queen room, ignoring the look the receptionist gave at his driver’s license. He is used to people giving him odd looks.

He left the kid sleeping in the car, grabbed the room key, and then carried Eli’s duffel up three flights of stairs because the elevator was out. He came back down, fished Eli out of the passenger seat, and half-carried him through the parking lot on his shoulder like a sack of flour.

In the room, Eli blinked awake only long enough to flop straight onto the bed, shoes and all, and then snored. Stiles laughed under his breath. He wanted to text Derek and tell him his son was safe and drooling, but all the words in the world felt inadequate. He sat on the edge of his own bed and let the TV play a rerun of “Law and Order: SVU,” unmuted but low. Stiles played with his phone before stepping out into the hallway.

The phone rang once before going straight to voicemail. That was odd. So he decided to try his dad. But once again, it went to voicemail after one ring. Okay, that’s really weird. He contemplated calling Scott but his phone buzzed and Lydia’s name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

Lydia’s voice was jagged glass, all splinters and panic. “Stiles—”

He stood up straight against the door; pressing the phone to his ear, every nerve on fire. “Lydia, what’s going on?”

“I can’t find them. I can’t find anyone, Stiles. My mom, Scott’s mom, Jackson, Deaton, Chris—” Her voice cracked. “Even Peter and Derek. They’re all gone. It’s like they evaporated.”

Silence thundered in his eardrum. In the next room, Eli snored, blissfully unaware.

“Lydia, slow down. Are you safe?” Stiles stepped away from the door. His shoes glided against the carpet. He wanted to make sure Eli couldn’t hear them.

“I’m in my car outside the hospital. I saw the door open, and Melissa’s car is here, but she’s not. There’s blood. Not a lot, but—” Lydia’s breath hitched again. “I called your dad but even he isn’t answering.” Stiles frowned as he tried to digest everything Lydia was saying.

“Were you not with anyone?” Stiles held his breath as he listened to Lydia’s panic over the phone.

“Stiles he’s back, I don’t know how the fuck Harris did it or even knew about him. But The Nogitsune; he’s back.” Stiles stumbled back and slid down the door as he let what Lydia said sink in. It shouldn't be possible, not after everything they'd done. Not after the bare-knuckled, teeth-clenched battle that had cost them Allison and half themselves. The Nogitsune was a parasite, and if it had returned, if the riddle of its banishment had unraveled, it meant there was a crack in every logic, every comfort Stiles had layered around his life.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. "Lydia," he said, voice steadier than his pulse.

“Stiles I saw it. He’s looking for something; I don’t know what but everyone’s gone. I don’t- I know we all agreed to leave you be but if he is back-“

“He might come for me. I know.” His first instinct was to laugh—dark, wild, and a little unhinged. If he wasn’t the main character, the universe sure had a fucked-up sense of humor.

“Lydia. Listen to me.” He made his voice sandpaper-sure. “You need to drive. Get somewhere safe. Get to a motel, a busy one. Call me when you get there, and do not stop for anything. If you see anything fox-shaped, or hear riddles, or feel your brain shifting off its axis—call me. I mean it.”

She let out a shuddery breath before trying to regain control. “What about you?”

Stiles stood up as he slid back into their hotel room. He lay his head against the door for a few minutes while locking the door.

He looked at Eli, sprawled on the faded spread with his face in the crook of his arm, soft and open and so deeply asleep that for a moment Stiles wanted to spare him from everything, from this, from the ache that always found them. “I’ll keep moving for now. I’m with Eli in a hotel. We are about an hour away from Utah. I’m gonna have to wake him up.”

“Stiles what are you going to do? You nearly died last time.” He snorted, because the alternative was to scream.

“Yeah, but last time I didn’t have federal clearance, a gun, adult status, or a pharmacy of any anxiety and antidepressant medications. Also, zero percent chance I’ll ever let my kid sidekick get turned into a chess piece by the world’s worst cryptid. We’re in better shape than last time, I promise.” It was a lie, and Lydia knew it, but she let him have it.

“I’ll check in soon. Drive safe,” he said, listening for the click of her hanging up because it made pretending to have control easier in the echoing silence after she did.

Stiles set his phone on the desk, stared out the slatted window at a nothing town in the near dark, and tried to think. After a minute the TV played a commercial for some local Willard, UT, car dealership, and Stiles thought, If I were a psychic parasite, where would I go?

Straight to the source, of course. As the saying goes, kill the head of the snake. Fuck Stiles was so screwed. If he were by himself, he would have a much better chance. But he’s with Eli; he definitely complicates things.

He could leave him with Marsha up in Oregon. She’s capable and kind. Stiles grimaced at that. Eli acts a lot like him and Marsha was at her wits’ end because of Stiles.

He could bring him to Beth. She’s in LA so it wouldn’t be too far of a detour. She could be good for Eli; at least until Stiles could deal with mummy face.

Stiles rubbed a hand down his face. All he wanted was a weekend to drink and watch Loki. Fucking Beacon Hills had to go and screw that up. AGAIN!

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into knees, and let his breath settle and his pulse tick down from panic to a dull, bitter background fuzz. The world outside was as dead as the phone lines—no cars on the highway, not even the neon flicker of a vacancy sign in the strip mall next door. Only the slouch of the parking lot lights and the scratchy hum of the wall unit AC. He let his eyes unfocus on the TV in front of him.

He was not going to run. Not this time.

Instead, he leapt up to grab his briefcase. He ripped out his laptop, piggybacked onto the hotel's Wi-Fi (password: “faith”), and started searching through everything he could remember about Nogitsune. Every dead page still cached on the internet, every occult forum, every muddled Reddit thread. He read until the words bled together and his head pounded. He was going to have to do better than blindly trying to remember.

Suddenly, Stiles felt his spark buzz to life. It felt like static throughout his body.

Danger

Stiles was tossing his laptop at the end of the bed before he moved towards Eli. The slobbering werewolf yawned as he slowly opened his eyes.

“Dad?” Stiles grimaced, of course Eli would mistake him for Derek. The poor kid had no idea what was going on and how much danger they were in. He stared down at the innocent kid before his spark was buzzing again. Danger right.

“Eli. Buddy, we gotta go.” Eli was squinting at him as Stiles tried to get the teen to sit up. But somehow, his entire body turned to liquid. Jackass teenagers.

“Eli I really need you to be more awake and help me. It isn’t safe here.” That got Eli to be more alert. He shimmed off the end of the bed, realizing he had never changed clothes or taken his shoes off. “Grab your bag. I didn’t unpack anything. I want you to go down the back stairwell okay? Eli-“ Stiles grabbed Eli as he twisted around to grab his bag- “whatever happens you go even if it’s without me.” Stiles watched and felt Eli’s panic manifest itself.

“What do you mean? Stiles you were supposed to help me. My dad promised-“ Stiles grabbed Eli’s shoulders; trying to calm the teen down.

“Eli listen to me. This thing-“ Suddenly black smoke filled the room. Stiles froze for a moment before shaking himself back into the moment. “Go and don’t stop! Promise me, Eli!” Eli was frantically shaking his head as Stiles shoved the keys into his hands. He was pulling Eli towards the door. He needed to get himself out of here before it was too late.

Stiles ripped the door open and jumped back; making Eli trip over himself and if it wasn’t for Stiles’ catching him, Eli would have fallen to the floor.

“Stiles. Stiles wants to hear a riddle?” Stiles backed up; forcing Eli more into the room as the Nogitsune stalked into the room; followed by three Oni.

Fuck.

“A wolf that isn’t a wolf.” Stiles needed to get Eli out of here and fast. He couldn’t let this stupid fox get its claws into him. Over Stiles’ dead body. Stiles turned and felt his brain go into overdrive. He turned his attention back to the Fox and stood up to his full height.

“It’s been a long time.” He watched its covered face tilt as if thinking of a response. Stiles felt Eli start to shake behind him.

“Oh, I have missed you, Stiles.” Stiles looked back at Eli and grimaced.

“I’m so sorry Eli.” Stiles turned; shoving Eli with all of his strength through the window. He could hear Eli’s scream as he went flying. Stiles twisted his wrist, clinging to the thought of his dad. There was a bright flash that came from outside and Eli’s screams were gone.

Stiles swallowed the sharp pain from performing a teleportation spell on no sleep. It crept up his arm and into the back of his skull.

“Ah, the little fox has learned new tricks.” Stiles pulled his spark; he felt his skin warm up as a neon blue hue lit up his skin.

“Little fox is not so little anymore. Neither is your little wolf.” Stiles wasn’t going to let him bait. He knows the thing’s tricks. He had nightmares for years over them.

“Little fox wandered away from the pack. Hm? Little wolf misses you. I could smell it on him. I miss when he smelt of chaos. That child of his changed him. Right little fox?”

Stiles bared his teeth, not interested in parlor games. “Maybe you should’ve stayed dead, asshole,” he spat. The pain behind his eyes sharpened. The Oni behind the Nogitsune stepped forward, sword tips gleaming in the dimness.

“Death is such a pedestrian state for us, don’t you agree?” the Nogitsune crooned, almost lovingly. The Oni fanned out, blocking the door and the only way—besides the gaping window—to the outside world. Stiles scanned the space for anything, anything at all that might give him an edge.

His voice went fox-slick and cold: “What, you blow into a town and start kidnapping people? That’s your big plan?” He kept his eyes steady on the Nogitsune’s mask. He didn’t want to dwell on how easily it could be his own face beneath that layer of darkness.

“You know my hunger,” the demon purred, circling him with meticulous steps. Stiles turned with him. He lost a year of his life and more years of his mental health to this thing. He wasn’t a scrawny and defenseless child anymore.

“I also know your weakness.” That made the fox’s head twist to the side and before Stiles could even react; there was a katana through his chest. He expected pain or blood but he looked up at the Nogitsune and watched its face vanish in a puff of vapor.

Stiles gasped for air as if he were held under water. He bent over coughing violently before turning to the side and throwing up.

“You could have turned to the other side asshole.” Stiles heaved before twisting his head and making eye contact with a tied-up Jackson.

“What the fuck!” Stiles looked around and they were in some ancient Japanese forest. He saw Deaton tied near his dad and Liam. He turned again and saw Derek and Eli behind Jackson.

Fuck. Fuck. The teleports had scrambled everything; Stiles couldn’t track which way was up, let alone what year he was in. The air was wet with the stink of cut grass and old, patient trees; night birds shrilled from the undergrowth, and above him, through a trembling clutch of bamboo, a tattered slice of moon. The air tasted wrong, older or rawer somehow, like stepping out of a time machine into the exact flavor of 16th-century Japan as conjured by Wikipedia and the darkest corners of his own trauma.

He dragged his gaze back to Jackson. The bastard looked exactly how Stiles remembered, only now with rope burns and a monumental scowl. “Nice entrance,” Jackson hissed.

Stiles wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You should see how I exit.” He pressed a hand to his ribcage, but there was no blood, no sword, no wound at all. Either he’d hallucinated the attack or the damn Oni have a new power. Great warriors that can’t die can now teleport people.

“Hi, son.” Stiles turned to face his dad and watched him wiggle his bound wrist and Stiles suddenly remembered they were all tied up. He made quick work with Jackson’s binds; using his spark to burst the rope.

“When the hell did you learn that?” Stiles stopped mid-step towards Liam and turned back towards Jackson.

“Why haven’t you lost the tail?” Jackson frowned at that and Stiles is counting that as a win. He jumped down from a small hill and ripped Liam free. Next was Deaton.

“I see Marsha did well.”

“Oh yeah, so well she told me she would cook me if I found my way back to her property.” Deaton hummed as he shook off the ropes Stiles cut.

“I told her to help you, not like you.” Deaton’s laugh was dry as tinder. “You were always a better chaos vector than a diplomat, Stiles.”

Stiles felt heat crawling up his face. “In my defense, I didn’t have a lot of role models.” He side-eyed his dad, noting the set jaw and the way his old man was already scanning the perimeter with cop eyes, even lashed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. He moved towards his dad. He kept quiet as he broke him free.

“Stiles-“ He moved to Derek next, fumbling a bit; for a second, he caught a flash of the old Derek, sour and young again, all sharp edges and unfinished business. Stiles just stared at him; soaking him in. Damn, asshole got hotter with age.

But there was Eli, blinking at him, rope marks burnt red against his olive skin, and suddenly Stiles snapped back to himself.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, voice embarrassingly thick.

Eli nodded, then: “Did you just teleport us? Was that a spell or like, instinct?” His eyes were huge, and if anyone else had asked it would be awe or fear, but Eli seemed genuinely confused.

“You, yes. I teleported you to my dad. Everyone else no. I’m gonna guess The Oni had their hand in us being brought here.” Stiles barely got out of the way as Eli ducked under him and rushed towards his dad. The two clung to each other. Stiles had to turn away; the look on Derek’s face was too much.

He surveyed the group now—Jackson recovering cool and pettiness at the same time, Deaton calmly brushing leaf mold from his sleeves, and his father mostly pretending this was a totally normal day and not an extra-dimensional struggle session with a mythological parasite. It was all very comforting, if your standard of comfort was “post-traumatic at best.”

Stiles knelt and picked up a length of rope, testing it between his fingers. “Anyone here remember the part in The Ring where they realize the monster just wants her bones buried? No? Okay, that’s fine.” He tossed the cord aside. “We need to figure out the game before the fox dines out on our collective misery.”

Jackson, massaging his wrists, fixed Stiles with a look like he could outfox the fox through sheer smugness. “You’ve fought this thing before and you’re only telling me now?”

“Oh yeah, the thing took my body out on a joy ride! Killed a few people; almost killed Derek and my dad. I don’t recommend though.” Jackson huffed at him and looked like he was about to tell him off but Derek interrupted him.

“What did he say to you? Eli said that he talked to you.”

Stiles blew out a quick breath. “Honestly, it’s mostly riddles and taunts. But it’s all about packs and hunger. Like, I think it took us all here to test who’s got more chaos to eat. It kept calling me a fox, which is rude, but whatever. It’s obsessed with you Derek and Eli. It wants something from you.”

Deaton’s eyes went serious and glassy. “If you’re right, then this is a test of loyalty and bonds. Kitsune thrive on chaos, but they feed on pain. The more you care for someone, the more the Nogitsune can exploit it.”

Jackson sneered. “So, what, we sing Kumbaya and hope the weird-o demon gets bored?”

Stiles shot Jackson a look. “You could try being less of a dick. Might starve it out faster.” Derek actually snorted, and even Eli managed a sick little smile.

”Stiles.” His dad’s tone sounded tired. He was walking up some stone steps; his feet seemed heavy.

“A great fucking reunion! Derek’s got a kid who calls you Popop, thanks for telling me. I have a spark just so everyone knows, and Liam has facial hair.” Stiles felt like he was going crazy. Everyone was looking at him like he was the mission's leader.

“Look I get I have a weird intimate relationship with this mummy but I really am at a loss. I don’t know how he got here nor do I know what he wants. When he was using me as a skin bag, closest to Ed Gein I ever want to be; I pretty much knew what he wanted. I can't really help this time.” Stiles jumped as he felt someone touch his arm. He turned and watched Derek lift his arm so he could inspect his hand.

“Your mother was a spark wasn't she?” Stiles felt his body clam up. He tried to keep his feelings in, but it had been so long since Stiles had been this close with Derek.

“Yeah, but she never talked about it. Not really. My dad thought her migraines were from the dementia, but mostly it was just—” Stiles made a splintering gesture at his temple, like the world was always drilling into her skull. “She didn’t know how to use it. I guess I barely do, either.”

Derek studied him, thumb brushing over the bruise already blooming near Stiles’ wrist. “Do you think that’s why he went after you? Because of your power?” Stiles wasn’t paying much attention to what Derek was saying. His brain was more focused on the white in his beard. Fuck Stiles wanted to kiss him so bad.

He heard Eli gag behind him; breaking Stiles trance.

Stiles shrugged it off, but not entirely. He stepped higher into the gloom, his body working on autopilot to crest the mossy steps. “If being a human bugzap is the plan, better hope I last long enough to get us home.”

“A man leaves home, makes three left turns, and returns home to find two masked men waiting for him. Who are they?” Stiles turned slowly and watched the Nogitsune stalk down some more stone stairs towards them. Without even thinking, Stiles was reaching out towards Eli and dragging him back between himself and his dad. He heard a soft Popop I’m okay.

“Oh little fox used to love my games. We played for hours. A man lives on the 21st floor but takes the elevator to the 15th floor and walks the rest, except when it rains or someone else is in the lift. Why?” It stopped right in front of Stiles. It lifted a covered hand when a warning growl rumbled through Stiles’ body.

“Ah! Little wolf.” It now turned and stalked towards Derek. “Little wolf is all grown up. I speak without a voice, I burn without a flame, I am always close to you, but you never know my name. I give you all my heart, yet you hold nothing of me.” Stiles watched Derek turn his head away from it but the Nogitsune wanted to play. He moved at inhumane speed; pushing all of them away and grabbing Eli.

“Let him go!” Derek’s voice cracked like a whip. The Nogitsune held Eli by the scruff of his collar, fingers curling tender as a mother wolf, face as blank as snow. The demon’s mask shifted, lips stretching into a mirthless rictus.

“Answer or the pup suffers. No phone-a-friend, foxling.” The Oni closed in behind, points of their pollened swords glinting.

Stiles’ pulse thundered in his temples. Every impulse he had was to lunge forward and die trying, but the muscle memory of possession—of losing and losing and coming back not-right—anchored him. The answer to the riddle wheeled in his head, childish and wily: “It’s an unrequited love,” he said, jaw clenched. Stiles knew where this was going and he had no way of stopping it.

The Nogitsune cocked his head. “Correct,” he purred. It released Eli, who crumpled to the stone, but immediately flickered his gaze up, wild with both fear and what looked to Stiles like irritation. The demon looked sated, for a moment, almost sweetly so. “See how good we are together, foxling? You always make the games last.”

Derek pulled Eli behind him with a snarl, but the Nogitsune had no care. He only seems to enjoy it more when they fight back.

“I remember that look little wolf. I may not be an alpha; but I can still fight like one.” It mocked Derek. Stiles felt his dad step up behind him; reaching out for his forearm. An anchor that Stiles was still himself.

“Little lost wolf.” Suddenly, in a puff of black smoke; The Oni had everyone pinned against some surface; except Derek. The nogitsune circled Derek but the elder wolf watched. Waited.

The demon circled in, the bandaged mask folding and unfolding in the torchlight, mouth painted in a perpetual sneer. "Still so angry," it said, voice sticky and low. "So much grief in your marrow, Derek. It’s almost sweet." The mask bobbed nearer, as if to whisper in his ear. "But I wonder, is it for your own, or for the foxling?"

Derek’s lip curled, baring just enough fang for the message to land: not in this lifetime, not in any. But the mask only tilted, amused.

"Would you bleed for him now as you bled before? Would you betray your pack, your own child, to save his life a second time?" The Nogitsune's gaze flicked to Stiles, pinned against a tree, and lingered. "Or does the spark burn too cold, now? Has the love gone brittle?" The thing started to laugh before twisting its way over to Stiles.

Derek growled again but it kept stalking towards Stiles.

“I remember everything; just as you remember. The screams for the alpha, your father, even the one I set that trap in the woods.” Stiles watched as it bent over to get right into his face. The stench of staleness followed the dead fox.

“Oh but my favorite, was your begging.” The mask seemed to grin wider, a trapdoor dropping open under every word. “You remember, don’t you? How you pleaded for the wolf. Promised anything. Promised everything.” The voice slithered against Stiles’ skin and into the cracks of his skull. “You begged so sweetly. I almost took pity but then you had to go and set that trap for him. The King if I remember correctly. The most important piece; the piece you protected then and are still protecting now.”

Stiles could hear his own pulse, a drumming so loud it overpowered the demon’s voice, the Oni’s grinding hiss, even his own father’s angry, choked shouts. He watched Derek’s eyes—ice blue, wide with hurt and something worse—and it slammed him back to that night, the one he barely survived. His hand burned with the imprint of Derek’s body.

“You want a new game?” Stiles rasped, but his voice barely made it out of his throat. “I’ll play. I’ll always play, just—” His mouth felt full of gravel. “Don’t touch him. Don’t touch any of them.” Everything turned quiet and for a sick second; things felt calm.

“Such a good little fox.” Before the words had finished scraping out of its throat, Derek was moving. No, not moving—exploding, all old rage and bitter muscle memory, an animal velocity that cracked the air around him. Stiles saw the blur, saw Derek’s eyes bloom a sickly blue white, and then the fox mask twisted as Derek’s hands collided with it, claws extended. The noise was not quite a growl, not quite the sob Stiles expected, but some impossible mix—something that lived somewhere between desperation and love.

The Nogitsune staggered, thrown off balance, and Derek clung tight, arms vise-locked around the thing’s neck, talons digging in like he meant to peel the bandages back to the bone. For the first time, the demon’s amusement fractured into something else. Surprise. Maybe even fear.

The Oni tried to surge forward, swords raised like insect limbs, but Stiles was faster than them. He spun around; unleashing his spark. The darkened forest lit up white as he pushed it out. Using his spark as a battering ram he sent The Oni flying back into the air. He turned around; his spark jostled Derek off the dead fox spirit. Derek’s body slid across the jagged stone; stopping at the feet of his son.

“This started with you and I and it is going to end that way. You wanna dance dead man? Let’s dance.” The thing giggled, a thin breaking sound, and lunged. Stiles planted his feet, digging the tread of his boots into moss, and let go.

All the shit he’d packed tight since the age of eight—fear, anger, grief, joy so raw it bordered terror—he fired it out of himself in a single, blinding stream. The air rippled and popped; Stiles could feel the bark shed from the trees, every needle on every pine trembling in his spark’s slipstream. The Nogitsune screamed as Stiles’ energy beat against its mask, peeling back the shadow, inch by inch, exposing something delicate and ancient beneath.

It reached for him. Its claws snagged his sleeve but Stiles didn’t even flinch. He let his mind stay focused. The thing howled but Stiles pushed on. He kept his eyes open as he pushed a foot off the ground; take a step closer. His spark was starting to run hot; hotter than Stiles had ever felt.

The world began to bleed white. Stiles has never pushed his spark this hard and he wasn’t too sure what would happen. All he knew was he could finally, finally protect those he loves. He closed his eyes and let the world go nuclear.

The Nogitsune shrieked as if all its centuries of rot and malice had converged at that one pinpoint of pain. Stiles almost thought he saw, behind the spectral light, a face—just a face, not a monster, not a god—twisted in baffled, furious grief. It was gone an instant later, swept under the flare. But he saw the man Kira’s mother loved.

When the light faded, the demon did too, leaving only a black scorch on the earth and the taste of ozone, copper, and something disgustingly sweet.

Stiles toppled to one knee. The world didn't come back at once; it filtered in as pieces, the way sound does after a firecracker goes off by your ear. At first, there was just breathing—his own, ragged and wet—and then, impossibly, rough hands hauling him upright and a voice, choked and torn, barking: "Stiles, Stiles!"

He blinked his left eye open and then his right. The world started to sharpen and Derek’s face became clearer. He had one hand on Stiles’ shoulder and the other; gripping tightly against his jaw.

“Stiles,” Derek said, voice shredded from yelling and the fight and probably something else, something even older. “Can you hear me?”

Stiles tried to smile, which sent lightning through his molars. “Yeah, Derek. Not deaf. I’m fine. I mean, my brain’s mush, but that isn’t new.” He tried to stand, but his legs jellyfished under him. Eli materialized at his other side, forehead split and dripping blood at the temple.

“You’re bleeding,” Stiles said, the words weirdly slow.

“So are you,” Eli said back, not quite a smirk and not quite worry, just an echo of something Stiles remembered from being a teenager himself.

Jackson tiptoed out of the ruined shrine’s shadows, his shoes looking freshly ruined and his voice already set for complaining. “If anyone is going to whine about blood and whatnot. It is going to be me. Look at what you did Stilinski?” Stiles rolled his eyes as he sagged into Derek more. Luckily the werewolf was still large; fucker probably benches 400lbs by now.

“We need to get out of here. The Oni are sure to be back.” Deaton’s voice rang out behind Stiles. “Plus I don’t think that killed the trickster.” Great, Stiles thought. All that hard work for nothing. Wonderful.

“Don’t worry Stiles. You can recoup at our house. Dad made ribs yesterday so you can have that and the coleslaw Dad and I got.” Stiles flopped his head to the side to look at Derek; whose ears were bright red.

“Ooo. Ow okay, so I was gonna make a dog joke but my head is killing me.” Derek’s exasperated sigh brought Stiles back to the van ride to Mexico. When they were teaching Liam had to control his wolf.

Jackson made a gagging face. “God, are you two going to flirt the whole way home?”

Eli wiped his nose and grinned, teeth unnervingly white in the torchlight. “I think they already are.” Then, impulsively, he clapped Stiles on the back with enough force to nearly dislocate something. “You were like a superhero,” he whispered, the word nearly reverent, as if Stiles had moved up a rung on the cool-adult hierarchy, and Derek’s mouth quirked at the edge, pride and embarrassment at war.

Stiles tried to gather his dignity and found there was none left, so he settled for: “Yeah, well, remind me to never do that again.” His vision was still a little double-edged, as if the world couldn’t decide how many of everything he deserved.

Derek steadied him, one hand possessive at his waist, and said, “Come on. If you pass out; I’m leaving you.”

Stiles beamed at that as he gripped the back of Derek’s jacket. “Oh no, you won’t! You didn’t leave me last time.” Stiles tried to wiggle his eyebrows but the headache he had intensified. “I hate that I can’t make fun of you.” Stiles moaned. Eli’s laugh carried behind them and Stiles could have sworn he heard his dad and Liam laugh as well.

“Uh, Dad?” Stiles hadn’t realized he started to doze off until he heard Eli’s voice and Jackson’s loud grunt. He moved his head slightly and saw that they had stumbled out onto the fucking high school field.

“Of course. We fought him in the school; fitting we fight outside the school this time.” Stiles rolled his eyes as he Jackson’s chest puffed up in a display of misplaced superiority, a laughable attempt to relive his glory days of high school. Stiles watched with a mix of amusement and pity, knowing that Jackson would never move past his adolescent peak.

“Here Stiles, if you get on my back; our house is a five-minute walk.” Stiles made a noise of confusion as he felt Derek push him more into Eli. He watched in mild alarm as Derek moved to stand in front of him. Encouraging Stiles to get on his back.

“Oh God, will you two please wait till you’re alone to fuck?”

“You say it like they already have had sex.”

“Liam be happy you didn’t have to watch these two use grunting and sarcasm to get each other off.”

“Oh ewe, Dad!” Stiles huffed as he felt Derek help him onto his back. His hands warm against Stiles’ pant legs. Stiles smiled to himself as he lay his head against the back of Derek’s head.

He could already feel the gentle swing of the world, the lurch of every step, and the mechanical heaven of being carried somewhere safe. He let himself drift, half-conscious, as the silhouettes of the pack stretched against the brassy night—their shadows huge and intertwined, like they were one creature instead of seven battered, sarcastic idiots.

Under him, Derek’s shoulder blades rolled like tectonic plates, and the thrum of his heartbeat was a steady, quiet drum Stiles could count on. He felt a pressure in his chest, some ancient grief uncurling itself after a decade of being kept in a locked box. He wondered, briefly, if this was what it felt like to pass out on a cloud. A cloud with anger issues and chronic PTSD, but a cloud, nonetheless.

They made it to the house without incident, a minor miracle. Eli zipped ahead to unlock the door, then hovered, uncertain, as if waiting for a cue. Derek didn’t bother with keys; he moved towards the side door that connected to the garage and simply let himself in.

"Oh, leaving your house unlocked? Are you expecting some creature of the night to pounce on you?” Stiles teased, watching Derek shift his weight as he opened the door. He cracked an eye open, feeling a twinge of surprise at Derek owning a fully furnished home—like a punch to the gut. They walked through the kitchen and Stiles had half a mind to mock that Derek had wine to appear ordinary.

Derek aimed Eli up the stairs with two terse words— “Go shower”—and waited in the shadowed foyer as the thud of sneakers receded overhead. He half-tossed Stiles onto the bottom step, the way one might handle a sack of flour with a soul and regarded him with the kind of inspection usually reserved for ticking bombs. Stiles let his spine melt against the railing, eyes darting over Derek’s face for clues. There was dirt ground into the lines of Derek’s jaw, a bead of blood at the hairline. But he looked—hell, he looked worried. It made Stiles want to look away.

“You’re bleeding,” Derek repeated, voice now a grim monotone, all crisis adrenaline burned off.

“So are you,” Stiles said, but softer this time, not a quip. He was aware, in the floating way of the semi-concussed, of every inch of his body that both did and did not hurt. Derek gave him a half smile before holding his hand out for Stiles.

“Eli is going to be fine upstairs. I appreciate how much you care about my kid; but you need to clean the blood off your face.” Stiles gave a half-hearted shrug. He really didn't have it in him to get up, find a bathroom, and clean himself up. He moved his head to look more at Derek and pouted up at him.

“No. No you are not using that face again! I will not be guilt-tripped into whatever you want me to do.” Stiles snickered and waved a half-limp hand in the air.

“I didn't lose an appendage, so you don't need to write a eulogy. I promise. I'm tired and I babysat your kid dude.” Stiles held his arms out towards Derek; motioning come here.

Derek just stared at him for a long, weighted moment. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but he bent, scooping Stiles up with less effort than it should take to lift a grown man who lived off Hot Pockets and spite. He carried him into the kitchen, depositing him in one of the mismatched chairs at the table. The house was too quiet, practically muffled, the old Stilinski place always humming with the low buzz of bad plumbing, leaky windows, or the hollow whine of the wind. Derek’s place felt like it was built to keep the wilderness outside, but sometimes even silence was loud.

Derek opened a drawer, fished out a first-aid kit, and set it on the table with a heavy thunk. He didn’t ask permission before kneeling beside Stiles and dabbing gently at the gash above his eyebrow. Stiles tried to watch his hands, but the way Derek’s eyes kept flicking down to Stiles’ eyes. He felt like he was being studied from the inside out. It made Stiles’ heart start a sick, skittery stutter. His chest was warm and humming, and for a second, he thought maybe he was about to faint. Or die of embarrassment. Or both.

Derek’s hand was warm and careful and very, very real, pressing a gauze square over Stiles' eyebrow. Stiles’ mouth opened, ready to toss out some shitty joke about the time Lydia taught him butterfly stitches, but the words tripped over the sudden fullness in his chest. Instead, all he managed was, “You missed a spot.”

Derek’s thumb grazed the edge of the bandage. He tilted his head, studying Stiles as if deciding which piece to fix next. “You’re not bleeding,” he said, softer, but any louder and it wouldn't feel right.

“You still missed a spot.” Stiles voice barely came out as Derek dropped the alcohol bottle onto the floor. Stiles gasped as he felt Derek stand between his legs. The hand that was on his face; was now sliding back through his hair which was hardly longer than a buzz-cut now. His other hand was resting under his chin.

Derek leaned in, not fast, not tentative, just a slow, inexorable approach, and pressed his mouth against Stiles with a gravity that almost knocked Stiles out of his chair. There was blood in the kiss, and salt, and the sharp, antiseptic tang of whatever Derek had used to clean him up. For a second, Stiles’ brain static out, everything gone white and bright and loud; then he was kissing back, legs bracketing Derek’s hips, hands fisted in the back of Derek’s shirt like he was holding on for dear life.

It wasn’t a Hollywood kiss, not even close. Stiles’ mouth was half-numb, his lip split and stinging, and Derek’s face was a mess of sweat and maybe actual tears, but it was better than anything Stiles could have conjured out of the millions of hours of pining he’d pretended he wasn’t doing. He felt Derek’s chest hitch, just one movement before Derek was pulling back; kissing the side of his neck as he bent down to pick up the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Jesus why did we fight all the time instead of doing that? You could have won a lot of arguments by kissing me.” Stiles watched Derek try to bite back a smile as he set the bottle on the counter next to his hip.

“I guess I will have to remember that next time.” Derek winked at him before his eyes shot up to Stiles’ eyebrow. “You should be fine now. I can show you my shower.” Stiles’ eyes lit up and Derek huffed at him. He clearly knew exactly what Stiles was thinking.

“Don't be weird about it," Derek said, but his voice sounded like he hoped it would be weird, at least for a little while. Stiles let the other man haul him to his feet, and together they navigated the narrow hallways, the hush punctuated only by the low wheeze of old HVAC and, in the distance, Eli's footsteps above them. Stiles half expected Derek to open a closet door and gesture vaguely at a guest bathroom, but no. Instead, he was led into a bathroom with a large window facing the preserve.

For a moment they stood awkwardly, two men just shy of completely spent, inventing six dozen plausible excuses to leave. Instead, Derek turned on the shower, and the pipes rattled overhead like bones in a windchime.

“So,” Derek said, hesitating, “Do you—”

“Yup,” Stiles said, and peeled his shirt off with a hiss and a wince. Derek was instantly at his side; helping him pull his plain black shirt over his head. Stiles could feel Derek’s eyes on his skin. His runes probably haven't faded. He used a lot of his spark tonight.

“They're beautiful.” Stiles dropped his shirt and looked down and the faint blue marks that are only easy to see if you knew what to look for on his skin. “I remember vaguely seeing these, but I thought I had been seeing things. Clearly, I was wrong.”

“Dude you almost got shot in that warehouse; it freaked me out.” Derek had that look again and Stiles had hoped he would kiss him again. Or shower with him. Or kiss him in the shower.

Derek coughed, which sounded entirely more vulnerable than anything Stiles had ever heard out of him, and for a second, they both stared at the tile like it was a fascinating geological formation. “Well, if you want, I can help you get cleaned up faster,” Derek said, a sentence that managed to sound both like a generous offer and a warning.

Stiles, who never in his life turned down an opportunity to make things exponentially more awkward, grinned. “That’s a very enticing offer, Mr. Hale. But you should know I’ll make puns the whole time.” He yelped as Derek, with alarming speed, scooped him around the waist and pulled him into the shower. For a guy who had once lived in a burned-out husk of a house, Derek sure knew how to make a bathroom nice—heated tiles, glass shelves, walk-in shower with a showerhead the size of a dinner plate. Stiles was in heaven.

“I don't think you realize how many times I thought-” Stiles turned around from looking at the stand-up shower and felt his throat go dry. Derek was bent over and away from him; he was peeling his jeans and underwear off. So much body hair and fucking Christ was Stiles really into it.

Stiles had gone speechless. Words stacked up behind his tongue and toppled. He blinked at Derek Hale's ass, which was not only criminally defined but also slightly scarred in ways that made Stiles want to run his stupid mouth about werewolf healing and the permanent aftermath of arson. He snapped his gaze up, and of course, Derek was looking at him. Stiles tried to say something, anything, but his brain had malfunctioned. Stiles was turning towards the shower head and slipping his own jeans and boxers off. He held them awkwardly before turning to his right and tossing them out the opening and onto the floor.

"Hey," Stiles said, voice so rough it scraped. "Nice... shower caddy. Lots of options."

Derek snorted and stepped around Stiles and towards the shower head, the shower fogging up almost immediately from the burst of hot water. For a weird, stretching moment, Stiles hung back, a little unsure of the physics of sharing a space like this with a person you used to try to taze for fun. Then Derek held out a bottle towards him; his back still facing Stiles.

“Here,” he said, not turning, the bottle dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. Stiles took it, brushing knuckles with Derek’s in a way that might’ve been accidental but wasn’t. The bottle was fancy, probably some whole-grain, vegan, artisan blend. Derek didn’t even look back; he just stepped under the spray, water shattering across his back and carving rivulets through the grime on his back.

For a second Stiles just stood there, bottle in hand, watching Derek’s shoulders hunch as the water hit him. He wanted to say something, maybe make a joke about how showering together was statistically the gayest thing two men could do in their thirties, but the words died on his tongue when Derek looked over his shoulder with a question in his eyes, like: Are you coming?

Stiles stepped in behind him, close enough that the steam made a cocoon around both of them and set the bottle on the shower floor next to him. Stiles forced his eyes closed and let the hot water distract him.

Stiles heard a click and then the shower was filled with a delicate mahogany smell. His eyes opened to see Derek’s arm stretched up and scrubbing shampoo into his scalp. It was so domestic it could have killed him, except Derek was so close, and in this large room their bodies naturally figured out how to be near, how to fit. He could feel the nervous energy radiating off Derek, and that made Stiles want to be gentle, which was not something he excelled at in any capacity.

“Okay, you have to tell me if you start wolfing out,” Stiles said. “I don’t have enough towels to mop up all the carnage if you—Jesus.” Because Derek, instead of a snarky comeback, turned them both around and reached out for Stiles’ head, working his hands into his hair, and began lathering soft circles into Stiles’ scalp.

He tried a joke, but it came out as a whimper, which was deeply embarrassing. Stiles’ brain was a zoo and every animal had gotten loose. He was hyperaware of how his body had not been touched like this in years—gently. Stiles thought to hell with it. He forced his body to relax and let himself get lost in it.

His brain could reach out to it. Rewinding the last twelve years and fixing it. He stayed in Beacon Hills; got some stupid deputy job or hell even a teaching job! Where he got to settle roots and see the way Derek made this his home again.

Stiles got so lost in the could have been, the missed breakfast in bed, or the almost constant need to touch Derek. Stiles hadn't even realized how his body was moving on autopilot. He was spinning around. His left hand finds Derek’s naked hip as his right hand grasps onto the back of Derek’s head. Stiles blindly found Derek’s wet mouth as Stiles stepped them back under the shower head.

Unlike the other kisses; Stiles was taking the brutal lead. There was nothing tentative or wondering in it—just Stiles' mouth, messy and voracious, like he was starved for something he'd never once allowed himself to taste. Water slicked their faces; foam from the fancy shampoo slid between their pressed-together bodies. Derek made a noise, almost a growl, but not angry, not even annoyed—hungry, maybe, or surprised. Stiles kissed him harder, biting the softness of Derek's bottom lip, the taste of blood long gone.

And Derek—Derek let him. No, not just let—he yielded, his body giving up years of rigid self-control all at once. His hands clamped Stiles' waist, firm enough to leave imprints, and for a second, Stiles felt dizzy, like he was being drowned in everything he'd ever wanted. There might never have been a time in his whole fucking life when someone had made him feel this way: so chosen, so necessary.

“Stiles. Stiles.” Stiles kept chasing Derek’s mouth, already addicted to having him. “Stiles stop.” Stiles instantly pulled away from Derek as the werewolf grabbed at his hands. The spark blinked twice, making sure the clarity had come back to him.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to get carried away. You know nothing gets the blood pumping like” the rest of Stiles’ sentence was muffled by Derek’s palm.

“Before you get stuck in your head; I am only stopping you because I can't let this go anywhere if you're going to leave. I'm not putting a price tag on myself nor my son.” Something about that had Stiles loving Derek more. The prioritizing of yourself looked amazing on Derek. But Stiles wasn't sure he could or wanted to come back. But the thought of having Derek; having everything he's dreamt of for years. God that was hard to give up as well. He wanted to shout that he wasn't leaving, that Beacon Hills was in his marrow and he would take on every alpha to stay if that’s what Derek needed. But his mouth stayed clamped shut, and he just stared at Derek's hand, broad and certain, covering his own.

Neither of them spoke, not for a long moment. Somewhere in the walls, water hammered pipes. Rain might have started outside, or that could just be Stiles’ imagination. He glanced up, expecting to see coldness or resentment in Derek's eyes, but found only wariness—a kind of battered hope, bracing for the next disappointment.

Stiles took a breath. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, voice thin even in the echo of the shower. “I want to do it right. But I’m kind of a professional at—at leaving. Or getting left.” He half-laughed, half-whined, but it cracked on the way out. “I've wanted you in so many different ways and positions if I'm being frank, for a long time Derek. I don't know if I can come back but I don't want to give you up either.” Stiles took a breath in and held it. He watched Derek’s green eyes turn brighter as he stepped Stiles and himself back, further away from the running water.

When they stopped moving, Derek reached up, thumb tracing Stiles’ jaw. The touch was careful—improbably so, for a man whose everyday movements were so often edged with violence. It made something in Stiles ache. “Don’t decide right now,” Derek said. “We both know tomorrow’s going to suck.” His lips quirking, Derek added, “And if you want to keep kissing me, that’s fine. Just, maybe—”

“Maybe what?” Stiles prompted, whispering because the moment seemed to require it.

“Just… promise you won’t disappear without saying goodbye. Or let me disappear, either.” Derek’s brow furrowed, and the old, familiar bitterness flickered there, but it was softer now, the anger diluted by all the hope he was trying so hard to keep secret. “I’m not great at second chances. Or any chances, really.”

Stiles wanted to laugh, to deflate the whole thing with a self-deprecating joke. He had one on the tip of his tongue, but Stiles’ eyes wandered down Derek’s neck and to his chest.

“What if-” Stiles swallowed hard; his thoughts turning a direction that Derek will not only be able to smell, but see. Derek seemed to be able to read his mind because he was crowding Stiles up against the tiled wall. His nose pressed gently into Stiles’ pulse point.

“If I have you Stiles; I'm not letting you go.” Stiles moaned as he felt Derek’s wet thigh press against the outside of his own. “I’ve already had to watch you leave once.” Derek’s teeth grazed Stiles’ throat, and his hands settled on Stiles’ hips like he could anchor them both in the moment. Beneath the storm of want, there was still a carefulness—Derek’s kind of careful, which meant he kept his wolf on a leash even when his eyes burned a slight blue. It made the air between them electric, all their bruised tenderness boiling over into something conscious and deliberate.

Derek’s mouth was soft on his jaw, feathering upward before pressing against the edge of Stiles’ ear. “But we don't have to think about that,” he murmured. “Not tonight.” Stiles’ breath hitched and he let his forehead thunk against Derek’s collarbone, taking in the impossible fact of him, heat and muscle and the coarse brush of chest hair that made Stiles want to lose himself for hours.

In a flurry of nervous hands and shivering skin, Stiles fumbled for the body wash, but Derek took it from him and turned to grab a washcloth. Stiles had to cover his eyes with a hand because Derek’s ass was making Stiles weak. Derek was quick to hand back the washcloth that was lathered and ready for Stiles to use. Derek had turned so he could grab a different body wash and clean himself. Stiles mutely cleaned himself; watching the grime swirl down the drain.

Tomorrow they are going to deal with whatever they need to deal with and then Stiles is heading back to Denver. There were many thoughts in Stiles’ head. There were many paths Stiles could take, some leading to Derek. While others were led away from him. He mutely washed himself; allowing Derek to move around him as he stepped out of the shower. Stiles turned his head to stare at the open gap where the shower led to the rest of the bathroom.

Fuck this was a mess.

He quickly rinsed himself off and slipped out of the shower. He saw Derek had left him a towel and some clothes to change into. Stiles reached out for the shirt and saw it was a Batman shirt. Stiles rubbed at his head, trying to rub the emotions out of him. He quickly dried off and slid the shirt and sweats on. He took the towel and was drying hair as he walked back into Derek’s room.

It was beautiful. Derek’s king bed was in the middle of the room with a dark green duvet covering it. There was a wooden beam above his bed with little lights and plants hanging from it. There was a shelf to the left of his bed that had dozens of pictures of Eli. Some baby pictures and others only a few years old.

Derek’s wooden dresser was to the right of the bed and it had a few watches and a pair of sunglasses sitting on top. There was also a picture of Stiles’ dad and Eli during Christmas. Eli had to have been five or six years old. Stiles picked the picture up and smiled at how happy his dad looked watching Eli play with a truck.

“Popop got me an entire set for Christmas that year.” Stiles turned and saw Eli leaning against the doorframe. He was now wearing a shirt and shorts. His own hair damp. “I still have the bulldozer in my room. When we rearranged my room a few years ago I couldn’t get rid of that one.” Stiles set the picture back down and saw a keychain laying next to it. It had Stiles laughing; it was the Bite me in the shape of a wolf keychain he had found in Montana.

“If my dad asked you to stay, would you Stiles?” He rolled the keychain between his fingers, feeling the edge of the stamped-out wolf. There was no right answer to this, not one that wouldn't split the difference between hope and fear. He thought of all the years he had spent running from anything that looked like a home, how every time he’d rounded a new corner, he’d found a different version of himself waiting to be abandoned.

Eli had Derek’s earnestness, the kind that made it impossible to brush off the question as a joke. Stiles hadn’t expected to have his knees cut out by a teen. He almost laughed at the audacity of it, but the look in Eli’s eyes reminded him that this was a town where people meant the things they said.

“I don’t know,” Stiles said finally, voice raw. “That’s a really dumb answer. I’m so used to going, it’s like my whole body is made for it. But I don’t think I’d be able to say no to your dad.” Stiles lent back against Derek’s dresser.

“He loves you, you know.” Stiles knew. Well neither of them has voiced it to each other but ever since being back, they might as well have said it. “He’s a terrible liar when it comes to things he cares about,” Eli continued, stepping into the room with the uncanny grace of someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up in the world. “You make him less… wolfy.”

Stiles snorted, fidgeting with the keychain. “You think that’s a good thing?” he said, but what he meant was, you think I deserve that. The thought hovered between them, hanging heavily in the air.

Eli shrugged, moving to the bookshelf that stood to the right of the door and fingering the edges of the oldest photos. “I think it is.” He hesitated, and Stiles wondered how much of his own kid-logic Eli had battered and shaped against the anvil of Beacon Hills. “I think if you leave again, it’ll probably kill him for real this time. But he’ll just tell you it’s fine.” Eli’s voice was tight. But Stiles knew he was right. Derek wasn’t one to put his needs first. Stiles wasn’t sure if that was a trait he always had or something he inherited after the fire.

“Eli, I don’t want to hurt your dad.”

“Then don’t leave.” Eli shrugged before turning around and leaving Stiles with his own thoughts. He had only a moment alone before Derek was manifesting in his room. Stiles smiled as Derek handed him a warm mug. Stiles noticed the tea bag string and held back an excited squeal. He took a conservative sip so he wouldn’t burn his tongue and sat on the edge of Derek’s bed.

“I can sleep in our guest bedroom for the night if you want to stay here for the night. Your dad will shoot me if I have you walk back to his house this late and with The Nogitsune still out there.” Derek set his own mug down, thumb tracing the curve of the handle. He looked tired, not just from the fight or the years, but in the way, people look when they are bracing for a verdict. “You don’t have to,” he said, not quite looking at Stiles. “I know you like your own space, your own bed.” He almost sounded wounded, as if twelve years could be compressed into a single night and then lost again.

Stiles smiled, not a smirk but the real kind, the soft one that his dad called his ‘baby face’ and Derek had always pretended not to notice. “You think I want to be alone tonight?” He shook his head, as if that could rattle the ghosts out of it. “I want to sleep with you.” He pinked at his own phrasing, but Derek only raised an eyebrow. “I mean— not ‘sleep with you’ sleep with you, unless you want to.” Stiles slapped his hand over his eyes and fell back onto Derek’s bed.

“If you two want alone time I can stay in the basement!” Stiles wheezed at Eli’s voice carrying from upstairs down into Derek’s room. Derek only rolled his eyes as he sat down on the other side of the bed.

“I blame your dad for turning Eli into a mini version of you.” Stiles lent his head back laughing at Derek’s pinched look on his face. Even though he was looking at him upside down, he could see the annoyance in his eyes.

“Don’t lie, it helped keep you young Derek.”

“He made me go gray. Since he is a lot like you, you made me go gray.” Stiles only shrugged as he folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes. They both could hear Eli making his way down the stairs and into the basement. Neither of them voicing it out loud. Stiles was too scared that crossing that line would somehow make him lose Derek. A thought he refused to allow to happen. Derek is too important to treat like a cheap one-night stand.

He felt the bed shift under some weight and opened his eyes to see Derek leaning over him. His own eyes sifted between Derek’s eyes and his mouth. “Are you sure we should be doing this Derek?” Derek hummed as he leaned down so his head hovered over Stiles’ own and held his weight on his forearms. He left little to no room between them and it had Stiles trying to remember why this was a bad idea.

“There are a lot of things that I think we shouldn’t do, one of them is letting you go up against the Nogistune by yourself, even with your spark. I only want to have to talk Chris out of killing you one time and one time only.” Stiles bit his lip at the warm gleam in Derek’s eyes. He had grown accustomed to Derek being closed off and cold towards the world. He wasn’t used to Dad version of Derek. The open, honest, loving Derek. He let himself fall into it, without another word. The inhale of air between them felt precious, a currency neither had the luxury to waste. Derek sealed the gap with the kind of surety that made Stiles’ stomach flip, a velvet press to his lips, and then, as if he’d finally granted himself permission, something volcanic underneath.

Stiles dug his fingers into Derek’s hair and remembered, in some distant way, that tomorrow they might die, or lose each other, or worse. But tonight, electric and safe, he counted every heartbeat instead, the stubble burns blooming on his chin, the taste of Derek—minty, wolf-bright, familiar and not.

They rolled together, laughing under their breaths, awkward and hungry, all elbows and knees and the hot stripe of bare skin where their shirts rode up. Stiles was delighted to discover that Derek, after all these years, still smelled like soap and wood oil and the faintest note of grass.

Derek had maneuvered their bodies around until Stiles was situated on his hips. Stiles was slightly panting when Derek’s grip on his jaw loosened enough for Stiles to sit up straight. He smirked down at Derek before slowly rolling his hips forward. With delight, he watched Derek’s eyes roll towards the back of his head. His head pushed back against his soft orange pillowcase. Stiles waited a moment until Derek’s body relaxed and his eyes opened again before repeating the motion.

“Whoever taught you hip movements, I hope they know I hate them but appreciate the skill they taught you. Fuck!” Stiles pushed his hips down harder the third time he rolled his hips down. He hissed when he felt Derek’s claw pinch his right thigh. It made Stiles lose himself in the lazy rubbing he had set. He could get lost in the slow arousal that was climbing up his spine. Derek sat up, catching Stiles by the waist in a grip that was equal parts warning and promise. He grinned wolfish, all teeth and intent, and Stiles could feel the pressure gather in the air between them.

“If you keep this up, I’m going to have to teach you what happens to little foxes who play with wolves.” His voice was low and menacing. Stiles shivered and splayed his hands against Derek’s chest, feeling his heart thundering underneath. He bent down and bit softly at the curve of Derek’s neck, just below the jaw, relishing the sharp intake of breath that followed.

They wrestled, kisses turning ragged and hands finding skin wherever they could. Playful at first, the energy turned quicksilver—dangerous and uncoiled. Stiles went from being on top to being pinned beneath Derek, his wrists clamped together in one of Derek’s hands and held above his head. Derek winked at him before sliding down Stiles’ belly and moving his shirt up slightly so he could expose Stiles’ toned stomach. He was nowhere near as defined as Derek, but he clearly worked out. Even though Stiles hated it.

Stiles arched violently off the bed as Derek’s teeth found the tender juncture where hip met thigh, a strangled cry tearing from his throat despite his desperate attempt to muffle it. The sharp points of Derek’s canines—not quite human anymore—scraped against his skin, marking him in a primal claim that sent lightning ricocheting through every nerve ending in his body. It had Stiles squeezing his thighs together and trying to break free from Derek’s hold.

“Fuck. I wish you were staying. My wolf wants me to roll you over and keep you in this bed. Keep you tied to this bed so I can use you whenever I please.” Stiles shouted this time as Derek sank his teeth into his hipbone. Stiles hadn’t even noticed how hard he was until now. If Derek kept it up, Stiles was going to cum in his pants like a fucking teenager. But every time Stiles tried to find his voice, Derek would lick at the bite mark before scrapping his wolfed-out canine against the mark. It felt like Derek was trying to claim him. That thought had Stiles squeezing his thighs harder together, almost squishing Derek in the process.

“Can I keep making you do that?” Derek growled against Stiles’ skin, the vibration arrowing straight between his legs. Without waiting for an answer, he let go of Stiles’ wrists and slid his hands down to haul Stiles closer, so there was no space left between them. Stiles rutted up against him, dizzy and desperate.

“With a tongue like yours? Fuck, you could make me do anything,” Stiles panted, every syllable tumbling out wild and true. He clenched a fistful of Derek’s hair and yanked, and Derek made a noise so hot and needy it belonged somewhere in a nature documentary.

Stiles arched into Derek, surrendering all pretense at control. Derek’s mouth was on his thigh now, then everywhere—lips, tongue, scraping teeth, working up to the waistband of Stiles’ pants before pausing. He looked up at Stiles, eyes aglow with blue, seeking permission.

“Derek if you make me use my brain and words, I’m kicking you out for the night. By how hard I am and the smell of my arousal you should know that I consent to you doing whatever the hell you want as long as I get to cum.” He felt Derek’s amused huff against his hip before he was yanking the sweats off of him and somewhere on the floor at the end of the bed. Stiles almost screamed again as he felt Derek’s hot mouth against his clothed dick. Stiles’ brain completely shut off and all he could focus on was not thrusting up and breaking Derek’s nose. He could feel Derek’s drool soak through his briefs causing Stiles to thrash against Derek’s hold on him.

Stiles was chanting Derek’s name as one of his hands gripped his thigh, pushing his left leg up off the bed and pushing it against Stiles’ chest. Derek’s tongue left Stiles’ dick and made a slick path against the cotton material against the back of his thigh and up to where the band of the underwear lay against his ass cheeks. Stiles jerked violently on the bed as Derek’s tongue flicked against his hole, nothing but the damp cotton between it and skin. Stiles gasped—actually, truly gasped—head slamming back so hard into the mattress it nearly bounced. Derek didn’t stop—of course he didn’t. He was single-minded, relentless, scrubbing away every atom of doubt from Stiles’ body with his tongue and teeth and the absolute, idiotic confidence of a man who knew exactly the effect he had.

“Holy fuck, Derek,” Stiles whined, voice turned inside out and scraping. Waves of pleasure rolled up his spine, every nerve singing on perfect pitch. He barely breathed until Derek finally hooked his fingers in the waistband and yanked the briefs away, exposing Stiles completely, hungry eyes drinking him in.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Stiles croaked, hands scrabbling uselessly at the duvet, not sure whether to hide or to spread himself wider. Derek’s gaze never leaving his face as he went back to eating Stiles out. Stiles’ body had a mind of its own. One second it would push towards Derek’s mouth and the next second it was jerking away, overstimulated. Yet, Derek didn’t care. Now that he was allowed this, he wasn’t going to screw it up. He was determined to make Stiles fall apart.

Stiles’ words dissolved into incoherent syllables as Derek’s finger breached him alongside that relentless tongue. His vision whited out at the edges, toes curling painfully tight, every muscle seizing as if electrified. His cock pulsed untouched against his stomach, painting hot stripes across his skin while his fingers clawed into the sheets beneath him.

Stiles wasn’t all too sure he was even alive anymore. His head was foggy as his body came down from an explosive orgasm. His back relaxed back onto the bed as he finally caught his breath again. He got two large lungs full of oxygen before he was moaning out again. Derek, the little shit, added another finger.

He pushed in slow, thumb still rubbing mindless circles into Stiles’ hip even as his wrist twisted with mechanical, obscene precision. Stiles’ mouth hung open, panting out the air that he could manage, cross-eyed and completely unmoored. At some point Derek had managed to finish undressing them both, Stiles’ own hands fluttering and useless as Derek stripped away every pretense, every barrier layer by layer until there was nothing left but skin and will.

“Derek,” Stiles choked out, every consonant laced with want, “fuck—oh my god—please.” He barely recognized his own voice, raw and desperate, begging for more even as every muscle trembled on the edge of too much.

Derek shifted, the heat and weight of him coming down like a promise forged in bone. He kissed Stiles softly, sweetly, counterpoint to the roughness of his hands. “Tell me if you want to stop,” Stiles was violently shaking his head as he clawed at Derek’s back.

The intense fullness was suddenly gone, tipping Stiles off his axis for a moment. He slowly opened his eyes and gasped. Derek’s eyes were a bright blue; his teeth somewhere between human and wolf. Stiles groaned because of course he has some twisted thing for Derek’s beta form.

Derek’s body start moving off of him and Stiles was having none of that. He hooked his leg over Derek’s hip and pushed as hard as he could, forcing Derek onto his back. “I can’t get pregnant and you can’t get diseases.” Was all Stiles said before he grasping at Derek’s cock and slowly gliding down the length of it.

“Holy shit,” Derek breathed, voice cracking mid-curse, the sound nothing like anything Stiles had ever forcibly wrung out of him before. It made Stiles want to savor and hoard every ragged inhale. He slid his hands up Derek’s sides, reveling in the jump of muscle under taut, sweaty skin, and then braced himself against Derek’s chest to guide himself lower, careful and slow. He was a little out of practice, maybe a lot, but muscle memory and want took over, and the thick stretch actually bordered on perfect pain. He ground down and sawed his hips, the drag making stars pop in his vision.

Derek scrabbled for Stiles’ hips, holding him in place, forehead beaded with sweat, his jaw clenched hard enough to shatter teeth. Stiles relished the reversal, Derek thrumming with restraint beneath him, letting Stiles set the pace, the depth, the angle. Not a single command, not even a grunt of complaint—just the open throb of desire in those blue-lit eyes, heat and awe in equal measure. For once, Derek was the one getting pulled under, and Stiles could get addicted to that kind of power.

The ordinary, domestic sound of Derek’s whines were the sharpest aphrodisiac, a reminder that this—Stiles riding Derek into the mattress, Derek’s hands slackening into awe instead of rage—was the foundation of their lives now. Stiles gripped Derek’s chest tighter, effectively pulling on Derek’s chest hair.

Twelve years; honestly probably longer than that, Stiles wanted this with Derek. But when he was a teen, he imagined a lot more dominance from Derek. He had gotten off more than once at the thought of Derek catching him by surprise in his room and fucking him either by his bedroom door on the floor, or by his open window.

“Don’t stop,” Derek groaned, his voice part plea, part threat. His own hands scrambling to grip tighter around Stiles’ waist.

Stiles grinned and squeezed down, driving himself cruelly slow, his own dick bobbing in time to the motion. He nearly blacked out from the feel of it—a knot of pressure building and building until he was shaking, teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached. Derek’s fingers dug deeper, sacrosanct, and Stiles felt the moment he lost control. Derek bucked up, snarled low in his throat, and came so hard Stiles could feel it, hot and clutching. The noise he made was nothing human.

The world snapped back into focus with the sound of Derek’s shuddering breaths, and breathless words that Stiles couldn’t quite hear. The two of them sticky and tangled and trembling together. Stiles collapsed forward, boneless, cheek pressed to the slick heat of Derek’s sternum. He laughed, breath hitching, and Derek ran soothing hands down his spine, so gentle in the aftermath it nearly made Stiles cry.

A minute—ten—could have passed, both of them breathing each other in, pushing back the return of reality. Eventually a lock turned upstairs, and Eli’s footsteps padded to the fridge. The fridge closed with a whoomp. Derek made a content noise, like purring, and Stiles found himself unexpectedly fighting down a laugh.

“We are, unironically, the worst role models,” he mumbled into Derek’s ribs, voice sticky and hoarse.

Derek gave him the full, rare smile, feral and fond. “I didn’t see you complaining.”

“If you want me to stop complaining, you should do-“ Derek had flipped them over; still deep inside Stiles. his dick still hot and thick inside of Stiles. It had the spark gasping and his softened dick twitch at the idea of fucking again.

“I already told you, my wolf wants me to tie to this bed and never let you go.”

“Fine,” Stiles managed, voice gone thin like old taffy, “but first you’re making me a sandwich. With bacon, and—no, fuck it, you’re making us both sandwiches.” He tilted his head up, grinning lopsided, pleased with himself. He loved the way Derek’s jaw twitched in the afterglow, loved how the blue of his eyes flared and then softened, loved the way every ounce of his growl was for him alone.

A thump in the other room alerted them both. Eli was probably finding something else to eat and not paying attention to the world below. For another second, Stiles let himself be held, feeling the rise and fall of Derek’s chest above him, the way their bodies fit together like a sculpture a Greek philosopher had insisted on carving by hand.

Eventually, Derek nudged him, gently but insistently. “If sandwiches are happening, we should—”

“Yeah, yeah. Get up before I go full domestic and start complaining.”

They peeled apart slowly, Stiles rolling to the side, gathering up what clothing hadn’t been sacrificed to the cause of the moment. Derek watched him dress, lazy-eyed and reverent. Stiles noted the look, and flashed a sharp grin over his shoulder. Stiles walking back into the bathroom and quickly cleaned up their coitus evidence.

He made it to the kitchen first, hair still wild and skin still humming with pleasure. Eli had the fridge open and was preoccupied with drinking out of the orange-juice carton, a fact that Stiles should probably reprimand except, well, glass houses and all that.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice only faintly betraying the fact that he’d just been bracketed to a mattress by Eli’s dad. “You hungry?”

Eli snorted. “You guys are so predictable.”

Stiles blinked, then laughed, quietly impressed and just a little bit appalled. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

Eli shrugged, closed the fridge, and set the carton back in with the devil-may-care precision of a born teenager. “Can we have pancakes for dinner?”

“Pancakes and bacon,” Stiles said, slapping the counter for emphasis. “That’s what’s happening. See, you’re a genius.”

Derek slunk in, shirtless but with sweatpants firmly in place. He looked at Stiles and then at Eli, and in a move that should have shattered the very fabric of the universe, smiled. “You want to help me with the batter?”

Eli nodded, and Stiles watched as father and son—wolf and wolf, pack and pack—moved around each other with the strange choreography of family. He leaned against the counter, watching them work, the domesticity so normal as to be almost surreal. He wondered if, in some other universe, he might have gotten lost in the wilderness of anger and loss, circling the same old wounds forever. But here, the world was smaller, messier, infinitely more precious. Here, the air was thick with syrup and laughter and the woodsmoke tang of unconditional love.

Stiles smiled, really smiled, as Derek made a show of letting Eli flick flour at his face. The two laughing together. And with a sharp halt in Stiles’ psyche; he realized that he couldn’t do this, not now.

Derek found his haven. A space that he and his son created together. How could Stiles come in and carve a spot of that out? He would be throwing everything into chaos.

His scent must have changed, because Derek was turning with a curious frown. Stiles put his best fake smile on and shook his head. He played it off like he got lost in the moment.

He volunteered to taste-test the first batch of pancakes and, when Derek hastily dusted the flour off Eli’s cheeks and crossed the kitchen with a fresh, golden heap, Stiles made a production out of judging the fluffiness and the ratio of syrup to stack. He let the moments drag out—tooth-achingly sweet—hoping that if he lingered long enough in this dumb, beautiful kitchen, he’d start to believe he belonged in it.

But when night bled into dawn and the house fell quiet, Stiles lay awake on that soft green duvet, Derek’s arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, and listened to the click of the thermostat in the next room. There was too much promise, too much hope, and it all hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to explain.

He drifted in and out, half asleep, mapping out escape plans and ways to stay at the same time. He knew if he stayed any longer, he was putting them in more danger. The Nogitsune was still out there and out for Stiles while Allison was out there and wanting Derek dead.

As the first light of morning filtered through the curtains, Stiles gently extricated himself from Derek’s embrace, careful not to wake him. The weight of their situation bore down on him as he stood by the window, gazing out at the quiet street below. The echoes of the previous night’s conversations and revelations lingered in the air, adding to the heaviness in his chest.

With a heavy heart, Stiles made a decision. He knew he couldn’t put Derek and the others at risk any longer. It was time to face the dangers head-on, to confront the Nogitsune and protect those he cared about. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to look at Derek one last time, silently promising to return.

Leaving a note for Derek on the bedside table, Stiles grabbed his backpack and slipped out of the house, the weight of his choices settling on his shoulders like a cloak. The world outside was still and waiting, filled with uncertainty and danger, but also with the possibility of redemption.

As he walked away from the safety of the house, Stiles knew that his journey was far from over. But he also knew that he wouldn’t be facing it alone. With determination in his heart, he set out to confront the darkness that threatened to consume him, ready to fight for his loved ones and for the chance of a brighter future.