Archive of Our Own ^beta

The blow knocked Stiles back off his feet, his head striking the edge of the table, and blood flooding his vision. Not that it mattered. He’d been seeing double since the cattle prod was shoved against the base of his spine and had a terrifying thought that his vision might just stay that way, should he manage to get free.

Fucking Gerard Argent.

Seriously, for a supposedly cancer-ridden sixty-year-old, he sure knew how to hurt a body. But then again, he was used to fighting off werewolves and wendigos and all the other supernatural creatures out there. A sixteen-year-old kid with ADHD and barely a hundred-forty-seven pounds was probably like batting around an annoying Chihuahua.

He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor of the basement, feeling with his tongue for lose or missing teeth. Thankfully they were all still in his mouth, but his jaw felt tight and hot and he knew at least one rib was broken. Maybe two, considering how hard it was to draw in a deep enough breath.

“Fuck. You,” he snarled when Gerard gripped him by the shoulder, his nails digging into the teen’s bloody skin.

The first thing Gerard had done was slash across his chest with that big freaking hunting knife he always carried. He’d sliced methodically, slowly, and so freaking painfully that Stiles almost threw up while two of his goons held him down.

‘Bitch,’ written in angry, angular letters as Stiles’ screams echoed around the room.

“You lay with the dogs,” he’d sneered, “and we call it like it is.”

That was about the time Erica and Boyd really tried to get to him. He heard their screams and curses and prayed the hunters never turned their attention to them, because the electricity running through them kept them human and Erica was one bad epileptic attack away from death. It was better this way. He was just human, with no real discernable talent except pissing people off, so that’s what he did.

He talked and goaded and bit and clawed as much as his human body could take until Gerard finally stepped away from him.

“You’re lucky I have another appointment,” the old man smirked evilly. “But Marc and Joaquin here, well, they’ll take real good care of you and your little pets. Won’t you, boys?”

Marc rubbed across his crotch blatantly, his eyes on Stiles’ limp form. “Always did like to break me in some bitches,” he said, licking his lips.

That made the two wolves throw themselves against their restraints with new vigor, Boyd going so far as to break his wrist in an attempt to get free.

Gerard gave a wheezing laugh as he left out a side door. Stiles wasn’t worried about the other hunter. He’d looked disinterested the entire time Stiles was being tortured and at Marc’ comment. He was there to do a job, nothing more.

Stiles was never more thankful for his insanely high threshold for pain as when Marc reached out and dug his fingers into the slashes on Stiles’ chest. He screamed, because that fucking hurt, but he didn’t black out, which he was grateful for, because that was apparently the exact moment that Chris Argent decided he needed another jar of spaghetti sauce for dinner.

Somewhere in Stiles brain was the highly inappropriate thought that the hunter would probably never want to eat meat sauce again after finding a tortured kid in his basement about to be raped.

Good, another part thought vindictively as Chris tackled the guy away from Stiles.

Stiles dragged himself up beside the table one pain-filled inch at a time as the two hunters fought. The click of a hammer being drawn had him grabbing the first thing he found – a wrench – and throwing it as hard as his broken ribs could manage. Dumb luck had it connect with the hunter’s wrist, making him drop it. Chris kicked Marc in the jaw, knocking him out and a right hook to Joaquin's temple managed the same, leaving the hunter bent over at the waist drawing in deep breaths.

Stiles didn’t wait for Chris to get upright; he shuffled painfully over to the battery the wolves were hooked up to and grasped the leads with his bare hands. They yelled at him to wait, but Chris was still an Argent. He’d still shot Scott and Derek and Isaac. He’d trained crazy Allison and hadn’t stopped Kate when she went after the Hales. So sure, he was thankful to the guy, but he wasn’t going to trust his Pack to the hunter.

The smell of burning flesh barely registered over the sheer, unbridled fire racing up his hands and arms as he tried to rip the leads free. It burned through him like a flashover, lodging somewhere in his chest and behind his eyes until all he saw was an amber glow so bright it obscured most of the room.

He closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and continued to pull until they came free and Erica and Boyd slumped in their restraints.

“Stiles,” Chris said from his right, his hand tentative on his shoulder. “Shit, son, come on, we need to get you to the hospital…”

Stiles wrenched himself out of Chris’ grip, falling painfully against the table, a snarl distorting his features even with his eyes closed. Every part of him burned. “Don’t fucking touch me!” he growled, baring human teeth at the older man, and making him flinch away from his ruined chest.

“Get them down, now, and get away from us, I’m not your son and never will be. Don’t fucking come near us again, and the next time I see your psychotic father, I swear to God I will put a bullet in his brain for hurting my Pack.”

Erica and Boyd whined at his words, trying in vain to get closer to the teen. Chris pursed his lips but did as he commanded. And it was a command. The teen was barely standing, but there was power in his form. In the way he seemed to glow, even as blood coated his mouth and teeth.

He handed Boyd his keys once the two wolves were free. “He needs a doctor.”

Boyd looked at the keys, then the hunter and sneered. He lifted Stiles up onto his back, the smaller boy clinging to him, but still glaring at Chris through closed eyes.

“We’ll take care of him.”

“Was it…did Allison have anything to do with this?” he finally asked, pocketing his keys.

“You mean Little Miss Stabs-a lot?” Erica asked, her eyes a vibrant gold as she stood between Stiles and Chris. “Who do you think dragged us here with her torture-happy grandpa and his rapey friends?”

Chris shut his eyes and shuddered. “I’m sorry,” he said.

By the time he opened them again, all three were gone.

There was no way to get Stiles upstairs to his room in the condition he was in and there was no way in hell he was going to the hospital, which meant it was finally time to tell his dad what was going on in sunny little Beacon Hills.

“I’m going to kill him,” Noah snarled, going for his gun.

“Erica,” Stiles wheezed as Boyd settled him on the couch.

The blond pressed Noah back into his recliner with a single hand, her eyebrow raised in inquiry. “You gonna sit here and be good Papa Sheriff?” she asked. “Cause I gotta go get the first aid kit and make sure Mom doesn’t get gangrene or something.”

Boyd coughed to hide his snort, looking everywhere but at an indignantly flailing Stiles.

“Rude, Catwoman,” he huffed.

“But true, so you two just sit there while we take care of things.” She nodded once before throwing herself up the stairs to Stiles’ bedroom and the industrial sized trauma kit stashed in his closet. Boyd stepped out just long enough to get several hand towels and a bowl of water from the kitchen.

“Strip,” he said, pointing at his pants.

Stiles groaned as he tried to sit up, Boyd stepping close to help. Erica reappeared with the kit, unzipping it, and pulling out the suture kit and plenty of gauze.

“I don’t want to know how often you get hurt to know how to do all that, do I?” Noah asked faintly. Stiles turned his face towards his father, but it was the wolves who noticed how unnaturally pale the older man was under his tan, his light blue eyes a dark, mottled grey in fear and sadness.

“I’d say this is a rarity,” Boyd commented, pinning Stiles with a hand when the other went to dismiss his father’s fears. “But it’s not. This is the worst it’s ever been though.”

“You’re not…”

“Don’t even try, dad,” Stiles cut him off, waving a hand around until Erica grabbed it and poured hydrogen peroxide on the exposed finger beds making him hiss sharply. Gerard had had a field day ripping the nails out one by one until Stiles vomited all over his shoes.

“Are you ever going to open your eyes, Batman?” Erica asked gently.

The room went silent as Stiles swallowed convulsively. “No,” he finally said.

“Son…”

Stiles held up a hand to stall their questions. “Not right now. I just…they burn and I can’t…not now.”

Erica and Boyd exchanged a worried glance. Stiles wasn’t lying, per se, but he wasn’t being completely honest either.

“Just wrap them for now, okay?”

Erica blew out a breath before reaching for a long roll of gauze. “Yeah, okay.”

Stiles knew something was wrong before either of the wolves started snarling at the front door. He didn’t know how he knew, just that there was a disturbance coming closer.

Heh, a disturbance in the Force. How cool would it be if he was a Jedi? Shit, he still needed to get Scott to watch the movies. Maybe Boyd would be willing to sit on the other wolf long enough to at least get through Episode Four…

“It’s Lydia,” Boyd grumbled, standing stiffly. The big man popped his neck making Stiles wince at the sound.

Stiles sighed. “Go ahead,” he said, waving towards the front door. “She won’t leave until she gets what she wants.”

“She’s not going to get anything from you tonight,” he said succinctly. “Someone else can deal with whatever’s happening."

Apparently, that wasn’t possible, because less than an hour later, Erica was crashing through a warehouse wall and slamming into Jackson in his kanima form, but not before he had a chance to claw Derek’s stomach open, dropping him where he stood. Isaac and Peter still manage to knock Jackson down long enough with Erica’s help for Lydia to confess her undying love and stop Jackson’s unholy transformation into what can only be described as "A fucking dragon. And yeah, the explicative was absolutely necessary, Isaac, did you see his wings!" Erica shouted.

But it’s Scott, dragging Derek off towards Gerard Argent; Scott forcing Derek’s mouth open so the old bastard can receive the bite that pushes Stiles over the edge.

Fire races across his flesh; burns hot and orange from his eyes even through a dozen layers of gauze as he lines the gun up without truly seeing.

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” he snarls savagely. The hammer cocks loudly in the sudden silence of the warehouse.

“Stiles,” Scott breaths in panic, his eyes flicking between Gerard and Derek. “It’s okay, dude, I swear, just…”

“I can’t believe you would do this, Scott. Betray the Pack like this,” he seethes. Behind him, Noah turns his own gun on Chris and Allison, who drop their weapons reluctantly.

“I told you. I told you what would happen if you touched my Pack again,” Stiles said, his voice a deadly hiss of sound that makes the wolves shift nervously.

“Do you really think you can do it?” Gerard sneers, shoving his wrist towards Derek’s fangs and no. Just no.

A single bullet shatters the night.

Gerard drops dead behind Derek’s prone form, the wolf shuddering at how close that had been.

“Peter,” Stiles commands from where Boyd is still holding him up. “Take his head off. I don’t want him coming back.”

“Do you want me to dispose of it, sweetheart?” the zombie-wolf asks, sincerely.

Stiles thinks for a second, then nods. “Isaac, help him cremate it. Then bury the ashes and salt the hell out of the ground.”

“You can’t!” Allison cries out, but Chris grabs her arm, pulls her back against his chest, whispers something in her ear that makes the other wolves (all except Scott) snarl and flash their eyes. Stiles doesn’t need his sight to know he’s telling her what happened. That he’s telling her to let it go.

“Do it,” Chris tells the two wolves gruffly.

They exchange a weary glance at the hunters, but move to follow Stiles’ commands. “Erica, help Derek into the jeep. Lydia, you and Jackson will go back with dad. Don’t argue with me,” he snaps when they go to do just that. “You wanted to be in the know, well, this is it. Dad….”

“Got it kiddo, but maybe let Boyd drive this time, okay?” Noah says blithely.

“Are you serious?!” Scott shouts as the Pack disperses. “You’re a cop!” he yells at Noah, “and you’re just going to look the other way at Stiles murdering Gerard in cold blood?”

Erica props Derek, who’s just starting to feel his fingers and toes again, up in the backseat, then helps Stiles climb up and settle in beside him.

“You know,” Noah says coldly, narrowing his eyes at the teen wolf. “I didn’t want to believe it when the others told me you’ve been dismissive of Stiles. But I know you heard Chris tell Allison what Gerard did to my boy. You can smell the blood on him and God knows the bandaged face isn’t hiding just how far the bastard went. But I have to ask what your plan here was, Scott. Why force Derek to bite someone who obviously had bad intentions? What did you hope to gain from turning him into a werewolf?”

“I had a plan,” Scott said defensibly. “Doctor Deaton and I figured it all out. We replaced his cancer meds with mountain ash pills. The bite never would have taken.”

Stiles and Chris sucked in sharp breathes. “You realize that would have killed him, right Scott?” the hunter asks slowly. “You would have been doing the same thing you’re yelling at Stiles for.”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” Scott denied. “Deaton told me. He would have just gotten so sick he’d have to go away.”

“And leaving a pissed off hunter with nothing left to lose alive makes sense to you?” Boyd asked confused.

“Well, I couldn’t kill Allison’s grandpa!” he said haughtily.

“Oh my God, Scott,” Allison whispered, aghast. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. What Scott was willing to do to his friends; to Stiles. She couldn’t even look at the other boy, his face was almost translucent, showcasing the dark, livid bruises and the stark white bandages that covered this throat, chest, hands, and eyes. She didn’t even want to know what they covered up and knew she’d never have the courage to ask.

“What?” Scott asked, bewildered. “I did it for you, Allison. For us, so we could be together.”

Allison took a step away from Scott, hiding behind her father. She clutched his jacket with both hands, her crossbow dropping noisily to the ground as she shook her head. “No. No, you don’t…you don’t do that to your Pack. To your family.”

“They are not my Pack,” Scott snarled.

“You’re right,” Stiles said sharply, cutting across the tirade he could feel Scott gearing up for. “They’re mine, and you, Scott McCall, are not a part of it.”

He slid an arm behind Derek’s shoulders and neck, his bandaged fingers threading through the silky hair. He could feel Derek start at the contact before relaxing into the touch. His chest and eyes burned with each word he uttered; solidifying a claim he didn’t really understand.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Chris,” he jutted his chin towards the hunter. “Don’t come near us. We don’t want you as Pack. You’re exactly what you wanted, Scott. Alone.”

He settled in against Derek’s side as Erica and Boyd piled into the jeep. It made a horrible creaking crank sound, but it turned over.

“Let’s go home,” he told the wolves.

When they were far enough away from the warehouse, Derek shifted against him, slowly pulling himself out of the teen’s embrace. “Your dad said Peter and Isaac will meet us at your place in a few minutes.”

Stiles nodded but didn’t move. He was fucking exhausted and now that he wasn’t running on adrenaline and fury, he was freezing and in so much pain he wanted to throw up.

Derek glanced at the rearview mirror, catching Boyd’s worried eye. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked quietly.

“He’s cold,” the dark-skinned teen responded, tossing a red hoodie at them. “Been cold since the basement. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s shivering at this point."

“And I think he ripped a stitch,” Erica chimed in.

Derek had smelled blood and exhaustion and pain, but it was all muted, like a background sound he’d learned to ignore because it was constantly there. He glared down at the teen’s bent head, angry at himself for not realizing Stiles’ condition was worse than it appeared, which was a horrifying thought.

“Just how badly are you hurt?” he asked sharply. He took Stiles’ wrist, tugging it onto his lap and manhandling the teen into the hoodie. “Stop squirming,” he groused, reaching around until he could find a non-bandaged part of his skin to touch. His large hand curled around Stiles’ neck, pressing down on the corded muscle.

“Wha? Oh,” Stiles sighed, slumping against Derek as the wolf drained the sharpest of the pain.

Derek grunted as the first wave hit him, his eyes going wide as they snapped back to his betas. The pair looked murderous and miserable at the same time and Derek knew that the little Argent had told Allison had been only the tip of what had really happened.

“I’ll show you how to draw pain at the house,” Derek told them, wincing as he shook out his hand. "It's dangerous to do it for long, but it can help." Stiles lay boneless against his side, his breathing shallow, but evening out into exhausted sleep.

“Thanks,” Erica whispered, not wanting to wake their human up. “He never broke. Never gave you or the Pack up.”

“He protected us, even when he couldn’t protect himself,” Boyd told him as they drove.

“They…” Erica bit her lip, looking to Boyd before bracing herself for Derek’s reaction. “They cut him. Branded him, really. It…it was bad, Derek,” she said with tears in her eyes. “If Mr. Argent hadn't come downstairs when he did, they would have….” She choked on the words, shaking her head when she couldn’t continue.

“They were going to rape him,” Boyd said lowly, his eyes never leaving Derek’s in the mirror. The golden glow over-bright in the darkness. “If Argent hadn’t come, they would have broken him before they killed us all.”

Derek knew his eyes were glowing as he pulled the boy across his lap. God, what did he do to deserve someone like Stiles in his Pack? Someone so fiercely loyal that he would take this level of abuse?

“He said we were Pack,” he muttered brokenly.

“We are,” Boyd answered. “He is. You told us once, that Pack meant family. Stiles says the same thing. Would we have chosen this, if we really understood what the hunters were capable of? Probably not,” he said, turning onto the Stilinski’s street. “But we did, and there’s no going back. The question is, how do we go forward, because it can’t be like it was.”

Derek swallowed hard. Boyd was right, but he didn’t know any other way.

“You should talk to Stiles,” Erica said as they pulled into the drive. “If you can’t talk to us, talk to him. Ask him to help. Ask Papa Sheriff. But I can’t handle the pain like the last full moon again. Isaac can’t.”

She turned in her seat to look at him, her eyes haunted. “You don’t know what it’s like, to be so afraid your next breath is your last. To feel your body giving up.” She pressed her hands against her chest. “I could have died on that rock wall, but Stiles saved me. I could have died in that basement, I could feel another attack coming and there was nothing I could do, not with the electricity running through us. But Stiles…he kept them off me. He tore the electric leads from the battery with his bare hands. He saved us and he can save you, if you ask.”

“He won’t let us see his eyes,” Boyd said suddenly. He threw the jeep’s door open and unfurled himself from the seat. “He said they burned, but he wouldn’t even let us clean them out. I don’t know if he’ll even be able to see after this.”

“He needs you,” Erica said softly as she reached over and took Stiles from his arms. “He needs all of us.”

Noah insisted they put Stiles to bed, and that everyone but Jackson and Lydia stay the night after everything was explained. When the two teens pitched a fit, he stared Jackson in the face and told him flatly, “Your parents think you died.”

The former kanima jerked backwards as though he’d been struck.

“Jackson, son, I know you don’t have the best relationship, but as a parent, I can tell you that they are devastated. You can’t leave them thinking that way.”

Jackson nodded hesitantly, looking up into the Sheriff’s face when the older man pulled him in for an awkward hug. “Lydia?” he asked.

“I figured a phone call to her Mom would suffice as I drove you both to your house.”

“I…yeah, I mean, thank you, sir,” Jackson stammered, blushing under Lydia’s knowing expression.

“We’d appreciate that, Sheriff.”

The two stared at Derek until Peter slapped Derek upside the back of the head. “Oh, uh, yeah. You should go home and make sure things are alright.”

Jackson’s face fell.

“And then come back,” the wolf said hastily, his ears burning in embarrassment. “I mean, if you want to. You’re Pack, and until Stiles is better, this is where we’ll be, so come here when you can. If you want to.”

He ignored the snickers at his fumbling. This was too important to screw up. Erica and Boyd were right, he didn’t know what he was doing, but until he could talk to Stiles about things, this was where they’d be. He thought back to the teen’s disdain at the train depot and silently reminded himself to start looking for an actual den for them. A proper Pack house, since it seemed like he actually had a Pack that was planning on sticking around now.

Jackson twisted his fingers together nervously before darting in for a quick hug before spinning on his heal and stomping towards the door. Lydia gave him a small, grateful smile and squeeze of his fingers before she left.

“Not bad, nephew,” Peter said solicitously as he settled into the wingback in the corner of Stiles’ room. Erica and Isaac had already crawled in beside the injured teen, black veins racing up their arms.

“Not too much,” he warned, toeing off his shoes and tossing his leather jacket over Stiles’ computer chair. He stood in the center of the room looking lost for a moment before Erica snorted and snagged his wrist, pulling him up onto the bed with them. She prodded him in between her and Stiles, so that the human’s back was pressed up snug against Derek’s chest, Erica draped over the pair of them with one hand twisted in Isaac’s curls and the other held tightly by Boyd, who was sitting on the floor, but had his arms on the bed.

“Tell us what happened,” Derek finally told them.

The pair looked at each other and then at Stiles. “It’s bad,” Erica warned.

“And Gerard is dead,” Boyd reminded them.

Derek nodded at them to continue, he knew it was going to be bad just from what they’d said in the car, but it was oh, so much worse.

Boyd had to physically restrain Peter when they mentioned the branding, and Derek heard nothing but static and white noise when then mentioned the attempted rape. Isaac had a panic attack when he realized what had been done to his fingernails. His father had done something similar once, but only the one in warning. He couldn’t imagine the pain from having all of them torn out.

“And they call us the monsters,” Peter spat, angrily.

“This isn’t helping,” Boyd told him. He shoved back against Peter’s chest when the man tried to force him off. “Are you really that selfish?!” he finally snapped. “Stiles is right there,” he said, flinging a hand towards the bed. “He’s hurt and he needs us, all of us, and yet you want to leave and do what? Gerard is dead. I’m fairly certain the others are as well, considering how we left them with Chris. You leaving right now will only leave us weaker. He doesn’t need vengeance, Peter, he needs his Pack, which, for some reason, he seems to think you’re a part of. So, for once in your life, prove him right. Be the packmate he needs you to be.”

Peter, and the rest of them, stared at the laconic teen. That was probably the most Boyd had ever spoken to them and it was exactly what Peter needed to hear, harsh words, or not.

Peter slumped back in the chair; his eyes shut as he tried to push the need to maim someone back down into the darkness of his soul. He knew he wasn’t all there when he’d attacked the group, but after dying and being reborn, he’d thought he had more clarity on the situation.

He’d been wrong.

Seeing Stiles standing there in the warehouse, his eyes and hands glowing a vibrant orange through the bandages and ripping into Gerard and Scott over their treatment of the Pack had brought things into focus for him. He knew then what he’d brought himself back for.

His Pack.

Derek may have the red eyes, but Stiles was their real Alpha, and he was surprisingly okay with that realization. He didn’t have the same animosity towards the teen as he did his nephew. Probably because Stiles hadn’t left his ass to rot for six years in a coma ward. Okay, so he might not be completely okay with Derek still, but if Stiles was going to be by Derek’s side leading the Pack, then he would do his part and help make them even stronger than the original Hale Pack.

“You’re right,” he finally huffed out on a pout.

“What?”

Peter rolled his eyes at Isaac’s incredulous tone. “I said, Boyd’s right. Stiles is an injured packmate, and going after someone already dead is a futile endeavor.”

“What are you playing at, Peter?” Derek asked wearily.

“Nothing,” Peter said in all seriousness. “I want absolutely nothing except to help Stiles heal.”

“His heart stayed the same,” Isaac said a little breathlessly, like he desperately wanted things to go right for once.

Derek nodded slowly, his eyes locked on his uncle’s, even as his hands carded through Stiles’ hair absently. “You mean that.”

“I do.”

“Then what are you waiting for, Uncle Creeper?” Erica asked somewhat belligerently, waving the two men closer. “Get over here and help us take some of Mom’s pain, my hand’s starting to cramp.”

Peter smiled as he settled beside Boyd on the floor, his fingers wrapped around Stiles’ ankle.

Stiles didn’t wake up.

After day three, Noah sent Peter to the store to get another mattress to put on the floor besides Stiles’ bed, and the teens back to their houses to get clothing and toiletries.

“And you will be going back to school,” he told them in no uncertain terms. “Derek and Peter will watch the house while we’re gone, and you can come back afterwards, but I will not explain to your families why you all flunked this semester.”

Which is why it was only the two born wolves who were home when the doorbell rang.

“Derek, no!” Peter shouted, grabbing his nephew by the waist, and barely restraining him from attacking the middle-aged man on their doorstep.

“Peter,” said a smooth British voice. “I’m glad you remember me.”

“Alpha Pack,” Derek spat, his eyes glowing a fierce red.

“Alpha Deucalion, actually,” he smirked, letting his eyes glow red behind the black sunglasses. “And I believe I can help you, if you’ll listen for ten minutes without trying to attack, that is.”

Peter managed to shove Derek behind him. “You aren’t really known for talking anymore, Deuc,” he said cautiously. He was all too aware of the Demon Wolf’s reputation and the fact that they had an injured, unconscious packmate upstairs without protection. Someone he was starting to think had a much stronger connection to his taciturn nephew than previously thought.

“Well, times change,” he quipped. “Now, are you going to let us in, or not?”

“Us?” Derek asked, eyes fading.

Deucalion stepped aside, inclining his head at the young black woman behind him. “Marin Morrell, my Emissary.”

She dipped her chin in recognition of another Alpha. “I believe we have much to discuss about Gerard Argent, young Mr. Stilinski, and my way-ward brother.”

“Your brother?” Peter asked, confused.

“Yes,” she said. “My brother. Former Emissary Alan Deaton.”

Marin placed her hand on Stiles’ forehead, her eyes closed as she sought the source of his unnatural sleep. “Oh,” she gasped softly, her free hand automatically reaching for Deucalion.

“What is it, Marin?”

“He’s a Spark,” she said softly. “That’s why this is taking so long.”

“A Spark?” Derek asked.

“A type of innate magic user,” Deucalion explained. He frowned down at the boy’s bandaged face. “Did Gerard do that to his eyes?”

“He was responsible,” Peter hedged. “He had two of our betas strung up and hooked to a battery, electrocuting them. Stiles ripped the cords off with his bare hands, but there was prolonged contact. His hands are horribly scared, as is his chest and back. He won’t let us check his eyes.”

Deucalion bit back a snarl. Argent and eyes were a sensitive topic for the wolf.

“Would the bite fix him, Marin?” he asked instead.

“No, it would actually do the opposite,” she told them. “However, his condition is a direct result of Alan’s actions, and as such, I can offer my services to help speed up his natural recovery, if you accept.”

“You’re a Druid, like he is,” Derek noted.

“That is true. We were raised to always follow the balance. For every good action, there must be a bad. For every right, a wrong. However, what he did here, actively working against the local Alpha and siding with a petulant Omega…allowing for the injury of an unbonded Spark? That cannot stand.”

“’Unbonded’?”

“Sparks only occur around Nemeta,” Deucalion said, settling in the wingback. “They act as the tree’s moral compass, and are neither inherently good or evil.”

“Morally ambiguous,” Peter muttered.

Deucalion gave him a shark-like smile. “Of the truest grey. They are also typically bound to the primary local supernatural group, a Pack or Coven, I’ve heard of one in Romania bound to a Kiss. The group, let’s say it's a Pack, to make things clearer, protects the town, the Spark protects the Nemeta, and in turn the Nemeta protects them all.”

“What does bonding to the Nemeta entail?” Peter asked, settling at Stiles’ feet.

“There’s a ritual,” Marin explained. “Relatively uncomplicated all things considered. The head of the local group, i.e., the Alpha and the Spark slice their hands and place them on the tree. They swear their hearts and souls to each other, their Pack, and the tree until they die. If the tree accepts them, then it shares its magic with them, allowing them the ability to feel the entirety of their territory as if it was another Pack bond. Likewise, the Spark would have an unlimited amount of power at their disposal to protect said territory.”

“What’s the catch?” Derek huffed.

Marin looked him straight in the eye and said, “Neither the Alpha or the Spark would ever be able to leave the territory and the death of one will ultimately lead to the death of the other.”

Derek sat on the back porch staring out over the dark backyard of the Stilinski house. Marin and Deucalion had left after talking through everything that had happened since Laura died, and had promised their assistance in healing Stiles and training Derek to be a better Alpha. He’d be meeting with the other members of the Alpha Pack over the next few weeks to learn from. All except Ennis, which Peter hesitantly explained to the pair once Derek had stormed out of the room. They’d been dismayed at their past interaction, but ultimately understanding of Derek’s feelings, considering their own unwitting involvement in Paige’s death.

But that was a concern for future Derek, right now, he was trying to wrap his head around the last thing Marin had told him, after she’d applied an incredibly smelly lotion to the brutal brand across Stiles’ chest.

“An Alpha and a Spark are not always mates,” she’d said in that soft, lilting cadence of hers. “I know of a pair of brothers who are bonded to a Nemeta; another are a mother and daughter. You should be pleased that Mr. Stilinski is yours.”

“We’re not,” he denied, panic flooding his system.

Marin worked quietly for a long moment before she glanced at him from behind long brown hair. “I understand your reluctance,” she finally said. “But pushing him away, denying the bond between you, will only upset his magic even more.”

“What do you mean?”

She placed her fingers along Stiles’ temple and held her other hand out for Derek to take. The second he did, he felt every ounce of Stiles’ pain. Every slice, every sear. His hands throbbed, but it was his eyes that burned. He gasped, trying to pull away, but Marin held him tight.

“Don’t focus on the pain,” she whispered. “Rise above it. Let it sink, like a rock tossed into the ocean. He doesn’t want you to feel that.”

“What do I? How do I?” Derek couldn’t get out the words. It was just too much.

“That fire you feel? That’s his Spark. Trace it back to his eyes. To his chest. Do you see how it’s wrapped up in the Pack bonds? The blue and silver and gold?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth to keep from howling. “The blue is for the Pack,” he muttered. “Lydia is silver.”

“The gold is the Nemeton.”

“But he’s not bonded to it,” Derek argued.

“Not completely, no, but he was born here. He’s walked this land, bled, and fought for it. His magic was awakened with blood and fire here. His Pack is here. A Pack led by a Hale Alpha, who was also born on and bled and fought for this land.”

Derek swallowed thickly. He hated that this magic stuff was making sense to him. He remembered his mother telling them that the Hales were tied here. That even if they left, they’d always return. That the protection of the territory was their responsibility. He just never thought someone else would have that same shit luck.

“There’s another bond,” he said brokenly. Already knowing what the Emissary would tell him.

“There is. Can you see its color?”

Derek shuddered as he pulled his hand free, wiping it futilely on his pant leg. He glanced into knowing chocolate eyes and whispered, “Red.”

Noah settled beside Derek on the stoop. Peter had already filled him, and most of the Pack, in on Deucalion and Marin’s visit, but it was one thing to hear about an amorphous Alpha Pack and another all together to hear that your sixteen-year-old son was destined to be trapped in one town for the rest of his life and basically werewolf married to a guy in his early twenties you weren’t sure if you should shoot or hug.

“I won’t do it,” Derek said suddenly, his back ramrod straight as he stared out into the darkness.

“Son,” Noah said slowly, working through his own feelings on the matter. “This is a lot to take in, for all of us, and I’m not sure I really understand everything, but just tell me this…. Do you care about my boy?”

“What? Of course, I do.”

Noah nodded, he’d seen how much Derek cared for the Pack this past week, and even if the pair weren’t anything beyond friends at this point, he knew Derek Hale cared.

“And will you protect him; even from himself? Because between you and me, he’s always going to be his own greatest threat.”

Derek smirked a bit at that. He scrubbed his hands over his face, finally turning to look at Noah. “I’d die for him,” he confessed. “For any of them, but especially for Stiles, he’s…” he shook his head.

“Do you remember when I arrested you?” Noah asked.

“Uh, yes, sort of hard to forget that, sir.”

Noah snorted, “Yeah, well, there was a minute, when I dragged Stiles out of the cruiser completely frustrated and pissed at the kid, when I glanced over and you looked like you were going to break out of the car to get to him. To protect him from me, his father, and I thought, ‘I hope he finds someone who will always look at him like that’.”

He slapped a fatherly hand on Derek’s shoulder. “The only thing I ever wanted for my boy was to be happy with a family he could give his all to and who would give him theirs. Whether that’s as an Alpha and Emissary, or as an Alpha and their Mate, doesn’t matter. This Pack is his family and he loves all of you.”

He squeezed Derek’s shoulder once before standing and heading back inside to leave the wolf to think through what he said.

Two weeks after the showdown with Scott and Gerard, Stiles woke.

He stared uncomprehendingly at the pile of arms and legs wrapped around him. Curly hair was shoved up under his nose, but he couldn’t tell if it belonged to Erica or Isaac. His eyes were still bandaged, as were his hands, though his chest only had the thinnest gauze across it to protect a few lingering stitches from catching on the sheet. He was in thin sleep pants and a Henley that was much too large on him, something he didn’t own and immediately knew belonged to Derek, making him smile.

As he lay in bed soaking in the warmth and rightness of his Pack surrounding him, he felt a subtle push against his mind. It wasn’t malignant. No trace of darkness that put him on guard. Instead, it felt…inquisitive? Maybe even a little excited as he gently, carefully, prodded it back.

Like an overwrought puppy, it jumped under his attention, swamping him with feelings of peace and welcome and rightness. Of a connection to something beyond himself. Of belonging to everything around him. He felt the first, sharp tug of it's magic and panicked, latching on to the strongest bond he had, a bright, vermillion red strand as thick as his wrist and dug in deeply, twisting the bond around his sense of self like a lifejacket.

Derek jerked to awareness and instantly knew something was wrong with Stiles. He held the boy closer, pressing him down into the mattress where Derek was half laying on top of him, and pushed his nose against the pressure point behind Stiles’ ear. It was a spot rich in the teen’s scent and close to the most vulnerable area of his neck. Derek didn’t feel comfortable touching that area without Stiles’ consent, but the fear and panic swamping him along the bond Derek didn’t really want to think about was enough to override all of his common sense.

“Stiles,” he breathed against the boy’s skin. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Stiles didn’t answer out loud. The golden magic that had touched him was still clouding his mind, now with concern and confusion at Stiles’ fear. He gripped the bond to Derek even harder, his mind and magic slipping along it as he whispered fearfully against Derek’s very soul.

‘Alpha.’

Derek didn’t hesitate to grip their bond tight and push his unwavering protection and strength to the Spark. With their souls so closely wrapped around the bond, there was no way to hide the feelings of concern and fear, of trust and friendship. Of the burgeoning love growing between them. It was a fragile thing, still a seedling barely breaking the surface, but it was there and the pair could do nothing in this place with their souls laid bare but acknowledge, protect, and nurture it.

Like Stiles’ Spark, Derek knew now that one day their connection would burn as bright as any flame and that, together with the Nemeton and her golden magic, they’d become the true Beacon for the town. But for now, Stiles sank into their bond. He let Derek’s soul hold him close and whisper reassurances. He let the Nemeton’s magic, now that he knew what the gold mist was, show him the history of their town.

It showed the first peoples to this land. How they begged their God to provide them with a good hunt during a horrible winter, and Coyote giving them fur and claws and teaching them to hunt like him.

It showed the arrival of the Spanish with their black powder and blankets full of disease. Where only the wolves survived, scattering into the forest, and waiting for the day they could reclaim the land that sang in their blood and bones.

It showed man and machines and skyscrapers rise higher than its trees and the slow, eventual return of its’ most precious children, but slowly, science pushed magic away, and the children of the forest forgot it’s purpose. It was cut down, not out of malicious intent, but because of misunderstanding. It tried to help, but without a Spark or a Pack, it could not control what it drew to it, and instead of light, darkness flooded its’ roots and death stalked its’ moon-bound children.

Stiles felt tears on his cheeks and had no idea if they were his or Derek’s. In the end though, it didn’t matter. He knew what he’d do. What they would both do. It was scary, of course. Terrifying to be exact, but the Nemeton soothed them both. Their territory wasn’t just the town. Not really.

The Hales might have claimed the town in the past few generations, but the last Spark had commanded the entire western seaboard all the way to the Rocky Mountains. With Derek and Stiles together, they may even be able to expand that range at some point.

‘His eyes?’ Derek sent out into the gold.

‘Fear clouds his vision. Stop fearing the future and you will see, little one.’

Stiles trembled in Derek’s arms, causing the wolf to rumble soothingly, his lips pressed against his jumping carotid. ‘I’m here,’ he whispered along their bond. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘I’m scared,’ Stiles admitted. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing and you’re…this is forever, Derek, and I don’t want to mess it up.’

The wolf slid his hands up the inside of Stiles’ sleep shirt, his fingers dragging over the ridges of his spine. ‘I’m afraid, too,’ he told the boy. ‘You’re sixteen and have your entire life ahead of you and…’

‘Derek,’ Stiles sighed, seeing flashes of what was really bothering the wolf. ‘You are not her and I’m not you. Yes, I’m young, but you aren’t exactly decrepit. You’re twenty-two and neither one of us is ready for more than this, and I swear, I will never, ever hold that against you, but Derek, you have to know it’s been you since that day in the forest.’

‘Lydia?’

‘Was a puzzle. One I’d been obsessing over since I was seven and she corrected the teacher’s spelling. There was something there that I didn’t understand. Something dark and brilliant and beautiful and broken and I wanted to fix her. Don’t you see, Sourwolf? I felt her banshee and the possibility of Pack. But you,’ he sighed and Derek felt a wash of pure longing mixed up with mortification and confusion and frustration, not at Derek, not at first, but at himself.

‘You didn’t know, did you? That you were bi.’

‘Not really. I might have been curious, before, but you walked out of the forest and all I wanted to do was climb you like a tree and force-feed you hot chocolate and brownies. Your lack of personal space didn’t help with the awkward fear-boners either, you know?’ he asked sassily, his humor at the situation easy enough for Derek to read.

Derek brushed his lips over Stiles’ throat as he smiled at the memories. They weren’t that long ago, but it felt like a lifetime. Like they’d known each other forever. ‘You annoyed me,’ he said, smirking. ‘Annoyed me with your intelligence at first; telling Scott he was a werewolf, knowing who I was when we’d never met before. You knew who Laura was, how to deal with Peter, that Jackson was the kanima. So damn smart. And frustrating. Very, very frustrating,’ he groused.

‘The day we met was the third worst day of my life. All I wanted to do was bury my sister and howl and then you were there. Big doe eyes and sinful lips and a knowingness about you that I couldn’t afford to trust, not then. Do you know the first thing I thought when I realized you weren’t with the others at the warehouse with Jackson? ‘Thank God.’ I didn’t want you involved. I didn’t want you hurt or to see Scott’s betrayal, but then you were there. Blood and bandages and raw, unbridled fury at anyone hurting us and I thought, ‘Ah, that’s it.’’

He fit his blunt human teeth along the corded muscle of Stiles’ neck and bit down gently, not enough to break the skin, but enough to wing its way down their connection, tying them even tighter together.

‘What?’ Stiles asked breathlessly. ‘What was it?’

‘I was never meant to be the Alpha. You were. But I’m the wolf and you’re the Spark, so I’ve got red eyes and you,’ he slid his fingers up over the bandages around Stiles’ eyes, his fingers deft as they untied the cloth and slid them from his face. ‘Open your eyes for me, Stiles,’ he whispered sinfully against Stiles’ mind. ‘Let me see your Spark.’

Stiles took several deep breaths before he slowly opened his eyes. Heat suffused them, a banked fire that spilled orange-golden light across pale skin and dark moles.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘My beautiful Spark. I can already see the Nemeton in you.’ Derek closed his own eyes and felt for the Nemeton’s magic. For Stiles’ magic. He welcomed them inside him. Embracing this terrifying change in their lives because he knew at the end of the day, it meant he got Stiles, and that was worth everything.

‘Let me see,’ Stiles whispered, his bandaged fingers ghosting over a stubbled cheek.

Derek was helpless to resist the soft touch. When he looked back at the Spark, his Alpha red was tinged with flecks of gold and a deep, banked orange ember flickering at the center. Derek wasn’t sure who moved, or if it was just some unspoken, undeniable attraction like gravity that caused their lips to slide against each other. Stiles’ eyes slid closed at the first, tentative brush, and open on the more purposeful press of lips. Banked fire stared back at him, flecks of gold and red flickering like fireflies in the darkness of the room and Derek knew this was right. Whatever else happened, he and Stiles, they were right.

It took weeks to get Stiles back to a good place physically and months to make the nightmares stop. His core temp never did seem to stabilize, but there was always a werewolf around to keep him warm with an impromptu puppy pile and a friendly arm thrown over a shoulder. More often than not though, Derek gave him an exasperated huff and draped his leather jacket over Stiles’ shoulders. Claiming him in a way that was less likely to get him shot in the ass by Noah, who, while alright with them dating, though discreetly when in public since he was still the Sheriff, reminded them Stiles was still vastly underage.

It wasn’t as much of a problem as Derek might have worried about though. Their connection - their soul bond - got even stronger when Stiles started to train with Marin. Words spoken aloud didn’t have nearly the same weight as feelings and emotions shared from one soul directly to another. It was a much more intimate connection then anything they could have done physically and went a long way to soothing fears and misunderstandings.

The Alpha Pack decided to stay, at least until the twins, Ethan and Aiden, graduated high school, and while the territory was still the Hales, Derek, Peter, and Noah often conferred with the others on issues and training. Then one day Stiles was staring at Deucalion during a meeting about some pixies and blurted out, “I really want to touch you.”

Needless to say, there was instant, sudden silence in Derek’s new loft.

Erica was the first to break, snickering loudly. “Uh, Mom, you know you said that out loud, right?”

Stiles blinked orange-gold eyes at the assembled, confusion bleeding through the Pack bonds. Derek sighed.

“Oh,” Stiles gasped, his face burning red in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean, oh God, someone shoot me now.”

“Sti,” Derek said. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“I was talking to Nemie (his name for the Nemeton because what else was he supposed to call an immortal magical tree; Karen?) and I’m pretty sure I can heal your eyes now.”

Deucalion sat frozen in his seat beside Marin, who was looking at Stiles fondly. They’d really embraced the whole Luke/Yoda relationship they had going on.

“I…are you certain?” the other Alpha asked carefully.

Stiles shrugged, which was not exactly a ringing endorsement, but Derek smiled encouragingly at him, ducking his chin to nuzzle the side of Stiles’ temple. ‘You can do it,’ he sent. ‘We believe in you.’

Stiles closed his eyes, nodding sharply before he stood and crossed the living room. He raised his hands, hesitating slightly. “You gotta believe, Duec,” he said. “Like Tinkerbell or the Force.”

“Or Santa,” Peter chimed in, the Pack groaning because the older wolf had literally filled Jackson’s room with underwear the past Christmas after he’d said believing in Santa at their age was stupid. In turn, Peter had hung up a sign on his door saying when you stop believing in Santa Claus you get underwear and then followed through with the threat. Isaac had immediately put out cookies and milk and carrots and told everyone, loudly, that he still believed.

Deucalion let his shoulders drop, a small smile on his face. “I believe in you, little Spark,” he said, making Stiles duck his head to hide his pleased smile and blush.

'No flirting with the posh older British Alpha,’ Derek grumbled along their bond, making Stiles sputter out a laugh.

‘No worries, Der,’ he returned. ‘You know there’s only one Big Bad Wolf for me.’

‘Good,’ he purred. ‘Now, you gonna show us what you’ve got, Little Red, or what?’

Stiles rolled his eyes at Derek’s playful tone. He loved how much more open the man was with their soul bond and the Pack bonds to rely on.

Stiles stepped up and placed both hands over Deucalions’ eyes, the red glowing under his fingers. He felt his own eyes heat, felt Derek and Nemie send their belief in his magic, and the Pack their love and acceptance.

‘Return to what once was,’ Stiles whispered through the magic of the world trees. ‘A man of vision and an Alpha of compassion.’

Orange-gold light pulsed once, twice in his chest before spreading to flow down his arms and into Deucalion’s eyes. It pooled behind his fingers, glowing brighter and brighter until it exploded in a cacophony of sound and light that left him blinking spots out of his vision and his ears ringing.

Derek caught Stiles as he stumbled backwards. The teen was smiling softly, his body already going lax in Derek’s hold as his magic slid back along his connection to the ley lines. He was soft and pliant in Derek’s arms as the wolf tucked him up under his chin on the couch, kissing his temple with pride, the pups crowding close enough to touch him and rumble contentedly.

For the first time in almost a decade, the Demon Wolf of the Alpha Pack stared out at the world with his own, human eyes. They were a sparkling blue that matched the man’s broad smile.

“Oh, little Spark,” he murmured softly. “I cannot wait to see what you and your Pack accomplish in this world. Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles grinned around a yawn. “That was awesome,” he sighed happily, burrowing in deeper against Derek’s chest. “Totally awesome.”

He fell asleep surrounded by his friends, his Pack, and his Alpha.

Beneath the streets of Beacon Hills, the ley lines flared orange-gold.

Their Alpha and Spark were finally home.

-end-