Chapter Text
I. Could be Done
He doesn’t know any different but his wolf tells him that something is wrong. And he trusts it, having gotten around on his instinct as a rogue separated from his pack. At least, Louis assumes that’s what happened. It’s hard to be certain when your childhood memories consist of being in wolf form, trees, and flashes of being taught things. So if he was taught things…he must have had a pack? Knows at the very least that he’s come from somewhere, that he has a mum and dad, even though the details are shaky at best.
Regardless, Louis is on his own.
He keeps his head low to the ground as he moves, his nose not as strong as it used to be when it comes to deciphering scents. The earth beneath his paws is damp, the chill easier to ward off when Louis is in wolf form. At least, externally. The forest is vast and endless, a tangled mass of shadows and towering pines, but Louis moves through it like a ghost. His breath comes out inconsistent with an ache creeping into his bones. The cold still bites at his fur, and the wind howls through the trees, carrying the scent of rain and distant prey.
But there’s no comfort in the hunt. No packmate at his flank. He’s alone.
Yet not.
There’s not a lot to do as a rogue. He hunts the best he can, although likely eating less than he actually should for his status. Keeps a loose track of time by the cycle of the moon, and makes sure never to stray too far from a creek. Most importantly, stay alert not to cross into other’s territory whether it be another foreign pack or worse, another rogue. It could be dangerous but Louis feels like he’s doing an alright job managing to keep himself alive.
The only actual troubling aspect is the isolation toll on his wolf. That’s another thing supporting the theory that he had come from a pack; his wolf grieves it, making itself sick over the loss. From what he’s unfortunately had to experience, the symptoms consist of: an unshakeable, bone-chilling cold that radiates internally rather than from the outside, a weakened immune system, and periods of alpha drop.
Which brings him to his recent decision, one that was more so made by his wolf rather than his human brain. He found himself chasing something in the forest, a whiff on the wind that had his alpha incessantly scratching at the walls of his skull to track it. When he had finally given in, he realized why it had reacted so intensely.
A pack.
He’s become obsessed with it now. Never getting to close but keeping tabs on them, studying and watching with the kind of focus that borders on insanity.
Pack!
Track. Find pack!
It’s a bit out of body, Louis taking more of a backseat as he follows the scent. It’s not prey… it doesn’t smell like it or elicit the hunting instincts like food normally would. Instead it’s a warm scent, sweet yet woody, drifting along the frigid air. As the smell gets stronger, unbridled excitement courses through them. His tag wails unconsciously as the urge to rumble is squashed down.
Louis lingers along the tree line, making sure to keep hidden by the underbrush as his body presses low to the ground. The Styles’ pack. It had taken about four days for him to catch the name, well aware that he’s technically stalking at this point. He just craves to watch them…feeling restless and depressed whenever he’s not perched in a hiding spot nearby. Still driven by instincts, he always waits until nighttime before watching - knowing his chances of being discovered are higher in daylight.
His ears twitch as he catches the sound of laughter, mixing with the sound of the crackling campfire. His alpha urges him to get closer; step into the warmth and let himself be surrounded by what his body and wolf crave. He even thinks it's something he, himself, wants. To be able to talk, play and live with others in a bond that’s understood implicitly.
But logic and survival always win over his silly wants. Over the impulsive prodding and whining from his desperate wolf.
So, he watches. Studies and learns the way the pack moves in a way that lights up every nerve threading through his body. They flow around each other, usually having nightly pack bonding from what Louis can decipher. He doesn’t know how big their territory stretches, unsure if they have shelter that they live in when they’re not gathering at this exact spot.
As much as he itches to investigate, it’s better safe than sorry which leads to him just watching from this one spot as they gather together. The scent of them is strong, carried by the wind - earthy, warm and layered in a way that speaks of their bond. Louis shifts his weight, muscles coiled tight.
One of them, he’s seen the others call him Harry, moves with an air of command—he’s leadership clear in the way others naturally defer to him. Alpha, his wolf tells him. Louis wonders how he smells.
There’s few alphas in the pack from what he can tell, majority being omegas and betas. The pack hasn't noticed him lurking, though he’s not above suspecting that Harry has caught his scent more than once.
He’s been careful. Makes sure to stay downwind, keeps his distance, and never tries to be seen as more than a shadow among the trees. But alphas have sharp noses, and even sharper instincts. If Harry knows he’s there, he hasn’t acted on it yet. That unsettles Louis more than he’d like to admit.
A sudden burst of laughter pulls his attention back to the group, ears raising and flicking in response. A beta nudges an omega playfully, baring his teeth in a grin before shifting back into wolf form in an easy fluid motion. The others follow suit one by one, shedding their human form to run together in the night. That could’ve been him, once. Maybe it still could be. But rogues don’t get second chances. Not often.
A sorrowful howl bubbles up, and he paws at the ground in an attempt to distract from the urge to release it. His limbs feel weary, calling for rest yet he lingers still.
Watching. Waiting.
The wind shifts, the sudden scent of another wolf brushing against his senses. Not from the pack, not mingled with theirs. This one smells closer, body stiffening as his fur bristles. Sharp yet panicked eyes flicking toward the shadows around him.
Nothing stands out but his alpha is tense along with his instincts screaming he’s being watched.
A low warning growl builds in his throat but he swallows it down. Stay hidden. Pack.
Danger.
Louis has been in isolation way too long to not recognize the presence of another predator. Rogue or not, somebody is near. Muscles locking, his wolf whirs between the survival based impulse to flee and the primal alpha need to stand his ground.
Holding his breath, he focuses on his hearing. A rustle in the brush then a flicker of movement beyond his vision. Then nothing.
As his heart pounds sporadically in his chest, he slowly begins to move. Whatever it is, it’s good at staying hidden. But he’s better at sensing threats. His ears swivel back towards the pack; toward the safety he can’t reach. If he was wiser, he’d retreat. Lose whoever is trailing him and put as much distance between him and the pack as possible. Yet it’s clear the decision isn’t his.
Stay.
Pack.
Safe.
Stay.
🌲 🐺 🦌
The morning came slow and silver, dew clinging to the grass like a second skin, and Louis stirs beneath the tangle of branches he calls shelter. His body is sore, his muscles having tightened from the cold. Louis blinks against the light filtering through the cracks in his den, paws twitching as he slowly wakes up.
The world smells damp, like moss and mud but there’s also the faint trace of rabbits that had passed nearby in the night. And himself of course. It’s been awhile since he’s bathed in the creek.
Fur. Dirt. Hunger.
Louis lets out a long low breath through his snout and rolls onto his side, the brush of leaves soft against his ribs. His wolf form serves armor in the sense, his human side harder to care for in solitude. As a wolf, he’s stronger though never at ease. That seems to be something he can’t find no matter what form he shifts to.
He looks at the light streaming through again, the shelter not much more than branches and bark pieced together over a hollow in the roots of a half-dead oak. It keeps the wind out more nights, and rain when it isn’t too heavy. But it doesn’t hold warmth.
Not like the kind that comes to him in phantom sensations: the shared heat of bodies curled close, the soft exhale of breath against fur, the sound of others sleeping beside him. He has no idea if those memories are real. Sometimes they feel like dreams, other times they feel like lies.
Shifting again, his claws scrape against the packed Earth beneath him. There’s a throbbing ache in his belly reminding him he hasn’t eaten in two days, maybe three. He rises slowly, shaking out his fur as the leaves that cling to his coat flutter to the ground. A bath definitely needs to happen soon.
Food first.
Eyes scanning the tree line, he edges out of his shelter with his ears twitching for movement. A shadow among trees.
The creek wasn’t far, an intentional choice on his part to stay nearby. He knows every step of the route by now, a well-worn path carved by instinct and repetition. It also helps to smell the cold, clean water threaded with the faint mineral scent of stone. The stream of water curves between mossy stones and tangled roots. It cuts through the woods like a silver scar, shallow in places and sharp in others and he often mixes up which part he visits for safety reasons.
Stepping into it slowly, the cold water biting at his paws and climbing up his legs, a jolt that sent a shiver along his spine. He moves deeper until the stream reaches his chest, then dips his head beneath the surface. When he emerges, droplets cling to his fur and trail down his muzzle, dripping from the whiskers. He soaks in the water in silence, the current raking the remaining dirt and grim from the sweat and grit of days spent hiding, prowling, surviving.
Louis doesn’t know why he kept up the habit. There was no one around to judge the stink of his coat, no packmates to offend with the scent of blood and dirt. But it made him feel…less feral. A little more tethered. Like the wolf and the man beneath the fur were still holding each other together. It always hits him the hardest in the mornings…how little he knows about himself. All he has is the running catalogue that he keeps just to keep himself sane.
Louis. His name. He knows that, it's a solid thing. A memory that feels untouched.
Rogue.
By choice or force, he didn’t know. The grief his wolf holds tells him he hasn’t always been alone but whenever he tries to recall where he came from, all he finds is fog. Blurred edges and flickers of things that don’t make sense.
Alpha. He knows that by instinct. The way his wolf responds to the scent of others, to power dynamics, to the urge to lead. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him what he was.
Age? Maybe mid-twenties. His body feels mature, his strength fully formed but the number? Gone.
His wolf blinks slowly, then raises his eyes to the opposite side of the bank. Without meaning to, he imagines the Styles’ pack padding through the brush on their morning patrol, laughing in soft human voices or low wolfish yips. He pictures the way they’d look up when he had emerged from the water, recognition in their eyes.
There you are, someone would say. Maybe one of the younger omegas, maybe even Harry himself. We were wondering where you went.
Louis would trot across the water-slick roots and step onto their side of the world. They wouldn’t flinch or run. Harry, tall and calm and steady as the Earth beneath them, would nod to him without any challenge or fear. “You’re late,” he might say, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.
And Louis would lower his head, tail wagging just a little, and answer, I know.
A sharp whimper from his wolf breaks him out of the illusion, leaving him alone again. It’s a stupid fantasy. He hauls himself out of the creek, water dripping from his fur in heavy streams that end up flying in every direction as he shakes himself off. Soundlessly, he stands there with his heart thudding with a feeling overwhelmingly similar to pure sorrow. There’s no reality where he would be welcome like that.
An unknown alpha. A rogue.
Still, he wants it.
Shooting pain rumbles through his stomach, his nose turning up to the wind. Even as hungry as he is, his instincts push him to go to the pack like gravity.
Don’t, he scolds himself. Later.
For now, finding prey is the priority.
-
The wind shifts, and Louis freezes. He stood halfway up a ridge, hidden beneath the shadow of a leaning birch, his fur damp from the morning’s bath and already starting to dry in soft patches along his back. His nose lifts as he scents the air that’s coming in waves: musk, sweat, soil. Tongue flicking over his teeth slowly, his eyes narrow.
Deer.
Instantly, his wolf stirs until its eyes are blazing behind Louis’ own, a hum of energy rising under his skin like lightning building in storm clouds.
That one. That’s the one.
He doesn’t doubt the insistence, his wolf often knowing before him what his body hungered for. What it could chase and bring down. This wasn’t a desperate feed though unlike the rabbit bones and scraps he’s resigned himself to. A deer is the kind of kill that could leave him full for days.
Crouching, he moves as carefully as he can - slow and deliberate to not be heard in advance. The more Louis trails the scent, the denser the brush becomes, likely to provide a sense of safety while the deer grazes. The deer is moving along the slope, its scent becoming both stronger and fresher, the animal following some quiet path to water or forage. He creeps along the ground until he’s able to peer over the rise of the land and see the buck, antlers still velveted, picking its way through a patch of fern-covered stone.
Its body language reads as distracted, ears flicking but not sensing the impending death looming over it.
Go now, his Alpha whispers, low and eager, now, now, now —
No, Louis counters, eyes estimating the speed and distance he’d have to conquer. Not yet. Too far.
Observing, he creeps around until he’s within the projected path of the deer. The wind had shifted again, curling towards him instead of away. Safe. Adrenaline stretches throughout his muscles, his body crouched to pounce.
The buck ambles closer, turning to reveal the dip of his shoulder. Louis eyes the soft hollow where neck meets chest, his weight shifting slightly. Every muscle in his body buzzes with the need to move, in a way that‘s beyond the hunger pangs of his stomach. Rather it felt like instinct, memory in the same way that he recognizes his own limbs.
You know this, his wolf growled. We’ve done this. Before–
Before what?
The thought never has an answer. He pushes it away, launching himself forward as the world tumbles into motion. Wind, Earth, and the pounding of hooves. The deer sees him just a second too late, its eyes widening in that flash of primal fear with its legs scrambling in a vain attempt to get away. Body crashing into its flank, Louis’ limbs coil around the buck’s torso as they tumble into the undergrowth.
It kicks against him hard but he shifts fast, teeth already finding the pulse thumping in its neck. The snap is quick. Clean. Silence returns though Louis' chest heaves with the leftover adrenaline from the kill. He drops the limp prey to the ground, standing over it with his muzzle speckled with blood and the iron taste of it on his tongue. His wolf growls in deep satisfaction, circling inside him like it would lie down and sleep there, content.
Good, it said. We’re strong. We can take care of them. Of a pack. Of—
Louis flinches.
We don’t have a pack.
An abrupt surge of anxiety chokes him up, his head dropping down to the deer. Still warm. Yet his hunger has been quieted by the hatred of this part. Not the killing as he’s spent too much time buried in instinct for any guilt to fully blossom, but the after. The reminder that there’s no one to share it with. He’s an alpha with no hungry mouths to feed, no pups yipping at his heels. No grateful omega pressing close, thanking him, or grounding him in something other than survival.
No Harry.
That one thought rose before he could stop it. Harry, as the pack leader, seeing what he could do and maybe even looking at him as if he’s something sacred.
Louis gives a shake, the alpha within him quiet as it goes back to mourning. The meal was lonely, birds calling out to each other the only ambience as he ate. With each bite, his mind refused to clear, instead choosing to fantasize about what it might be like to drag the kill back to the pack camp—to see heads turn, eyes brighten, wolves rise to meet him. Omegas would be safe behind his strength and he would belong.
By the time he finished, the sun was higher in the sky. He should save the meat that’s left, perhaps even leave it anonymously for the pack. They’d be alerted to his presence though and the thought makes him feel jumpy.
Rogue.
Packless Alpha.
Danger.
He could drag it back to his shelter but it’d be dangerous. Other animals are likely to scent it and perhaps challenge him for it. It’s not worth the risk. The bones clean of meat he separates, digging a hole before nosing them into it. Not to cover tracks but as the only way he knows how to say thank you.
Somewhere, not far, the pack would be waking. Louis stares in that direction, ears alert. He’ll visit the pack again tonight. Watch from the trees like usual.
Maybe today is the day he’ll sneak a little closer. Or not. The longing will be there no matter what.
Soon, his wolf huffs. They’ll see us. They’ll know.
🌲🐺🌿
Patience is a virtue he didn’t have. The sun is barely starting to lower yet Louis has returned to the edge of the Styles’ pack territory.
He’d cleaned himself again, the blood mostly replaced by the creek water. Deciding to stalk from a different vantage point, Louis is actually able to see all of them.
The wolves are sprawled in the clearing, both warm and loose in the late light. Some human, some wolf, a few shifting mid-conversation like they didn’t even think about it. There’s one boy, Liam, who’s name Louis had also learned by observing, who’s sitting next to a taller girl. They’re both laughing in the hiccuping sort of way that’s loud enough to carry over to him.
Imagine that—not having to worry about every sound you make.
Others are gathered around the fire pit, voices rising and falling in a soothing rhythm. And then there’s Harry.
The alpha sits with his back against a tree, legs stretched out in front of him and sleeves pushed up. He isn’t speaking much compared to other days but the others still lean into his presence, orbiting him in subtle acts of deference. Calm. Anchored. Pack.
His ears flatten against his skull. Alone. Bad Alpha.
But what if I wasn’t? What if I were an omega?
Something guttural rises in protest, his alpha balking at the thought. He ignores it though, running the thought over in his head. What if he could pass as something safer, gentler? It’s not the first time it’s crossed his mind but today he’s deliriously feeling like why not?
Louis isn’t a threat to them. Not even to Harry’s alpha, he has no desire to try and overthrow him for the pack leader title. If anything, he wants to curl up near the heat of them. To be allowed in.
There’s no weakness in being an omega. That’s clear in the Styles’ pack. If he were an omega, maybe they’d let him stay. Maybe they’d scent him and just…relax. Maybe someone would lean into him, dip into a playful bow to start a chase or maybe Harry would speak to him gently with his hand brushing his arm.
Breath hitching, his wolf shifts uneasily inside him. Not angry but uncertain.
If I stay in human form, I could hide the scent with enough mud. Keep my distance and avoid eye contact. Pretend to be scared. Scared wolves aren’t alphas. That might work.
No. Too risky. Mud wouldn't last, especially close up.
I could injure myself. Make them think I’m weak. Alphas don’t limp. Alphas don’t crawl.
A snarl forms but he shoves to the back of his throat. His wolf growls uneasily. That idea felt wrong. Too much like lying against himself rather than around the truth.
There has to be a way to hide it. Brain locking in on the idea, observing takes a backseat as he chews on the thought like a bone.
First, there’s his posture—if he holds his tail low, ears back, lowering his gaze. All of those are surface level cues though, submissive body language would be nowhere near enough to distract from what he smells like. The scent of an alpha; deep, rich, and undeniable is the first warning sign any pack would register. He has to change his scent.
It strikes him then. Herbs. He’s seen some of the pack use herbs before, certain plants rubbed into their coats or brewed into water for healing, calming, or shifting. Once, Louis watched one of the younger wolves rub a green sticky mixture into his fur before joining a run. It had confused him then but…could herbs mask a scent?
Is that all it would take? Some sage, blue leaf, crushed floral sweetness possibly. They have a strong scent, it should work. If he could gather the right herbs to soften or shift his alpha scent so that he’s given a chance.
Coat before approaching. Move slowly, gently. Speak if spoken to but not too much. Let them read what they want to.
Because Louis doesn’t want to lie and he’s not trying to fool them into thinking he’s something that he’s not. He just needs time, just a moment where he’s able to be seen without being feared.
To be known before the scent said otherwise.
Let them think I’m soft. Let them think I’m one of theirs.
The wolf inside him rumbles, torn. But not entirely opposed. Determination laced with an undertone of anxiety thrums through his system. It’s decided.
He’ll find what he needs in the morning. There was a patch of wild herbs near the creek, and he recalls the sharp green bite of it on his tongue when he’d tasted it once by accident. He’ll collect the strongest ones, crush them, blend them with earth and ash and water. Coat his fur with it, douse his skin until all anyone smelled was forest.
And then Louis’ll wait at the edge of the clearing again. Just a little closer this time.
🌿🐺👁️
Morning came slowly, soft and grey. Mist hangs around, curling around Louis’ legs as he pads through the forest.
He remembers fragments of something; textures, shapes, and smells. A flash of pale blue petals, the sharp, minty sting of crushed leaves, the bitterness of root bark chewed raw. Louis doesn’t have names for them anymore, but his body still remembers things his mind doesn’t. Guided solely from his body’s reactions, he listens when his nose wrinkles at bitter roots or when his wolf leans in curiously at certain scents.
The first plants he finds are useless. Even when he rubbed them into the thick fur along his neck and shoulders, they smelled too clean. Not right.
Others make his nose twitch and his eyes water. One batch leaves a weird static buzz in his ears, and another makes his stomach twist, his wolf snarling low and disoriented inside him.
He spits it out, growling as his body trembles with his frustration. He feels stupid, sitting here in dirt trying to patch together half remembered tricks and childhood instincts. But still, there’s something deep in his heart that refuses to let go of the idea.
So he keeps going.
Trial. Error. Taste. Spit. Rub. Shake it off. Start again.
And then he finds a patch of short fuzzy stemmed plants near a hollow stump. The petals are almost star shaped, white with a pinkish hue. These. He remembers it vividly though he can’t place the memory.
Plucking them carefully with his teeth, he chews them into a thick paste before rolling in the mud beneath the stump to let the scent cling to him. It’s wild and fruity, dulling the sharpness of the alpha scent.
Next comes the final touch: crushed mint and a strip of bark from a tree still weeping sap from an earlier concoction. He works it into the ruff of his fur with his paws until the mixture is sticky and pungent.
His wolf shifts in confusion beneath his skin. The urges that come rushing in are wrong, out of sync with his body. It spreads heavily throughout his limbs and his muscles twitch like they aren’t sure how to carry the new scent. Staggering a little, his ears twitch wildly. His tail drops low, not from fear but because the herbs tell his body to submit. Tell him to soften.
A wave of vertigo swells as his alpha recoils and attempts to push back against the effects. Teeth bare inside his head, snarling at the unnaturalness of it. But Louis breathes deep and forces calm through their bond.
We want this, he whispers internally. We need this.
The wolf circles once, unsettled but eventually eased, tail low. Watching. Waiting.
That’s when the dizziness kicks in full force, something in him beginning to bend.
He doesn’t feel like an omega but he doesn’t feel like himself either. Exposed is the closest feeling. Unsteady. The surrounding forest feels too loud, the ground beneath his feet too far. Rumblings of his wolf’s growl echo in his head, dazed and wary as it shrinks in on itself.
Easy, Louis thinks, reaching inward. It’s okay.
Any semblance of calm disappears though when he catches the sound of footsteps. Too heavy to be prey but too light to be a large animal.
Quick. Close. Two sets.
Tension shoots through him as his heart slams against his rib, yet his body refuses to rise into a proper threat posture. His legs stay crouched with his tail half tucked. Even his ability to scent properly is diminished with his nose flooded with the smell of herbs.
The shapes appeared through the trees—two wolves, both young. Slim, fast. One is a dusty tan color, the other pale grey with a thick ruff and curious eyes. Both slow when they see him.
The brown one tilts his head. “You alright?” he asks gently, shifting half-out of his wolf form. His voice isn’t aggressive but rather surprised.
Louis blinks at them, throat dry. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His wolf is flickering wildly beneath the surface, still adjusting to the false signals the herbs are feeding it.
“Hey,” the grey one says, voice softer now. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”
They exchange a look when they’re met with panicked silence.
“He’s not from the pack, is he?” the brown one whispers. “I’ve never seen him.”
“No,” the other replies. “But he smells like omega.”
Louis freezes. The panic loosens just a little.
It worked.
It worked.
The two wolves step closer, slow and non-threatening. They’re being careful, the way pack wolves always are around unfamiliar omegas.
His wolf is silent, curled deep in his chest, ears flat in confusion. It doesn’t know how to behave like this. He doesn’t know how to behave like this.
But the wolves haven’t attacked.
They haven’t growled.
The grey one stepped closer, kneeling beside him. “You smell like you’re in heat,” he said, brows furrowing. “But it’s faint. Like… masked. Are you hiding from someone?”
Louis gets out a soft shaky exhale, neither confirmation nor denial. Just the closest thing he could manage to please don’t send me away.
“Shit,” the dark-haired one murmurs. “Poor thing’s probably starving. Looks like he’s been out here alone for weeks.”
Years, Louis thinks.
“Let’s bring him back,” the younger said, glancing toward the trees. “Harry’ll know what to do.”
Harry.
Panic flares in his gut. Not yet. Not like this.
Louis tries to stand again, but his legs embarrassingly give out as he collapses against the leaves with a heaving chest.
“You’re hurt,” the grey one said. “Do you need help?”
He gulps on air to buy himself a little time. The words sit just behind his teeth, but they feel too dangerous to use. He can’t afford to sound wrong. Instead he drops his eyes in hopes of appearing submissive, uncertain.
It isn’t fully a lie.
The brown wolf smiles, soft and relieved. “Okay. You’re okay. Come with us, yeah? We’ll take you back.”
Back.
Back where?
But he follows them anyway, both the wolves flanking him to support his weight. Louis is still dizzy from the shift of scent and self, but his heart does backflips as hope sparkles like fireworks in his mind.
They’d looked at him and seen something worth bringing home.
Pack.
Safe.
Home.