Chapter Text
THEN
Going by those God awful action movies his youngest niece forces him to sit through, there’s no doubt in Peter Hale’s mind that he’s currently in the middle of an absolute shit-show from which there would be no coming back from. If this was a movie, then he was caught in one of those timeless moments represented by extreme slow-motion when death is breathing down the back of your neck and you ask yourself THE question. It didn’t matter what question as it was unique to the individual, although frequently it was the plaintive ‘why me?’ to the equally as common, but more prosaic ‘where did I go wrong?’. Less likely he thought was his own – ‘why the hell did I think zone outs were a bad thing?’
Since coming online 18 months ago, he’d been foolishly proud of the rigid control he had on his enhanced senses, ones far beyond those of any other wolf or Sentinel. Contrary to Deaton’s dire warnings of instability and control issues regarding this extremely rare double whammy to his senses as a werewolf Sentinel, Peter Hale did not have feral episodes thank you very much - not unless he wanted to that is.
Even if there was a Guide strong enough to fill the hollow empty space inside him and stop the pain from senses that were suddenly too sharp, too acute that he lived with every day – there would be no random bonding to a stranger that could endanger the pack and most importantly there would be absolutely no zone outs for the Left Hand of the Hale Pack.
A Left Hand couldn’t afford to be compromised and yet now he wished Deaton was right in his instability warnings and that he could find oblivion in a zone out. What he wouldn’t give to be so lost in his senses that he can’t feel anything, for the agony of being burned alive is nothing compared to feeling his pack bonds breaking, one after the other. Feeling the members of his pack, his family die, and hearing their screams and howls abruptly end until all there is are his own screams, the sizzle of his flesh as it cooks and the muffled whimpers of the pup at his back.
He didn’t even know which child it was he was protecting, had only instinctively reached out and grabbed them as the ceiling had started to collapse, only to find himself cut off from the rest of the pack when it partially crashed down. The wolf in him howling in fury at being trapped so effectively. For all his wolf strength and his much vaunted Sentinel senses, he is helpless.
Before they’d all died, he’d looked across the nearly destroyed basement and seen through the flames and burning debris to meet his sister’s eyes. The hopelessness in them something he’s never seen in her before, not even when David – her Sentinel mate - died in the same car accident that had brought Peter so unexpectedly online as a Sentinel and caused Talia’s Guide status to transition into dormancy.
That bleakness had frightened him like nothing else ever has and he’d wished Grey was still with him, that he’d not sent his spirit guide to get help, because at that moment he would have sent the big silver wolf to his sister’s side in a heartbeat while she had that strange look in her eye.
“Take care of Cora.” Talia had rasped out, voice broken with rage, grief and smoke. It’s something he wishes he hadn’t heard so clearly above the background agonized screams of his family so loud in his ears as they burned, the smell of cooking flesh – thick and sweet and horrible in his nose - yet he had.
“What? Talia…”
He recalls angrily wondering why she felt the need to ask because he will always care for his nieces and nephews, for any of the pack’s pups, she knows that…she knows that and a chill had run down his spine as he’d considered what she was actually asking.
“DON’T YOU DO THIS…DON’T YOU DO THIS. I CAN GET US OUT.” Peter had argued furiously, shaking his head in denial, before finally begging. “Please.”
“Not this time Peter. There’s no way out for us.” Her eyes had gone soft with anguish for a split second before the grim determination he’s so familiar with turned her eyes Alpha red.
“No pain.” Talia had bent down and kissed the brow of her youngest, who she’d been sheltering with her own body, and with a gentle twist of her hands snapped his neck just as the sleeve of her shirt caught alight.
Peter’s throat constricts as he remembers feeling his pack bond to little 5 year old Daniel break, howling in despair and rushing to the barrier that their burning house coming down on top of them had created, to throw himself against it, again and again, needing to reach them. Needing to save them.
He’d roared in anguish and fury as she’d all too calmly patted out the flames on her clothes before giving each of the pups a quick and painless death. Raged and pulled at the burning timbers that caged his pack in, dialling down his sense of touch to ignore the agonising pain from the flames as he witnessed her offering the same to the older pack members. When it was done he’d been nothing but a shell, a scorched shuddering remnant of himself.
He’d cursed the dangerously creaking beams above their heads, loud as thunder and yet still not loud enough because he could hear Talia as if she was standing right beside him. There’d been no accusation, no condemnation in her voice which is what he’d expected, what he deserves for his failure to protect the pack - only sorrow, resignation and an almost forgotten affection.
“I’ll see you later Petey-pie.”
Shocked rigid, he’d only been able to stare. It’d been so long since she’d called him that, not since he was a kid. The impact of hearing his nickname from her lips even greater considering they’d been at increasing odds over the past six months. When she’d not been sending him off across the country to pointlessly ‘liaise and negotiate’ with packs they already had treaties with, Talia had joined in with their Emissary in seeming to disagree in principle with every little thing he suggested rather than his ideas and plans actually lacking in merit.
“Not if I see you first Tally-tail.” He’d whispered the expected reply, his throat so raw and swollen his healing ability couldn’t keep up. The bands of grief, anger and guilt tightening around his chest until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Like he still can’t breathe.
The clarity he’d seen in her eyes then may have been brought on by pain and suffering, but it’s a return of the sister he thought he’d lost over the past six months.
“Stop him, Peter, don’t let him hurt anyone els-”
With an ear-shattering crack, the rest of the ceiling on that side of the basement collapsed completely and the pack bond that’s always been the strongest and brightest, the one to his sister, his Alpha, was gone after a few flickering pulses.
Frozen, he strained trying to hear or sense any signs of life from beneath the burning timbers from anyone. Anyone at all.
There’s nothing.
Cora whines brokenly and with a disorienting rush of light and sound, Peter’s back in the here and now, shaking off the horror and numbing grief, needing to find a way out for the pup. Growling in frustration he spins desperately searching for escape through the fire, mind racing, heart beating fast and hard.
Nothing’s changed with the entrance to the escape tunnel, it’s still blocked by mountain ash they can’t cross and a sharpshooter further back in the tunnel using wolfsbane bullets to pick them off if they do manage to get through and come too close. The collapsed ceiling has left a gaping hole above them, but that route’s impassable - the upper floor is an inferno. He may have risked it himself, not with Cora though.
He misses it the first time, the way the heat has damaged the wall plaster behind them, bubbling and cracking it from midway to the floor in two distinct straight lines about 4 feet apart. What catches his attention the second time, is the way the flames near those cracks flicker violently, being driven back as though... Striding towards it Peter gouges into the wall with his claws, the plaster crumbling away as he pulls and yanks at the aged bricks and mortar relentlessly until he finds a cavity where a strong draft is coming from. A bricked-up basement fireplace.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Why the old fireplace doesn’t appear on any of the plans of the house and tunnels he’s memorised he’ll think about later when he digs up and gnaws on the bones of the Hale Left Hand who dropped the ball on recording the changes.
If there is a later.
Crouching, he peers up into the chimney and gulps down a couple of deep breaths when cool sweet air rushes overs his face from the down draft. He quickly drags Cora into the cavity so she can breathe easier and to give her some protection from the heat and flames, there’s enough room that she can stand without ducking, not hunched over like himself. He can feel her coughing hard as her smoke-filled lungs tainted with wolfsbane and mountain ash receive a burst of clean air.
With a grunt, Peter breaks the smoke shelf off giving him a better line of sight up the brick flue. The orange glow of the fire from the floors above is distracting, but not so much that he can’t see the pale yellow glimmer of stars when he dials up his vision to see beyond the chimney’s narrow confines. He doesn’t need to reach for the stars to escape though, just to the ground floor will do and then he can break through the chimney wall to the outside. Stretching awkwardly, there’s just enough room for him to pull his fist back and punch into the ash pit of the ground floor fireplace directly above them.
Peter chokes and spits as the ash and dust drops onto him with a heavy thump as he widens the opening, rubble falling and surrounding his feet. Cora maybe a pup, but she’s smart and not lacking in balls. She shrugs off his scorched leather jacket that hangs off her small frame to move the debris without him asking, so he won’t stumble as he clears the way above them. When he’s done, Peter hauls Cora into his side. Turning her tear-stained panting face to his he growls above the fierce roar of the fire.
“Climb onto my back and don’t you dare let go.”
Choking from the dust, she gives him a thumbs up before wrapping her thin arms and small hands tightly around his throat. With Cora secured Peter begins to climb. The pain of her touch is indescribable and it’s not just the burns, as an unbonded Sentinel he’s been increasingly aware that he’s less and less tolerant of others touching him.
Over recent months it’s physically gone from minor irritation of his skin to actually hurting him and as a wolf it’s been wearing him thin mentally not being able to seek out his pack mates for comfort through scent and touch. The only ease he’s found is sometimes with Cora, strangely for a non-Guide her scent had been more refreshing to his senses recently, but it’s mainly with Derek, a latent Guide, that he’s comfortable enough to touch. Not that he’s been getting so much as a pat on the back lately as the usually sweet-natured teenager has been surly and secretive and avoiding him as much as possible when he’s been home from “negotiations”.
As he climbs he stretches out his senses to locate the Hunters surrounding the house, his hearing able to pick out thumping rapid heartbeats and cruel laughter all too easily. Is it the pain and grief causing such confusion to his senses? When the wards broke, the links he and Talia had to them as Alpha and Left Hand had warned of an army breeching them and entering their territory, but now…his senses are telling him there’s only a handful of strangers surrounding their house. Not enough to warrant the full-scale evacuation of the pack.
It doesn’t make sense. How did they break the wards which are at the furthest points of their territory, miles out from the house, and yet when the pack immediately tried to escape the hunters are already in place with their murderous trap? It’s not possible, they should’ve had at least a couple of minutes to get out before they arrived and a wolf let alone a Sentinel should’ve heard them and smelled them too. For all their incredible senses and magical warding somehow, someway they got blindsided.
He doesn’t have time to puzzle it out though. Reaching through his bond links, Peter hopes to feel more than he suspects are actually left to gather the strength to do what he needs to. Inwardly wincing at the losses, the few bonds that remain aren’t enough for him to hold onto his sanity, his reason, even though one of those bonds is now Pack Alpha it’s still not enough. Peter lets go of his iron control and allows his senses to scatter wildly and succumbs to the sweet release of a Sentinel feral drive with an ease that should concern him, but doesn’t. This is all that’s left, the only answer.
A handful of Hunters or an army…it doesn’t matter. With a feral drive he knows he won’t stop, won’t give into the agony of his burnt carcass until Cora is safe and those responsible for the murder of his pack have paid in kind, with blood and pain and death. Peter welcomes the familiar ache in his gums and fingertips as his fangs and claws emerge to their fullest extent only to freeze as an unearthly screech rings loud in his head. It’s entwined with a wolf howl that he recognises as belonging to Grey and a young voice crying out brokenly.
“Help him Faro, please.”
Even cracking with anguish, that voice makes both wolf and man sit up to attention. For one moment he’s tempted beyond all reason to find the owner of it instead, to find the sobbing boy imploring someone or something to “hold on”, but a wolfsbane infused cloud of choking smoke slams into his face again and the evidence of Hunter treachery is too much to ignore.
The Sentinel and wolf creed to protect the pack no longer applies, leaving only Peter’s hunger for vengeance.
The world slips away and only madness remains.
NOW
Stiles Stilinski looked across the parking lot to the little crowd of students waiting near the yellow school bus and felt the contents of his stomach curdle. Which was a shame really, considering his Dad had gotten up super early and whipped up his special occasion banana and choc chip pancakes for them both this morning.
“Hey kiddo, you okay?”
Dragging his gaze away to meet his Dad’s concerned eyes, Stiles notes the flare of his nostrils as he scents the air between them and forces a grin while nonchalantly opening the window to let some fresh air in. Silently praying it’s enough to dilute whatever’s causing his Dad to frown so severely and maybe settle his own wildly flip-flopping belly too.
“Yeah of course. Who wouldn’t want to be trapped on a bus with Coach and a bunch of high schoolers for the next 11 to 12 hours?” He grimaces. “Name calling, inane stories that go off in weird tangents, strange smells and that’s just Finstock.”
Stiles shifts uncomfortably as his Dad turns towards him in his seat, the thoughtful regard in his expression is something Stiles is all too familiar with and it always makes him nervous as hell. What makes him even more nervous is his Dad flicking the switch on the dash for the SUV’s White Noise Generator so they can’t be overheard.
“You know you don’t have to go…Deaton’s offer is-”
“I’d rather not think about what Deaton’s offering if it’s all the same with you. He’s made it quite clear he doesn’t think I should go.” Stiles’ eyes dart from the green ‘on’ light of the White Noise Generator to the group standing by the bus and back to his Dad as he sighs and closes his window again.
“Stiles.” His Dad has that same pained look on his face when he gave him ‘THE TALK’ a few years back and it makes him cringe inside. Please God no, he can’t go through that again. “Bonds can be platonic. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I know that, but I don’t want...I don’t think-” Stiles squirms trying to find the right words which has never ever, ever been a problem before in his whole life.
“Dad, Deaton’s a level 5. What’s a Sentinel that powerful wanting with a Guide that broke down and burned out when he came online and registers as a level 1, maybe a level 2 on a good day?” Sucking in a ragged breath, he forges on. “It’s weird, I don’t get why he’s so persistent when there’s no way he could ground his senses on me.”
“Forgiveness. Closure…I really don’t know. Maybe you remind him of his sister, she was his conservator so they were real close or just maybe he thinks you’re a pretty great kid who’s had some really bad luck. You’re not dormant and you have needs as a Guide that he may be able to satisfy and while he maybe a Level 5 Sentinel he’s also a Druid, his control has always struck me as pretty damn impressive.” His Dad’s face has gone pale and instantly drawn and Stiles curses himself for bringing up that fucked up day he came online. He personally can’t remember it at all, but he knows his Dad has vivid awful memories.
“Great. Thanks Dad, so either I remind him of his dead sister or I’d be some charity case for him.” Stiles bites out, looking down at his clenched fists. He does feel sorry for Deaton tragically losing his sister in a fall on a hiking trip, absolutely-he’s not that much of an asshole, but pity isn’t a foundation for bonding in either direction. “Bonded for life to someone 30 years older than me because they feel sorry for me is not what I was hoping for and don’t tell me you don’t have a problem with the age difference either.”
When his Dad doesn’t say anything, Stiles lifts his gaze to find him staring at him blankly, but before he can even start to worry that his Dad is inexplicably zoning out, it’s over in an instant and...there’s the eye twitch he was hoping for, letting him know that his Dad isn’t 100% sold on the idea either. Kudos to his Dad though, he bounces back pretty quickly.
“Look that came out wrong, I meant that Marin was a strong Guide and smart too and it’s not charity wanting to help others. He’s the director of the regional Centre-”
“Part-time. The rest of it he’s the local vet for God’s sake and before that he was Emissary for the Hale pack and look how well that turned out.” Stiles snipes, annoyed that his Dad seems to be giving Deaton extra credit for simply holding the position, particularly as there wasn’t a huge Sentinel and Guide population in Beacon Hills, not anymore. The Hale house arson attack had sent shockwaves through the psionic plane with the deaths of the Hale Pack, a pack bloodline rich in Guides, and the resultant scarring to the psionic landscape of Beacon Hills made it a less than desirable location for Sentinels and Guides to settle down. Newcomers were rare and if they did come they were more than likely supernaturals drawn to the nemeton, which seemed to counter the effect of that scarring if they also happened to be Sentinels or Guides as well.
His Dad rolls his eyes.
“Okay. So, he’s a part-time director, that doesn’t mean his mandate to protect the Sentinels and Guides of Beacon Hills is any lesser. He promised your Mom before she…before she passed-” His Dad’s voice thickens as he swallows hard. “-to oversee your care and development as a Guide and I know you’ve refused to let him retest you the past couple of years, but Stiles I think it hurts him to know that he’s not been able to really help you recover what you lost. Maybe he thought that this was a way for you to secure what you do have - to stay local, near the Pride, near family and friends and receive the benefits of bonded status without having to endure a Sentinel search which you might find…distressing.”
Slumping down in his seat, Stiles really hates it when his Dad is reasonable and sorta makes sense. What he’s really saying is Deaton wants to protect him from the inevitable failure of a Sentinel search for someone rating as low as he does.
Stiles isn’t naive, he knows the stats. Level 1 and 2 Guides are 85% less likely to match with a Sentinel – even a low ranking one. For the majority of these Guides it’s not an issue, the powerful urge to bond simply isn’t there as they don’t have the strength or high sensitivity in their empathic abilities that requires a Sentinel to shield them.
If they do have the bonding urge even with limited abilities, as Stiles does, just getting a Sentinel’s interest if their name appears on a potential match search would be nearly impossible considering Sentinels are naturally drawn to Guides of the same level or higher than their own. A Sentinel can jump a few levels if they bond with a higher level Guide, for some it’s satisfying the innate need they have to protect the tribe to the best of their abilities and others it’s all about the prestige. When it comes down to it, Sentinels and Guides are still human and still subject to all the strengths and weaknesses of character that the rest of humanity has and who doesn’t want to be the best.
So unless a miracle occurs and he just happens to literally bump into his perfect match Sentinel on the roadside writing him up for a speeding ticket, ‘a la’ his Mom on her post-College road trip, then his best chance is to go through the S&G Centre matching system because he’s really not that lucky. It’s not impossible he tells himself and hopes to God that’s true, because this drive for a Sentinel, it’s not just a want for Stiles, something instinctive tells him it’s an absolute necessity. The pressure of that instinct had only grown as he’d gone through puberty, pushing him to know more.
In Stiles’ records, that he’d ‘acquired’ through not totally legit means – meaning he owed Danny his first born child or at the very least a kidney for such a huge favour - Deaton had speculated that without the catastrophic psionic event that was the Hale House fire that had rocked the West Coast and stricken so many members of the local S&G community there had been every indication that he would have been a mid to high level Guide if he’d been able to develop normally. During the trauma of the fire, Sentinels went feral and many Guides went into empathic shock at feeling the pain and fear of the pack, their suffering projected by so many injured and dying Guides, while others came online for the first time. At 10 years old Stiles was the youngest to come online and one of several that broke unable to shield properly under the onslaught. Some of those others had died.
Sometimes he wishes he’d never been that curious to go digging and know what he could’ve been. Sometimes he wishes that Deaton was wrong and that he’d always been this way. He doesn’t doubt the man though, not when only a few years prior to the fire the Druid had been the first to recognise Stiles’ spark before he came online for what it was and not the ADHD that he’d been diagnosed with, allowing him to go off the meds he’d had to endure for so long.
What’s worse than reading his record is he can still vividly recall the sympathetic pat on the shoulder Deaton gave him after all the tests he’d run after his breakdown had come back at the ridiculously lower end of the scale due to his empathic abilities being severely damaged – ‘unstable and inconsistent’ were the actual words the vet had used to describe them along with ‘instances of high-level ability that disappointingly are so brief and infrequent as to be negligible’.
Ironically, it was only due to Deaton’s training and nurturing of his spark in the years before the fire that had undoubtedly saved his mind and his life. It had latched onto his Guide abilities during the backlash before it and most everything else was burned out or warped by coming online so young and so horribly and of all the damned remnants to be left with, the powerful urge to bond was one of them. Could he satisfy that need with Deaton, a level 5 Sentinel?
Even if the bonding was successful with the disparity in their levels, whenever he tries to picture being bonded to the older Sentinel it makes him shudder - living their life together with Deaton so rarely projecting his emotions it would be so very calm and predictable and boring as batshit, even sex would be…ewww. Jesus, would he call him Mr Stilinski in bed too.
That was a step too far he tells his too vivid imagination, but it’s too late. Bad enough picturing a platonic bond, but what if Deaton wasn’t asexual as Stiles had always thought, what if he wanted to…and Stiles was still a virgin…and no, just no. No to a platonic bonded life of celibacy and a HELL NO to the other thing that he is in no way ever in this lifetime going to think of again.
Is he pathetic for dreaming of someone to slot in that gaping empty space he feels inside and not just out of pity or convenience? Yes, says the cruel voice of doubt in the back of his head.
“I guess, but I’m sick of arguing about this with him and with you.” Stiles finally answers, rubbing his suddenly damp palms up and down his thighs. “I don’t care if it blows up in my face, I need to try. I don’t want a platonic bond Dad. I want my Sentinel, the one just for me and I want them to feel the same about me, that it only matters that we’re together.”
Stiles ducks his head, studying his hands intently - embarrassed by revealing something so private, knowing that his Dad can hear the lie in the pitch of his voice, the uptick in his heartbeat and can scent it from the sweat and pheromones on his skin. He does care, he fucking cares so much it hurts.
“I know I can be a bit much sometimes…and…and if I somehow manage to get a match-” Stiles gnaws on his unsteady lower lip. “What if they…what if they meet me and don’t want me?” He shakily blurts out his worst fear. Much as he’d love to dwell in self-delusion he can’t ignore that he struggles to fit in, struggles to connect with people and is more likely to annoy or irritate than befriend no matter how hard he tries.
“Oh kid. If they don’t want you they weren’t the right one to start with. If it happens you’ll know, they’ll know. It’ll work out.” While his Dad’s smile is reassuring, his eyes are still worried.
Stiles nods wanting to believe it so bad, but his Dad doesn’t know about the reputation he’s garnered at school. The words that follow him around that he ignores and pretends not to hear and sometimes the ones he shrugs off that are said straight to his face because he promised his Dad he wouldn’t get into any more fights unless it’s in self-defence. He doesn’t get why some people think they have the right to call him strange or feral or freak because they feel something they don’t understand when they’re around him, not like with other Guides.
Other Guides draw people to them with their natural sensuality, he’s felt it himself, the soothing warmth of another Guide’s aura like stepping into a hot bath or the heavy lassitude after a deep tissue massage. His isn’t like that, at least from what he’s been told, it’s wild and chaotic, abrasive rather than soothing and just plain wrong. He blows out a long breath. That’s the very least of his differences to other Guides.
“There’s something more worrying you though, I’ve felt it for a while and I was hoping you’d come and talk to me about it.” Stiles winces guiltily, as his Dad draws him in close. With skin contact he can pick up his Dad’s emotional tone swiftly changing from worry and anger to a sad aching hurt. He presses back into the warm broad palm that cups the nape of his neck and soaks up the comfort of that touch, lets himself wallow in that familiar calm strength.
“I thought maybe you’d started having nightmares again.” Stiles flinches, swallowing hard as an image of the burning man flashes through his mind. He shrugs in response to the gentle squeeze of his neck trying to choose his words carefully and not let slip that they never really stopped.
“Sometimes.” He settles on, trying to sound offhand, but isn’t sure he pulls it off entirely when his Dad tsks in disapproval.
“But, that’s not all is it?” His Dad frowns, puzzled and Stiles recognises that look – the one where his Dad is working through the evidence to find the truth. Sheriff John Stilinski looks out through the windscreen to the parking lot.
“I know Whittemore’s kid is going and he likes to give you a hard time, I’ve been tempted to talk to him about his boy’s attitude, but I know you’d hate that. If he keeps going on like he has though I can’t promise I won’t…I’m just glad Scott’s going too so you won’t be alone.”
Stiles can’t help but stiffen at the mention of his best friend’s name. He wondered could he even call him that now. What did you call someone who you’d once been so close to that you’d pinky-sworn to be each other’s bonded at age 7 and now ten years later were practically estranged?
It’s been a year since one Allison Argent had walked into their classroom and Stiles had felt the feather-light brush of her empathy sweep over the room’s occupants and known that life was never going to be the same again. Of course he was happy that his best bud had found his Guide and to be honest, Stiles had thought Scott was punching above his weight because Allison was the whole package not only as a Guide, but as a person too. Strong, kind and gorgeous. Part of him kinda didn’t blame Scotty for forgetting about him as his bond developed with Allison, but another part was sad and angry that his so-called best friend had so easily left him behind.
Other Sentinels and Guides who bonded didn’t seem to have a problem with keeping up friendships once they’d transitioned out of their nesting period, unlike Scott who couldn’t seem to answer his phone when Stiles called, he was lucky to get an infrequent text every now and then. What burned him more than anything though was how Jackass Whittemore seemed to not have a problem in keeping up his bro-ship with Danny after bonding with his Guide. Yet, with one loaned pen to his Guide, Scott had turned away from him and never seemed to look back.
It sucked and he wasn’t jealous. Not really…well not much anyway, because Scott and Allison were perfect together. It just made him wish for something he wasn’t sure he would ever have, his own Sentinel, one made just for him.
“Is everything okay between you and Scott? Now I think about it, I’ve not seen him around much lately.”
Stiles shrugs and forces a lightness he isn’t anywhere close to feeling in his tone and a tightening of his shielding so he didn’t project his emotions all over his Dad, which was a possibility even with his limited empathic abilities simply due to proximity. He didn’t want his Dad to worry about him, he’d done that too much over the years as it was.
“Nah Dad, you know what it’s like for us teenagers. Even without Allison in the picture now, there’s school and homework, lacrosse training and Scotty’s working for Deaton too at the clinic…there’s just not enough time in the day. But, you know I still see him at school.” It was true Stiles tells himself sternly. He definitely saw Scott in class and by the lockers and over at the ‘cool kids’ table during lunch. That they didn’t really talk anymore apart from Scott’s occasional carelessly tossed ‘Hi’ in his direction made his chest hurt to think about and he had to quash that feeling hard so his heartbeat didn’t kick out of rhythm and give him away.
At least Scott’s spirit guide, Josh, would still come and see him. Sometimes he’d wake in the morning to the river otter propped up on the pillow next to his head, whiskers twitching wildly as he chittered and whistled in his ear, which was kinda like talking to his ex-bestie he supposed. He just had to believe it. Believe it and forget about the sad look Josh would give him before he disappeared like he knew that his Sentinel was breaking Stiles’ heart. Not surprisingly, those were the days that Scott seemed to go out of his way to avoid him the most, but then he was one of the rare online Sentinels in Beacon Hills that were able to actively communicate with their spirit guides and he didn’t know what Josh said to him he just knew the look on Scott’s face was the one where he’d just been kicked in the teeth.
His Dad maybe a widowed Alpha Sentinel and his senses blunted by the loss of Stiles’ Mom and her Guide abilities, but he wasn’t by any means dormant – he could still pick a lie quicker than any Sentinel Stiles knew.
“Uh huh.”
Swallowing hard at his Dad’s neutral ‘I know bullshit when I hear it’ tone, Stiles doesn’t even attempt to stare his Dad down, just waits patiently until Caleb abruptly leans in between the front seats from the rear where he’s been listening and head butts him affectionately. Stiles laughs and threads his fingers through the lion’s thick mane to give him a good scratch under his massive chin, the tension easing out of his shoulders as he does.
“You’ll miss me won’t you?” Stiles asks, expecting the soft chuffing sound of agreement from his father’s spirit guide, but not the gruff ‘yes’ from his Dad.
“I know you said you wanted to do this yourself, but what if I take a couple of days emergency leave. You, me and Caleb...we could drive up to Cascade together and meet the bus at the hotel, no hormonal teenage Sentinels and Guides trapped in a tin can. Whaddya say? Wanna take a road trip with your old man?”
Stiles tries to picture it and damn if it didn’t sound perfect. He’s so tempted and his mouth is half-open ready to agree when the crackle of the Police radio band interrupts his thoughts. Hearing his Dad curse under his breath as he answers the call makes him feel marginally better as he mentally waves farewell to the idea of a family road trip.
His Dad’s a Sentinel, but above all that he’s a good man first. To protect the tribe was an imperative that Stiles thought his Dad would’ve possessed even if he wasn’t one. It’s enough to see the apology in his Dad’s faded blue eyes as he finishes talking to Lorraine in Dispatch and feel the nuzzling warm fur from Caleb’s vigorous cheek rub to know that they were disappointed too.
“I guess I’ll see you on Friday.” Stiles offers his Dad an easy out. “No junk food old man and if you’re out in the field you take Parrish with you in case you zone out.” He warns sternly. The junk food he’d let slide if his Dad lapsed, but he wouldn’t be so forgiving of him not having a conservator Guide to back him up on the job. Not that he really thought it would be an issue as his Dad seemed to enjoy Parrish’s company. Stiles suspected it was mainly because the other Guide didn’t flap around his Dad trying to ground the ‘poor widowed Sentinel’ like some other Guides tried to. It didn’t hurt that he was pretty easy on the eyes too.
“Yeah, yeah.” His Dad replies. “Good luck with the testing son, just be careful okay. Remember what Deaton said – there’s people and organizations out there that would take advantage or worse if they knew about the side-effects of the backlash and at your level you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself.” Stiles winces, the truth is brutal and his Dad gives him the courtesy of not lessening it in any way. Nodding in agreement, Stiles returns his hug fiercely before slipping out of the SUV and dragging his duffel bag with him.
The curdling in his stomach intensifies at the reminder of what they were doing here at God-forsaken o’clock in the morning, the sun just starting to peek over the horizon. Each year the High School in conjunction with the local prides and Beacon Hills S&G Centre arranged for all latent and online Senior students to visit Cascade, Washington for education, training and extensive sensory or empathic level testing beyond what they receive at their local Centre. It was also the first official match search for those that had not already found their Sentinel or Guide ‘organically’, whatever the hell that meant, or as Stiles liked to think ‘for those that had not met and instantly bonded over the fresh produce at the local farmer’s market’.
The S&G centre in Cascade was the first to be run by the Sentinel and Guide Council in the US, starkly different to the previous bleak and forbidding ESU (Enhanced Senses Unit) ones created back during the Cold War era under the joint-jurisdiction of the Federal Departments of Justice and Defence. The ESU may be defunct now, but there were still other similar ‘take advantage’ organizations his Dad and Deaton worried about that gave him the heebie jeebies thinking about what could potentially happen to him if he slipped up. Covert experimentation and forced bonding had still occurred after the Supreme Court’s ruling on the emancipation of Guides fifty years ago and even to this day there were still those who thought of Guides as little more than slaves who should be immediately removed from their families after coming online and forcibly paired with an ‘appropriate’ Sentinel for the greater good.
It wasn’t until Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg had taken that old ruling and basically shoved it up the asses of those bigoted dicks when another Sentinel had been blatantly presented to Sandburg as a better option just prior to their bonding that real change began. Ellison and Sandburg’s primal reaction to the interference had sent a shockwave across the country and Sentinels and Guides had responded to their Alpha Primes call with such an unprecedented level of unified calculated aggression socially, financially and martially against the ESUs that the President had stepped in and shut them down before the government collapsed.
Alpha Prime Sentinel Jim Ellison and Alpha Prime Guide Blair Sandburg had dragged the United States into the 21st Century and beyond, away from the outdated and biased treatment of Sentinels and Guides that unfortunately still persisted to this day around the world. The S&G centres that they established were run very differently to the old ESU’s, the testing and training they conducted was always done with the best interests of the individual Sentinels or Guides that attended rather than the organization or the State.
The data coming out of the centres had shown a drastic reduction in the number of zone outs for Sentinels and empathic blow outs in Guides proving that when Sentinels and Guides were allowed to choose and bond on their own, the pairings were frequently more effective and powerful. Sandburg’s last published paper that Stiles had read a number of times, theorized that the mythology of soulmates throughout history originated from Sentinels and Guides bonding with their perfect chosen match. Suicide had been very rarely given as the cause of death for Sentinels and Guides who were force bonded in the past, considered to be impossible due to the instinctual imperatives of ‘serve and protect the tribe’, however, the number of in the line of duty or ‘accidental’ deaths for Sentinels and Guides plummeted to record lows too.
It was all so affirming and empowering it made Stiles really proud to be a Guide, even one as low level as himself, to believe he could make a difference to the tribe. He was so conflicted, he ached with the wanting of it. Of them, his Sentinel. His soulmate. Yet, another part of him was anxious and scared, because at the moment he had hope and could keep going on those dreams, but if the Cascade Centre confirmed that he didn’t have a match, the thought of carrying this cold empty space inside him for the rest of his life was frighteningly bleak.
“I’ll be careful.” Stiles promises, shaking off those dark thoughts and giving his Dad a sloppy salute, relieved to see the affectionate eye roll his Dad makes as he waves back. He watches him drive away with Caleb’s massive maned head sticking out the passenger window to roar a last goodbye and extract a promise to call as soon as they arrive in Cascade.
“Yeah, careful. Right.” Stiles mutters under his breath as he shores up his shielding once again and walks towards the bus. It doesn’t escape his notice that of the small group of students only a couple acknowledge his approach. Facing him is the new girl Kira with a beaming smile and a rapidly waving hand that makes it look like she’s about to achieve lift off and Danny with a tilt of the chin that he interprets as a friendly s’up.
Jackson looks momentarily startled when he turns and sees him, but quickly recovers, smirking maliciously at having his favourite target in range.
“What are you doing here Stilinski? I didn’t think they could register Guide levels as low as yours.”
“Or Sentinel egos as big as yours, but still here we are.” Stiles snaps back, startled by a throaty laugh from behind him. Turning his head slightly he can see a couple of students he recognises from shared classes. Erica Reyes stands protectively in front of Vernon Boyd’s bulkier frame which in turn hides Isaac Lahey’s lithe one. The blonde-haired Guide peeks out from behind Boyd and meets his eyes briefly before turning away, his shoulders hunching over defensively.
“Whittemore’s ego is all his own, don’t taint the rest of us Sentinels.” Erica’s mischievous grin is infectious and he can’t help but smile back when she flicks her long golden curls over her shoulder and winks at him.
He’s pleased to see she doesn’t look as washed out and hollow-eyed as usual, when he thinks about it he realises it’s been a while since her last seizure so it looks like her medication is finally working. Sentinel Onset Epilepsy thankfully isn’t common, but Erica’s is a particularly severe case. The neurological switch in all Sentinels that allows them to enhance their senses will shutdown when overloaded and in most Sentinels causing them to zone out. With S.O. Epilepsy when that same neurological switch is overloaded they don’t shutdown, their nervous system fires up, looping the stimuli to their senses and sending them into deadly continuous seizures.
“Don’t worry Stiles you won’t have time to miss your Dad, they’ll take one look at you and see you for the loser you are and send you home.” Jackson snarls, before turning on Erica, Boyd and Isaac. “And maybe you’ll have some company too.”
“Hey.” Stiles snaps outraged, frowning at Scott who yells out simultaneously “Enough Jackson”. Apparently, when it’s not Stiles being picked on, Scott hears and sees everything, and remembers he’s a Sentinel. Not that Erica needs defending.
“Fuck off.” Erica scowls fiercely, flipping Jackson the bird.
“Jackson.” Danny gets up close, practically chest to chest, and in Jackson’s face when the other Sentinel starts to move towards Stiles and the others, fists clenched aggressively. He’s distantly aware that Kira steps in close to his side. “Keep it together. Protect the Guide. Protect the tribe.”
“You don’t get it Danny, he doesn’t deserve to be here. You remember in 4th grade he was all ‘I’m so powerful’ and ‘look at my spirit animal’ and it was a rock. A dumb sparkly rock he probably found in his backyard.” Jackson snarls angrily, dark scales appearing in a rippling wave from his temple and down his cheek to his jaw, eyes turning yellow and the round pupils stretching and elongating into distinct black slits.
Stiles grinds his teeth, remembering the warmth of Faro’s jewel-like scarlet shell against his fingertips, how it would sit perfectly in the curve of his palm. In all the research he’s done over the years he’s never heard of a spirit animal appearing that was ‘unhatched’ even if they’re born that way in reality, so he gets why Jackson thinks he was lying even though it grates. Once upon a time they used to be close, it’s hard to believe it now listening to his distorted point of view.
“No I don’t remember it that way at all. What I do remember is you telling me you thought Stiles was special, that he was your Guide even though you were both latent and if you think Stiles’ spirit animal was merely a ‘dumb sparkly rock’ then maybe you’re not the intelligent, amazing Sentinel that you keep telling us you are.” Danny says sternly. Stiles blinks rapidly, Danny’s always been one of the nicest guys in school, but still this support is unexpected as is his insight considering latent Guides rarely have presented spirit animals.
But, what surprises him even more is Jackson admitting his feelings about Stiles to anyone, even his best friend. He remembers 9 year old Jackson, shyly offering to let Stiles play with his brand new Spiderman action figure if Stiles would promise to be his Guide. It’d taken two teachers to separate them after Stiles had refused, ever loyal to Scott, and with all the tact his 9 year old self had, leaving Stiles with a bloody nose and Jackson with a black eye and an enmity that remained to this day.
The scales on Jackson’s face recede slightly as a furious blush stains his high cheekbones. “Well I was wrong…obviously, who would want that freak?”
“I would.” The calm cool voice says seemingly out of nowhere and both Stiles and Jackson jerk around to look at Matt Daehler in surprise because where the heck did he come from and seriously what the fuck with the backing him up too. Jackson’s quicker to recover.
“I get your crush on Allison, totally understandable, but a fake-Guide this time round, that I don’t get at all.” He mocks, only Matt doesn’t react, not even a twitch, just stares implacably at Jackson until he gives in with a shrug and turns on Stiles. “Watch out Stilinski our resident Sentinel stalker’s got you in his sights.”
Stiles winces. Everyone knows about Matt’s obsession with Allison, even after she and Scott had bonded, the other Sentinel even going so far as to say it had been a mistake and that she was actually his Guide as he was stronger than Scott which was perilously close to bond interference even if it was technically correct. Much as Stiles had a sneaking sympathy for Matt and his loner ways after being isolated himself recently from his peers, there’s something about him lately that’s had Stiles avoiding him as much as possible. There’s a speculative gleam in Matt’s eyes when he sees him that makes Stiles uncomfortable way more than the fact he knows his Dad had to step in and speak to Matt’s parents about his borderline stalking behaviours over Allison in his official capacity.
Last he’d heard was that he was receiving ethics classes and counselling at the local S&G centre with Deaton, maybe he’s trying to do better, be better. On that thought he shoots a small smile of encouragement in his direction and has to force himself not to step back at the intensity of the look he receives in return that makes him feel like Clarisse to Matt’s Hannibal Lecter, as though the other boy’s figuring out how to open him up and find out what makes him tick with a side serving of fava beans and a nice Chianti.
“Jackson.” Danny says his friend’s name again in such a way that the other boy freezes, mouth open ready to attack again, and it draws Stiles’ attention away from Matt’s uncomfortable gaze. He can clearly see in Danny the Alpha Sentinel that sometimes gets masked by his easy going nature.
Stiles warily watches Lydia who’s turned away from her conversation with Allison and been listening intently. Sentinels and Guides are insanely protective and possessive of their bonded mates and as a bonded Banshee, Lydia’s been known to eviscerate perceived threats with her tongue. Thankfully, that weapon seems to be aimed at her Sentinel this time.
“Enough Jackson, we’ve talked about this. Leave him alone.”
Jackson backs down almost instantly not willing to incur his Guide’s wrath on the same scale as the one and only time when he’d called Stiles a ranker, the slur given to those Sentinels and Guides on the lower end of the recognised testing levels. It had truly been a sight to see of Lydia turning her fury onto the other boy leaving Stiles confused at feeling both scared and strangely aroused by the other Guide. Jackson mutters under his breath, but Stiles figures if Lydia’s ignoring that then he will too.
“Now what’s this about a rock?” Lydia asks Stiles, one eyebrow raised speculatively. “What kind of rock?”
“A big none of your business one.” Stiles is grateful a pout from her lush lips no longer seems to have an effect on him, time and proximity had diminished his crush on the other Guide, although he still appreciates her sharp mind and her abilities. “And stop that.”
Stiles mentally pushes back in annoyance at Lydia’s probing scan of his shield and she staggers awkwardly, eyes wide in shock. Wincing, he hadn’t expected that considering Lydia is the strongest Guide at Beacon Hills High, some rumours even suggesting she’s a Shadow Guide - a rumour partially substantiated by the local centre sponsoring her in the rare gifted training program at the Sacramento S&G Centre.
It’s a common misconception among the general population that all Guides can read minds, it’s emotions and intentions that most Guides can scan and read, but a Shadow Guide can catch a stray thought from people’s minds, including other Sentinels and Guides by covertly skimming over their minds like a fishing trawler with a big-ass psychic net. Maybe the rumour mill is wrong or maybe he just caught her off-guard, but the relentless pecking at his shield like a little bird had been driving him insane. He’s surprised that she wasn’t more subtle.
“What did you do asshole?” Jackson hisses as he steadies his Guide. Lydia gripping his hand, her fingers sliding over his knuckles soothingly and the tension in Jackson’s body eases a notch or two. Whatever communication is happening between the two of them has the last lingering Kanima scales sink back beneath the surface of Jackson’s skin, leaving his complexion as perfect and unblemished as per usual.
“I’m sorry Stiles, it was unintentional.” The deathly silence that follows tells Stiles he hadn’t imagined it. Lydia Martin had actually apologised to him. In front of other people even. Good golly, the world must be ending.
“Unintentional in that you didn’t mean to do it or you didn’t intend for me to notice?” Her cheeks pinken, they both know that her control over her abilities is good enough not to slip and scan unintentionally. Good enough that he shouldn’t have felt it either, not from a level 5 Guide, but then maybe as so frequently happens people take his low rating to mean he doesn’t have any ability at all and just don’t put the effort into shielding themselves when he’s around.
“Apology accepted, just don’t do it again.” Stiles murmurs, shifting uneasily as he realises that Lydia is examining him even more thoughtfully than before.
“Damn, I didn’t know you could do that.” Erica says to her.
“Apologise?” Lydia questions, a small frown appearing between her eyebrows.
“Nah, be human.”
“I have my moments of weakness like anybody.” Lydia smirks and Erica laughs.
“I like you.” Erica sounds surprised to admit it. “-him not so much.” Erica points towards Jackson who sneers, but it’s only a half-hearted effort from what Stiles can see having been on the receiving end too many times to count.
“Bilinski, glad you could make it.” Coach Finstock descends the bus steps, waving his clipboard wildly in the air forcing Isaac to duck. “Now that we’re all here we need to celebrate, as this is a record number of Sentinels and Guides that we’re sending to Cascade this year…so woohoo.” He pulls out a party popper from his jacket pocket, tugging on the string until it gives a muffled pop, but it fails to open. With a disappointed sigh he shakes it before giving up and slipping it back into his pocket.
Coach gestures towards the group. “It’s time to go over the rules ladies and gentlemen. Only couples that have fully bonded will be permitted to share a room during our stay. That’s Martin and Whittemore, Argent and McCall. You can get on.” Finstock shoos them to the bus door.
There’s a few groans and complaints, mainly from Erica who winks at Stiles as she leers at an annoyingly smug Boyd, that has Coach blowing his whistle over the top of them.
“Everyone else gets to share a room assigned by me, no thanks necessary. Let me be very clear, I don’t care if you’re in the pre-bond stage, that means you Reyes and Boyd, or if you’re simply the horrible hormonal teenagers I know you are - there will be no late night visits, no room swapping, no parties, no orgies or Satanic rituals. If I hear the horrified bleat of a single goat, the deviants responsible will find themselves sent home at their own expense.”
They’re an odd number of Guides so one of them will have to be allocated a room on their own, Stiles mentally crosses his fingers, shifting nervously wondering if he’s going to be partnered with someone and whether he’ll be able to keep his nightmares in check, otherwise he’ll be in for a few sleepless nights.
“When I call out your name and your room mates, you can board the bus.” He starts with the Sentinels, which are perfectly balanced in numbers and genders, territorial instincts are not as strong or developed in unbonded teens allowing them to share space reasonably well.
“Erica Reyes and Kira Yukimura…Danny Mahealani and Matt Daehler.”
“And for the Guides, Vernon Boyd and-” Stiles holds his breath. “-good God, is there a first name in that jumble, we’ll go with Bilinski. Isaac Lahey you’re on your own.”
Stiles releases his breath. Of course it couldn’t go his way. He can’t help but notice that Isaac doesn’t look particularly pleased either being on his own, but the other Guide tends to hang out a lot with Erica and Boyd so he probably wanted to share with Boyd.
Maybe tonight he won’t dream or maybe he’ll have one of those rare ones without the burning man, the ones were he’s flying over forests and mountains not of lush greens rather weirdly in hues of blue, strong and powerful in body and mind. Complete. But, as his Mom used to say ‘if wishes were horses yada yada’.
He misses her so much, her and Jem, his Mom’s spirit animal. They could always make him feel better, his Mom always knowing what to say and the black crow gently grooming his hair with her beak when he was upset or hurting. It was a soothing ritual and she would steal away any loose strands to line a nest that Stiles never saw, presuming it was hidden somewhere else maybe even on the psionic plane itself.
Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, Stiles takes the first step up onto the bus and stops dead. On the top step stands a huge grey wolf staring intently at him. Stiles knows each and every spirit animal around Beacon Hills and has an agreement that unless it’s an emergency they’d contact him in private. He doesn’t know this wolf, doesn’t recognise the dark charcoal grey fur threaded through with a lighter tone giving it a distinct salt and pepper effect.
The driver he’s bonded to looks kinda familiar, but he can’t think from where unless it’s ‘The Simpsons’, ‘cause he kinda looks like Otto the bus driver with his long dark curls tucked beneath a beat-up red cap and wearing a faded ‘Grateful Dead’ t-shirt. The guy stares back at him with one eyebrow quirked in curiosity over the top of his John Lennon-type sunglasses and Stiles realises he knows. He knows what Stiles is seeing and fear pulses through him with every beat of his heart.
“You okay kid?” The driver asks gently and Stiles feels himself relax. Unlike Lydia’s all-too obvious probe at his shield, this guy doesn’t so much probe as wrap his own shielding around Stiles’ like a warm blanket. It’s pure comfort and reassurance, nothing else. No negative or harmful intentions. He doesn’t think the guy realises that he can feel him doing it, almost like it’s a reflex to soothe and protect. Glancing down the aisle he can see that the others aren’t paying any attention to them or in particular to the driver and Stiles wonders how the hell they’re not sensing how powerful this Guide is even without seeing his spirit animal.
“Move it Bilinski.” Finstock barks from behind him making him jump. Head whipping around he sees Coach gesturing impatiently for him to get going, when he turns back the wolf is gone.
Shuffling onto the bus he can feel the driver watching him as he talks quietly to Coach. He picks out a seat, shoving his bag under it. He rests his back against the window and lets his legs sprawl across the length of the seat making it quite clear that he doesn’t want anyone sitting next to him, not that he thinks it’ll really be a problem. Pulling out his phone, he pretends to be reading something when all he can do is think about the guy who is clearly more than a driver.
The wolf is such a strongly driven pack animal with a natural affinity for psionic energy that a Guide with a recognised Wolf spirit animal usually indicates they are uncommonly powerful, at the top of the S&G grading system at level 6 powerful and sometimes even ‘undetermined’ when they’re so strong that they can’t be rated. They’re very rare amongst the general S&G community, more common amongst born werewolf Guides and some Shamans, he’s never even heard of a Sentinel with one. The equivalent in rarity for a level 6 and above Sentinel would be a lion spirit guide with their pride instincts and highly attuned earthly senses, warriors at heart and protectors during peace. His Dad’s a prime example.
The driver’s not a werewolf though, Stiles can sense that, he remembers sharing a few classes with Cora Hale before the fire and the wild ‘otherness’ that oozed from her every pore and this guy doesn’t have that at all.
So what the hell is a Shaman Wolf Guide doing driving a school bus for a handful of teenagers?