Chapter Text
Pebbles of shattered glass lay heaped on the cracked asphalt, glinting almost prettily under the flickering neon signs and sickly orange street lamps. Stiles finds it hard to believe some dumb fuck actually left a car out here to be broken into. Nowhere in Beacon Hills is truly safe, but this neighborhood in particular is one of the worst. There are people who call the world out here a new Wild West, as if the lawlessness was exciting and the good guys were assured to win. Most people just call it what it is: the apocalypse.
Stiles shoves his hands deeper in his jeans pockets and strides past a dark alley, hyperalert to the stillness around him. He’s got a switchblade and a bit of spark magic, but neither will guarantee safety if he’s jumped by someone. Or some thing. Night is when the really awful stuff comes out, monsters Scott’s pack can’t keep away. Stiles’ fingers twitch with the need to text his Alpha where he is, for the psychological safety net as much as anything. If the worst happens and he just disappears, it would be better if… but no. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t drag anyone else into this. What he’s doing tonight is between him and his spark.
And Deaton, he supposes.
He turns down an alley to find the unmarked door leading to the druid’s sanctuary. It’s a small, run-down affair, the grey stuccoed brick abutting a tattoo parlor on one side and a minimart on the other. Unlike most of the shops clinging to existence here, though, it hasn’t got preemptively barred windows or any obscene message spray-painted on the walls. Once upon a time, it was a vet’s office. Now, everyone knows what goes on in the back room, and it’s the kind of thing that keeps common thugs far away.
Stiles presses in close to the heavy door, glancing around. He knocks twice, pauses and raps another two times, slow and distinct. There’s the light click of a latch unlocking and he slips in, quickly shutting the door behind him against assessing eyes or worse.
“Mr Stilinski.” Deaton’s usually impassive face betrays a hint of surprise today, maybe even disappointment. “You haven’t changed your mind.”
Stiles tips his chin up, smiling against his irritation. “Nope,” he confirms, so cheerily it bites. They had arranged this weeks ago, yet Deaton was apparently betting Stiles wouldn’t go through with it in the end. Well, fuck that. He doesn’t know what it’s like out there, not really. He can afford to hold himself aloof and uninvolved, knowing his druid power is enough to keep him safe in this little office. Stiles can’t. Scott’s pack has got to protect this whole town, and Stiles’ spark isn’t enough to protect all of them while they do it.
The thing is, magic isn’t like the fairy tales. It isn’t pretty wands or glittery potions, it isn’t any guarantee of miracles for hardworking seventh sons just because their intentions are pure. It’s blood and risk and sacrifice. Nothing comes without a price, and anyone who tries to say different is baiting a hook to gut you on. Stiles knows that, has known it since he was a kid and his mother started training him for the inevitable day when he’d need to fight for his life.
That day had come four years ago when she died, and it hasn’t stopped yet.
The McCall pack still keeps order in Beacon Hills, but only by the skin of their teeth. It’s harder with Rafael gone - even though it was good riddance, in Stiles’ opinion. He’d taken off with all his men and guns after Scott was bitten by a rogue Alpha last year, and Melissa had refused to put their son down. However despicable his character, Rafael’s small militia had been their best asset after Stiles’ mother died, taking with her all the spells they'd relied on to keep the worst of the world at bay. Without either, they're just a handful of kids, a nurse, and one aging ex-sheriff up against monsters that should stay trapped in nightmares.
Still, Scott’s lost humanity had bought him super senses, super healing, and super strength. That helps. He’s wrangled control over his wolf side now, mostly, and with that and his small pack he's maintaining some sort of safety for the civilians here. Though he's only sixteen, same as Stiles, he gives his pack strength against enemies and despair both.
But while Scott was becoming a superhuman leader, what was Stiles doing? Not enough. He didn’t take the bite, and he sure as hell isn’t anyone’s idea of an inspiring leader. The only thing he’s got to offer is a spark like his dead mom (he swallows that pain down, it’s a wound years old now and nobody can afford the weakness of regret) and he needs to step up, keep stepping up, get strong enough to replace her. It’s unacceptable how he’s already hitting the limits of his powers. His dad is enough of a liability, still reeling from the loss of his soulmate (but he’ll get better, is getting better, doesn't drink as much these days), and one concerted attack could lose them the town. Scott isn’t willing to make the kind of compromises with the neighboring warlords that would buy them extra muscle. That leaves Stiles to come up with something better. This is better. It is.
Deaton pins him with a coolly assessing look, as if he can see right through the act to the fear. Stiles lets his smile fall away. He tries to look certain, firm, grown up. Yes, he’s afraid, but he has to do this anyway. Deaton has to let him.
“Very well,” Deaton says after a moment. His eyes slide off of Stiles, mask back in place. He opens the door to the back room and gestures inside.
Relieved, Stiles follows him. It’s not that the choice is an easy one, but he knows it’s right despite that. Everything has a price, and weighed against what he’s buying in exchange, this sacrifice will be almost painless.
Five years later
“Hey, I'm back!” Stiles shouts, hefting the spoils of his successful run over one shoulder so he has a hand free to set the three locks on the metal door behind him and re-engage the alarm. Before the conflicts, this hotel might have been an inviting place to come home to, but it seems just as likely that this square cement monstrosity overlooking the main drag of the town has never been beautiful.
It’s certainly not in it’s repurposed state, with the windows all sealed with mismatched boards or metal siding to prevent attacks, and the facade discolored with splotches of fresher paint covering graffiti and the ashy marks where people had burned trash piles against the walls to keep warm. Its main purpose is keeping the pack secure, and that shows.
Melissa pops into the hall from the industrial kitchen they now use to cook for themselves and to store the town's provisions. The households of Beacon Hills mostly function independently, but if anyone is desperate enough to ask, Scott will supplement their bartered supplies to keep anyone from starving. She gives Stiles a quick, warm hug that doubles as a subtle check for any wounds he might be hiding. “Hey, honey. Welcome home.”
He’s twenty-one now, and taller than her by a good four inches, but sometimes she still thinks of him as a kid. He drops a reassuring kiss on her temple, and murmurs, “I’m fine. There was practically enough food to go around, this time, now the Andover crops are coming in.”
Melissa beams, and he lets her grab one of his packs before trailing after her to the kitchen. Once the laden bags are set down on the counter, he fishes through one for a bit of produce to eat while it’s fresh. “Where’s Dad?”
“Out on patrol,” she says, tallying the dry goods in their record book as she unpacks them. Winter’s over for this year, but they need to start planning ahead if they want to keep themselves fed when the inevitable hard times come again. “I'll manage all of this, you go take a break.”
Stiles nods, but keeps unloading the pack until Melissa hip checks him out of the way, pointing her patented “no nonsense” finger right between his eyes. “Rest!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, heading back to the hall. He spots their resident technologist Danny across the hall in the repurposed manager’s office, which is as close to a central base of operations as they have. Danny is hunched over the desk, which is strewn with bits of tech salvage at the moment. Officially, the room should be Scott’s territory, but their Alpha tends to keep to his own room, and it's not unusual for others to use the office when they have free time.
And the pack does, occasionally, have free time. Life in Beacon Hills is… maybe not good, and certainly not easy, but it isn’t as touch-and-go as when they’d been teens. Scott’s werewolf instincts are fully under control these days, partly because of his soulmate, Allison. They’d found each other through the bond a couple years ago, and she’d joined the pack - bolstering them not just in her effect on Scott, but with own deadly skills and hunter’s knowledge. Chris, her widowed father, had been part of the package, along with their inherited armory. Which, Stiles noted smugly at the time, is loads better than Rafael’s had been.
On top of the Argents’ weapons and skills, the pack’s assets now include Jackson’s money, Lydia’s banshee intuition, and Danny’s knack with technology, along with what they had before: Melissa's medical knowledge and the sheriff’s expertise in keeping the peace. But most of all, they have Stiles. He’s a living legend, the most powerful spark this side of the Rockies, if you believe the rumors.
Which you should.
The apple he lifted from the food supplies is crisp and fresh, a relief after a winter of questionable canned goods bartered from looters. Stiles savors the tart flavor as he wanders over to where Danny is working on something small with lots of wires. “Dan-my-man!”
“Don’t ever call me that again,” Danny deadpans, using tweezers to connect one of the wires to another and a small heat gun to solder it in place. “And to answer your inevitable question, I’m working on getting us functional cable TV.”
Stiles’ eyebrows twitch up in involuntary disbelief. The fact that most of the town has electricity and running water marks them as unusually lucky. They’ve managed to tap into the cell networks still maintained farther south in the Silicon Valley Collective, but Danny getting cable television running would be a fucking dream. “Good luck,” Stiles says, and means it.
Danny doesn’t even do him the courtesy of nodding, too wrapped up in his task.
Stiles rolls his eyes and bites through the apple core, spitting out a couple seeds and flipping them along with the stem into the trash. He licks juice off his fingers as he takes the stairs up to the second floor and walks down the hall to the room that belongs to his almost-stepbrother.
“Stiles!” Scott grins up at him from his desk, less fresh-faced after five more years of hard-won survival, but still honest and kind and all the things Stiles wants to preserve in him. He abandons the maps he'd been studying to do the same hug-and-check his mother had. “How'd it go, was there enough food? Didja get cookies?”
“Yep,” Stiles answers, plopping down on the bed and kicking off his sneakers by the heels. “Had to shank a kid for ‘em, but you’ve got your Oreos!”
Scott snorts, sitting next to him on the mattress. “I’d find that joke funnier if I was more sure it was a joke.” He settles his back against the wall and starts flicking his claws out, one by one.
Stiles watches the exercise. It clearly takes a good deal of focus, and he's well aware that Scott tends to play with his control like this when he’s avoiding thoughts of something else. “Anything happen while I was out?”
“Jackson asked for the bite, again,” Scott admits glumly.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Just give it to him, then. We could use the extra manpower. Wolf-power, whatever. I mean, what’s the worst that happens? He dies?”
“Exactly,” Scott says, brows furrowing at Stiles’ nonchalance. “You know it’s risky for a bitten wolf to make betas, especially if they’re already past puberty. Besides, Lydia says no.”
“Fair,” Stiles admits. Lydia is five-foot-four on a good day, strawberry blonde, and pretty much a force of nature. It’s partially that she’s a banshee, and partially just who she is. If it wasn't for their bond, Jackson and his perfect, rich-boy bone structure might have gone east with his parents years ago; they’d been one of the few families who had the money to make the trip. Word has it that the national government - a quaint history lesson on this coast - maintains a secure police state over there for humans who are willing to trade personal freedom for safety from supernatural danger.
Jackson would probably be happier somewhere like that, but Lydia’s kind is no more accepted in human strongholds that Scott’s. She won't leave Beacon Hills any time soon, so there’s no chance of Jackson leaving, either. Unfortunately.
For himself, Stiles wouldn’t want a life in the controlled territories. He feels claustrophobic just thinking about curfews and checkpoints and food rations, even such restrictions would buy him a measure of safety. He doesn’t remember a time before the conflicts, a time of peace; he'd only been three when the supernatural had been revealed to everyone and the old world had fallen apart. Beacon Hills is the life he knows, in all its imperfections.
It’s a moot point, besides. As a spark, he'd be killed on sight in the territories the second his powers were discovered.
He knows it wasn’t always like this. His mother had told him bedtime stories about before, when it was easy to hide because nobody believed. There had been cities with thousands of people, giant stores where you could just go in and touch and nobody looted or killed because there was enough for everyone. There had been Internet .
Of course, she’d also told him stories about the conflicts that had come on suddenly with violence, terror, and confusion. There was so much new: shape shifters, banshees, sparks and druids. And worse things. The old institutions crumbled in the face of that human fear. Better to stick to what you could personally confirm, to keep allegiances local. City-states run by warlords kept order in the west now, and rather than expelling people like Lydia and Stiles, most are happy enough to use the unique skills of people like them to bolster their own authority. When, of course, the people in charge aren’t supernatural themselves, like Deucalion’s Alpha pack up in Nevada. Not all of the societies are particularly humane, but the pockets of true wild in between are worse.
Stiles tries to think of something cheerier to distract Scott with, but luckily he doesn’t have to. His friend perks up, nostrils flaring, and announces, “Allison’s back!”
“Knock, knock,” the woman herself says, poking her head into the bedroom and dimpling adorably when she sees her soulmate waiting. She brushes her dark hair shyly over her ear, looking for all the world like a teenager with a crush, even though they’ve been bonded for years now.
Stiles kind of loves that she looks so cute despite the fact that she could dismember any of them in two minutes flat. “Ally-A!” he crows, beckoning her in.
“Oh, we’re still doing nicknames,” she says, her grin fixed in place and looking slightly less than delighted.
Stiles beams - his nicknames are great - but Scott is frowning in concern. He stands and touches Allison just under her left collarbone, where her soulmark is. “You’re worried. What is it?”
Allison sighs in tacit agreement. Stiles is never sure how much of Scott’s intuition about her moods is werewolf senses versus intensely focused attention versus the soulmate bond itself, but he’s a reliable barometer either way. Stiles never would have guessed there was something on her mind under that smile.
“Something happen on patrol?” he checks, getting to his feet and crossing his arms. Playtime, it seems, is over.
“You know the black beast I’ve been tracking?” Allison asks. Stiles grits his teeth, and Scott lets out a heavy sigh. They'd hoped that the hulking, red-eyed shifter she’d claimed to see had been a trick of the light, or if it was a feral Alpha after all, they'd hoped it was only passing through to bother some other town. As usual, no luck. “When I was patrolling near the preserve earlier, I found a wolfsbane spiral planted near the old Hale house. It was fresh.”
All of them know what that means; not just a body, but a murder. First a deranged shifter, now a dead wolf… Talia's oldest child, Laura, has been Alpha of the preserve ever since her mother was killed in the fire that decimated the Hale pack, but she’s never consolidated power after that tragedy. There are rumors of a power struggle between her and Talia's brother, Peter. It sounds like somebody finally lost.
Stiles has a bad feeling that Allison’s black beast is involved, and that it isn’t the black beast who’s under that wolfsbane.
“We need to get in contact with the Hales,” Scott says grimly.
“I don’t like this,” Jackson says, but then he’s always been a whiner. It’s true that the burned-out house in front of them, ominously dark and too far into the preserve for any possible help, looks very much like a trap, but Stiles is sure there’s no ambush planned. Probably. If it is an ambush, it’s almost definitely one they can handle. What do the Hales have going for them, anyways? They’re three young betas on the run from their crazed Alpha. Nothing to brag about, there.
Still, everyone is on high alert as they approach the building. Allison’s visibly scoping out the shadowy corners for hidden assailants, and Lydia’s got the far off look in her eyes that means she’s listening to her “special” frequencies. As routine as this meeting should be, nobody is taking safety for granted. Maybe that’s the real reason Scott’s pack is a force to be reckoned with: they’re always at least a little afraid.
Scott is the first into the building, his steps creaking on the ruined porch. Allison is close behind. They’re flanked by Lydia and Jackson, while Stiles brings up the rear, wary as always. Alpha and hunter, banshee and spark… they’re all threatening in their own way. Except for Jackson, Stiles corrects himself with a smirk, who wouldn’t do a lick of good in a fight yet insists on going everywhere with Lydia just because they’re soulmates.
The wolf pack waiting from them in the remains of a family living room looks desperate enough to be dangerous, though they’re the ones who’d asked for a meeting and specified the place. Their leader is a male wolf in beta shift, a choice that would read as a threat except that his crossed arms and settled stance indicate a habit rather than a statement. This must be Derek, the eldest remaining Hale. He’s got dark hair and pale skin, like all of those in Talia’s line, and while he’s muscular, he shows the strain of weeks on the run. Stiles wonders what he’d look like under the animal features; Scott says it’s an effort to maintain the shift, but maybe the opposite is true for a born wolf. Or maybe after weeks of resisting his Alpha’s pull, Derek’s simply forgotten how to let go.
Beside him are two girls just about Stiles’ age, neither shifted. One is dark haired - Cora, it must be, the sister who isn’t in pieces under the wolfsbane spiral outside - and one is a bleached blonde with the same hardness in her eyes that Stiles sees when he looks in the mirror. Malia, he thinks, a cousin. Even unshifted, she seems more feral than Derek, holds her body in a way that screams animal . Rumors about her have reached him before; the youngest full shifter to ever come out of the Hale line, a half-breed coyote as dangerous as two wolves put together. Who knows? Maybe it’s exaggeration. And maybe the rumors about her are as true as the ones about Stiles.
But while she’s the least domesticated, the Hales are all wild. Wild from fighting the urge to submit to their crazed Alpha, wild with tragedy, wild with the same desperation that marks everyone in this fractured world. It's a bit of a shame. Their pack was always a good neighbor to have. The ancient wood can harbor many things, and it crawls right up to the city border. Beacon Hills has relied on nothing coming out of that tree line for years, and the McCall pack doesn’t have the knowledge or manpower to keep the sprawling acres of it under command the way the Hales have. These desperate remnants might be a good investment to keep afloat, even now, if they’ll keep that old agreement.
Stiles makes these assessments within two long steps, sauntering into the circle of negotiators while his Alpha rattles through the usual greeting and introductions. “And this is Stiles, our emissary,” Scott finishes.
Stiles grins at the strangers. He knows he looks as powerful as he is, ropy muscles giving definition to the long limbs he’s finally grown into, a bat slung across his shoulders for his wrists to drape over on either side.
Derek’s eyes flick to the weapon. “An emissary with a bat?” he sneers. “I thought you were supposed to be some hotshot spark, not a common thug.”
The dismissal prickles, coming from something so underfed. “What bat? This is my magic fuckin’ wand.” He takes the weapon in hand and gives it a lazy spin, intimately familiar with its heft. He’s smashed in plenty of teeth with this weapon, some of them as pointy as the ones the wolf in front of him wears.
“It’s not even wood,” the wolf snaps. He sounds almost offended at the bad joke.
“Whoa there, buddy,” Stiles simpers, letting his eyes go wide and fluttery. “Isn’t it a little early to be asking about my wood? Buy me dinner first.”
Derek snarls, and Stiles bares his teeth in return, leaning into the conflict because all his instincts say step back. The ill-controlled rage animating the beast in front of him sets Stiles’ heart racing - if it's excitement or fear is a distinction Stiles has long given up on making.
Scott slaps a hand on his chest to keep him away from the beta, while Lydia pointedly widens her eyes over their Alpha’s shoulder. Behind her, Jackson just looks amused. He likes Stiles well enough when they have a common enemy, at least.
“This isn’t a joke,” Derek spits through his fangs. “My sister is dead.”
“We know,” Allison says evenly, handily cutting off whatever Stiles would have blurted out to make the situation worse. “And her power has warped your uncle. What he’s turned into isn’t right, we understand that he needs to be taken care of.”
The three wolves turn to her as one, six inhuman eyes sizing her up. Her gloved hands are held out in an unmistakably placating gesture, but the Argents are hunters, and her ancestors have bad blood with the Hales from far before the conflicts. Rumor is her aunt set the fire that claimed this house herself, though she turned up with her throat ripped out before anyone could confirm.
Derek’s lip curls. Hunters had been the greatest threat to werewolves in the times before, times he’s old enough to personally remember from his childhood. Asking one to help take down a family member must rankle. Stiles doesn’t have much sympathy for that, though. Power is power, and anyone who wants to survive in this lawless world can't afford to stand on prejudice or spurn aid in whatever form it comes.
“Allison’s right,” Scott decides, redirecting attention to himself and diffusing the simmering tension by instinct. “Nobody wants a rogue Alpha on the loose. He’s in your territory, for now, but our people are the ones at risk once he decides to start growing his pack. We’ll help you take him down.”
“Just so to be clear: not as a favor,” Stiles points out for the Hales’ benefit. They’d been sorry to learn that Laura had been killed, but mainly because it promised chaos. If Peter was sane enough to keep by the old agreements, they’d never be here putting their noses into pack business. Whether the preserve is kept orderly by a murdering dictator or a respected leader like Talia had been, it’s all the same to the innocents of Beacon Hills.
“Obviously,” Cora says, apparently sharing her brother’s temper if not his penchant for staying shifted. “And our asking isn’t trust. We just happen to need you to stay alive.”
“Glad that’s cleared up,” Lydia says wryly. “We should try to take advantage of our numbers before he knows you have allies. Do you know where he’s making his den? The sooner we have a plan, the sooner we can finish this.” Like always, she’s clinical and to the point.
Derek growls low, eyes flashing unnatural blue. “Finish it? You're here for back up . Peter’s Alpha power is mine. I'll be the one finishing this.”
For the first week, though, nobody is finishing anything.
It’s in Peter’s interest to wait his betas out, as his power over them will just become harder to resist - especially as the full moon approaches. For a half-crazed feral, Peter is wily. He’s also good at hiding his scent, at living off the land without giving them clues to track him by. Malia posits that he’s eating the bones and entrails of his kills to disguise his movements, which is a delightful thought.
“It's what I would do,” she explains with a shrug. “Intestines are gross, but fresh liver is delicious. Especially if it’s still warm.” Stiles looks at his half-eaten ham sandwich, sighs, and puts it back into his hiking bag.
They patrol the woods as regularly as they can afford, trying to catch the monster out or at least find his tracks. Those with human stamina switch off while the Hales maintain an absurd schedule, all of them on every rotation. Stiles can’t imagine tramping through all the remote bits of the forest for twelve-hour stretches, but the three of them seem entirely in their element.
The patrols are not Stiles’ element. They’re both terrifying - every snapping twig could be a giant murder beast leaping in for the kill - and boring , a combo that might literally drive Stiles insane. And if he’s going insane, he’s not gonna do it alone.
“Were you an Eagle Scout?” he asks Derek between huffing breaths. “Seems like maybe you’re confused, so I just gotta point out... this forced march thing isn't going to earn you any merit badges.”
Derek doesn’t react beyond a withering glance. Pity, he was supposed to say something about stamina that Stiles could work into innuendo, the one thing that infallibly gets a rise out of him.
Stiles opens his mouth to speculate about other badges Derek might deserve for the impressive amount of stick he’s managed to wedge up his tight ass, but Scott gives him a look. He closes his mouth with a huff. So, yes, he’s been harassing the Alpha-to-be a little more frequently than is perhaps wise. It's just that Derek walks around shifted literally all the time, with his tightly wound muscles and barked orders and a grimace so deep it’s probably stuck like that. It's natural to want to needle anyone who takes himself that seriously. Besides, despite this little group project currently tying them together, it’s not like they're friends with the Hales. Who cares if the guy likes him or not?
He manages to hike in silence for a few more meters. Then, “Allison, hey, bet you can’t bullseye that leaf over there.”
“Save us,” Cora mutters.
That’s the moment Peter chooses to burst out of the woods, appearing in the midst of their group like a perverse magic trick.
He's huge, larger than a man and as thickly muscled as a wrestler on steroids, except he’s covered in wiry black fur and has the face of a wolf. They'd let themselves get strung out along the path and forgot to be watchful; rookie mistake.
Slavering teeth flash towards Cora, the closest, and tear into her arm. Derek pulls her back out of reach, but the limb Peter caught is mangled bad enough that Stiles can't look away from the glint of bone for a second. Cora drops to her knees behind Derek; though the wound is healing, it’s from her Alpha and will be slow; she’s dead weight for the next fifteen minutes and this fight will be over before then.
Scott roars, shifted himself into an Alpha form much smaller than Peter’s twisted bestiality. He leaps against the monster, rolling them both into the undergrowth.
At first, no one claims the upper hand. Peter’s an older wolf, though, born into his power and impervious with rage. He possesses a viciousness the younger Alpha can't match. Amid the flying fur and blood, the pitch of yips and snarls indicates that Scott is on the losing end of the fight.
Allison tracks the pair with her bow, but she can't risk shooting potent wolfsbane into her soulmate, and she hasn’t gotten a clear bead on his attacker, with the way the pair are tumbling about.
Scott howls in pain. Cursing, Allison tosses the bow away in favor of her fighting daggers, throwing one and then two at the back of the monster instead.
The second blade hits deep, and it's enough to startle Peter - but only that. He rolls off of Scott and braces to leap at his new assailant. Allison tenses, looking all too human in the face of his warped bulk.
Malia slams into him right as he leaps. She’s shifted into her beta form, and despite her small size, she chose her angle well. Peter is knocked to his side, has to scramble for footing. Derek joins his cousin in attacking before he regroups, slashing at the beast from the other side with his claws, the two of them fighting for their lives against their uncle.
For a moment Stiles thinks they’ve overpowered him. But then Peter catches Malia’s next kick, sends her bowling into Derek. He neatly sidesteps when the two betas charge him again, and slams a huge paw into Derek’s back before the beta can regroup.
Peter knows their fighting styles, Stiles realizes with a sinking feeling. They’re good individually, but that’s how they’re fighting, as individuals. They haven’t trained to use their advantage in numbers and they need it, now.
Derek stumbles and takes a knee, stunned by the blow that nearly disemboweled him. It’s only Malia diving into Peter from behind that saves him from being finished off, and she gets a deep bite to her torso in return. She spins to face Peter from beside Derek, but then the Alpha roars. The sound resonates with all his stolen authority. His eyes burn red, and all three of his betas falter and cringe back, even Cora on the ground. Even Derek.
It’s the opening Stiles had been waiting for. While the wolves had been fighting, he’d been running glowing fingers through his pack of imitation mountain ash, activating its potency with focused power. The stuff’s harder to work with, but real mountain ash is worth its weight in gold these days and they have little to spare. It’ll do in a pinch.
Now that Peter’s under the impression he’s won and not dashing around so quickly, Stiles can cast the spell. The dust flies from his hand and snaps into a circle centered around the Alpha before dropping to the earth and sealing him in. Peter’s head snaps towards Stiles, and he charges at the latest threat... only to slap up against the invisible wall of a spell. Startled, he scrambles backwards only to hit the other side of the barrier behind him. He spins, realizing that he’s been trapped.
Allison’s recovered her bow and she aims it now. The wolfsbane on the tip of the arrowhead should be enough to kill the Alpha, but slowly enough Stiles will have time to break the circle and let Derek in to finish the job, first. They’re taking no chances with the transition of power.
Peter seems to sense his precarious situation. Snarling, he rushes the barrier a second time. But now he expects the resistance; he pushes against it, claws sparking at the points of contact, keeps pushing until the straining magic snaps and shatters. Stiles gapes.
Peter crashes away into the forest again, darting in huge leaps between trees; even Allison couldn’t hit that kind of a target. Cora, healed now, springs a few steps forward as if she wants to chase, but stops herself. Nobody else could keep up with her, not the humans on a good day and not the other wolves who are all still nursing wounds.
Peter’s long gone. They had him and he escaped.
“Fucking… fuck!” Stiles blurts.
Derek lets out a mean laugh, heaving himself to his feet. “Not as easy as you thought, hm? There's a reason we asked for help.”
Stiles forces down his irritation and gives Derek a tight smile. The guy’s awfully smug considering he’s drenched in his own blood and his crazed uncle is on the loose again. He doesn’t even look winded, and his perfect abs are neatly healed. Stiles can see them clearly defined through the fluttering tears in what had once been a very tight henley.
“Regroup at the house,” Derek orders, and trots off towards their makeshift home base at the ruins of the Hale home. Stiles groans. He knows they need to alert the others to the situation but damn, would a five-minute breather kill them? Scott pats his shoulder as he walks by with Allison under his arm, supporting his weight while he heals. Cora and Malia are already distant down the path with Derek.
Stiles huffs along at the back of the group, hating how hard he has to work to keep pace. “I guess we've gotta keep working with them, but I don’t have to like it,” he snipes to nobody in particular. Plenty loud enough for werewolf ears, from the way Derek’s head half-turns before he catches himself.
Good.
The group makes it to the charred remains of the house without further mishap. It's become a base of operations of sorts, neutral ground. Still, the place is poorly defensible and hardly secret, what with the fire-licked walls lacking any structural integrity, and the fact that Peter knows all about it. Meeting up here is morbid and stupid, Stiles has decided.
“Well, he knows we have help, now.” Malia muses. “After that little show, he’s going to be more dangerous. He’ll try to take us out one by one before we get organized. My father's always been a planner.”
“Your father ?” Scott confirms, obviously horrified. They'd known she was a cousin of Derek and Cora’s, but the fact that it's through the very sibling they're hunting? That's news to all of them.
Malia nods, and then seems to belatedly realize from the McCall pack’s reactions that she needs to explain more. “I mean... We aren’t close?”
“No shit,” Stiles mutters.
Cora frowns at him. “Malia’s right. We need better protection. We can't be on alert at every moment, and now that Peter knows we have a plan he won’t be hanging back, trying to wait us out.”
“That’s a good point,” Scott agrees. “Does he know where you’re living, now?”
“No,” Derek says, “But there’s only so much we can do to hide our scent and our presence from our Alpha.”
Scott nods. “Stiles, take the Jeep and go with them. See what you can do about keeping Peter from finding their home, and put up some protective spells while you’re at it.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Derek sneers. “A wolf doesn’t share his den with just anyone. I don’t trust him.”
Stiles fights the urge to stick his tongue out at the guy; too childish, even for him.
“Derek, your pack needs protection,” Scott says evenly. “Stiles is really good at what he does. Cora and Malia can come with us to our home to tell the rest of my pack about what happened with Peter today, alright? No secrets. Fair is fair.”
Derek doesn't really have a choice, and they all know it. He jerks his head in agreement, at least as much to save face as because Scott’s convinced him. Stiles just hopes the Hales don't turn on him or try and take him as a hostage. It's not that they could overpower him, not with his spark, but he’d have to kill them and there’d be no convincing Scott it was for a good reason.
The den turns out to be in one of the old buildings in what had once been Beacon Hills’ industrial district, but now makes up a no man’s land between the woods and where humans feel comfortable making homes. Stiles pulls up to the address Derek had scrawled down, pen ridiculous in his clawed hand, and parks the Jeep off a side street where it’s at least a bit hidden. It makes sense they'd want some human comforts, too, but Stiles had kind of assumed they lived in like, a creepy dank cave filled with bones.
A mechanical elevator takes him up to the top floor and Derek lets him in, managing - despite his shifted face - to make it clear that accepting another pack’s emissary into his home is something he’s only doing under duress. Stiles ignores him. The place isn’t quite homey, what with the exposed brick and a spiral stair that looks like wrought iron, but it’s nice enough. And it's got great light, too, because there are windows. Giant, floor to ceiling windows.
“Wow, couldn't find a more exposed location?” Stiles chirps brightly, waving his hand at the wall of glass overlooking all the other nearby buildings. “Not sure this one is risky enough.”
“We’re on the 28th floor,” Derek growls guiltily. “Those aren’t a problem. Worry about the stairs.”
“I say what I’ll worry about.”
Derek rolls his eyes and waves a hand for Stiles to get on with it already. Stiles cracks his knuckles and uses his switchblade to make a thin cut on the inside of his arm, prods at it until blood starts to well up.
Derek's nostrils flare. “What's that for?”
“A sacrifice. Some sparks use their memories, emotions, body parts even. Anything you have, you can sacrifice it! But blood is easiest. You make more, nach.” He doesn’t care to get into why he can get away with sacrificing so little for results another spark might literally give a leg for.
“You didn't use it in the woods.”
“Didn’t need to, for a simple binding circle. The mountain ash counts as enough of a sacrifice - I mean, a tree got burned, right? But for something like this, even I need a little extra juice. Which is going stale, so…”
Derek nods, stepping back to let him do his thing.
The guilty secret is, Stiles enjoys using his spark. He knows it’s supposed to be a tool, one he’s paid a steep price for, used judiciously to protect his pack and their town. Fun isn’t really the point. But there it is, all the same, a thrill of pure pleasure. He feels the pulse of it, the bright streamers arcing under his skin from his eyes back around his skull, lighting the tips of his fingers as he traces the spells into the air. It feels powerful and flowing and right. Like it used to when he practiced with his mother.
Derek looks a little taken with the spectacle of it, at least enough that he stops snapping and growling for once. Stiles admits he plays it up, making his gestures bigger, more sweeping than he would alone. He enjoys the feeling of eyes on him, the opportunity to show off after the fiasco with Peter earlier.
He ties off the last spell almost an hour later, and Derek’s still watching, silent behind his shifted mask. Stiles claps his hands as if shaking the dust off. “That should help! So, what you’ve got here is some blocking spells to take care of your scent and mute any pack bonds once you’re inside. You should still be able to track each other, though - I tuned everything to the aura I got off Tall-Dark-and-Angry when he broke my spell earlier. Oh, and the defensive stuff is all set to the same trigger. Your pack won’t even have to worry about it, but if Peter steps foot in here, and the whole thing goes up like a firework. Explosion should go from the walls out,” he explains with a wide-fingered gesture, “so anyone inside should be OK. I think that’ll do the trick, yeah?”
“...Yes. Thank you,” Derek grits.
Stiles smirks at him. “Don’t strain anything, there. I'm only doing it ‘cause my Alpha asked, not on account of giving a flying fuck about you. Honestly? Cora seems like she’s got a better temperament for being an Alpha, and Malia’s a fucking badass. No skin off my back if you die.”
Stiles thinks he spots a flicker of real hurt in Derek’s startled expression, though it’s quickly covered with a sarcastic half-smile that shows a lot of fang. “Sorry I’ll be disappointing you.”
“Whoa!” Stiles makes an exaggerated expression of amazement. “You're psychic? That must come in handy.”
“Do you ever fucking shut up?” Derek snaps, with a new exasperation that’s even more fun than the anger. He’s crossed his arms again, must not know how it makes his biceps look all thick and powerful. Or maybe he does know. Stiles finds his eyes trailing over the curve of muscle as the wolf keeps ranting. “Is there an off button? There must be, or your Alpha would have kicked you out of the pack years ago.”
“Oh, I can think of a couple things you could do to shut me up.” The words tumble out before Stiles thinks through if it’s a good idea to say them.
His eyes flick up to Derek’s face to check, and he still isn't sure. Expressions are harder to read in beta form, and while there’s something different in his eyes now, Stiles can’t say if it’s the kind of different he’s hoping for. They’re alone, he remembers, and now the wolf is stalking close to him. It triggers that adrenaline rush again, that fear-anticipation-arousal woven too close to sort out even if he’d cared to. Stiles tips his head up, arches an eyebrow.
“Only a couple things?” Derek rumbles. “Have some imagination, spark. I can think of so many more ways I could force the words right out of your head.”
Stiles’ bloodstream is almost tingling, his heart pounding fast. “Yeah? Try me.” He doesn’t let himself shy away, not even when it means their chests bump into each other, half macho posturing and half flirtation. Derek’s head tips, his mouth a breath away from a kiss. Then he grabs Stiles by the front of his plaid overshirt and tugs.
Caught off guard, Stiles falls to his knees where he would have gone willingly. He shoots a glare up at Derek, but is confronted instead with the thick outline of a hard cock being presented in his face, clear even through a layer of denim. It’s irritating as hell, except for how it's slightly hotter than it is irritating.
Stiles forgets the throb of his kneecaps in favor of scrabbling at Derek’s belt and fly, fighting with the beta’s clawed hands to get to the prize first. The erection pressing from inside makes the zipper unwieldy, but once he wrangles it down (none too carefully) Derek’s cock springs free from the front of his boxers. Stiles’ mouth waters, hungry for a taste. He thinks maybe he has been since the very first time Derek snarled, something about all those muscles and rage pinging Stiles just right. His cock is thick, veined, and of course he’s uncut. He fucking would be.
Derek's got a hand at the back of his head, intent on getting started, but this time Stiles takes initiative without the forced encouragement. Derek’s long enough that he chokes a little, but he swallows and forces himself all the way down despite that, until Derek’s jeans zipper and pubic hair are rough against his lips. It’s worth it for the noise the wolf makes.
Both of them try to get the upper hand, to set the pace, but Stiles wins. He knows he’s good at this, and Derek’s stuttering hips are the proof. His hand in Stiles’ hair spasms and tugs, edging on true pain, but he’s not trying to take charge and fuck Stiles’ face the same way as in the beginning. He’s losing control. Stiles hollows his cheeks and looks up, anticipating the sweet reaction.
The reaction is that Derek’s shift melts away, leaving him vulnerable and human for the first time and, oh, that’s the best kind of reward. Stiles would risk swallowing his tongue except his mouth is full already. Derek’s almost... pretty, at least in comparison to the brute power of his other form. The full, arched eyebrows alone are things somebody ought to write odes to, and then there’s the rest of it: thin nose and gaunt cheeks, long lashes fluttering over pale green eyes. Every feature stands out so sharp it seems delicate.
Fucking around before your soulmate bond presents isn’t that unusual. Nor is the fact they haven’t as much as kissed; you take pleasure where you can find it in a world where every day might well be your last. It's a little stranger that Stiles didn’t even know his face before he knew the taste of him, but it’s hard to care about doing things backwards when blowing him is so good, so distracting. Stiles’ world shrinks down to the sloppy spit-slick task, to teasing and playing for reactions, mixing it up with his teeth and tongue and lips, hooking his thumbs in Derek’s pants to pull the fly open wider. Not everyone has a soulmate to cuddle up with all perfect like his friends. He sucks harder, not sure if the goal is pleasure or punishment, or for whom.
The hand in his hair spasms again. “Yeah - fuck, I’m - ah, I’m going to…”
Stiles doesn’t pull off, just sets his teeth against the insides of his lips and drags down Derek’s length, and stopping right at the head to press his tongue flat against the slit before flicking it around the head in a swirling lick. Like clockwork, Derek’s abs quiver under his ruined shirt as he spills into Stiles’ mouth, thick and salty. Stiles swallows, suckling the last drop down while making eye contact through his lashes. Derek’s eyes basically roll back into his head, and he slumps boneless against the windows beside them.
Stiles barely gives him a moment to recover before he pops to his feet, licking lips he knows are flushed and puffy from being used, slick and obscene.
“Fun! So, how are you repaying the favor?” He gestures to the bulge in his own pants and he's expecting Derek to shy away, demure from the challenge. He’s expecting that he’ll get to be the one less affected by this, and therefore come out the winner.
He doesn't get that.
“Hm.” Derek pushes off the windows and past Stiles, stripping out of his shirt on the way towards the spiral staircase set in the corner. There’s a tattoo between his shoulderblades, a curious three-spiraled symbol that fits so right there it almost looks familiar. “Guess you could fuck me. Or, try.”
His pants come off next and Stiles gets a glimpse of muscled, hairy thighs and a round tight ass that’s everything promised by the way the jeans had hugged it on their hikes. Then Derek tosses the jeans over the railing and disappears upstairs, leaving Stiles with a choice.
Not much of one - the offer is not what he expected, but no way he’s turning it down. He jogs upstairs, stripping out of his clothes, clumsier than Derek had been in his eagerness. Derek’s already waiting, sprawled open on the bed in the center of the upstairs space, and Stiles pounces onto it as well, eager to see exactly what he can get away with.
The orgasm did little to gentle Derek; he’s just as growly and demanding as he’d been before he came. He sends a bottle of lube sailing at Stiles’ head, then refuses to barely stay still while Stiles scissors him open. He treats it like a competition, never offering any submission except what Stiles forces him into. Consequently, Stiles feels like a fucking god when he finally eases his cock into Derek’s tight heat and feels the wolf’s body go pliant under him for one blissful second. Then Derek writhes up onto his knees and says, “Is that honestly the best you can do?” and Stiles gives into his baser instincts.
He fucks him as hard as he can, spurred on by the litany of derisive comments about human size, stamina, and technique... but even more by the little lacuna, the gasps and moans that Derek can’t help but release. He’s so tight, so beautiful even from behind, that Stiles finds himself close to coming all too soon.
But he digs his fingers into Derek’s tapered waist and won’t let himself yet, simply refuses to let go until the wolf is absolutely wrecked, taken apart to his foundations. Wary of actually cramping up, Stiles adjusts their position, manhandles Derek onto his back and twists his hips around until he finds that perfect angle, one where he can tap Derek’s prostate head on.
Finally, those snide comments fall away. Derek’s human face is flushed and twisted in something between pain delighted in or pleasure resented, and Stiles can’t help it, he leans over to lick the sweat off his neck for something to do with his mouth that isn’t kissing. Derek snaps at him, shifted back to fangs again for a second. Stiles jerks away, heart pounding. He’d forgotten how much of a thing necks are to werewolves.
Allison apparently wasn't exaggerating about werewolf refractory periods, and Derek’s hard again by now. Even better. There’s sweat beaded on Stiles’ back, prickling as he jerks Derek hard and fast, and he has to keep his hips still as he can to hold off his own orgasm. They finish one after the other, Derek with a near-silent whine and Stiles with a shout. Then they flop apart, satiated, onto the damp sheets. This, the afterglow, it’s the closest thing to peace Stiles has found in this fucked-up world.
The second he can trust his legs, Stiles rolls out of bed and throws on his rumpled clothes.
“FYI, I still hate you,” he reminds them both, hesitating at the top of the stairs to button his fly and spare a glance back to the bed.
Derek throws him a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Same,” he says, but he’s too come-drunk to really put anger behind it.
Stiles almost laughs, but doesn’t let himself. Not until he’s back in the Jeep.
Later in the week, Stiles finds himself walking in the woods again. He’s becoming a regular outdoorsman, or something. Not so much with the forced marching today, though - this time he’s alone. He’s wearing a bright red sweatshirt over his usual plaid, one that no doubt stands out from the environment like a fucking beacon. It’s nearing sundown, too. Vulnerable, vulnerable , he thinks, hunching his shoulders and quickening his steps down the thin trail.
Out there among the trees, the Alpha wolf is waiting and hungry. However in their element the Hales look hiking in the woods, it’s Peter who’s the unchallenged master of this place. They're only betas, and still half-human. He’s a feral predator entirely ruled by animal instinct. No doubt he’s been dreaming of an opportunity to easily snap up a wandering stray and weaken the packs opposing him. And right now, Stiles is that lonely stray.
As if on cue, the monster that was once Peter saunters onto the path in front of Stiles. He’s got it all: slavering jaws flecked with white spittle, eyes that glow red like hell itself, hands twisted into clawed weapons. He’s murder personified.
Stiles grins.
The binding circle he throws down won’t be strong enough this time, either, but now Stiles is banking on that fact. When Peter rushes the edge to claw through the boundary, Stiles’ bat is there already, swinging for his dumb, deranged face. It connects, and the aluminum sends shudder of spark magic through the Alpha.
Peter staggers, but shakes the damage off after a moment and, wary enough to dodge Stiles’ second, half-hearted swing, takes the barrier down with a couple swipes. He snarls triumphantly in Stiles’ direction, like he’s actually won something by withstanding that opening salvo. He hasn’t, of course. Waggling his fingers cheekily at the beast in front of him, Stiles takes a step back and waits.
The Hales burst onto the open trail from their hiding place upwind, having come running as soon as they heard the crack of Stiles’ bat.
Peter’s attention swings to them and he’s almost brought his bulk to bear when Malia hits him. She’s in her full shift this time and she’s absolutely good for two wolves, a third of Peter’s size but so fast she tears a mouthful of his flesh and darts back before he has a chance to swipe her away. She bounds just out of his reach, her muzzle dripping red.
Derek and Cora are there too, and they don’t hesitate to join the brawl. Derek’s foot smashes into Peter’s skull, and Cora latches onto his bicep while he’s reeling. Cora’s attack has him stumbling to all fours, and Malia flings herself on his back while he’s laid low. Whatever training they’d done over the last few days had worked, at least enough for this.
Peter is healing from their attacks too quickly, though. If anything, they’re fighting for a victory by slow attrition, and there’s no time for that. The Alpha’s clearly fed up with his betas’ insubordination. He roars at them to demand submission... and, again, finds his reaction anticipated. Lydia’s banshee scream cuts through his call, and Stiles sees Derek smirk, unaffected.
Peter swings his heavy muzzle towards the sound of the scream, but he can’t find the source. He looks to Stiles, then, lips peeling back from his teeth. There’s a human brain under all that fur and muscle, after all, and he must realize by now there’s a plan at work that he didn’t anticipate. Everything that has gone wrong for him so far had started with Stiles’ magic.
Derek claws at Peter’s chest, but the beast bats him easily aside and starts to run towards Stiles. His headlong rush is halted only when a feathered arrow buries itself in his shoulder. Stiles lets out a breath in relief; Allison’s finally gotten in range.
Peter huffs in surprise, then swats the annoyance away with a huge paw. The shaft snaps, but the arrowhead stays lodged in his flesh, pinging with a little red light. Then it explodes, having been equipped with one of Danny’s creations, a small bomb full of chemicals Lydia had recommended as highly combustible.
Peter roars again, this time in pain and anger. Another arrow zings out of the woods to strike him deep in his side, and when it blows it sets off a burning inside of him, so bright Stiles swears he can see the outline of organs against the wolf’s ribs.
The beast falls, writhing, but still alive. Stiles steps forward, ready to use his spark if it’s needed to subdue him. Cora’s already there pinning their target to the ground, though, Stiles settles for kneeling next to her to help hold the Alpha for Derek. Malia takes Peter’s other side, having shifted out of her coyote form. She’s naked, but nothing about her bloodied, dirt-streaked body seems sexual at this moment.
Peter’s burnt skin is hot, and it crisps under Stiles’ hands as he struggles against the hold, fighting to get free, to hide and heal. Stiles looks over to snap at Derek to hurry it up, asshole , but finds the beta’s familiar shifted face looking down at his Alpha with an ineffably conflicted expression. The words die on Stiles’ tongue. It must be painful to kill a quarter of your remaining family, even like this.
But then, everything is hard these days. Stiles doesn’t have the space to hold any sympathy for strangers; he can’t afford it.
Derek’s face settles into hard lines and he throws his weight into a clawed swipe that cuts deep into Peter’s throat. Finally, the struggling limbs go still. Alpha red burns into Derek’s eyes as the life bleeds out of his uncle’s; he throws back his head and howls at the sky.
Stiles unclenches his hands from the corpse’s arm. It’s human, now, pathetic and small. All of them rise to their feet and get some distance from the sorry remains, Derek shaking off whatever emotions had briefly stayed his hand. Once they’re a few yards away he turns back to his new betas, chin high and proud, and flashes his red Alpha eyes. Stiles watches the tiny pack flash blue and gold eyes back, accepting him as their leader. The tradition as it should be. They’re still a small pack, still vulnerable, but whole now under Derek’s command. Ready to defend this territory on their own merits.
All in all a win, Stiles decides, wiping the greasy ash off of his hands and onto his jeans as Allison, Lydia and Scott make their way up the path from where they’d been secreted away for the ambush. Jackson’s request to tag along had been firmly denied. While the Hales murmur gently among themselves, Stiles goes to his own pack and gives them a double thumbs up. He’d been totally right about acting as bait! So there, Scott. His Alpha breaks character to roll his eyes at Stiles’ smug expression.
Having scented his new betas to his content, Derek turns to the McCall pack, as well. He nods his head, the gesture that looks almost formal despite the bloody mess on his shirt and hands. “You have the appreciation of my pack. The Hales are indebted to you.”
“It was for all of our safety,” Scott says. “And it was the right thing to do. But... I think today proves that we can achieve more working together. If you’re willing, I’d like to build a stronger bond between our packs. An alliance.”
“Uh, Scott,” Stiles hisses, “what are you doing? We don’t trust them.”
Scott says, “Shush.”
Derek’s eyes dart between them, but he doesn’t acknowledge the spat. “An alliance? I’m not sure what that means.”
“I'm not either,” Scott says easily. “Not yet. But to start with, I thinks it means we strengthen each other where we can.”
“There’s something specific you want,” Derek says. It isn’t a question, and though Stiles knows Scott doesn’t mean it that way, as a threat, Derek sounds resigned to owing a painful favor for the help his pack received. It’s clear that he won’t try to squirm out of paying his family’s debts, however steep the price. For a second, Stiles almost respects him.
Scott smiles and nods. “We want you to give one of our human members, Jackson, the bite.”
Wait, Stiles thinks, what? Taking the bite from a born wolf is almost safe, even at Jackson’s age, but Stiles can’t imagine Lydia has agreed to this, especially from her shocked expression. Stiles looks quickly away, hiding his surprise. There's a conversation waiting there that he absolutely intends to avoid.
Derek’s gaze flits to Allison for a second and then back to Scott, wariness waring with hope. “And what do we get, in exchange for strengthening you?”
“In return, we allow you to bolster your pack from our town,” Scott offers. “You need more betas to defend your territory, and I know there are humans in Beacon Hills who’d be willing to take the bite in exchange for strength and belonging. You have to ask them, though,” he adds fervently. “It must be consensual, or everything between us is finished.”
“Of course,” Derek agrees, as if he’s offended at the suggestion he might do otherwise. “It’s a generous offer. I'll need eight to restore us to what we were before the fire.”
“No, no way,” Stiles sputters. “Eight? Are you kidding ?”
“The Hale pack hasn’t been that large for a long time,” Allison says evenly.
Scott nods. “I’m sorry, but they’re right. We can’t give you eight more people. I’m not sure there are even that many in town who’d want the bite.”
Malia makes a face. “No accounting for taste.”
“Hey, some of us are already perfect the way we are,” Stiles says. The idea of the bite has never appealed to him outside of that desperate year when he’d been sixteen and any exchange for power would have seemed tempting. And even then he’d found another way.
Derek’s jaw is clenched, despite his gracious nod. The thread of sarcasm in his voice is probably unintentional when he asks, “How many are we allowed, then?”
“Three,” Scott says, quickly enough to confirm he’d decided before they started negotiating. “Double your numbers, now.”
“Fine,” Derek accepts with a jerky nod. “Bring Jackson to the house tomorrow at noon, and I’ll turn him. I’ll let you know when we’ve chosen my betas.” The conversation’s clearly finished from his end.
“Say ‘thanks,’” Stiles snips, but Derek’s already walking away, Cora at his side and Malia ranging ahead in her coyote form. Gone with barely a nod.
“Well, fuck you, too,” Stiles mutters at their backs, then swings his gaze around to glare at Scott. These are the people his Alpha wants to ally with? Today's little jaunt was supposed to be the last they’d see of each other. The idea of meeting up with the Hales on the regular gives him no joy, however helpful they’ve been. Not least because having one of his conquests hanging around is as unwanted as it is unprecedented. Derek’s hot and all, but Stiles doesn't go in for seconds.
Scott blinks innocently in the face of all Stiles’ irritation, as if he doesn’t know that Alphas - and best friends! - are supposed to explain their plans before springing them on folks.
“What are you doing, Scott?” Stiles seethes. “Right after Jackson turns, before he accepts you as his Alpha… there’s a period where he’ll be Derek’s. He could get taken in by the Hales! How is that okay to risk? What about Lydia?” He gestures wildly in her direction, happy to let her take a turn telling Scott off.
But Lydia looks down, refusing to back him up. “He’s always wanted the bite,” she says instead. “And I want that for him, if it’s what he needs to feel accepted and useful. This way, the change won’t be so dangerous.”
“It won’t,” Scott agrees. “And we’re not going to lose him, either. The Hales don't want a fight any more than we do. This is the best way to show trust and build up both our packs.”
Stiles makes a face that shows exactly what he thinks of that.
Scott finally buckles. “Ok, yes, I am aware that there’s a possibility Derek could try to claim Jackson as his beta. But if he does, Lydia will bring him back to us. Right? Nothing’s stronger than the soulmate bond.”
Stiles scoffs, but he doesn’t bother arguing. Dissing the bond to Scott is a losing tactic if he ever heard one.
“Look,” Scott says, squeezing his shoulder, “I get that I’m making a bet here. But we have to take risks if we want anything to change for the better. We’re surviving on our own, Stiles, but only that. If we work with the Hales we can make this whole area safe, like it used to be. I want more than just survival.” He’s looking at Allison now, something impossibly soft in his eyes. “I want to live .”
The hope he’s offering is impossible to resist, the kind of idealized vision that only the best leaders can pull into the tangible world. Ugh . This is why Scott’s the Alpha, Stiles supposes. He gives them all a cause to fight for without even realizing how unusual his optimism is in the current world.
Stiles, on the other hand, is the realist, and he will be the one keeping an eye on their new pals. Without a common enemy, there’s nothing binding them together, and who knows what goes on in the minds of born wolves. He doesn’t trust anybody besides his own goddamn pack, and that sure as hell doesn’t include the Hales, or their new Alpha.