Nothing Like Losing a Limb - ash_mcj (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Cora wasn’t sure how long she’d been running for—it could’ve been hours, just as easily as it might’ve been days. It was like a nightmare, where time and logic were clouded by intense panic and the need to escape. Though, she wasn’t quite sure what she was escaping from any more. The hunters were long gone, but her legs wouldn’t stop.

She could barely breathe as she rushed through the dense woods. Possibly because of the smoke clinging to her lungs like the ash that was coating her skin, or maybe it was the agonizing emptiness in her chest, where her broken packbonds were aching worse than any pain she’d felt in her life. There might have been one or two left intact, but she couldn’t differentiate through the wreckage in her once-strong bond network. It just hurt. There was no sense to make of it.

Her vision blurred as a fresh wave of tears welled up in her eyes, and in that split second of impairment, she managed to run into something—or rather, some one. She blinked hard, clearing away the tears so she could see the boy. He was a bit taller than her, but she guessed he was about her age.

Reflexively, she tried to move away, but he grabbed tightly onto her upper arms, keeping her in his space. Her already-frantic wolf lurched forward as she tried to thrash away from his hold—then suddenly, they were tumbling down a hill, limbs tangled up in each other’s as they repeatedly hit the ground and rolled through sharp sticks and rocks that cut into their exposed skin. When they finally reached flat ground, and the world returned to a standstill, they were both gasping in a desperate attempt to reclaim the air that had been knocked from their lungs.

“Ow,” the boy groaned from underneath her.

Cora’s vision was a bit blurry—probably from how many times her brain must’ve knocked against her skull—so she wasn’t entirely certain that she was really seeing the deep cut on the boy’s head stitching itself back together. However, once she blew a short puff of air from her nose to clear the dirt and ash, then breathed in deeply, she definitely did smell werewolf.

What were the odds that she’d run into another wolf? Or far more importantly, what were the odds that she’d stumbled into a pack territory she wasn’t supposed to? Probably fairly high, considering she must’ve still been near Beacon County and she’d eavesdropped on her parents enough to know that the area was crawling with supernatural creatures. She hadn’t had much personal interaction with the local packs, but she knew they existed.

“Aiden?” another boy called out, an edge of worry in his voice as he carefully slid down the hill after them—much more gracefully than they had a moment ago. They were clearly twins, now that Cora’s sight was straightening out. He was identical to the one underneath her—with a wide nose, brown eyes, and a mess of dirt-covered brown hair that made them look like they hadn’t been inside a proper house in weeks, at least. Were they homeless? “Aiden, are you okay?”

“Well, she hasn’t gotten offa me yet,” Aiden complained pointedly, prompting Cora to roll onto the ground.

Aiden sat up and rubbed the back of his head, while his brother crouched beside him and put his hand on his forehead, where the last hints of the once-nasty injury were fading away. Black lines briefly appeared on his arm as he pulled his brother’s pain, but Aiden swatted him away.

“I’m fine,” he grunted.

“Who are you?” Cora asked them, her voice hoarse.

“You’re the crazy girl sprintin’ through the woods, smellin’ like a barbecue,” Aiden sneered. “Who are you?”

The muscle in Cora’s jaw twitched as she leveled him with a glare. “Cora Hale. Now answer my question, Tweedle Dumb and Dumber.”

Aiden’s eyes flickered gold as he opened his mouth to respond, but his brother beat him to it.

“I’m Ethan and this is Aiden.”

“What’s a Hale doin’ outside Beacon County?” Aiden wondered suspiciously. “Our packs don’t have free reign agreements—you shouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t know.” Cora swallowed the lump growing in her throat. “I just, I ran—my pack—I just—”

Ethan reached out and gently squeezed her hand, and she clutched back in an effort to ground herself.

“What about your pack?” Ethan coaxed softly.

Cora felt like she couldn’t breathe again as memories flooded into her mind.

“Run!” Peter yelled, trailing a bit behind her as he maneuvered the burning hallway. “Allison broke the barrier—GO!”

A loud crack caused her to stumble to the floor, and she turned just in time to watch helplessly as a fiery beam fell between Peter and herself. Flames licked up her calf, but she barely registered her own pain as the gut-wrenching sound of Peter’s agonized roar filled her ears and shook her wolf.

“Peter!” Cora screamed hysterically, squinting through the smoke that was stinging her eyes.

Malia’s claws dug into her arm as she dragged her towards the shattered window. With a leap, they jumped through and fell from the second story down onto the lawn.

“Allie!” Cora rasped as she quickly crawled over to Allison, who was unconscious on the grass. The ash on her cheeks was streaked with fallen tears and her hand was still loosely fisted in her hiked-up pants leg, where her shin was bent at an angle that made Cora’s stomach churn, but she averted her eyes when she noticed the scent of blood. She knew she’d panic if she saw a bone. She leaned forward, trying to listen for the sound of a heartbeat or breathing over the roar of the flames—but paused when she found a metal dart topped with a red bit of fluff on the tip, sticking out from Allison’s neck.

“Cora!” Malia said urgently, grabbing onto the back of her shirt and yanking her backwards—quickly drawing Cora’s attention to a blonde woman standing in the tree line several yards away, a pistol hanging by her thigh.

“Where do you mutts think you’re going?” she called out, her tone a sickening mix of sweet and sinister, matching her blood red smile. “You haven’t even said hello to Auntie Kate.”

A sharp pain in Cora’s shoulder pulled her out of her memories, and she sucked in a staggered breath of clean air as she grounded herself in the present moment. No smoke, no fire, no present danger.

“Focus, Hale,” Aiden told her, as his claws retracted from her flesh.

She nodded and took a few more moments to breathe, before whispering, “They’re dead. My pack, they’re…”

“What?” Ethan gasped. “All of’em?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Cora cried, tears springing back up in her eyes. “There was a fire at my den. They, hunters, trapped us with mountain ash, but my sister—well, my cousin, well whatever— is human and she was able to break the line. I got out with her and Malia, but then there was this… this dart, and a hunter, and Malia and I just ran. But she fell behind, and… I don’t know what happened to her. And my parents— oh, Gods — Peter was screaming . I don’t know if Chris was home, but I think he was, because Peter told us to stay upstairs while they talked because he was coming over to drop off Jackson and Stiles—and they’re only human—and-and-and I’m an orphan! Oh my Gods, I can’t breathe—”

Ethan pulled her into his arms and squeezed her tightly—which probably should have made breathing more difficult, but it made her feel like he was holding her together as she was rapidly falling apart. She wasn’t sure if she was standing on her own anymore, or if he was holding her up—but she couldn’t worry about it right then. She just fisted her hands in his shirt and buried her face in the crook of his neck as she put all of her energy into inhaling as deeply as possible, finding comfort in the way the sweat and dirt clinging to his skin reminded her of long nights in the woods.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan whispered against the side of her head. “I’m really sorry, Cora.”

“I ran,” she choked out. “My packbonds—they’re gone. I can’t… I can’t feel them anymore. They’re just gone .”

Cora felt three solid pats on her upper back, before Aiden said, “The Hales were supposed to be decent people. That really sucks.”

“Aiden!” Ethan hissed.

“What?”

“That sucks? Really?”

Cora, to all three of their surprise, let out a soft chuckle into Ethan’s shoulder.

“You remind me of my brother,” she said softly. “He has the emotional range of a teaspoon, too.”

She suddenly realized that maybe she should’ve said had, but she couldn’t bring herself to correct it.

“I’m serious, though,” Aiden told her gruffly. “May they run under the full moon for all eternity.”

Cora nodded as she pulled away from Ethan and wiped her face with her dirty hands.

“What pack are you guys from?”

“A sh*tty one,” Aiden deadpanned.

Cora was a bit surprised by his bluntness, considering it was rather frowned upon to speak poorly of your pack in front of outsiders. “Can you take me to your alpha?”

“Uh, I dunno,” Ethan said carefully, chewing his inner cheek.

“You don’t wanna seek sanctuary from our alpha,” Aiden told her, his eyes intense in a way that made Cora think he was trying to communicate something she couldn’t quite place. “He’s not a good one.”

Cora shrugged. “Mine sucked, too.”

“No, dude, you really don’t get it. He—”

“Aiden, please,” she begged. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. The only other alpha I know is Alpha Ito—but I can’t be in Beacon Hills. It’s not safe there. Please, just take me to your alpha.”

“You’d be better off on your own,” Aiden advised, but the fight seemed to seep from his shoulders. “Whatever—c’mon, I guess.”

Anson picked them up from the airport once they reached New York. Derek didn’t remember him in the slightest—though that wasn’t too surprising, considering Derek was about four when half of the Hale pack moved across the country. He only knew them through the few photographs he’d seen and the occasional stories Chris and Peter happened to share here and there. Logically, he knew that Anson was his uncle—and human —but Derek’s wolf was still uneasy being trapped in a car with him.

He had the bizarre, anxious feeling that he was being kidnapped—but then again, maybe it wasn’t so odd. It wasn’t like he was overly familiar with anyone in the car—with anyone he even had left. Anson was a stranger, Laura was raised so distantly from him that the word ‘sister’ seemed inapt, Jackson was the pup he was least close with, and Chris…

Derek had no idea how to feel, or what to think, about Chris. Did he know the fire was going to happen? Is that why Peter was so afraid the night before? Nobody had said anything, which Derek thought was pretty strange, since their pack had just been murdered presumably by hunters —and Chris was not only a hunter, but his sister was caught casing the den. And also posing as Derek’s substitute teacher, for that matter. It had to be her, right? Yet Chris hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t brought it up to the police, hadn’t done anything about it. Then again, would it even matter? She already won either way.

More distressing than Chris failing to go after Kate was the fact that Peter was still in Beacon Hills. They’d left him there, alone. Chris had told them that Peter would have wanted them to prioritize their safety over sticking around for him, and Laura had agreed—but Derek wasn’t so sure. The way Chris and Laura both had to restrain Jackson while he kicked, screamed, and bit at them like a wild animal as they dragged him from the hospital waiting room to head towards the airport felt a lot like they were doing the wrong thing. Chris had promised that they would get Peter transported to New York as soon as he was more medically stable, but hell, they didn’t even know why he wasn’t healing. Who was to say that he’d ever be stable again, or even make it through the week?

Derek clenched his jaw as he desperately tried to shove the thought of Peter from his mind, just as he’d been doing since they left Beacon Hills. He knew that if he let the very real possibility that he’d never hear Peter’s voice again linger in his head for long, he’d break down—and his wolf was not currently in a safe enough space to be vulnerable. He couldn’t afford a control lapse right then. Not around unfamiliar relatives, not around Chris, not without his anchor.

“Has anyone here seen Dexter?” Anson asked once they’d been on the road for a few minutes. Derek thought it was a rather weird thing to ask a group of people who still had the ashes of their family and home clinging to their clothes, but he figured he was probably uncomfortable with the suffocating silence. Stiles would’ve asked something similar—though, if it were Stiles, Derek actually would’ve cared.

“Yeah, I have!” Laura answered in an upbeat tone that grated on Derek’s nerves. What the hell did she have going for her to be all peppy right now?

Anson looked over his shoulder to glance back at Laura with a grin. “Is it just me, or is he kinda cute?”

Jackson scoffed under his breath and shook his head in disbelief, but Laura didn’t seem to notice his annoyance as she returned Anson’s smile and nodded. Derek, on the other hand, could hardly breathe through it as it rolled off of Jackson in waves. Jackson hadn’t been anywhere near the fire, so his clothes were blissfully void of the pungent burning scent—but the profound air of grief that hung around him irritated Derek’s nose and riled his wolf just as much. Maybe even more.

Luckily, the trip to their new home wasn’t all that long—maybe twenty minutes or so—but it felt like an eternity to Derek, who just wanted to curl up on the floor of a dark closet and exist in silence for a while. Maybe for the rest of his life.

“Here we are,” Anson announced as he pulled off of the main road and onto a long driveway. The house they approached was absolutely massive—maybe even a bit larger than the manor. “Casa de Hale.”

“I like the color,” Laura complimented, eyeing the light blue paint.

“Beatriz and I argued over it for a month, before we settled. Beatriz is Callum’s wife, in case you don’t remember. Lovely lady, really. Perfect for Cal.”

“I remember Beatriz,” Laura said. Derek couldn’t relate—though Laura was quite a bit older than him when they moved to New York, and she spent more time around the pack than Derek ever wanted to back then. “She had the prettiest hair. I’d kill for those curls. And the thickness was insane.”

As soon as the car rolled to a stop, Derek practically threw himself from the vehicle—and Jackson followed suit. The yard was decently sized, and there was quite a bit of space between the houses that provided some semblance of privacy, but it was nothing compared to the manor’s seclusion. He wasn’t prepared for how much he’d miss the smells and sounds of the woods. He truly never gave any thought to the idea that he’d ever have to part with them.

“Fair warning, it gets a little crazy in there,” Anson said as he got out of the car. Considering the fact that Peter was the youngest of his siblings, Derek knew that Anson had to be older than him—but he wouldn’t have guessed it. There was a youthfulness in his bright eyes that Derek wasn’t accustomed to seeing in adults—a playfulness and eccentricity in his patterned overalls and long, beaded necklace that suggested he’d never seen the inside of an office. He didn’t look like any of the adults in Derek’s life. He wore his dark hair in dreadlocks that were pulled up into a top knot at the back of his skull, and the sides of his head were shaved close to his scalp—which showed off the triskelion inked behind his ear. “We put you guys up on the third floor, though, so you’ll have your own space away from the madness.”

“They’re here!” Derek heard a female voice shout from within the house, before a teenage girl with a head of light brown curls leapt from the porch onto the grass, completely skipping the stairs. As she approached them, Derek’s wolf recognized the unmistakable scent of werewolf, and he stepped protectively in front of Jackson.

“Woah there, killer,” she laughed, raising an eyebrow as she took note of the claws lengthening on Derek’s hands. “You can chill—we’re cousins. Rori … ring any bells?”

Derek nodded, because he did recognize the name. The last picture he’d seen of her looked nothing like the girl standing a couple yards away, though.

“This is Derek,” Jackson introduced, sidestepping out from behind Derek. “I’m Jackson.”

“I know—there are pictures of you guys on the fireplace mantle.”

Although it wasn’t his fault, Derek felt a bit guilty that the only pictures he’d seen of this side of the family were in Peter’s nightstand. He wondered why his parents hadn’t wanted pictures of them up around the manor.

“Rori, look at you!” Laura said as she walked up to her. “How old are you now? You’ve been existing in my head as a five year old who writes on walls.”

“I’m sixteen, but I still write on walls,” Rori answered. More proudly, she added, “I’ll be seventeen in July. I’m a leo.”

“Jesus, you’re almost an adult,” Chris said. “Are you excited?”

“I’m not,” Anson responded for her.

“He’s not,” Rori echoed with a smile.

“No parent wants their kid to leave the nest,” Anson reasoned, putting an arm around Rori and giving her a gentle squeeze. Derek was a bit surprised that this man was a parent, but he brushed it off. Though, he was willing to bet that that was the reason Rori was apparently still writing on walls. “She’s driving now—I can’t believe it.”

“Anson, Rori,” a man with gray-streaked hair called from the porch. Oddly, Derek did recognize him—Callum felt more familiar to his wolf than the others had. “Let them come in and get settled—they didn’t travel all this way to be bombarded with mediocre conversation.”

Anson waved his hand dismissively, then nodded towards the porch. “We should go before we earn one of his lectures.”

“Ah, I remember those,” Chris chuckled. “Lead the way.”

As soon as Derek stepped foot in the house, his nose violently crinkled. His eyes darted around to quickly locate the source of the harsh chemical-like fruity aroma—which happened to be an air freshener plugged into the wall in the living room.

“It smells nice in here,” Laura noticed as well.

Anson shrugged. “It’s some sorta tropical bullsh*t Callum likes.”

Derek really hated it. How was he supposed to smell anything with such a harsh scent violating his nose? How did Rori and the other werewolf he knew lived there deal with it on a regular basis?

“Welcome” Callum greeted amiably, as he set his mug of coffee on a small table beside one of the couches. “Beatriz is upstairs, making sure you guys have some essentials in your room to get you by.”

“That’s very kind of her,” Chris told him as he accepted a hug from Callum.

Callum turned to Laura and a sadness built in his eyes as they roamed across her face. “You’ve grown into a gorgeous young woman, just like your mother.”

Laura gave him a watery smile, and he pulled her in for a tight hug, as well.

The moment Callum’s attention turned to Derek, Jackson stepped in front of him and put his arm out for a handshake.

“I’m Jackson.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Callum said, taking his hand.

When Callum’s eyes drifted up to Derek, Jackson quickly spoke again, “Derek doesn’t like to be touched.”

“I remember.” Callum nodded his greeting. “It’s good to see you.”

Derek gave a small nod in return, but didn’t say anything. He thought he might’ve liked Callum the most so far, but he still wasn’t eager to socialize with him.

The sound of heavy footfalls rushing down the stairs caught Derek’s attention, and then a flustered-looking woman with a messy ponytail came bounding into the room.

“Everything’s all set,” she announced, slightly winded. “Bathrooms are stocked, there are some clothes in the dressers to get you by until you go shopping, and lots of blankets and things.”

“Beatriz,” Callum introduced.

“You’re all so big!” Beatriz exclaimed. When her eyes landed on Jackson, she tutted and looked at Chris. “Chris, what did I tell you about this boy when we got your Christmas card a few months ago? He’s skin and bones—you’re not feeding him right.”

“He’s just scrawny,” Laura defended.

“Well, we’ll see how scrawny he is after living here for a few months, yeah?”

“The boys are on their way back from the skatepark, so they’ll be here soon,” Callum said. “Until then, let’s get you guys in your rooms so you can get settled before we have a very late dinner.”

“C’mon,” Beatriz told them as she headed back up the stairs, and they all followed after her. “The third floor is practically its own house, so you shouldn’t need to come down and mingle with us, if you don’t want to.”

When they reached the top level, Derek understood what she meant. The stairway opened up into a large area that seemingly doubled as a living room and small kitchen. There was a short hallway on both sides of the floor, with three doors lining each.

“Down that hall, there are two bedrooms and a closet. I set those rooms up with Chris and Laura in mind, but feel free to rearrange,” Beatriz said. “And down the other hall, there’s Derek and Jackson’s bedrooms, and a full bathroom.”

“We really appreciate it, Beatriz,” Chris told her earnestly.

Beatriz smiled and rubbed his upper arm a few times. “We’re family, despite everything. Always will be.”

Uninterested in hanging around the group any longer now that he knew the direction of his new bedroom, Derek slinked away. Since the doors were left wide open, he assumed the one with a dinosaur print comforter on the bed wasn’t his, so he entered the other one. He closed the door behind him and walked slowly around the room, taking in his new surroundings. Everything smelled a bit like perfume and a strong laundry detergent that Peter would never have even thought to use on Derek’s things. Part of him wanted to rub his scent into every piece of furniture, while the other part of him didn’t want to touch anything.

As Derek eyed the ugly curtains Peter would’ve vetoed from being anywhere near the manor, his vision blurred with tears. This wasn’t his room, this couldn’t be his den—he didn’t belong there. He missed the sounds he’d always tried to block out. Cora’s annoying rock music she used to blast in her room. Malia’s shouts of outrage whenever she was asked to do anything that wasn’t playing outside or eating junk food. He missed stepping on Allison’s tiny hair clips that felt like a knife in his foot every time.

He missed Stiles, and his incessant chatter about anything and everything.

“f*ck,” Derek choked out, the word barely escaping through the tightness in his throat. He wanted to break something, or maybe he wanted to lay down—but everything smelled terrible, and everything was terrible. Since his legs felt as if they were about to give out, he reluctantly perched himself on the edge of the computer chair by the desk and buried his wet face in his hands.

The hike to the twins’ pack wasn’t too strenuous, but Cora still felt as if she was about to collapse when she finally caught sight of the compound. Every muscle in her body was exhausted and ringing with a dull ache, but she tried to push those thoughts away as she entered the clearing of the woods, which was filled with a cluster of cabins surrounding a large community area with wooden tables, benches, and fire pits scattered about. Huge barrels of wolfsbane-laced beer were set up near each of the tables, and people of all ages were filling metal mugs and laughing as they took large swigs, the beer sloshing over the brims and dribbling down their chins—but none of them seemed to care.

“Follow me,” Aiden said over his shoulder as he walked in front of her, his shoulders squared and chin tilted up as he cut through the crowd. Ethan trailed right on her heels, his hand on her upper back—though whether he was guiding her or just keeping the contact, she wasn’t sure.

When they reached the center, Aiden stopped—facing a burly man, who was seated on a log bench as he lit a cigarette in the fire. The smell of cigarette smoke usually itched Cora’s nose, but in that moment, it tainted the air just enough to drown out the smell of burning wood—so she was grateful for it. Her hands began to shake as she tried her hardest to not look at the flames, but she made sure to clench her fists by her sides before she thought anyone noticed. The last thing someone in her position should do is show weakness in a foreign territory.

“Alpha,” Aiden addressed him in a formal tone that Cora found odd for a beta of the pack. Sure, respect was important—but she couldn’t imagine speaking to Talia or Laura that way. “Ethan and I ran into an omega in the territory: Cora Hale.”

As soon as her surname was spoken, the large man turned his attention to them, scarlet eyes zeroing in on her in a way that made her feel as if she were suddenly under a magnifying glass. He had a thick beard, as most of the men in the pack appeared to have, and Cora couldn’t clearly see his mouth through it—so she focused on his eyes as they slowly trailed from her face down to her toes, and back up again.

Aiden loudly cleared his throat, drawing the alpha’s attention back to him, and added, “She seeks provisional sanctuary.”

The alpha hummed thoughtfully, and the back of Cora’s neck prickled at the low tone. Then, in a gravelly voice, he asked, “Who d’ya belong to?”

Cora hesitated a moment, before saying, “Peter and Christopher Hale.”

He scoffed. “I won’t instigate a war over a runaway.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly. “They’re… they’re dead. Hunters attacked my den, and I just… I got out and ran until Aiden and Ethan found me.”

“The Hale pack has fallen?” he asked, bushy eyebrows raising. “I never woulda guessed that, with their reputation. Though, they did let an Argent into their ranks, so maybe it’s not so surprising.”

Cora bit her tongue to stop herself from telling him how Chris wasn’t really a hunter—not anymore, anyway—and this alpha had no idea what he was talking about. It wouldn’t be smart to insult the man who could grant her sanctuary, and her uncles would’ve expected better behavior from her. She could control her temper, for them.

“Alpha…” she prompted.

“Damien.”

“Alpha Damien,” she continued. “I appreciate you being so kind about my presence in your territory. I know our packs don’t—didn’t— have free reign agreements.”

“A pretty pup like you is more than welcome in my territory,” he told her, before taking another drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke towards her. “Besides, everyone knows omegas never survive on their own—and it’d be a real pity to waste the last of the Hale blood, after all.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Come.”

Her confidence flickered as she stepped forward and felt Ethan’s fingers slip from her shirt, but she didn’t have much time to focus on that before Damien reached out and looped his finger under her chin, forcing her face up to look at him properly.

“Tell me, dollface, do you seek sanctuary or a place in my pack?”

Cora thought about the emptiness in her chest. She wasn’t sure if she wanted packbonds to these people—she didn’t even know them, and it definitely wouldn't make the broken ones stop hurting. But her wolf wondered if it would help her breathe again, at least. And having bonds to the twins didn’t seem bad—they seemed relatively nice. Ethan, at least.

She tipped her head to the side and back to bare her throat in submission to the alpha—an action they both knew meant she was offering herself as his beta.

“Alpha Damien, I swear fealty in exchange for admittance to your pack,” Cora stated, remembering the phrasing she’d been taught.

An eerie growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in to run his nose up the side of her neck in a claiming gesture. “I accept you as my beta, Cora Hale.”

Cora’s eyes flared golden and she gasped as her bond network lit up like a Christmas tree, securely bringing her into the new pack and connecting her to others in the way her wolf was desperately craving.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“Welcome to the Steiner pack,” Damien whispered into her ear, before leaving her space. “Boys, find her a place to clean off and sleep. She’s been through quite the ordeal, after all.”

As soon as they were dismissed, Aiden grabbed her arm and yanked her away from Damien—immediately moving her in front of himself and putting his hand firmly on her back to push her towards one of the cabins on the outskirts of the compound.

“You idiot,” he seethed under his breath, and Cora furrowed her eyebrows in indignation. “You stupid little—”

“Aiden,” Ethan cut him off sharply.

Cora wasn’t sure what his problem was, but if he kept calling her names after everything she’d just been through, she was fully ready to tackle his rude butt into the dirt—manners be damned.

“She really just—”

“Get in the cabin,” Ethan instructed, and Aiden moved around Cora to roughly throw the door open. Once they were all inside, Ethan shut and locked it.

The cabin was just as small on the inside as it looked from the outside. There was a single cramped room with an attached kitchenette and a door that was ajar, leading to a tiny bathroom.

Aiden sat heavily on the large bed that took up the majority of the cabin space and raked his fingernails through his hair. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Look, I’m sorry if you didn’t want me in your pack, but—”

“Is your wolf broken?” Aiden exclaimed. “How did you not sense that that was a horrible idea? It was bad enough askin’ for a provisional sanctuary—but tellin’ him that no one would be lookin’ for you and pledgin’ fealty and—”

“I literally just said what you’re supposed to say when asking for permission to join a pack!”

“You have no idea what kinda life you just signed up for, Princess,” Aiden sneered. “This ain't the Hale pack.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aiden, go get food,” Ethan pointedly cut in as he handed Cora a bundle of clothes. Aiden exhaled sharply through his nose, then left the cabin—making sure to slam the door on the way out. Once he was gone, Ethan looked back to Cora. “These are boy clothes, but they’re clean.”

“Clothes are clothes.”

“Aiden can be a lot, but he isn’t a bad guy.”

“He sure is rude,” she grumbled.

“He’s worried.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“He doesn’t even know me!”

“He knows Alpha,” Ethan said, looking down at the floorboards. “Like we said, he’s…he’s not good. To Aiden, especially, but to me, too. And if he likes you, well—you don’t want him to like you much. You don’t want him to not like you, either, though. Just stay away from him as much as you can, 'kay?”

An uneasiness began forming in Cora’s stomach as she nodded.

“This is where Aiden and I live, and you can stay here, too,” Ethan told her, perking up a bit. “It’s small, but it’s chill. This main part is the bedroom, obviously, then there’s the little kitchen and table over there. That door is the bathroom. There’s runnin’ water, but we’re pretty off the grid here. We don’t use computers or have phones. We don’t really go shoppin’. Once a month, Alpha lets us go to the town a few miles away—so that’s when we get our clothes and whatever else we need.”

“What about school?”

“Our emissary, Maverik, is a teacher in Beacon Hills. He comes every weekend to do school with us pretty much all day on Saturday and Sunday. Other than those two days, we just stick to the woods or the cabin.”

Cora nodded. “You and Aiden live here alone? How old are you guys?”

“We’re eleven—gonna be twelve in September,” Ethan said. “And yeah, Alpha has his own cabin and Mom died a while ago.”

“I’m turning eleven in September,” Cora mentioned, before realizing, “Wait, you’re the Alpha’s pups?”

“Yeah. Anyway, you should shower,” Ethan told her, clearly not wanting to linger on discussing his family situation. “There’s a clean towel and some toothbrushes under the sink.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She entered the bathroom and closed the door, before bending down to look under the sink. There were several individually-packaged toothbrushes, toothpaste, and travel size bottles of shampoo and body wash in a jumbled heap—along with stacks of single-ply toilet paper rolls, like the ones the diner always had. She grabbed one of the toothbrushes and the spare towel, then shut the cabinet doors.

The shower knob squeaked when she turned it and the shower head shook as the water came through—but it was warm, and that was all Cora cared about as she stripped down and stepped into the tub. There was no washcloth, so she just used her hands to scrub at the thick layer of ash, dirt, and blood on her skin. As the last flecks of what was left of her home and her pack ran off of her body and slipped down the drain with the bubbles, she realized that she somehow still had tears left to cry.

By the time she had exited the bathroom, Aiden and Ethan were sitting in bed.

“Do you usually take eight years in the shower?” Aiden asked, then winced as Ethan elbowed his side.

“There’s a rabbit on the table, if you want it,” Ethan offered, nodding towards a plate with cooked meat on it.

Cora hadn’t realized how famished she was until her eyes landed on the small pile of cooked meat on the table.

“Do you have a fork or something?”

“It’s meat,” Aiden reasoned. “You’ve got hands, don’t ya?”

“You just eat with your hands?”

“Is the princess worried about gettin’ her fingers dirty?” Aiden jeered.

“We do have forks,” Ethan told her. “In the drawer to the left of the sink.”

Cora huffed as she locked eyes with Aiden—and there was a fiery glint there between them, a challenge. She wasn’t raised to back down from challenges. A taunting raise of Aiden’s eyebrows was all she needed to grab a fistful of the meat, hold it up towards him, and promptly shove as much as she could fit into her mouth.

“Look at you, eatin’ like us peasants,” Aiden said, chuckling—which gave Cora an odd sensation of pride. By the way Ethan couldn’t help but smile in his direction, Cora was willing to bet that Aiden didn’t laugh all that often.

“You should probably sleep, Cora,” Ethan pointed out. “You can sleep with us, if you want. Somethin’ weird happens with our shift when Aiden and I touch each other, so you’ll have to lay in the middle.”

An echo of a whisper in the back of her mind said, puppy pile, and her chest suddenly felt very heavy. When was the last time she did that with her family? The fort? She’d spent a lot of that night trying to kick Jackson out of it… she wished she’d hugged him, instead.

“What do you mean?” Cora asked as she crawled into the bed and situated herself under the blankets.

“Like… my body tries to eat his,” Aiden tried to explain. “Not all the time, but kinda often. ‘Specially when we aren’t payin’ attention, like when we’re asleep.”

Cora gaped at him. “Eat him?”

“Absorb, or somethin',” Ethan clarified. “It’s like our shifts try to smush us into one person and it’s really hard to get unstuck.”

Cora thought what they were saying must’ve been impossible, but their hearts remained steady. “I’ve never heard of that.”

Aiden sighed. “I don’t think anyone has—our emissary’s been tryin’ to figure it out for years.”

Cora laid down and the twins followed suit. It wasn’t the largest bed—definitely smaller than her uncles’—but they all fit decently enough. Especially with the way Aiden was sleeping on the edge, facing the door.

She was asleep within thirty seconds of her head hitting the pillow.

Derek heard the movement outside the bedroom door before the knock came, but he had no intention of answering it. After the silence had lingered for a few seconds, the knob turned and his door was slowly pushed open to reveal Laura. Derek’s eyes flashed in her direction—either warning her against encroaching on his new territory, or challenging her to do so, he wasn’t sure. His wolf had grown increasingly agitated the longer he was stuck in this weird-smelling room, and he thought a fight might actually be a decent stress reliever.

At some point, he’d managed to work up the nerve to lay on the bed—and he hadn’t moved since. Not when his cousins arrived at the house and Chris wanted him to go down and greet them, not when Jackson came to tell him dinner was ready, and not when his cell phone buzzed on the nightstand with a call he didn’t have the energy to answer. He didn’t really see the point in ever moving again—there was nothing waiting outside of that bed that he wanted to deal with.

“Beatriz made dinner,” Laura said softly, as if he were a small child or a timid animal. Hell, neither of those felt too far off base at the moment. “It’s really good—you should come try some.”

The thought of eating made Derek’s stomach churn and his fangs prickled at his gums. He wanted to run, but he didn’t have the energy to make it further than the bathroom a few steps from his room. He wanted to hunt, to tear into something—but the thought of swallowing anything made his throat constrict.

When he didn’t acknowledge Laura, she pressed, “Derek, you need to eat.”

“Just leave him alone, Laura,” Jackson told her as he came out of his own room. “You know he’s not gonna do anything he doesn’t want to.”

“So I’m supposed to let him starve?”

Jackson shrugged. “If he wants to.”

“I can’t let him do that, Jackson,” she said. “An alpha is supposed to—”

“You’re not my Alpha,” Derek snapped, the words slipping out before he could think them over.

Laura blinked, looking a bit like he’d slapped her across the face. “I could be. Gods, Derek, I should be! Mom would—”

“Don’t,” Derek cut her off. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“Leave.”

“Derek,” she urged, taking half a step forward into his room.

“Out!” Derek roared, leaping from his bed and heading towards her as his shift morphed his features in an instant. She moved back, pushing Jackson out of the way as she went—and Derek slammed the door shut, leaving four deep scratches in the wooden door and frame.

His chest heaved with a breath he felt like he couldn’t quite catch, and he began tearing at the clothes he was wearing, trying to rid the itchy, heavy material from his inflamed skin as quickly as possible. Despite the pounding of his heart, he could also hear the bustling of the people downstairs—the strangers, the family he didn’t even know, didn’t even want. The sound of a skateboard rolling across the floorboards on the ground level, the thumps of a playful scuffle directly below him.

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t his den. Nobody was telling Malia to keep the nature outside, Allison wasn’t telling her latest victim to hold still while she did their hair, Cora wasn’t picking on Jackson. Peter wasn’t singing in Italian under his breath, or bantering with anyone who dared look in his direction. The noises in this house were all wrong, and Derek wanted to escape out the window and run back to Beacon Hills—but there was nothing waiting there for him except a burned out husk of the place he was raised in.

That wasn’t entirely true—Stiles and Noah were there.

The revelation sent a jolt of fear through him as it truly began to sink in. Stiles was there. For the first time since Derek was little, he didn’t have his anchor nearby, and wouldn’t for the foreseeable future. How was he supposed to keep his control? How was he supposed to function without Stiles there to ground him? What was he supposed to do about the full moon?

He collapsed down onto the floor, no longer willing to lay back in the bed. The lack of warm cinnamon and vanilla scents woven into the fabric was more upsetting to his wolf than the awful detergent. Stiles’ smell was so integral to Derek’s nest that he knew without a doubt that this bed would never feel like his.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

The mug of coffee on the table in front of Chris seemed wrong. It looked like the coffee at Hale Manor, and it smelled like it, too, but it wasn’t. The cup holding it was too colorful, too much like a hipster art project—which apparently, it was. Anson and Rori were artists, according to Callum and Beatriz. There were so many different shapes, colors, and patterns happening in the cabinets of this house—Peter would’ve had a stroke if he was there.

He wasn’t, though. For some unfair reason, Chris got to be.

“Chris?” Callum called as he placed a hand on Chris’ shoulder and gave him a light squeeze. “Do you want something to put in your coffee? Milk, sweetener?”

“No, thank you,” Chris returned, absently tracing the rim of the mug with his finger.

“You know,” Beatriz said with a faux brightness, “Jackson is going to love Kenicki and Eli’s school. They have tons of extracurriculars—art, music, theater—and a bunch of afterschool sports, if he’s into that. Kenicki is following in Rori’s footsteps with soccer, and Eli has grown quite attached to lacrosse. Not that he’s particularly skilled at it, but—”

“Eli goes to public school?” Laura asked, her eyebrows shooting up.

“Well, it’s a private school,” Callum amended. “But if you mean with the public, then yes. He’s attended since kindergarten.”

“But he’s a werewolf?” Chris questioned. He was almost certain that Eli was, but he was two yearsyounger than Jackson, so if he was already in school with other children…

Callum nodded. “He, uh, doesn’t shift. So, there’s no reason to homeschool him.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t shift?” Laura asked.

“We think he repressed his wolf,” Beatriz explained. “When he was a toddler, there was… an incident. Rori was watching him and Kenicki in the front yard, when a neighbor’s extremely aggressive dog escaped their home. It barreled into our yard and went straight for the boys—but Rori was faster, thank the Gods. She shifted and… she killed it. In front of the boys, unfortunately.”

“Since then, Eli hasn’t shifted at all,” Callum told them. “Not even his eyes. He says he can’t.”

“Rori felt terrible—she still doesn’t shift in front of him.”

A small part of Chris, which sounded a bit like Peter’s voice in his head, wondered if the repression was due to the fact that they didn’t give the poor child a pack. They’d raised him as human—which couldn’t be good for his inner wolf. Chris thought this would’ve been a massive indicator that they were failing as parents, considering both Callum and Beatriz were born into werewolf packs, but apparently not. They should’ve known better. In what world does it seem fine that your pup can’t even flare his eyes? Chris hadn’t realized that he’d opened his mouth to speak until the words were coming out and it was too late to stop them.

“The kid’s traumatized, and has no healthy examples of werewolves in his life because he wasn’t allowed a pack.”

The heavy silence hanging over the kitchen table they were all seated at was absolutely deafening, but Chris made sure to keep a neutral expression on his face—because if the words were already out, he might as well pretend they were voiced intentionally.

“Well,” Laura was the first to speak, “Now he’ll have two more werewolves around. I wouldn’t consider Derek a healthy example, but I can definitely talk to Eli. Maybe get him a little more comfortable with his wolf side.”

“That would be amazing,” Beatriz said, giving her a smile. “As pointed out, we’ve been in a… tricky situation for a while, on the werewolf front. We were shocked when Eli was a wolf at all, considering Callum and I are human. It’s so rare that the latent lycanthropy genes from people like us can transfer into our kids. Our first two were completely human. And Rori, she’s always had amazing control. Being an omega never really affected her, even as a child. If it had, we would have found her a local pack. Though, her father having the reputation he does… makes that a little tricky, as well.”

“Well, if she’s interested, I’ll be here for her, too,” Laura offered. “If I can help either of them, I’d love to.”

Chris’ attention drifted back down to his hands, to the wedding band burning against his skin. He spun it a few times, watching the way the overhead lights were reflected in the metal. Was Peter still wearing his? No—they would’ve removed it when he was taken in for surgery. Chris needed to get it from the hospital soon—he didn’t want to risk it getting lost.

“Have you heard any news?” Callum asked, also eyeing Chris’ ring, and Chris shook his head.

“I haven’t had a chance to call Noah today.”

“You’ll let me know, when you do hear something?”

“Of course.” Chris took a sip of the coffee and immediately set the mug back on the table. It wasn’t nearly as good as the coffee he’d been drinking for the past decade. Maybe it was because Peter was a coffee snob and they had both the finest quality beans and equipment—or maybe it wasn’t the taste at all. Maybe it was because it wasn’t his coffee, or his mug, or his kitchen, or his home. “I’ve never seen a werewolf injured badly enough that they don’t heal, while still being alive.”

“Me, either,” Beatriz said. “Maybe he was poisoned? Did the doctors check for aconite?”

“If there was any wolfsbane in his system, he’d be dead by now,” Callum dismissed the notion.

“I didn’t smell any wolfsbane on him,” Laura agreed. “I think it was just… the extent of the burns. I honestly can’t believe he’s alive at all, it was… it was really terrible. He was on fire for a while before Derek and I got to him.”

Chris pushed his coffee away from himself, his stomach churning violently.

He’d been on fire for a while.

“I uh,” —Chris cleared his throat as he stood— “I should go call Noah.”

He didn’t wait for any sort of acknowledgement before making a break for the stairs as quickly as he could without running. When he reached it, he practically fell into his bedroom in his haste to get behind a closed door—which he immediately locked behind him. With any luck, nobody would need him for the next few minutes. He tried to keep his breathing steady as he hit play on the radio and turned the volume up, blasting some overplayed song that would work well enough to drown out his voice from anyone who might want to listen in on him. As he sat on his bed, he flipped his phone open and called Noah.

It rang three times, before Noah answered, “Hey.”

A silent sob suddenly escaped Chris’ chest at the sound of his voice, and Chris pressed the back of his hand against his mouth and nose. As if the single word had opened the floodgates that Chris had been forcing closed with every ounce of his determination, his entire body began shaking and he collapsed in on himself. His head dropped down towards his lap and his torso hunched over his legs—his muscles completely giving up on trying to keep him upright.

“They aren’t letting him have visitors yet,” Noah said, seemingly willing to ignore the way Chris was clearly breaking apart into a mess of stifled whimpers and soft gasps as he tried and failed to catch his breath on the other end of the call. A small mercy that Chris didn’t deserve. “From what I’ve heard, the surgeries have gone relatively well. Their main concern right now seems to be infection, but… Hell, actually, that might be something we do need to worry about for the first time ever. He’s still not healing.”

Chris’ eyes remained tightly shut—partly because he knew he wouldn’t be able to see through his tears anyway, but mostly because things felt a little less real when his eyes were closed. He used to do it when he was a child and thought he could see monsters in his closet at night. If he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him —or so he’d thought, at the time. As he got older, he’d learned it was a rather naïve way of thinking, since it only helped the monsters catch you by surprise. But now, as Chris was practically choking on his emotions in an effort to keep them as quiet as possible in case one of his kids decided to walk by the room, he figured the monsters had already caught him by surprise. It didn’t f*cking matter anymore.

“Any w-word on” —Chris’ voice failed for a moment, so he cleared his throat before repeating— “Any word on the girls?”

“No,” Noah sighed. “I put up missing posters on every inch of this damn county that I could legally do so on—and quite a few more where I couldn’t. Also took down a few missing pet posters to make room, but I’ve done worse.”

“If Kate has them, the posters won’t matter,” Chris said. “God, I hope she doesn’t have them.”

“Do you think she’d take them?”

“I have no idea what she’d do,” Chris admitted. “I obviously don’t know her at all! But if she was willing to… to burn down a f*cking house with people inside, I-I don’t want to know what she’d do to Cora or Malia. If she’s rogue—”

“I think it’s safe to say at this point that she’s definitely f*cking rogue, Chris,” Noah snapped.

“I know she is,” Chris said. He dug his knuckles into his eyes and clenched his teeth hard enough that he was slightly concerned they might break—and he’d deserve that. “This is all my fault.”

“Do you know where Kate might take the girls?”

“No. The phone number I have for her has been disconnected, so I can’t contact her or trace it. I called around Colorado, but she apparently moved all of her stuff out of the area before she’d even gone to Beacon Hills. She wouldn’t go to a place I know of—she’s too smart for that. She’s too trained. I f*cking trained her!”

“Do you think it’s likely that she has them, wherever she is?”

“Allison, probably. Her blood was at the scene, but there was no body—so someone had to have moved her, whether she was alive or… not. It would make sense for Kate to take her. She’s human, and she’s of Argent blood. She could, theoretically, continue the line in my place.”

“And Cora and Malia?”

“I hope not,” Chris wept. He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve and tipped his head back against the wall. “I really, really hope not. Laura and Derek say they can’t feel them, and I… I have to believe them, right? I mean, why would the packbonds be severed, if they were alive? But I don’t know—maybe I just want to believe them.”

Noah was quiet for a moment, before asking, “You want to believe your daughters are dead?”

“I want to believe that they aren’t strung up in a psychotic hunter’s basem*nt being… being tortured, or something horrible, because I decided to betray the hunting community to build a family I knew would cause backlash, and then ignored my husband when it mattered more than anything to listen to him.”

And that was the situation, wasn’t it? Even if Chris had listened to Peter when he suspected something, he really brought this upon himself. He knew the stakes when he chose to be with Peter—he knew how angry a lot of dangerous people would be. He knew the shame he’d bring on the Argent name, and what that might do to their reputation—which was arguably the most important thing to many old hunting families, like his. He’d just foolishly thought they could handle whatever repercussions might follow.

“What about Gerard?”

“That number was disconnected the day I married Peter—I have no way of contacting him. And he and Kate know how to hide. They’re not only trained in disappearing and covering their tracks—they’ve also got connections in every field they’d need. Law enforcement, medical, legal. And most of those connections won’t tell me anything, because I’m a traitor to my species.”

“We’re not just giving up, Chris.”

“I’m not. Believe me, I’m not—I’m just… being realistic. I don’t know what to do.”

“Yeah, well… you and me, both.”

“I… God, I really didn’t think the pack was in danger! I swear I didn’t, Noah—I didn’t think Kate had this in her. I didn’t think she’d do something like this. I didn’t think she could. Gerard, maybe, yeah. Not Kate, though. Not a fire. I was so stupid! There were other packs getting hit in the area, but she wasn’t even in Beacon Hills at the time—so I assumed it had to be unrelated. But now… were they all her?”

How much blood was on his hands?

“It doesn’t matter,” Noah said, his tone notably detached and empty in a way Chris recognized as his ‘compartmentalizing voice.’ “Maybe she did them, or maybe she thought it would be a good cover for her to take her shot at the pack.”

“I can barely look at Derek or Jackson.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Chris ground his teeth for several seconds, before he said, “You’re holding your tongue, and you don’t need to.”

“Good analysis.”

“Just get it out of your system.”

“I wanna wring your damn neck, Chris,” Noah told him, honesty dripping from his tone. “Actually, I kinda wanna rip your head off your shoulders. I’ve never been so pissed at someone in my life.”

“I’m not my biggest fan at the moment, either.”

“I’ve been trying to balance my time between being at home with my grieving son, and sitting in a hospital waiting room trying to keep it together as I wait for doctors to tell me if one of the most important people in my life is gonna live or die. And I’d also like to make note here that I went through this a few weeks ago with my wife, as well. And you know what? This is actually a lot worse than that—because I’ve never had to… to be an adult…to be anything, without him. I haven’t had to fight my battles without him since I was fifteen. I’ve never parented without him. I’ve never done anything without him, and now he might be gone—and that’s your fault. And-And now you’re having regrets, and that’s really great—I’m glad you finally got your head out of your ass—but it’s too late now.”

“I know,” Chris choked out as a fresh wave of tears slipped down his cheeks, and he hung up the call. He dropped his face down into one of his hands as he threw his phone across the room with a strangled, “f*ck!”

Allison woke slowly, which was strange for her. She wasn’t sure how many times she’d come to consciousness in silence in her entire life—but it wasn’t many. Usually, she was unceremoniously yanked into the day with eager hands and at least one of her siblings sitting on her feet with half a bagel hanging out of their mouth. The silence almost felt eerie.

Except, she wasn’t in silence, was she? There was a steady beeping noise she was becoming distinctly aware of, just behind her head and to the left. It reminded her of…

Allison’s eyes flew open and she sat up with a jolt, looking frantically around the unfamiliar hospital room. The wall color was wrong—and so was the shape of the small window in the door. She definitely wasn’t at Beacon Hills Memorial.

Her vision was a bit wonky, a little fuzzy, and her mind almost felt slowed down, like she couldn’t quite make sense of any of her thoughts.

“Allison?” a female voice asked from beside her, and a blonde woman put a gentle hand on her arm. She didn’t recognize the lady in the slightest—but she seemed to know her. At least well enough to sit in a chair by her bedside for quite some time, if her unwashed hair and faint undereye bags were anything to go by.

“Who are you?” Allison asked, her voice rough and her throat uncomfortably dry.

“My name is Kate,” she answered. “Kate Argent. I’m your aunt—Chris’ little sister.”

Allison flinched as fleeting memories flashed behind her eyes—of fire, and smoke, and a blinding pain in her leg. Her leg! She tugged the thin sheet off of herself and stared wide-eyed at the cast covering her from just below her knee to the base of her toes.

“It’s alright—you’re safe now,” Kate soothed, slowly rubbing her arm. “You had surgery on your leg, which is why you might feel a bit funny right now. You’re coming down from anesthesia.”

Allison touched the rough material of her cast. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“A fire,” Allison whispered, tears pricking at her eyes. “At the manor—there was a fire.”

“There was,” Kate confirmed, meeting Allison’s soft tone—as if it wasn’t a topic that should be addressed outside of hushed whispers.

“Hunters,” Allison recalled.

“You saw them?”

“No, but it was them,” Allison said sternly as she turned her attention to the woman. “There was mountain ash—that’s why I had to jump out of the window. I had to break the ash barrier. I know it was hunters.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Kate told her. “I don’t know what happened— but, if there was mountain ash, it probably was hunters.”

Allison sniffled and took a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself. She wished the fogginess would clear from her mind faster.

“You’re a hunter,” Allison realized. Kate Argent, her papa’s sister, was definitely a hunter. “My parents were fighting, because you… you were spying on us.”

“And who told you that?”

Well, nobody really told her. But that was why her parents were fighting, wasn’t it? Kate’s scent was on the property.

“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I wasn’t spying,” Kate continued. “I was meeting with Chris to discuss something—he asked me to come by. We kept it outside, so we thought Peter might not notice, but I was invited. And I definitely wasn’t the one who set the manor on fire, Allison. I would never have hurt my brother on purpose—he practically raised me.”

“What were you discussing?”

“It doesn’t matter now. Not anymore,” Kate said, her demeanor suddenly shifting to something very sad, very heavy. “Honey, I have to tell you something.”

Allison shook her head, her stomach dropping. She didn’t like the look in Kate’s eyes—she didn’t want to hear what she had to say.

“The fire—”

“No.”

“Allison—”

“Where are my parents?” Allison’s breath was beginning to come in shallower as she realized what Kate was trying to tell her. “Why are you here?”

Kate squeezed Allison’s hand. “The hospital called me… as next of kin, for Chris. And I was listed in his will to take you, if anything were to happen to him and Peter.”

Allison shook her head more forcefully and pulled her hand free. “Where are they?”

“They… they passed away.”

“No, they didn’t. They’re not —they’re not dead, Kate. They aren’t.”

They couldn’t be.

“The doctors tried their best, but—”

“Where’s Cora?” Allison interrupted her. “Where’s Malia and Jackson? And Derek—he wasn’t home—where is he?”

Kate sighed, before reaching into her purse and taking out a folded stack of three papers. Allison took them with trembling hands and opened them. The top page was a printed-out news article with the title, Electrical Malfunction Leads to Fatal Fire at Hale Manor. There was a very old-looking photograph of the mansion—Allison assumed it had been taken long before she was born—and directly beside it, a picture of the burnt husk that was left after the fire. Her eyes skimmed the short section of the reporting that was visible on the print out, which of course, detailed a story of an accidental fire instead of a mass murder.

The bottom two pages were missing persons posters with smiling images of Cora and Malia.

“From what I could understand from the police reports and the testimony that Laura gave, Talia, Chris, and Jackson were the closest to the original outbreak of the fire. They couldn’t get out before the exits were blocked off. Peter was trapped—”

“He got upstairs,” Allison remembered. “He gave me his wet shirt t-to block the smoke. So I could breathe better.”

“According to Laura, he was trapped there and was badly burned. Laura and Derek tried to go in and save him, but Derek fell through the floor and… he didn’t make it. Laura was able to pull Peter out, but he… he succumbed to his injuries at the hospital. I’m so sorry.”

Allison didn’t feel the tears on her face, but she saw them as they dripped down onto the faces of her sisters. "This doesn't—it doesn't make sense. This can't be—"

"Tragedies like this never do make sense."

“Where’s Laura?”

“She took off,” Kate said. “Maybe to get away from the hunters, maybe because she didn’t have any wolves to stick around for. She would be an alpha now, right? She probably went to look for other werewolves to build a pack.”

“She wouldn’t—” Allison tried to deny, but the words died in her mouth. Would she? Laura had never really seemed to care about anyone except Talia and Jackson—and if both of them were gone… And Kate was right: Laura was an alpha now. She needed a pack, if she wanted to stay stable. “W-What about Cora and Malia? Their bodies weren’t—they weren’t found, right? That’s why they’re missing? So they—they could be okay? Right?”

“They could be,” Kate told her, nodding. “And I’m already in contact with several hunting factions around northern California, looking for them. Most factions abide by the code, and they wouldn’t hurt children. If the girls are found, I’ll be the first to know—and you’ll be the second. Okay?”

“Someone did this,” Allison cried, anger building in her chest as she clutched the article in her hand. “It wasn’t an accident!”

“I’ll look into it,” Kate assured her. “The Argent name has a lot of pull in our community, and I’m about as stubborn and driven as they come. I will find out who was behind this, Allison, I swear that to you. And I’ll make sure they pay for what they did. A rogue hunter is a danger to everyone, and they won’t get away with it.”

Allison didn’t know what to think about Kate. Peter didn’t like her, that was for certain, but Chris did. At least a little, right? At least enough to fight Peter over her. And that had to mean something, right?

“What did Papa wanna talk to you about?” Allison wondered. “When you came over. What did he wanna talk about?”

“It… it’s complicated,” Kate said carefully. “And I’ll tell you everything, if you really want to know, but not right now. You just had surgery, you’re on a lot of pain killers, and this isn’t a conversation we should have in a hospital. Alright?”

Allison gave a small nod and let herself fall back against the pillows. Her eyes trailed down to the cast on her leg and she frowned. She remembered the sound of it breaking. She’d refused to look at the damage until she’d pushed her hand through the line of mountain ash, because she knew it was bad and she didn’t want to panic until the barrier was broken. But then—nothing. Had she even managed to break the barrier? She must have, if Cora and Malia had made it out of the manor.

“You had an open tibial and fibula fracture,” Kate revealed, also eyeing the cast. “It was pretty gnarly, baby girl. When paramedics brought you here, you’d already passed out—and I would have, too. They had to put some metal in your leg to hold the bones in the right place while they heal, but you should be good as new eventually.”

“Wow,” Allison said, her drowsiness finally starting to press in on her mind with renewed passion. Her energy had seemingly abandoned her in her tears.

“Take a nap,” Kate said, brushing her fingers through Allison’s hair. “You’re safe here.”

Allison’s eyelids drooped as she was lulled to sleep with the gentle scratching of Kate’s fingernails against her scalp.

There were many adjectives that could be used to describe Stiles Stilinski—both good and bad—but patient was not one of them. If patience was a virtue, then maybe Stiles wasn’t so virtuous—but so what? He didn’t really know what ‘virtue’ meant anyway, so it wasn’t impacting him all that much. Frankly, the fact that he waited until his eleventh text to Derek went unanswered before calling Jackson was nothing short of a miraculous feat.

Stiles understood Derek, he really did, so he could understand why he wasn’t answering any of his calls or texts. He could feel how sad Derek felt through their bond—the heaviness in his heart, the anguish burning in every ounce of his body. He understood. Maybe if he was older, maybe if he was more patient, he could sympathize with him—but he didn’t. How dare he up and leave? How dare he have the nerve to shut down and ignore him at a time like this? Stiles had always been there for him, even when he was being dumb, even when he was being scared—and now Derek had the nerve to go totally radio silent after Stiles lost almost everything he cared about?

It wasn’t fair. None of it was—not to anyone—but Stiles, in his most private thoughts, felt a little like the gods were personally targeting him. What were the odds that he would lose his pack within weeks of losing his mother? And to make matters so much worse, he was cursed with the worst abilities of any supernatural creature ever. He didn’t get cool fangs or claws or enhanced smell—he got the burden of dealing with everyone else’s stupid feelings on top of his own. Since the fire, he hadn’t been able to sleep, had barely been able to eat, had hardly managed to make it through an hour without crying—and to add to his issues, that combination of lack of sleep, hunger, and emotional turbulence had given him a real hair-trigger temper that was exploding out of him at the slightest inconveniences. The previous night, he’d cracked the bathroom mirror by bashing his hairbrush into it after the brush had rudely fallen off the counter onto his foot.

So sure, Stiles could understand why Derek might want to curl up and hide under the bed—but he was angry about it. Because Derek was older, and he should… he should be able to pick up a freaking phone and call his mate! Stiles was only nine and although he was constantly being drowned in the never-ending stream of Derek’s overwhelming emotions, and he couldn’t even hug his dad without being flooded with insurmountable grief, he was still reaching out to Derek.

“What?” Jackson answered the call probably half a ring before it would’ve gone to voicemail. The boy’s unnatural, monotonous tone immediately sobered Stiles a bit. It was almost jarring to hear Jackson so lackluster. Stiles almost wanted to check to see if he’d even called the right number.

“Hi,” Stiles greeted, slightly unnerved. “Er, how are you?”

“What do you want?”

“Derek is ignoring me.”

Stiles fully expected to be told that Jackson didn’t care, or maybe asked how that was his problem—both of which would have been valid responses—but he was only met with silence for several long seconds.

Finally, Jackson said, “He’s ignoring all of us.”

“Well, he needs to stop.”

“He doesn’t wanna talk. He hasn’t left his room except to go to the bathroom, and he just sleeps most of the day.”

“He has to talk to me.”

“He’ll call you when he wants to.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“That’s better than any of us have it!” Jackson exclaimed, and Stiles flinched. “You’re the only one in this pack who knows your person is okay and that he’ll talk to you eventually, but here you are, calling and whining to me. I don’t care if Derek being moody is making you sad. Go cry about it.”

Stiles chewed the inside of his lip as he realized that he’d called Jackson, of all people. Malia was missing, and he called Jackson to complain about Derek ignoring him.

“I’m gonna throw my phone into his room,” Jackson said, his tone dulled again. “He probably won’t answer, but he’ll hear you.”

“Thanks.”

Stiles listened as there was a knock, and then a muffled tumble that he assumed was Jackson’s phone hitting carpet. Something about knowing that he was, in a way, in the same room as Derek made tears brim in his eyes. He felt closer to him than he’d felt since they left to the airport, but also so, so far.

“Hey, Der,” Stiles said tentatively, the words coming out far more like a whisper than he intended. “I, uh… I actually wanted to tell you how angry I am that you’re ignoring me, but… I just… I miss you. I can feel how sad you are, and I’m sad, too—and I…I don’t know what to say. Jackson said you’re hiding in your room. I kinda am, too. My dad keeps making me drink water, so you should probably do that. And if you don’t feed your wolfy muscles, they’ll go away—and that would suck, because you worked hard for those. So, I don’t know—go find chips or… a small, helpless creature in a bush, or something. Cook it, though, please.” There was no response, but Stiles didn’t expect there to be. He sat on the line for a while, probably longer than he should have when there was nothing being said. Eventually, he told him, “I can’t lose you, too, Derek.”

Then, he hung up before the resounding silence could feel too much like rejection.

When Allison’s eyes opened next, her head felt less cloudy. She could feel Kate’s hand gently holding hers, and Allison grasped it a bit tighter—not necessarily because she liked the woman, but because she really needed something to hold onto. What was her life supposed to look like now? Where was she supposed to go? With Kate? She didn’t even know her.

“Look who’s awake,” a tall man in scrubs greeted her kindly. “Your vitals are all looking good, Miss Allison. You can get out of here whenever you feel up to it.”

But get out of there—to where?

“My apartment isn’t too far from here, and I have an extra bedroom with your name on it,” Kate told her, seemingly reading her mind. “It’s a little… plain at the moment, but that’s what credit cards and shopping trips are for, right?”

Allison didn’t want to go back to Kate’s apartment. She didn’t want to go anywhere. But she also didn’t want to stay in the hospital. She nodded, and Kate smiled warmly.

“I don’t exactly know your style, but I saw this” —Kate pulled a deep purple sundress out of her bag and draped it over Allison’s lap— “and I thought it was super cute. And clothing like this might be easier to wear with that big cast.”

Allison brushed her fingers over the soft fabric and a faint smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. “I like it.”

“A woman of good taste, then,” Kate teased. “I’ll inspect the wallpaper while you get changed, and then we can blow this popsicle stand.”

“Okay,” Allison agreed. Once Kate turned away, Allison carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed. Getting out of the hospital gown and into the new dress was relatively easy, so it only took her a few seconds before she said, “I’m done. How do I… walk?”

Kate stood and grabbed a pair of crutches that were leaning against the wall. “You’re gonna become best friends with these babies.”

“Great,” Allison sighed, holding her hands out.

Learning to walk with crutches turned out to be one of the most awkward, uncomfortable things Allison had ever tried to get the hang of. Even after she’d gone through the entire hospital and the parking lot, to Kate’s SUV, she still felt as if she had no idea what she was doing.

“Careful not to put any weight on your injured leg,” Kate promptly reminded her as she opened the door and eased the crutches away from her. Allison—with some shuffling, hopping, and maneuvering—managed to get buckled into the back seat successfully. Kate slid the crutches under Allison’s feet, before getting into the front. “So, are you hungry? We could pick up some food before heading to the apartment.”

Allison wasn’t hungry until that very moment, but now that she was thinking about it, she was starving. What day was it? When was the last time she’d eaten?

“Yes, please.”

“You don’t need to be so formal with me, babe,” Kate told her, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. “I’m your family. If you’re hungry, just say you’re hungry.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Awesome—so am I,” Kate said. “What do you like?”

Allison wasn’t sure. Her parents almost always cooked—she was struggling to think of a fast food joint off the top of her head.

“I could go for some burgers,” Kate suggested. “In N Out is on the way. Unless you’re more in the mood for—”

“Burgers are good.”

“Perfect.”

They didn’t speak much for the rest of the car ride. Allison didn’t have anything to say, and Kate didn’t push.

Somehow, despite StilesMateStiles being on Derek’s wolf’s mind since the moment he boarded the plane, he hadn’t actually thought about how his abilities would be affected. He said he could feel how sad Derek was—and of course he could. He was an empath, or whatever, and they had a mate bond. Fantastic mate Derek was turning out to be, not even thinking about the fact that Stiles was emotionally tied to him. But what was he supposed to do? Stop feeling sad? If anything, now he also felt guilty that he was adding onto Stiles’ issues.

He had spent almost two hours staring at Jackson’s phone in the middle of his room, and then another three more looking anywhere except the phone, before he decided that he could probably force himself to eat something. For Stiles. He probably owed him that much, even if he wasn’t particularly hungry.

The sun had long gone down, so the house was quiet. Derek wouldn’t have risked leaving the bedroom if it wasn’t—he didn’t trust himself at the moment. Not when his wolf was seemingly waking up from the shock it had been in after the fire. With every passing minute, Derek could feel the wolf stirring more, noticing more. He was increasingly aware of the sniffling in Jackson’s room, the steady breathing in Chris’, the smell of wet nail polish in Laura’s. His eyes instinctually flared as he walked through the hall, allowing him to see every shadow for what it really was, rather than what it could be. The last thing he needed was to get spooked.

Derek really didn’t have the energy to cook anything, and there was nothing easy to grab in the kitchen upstairs. He was hoping to be back in the room within a few minutes, so having to boil water or cook the ground beef—

He slammed the fridge door shut a bit too forcefully and put his hand over his mouth before he could throw up the sip of water he’d had earlier. No cooking meat.

So, the upstairs kitchen was a bust. He lingered by the stairs for a moment, listening. He couldn’t hear any speaking, or televisions, or anything else that would suggest anyone might be awake on the lower levels. And there were no bedrooms on the first floor—so if he rushed past the second floor, he should be fine.

Slinking through the stairwells until he reached the downstairs kitchen went about as smoothly as he’d hoped, since he (thankfully) hadn’t run into anyone. He was rather hypervigilant as he moved about the unfamiliar layout of the house—his senses frantically picking up every bit of input they could detect. There were so many directions he could be attacked from, and he hated it. The faster he could scavenge some food, the faster he could get back to the bedroom.

He opened the refrigerator and squinted at the bright light suddenly filling the room. Why did refrigerators need lights? If people wanted it to be bright, they’d turn the kitchen light on. His eyes darted about the selves, looking for something easy, until they finally landed on a tupperware full of some sort of… complicated pasta? There were noodles, at least—he could see them smushed against the walls of the container.

Maybe it was rude of him to steal their leftovers, but Derek was much more willing to be seen as an asshole than he was to actually put in the effort to make something. He lifted the lid to inspect the food and was immediately hit with a mouth-watering scent. Along with the noodles, there was also ground chicken, shredded cheese, black beans, jalapeños, salsa—

“It’s good,” Callum suddenly voiced from the entrance to the kitchen, nearly causing Derek to drop the food.

Derek’s features rapidly morphed as his shift took over, and he let out a low warning growl as he hugged the tupperware against his chest with one arm. The fingers of his free hand twitched anxiously at his side, his claws ready to defend both himself and his food.

“I apologize for startling you,” Callum said calmly, seemingly unfazed by Derek’s demeanor. “I’m going to turn the light on, so you may want to unshift your eyes.”

Derek didn’t, of course. His wolf apparently preferred being blinded, rather than daring to rely on his human sight.

Callum took another step into the kitchen and Derek snarled, baring his teeth at the man—who simply showed his palms and tipped his head to reveal his throat. The submission was confusing, but Derek felt his wolf ease in his chest ever so slightly, even as Callum continued to enter and lean against the island between them. He didn’t try to get near Derek, but he also didn’t smell like fear—so Derek didn’t think he was keeping his distance because he was nervous. He actually didn’t smell much like anything, as far as his chemosignals went—which Derek didn’t like, because it meant he wasn’t sure what to expect from him.

“I didn’t intend to sneak up on you. I’m afraid I picked up the skill of walking very lightly when I was younger and had to wrangle all of my mischievous siblings—and I never quite lost the habit,” Callum explained. He glanced down at the container in Derek’s hand and offered, “Would you like me to heat that up for you?”

Derek shook his head.

“It’s good cold, too,” Callum allowed. “It’s Taco Pasta. A true transgression against both Beatriz and I’s cultures. My mother was born and raised in Italy, and I was the lucky one who got to be raised by her, so I grew up with lots of Italian food. Beatriz is Latina. I’m not sure when we decided that combining those two food styles was a good idea, but I’m sure that both of our mothers are turning in their graves every time we make it. Unfortunately for them, it’s Kenicki’s favorite—so we make it relatively often.”

“Weird name,” Derek said through clenched teeth. His voice was a bit too rough, but Callum didn’t seem to notice.

“Kenicki?” Callum asked, and Derek nodded. “Oh, we didn’t name him that. His name is Kenneth Nicolás, but he considered it a personal slight against him. When he was about five, he combined them into Kenicki and demanded that everyone forget his birth name. He’d probably have a conniption if he knew I was even telling you this.”

It reminded Derek of Stiles, and his hatred towards his own name. Though, Mieczysław was arguably a bit more difficult to deal with than Kenneth. Derek wasn’t sure how Kenicki was any better or easier to go by. Wasn’t that a character in Grease?

“If you want to, you’re welcome to take that upstairs to your room,” Callum told him—and the words had barely left his mouth before Derek was practically sprinting with the container tucked under his arm like a football.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Before Cora had even opened her eyes that morning, her wolf was eagerly stirring in her chest at the enticing scent of some sort of cooked meat.

“Look at that—Sleepin’ Beauty managed to wake up just in time to eat the food she didn’t help get,” Aiden’s voice sneered.

Cora forced her eyes open just to shoot a glare at him.

“Aiden,” Ethan warned.

“You think I’m pretty?” Cora snarked as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. “I already know that, but I’m flattered.”

Aiden snorted. “Nobody called you pretty.”

“That’s what beauty means, stupid. You called me Sleeping Beauty.”

“I take it back.”

Cora rolled her eyes. “Says the dude who looks like a caveman with that crazy brow bone.”

“Gods help me,” Ethan muttered to himself under his breath as he dished meat and berries onto three plates.

“Nobody ever told you not to bite the hand that feeds you?” Aiden questioned. “Ethan, spit in her food—she called you ugly.”

“I called you ugly!”

“We’re identical twins. Identical means we look the same, stupid,” Aiden mocked. “So you said it about him, too.”

“No, he’s handsomer than you.”

“You’re both stupid,” Ethan declared, handing them each a plate. “Now, shut up and eat.”

Aiden plopped down on the foot of the bed and began ripping his meat into smaller pieces. Without looking away from his food, he asked, “Do you even know how to hunt? Like, trackin’ and killin’ animals in the woods? Or findin’ fruit or nuts, or whatever?”

“Uh, kinda?” Cora said— lied, really. She’d never needed to actually scavenge for food before. Her ‘hunting’ practice was mostly hide and seek or following sounds with her siblings to see how many bunnies they could find before the sun went down.

Aiden sighed, shaking his head. “Great.”

“We can teach you,” Ethan offered. “You’ve gotta know that kinda stuff, livin’ out here. You gotta know the territory—what to hunt, what to forage, what to not mess with.”

“Do you guys really hunt for all your food?”

“Yeah,” Aiden answered. “We can’t leave the territory except once a month—but that’s more for things like toothpaste and toilet paper.”

“Why?”

“Alpha’s orders.” Aiden shrugged. “Livin’ off the land, like wolves should.”

“But when we do get to go to town, it’s super fun,” Ethan said, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “That’s when we get to loot and stuff.”

“Loot?”

“Steal. Rob. Take without buyin’, y’know?” Aiden clarified. “We’re good at it. We gotta teach you that, too.”

“I can’t just steal,” Cora said, affronted by the notion. They had to be kidding. They couldn’t just go to town to stuff their pockets with things from stores, right? But their heart rates were steady, and they seemed serious in an oddly casual way, like this was a completely normal behavior, a common part of life. “What if you get caught?”

“We don’t.”

That was not an answer, but it was as much of one as she was apparently going to get.

“We’ll teach you huntin’ first,” Ethan decided. “That’s easier—and definitely more important right now.”

“Damn right,” Aiden agreed. “Time to get the princess off her ass.”

Cora bared her teeth at the boy. “I will bite you.”

“I bite back,” Aiden informed her, flashing his own teeth in return.

“He does,” Ethan confirmed. He absentmindedly rubbed his arm where Cora assumed the memories of a bite lingered.

Considering how annoying Aiden Steiner was, and how many times Cora had already had to hold herself back from lunging at him, she was pretty sure she was going to end up finding out about the biting first-hand.

“I’mma go out foraging this afternoon,” Ethan said. “You should come, too.”

Cora nodded. “Sounds good.”

Marin had become quite acquainted with Stiles over the few months they’d been meeting in her living room, yet the boy across from her felt like a stranger. The energy which usually radiated from him—the stimming, the twitching, the fidgeting—was completely absent, as he sat eerily still on the couch. His red-rimmed eyes appeared to be glazed over in a distrait sort of way, almost dissociative, almost like he wasn’t in the room at all.

“Stiles,” she softly addressed in an attempt to bring him back. “Have you been sleeping?”

He shook his head— barely, but enough for Marin to catch it.

“And why is that?”

“I can’t,” he admitted. “There’s just… too much.”

“Too much what?”

“Feelings. Sadness, angriness, scaredness— all the time.”

“Do you want to talk about—”

“They’re not mine,” Stiles interrupted, his eyes finally finding Marin’s. “It’s… my packbonds. The ones left, I guess—but I don’t know. I can’t really feel them right anymore. They’re all just a big mess—I can’t… separate them. I thought I could almost tell them apart before— before. But now, it’s all just a disaster. Everything is.”

“You can feel them right now?” Marin asked. “More than just Derek’s emotions, I mean.”

Stiles nodded, and Marin mirrored the action. Without looking away from him, she adjusted the notepad resting on her thighs and wrote, ‘empathic abilities no longer tactilely limited.’

“And how do you perceive them? How do they feel?”

Stiles shrugged. “Like feelings.”

“You’ve mentioned before that when you touch someone, you feel the emotions in your skin, like a blanket. You’ve described the experience as something physical. Is that the same now?”

“Not really. Well… kinda?” Stiles sighed, his eyebrows furrowing as he chewed on the inside of his lower lip. “I guess… it's like a ball in my chest. And then that ball has strings. And the feelings come from those strings, into the ball, and then kinda… go outwards to my skin. And they stay there. But when I touch people, the feelings are only in my skin, like a blanket.”

“I see,” Marin said as she scribbled a few more notes onto the paper. “And these are making it difficult for you to sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Marin eyed the paleness in the boy’s skin and the dark, puffy half-circles under his eyes. “Do you like tea?”

“Uh, I dunno. Maybe?”

“How would you feel about trying a special tea that might help you sleep?”

Stiles scratched the back of his neck. “What does it do?”

“I’m not certain that it will do anything, but I’ve been working on a blend of special herbs that are ideally supposed to temporarily limit your abilities, for at least a few hours. Similarly to how werewolves’ senses are affected by certain plants. It should essentially drug the creature part of you so that you wouldn’t feel your packbond network as much—or the emotions afflicting it.”

A flicker of hope lit up his dulled eyes—not the type of hope a child his age should have had, but a desperate kind that made Marin’s heart hurt for him—and he nodded emphatically.

“Let’s try it!”

Marin set her notebook on the coffee table between them and stood, heading for the kitchen. She hadn’t intended for Stiles to follow her, but he did. She grabbed the wooden box on the counter and took a tea bag from it, before putting a kettle of water on the stove.

“What’s that?” Stiles asked, his fingers brushing over a sigil engraved on the side of the box.

“It’s an ability-dampening sigil to set the intention of the herb blend.”

“What’s a sigil?”

“A magical symbol.”

“You’re magic?”

“I’m a druid, so I work with magic,” Marin clarified. “I don’t create it, as some species do. Since I’m human, I have no innate supernatural abilities—but I am proficient at harnessing and manipulating magic that already exists in the world.”

“That’s super cool,” Stiles said. “Can I learn that?”

“It depends on what species you are,” Marin reasoned. “We’ll see in time, I suppose.”

As soon as the kettle whistled, Marin filled a mug with steaming water and dropped the tea bag into it.

“When making this yourself, all you need to do is get a cup of hot water and put one of these bags into it for five minutes.”

“I don’t think I have one of those things,” Stiles said, pointing at the kettle. “Can I just microwave the water?”

Marin chuckled under her breath as she led them back to the living room. “Yes, but make sure it’s a microwave-safe mug.”

Once they were back in their seats, and the tea was steeping on the table between them, Stiles finally leaned forward to peer down at it. He frowned slightly and noticed, “It looks like dirt and leaves.”

“It is,” Marin told him simply, and he grimaced. “You don’t have to drink it.”

He hesitated a moment, but then sighed and mumbled, “I’ll drink it. In five minutes.”

“Well, while we wait, do you want to talk about how you are feeling?”

“Same as everyone else,” Stiles said, leaning back against the cushion. “Bad. I miss them a lot. I think my dad is gonna see Peter today.”

“Will you be going with him?”

Stiles shook his head. “Dad didn’t invite me, but I didn’t ask. I don’t think I wanna see him yet.”

“That’s alright—you don’t have to,” Marin said. “I'm sure Peter would understand if it makes you uncomfortable. Just go at your own pace.”

“It’s not like with my mom,” Stiles elaborated. “With Peter, it’s…I just… I know he’s gonna look different. I know he’s really… hurt. And he’s in a coma, so he’s not even… he’s not even a person right now, y’know? I mean, he’s not… acting like a person. Not like he is in my head, at least. That sounds so mean.”

“It’s understandable,” she assured him. “Seeing the state he’s in would likely make it feel more real that the fire happened. It would break the mental image you have of him, and that can be scary. It’s not mean to feel scared.”

Stiles turned his attention to his hands in his lap. “I don’t want it to feel more real.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But it is real. Whether you work to process it or not, it happened. You don’t need to process it today, though— today, you can try the dirt and herbs that might let you sleep.”

“Are you sure it’s okay to drink?” Stiles asked as he tentatively reached for the tea. “I don’t think you’re supposed to eat nature.”

“Of course you’re meant to eat nature,” Marin dismissed the concern. “Where do you think fruits and vegetables come from?”

Stiles shrugged.

“Drink,” Marin instructed.

There was a lot that Marin knew needed to be discussed, a lot of topics that they weren’t going to be able to breach in that session— like Derek —but Stiles needed sleep more than he needed anything else at the moment.

“How long will it take?” Stiles wondered. He sniffed the tea and his nose scrunched slightly, which made Marin smile.

“About thirty seconds after you drink it all.”

Stiles took a deep breath, then brought it to his lips and began chugging. Marin gaped incredulously at him as he downed the scorching tea like a shot at a college party.

“Stiles, that’s hot!”

“I know!” he gasped, his mouth hanging open. “It’s burning my taste away.”

“Then, stop.”

Stiles did not stop, until the cup was empty and he slammed it down on the table as if it were a stein.

“Ow!” he complained, fanning his tongue.

“Why did you do that?!”

“It smelled bad! I didn’t want to taste it!”

Marin stared for a moment, trying to wrap her head around the ridiculousness in front of her. “That’s a terrible reason for burning your mouth.”

“Did you smell it?” he questioned, eyebrows raised. “It was worth it.”

“Let’s agree to disagree,” she said, shaking her head. “How do you feel?”

“My throat kinda hurts now, but I’m fine.”

“No, I mean your abilities.”

“Oh,” Stiles understood. Marin knew she had succeeded when Stiles’ eyes slid out of focus and a small, relieved smile graced his face. “I can barely feel them.”

“Good,” Marin said as she snagged the throw blanket off the back of her chair and tossed it towards Stiles. “Take a nap.”

Stiles situated the blanket over himself in record time, then fell sideways to sprawl out along the couch. He was asleep within seconds.

Considering how much time Noah had spent glued to his phone, praying to any and every God that may be out there as he awaited the call from the hospital that would allow him to see Peter once he was deemed stable enough for visitors, he was a bit surprised by his legs’ unwillingness to step into Peter’s room. The door was open, but Noah had subconsciously approached the doorway at an angle where he couldn’t see the bed—couldn’t see whatever was left of his best friend. He knew it was bad, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to prepare himself no matter how long he lingered in the hallway—but his legs seemed to think that a few more minutes would help.

“Noah, hi,” Melissa greeted. Her eyes flickered into the room as she approached him. “Have you seen him yet?”

“No.”

She nodded and gave him a small, supportive grin. “Do you want me to tell you what to expect?”

Noah was a grown man. A deputy. He should have been brave enough to walk in, he knew that, and so he opened his mouth to tell her that he could manage—but what came out was a slightly-strangled, “Please.”

“As you know, he sustained severe burns to over seventy-five percent of his body, but they’re currently covered to prevent infection from bacteria in the air. He’s heavily bandaged, similar to what you might imagine a mummy to look like,” Melissa described. After another peek into the room, she added, “His left arm and part of his face are exposed, and you can touch him there. Don’t touch anywhere that he’s bandaged. Also, be mindful of what you say or do. It’s always a possibility for coma patients that they can hear their surroundings, even if they’re unresponsive.”

“Okay,” Noah said, nodding—to himself or Melissa, he couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t really matter either way. “Thank you.”

She smiled and rubbed his upper arm a few times, before excusing herself and leaving him on his own. He could do this. He could walk in and tell Peter that he was happy he was alive, that they were going to make it through this. He could keep him updated about the pups. One foot in front of the other, and Noah could get himself into the room.

Noah took a slow, steadying breath, then stepped through the doorway. As soon as his sight landed on Peter, it blurred with tears. Just as Melissa had warned, thick bandages covered the entire right side of his body, his chest, his neck, and even wrapped around his head—except for small patches around his mouth and left eye. Noah dragged one of the chairs from against the wall to Peter’s left side, and took a seat.

He looked so uncharacteristically small without his signature smirk or witful sarcasm or… anything. Peter always seemed so remarkably larger-than-life, and Noah thought stripping him of his air of clever charm was possibly worse than the burns.

“H-Hey, Peter,” Noah whispered, his voice quivering as it failed him. His hand came up to hover hesitantly over Peter’s for a few moments, before he gingerly enveloped it in his own, being very careful not to jostle his arm too much. There was a lot he wanted to say, a lot he probably should say, but his throat was far too tight for any words to have hope of getting through. Instead, he gently brushed his thumb back and forth over Peter’s inner wrist.

Since speaking was off the table for the moment, he let himself fall further into his emotions. His chest loosened enough for a sob to break through—and once the first had gotten free, many more followed. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against their joined hands and cried. He cried because he was sad, he cried because he was scared, he cried because the world was so f*cking unfair. Part of him wanted to beg Peter to wake up, to plead with whatever asshole higher power was controlling this sh*tshow called life—yet another, smaller, part of him almost hoped he wouldn’t wake. If he opened his eyes and looked at a world where his daughters were gone… Noah didn’t know if he’d survive it. He didn’t really think he would. Maybe he was protected this way, as f*cked up as it was.

Parents weren’t meant to know what it felt like to lose their children. Partners weren’t meant to know what it felt like for their husbands to betray them and get their family killed. People weren’t meant to know what it felt like to be burned alive—and Gods, how long had he burned before he fell unconscious? How long had his skin blistered and charred before his healing gave up? How long had he choked on scorching flames and thick smoke before his body shut him into a coma in a last-ditch effort to survive? If Peter woke up, how was he supposed to cope with any of that?

By the time Noah was able to pull himself back together, his throat was raw and his chest ached. He wiped his face and nose on the sleeve of his shirt as quickly as possible, then returned his hand to Peter’s.

“Sorry for crying on you—that wasn’t very sexy of me,” Noah teased, forcing a half-hearted smile onto his face. “I didn’t get too many tears on you, though. You’re welcome.”

Noah’s fingers trailed up and down Peter’s forearm—gently, but firmly enough to leave his scent behind—and was careful not to linger too long in one place to avoid irritating his skin.

“It’s just me today, but I’ll bring Stiles soon. I just wanted, needed, the space to… react. Alone.” Noah contemplated telling him about the girls, about how Chris and the boys left for New York, but the words clung to his tongue and refused to leave his mouth. He’d break the news another day. “I, uh… I’m sorry. You probably can’t hear me, but… if you’re even a little bit conscious in there, I know you must be hating this. I don’t like you here, either—but I swear, I’ll be right here in this room with you as often as I can be.”

Since Peter couldn’t hold up the other side of the conversation, Noah had to get used to the silence. At first, he felt the need to fill the void with ramblings—about work gossip, about television, about sports, about anything other than the heart-shattering information he should have been telling Peter. But as the time stretched on, the gaps of comfortable quiet grew longer. Every so often, Noah would throw out a thought—to Peter, to himself, to the beeping machines.

“I think I might pick up McDonald’s on the way home.”

“Stiles is at Marin’s—hopefully she knows how to deal with this mess, ‘cause I sure as sh*t don’t.”

“I’m on day three of wearing the same socks, because I haven’t done the laundry.”

“How the hell did we get here? How did everything— everything —fall apart at once?”

“I want a drink,” he finally admitted—the confession slipping out on a flimsy breath like a secret that wasn’t supposed to escape. “I really want a drink, Peter. And I know, I know, you would tell me that it won’t help, and that I can’t risk… I can’t risk slipping back, but—but damn it, it would help. I know it would, I know how I feel when I’m drunk, and I want to be numb so badly. I don’t—I don’t know how to get through this. Not without you. I’ve never had to get through anything serious without you—you’ve been… my strength, my pillar, my… my anchor. I don’t know what to do now.”

A soft knock on the doorframe drew Noah’s attention, and Melissa stood there with her purse over her shoulder. “Visiting hours are ending in a minute, and I just got off. You think you and Stiles could use some company tonight?”

Noah did not want company tonight. He wanted to curl up in bed with a bottle of whiskey—which was exactly why he told her, “That’d be great.”

“Your house or mine?” she asked. Usually, he’d say his own—but he paused, thinking about the dirty clothes spilling out of the laundry room into the kitchen, and the dishes piled high in the sink. When he didn’t answer, she decided, “Let’s go with mine. I have frozen pizzas and half a package of girl scout cookies, unless Scott’s gotten into them since this morning.”

Noah nodded and she left him to say his goodbyes.

“I’ll be back,” Noah promised, before letting go of Peter’s hand and standing up.

Jackson missed the preserve. He missed a lot of things, but the lack of trees made him itch. Without the shelter of the woods around him, he felt too exposed, too open. Hale Manor had been so secluded, and it was freeing in a way that Jackson had never thought too much about before he didn’t have it anymore. Back in Beacon Hills, there had been so much privacy to just be themselves. It was different here, where the trees were fewer and farther between, and the neighbors were in ear and eye shot—where the wolves would have to hide even in their own yard. Malia was going to hate it. She’d never be able to let her wolf loose.

“Hey, Jackson!” Kenicki called out behind him. Jackson glanced over his shoulder to see him and Eli approaching with matching smiles.

In an attempt to discourage them from trying to hang out with him, he quickly turned his attention back to the grass tickling his ankles.

Eli crouched down beside him. “What are you doing out here?”

“You have eyes, don’t you?”

“Yeah, and they’re seeing you do a whole lot of nothing.”

“We were just wondering if you wanted to go to the skatepark with us tomorrow after school?” Kenicki invited. “We’ve got extra skateboards you can use—it would be fun.”

“And if you don’t know how to skateboard, we can teach you!”

“I’m busy,” Jackson clipped.

Eli snorted. “Staring at the grass?”

“Being outside.”

“That sounds… really boring,” Eli said, frowning.

“It’s nice,” Jackson argued. “Aren’t you supposed to be a werewolf?”

“Yeah?”

“But you don’t spend time outside?”

Eli shrugged. “Why would I just sit outside, when things like video games exist? And movies, and board games, and—”

“You’re not a werewolf,” Jackson scoffed derisively. “You’re a failwolf.”

He was human, and even he knew the importance of being in nature. What the heck was wrong with these people? How did the walls of their home not feel claustrophobic?

“You don’t have to be so rude,” Kenicki told him.

“And you don’t have to be out here bothering me.”

“Whatever—let’s just go,” Kenicki said to Eli, grabbing the younger boy’s arm and pulling him up.

Jackson didn’t bother paying them any more attention as they headed back towards the house. He brushed his fingers through the grass, then tore a handful of it out and began ripping it up into tiny pieces to keep himself busy. The breeze was kinda nice, but biting in a way that Jackson wasn’t used to. It was much colder in New York than California—even in March. Apparently, New York winters were snowy. Jackson had never seen snow in person before, but it looked fun, so he was a little bit excited for it. He hoped Malia would be home before then, so they could experience it for the first time together.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed out there, but he figured his freedom was coming to an end as the sun began to set. Chris would surely drag him in for dinner soon, but Jackson wouldn’t go in until he had to. He didn’t want to be in that house, with those people, in that room that wasn’t his. He hated his bedding and the color of his walls and the fact that Malia’s clothes weren’t littering his floor. With how many there always seemed to be, he was pretty sure she had a habit of dumping out her dresser drawers onto his carpet, but she always denied it. However it happened, he never caught her in the act. More than anything, he hated how empty his bed felt. Most nights a week, Malia would end up in his room at some point throughout the night—and manage to take up all of the space. He’d always ended up on the very edge, practically hanging off the side of the bed—but Malia’s arms, clinging to him with a death grip, always kept him on the mattress.

Once the sun had disappeared, the front door of the house opened.

“Hey, buddy,” Anson greeted him as he strolled through the yard in his direction. “It’s getting late. I think your dad made some sort of casserole upstairs—Rori says it smells amazing. And Cal made baked chicken, if you want that instead.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Anson sat next to him, but Jackson didn’t bother looking over. It was too dark to see much more than shadows, anyway.

“Okay,” Anson allowed, his voice turning softer. “If you don’t want to eat, do you want to talk?”

“No.”

“I won’t try to force you. I just wanted to let you know that I’m here, if you feel like speaking with someone who can understand what you’re going through. Losing a twin sister, I mean.”

Jackson’s jaw clenched and he dropped the grass pieces back onto the ground.

“Illyana was four minutes older than me,” Anson continued. He chuckled lightly, sadly. “She held that over my head for her entire life, so it’s the first thing I think of when I try to describe her.”

“Malia’s not dead.”

“I know it can be—”

“She’s not,” Jackson said through gritted teeth. “I don’t care what Laura thinks she knows. I don’t care if Derek can’t feel her—his stupid wolf is broken, anyway. I don’t care what anyone says, got it? I know she’s alive—I know it. I’ve always been able to feel her. I always know when she’s hurt. So I don’t care if nobody else can feel her packbond or whatever, because I can. She’s alive.”

Anson was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. “Illyana and I tried to explain that connection, that sixth sense, too—but you can’t understand it, unless you’re a twin.”

Jackson felt some of the tension dissipate from his shoulders. “You felt it, too?”

“Until the second she was killed,” Anson quietly confirmed. “I wasn’t there, but when it happened… I just fell to the kitchen floor. My legs gave out, and I forgot how to breathe until I heard Peter’s howl in the next room as he felt her packbond break. Even before the wolves felt it, I just… I knew it in my heart, when hers stopped beating.”

“Then you can’t tell me that Malia’s dead,” Jackson said, reaching over to grab Anson’s arm. “You understand, so you can’t tell me she’s dead—because I can still feel her. My heart knows that hers is still beating.”

Anson’s hand blanketed Jackson’s and he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Okay. I believe you.”

Jackson didn’t realize that tears had come to his eyes until they began rolling down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother wiping them under the cover of the darkness.

Noah couldn’t help but smile when Stiles came bounding out of Marin’s house with a slight pep in his step that Noah hadn’t seen in too long. The lights within Noah’s car weren’t the best, but he was pretty sure that the dark bags beneath Stiles’ eyes were all but gone.

“Good session?” he asked.

“She gave me magic tea that helps me sleep,” Stiles told him, and held up a wooden box. “It makes my abilities quieter somehow, so I can’t really feel them. I pretty much just slept all day.”

“Good,” Noah said—and it really was. The poor kid was on the brink of turning into a zombie. If magic tea was what it took to bring him back to functioning, then Noah was all for it. “We’re having dinner at the McCall’s house.”

“Scott?” Stiles asked, his head tilting like a confused puppy.

“Yeah. I ran into Melissa at the hospital, and… I think some company could be a good idea for us.” For Noah. “Is that alright with you?”

“Sure,” Stiles agreed. “I haven’t seen him in awhile.”

Stiles hadn’t been to school since the fire, and unlike when Claudia died, he wasn’t expressing any desire to return. Noah wasn’t sure what to make of that, or how to address it, but the school was being extremely cooperative. They told Noah that Stiles could take his time, as long as he completed his packet of school work each week, which Noah could pick up and drop off at the office.

The front door of the McCall residence was wide open when Noah pulled up to it, and Scott was standing in the doorway as a silhouette against the bright lights from within the house. Stiles carefully set the box of tea on the floor of the car, then hopped out to greet him. Noah held his breath as Scott flew forward into a hug, seemingly oblivious to the way Stiles tensed up just before impact. Stiles hadn’t let Noah touch him in days—his abilities were too uncontrolled and painful for him to handle the emotional bleed-through—but Scott couldn’t have known that.

It took about two and a half seconds for Stiles to melt into the hug, and—surprisingly—his hand came up to grip the back of Scott’s neck to make contact with his skin. A short huff of relieved laughter fell out of Stiles, and he squeezed Scott tighter.

“Hi,” Scott said cheerfully.

“Hey, Scotty.”

And then it dawned on Noah that of course Stiles could touch Scott. Scott was sunshine, warmth, and happiness incarnate. And Gods, Stiles needed that.

“Get in here before the neighbors smell the pizza and invite themselves over!” Melissa called from inside.

“We should go,” Scott declared as he pulled away—but when Stiles desperately grabbed onto his hand, Scott was quick to lace their fingers together and lead him towards the house.

When Noah reached the kitchen, he eyed the two empty pizza boxes on the counter and raised his eyebrows. “California Pizza Kitchen? I didn’t know the president was stopping by.”

“Shut up,” Melissa laughed.

“So fancy. Sicilian, even.”

“The fanciest pizza Target sells,” Melissa agreed. “There are sodas in the fridge, if you want one.”

“Thanks,” Noah said. He grabbed a cold co*ke and popped the tab to open it. “How was work?”

“It was… work. Nobody was too difficult today, which was nice. Though I had to work through my lunch, which was less nice. But hey, tonight we eat CPK. What more could I ask for?”

“That’s the spirit.”

Scott poked his head into the kitchen. “Mom, when’s dinner gonna be ready?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Stiles, we have enough time to play one game!” Scott shouted as he retreated back towards the living room.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

There would be a full moon that night. There was no calendar hung on the kitchen wall with a misshapen wolf doodle on the designated square, but Allison knew nonetheless. Despite being human, she swore that sometimes she could feel the full moon singing in her blood. She was just a bit more energized, a bit more appreciative of the wind coming in through her window, a bit more present. And since it was March, it was Worm Moon.

She thought it was a rather cruel joke from the universe that she’d lose her entire pack right before the werewolf holiday of remembrance. Allison had never had a reason to ‘celebrate’—she’d never lost anyone she cared about—but now, she’d lost everyone. She wished she’d taken the time to ask about the ritual when she had the chance, because she knew close to nothing about it. It involved flowers and fire—though the latter made her feel sick, so she probably wouldn’t have wanted to participate even if she did know how Worm Moon was supposed to go.

A knock sounded against the door, before Kate’s head poked into the room. She glanced at the abandoned book slid halfway off Allison’s lap, then asked, “You alright, kiddo?”

“I’m fine.”

They both knew it was a lie, but Kate nodded regardless.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Kate entered the room and crawled onto the foot of Allison’s bed, then sat cross-legged with her hands on her knees.

“What can I do? How can I help you?”

Allison shook her head and shrugged. Kate couldn’t bring her family back, or explain the Worm Moon ritual to her.

“I can’t understand exactly what you’re going through, or how you feel, but when I was young, my mom died,” Kate told her. “I was never close with my dad while I was growing up—he wasn’t big on parenting—so she was all I really had. My stability. I was devastated, and I was scared. But Chris wasn’t. Or maybe he was, but he didn’t show it—not to me, anyway. He was sturdy and confident and he stepped up to the plate, taking over everything our mom did for us. He made my lunches for school, he helped me with my homework, he kept track of what times I could take medicine when I was sick—he was just Superman, in my eyes. He was strong in a way that I didn’t know how to be yet. He taught me how to be strong.”

Allison nodded, because Chris was always the stable one in their home—the denmaker. He was a bit more serious and collected in ways Peter wasn’t—which usually made him the boring, stricter dad, but he was stable. He was good at mediating when Peter looked ready to rip Talia and Laura’s heads off, and he could always deescalate the daily squabbles amongst the pups. She wasn’t surprised that Chris was that way as a child, too—he must’ve been born to be a denmaker.

“I don’t know how to be that for you,” Kate quietly admitted, as if the words hurt to speak aloud. “I want to try, though. I’m gonna be here for you, if you want to talk—or if you need anything. Okay?”

“Okay,” Allison agreed. After a moment, she wondered, “What did you do to remember her? Your mom.”

A melancholy smile flitted across Kate’s face as she looked out the window at the blue sky. “Every year on her birthday, we would go out to eat. Chris usually let me pick, and I always chose pizza. I had a bit of an addiction as a child. And there was this ice cream sundae we’d share that was as big as my head. Chris had more memories of her than I did, since he was older, and he’d tell me stories. It helped keep her around, in a way.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was,” Kate sighed, absently twirling the ends of her hair around her fingers. “Until I was fifteen, and he married Peter. He wasn’t allowed to associate with me after that. I couldn’t really bring myself to go to the pizza place anymore, because it would feel like I was mourning them both.” She winced and pinched the bridge of her nose. “God, and now I am.”

Allison reached out and took the hand still resting on Kate’s knee, and Kate gently squeezed her fingers.

“Anyway,” Kate said pointedly. “If you’d like to go out and find food, or order in, or whatever—let me know. Sometimes food can help. And if you want to tell any stories, I’d love to hear them.”

“I like pizza,” Allison suggested.

Kate grinned. “What do you think about ordering pizza and chocolate lava cakes, and watching a movie in my room?”

“I think that sounds good.”

“Perfect!” Kate swiftly rolled off the bed onto her feet. She grabbed the crutches propped up against the wall and offered them to Allison, who situated them under her arms with practiced ease.

The March full moon was Worm Moon—which, supposedly, meant that the veil between the living and dead was at its thinnest. Because of this, it was a day of remembrance for lost loved ones. It never meant much to Jackson, but he’d seen Talia do it every year from the third story window, after he and Allison were sent to the upstairs family room at sundown—and he’d caught glimpses of Peter out there with her a time or two.

These Hales he lived with now weren’t wolfy in the slightest—one of the two shifters there couldn’t even shift—so he’d figured the holiday would pass by without mention. He certainly hadn’t expected to find Rori at the downstairs kitchen island that afternoon, sorting flower petals into piles by their colors.

“Hey, Jackson,” she greeted, sending a brief smile his way, before looking back down at the assortment. “Are you guys gonna join us for Wolf Moon?”

Jackson shrugged and came closer. “We don’t usually, but now… I don’t know.”

“We do it every year,” she said as she took a flower from the pile in the center and began plucking the petals off. “Mostly for my mom, but Callum does it for his parents, and Beatriz for hers.”

“You have to do it for specific people?”

“Yeah—at least, that’s how Cal and Beatriz taught us. You just pick out a few petals you think your loved one would enjoy, whisper a message into them, and then toss them into the fireplace. When the plants burn, they die—and the message is passed through the veil.”

“That makes sense,” he said. “And you’re sorting them so it’s easier to pick colors?”

“Yep.” Rori eyed Jackson as he hovered by a barstool and raised an eyebrow. “Feel free to make yourself useful.”

“Sounds boring,” Jackson said, though he proceeded to perch himself on the stool. “But, I guess, since I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Well, I don’t have anyone better to ask, so,”—Rori smirked, and the corner of Jackson’s mouth twitched upwards in a lopsided smile— “I guess it works out, huh?”

“I am the best. There’s no one better.”

Rori pushed a few flowers towards him. “Prove it.”

“I will!” he declared, reaching for a peony.

They sat in a comfortable silence—both taking far too long to pluck each petal, and a few more unnecessary seconds here and there to tidy up the neat piles. Jackson was grateful that Rori didn’t try to conversate while they worked. He didn’t have much of an interest in getting to know her, and she didn’t seem to think it was important, either. Jackson would never admit it, but it wasn’t all that bad to have some company.

That sentiment did not, however, extend to Kenicki and Eli—who were annoying and not even half as fun as Jackson’s sisters were.

“So,” Rori eventually broke the silence. “Your dad said you like art?”

Jackson shrugged noncommittally. “I guess.”

“What kinda art?” she wondered. “I mostly draw, but Anson likes to paint.”

“Any. All.”

“Have you seen the studio yet?”

“Studio?”

“Yeah, c’mon,” she told him as she stood. She didn’t wait for a response before briskly heading for the back of the house.

Jackson scrambled to slide off the stool and chase after her. He followed her to the kitchen, where she paused in front of a pair of folding doors that reminded Jackson of the laundry room in Hale Manor. Though, when she pulled them open, it most definitely was not a laundry room.

“The studio,” she introduced.

“Woah,” Jackson breathed as he stepped into the large room.

He didn’t think it had always been part of the house, because it looked nothing like the rest. The ceiling was a bit taller than the downstairs of the mansion, and apart from a few supportive beams, it was entirely glass. Jackson had never seen such a large skylight before. He was mesmerized for a moment as he watched the clouds slowly move.

The floor was likely concrete, but it was hard to tell under the layers of paint splatters, glitter, and what Jackson was pretty sure was chalk. The walls were just as covered, though clearly more deliberately. Different art styles were mashed together across every inch—some messy and abstract, others intricate and stunningly realistic. Stools, easels, and canvases were littered about the room, and a large metal table covered in rulers, colored pencils, and cups of murky water stood in the center of the chaos.

“Anson and I spend a lot of time in here,” Rori said. “It’s a good place to just… let go. An escape, I guess, from whatever bullsh*t life throws at us.”

“It’s awesome.”

“This is my half over here.” Rori gestured to the far side of the room. Jackson trailed behind her as she walked further in. “If you ever wanna come in here and create, you can. I don’t need all this space—I’ll split my portion with you.”

Jackson’s eyebrows raised and he wrung his hands in front of his stomach as he eyed the area she was offering. Why would she just give him half of her space? She clearly used it—it seemed just as hectic as the rest of the studio—so it would probably be missed.

“It’s yours,” she decided, an air of finality in her tone. She grabbed a blank canvas from against the wall and set it on the easel in his new corner. “Do whatever you want with it. Come in here, or don’t. Paint the walls white with that roller brush over there and make the space your own, or don’t. Okay?”

Jackson hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Rori grabbed a can of white paint and set it beside the pan and roller brush, then left the room without another word. As the doors rolled closed, Jackson knelt beside the paint can.

Stiles couldn’t find his fidget spinner anywhere—which was a problem, because he wasn’t going to make any progress on his homework packet without it. All of his stimming toys seemed to vanish over the past week, which either meant that something was stealing them (like a hobgoblin) or Stiles was being extra talented at losing things lately. Either could be true, but he was leaning towards the first possibility until proved otherwise.

He’d checked the kitchen, the laundry room, the bathroom—and he was pretty sure he almost found Narnia with how long he’d searched his closet—but it was to no avail.

“Stupid hobgoblins,” he groaned as he collapsed exhaustedly onto the carpet and blankly stared at the stipple ceiling above him. He wondered how it became so bumpy and weird—was it the paint? Or did his actual ceiling look like that? What kinda material even looked like that?

Turning his head, he realized that he hadn’t looked under his bed yet. It was dark under there, and far too low for him to fit underneath, so he opted to blindly swipe his arm around in hopes of hitting something. To his excitement, he came in contact with three things: a sock, a pink hair tie, and—a necklace.

Stiles stared blankly at the silver triskelion gleaming in his palm, and his throat cinched to trap a breath in his chest. It was the necklace Derek had given him for his previous birthday—almost a year ago. He twisted the black cord around his finger as his eyes traced over the familiar, comforting swirls of his pack symbol.

He’d been an emotional wreck the day Derek had given it to him. That was the night he found out about Claudia’s illness, and he thought his world was ending. He had no idea how much everything would fall apart in the following months—so much worse than he feared, yet in none of the ways that he’d expected. But then, how could he have expected everything that happened? His father lost himself in the bottle, when he’d never struggled with it before. His mother attacked him—multiple times. He somehow developed powers that didn’t make any sense. His godparents’ solid, sturdy relationship crumbled like a stone breaking into sand. And to top it all off, his entire pack and home burned to the ground in broad daylight.

Stiles fit the necklace over his head and tucked it into his shirt, pressing the cool metal against his skin. He wished he could go back to that day more than anything. Derek had slept over, holding him together as he felt like he was falling apart—and Stiles was completely drenched in sweat by the morning, because Derek was horrible to sleep beside on warm nights. But he was there. And Stiles missed that.

“It’s okay to be sad. It doesn’t mean you’ll be sad forever. You will be okay, Stiles—and so will your dad,” Derek had whispered, quiet, but certain, as he reached between them to tap on the hard necklace through his shirt. “You’ve got the pack.”

Gods, Stiles would do anything to go back to a time where he could hear those words again, to a time where they could be true.

By the time noon rolled around, Derek could feel his wolf stirring in anticipation beneath his skin. It had been ages since he had to face the pull of a full moon without Stiles—and the more he focused on that reality, the more his control was slipping. His own stress was riling his wolf, and Derek was feeling increasingly fearful as his wolf pushed strongly against the weakened edges of his mind. Derek had been grappling with the precarious cycle all his life, but it had been so long since he’d been anchorless that he’d forgotten how to fight it on his own.

By three o’clock, he didn’t trust himself to leave his room. There were too many uncertainties—too many strangers, too many foreign scents, too many threats. His claws dug painfully into his palms, and his eyes burned gold as they bore into the bloodstained carpet. Part of him felt a bit bad for the mess, but the scent of his own blood was comforting. It masked most of the other irritating scents around him.

A tentative knock at the door made Derek tense, and his wolf perked up.

“No,” Derek growled. The last thing Derek needed was for someone to come into his space right then.

“It’s me,” Jackson’s voice came through the wood. “I have chains. I’m gonna come in and help.”

Derek clenched his jaw and snapped his eyes shut as he took several deep breaths. The moon was still hours from rising and he was hanging on by a thread…he needed the chains. He hadn’t worn them since he was a pup, but he wasn’t too confident that he’d be okay in the same house with anyone without them. There were a lot of humans there. A brief wave of nausea hit him as his thoughts flitted back to Allison’s scream, and her blood coating his claws.

“Kay,” he ground out.

The door opened slowly, and then Jackson slipped into the room with heavy chains slung around him. He gently kicked the door closed behind him—and although Derek’s wolf was appreciative of the security and privacy, Derek really hated that he was alone with him in there. He didn’t trust himself.

“Papa was gonna ask you if he should chain you up, but Laura thought that was a bad idea. And then she said she was gonna try to help you, but Papa thought that was a bad idea, too. So… I just came,” Jackson explained. “I’m not a werewolf or a hunter, so maybe your wolf won’t be as, y’know, freaked.”

Derek jerkily nodded and Jackson mirrored him, albeit smoother. Jackson moved very slowly as he stepped closer to him, keeping his eyes down and his head slightly turned to bare his neck. Oddly, stupidly, Jackson didn’t smell afraid. Or maybe he did, but Derek’s nose was too full of his own fear to pick up on it.

“First,” Derek told him, shakily extending his arms towards the boy. He kept his fists tight, shielding his claws.

Jackson nodded and sunk down to the floor to be level with Derek. Derek had to close his eyes as Jackson secured the thick, reinforced handcuffs snuggly onto his wrists. As soon as they clicked into place, a snarl tore its way up Derek’s throat and he bared his teeth at Jackson.

Restrained. Vulnerable. Danger.

The growl abruptly stopped as Jackson gently took hold of Derek’s wrists above the cuffs and slid his hands soothingly up, and then back down his forearms. Derek’s wolf whined and he ducked his head as Jackson worked his scent into his skin. It should have been strange. Derek and Jackson had never been particularly close or affectionate—Derek could easily count on one hand the amount of times he or Jackson intentionally scent marked each other—but now, with the scent of honeysuckle and petrichor filling his senses, he was only grateful.

As Jackson began circling him, fitting the chains around his torso in a way that would trap his arms against his chest, Derek focused all of his attention on Jackson’s scent.

Pup. Brother. Pack. Safe.

“All done,” Jackson announced, breaking Derek’s meditative focus.

As soon as his wolf honed in on how efficiently restrained he was, he was pissed. Derek’s fangs elongated and he instinctively attempted to break free from the handcuffs—but to his wolf’s immense frustration, it was no use. They were built to hold much stronger werewolves than himself. He didn’t notice Jackson exit the room during his struggle with the chains, but by the time his vision grew distorted and the only sounds his body knew how to make were animalistic, the boy was long gone.

Paige’s eyes were closed as she plucked one of the strings on her cello, her other hand slightly twisting the pegs to tune it.

“Is that why your fingers are so rough?” Camden’s voice asked through her computer speaker.

“Go f*ck yourself,” she sneered, though she turned her face slightly away from the camera to hide the smile playing at her lips.

“sh*t, you want me to?”

Paige looked over at him and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I think it would be safe to assume that nobody wants to see that. Ever.”

“Do you live to murder my self-confidence?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed as she began to tune the next string. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Jerk,” he chuckled. A silence followed for just a bit too long, before he blurted out, “It’s a full moon tonight, isn’t it?”

Paige’s fingers paused, and she gave a small nod. Full moons were never important to her before—but after her ex-boyfriend ended up being a werewolf, his deranged werewolf hunter aunt posed as their English teacher, and then his family was murdered, full moons suddenly felt quite a bit heavier.

“Have you heard from him?” Camden wondered.

“Not since the fire. You?”

“No. I texted him a ton, but no response.” He sighed and dug his fingers into his curls to scratch at his scalp. “Hell, I can’t even wrap my head around that sh*t. Do you think it was Ms. Daaé?”

Paige shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, probably, right? She was a hunter.”

“But she was his aunt.”

“Yeah, but her brother, Derek’s uncle, wasn’t there. And neither was the boy, right? The human. What are the odds that the family would be murdered when the two humans didn’t happen to be home?”

Camden blew out a puff of air and leaned back in his computer chair. “That’s heavy.”

“Should we call him?” she asked. “I mean, since he’s not answering texts. If you and I aren’t getting anything from him, I really doubt Jordan is.”

“Probably.”

“Not today, though,” Paige reasoned. “Full moon and all.”

“What about Monday? That’ll give him the weekend to chill out.”

“Yeah, that’s—” Paige paused as she saw Camden’s door fly open.

Camden flinched as he spun around, finding John Lahey in the doorway.

“I’m talking to Paige,” he hastily mentioned.

John’s eyes found the computer screen and he waved with a gruff, “Hi, hun.”

“Hi, Mr. Lahey!” Paige returned, smiling. “How are you?”

“Ah, still breathing. How’s your old man?”

“Still breathing.”

John huffed out a laugh and nodded, before leaving the room.

“Sorry about that,” Camden mumbled.

“My dad will probably come barging in any minute,” Paige said. “But as for what we were saying before, yes. We should call Monday.”

Cora wasn’t sure exactly when she’d decided to sit against the wall beneath the window of her cabin, but she’d been there long enough to watch the sunlight dim against the wall across from her until it finally disappeared.

The celebration started just after she’d been plunged into darkness. She couldn’t quite gauge the pack’s emotions. There was laughter, crying, shouting. Every so often, a howl would fill the territory, and many more would follow. Most of the pack was gathered around the bonfire in the center of the commune, drinking and rough housing. The sounds of clanking tankards echoed through the surrounding trees, and the ground probably drank as much as the wolves that night, with how often their beverages sloshed over the sides of their mugs.

Cora perked up as familiar banter approached the cabin. Ethan entered first, three flowers in hand, and Aiden came in after.

“We got you one,” Ethan told her as he handed her one of the daisies.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. She stared at it for several moments, before admitting, “I don’t really know what to do with it.”

“What d’ya mean?” Aiden asked. “You’re a born wolf.”

Ethan threw a stern look at his brother, then turned his attention back to the girl on the floor. “We can show you.”

“You just put the flower on your mouth, think a prayer, light it on fire,” Aiden instructed. “It’s not complicated.”

“Come,” Ethan said, offering her his hand. She took it and he pulled her to his feet and into the kitchenette. She leaned against the table as he poured some vodka into a small dish on the counter and lit the stove.

“Whatever you want to say to your loved ones, just think it. It’ll go in the flower, and then when we burn the flower, it goes to the afterlife,” Ethan explained. He raised his flower to his lips and closed his eyes—and Aiden did the same.

Cora brought her flower up to her own mouth and tried to think of a message she’d like to get across to her family, but nothing came. There was too much to say, but also nothing she didn’t think they already knew. She loved them, she missed them.

“Ow,” Cora complained for the hundredth time that evening. Her scalp ached and she was starting to develop a headache from how many times Allison had tugged on her strands too hard.

“I’ll never get this!” Allison exclaimed defeatedly, throwing her hands up. “I just tie it up all bad and then I have to brush it and then I hurt you—and I never even make a stupid braid!”

“Yeah, you’re really bad at it,” Cora grumbled. She wanted to massage her scalp or something, but her hands were too busy being Godlike at Mario Kart DS. She was pretty sure she was better than everyone ever, and winning was more important than easing the discomfort.

“I should just give up.”

“You should just figure it out before you make me bald.”

Allison giggled warmly as her fingers began to gently rake through the knots in Cora’s hair. It didn’t feel too great, but Cora huffed out a laugh anyway.

A hot tear slipping down Cora’s cheek pulled her from her memory and she quickly wiped it away with her shoulder.

Ethan held his flower up to show Cora, then quickly dipped it in the vodka dish and held it over the small flame. The fire briefly grew as the petals lit up and Cora took a step back, her heart beginning to race. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the charred flowers as Aiden went through the same motions. Shemusthave been too far from the flame to feel the heat, but she could haveswornshe could—and the smell made her feel dizzy.

When she made no move to light her own, Aiden held his hand out. She absently took it, and he tensed.

“The plant," he grunted.

Cora’s face burned as she released his fingers, but he captured her hand before she could pull away and held it firmly. Her eyebrows pulled together as she looked at their interlocked fingers, but Aiden opted to pretend it wasn’t happening at all. With his other hand, he took her flower and lit it.

“We should go for a run,” Aiden suggested as he watched the petals blacken.

“I’m in,” Cora agreed, and Ethan nodded.

When Noah entered Stiles’ room, his breath caught in his throat.

Stiles was sitting on his bed with his knees hugged against his chest, his hair standing up in random places, and his soaked cheeks shining heart-wrenchingly in the moonlight. He didn’t seem to notice Noah come in, far too immersed in staring out the window.

His eyes were glowing. Noah hadn’t seen his son’s abilities in action too many times, but now, they stood out brilliantly in the dim lighting.

Noah gently touched his shoulder—and Stiles flinched away as if he’d been struck. Noah retracted his hand just as quickly.

“Don’t touch me!” Stiles shouted desperately as he scrambled up the bed. He fell back against the wall and dug his knuckles into his eyes. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me.”

“I’m sorry,” Noah said softly. He waited several moments before sitting on the bed, as far from Stiles as possible. “I-I just…” want to hug you, want to help you, but I can’t “I brought you some of Marin’s tea.”

With a shaky hand, Stiles reached out and took the mug. It was cooled a bit—Noah had put a few ice cubes in before coming upstairs—so Stiles had no problem chugging it down.

“Derek is… not good,” Stiles whispered.

“I know,” Noah sighed. “I spoke with Chris.”

“He has no anchor there. He shouldn’t be in New York—he should be here! With me.”

“He should,” Noah agreed. “It’s not my call.”

“It’s just so stupid,” Stiles whined. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not.” Noah took the empty mug from him. “It’s not fair at all, Mischief.”

Stiles took a couple of deep breaths and his eyes gradually returned to their usual brown. “W-What did Chris say?”

“Derek let Jackson chain him up, so he won’t hurt himself or anyone else.”

“That’s why his wolf is so angry!” Stiles exclaimed. “That's probably making everything worse!”

Noah frowned, but kept quiet. It probably was making things worse… but he also knew that it was for the best. The very last thing Derek needed at this time was to earn a pair of blue eyes, and Noah knew better than most how unstable the boy was without an anchor. Derek already had enough to deal with without adding accidental maiming or murder onto his conscience.

“I miss him,” Stiles said.

“I do, too.” Noah’s throat grew uncomfortably tight, but he forced out, “I miss them a lot.”

“We always puppy pile on full moons until Cora and Malia have to go with Peter, and-and we didn’t get to do that tonight—and we’ll never get to again!” Stiles sobbed, his breaths coming in shallow and wet. “And I hate it!”

Noah nodded, but there was nothing he could say. He was so out of his depths here—in grieving, in parenting. He wanted more than anything to call Peter, because Peter would know exactly what to say and do. He always did. How the hell was Noah supposed to convince Stiles that they would be okay when Noah himself doubted they’d ever feel whole again?

After a minute or two, Stiles hesitantly reached over and touched the back of Noah’s hand. He waited, muscles tense as if expecting pain—and then he launched himself at Noah. The mug dropped somewhere, but Noah didn’t care what happened to it. He clutched onto Stiles as the boy flung himself across his lap and clung to his shirt with an iron grip. The distraught boy’s entire body shook, and he was barely able to catch his breath before it was punched out of him again in a way that no parent wanted their child to experience.

“I know, I know,” Noah whispered into Stiles’ hair as he rubbed soothing circles on his back. “I’m so sorry.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Stiles’ house had been suffocating him since the moment he’d rolled out of bed that morning. The walls were too restrictive, constantly closing in on him, and the air was too stuffy. He hadn’t even realized he’d made the decision to leave until he was on the sidewalk, heading aimlessly down the street. He was just about to step into the crosswalk when his foot froze above the asphalt. He was heading in the direction of the preserve.

He turned around and moved a bit faster in the opposite direction.

Stiles watched his shoes as he walked. He’d had his (awesome) bright red Vans for almost two months, and they were still in remarkably good shape—if you ignored the crushed and flayed aglets at the tips of his laces. Somehow, they appeared to be chewed on, like his sweatshirt strings always were, but he was pretty certain he hadn't put them in his mouth. Considering he went through shoes as if they were made of tissue paper, he was rather proud of the overall condition of them. Then again, it was probably due to the fact that he hadn’t left his house much since he got them.

“Stiles?” he heard his name called from his left, and he turned to face the park he’d come across. There wasn’t much to it—a few swings, a slide, some wood chips… it had felt massive when Stiles was younger. He used to go so high on the swing that he thought he might fly if he let go.

“Stiles!” the voice said again, and Stiles caught Scott’s familiar face poking out from beneath the paint-chipped slide. Behind him, a head of golden curls was just barely visible.

“Scott!” Stiles greeted, a smile gracing his face as he headed towards the kids. As he approached them, he recognized the other person as Isaac, who waved at him.

“I haven’t seen you in forever,” Isaac said. “Are you coming back to school soon?”

Stiles scratched his scalp through the short hairs that had begun growing back since he’d shaved his head. Since Derek had shaved it. “Yeah, I will.”

“It’s not the same without you.” Scott said. He scooted over to make a bit of room underneath the slide and patted the ground for Stiles to sit with them.

“Have I missed anything cool?”

“Not at school,” Isaac said with a shrug. “But, I have some cool cards here.”

“Isaac stole his brother’s Magic the Gathering cards!” Scott whispered excitedly, as if Camden could be lurking around nearby and hear them.

Isaac carefully handed Stiles a stack of white-rimmed cards, and Stiles ghosted his fingers over the impressive artwork displayed on each.

“Do you know how to play?” Stiles wondered. The name of the game sounded familiar, but Stiles had definitely never seen them before.

“No,” Isaac sighed. “Cam won’t even let me touch them. I just took these because he never uses the white ones.”

Stiles held one of the cards in the sunlight and tilted it side-to-side, watching as the artwork shimmered like metal.

“Y’know, Isaac, you sorta look like these angels.”

Isaac raised his eyebrows, before flinching away from Scott as the latter tried to touch his curls.

“You do kinda look like an angel, dude,” Scott agreed.

“Shut up!” he snarled, but he didn’t bother hiding his small grin as he attempted to flatten down his hair.

Noah’s fingers drummed rhythmically on his wooden desk as his eyes slid between the three Missing Person posters laid out in front of him. He’d spent so many devastating hours staring at those grayscale pictures, he was pretty confident that he could sketch every one of their features, despite his distinct lack of artistic ability. Their images had been burned into his mind, playing behind his eyelids every time he closed them.

The pictures didn’t do any of the girls justice. They didn’t capture Allison’s sweetness, or Malia’s wildness, or Cora’s snarkiness. He doubted any photograph could—and how long would their personalities live in his memories before they became as dull as the pictures in front of him?

“Deputy Stilinski,” Graeme greeted him softly, suddenly appearing in front of his desk.

It took most of the strength Noah had to tear his eyes away from the papers and look up at her.

“This might be out of line, but… are you doing okay?” Graeme glanced at the posters, before quickly returning her eyes to his.

“I’m fine,” he responded gruffly as he moved the posters into a stack in the center of his desk and flipped them over.

“We all care about you, you know. If you need anything—”

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated. He didn’t want to talk about it—not with her, not with anyone at the station. He just wanted them to do their jobs and find his goddaughters. He just wanted to stop feeling so damn useless.

“Okay,” she accepted. She eyed him for a long moment, before perking up a bit. “Will you be running for Sheriff in a few months? Everyone knows this place couldn’t function without you keeping our heads on for us—you’d be a shoe-in.”

“I don’t love her wrestling boys already, but I’m extremely proud that she’s winning,” Peter commented as he watched Malia tackle Brett onto his stomach in the sand and pin him down with her teeth in the side of his neck.

“I’ll be making sure she knows how to kick any guy’s ass—wolf or otherwise,” Chris promised, eyeing the altercation with a disapproving frown. He glanced over at Noah and a playfulness danced in his eyes. “And by the time she starts dating, you’ll be the Sheriff, so you can bust the dates with your squad car.”

“What dates?” Noah scoffed and shook his head. “You and I will be cleaning our guns on the front porch when the guy comes to pick her up. They won’t even get to the ‘date’ part.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “And I’ll have to help her sneak out the back, because she needs to have normal teenage experiences without you two overprotective, boring old men intervening.”

Noah rubbed the corners of his stinging eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and let out a slow breath as he cursed the small voice in the back of his head that reminded him that Malia might never grow old enough to date anyone. He cleared his throat, then lied, “I’ll think about it.”

He could barely stand under the weight of his grief these days, let alone run for Sheriff.

“Well, we’re all rooting for you,” Graeme told him. She forced a small smile onto her face before nodding her goodbye and returning to her own desk.

Derek didn’t know what to say. There was a lot he could say—perhaps a lot he should. But even after an hour of sitting there at the desk in his bedroom, scribbling his thoughts down on the page, just to cross them out, he couldn’t quite find the right words. He’d never been any good at that.

Hey, Stiles.

I know you’re doing sh*tty. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I can feel your pain. It’s been a while. I know that’s my fault. I haven’t been trying to ignore you, exactly, but it’s just complicated. I’m doing really badly. I’m hurting. You can probably feel that, right? I’m sorry.

With a quiet growl, he tore the page out of the notebook, crumpled it, and tossed it into the trash can at his side.

Stiles,

Happy Birthday. I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I’ve been struggling lately. I’m losing control. I’m scared of hurting people. My control has been rough lately. It’s been awhile since I didn’t have you an anchor near me. I don’t know how to control myself. It’s been an uphill battle. I know I should’ve called, but whenever my thoughts linger on you for too long, my wolf panics. whenever I try to talk to you, my control slips. i can’t face the fact that we’re on opposite sides of the country. it’s complicated.

Again, Derek ripped the page from the notebook, crumpled it, then added it to the half-full bin of misshapen paper balls.

Happy Birthday, Mischief —The pencil lead snapped, and Derek stared down at the mostly-empty page, littered with the imprints of countless discarded birthday letters. He took a deep breath, before grabbing a new pencil and continuing— I hope you have a good day. You’ve reached the double digits. I wish I could be there, but the thought of being in Beacon Hills makes me feel like I can’t breathe. Maybe I can visit, if I can figure out how to get on a plane without shifting. f*ck Beacon Hills. You should get out of there and never look back.

Maybe it wasn’t a fair statement. Sure, Derek had lost every parent he’d ever had there. His father, before he ever knew him. His mother in her own territory, her own pack house. Peter, trapped in a coma he’d probably never wake from. Even Chris had died there—because Derek really didn’t think he could classify the man haunting the halls, reeking of grief and rage and guilt, as truly being alive anymore. Derek also lost his sisters there. Stiles lost a mother. Maybe the town was just cursed.

Laura is driving me crazy. She’s hovering and lurking and trying to talk to me every time I’m in her vicinity. I know she wants pack again, but I feel like she’s hunting me. My wolf won’t accept her as my alpha. My wolf doesn’t want anyone near me except—

This time, the pencil snapped right in half, and the pieces fell from his hand onto the paper. He clenched his teeth as his eyes burned gold. His wolf wanted Stiles. His wolf wouldn’t—couldn’t—settle within him, and Derek had no idea how to fix it. He was always on edge, as if awaiting some sort of attack. He could barely sleep, barely eat, barely exist—like everything in his damned life was a struggle! Why was he like this? Why had he always been like this? Without Stiles, he was a mess—a truly pathetic mess of a person.

Derek needed to run. He needed to be outside and get out of this stupid house with its stupid artificial, flowery air fresheners. He didn’t even bother grabbing shoes as he stormed out of the room and made a beeline for the stairs. He passed Laura in the kitchen, but by the grace of the Gods, she didn’t say anything to him. The television was playing in Chris’ room, and Derek didn’t really know where Jackson was—but it didn’t matter, as long as they weren’t getting between him and nature.

He’d nearly made it to the front door, when he heard footsteps behind him, and he quickly spun to confront his stalker. Rori stopped short, her own eyes flaring in response to his—though her wolf clearly wasn’t threatened by him, with the way her shoulders were relaxed and her hands hung loosely at her sides. She had a stupid wolf—Derek knew she wouldn’t stand a chance against him, if he happened to lash out at her.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out.”

“You don’t have shoes.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at her, and she annoyingly mirrored him. Not really interested in being stuck in a staring contest with her, but also not wanting to expose his back to her, he side-stepped towards the door.

“I can go with you,” she offered, moving a bit towards him. “I could show you a good trail, if you wanted to—”

“No,” he growled, his upper lip curling a bit to show the hint of a lengthening fang.

She sighed, but rocked back a step. “There’s a trail around the back of the house. It’s pretty residential for about half a mile, but then you hit a forested area that people don’t usually venture into. There’s a creek about a mile further.”

Derek nodded, before escaping the house.

Stiles was certain that they weren’t playing this game correctly, but who really made that call, anyway? As long as it was fun, it was correct enough. They had passed the cards around to each other for a while, staring at each one as if it were a piece of alien technology they were trying to figure out, before they decided to play it like War. They split the deck three ways and played rounds where each of them would place a single card down and whoever had the biggest numbers at the bottom would win. There was some debate over whether it was the first or second number on the bottom that was counted, but they managed to settle through a few constructive discussions… in which Isaac grabbed a fistful of Scott’s hair, Stiles bit Isaac, and Scott swatted them both with a frantic flinging of his arms. In the end, they all won in a three-way tie—because they had agreed that losing in a three-way tie was lame and Not Fun.

“We should play this again sometime,” Scott chirped as he handed the cards back to Isaac.

“Only if Stiles doesn’t cheat next time,” Isaac sneered.

Stiles gaped at him. “I did not!”

“You changed the rules every time you were losing!”

“What rules?” he reasoned. “We were making it all up anyway.”

Scott shook his head. “We should figure out how to play for real.”

“I’ll bring them to school,” Isaac said. He gently nudged Stiles’ knee and raised his eyebrows at him. “You should come back.”

Stiles chewed the inside of his lip. Was he ready to go back? It seemed too normal in a way that felt a lot like moving on.

“I know it sucks, but you’ve gotta do it some time,” Isaac continued. “At least it’s not being stuck in your house, right?”

That was true. Stiles wasn’t sure how much longer he could handle being stuck in his house.

Stiles’ phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to see a message from his dad.

I’ll be home late. There’s leftovers from last night in the fridge. I need to go grocery shopping after work, so I’ll bring home more food tonight.

“You gotta go?” Scott guessed.

“Yeah,” Stiles lied. “Dad will be home soon, so I should head back.”

“Dang,” Scott sighed, a pout tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I should go, too,” Isaac seemed to realize with a start. He quickly gathered the cards and pocketed them. “It’s getting late—my dad’s probably waiting for me.”

“I guess that means I’m going home, too,” Scott said resolutely.

They all crawled out from underneath the slide and Stiles looked around at the deserted park. They hadn’t even needed to be crammed under there, with wood chips digging into their legs—there was an empty picnic table two yards away from where they were standing.

“Bye, guys,” Isaac said, before taking off towards his house at a speed Stiles had no energy for. And even if he had the energy, his feet would surely trip over themselves and land him face-first on the sidewalk. Maybe Isaac would join a sport when they got to High School.

Scott threw his arm over Stiles’ shoulders as they headed in the direction of their houses. Stiles almost flinched away, but relaxed as Scott’s calming vibes seeped into him through where his skin was pressed against the back of his neck. It eased a tightness Stiles hadn’t realized was clutching around his chest.

“So, are you gonna do it?” Scott asked.

“Do what?”

“Come back to school. You didn’t answer.”

Stiles grit his teeth. He thought he’d managed to get away from that question.

“Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means… it means I’ll talk to Marin.”

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to her about it, and we’ll see.”

Scott sighed, but nodded his acceptance.

Before long, they’d reached Scott’s house. Scott had invited him in, but Stiles repeated some excuse about his dad and continued on his way. He loved Scott, but he didn’t want to talk anymore. His social battery—which had never had a limit in the past—was completely drained. He just wanted to lay in bed and stare at the wall. He wanted to read. He wanted to talk to Marin.

What he didn’t want to do was face his birthday in a few days. It didn’t feel right without the pack, and he was pretty sure that meant it would never feel right again. Maybe he would just never have another birthday party. He didn’t think he wanted one.

When he reached his front door, his key hovered by the lock for several seconds too long. His dad wasn’t home. Nobody was—which is what he wanted, but it also… wasn’t. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but he also didn’t want to sit in the utter silence of an empty house. A suffocating, empty house. He hadn’t even known what that was really like until recently, and he hated it.

This time, as he walked down the street, he didn’t almost cross at the crosswalk. Instead, he kept going and upped his pace, not giving himself any leisure time to think twice about his decision as he headed for the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.

Noah hadn’t been to a grocery store in quite some time. He honestly wasn’t sure when the last time he’d come alone was… had he ever? He probably should have brought some kind of list, because the only things his eyes were catching on were the frozen meals and plastic containers of pastries. If he bought ingredients, that would mean he’d have to cook, which… was not his favorite pastime. He hadn’t had a good meal in a while.

As if the Gods finally seemed to take notice of his struggle, his phone began to ring—and Chris’ name flashed across his screen.

“Hey,” he answered.

“Hi, Noah,” Chris greeted, though his tone fell a bit flat, a bit wary. “What are you up to?”

“Grocery shopping.”

“Don’t forget vegetables. You can’t live on steak and potatoes.”

Noah rolled his eyes. Of course Chris would spoil his plans from three thousand miles away.

“What are you going to make for Stiles’ birthday?”

“I don’t know yet,” Noah admitted. “Probably take him to the diner for dinner.”

“You could do overnight oats for breakfast. He loves those.”

“How the hell do I make overnight oats?”

“Half a cup of old fashioned oats, two tablespoons of honey almond butter, two tablespoons of honey maple syrup, a splash of vanilla extract, two tablespoons of chia seeds,” Chris listed off. “Fill the rest with milk.”

What kind of psychopath had such specific recipes memorized?

“That’s not complicated at all,” Noah mumbled sarcastically as he looked for the right oats.

“It’s one of the easiest breakfasts to make. You just need a jar, the ingredients, and a measuring spoon.”

Noah spotted a cardboard cylinder presumably filled with oats and asked, “Can I use quick oats?”

“No.”

“Great.”

For Stiles’ sake, it was lucky that the old fashioned oats were right next to the quick ones, because Noah was ready to take the risk. Chris was probably just being picky to be annoying, anyway. How could oats really be that different?

“Can you text me those ingredients?”

“Yeah.”

Noah wandered the aisles in silence for a while, absently listening to the clicks of Chris hitting the buttons on his phone as he typed. If a couple bags of chips jumped into his cart along the way, there was nobody to scold him about it. He slowed as he entered the liquor aisle, his eyes quickly seeking out his favorite labels. He reached out to turn a crooked whiskey bottle, righting it. He could feel the burn on his tongue, imagine the warmth that would spread through him, easing the ache that had found home in every cell in his body. Would one glass be so bad?

“I can’t believe Stiles is turning ten. Double digits already.”

Whiskey would probably be too much. Noah could practically hear Peter scolding him in the back of his mind. He took a few steps further down the aisle and his attention landed on a bottle of red wine. That wasn’t nearly as bad as whiskey—and it wasn’t like he would get drunk off of it. He could probably down the whole bottle and be fine. Really, it would just take the edge off.

“Noah?”

It was also on sale. Only fifteen dollars—which wasn’t bad for the quality. Noah had tried it a few times. It had been awhile since he tasted it. Maybe he could make spaghetti tonight… that always paired well with red wine.

“Noah,” Chris repeated louder. “You still there?”

Noah flinched and turned back to his cart. “Yeah.”

“I think I lost you for a second.”

“Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Just that it’s almost Stiles’ birthday. Derek’s been trying to write him a birthday letter all morning, so we can send it with his present—but from the sounds of it, it doesn’t seem to be going well.”

“He’ll get it,” Noah said as he pushed the cart out of the aisle and headed in the direction of the refrigerated section. “Hey, was there a reason you called?”

There was heavy silence over the line for a few moments, then Chris asked, “Did I need a reason to call?”

No. Well, he never had needed one before, but now… Noah didn’t really have anything to say to him. He hadn’t spoken casually to the man since… since everything. He couldn’t say he particularly wanted to, either.

“I’m gonna finish up with shopping,” Noah told him. “Mind if I call you later?”

A lie, probably—and Noah hoped Chris recognized it as such and didn’t wait up expecting the call that likely wouldn’t come.

“Okay,” Chris accepted. “Bye.”

Noah pressed the button to end the call, and a message alert suddenly popped up across his screen.

Chris had sent him a grocery list, along with the ingredients for the overnight oats.

It was strange to walk into the hospital again. How many times had Stiles been there in the past year? Too many.

He walked up to the Check-In counter and a man in light blue scrubs smiled at him. Why would someone smile in a hospital? What was there to be so happy about? It was annoying.

“Peter Hale,” Stiles told him.

“Are you here with someone?”

“I’m here for someone,” Stiles corrected. “Peter Hale, like I said.”

“Are you a relative?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, what’s your name?”

The man was definitely new, so it wasn’t really his fault for not knowing that Stiles (along with his father) was practically a regular, but it was still irritating. His palms were sweaty enough without this dude dragging out the time he had to be there. The sterile smell of the hospital was burning his nose and making him mildly nauseous. Or maybe the anxiety swirling in his stomach was to blame for that.

“Stiles Hale Stilinski.”

“Okay, and is Peter Hale—”

“He’s my godfather,” Stiles snapped. “I lived with him for most of my life, and I’d like to see him before I get old and die while standing here. Can you just tell me which room?”

The man’s smile dropped from his face, but the anger Stiles expected to darken his eyes in response to Stiles' brashness never came. Instead, something closer to pity or understanding twinkled there—and Stiles huffed as he looked away. He could probably find the room on his own, if he tried.

“106.”

“Thanks,” Stiles grumbled as he turned and stalked off towards the room.

He didn’t have to walk too far before he spotted the ‘106’ placard beside an open door. His feet planted themselves a few paces away, and refused to move. The steady beeping of the machines was ringing in Stiles’ ears, and the rhythmic breathing coming from within the room was off. It sounded wrong, somehow.

Maybe because Stiles had rarely heard Peter breathe uninterrupted for more than a couple seconds between talking. He was too quiet now. Stiles was always teased for how much he liked to talk, but he was pretty sure nobody liked the sound of their own voice more than Peter. Stiles wished he could hear his voice.

The incessant beeping seemed to grow louder, and Stiles closed his eyes as his heart rate began to speed up. Images of his mother flashed behind his eyes.

The beeping, the breathing, the smell of alcohol wipes and—

The tingling memory along his skin of a surge of energy shooting up his arms and slamming into his chest, into his heart.

Stiles’ knees grew weak and he collapsed forward onto the floor, his hands trembling as he tried to clutch at the pristine tiles. His throat closed painfully, as if a ball had been wedged there and he was slowly suffocating.

“You need to breathe, Mischief,” Derek had told him, that night he learned of his mother’s condition. Stiles could remember the feeling of Derek’s fingers running through his hair.

Tears sprung to Stiles’ closed eyes at the memory. He shifted until his back was pressed against the wall, and he tried not to think about Peter being mere feet from him on the other side. He couldn’t go in there. He knew he should, he knew it wasn’t fair that Peter was in there alone, and injured, but Stiles couldn’t do it—he couldn’t even breathe—

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. “Copy me.”

Stiles envisioned the movements Derek had shown him when he’d almost suffocated on the air that night.

Inhale, arms up. Exhale, arms down.

“You’re okay,” Derek had promised him.

Inhale, arms up. Exhale, arms down.

Once the tightness in his throat lessened, he continued the motions with one hand, while moving his other to grip the back of his own neck. The pressure was soothing and it made a wave of bittersweet warmth wash over him as he put every ounce of his imagination into picturing it as Derek or Peter or Chris’ hand.

He was content to stay in that memory, or maybe daydream, for the rest of the night—but once the tears on his cheeks dried, he knew he had to go home. He would have to visit Peter another day. He hoped his godfather understood that he’d wanted to be there for him. He hoped that was enough of an excuse for not even reaching the door.