Archive of Our Own

Boyd is there, hovering over his claws, Isaac looks devastated, Jennifer looks bewildered and concerned and horrified, Kali looks smug, the twins are carefully keeping their faces blank but they're playing along, and- Gods, he's really going to be forced to do this, isn't he? Pack, his Pack, the make-shift family he'd all but accidentally gathered is going to die by his hand, and even if it's forced, it'll still be his fault, for wanting them, for needing them, for biting them.

Loving them.

He wants to close his eyes but he owes Boyd more than that.

And then, abruptly, in this saturated technicolor still-picture moment of chaos and violence- the eye of the storm- the door to the loft crashes open. With the water and the metal and the force of it, the sound is almost guttural, and far too loud- even Kali seems startled.

Stiles stands in the opening, bare feet carelessly in the water, clothes partly singed, hair longer, face stony. He smells different. It's still innately him, but where it used to be like summer rain and cinnamon, all soft, warm brine, and sweet-spice, now it's like a storm and heavy herbs, like he bathed in lightning while the heavens flooded the earth, rolled around in a witch's garden, and flew here.

The emotions wafting off of him are different too, Derek thinks, because he's sure that right now Stiles should be smelling nervous and scared and unwittingly brave- but he doesn't. He smells, frighteningly enough, like distant amusement, and like anger, and grief, and like he's maybe just a little bit annoyed on top of it all.

It's confusing, it makes no sense, and, Gods, they don't have time for this. Kali has already gotten over the distraction, is continuing, except- another crash, like glass breaking, and all of a sudden there's a mountain ash barrier between him and Boyd. Kali growls, and throws an angry glare at Stiles who is- smiling, he's smiling at her.

"No one else dies," he says it like a command, and there's no lie there, more anger, maybe, but his heartbeat is strong, steady.

"Even if Derek doesn't kill him," Kali begins to say through fangs and a corrupt, twisted sort of smile, but she never finishes, the knife covered in runes now protruding out of her throat makes it kind of impossible. She chokes, claws at it, but it repels her hands, digs itself deeper like it has a mind of its own, and blood is coming out of her mouth when her eyes go dark, her body goes slack, lets go of Boyd on the way down.

"Except you, maybe," he tells her, his throwing arm still out. He's looking around at them all, his scent becoming mildly pleased, like he's satisfied with a job well done, only to sour when his sight settles on Jennifer.

Derek is just gaping at him, wondering what the hell just happened, because Stiles- Scott's Stiles- just killed someone without batting an eye.

"Darach," he greets Jennifer, and she looks genuinely startled, whereas everyone else is getting more confused by the second, Derek especially.

"Murderer," Stiles amends with narrowed eyes, "Dark Druid, very, very bad lady- I'll never understand how so many of our teachers ended up being so dangerous, it certainly didn't start with you, but it started somewhere. You don't think the school is cursed, do you?" He asks her conversationally, as if he didn't just insinuate she was a serial killer.

"You, are you threatening me?" She asks in a demure high pitched squeak, and Derek wonders why, after Stiles has just saved Boyd's life, why he wants to kill him for even daring to accuse Jennifer of such things.

Boyd is pretty much passed out at this point, scathed but alive. The mountain ash barrier has moved, slithered like a snake (and Derek didn't even know that was possible) to wrap around the twins, push them, snarling and snapping helplessly, against the wall.

Isaac kind of looks like he wants to abandon Jennifer, like he believes what Stiles is saying, like he wants to take his Pack and hide them all somewhere safe where they can lick their wounds and sleep because this is all just too goddamn much.

Stiles, another knife slipping from nowhere into the palm of his hand takes a step toward her, without thinking, Derek growls. Stiles blinks, pauses, and looks at him.

The stench of grief is overwhelming, it fills the air, harsh and fast. Guilt and pain and sorrow and fighting, fighting so fucking hard. Boyd, even in sleep, shakes under it; Isaac can't seem to hold back the broken whimper that escapes him; Derek has no idea how to feel, but suddenly he's not so sure of anything.

He stares at Stiles, wide-eyed and confused, and the boy just offers him a soft sad smile.

He clicks his fingers.

Derek breathes, real, it thunders through, and all the fuzzy-soft interactions with Jennifer click with the words Darach and Magic and he feels fucking sick, because he hadn't felt anything for her, it was forced on him, all of it.

"Hey," Stiles breathes, "Hey, hey, you're back now, it's okay." And Stiles is right there, in front of him, kneeling in the water. When did that happen, he wonders distantly, surprised to feel Stiles brushing tears away, Derek hadn't even realized he'd started crying. Gentle, soft, caressing his cheeks and then dragging his pale fingers through Derek's hair, Stiles keeps telling him that it's not his fault and that it's okay.

It feels good, grounding, calming, Derek never wants it to stop, isn't even embarrassed when a whine escapes him as Stiles starts to move away. Stiles just shushes him, scrapes his fingernails through his scalp and walks with a grim sort of determination toward Jennifer, who's standing now, looking pissed.

Derek's a little worried, too tired and wiped out from what just occurred to do anything to protect Stiles, he feels hollow and not unlike how he did after he'd found out Kate was a hunter and had only pretended to love him so she could watch his family burn.

Stiles just goes up to her, smiles, slices her palm with his knife and takes a step back. Jennifer didn't even have any time to dodge that move, no one would've, he did it fast- supernaturally fast- but it's just a cut, isn't it?

A paper-thin slice.

So, it's more than a little startling when Jennifer's face goes red as she looks at her injured hand like it's a demon, and all of a sudden starts screaming like the world has crashed down around her. Like she's being tortured.

"We all pay our dues," Stiles says faintly, watching without any real malice, more with a disturbing, impolite kind of interest, as she falls to her knees clutching her head, screaming and wailing and scratching at her eyes.

"Holy shit, Stiles," Isaac gasps, daunted by everything he's just witnessed; Derek's inclined to agree.

"Magic," Stiles tells him, like it's that simple, cocks his head to the side when Jennifer starts convulsing and says, "huh, I didn't think that would kill her."

Except it is, it's definitely killing her, Derek can hear her heart stopping in slow motion, kind of like he can feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the water.

It's a little bit of a relief when everything goes dark.

Derek jolts awake, frantic and panicked before reality dawns on him. The loft is still flooded, but his Pack is alive; it's dark out, still, darker than it was before, and he has to wonder how long he was out. He's on his bed, Isaac and Boyd warm against him, needing the comfort of their Alpha. He can hear voices in the living room, heartbeats, people moving around.

Cora, Lydia, Allison, Scott, and Stiles- discussing the bodies, sort of.

"-ere still people, Stiles! Bad people, yes, but killing them is stooping to their level! I mean, you can't really believe-"

"What I do or do not believe has nothing to do with this, I did what needed to be done." Stiles is eerily calm and indifferent in contrast to Scott's horrified anger. And, if anything, what he says only aggrieves the other boy further. The following rant on morality and ethics and humanity makes the subtle headache throbbing low beneath his temples slowly worsen until he feels forced to get up and do something about it.

He freezes, though, when as soon as he steps into the room Stiles points at him- his scent sours with that guilt-pain-grief-blood-hurt-tears heavy brine and sharp spice again, it makes Derek whine low in his throat before he can stop himself- "You died," he tells the room at large, burnt whiskey eyes bearing into him, fierce.

Heartbeat strong. Steady. Truth.

He points at Scott: "You died," then Lydia, Allison, and Cora respectively. Heartbeat never faltering, smell never wavering, voice and face blank but willful.

"You all died," he tells them, "and I had to learn to live without you, to fight Mermaids and Zombies and Demons and Alphas and Omegas and Nightmare-Gods without anyone, because everyone was dead and I was all alone and no one even knew they were in danger! And I adapted, Scott, I learned magic and politics and how to keep everyone safe no matter what that meant. I learned to live with the loneliness and the nightmares and, God, the endless fucking war.

"I have done so much worse than this for so much less, I massacred an entire coven for a child whose mind was already lost, negotiated a treaty with the Fair Folk after they burned an entire city down, crushed Naga eggs under my heel so the Mother would come back to her nest, I have done what I've had to do and I am so goddamned tired, Scott, I've been tired for a long time now.

"So I found a spell, and I went back in time, and the only thing I've done here, right now, is kill a psychopathic Alpha and a psychopathic Druid- I let the other two Alphas go with nothing other than a stern talking to. In this timeline? I've barely done anything at all. But, considering what I've just told you, I hope you understand when I say: my Pack is under my protection. No harm comes to them, and if anyone dare try, they will die by my hand, morality be damned!"

Stiles had steadily grown more and more vehement, though his scent, the calm he kept in his voice, the truth in his heart, stayed. He was still panting, a little, by the time he was finished.

Scott looked angry and cowed and scared and chastised all at once, Allison looked vaguely homicidal, Lydia had a hand over her mouth and was trying desperately not to cry, Cora just seemed ambivalent, and, inexplicably, a little smug. Derek, for his part, was trying to focus on breathing through his mouth, because Stiles' scent was strong, fuck.

Everything he said cleared up most of the confusion though, brought a startling clarity to the changes and the emotions and the knowledge and the magic.

Made him want to violently destroy everything because it was his job to protect Stiles, and based on what he'd said? Derek had failed miserably.

The shocked, bewildered silence was broken, surprisingly enough, by Lydia, who decided with grim determination that the werewolves should marr the bodies some, dump them in the Preserve, call it a Mountain Lion and then call it a day. Everyone tentatively agreed, except Scott who shook his head, gave Stiles a cold glare, declared that the conversation wasn't over, and dragged Allison away.

"I forgot how righteous he could be," Stiles says, fondly, wistfully, a little sadly, as he drags his dagger out of Kali's neck and secrets it away somewhere on his person.

Lydia, while Cora and Derek set about tearing into the corpses, though Cora whined a little about it being undignified, had joined the others in the bed, apparently tired and traumatized enough not to care anymore.

Later Derek finds Stiles sitting on his dining room table with ten different books opened to various pages around him, other books lying closed in piles, papers scattered everywhere, notes and notebooks placed carefully close (or aligned with their researched counterpart), typing away on his laptop as he reads from two different tomes and a newspaper simultaneously.

"Hey, Alpha," Stiles greets him absently as he writes something down with one hand, types with another, and skims through several pages of something that may or may not be in an odd and confounding dialect.

"Alpha?" Derek asks, mouth a little dry.

The loft has been, more or less, un-flooded and cleaned and returned to normal, and though the stink of the fight still remains it's been aired out some- not to mention the fact that the blood-panic-crazed-moldy-water smell is currently being overwhelmed by Stiles whose smell is permeating everything with the heavy, warm honey of contentedness, soft summer rain of hope, electric lightning current of determination, cinnamon lavender of trust, and the dusty papery aroma of research.

It's been three days since that night. Stiles had gone home after he'd made absolutely sure that the bodies had been dealt with, then there'd been unexplained radio-silence from him and his father- they'd both been calling in sick and avoiding any other means of communication- until now, apparently.

"Yep," Stiles assures, popping the p, which is a little ridiculous, considering. He looks up, then, seems to realize the seriousness of what he's just said by the frown Derek is no doubt wearing.

"Derek," he says quietly, and smiles softly at him, "will you be my Alpha?"

Heatbeat steady, confident, smell getting impossibly stronger, sweeter, whiskey eyes twinkling with hope and surety and this odd sort of wonder, awe, like Derek is something magnificent, something he's glad to have and terrified to lose in equal measure.

"Okay," Derek breathes, barely a whisper- but it's enough, it must be, because suddenly Stiles' whole face brightens, his smell summer-honey-rainbow-joy as he sets his laptop precariously on a pile of books, swings his legs off of the table, and flings himself at Derek. His arms wrap deftly around Derek's back, hands settling firmly between his shoulder blades, baring his neck submissively as he rests his forehead on Derek's shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And the way Stiles smells, so fucking good, so perfect, was bad enough on its own, but him being this close, offering it up like this? Derek can't even help the way his self-control evaporates, hands ending up on Stiles' hips as he noses along his jaw, breathing in deep, greedy gulps of him.

Stiles shivers, holds him closer, moves his head further to the side easily, trustingly, to allow for better access. He hums a little, one of his hands starting to rub little circles on Derek's back as the other reaches up to tangle fingers in and out of his hair. It takes Derek a long while to reign himself in enough to notice that Stiles is breathing in deeply too, has been holding onto him so tightly his arms are shaking.

"You're alive," Stiles says, although it sounds like a question, like he's trying to reassure himself, hot-brine returning slowly to his scent.

Derek has never noticed before how similar tears and summer rain are- all salt and water and warmth.

"Yeah," he answers, because he has to, because he wants the honey-coated-rainbow smell back, because the boy in his arms has really been through too much by now, because it's been a very long time since anyone's been this worried about his well-being.

"I'm alive?" It's definitely a question this time, a little worrying, if Derek's being honest.

"Yes." He tells him as firmly as he possibly can, adding in a bit of Alpha growl for good measure. When the scent lifts in quiet joy again, and Derek can feel Stiles smiling into his shoulder, it feels like a victory.

Like he's won something.

Something, maybe, just a little bit precious.

Those three days Stiles was AWOL had apparently been spent bonding and talking things through with his father ("Telling him everything, apologizing for everything, reminiscing, and fighting a little too," he'd said). One of the things he'd explained was the need to be close with Pack, along with who, or rather what, was really behind Beacon Hills' abnormally high crime rate.

This, of course, had resulted in the Sheriff wanting to meet with Derek- a meeting which was surprisingly ambivalent and unhostile, though Derek had a sneaking suspicion that had a lot more to do with Stiles than the man himself. According to John, his son had told him that in his original timeline, his father had died, that he was sorry for having lied to him for so long, that he was sorry that they'd always be in constant danger now, and that Stiles would never be the same again; he'd said that he loved his Pack as much as he loved John and if he ever lost any of them there was a very real possibility he'd do some extremely dangerous magic that might either kill him or send him, again, back in time.

Stiles was, quite obviously, a little unhinged at the moment.

And, considering Derek was his Alpha, Stiles had told his father very succinctly that they were to share the burden of the hyperactive teenager with PTSD, because if either of them tried to take on all of his burdens alone they'd break under the weight, and Pack takes care of Pack anyway, so there.

John didn't seem so sure, even as he was relating the idea to Derek, but he looked resigned and worn down all the same.

John was Pack now, Stiles made sure to ask Derek if he was okay with it a little later, but mostly it was a given- and the Sheriff wanted in on Pack meetings, his position along with his newfound knowledge granting him access to enough information on both sides to help both his Pack and his town.

It was... odd? Uncomfortable? Weird. It was weird at first, a little grating, but after awhile it became stable, comfortable, and so much easier.

Derek found himself wondering, often, why they hadn't recruited someone in law enforcement sooner.

Stiles stayed over often, now, slept in Derek's bed most nights, which wasn't exactly unwelcome, the Betas did it themselves during the week of the full moon- it's just that Stiles did it without warning or schedule or, seemingly, any real reasoning.

The first time he'd just drifted toward the bed naturally after a long day of research, leaving Derek to delegate himself, respectfully, to the couch- before time travel and magic had been involved, Stiles hadn't even been Pack, he'd been more like a wary ally, loyal only to Scott, so cuddling and puppy piles and Pack behaviour always seemed like a boundary better left uncrossed. This Stiles, though, full of unadulterated longing and fierce protectiveness and grief, was touch-starved and had been left alone for far too long, and was unapologetic in waking Derek up to tell him so.

"Der," he'd whispered, poking him a little too harshly in the ribs, "Der, Der, come to bed, it's cold, and I want my Alpha. Come keep the nightmares away, c'mon, please?"

It had sounded frighteningly vulnerable and childish and needy, spoken quietly and reverently almost like a prayer, like a secret just between them, his wide whiskey eyes dead-tired and yearning. So Derek had sighed and let himself be dragged to his bed to be cuddled- and it was oddly intimate, the way Stiles had held on like Derek might just disappear, like Derek was the dream, and the nightmare might just be waking up to find him gone- and was granted the small gift of a honeyed-rainbow-sunshine scent for his troubles.

The second time he had been cold, actually physically cold to the touch, and restless and twitchy and panicked. His aroma was sour-stormy and the weight of it was feverish in drastic contrast to his own temperature. He had unhappily confided that sometimes his magic did this, on the bad days, and resolutely refused to elaborate further. He'd called up the whole Pack- tried to call Scott, too, but had been waved off a little too rudely for Derek's liking- and had manhandled them all onto the bed (Derek, Boyd, Cora, Isaac, Lydia, even Peter, it was the first time Derek had seen his Uncle so genuinely amused and perturbed by something at the same time) before promptly sprawling himself out on top of all of them and gleefully claiming that he was warm now, thanks, as his sun-soaked fresh-honey water-prism scent blanketed the room and mingled with the Pack's.

It was oddly peaceful, and Derek found himself making pancakes for the lot of them, after. Stiles had called him a Sappywolf, smiled fondly, smelling happy and well-rested. The others had seemed mildly surprised when Derek had smiled, a real smile, back.

He wondered, for a moment, if maybe they'd never actually seen him smile before, but Stiles had just patted his cheek and looked a little proud, a little victorious, before digging into the food with fervent gusto.

The third time, though the Pack had all been there (Peter deigning to once more join in, making himself sound exasperated and put-out about it, even though he smelled mildly content and secretly pleased), Stiles hadn't been able to sleep all that well, and, oddly enough (Derek hadn't even known he could, let alone that he was good at it) began to sing quiet polish lullabies that were sweet and lilting and deep, that, paired with his summersweet smell, lulled them all into a deep sleep, all of them waking up light and fuzzy from peaceful dreams.

Stiles had baked them a lemon-cake for breakfast, and it had smelled as wonderful as it tasted. No one had spoken much, but everyone basked in it, the way it felt comforting and domestic and familiar, if a little silly ("Cake for breakfast, really Stiles?" Lydia had laughed).

It felt like Pack.

Like family.

Their good moods seemed to bleed into each other and last well throughout the day.

The fourth time it happens it's just the two of them, and, because he still wasn't used to this new tactile version of Stiles, Derek had gone for the couch again after finding the boy nestled comfortably into his pillows.

He's woken up, maybe an hour later, to guttural, terrified, I-am-being-shredded-and-my-intestines-are-being-used-to-strangle-me screams, the sound echoes throughout the loft along with a scent so full of burnt-electricity-anxiety and sweat-salt-fear that it has Derek choking on his way to Stiles, whose heart is thundering so loudly that Derek ends up having an oddly hysterical half-asleep worry that the boy's heart might actually give out before he gets to him.

Some part of him is surprised to find that it was just a nightmare, that Stiles wasn't actually being mauled or otherwise viciously murdered. Without thinking, wanting the pungent aroma and the horrible wails to dissipate, Derek moves to wake him. 'Were instincts be damned, though, in the face of a half-crazed, terrified, nightmare-dazed knife-wielding, little mage.

As soon as Derek presses fingers to sweat-slick skin Stiles has him, is flipping him over and down, hard, onto the floor, one of his rune-etched knives against his throat- all this in barely a split second, practiced and methodical. Stiles' eyes still glazed with dream-haze, and, like this? So close their noses were practically touching? Derek was holding his breath just to keep from howling or retching over that terror-burn-electric-fire smell.

"Stiles," he tries, sounding about as strangled as he feels, the blade pressing into his windpipe incredibly unhelpful, "Stiles, it's just me."

Stiles is panting, he's managing to keep the knife steady- not digging in, but not pulling back either- but he's shaking like a leaf, his pupils blown wide, if he were a wolf, Derek would think him feral.

"Stiles," Derek growls, letting red seep into his irises, Alpha thrum in his voice; it seems to do the trick, somehow, because Stiles' trembling fingers finally manage to let go of the knife, which tumbles and goes clattering to the ground by Derek's head.

"Derek, Der," Stiles breathes, eyes blinking slowly, coming back to reality in waves that rock him bodily, make him sway in a sickening sort of way, "Alive?" He asks, cold, clammy hands coming up to frame Derek's face- and it sounds like it costs him to ask it, like he's expecting the answer to be no- his fingers shakily tracing cheekbones and stubble, pressing into skin, afraid to let go.

"Jesus, Stiles." Derek whimpers, and, without any real conscious thought, he wraps his arms around the boy straddling his hips; holds him, rocks him, shushes him, shudders when Stiles starts dissolving into silent helpless sobs that wrack his frame.

"I'm alive," he assures, over and over, as many times as Stiles needs to hear him say it, "we're all alive, you saved us; we're okay."

After that, it's like the floodgates open, whatever awkwardness he felt about having to touch Stiles becomes the need to protect and hug and feel- it's far more intense than it is with the Betas, and somehow, even if it's just subconsciously, they pick up on it. Instead of jealousy, it's like they inherit the need, always touching him, brushing fingers through his hair, hooking a chin on his shoulder to read over the research, other soft, simple, reassuring forms of contact. Constantly scenting him until he smells so much like Pack that it's undeniable.

Somehow, as if Stiles was the key the Pack needed, they were all getting closer, touching was easier, talking was easier, being was easier- and Stiles, he pushed them all, whether or not he noticed it, to want something more than what they'd had. His love, determination, devotion, loyalty, and fierce protectiveness, his obvious willingness to die for any and all of them, it was a powerful thing.

A hauntingly beautiful thing.

Stiles' relationships with everyone in the Pack has grown exponentially. He and Cora are a force to be reckoned with, and the fact that he's brought her so far out of her shell within only a few weeks says a lot about him, the type of person he is.

He's gotten Isaac to spend more time in the loft, less time flinching away from surprising contact. And sometimes, when Stiles can't sleep, Isaac will stay awake and bake with him, letting Stiles fill the empty spaces with a hushed desperate sort of chatter, wisely changing the subject whenever Stiles' heartbeat gets too frantic, or simply hugging him into silence.

Derek thinks that every once in awhile Isaac opens up to Stiles about his own demons, during those long nights when the shadows and the silence are too heavy, too infiltrating for Stiles to overcome. It's always tense on those days, when Stiles is quiet and cold to the touch and lethargic in everything he does. It's odd to see him muted and still and morose like that, and everyone seems to become more cuddly, more in need of touch, easier to snap in anger or cry in quiet desperation when days like that come.

Isaac doesn't let anyone touch his scarves except for Stiles, and it's an unspoken rule, now, that if Stiles gets up in the middle of the night to bake, Isaac is the one meant to go with him.

Boyd is, has always been, stoic and reasonable and reigned in, he's the most similar to Derek of all of them in that way- but he and Stiles reminisce about Erica sometimes, and Boyd lets Stiles touch him more than anyone else. Stiles brings out a more lively side of him, and is always goading him into making bets on the most random things- which is something that bled into the culture of the Pack somehow, as everyone seems to bet on everything for no particular reason at all, now.

(When Stiles noticed Cora and Lydia betting over how late the pizza guy would arrive he'd grinned at the two and called the lot of them his gamble-wolves. The Pack had been inexplicably and inordinately proud.)

Lydia, of course, with her wariness of his infatuation, her pride, her masks, and her connection to Death, has been the slowest of all of them to come to terms, not only with Stiles, but with the Pack bond itself. (Which, when it first formed, had felt almost accidental, and paper thin, like the smallest of irritants could snap it, break her away from them. But Stiles had assured her in no uncertain terms that he loved her as a friend, nothing more, and that he still adored her beautiful mind, and that the Pack accepted her, Banshee, bitchy, traumatized and all, then he'd hugged her and told her it would be okay, that they'd scream with her when the time came, that she'd never ever have to find the bodies alone again, and she'd cried and hugged him back.)

Her Pack Bond is white and eerie, and stronger than piano wire, now. (She'd descended upon all of them the next day with pink cheeks and stubborn opinions and sharp intelligence. Her smile at Stiles had been thankful and a little watery, but after that, she was with them- powerful, ferocious and loyal.)

Nobody's allowed to dress down anymore without a stern word and a venomous glare, and if that glare is a little softer when directed at Stiles and his many, many layers of plaid, nobody says anything- though some of them may smile a little.

Peter remains indifferent, mostly, but the subtle changes are like a breath of fresh air, and everyone has noticed them. Grounding touches, more of a willingness to divulge information, more sarcasm and snark, less barb and bite. His edges are all still there, they're just, sanded down, more reasonable, easy.

(At one point Stiles had stubbed his toe and bit out a round of curses so colorful that everyone was slackjawed and staring by the end of it. Peter, an awed expression on his face, had said: "That was beautiful, Stiles."

And Stiles- Stiles had just beamed at him, expression filled with love and the sheer joy of having Peter alive, having them all alive; it was the face he wore whenever someone in the Pack did something unexpected and kind toward him, a face they all strived to make him wear as much as possible, a face that had been hiding for the past three days under a blank or angry mask as he worked through something he wouldn't name.

Maybe it was because of that, because they'd all been trying to cheer him up and no one had succeeded until now, or maybe it was the way his scent lifted from stormy-miserable-fog to honeyed-sunshine-relief within one blink and the next, or maybe it was because it was the first time Stiles had smiled like that toward Peter, but Peter actually smiled back- soft and sincere with mischief and fondness twinkling in his eyes- like he meant it.

It was the first time Derek had seen him really smile since the fire, the first time Peter had really felt like his Uncle since Laura, and the first time he thought that maybe keeping him alive hadn't actually been a mistake.

Alternatively, after that, like a flip had been switched, no one was scared of the man anymore, and everyone had begun calling him Creeperwolf like it was more his name than Peter was. Peter seemed both amused and annoyed by the fact that his insults fell on deaf ears, his snarks were all rebutted easily, his closeness accepted rather than shunned. He was Pack just as much as any of them were, and Pack protects Pack- they trusted him, trusted their Alpha to keep him in line.

When Peter managed to accept the fact that he was no longer on the fringes, and that he didn't really need to have the Alpha power in order to find some semblance of Pack, he settled, the annoyance drifting away leaving only exasperated and mildly resigned amusement behind.)

And with that they were all bound together tight, family, Pack, home to each other.

Maybe it's been a little inadvertent, but Stiles was the reason, the thing that ended up tying them all together, and Derek would forever be grateful to him in ways he had no idea how to express, for that.

The whole Pack has become used to the fact that the table is no longer a table, and it's oddly okay, everyone had always clustered around the couch or piled into the kitchen anyway, it's almost like the table was never meant to be used as a table in the first place. Maybe it'd always been meant for Stiles, though no one had ever realized it.

The sturdy mahogany table in question has now been covered in protective and structural runes, it's probably the safest, strongest, most unbreakable piece of furniture in Beacon Hills. Seeing Stiles sitting in the middle of the table surrounded by magical supplies whilst working on something, or his knives whilst he's cleaning them and reapplying runes to them (or etching new runes into an addition to the collection), or books and tomes with his laptop in his lap while he does research isn't just normal anymore, it's comforting.

His knives, the Pack has realized, are very important to him, he treats them with a certain amount of care and reverence and, he's told them, nearly all of the blades have been used to save a life at one point or another. The two he has on him at all times- Stiles says they're kunai, older than dirt, and that not all of the magic weaved into them is his, though they're certainly attuned to him now.- the ones he'd had that night not all too long ago when he'd killed Kali (and Deucalion, most of them suspect, since no one has seen the blind 'were since), are beautiful, sleek, glossy black metal with thousands of tiny maroon-colored runes carved deep within every groove of their slender, serpentine edges. They're about half as long as Stiles' forearm, weighted for throwing and easy as anything to hide. The rest are no less deceptively gorgeous, though there are no other pairs so perfectly twin-like (even though they aren't the only kunai in the lot), and Stiles has said that none of the rest of them are nearly as powerful or as closely bound to him and his Spark.

He keeps more than half of his collection in the loft, some hidden away in certain places just in case, the others kept in an old leather trunk under the bed. He doesn't mind Pack touching them, borrowing them, using them- has said that they all have different runes and different levels of power, but can be used by any Pack member with just as much potency as if they were being used by Stiles himself. He's planning to make them all special knives attuned to their specific needs and wants for Christmas, he seems oddly excited by it.

He has warned, however, that some of the knives are for very specific purposes and could hardly harm a fly; along with the fact that if they let anyone other than Pack touch them there could be consequences. (He didn't elaborate, but Cora hadn't wasted any time assuring him that no one else would be touching his precious babies anytime soon. She'd seemed mildly shocked when his response had been to hug her and murmur an emphatic thank you into her neck, but then she'd just melted into it and shared a significant look with everyone over his shoulder.)

His knives were treated with a great deal more respect, afterwards, a fact that made Stiles, whenever he noticed, smell heavily of pepper and rainbows (Derek wonders sometimes how it is someone can smell like colors and sky and sun and rain, how it is he never noticed that rainbows even had a distinct smell before).

It was one of the most intoxicating things Derek had smelled, and, if the way the Pack suddenly began to very obviously treat the knives like precious artifacts is any indication, he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

When Derek comes home from hunting down a few pixies, various books he retrieved from the library on PTSD tucked under his arm, he's a little surprised to see Scott there, looking irritatedly pensive and confused in equal measure.

"Why do you smell so different?" Scott asks when he first approaches- Derek wonders if that's a play at subtly asking why he smells like Stiles, or if he genuinely doesn't know what Stiles smells like anymore. After all, even in the madness that was the day Stiles had apparently travelled back in time, Derek had noticed that the scent of the boy was inherently different, even if it was still biologically the same, and as far as the Pack has told him, Stiles stays with them at school, and although he doesn't seem to be avoiding Scott, he's not actively seeking him out either.

He'd had a quiet conversation a few days ago with Derek, Lydia, Cora and Isaac about the fact that he was giving Scott time, that killing would never sit well with someone so pure, and that, though he loved Scott like a brother, he'd long since mourned the loss of that friendship. At least, he'd said, with a bittersweet smile, Scott didn't hate him in this timeline; he just couldn't forgive him- and maybe that was better.

That night he'd woken them all up at least six times with screaming cries and rapid-fire heartbeats and a flurry of knives before he'd finally given up and hauled Isaac off into the kitchen.

The next day he'd told them all, dragging Peter and Boyd in just to make sure he had all of them there, that he was so incredibly glad he had them, that they were all alive, that they were his Pack. And he'd confided in a quiet broken voice that he wouldn't have survived without them, he couldn't be alone anymore, he needed his Pack-mates, he loved them- and Derek thinks that maybe they had all already known that, but it was the first time he'd said it out loud, so raw and vulnerable, his scent electric-salt.

Everyone had hugged him, then, as if it were impossible to refrain from touching him after such a confession, and when he'd started to cry, they'd all just hugged him tighter.

Maybe that's why, faced with Scott, who's been ignoring Stiles for months now, who's supposed to be Stiles' best friend- his brother- who isn't even part of his Pack, who must've noticed the books, too, but has only deigned to ask about the scent, who makes Stiles feel lonely and unforgiven-- maybe that's why he kind of hates him.

Just a little.

"I smell like Pack." He tells Scott gruffly as he walks past him to go inside- taking the stairs instead of the elevator to work off some of the unexpected steam with something physical. Scott doesn't seem to get the hint, though, because he's following after him like it was an invitation.

"Oh, well, okay. Look- I know you never said you'd keep me updated on the Alphas or anything, but after what happened last time, I kind of wanted to check in. I still can't believe that Stiles-" Scott runs his hand through his hair and makes a frustrated noise through his teeth. Derek wants to punch him- "But it happened, and since then it's been, I don't know, quiet? Like, there haven't been any murders or anything- until last night, so I was just wondering if, I mean, maybe it was the Alphas killing people like that, and maybe after Ennis and Kali they were scared off? For a little while anyway? And, like, maybe now they're--!!???"

Derek's mildly concerned by the choked off startled noise that interrupts Scott's little speech when he opens the door to the loft, so he gives him a questioning eyebrow.

"Stiles," Scott says weakly, by way of answer and greeting and question of his own.

Stiles, sitting on the table as per usual, is weaving spells into one of his favored healing daggers- and Derek had been confused by that, when Stiles had first shown him one, with a white pearl handle and whitened silver and ink black swirling runes, he'd asked how a weapon could heal. Stiles had just grinned and told him not to question the mojo. Turns out, knives laced with white magic can easily heal someone, all it takes is a papercut slice through the palm of the intended, the realization kind of put a whole new perspective on what had happened to Jennifer ("Two sides of the same coin," Stiles had told him.)- at least two thirds of his white or gray magic blades spread out around him along with a few tomes, his laptop, jars and pouches and bags full of ingredients, a small bowl of blood (Derek took a small whiff, it seems Boyd bled for the cause this time- they'd all done it at one point or another, because they trusted Stiles, and his 'mojo' was turning out to be no less helpful than his research), and a plate of brownies with a note on top that helpfully said: 'Not laced with wolfsbane this time, promise. -S'

Because they had been laced last time, experimentally, because Stiles had been trying to figure out how to dilute the effects and make a blend that allowed the brownies to become more like a werewolf edible than a toxic LSD trip. Derek, unfortunately, hadn't known, and since he loved Stiles' baking (the whole Pack did), he'd snaked one unthinkingly.

It wasn't a very nice trip, he'd woken up a day later whimpering while Stiles held onto him like a lifeline, apologizing with tears in his eyes.

Hushing him, kissing his hairline, telling him it was okay, that they were both okay, both alive, seemed natural- and, considering the fact that that was what he did every time Stiles woke with baited breaths, a scream in his clenched throat, and terror in his scent, it kind of was at this point.

("Shouldn't I be comforting you?" Stiles had asked, rather wetly, his voice muffled into the skin of Derek's shoulder, made wobbly with fresh tears.

"No," Derek had said, as he had rubbed his nose along Stiles' jaw, knowing that scenting calmed him, "but you do owe me some brownies."

Stiles had barked a startled laugh at that, and pulled him closer.

"Yeah, yep, yeah, okay- I-I'll do that." He'd sniffled- it was a testament to how freaked out he was that only a few minutes had passed before he'd asked the dreaded, broken, hauntingly terrified question.

"Derek?"

"Mmm?"

"You're still alive?"

"Yes, Stiles; we're all alive, The Pack, you, and I- all of us." And the night had continued on with the usual soft assurances.)

Stiles, who had been in a trance- something that often happened with magic like this, he's complained quite a lot about white magic (protection, healing, wards, etc) being harder for him because it required meditation and focus and ADHD made that next to impossible- with the knife levitating about shoulder height, snaps his eyes open, looking up at Derek. His eyes, for the briefest moments, flash a dark, vivid violet that makes Derek feel warm and solicitous and a little like howling- Stiles' eyes always flash like that whenever he's doing magic, it had taken awhile to get used to, and even then...

"Fond. Meloncholia. Ambivilent. Irritated." Stiles ticks off in a mechanical tone, and Derek groans.

Part of the reason the Pack wasn't in the loft right now was precisely because of this, whenever Stiles did white magic with intense concentration, he got a little empathic, and without a brain-to-mouth filter, started stating everyone's emotions very clinically out loud until someone snapped him out of the weird in-between fugue state he was in.

Derek's the only one who's ever been successful; the rest of the Pack thinks it's because he's the Alpha.

Derek takes a deep breath, expecting Stiles to do a read on Scott next, but he's gone silent, eyes fixed wholly on Derek.

"Huh," Derek says on an exhale, brows knitting together, just as Stiles starts up again: "Confusion. Thoughtful. Realization. Pride. Posessiv-"

"Stiles!" He growls, cutting off the string of disturbingly accurate words. The boy blinks at him, violet once again before returning to whiskey.

"Oh, hey, hello, hi. Derek. What's happening? Take care of the Pixies? Wait. Those are your 'I'm embarrassed so I'm going to make like a serial killer' eyebrows! Did I do the thing again? The weird, emotional violation thing?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Oops. Sorry, Sourwolf. I made you brownies, though! Am I forgiven?"

Derek sighs, walking over and grabbing a brownie in lieu of a response. Stiles grins up at him, as if Derek could've ever stayed mad over something the little mage didn't even have any control over. Especially when, ten seconds later, he's discarded his work, jumped off the table, and wrapped Derek in a hug, baring his throat, submissive and demanding all at once, bobbing his heels up and down, impatiently waiting to be scented.

Derek obliges with an exasperated huff, setting the brownie and the library books down so he can get closer. This, too, has become routine- after any supernatural fight they're faced with, no matter who does the fighting and who stays home, Stiles demands to be scented by all of them after (even Lydia, who's not a 'were, but allows it anyway because of the question he asks each and every one of them when the act has been completed.)

It's not as desperate and broken as when he asks in the middle of the night, sweating and shivering with fear, but it makes Derek hold him tighter all the same: "Alive?"

"Alive." He answers, as he always does, and Stiles' scent soars with joy, as it always does, though it's still a little damp, and it'll stay that way, Derek knows, until he's heard the same assurance from every Pack member. Stiles nods into his collarbone and breathes out a sigh of relief, like he couldn't quite believe it until he was told out loud. Derek, forgetting himself, smiles at his antics, worrisome, but endearing.

"Ummmmm..." Scott sounds extremely perturbed, "Are you guys, like?"

Derek could kill him for the way Stiles' scent instantly sours, salt and lightning he's used to, that sad, pained grief that underlies Stiles' scent most days anyway, and he understands the small herbal-musk of rage, but he's never smelled the yellow-tinged acrid stench of polluted swamp before- it's a strong wave of guilt and loneliness and self-loathing that has Derek growling and baring his teeth at Scott instinctively, flashing his eyes as he presses Stiles closer to him, digging his fingers into the boys' back, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to ground. Though, who, exactly, he's grounding, he has no idea.

"Woah, hey, dude, I mean, I'm a little hurt you didn't tell me, but I- I guess it's fine. He's my friend, but I'm not gonna, like, steal him from you or anything." Scott tries, placatingly, and maybe a little inconsiderately.

"It's okay, Alpha, it's okay. I'm okay," Stiles murmurs, breath hot against his ear, and his scent has gotten a little better so Derek manages to silence the growl, but he can't quite seem to let go yet, the smell still so strong, the fact that Scott didn't understand any of what just happened enough to make him want to growl again for completely different reasons.

"Po-sess-ive." Stiles sing-songs under his breath, the tail-end of what he'd been saying earlier when Derek called him back to reality. He tugs on Derek's ear playfully with nimble fingers as if to say again that he really is fine, and pulls away, insistent and reluctant at the same time, before looking up at him through his lashes, and asking in a private whisper, "What was that about, anyway?"

"Scott." He tells him, and then Stiles gets it (because he's clever and Derek doesn't need to 'use his words' nearly as much as he used to), because the fact that Stiles didn't read Scott could only mean one thing- it only happens with Pack. Whatever the reason, he only does it to Pack, and now he pretty much knows exactly how that made Derek feel. When the realization makes Stiles smile fondly at him, a blush unabashedly decorating his cheeks and the tips of his ears, something affectionate and fragile lighting up his beautiful eyes, Derek honestly wants to kiss him breathless.

The only thing that makes him take another step back instead, is Scott, who appears to be blushing himself and looking anywhere and everywhere but their general direction.

Scott fucking McCall.

"It's not like that, dude," Stiles says, though his heart stutters, just a little, barely enough for Derek to catch. Not a whole truth. Derek swallows the lump in his throat and takes another step back, his wolf aching to come to the surface, his whole being wanting nothing more than to throw Scott out and discover exactly what that means, "It's a Pack thing, a 'were thing, too, though, so you should get it, shouldn't you?"

He turns to Derek, mildly worried, brow furrowed in confusion, "Isn't it instinctive? I know he scents Allison all the time."

Derek shakes his head, unsure exactly how to put it- that it's only natural for him because he was born into it, that the Pack only fell into their instincts so easily because they had their Alpha, and even then, they wouldn't be so good and practiced and accepting of it were it not for Stiles, who takes to werewolf culture like a duck might take to water. He doesn't know how to say that Scott has essentially made himself an Omega by his constant refusal to be a part of the Pack, has no idea how to tell Stiles that the reason Derek is always trying so hard with Scott is because he constantly worries the kid's gonna go feral.

He tries, though he feels a little silly about it, to communicate all of this with his eyebrows. Stiles is pretty good at reading his eyebrows.

"I scent Allison?" Scott asks incredulously.

"Nevermind," Stiles waves it away, but he gives Derek this little nod like he kind of understood what he was trying to silently convey anyway, before walking up to Scott, that terribly, aggressively self-deprecating scent getting stronger with every step.

Derek reminds himself that strangling teenagers is not the adult thing to do under any circumstance and goes into the kitchen to make some coffee, giving the boys the illusion of privacy whilst also trying to combat the smells and his own protective, and, he'll admit, possessive instincts.

Not to mention he knows how much coffee helps keep Stiles calm, helps with the ADHD when the Adderall isn't enough, helps comfort him in general.

(His mom, before she had gotten sick, would have late night chats with him whilst allowing him small cups of overly sweet coffee, it was their little secret- one Stiles had shared with Derek and Isaac on a particularly bad night when he'd needed both Isaac- to be there with reassuring, quiet conversation- and his Alpha- to be there to scent him and tell him that everyone was really alive. He had been shaking too badly to bake anything, but they'd made at least five batches of coffee and Stiles had laughingly played the Wicked soundtrack while he tried and failed not to vibrate out of his skin with the weight of events that he'd never allowed to occur. Isaac and Derek had danced with him, awkwardly, desperately, madly trying to get him to be just a little bit more settled.)

Stiles and Scott talk in low murmurs, knowing he can hear them both, but speaking to each other anyway, Scott with an oblivious sort of confidence despite his nervousness, and Stiles with trepidation and that terrible smell shadowing his every action, his every word.

It's disquieting, to say the least, the effect Scott has on Stiles.

"So, what's up?" Stiles asks, falsely nonchalant.

"I was just- I was going to ask Derek for updates? You know, on the Alpha Pack, because those murders wer-"

"Were the fault of the Darach," Stiles interrupts, not unkindly, "who I killed. And this most recent death was the fault of Pixies, whom Derek just got back from taking care of." Then, a little louder, "You did take care of them, right, Der?"

"Yes, Stiles," Derek assures as he watches the coffee brew, wondering what he should do with his idle hands. Maybe make dinner.

"And the Alpha Pack won't be a problem, Ennis, Kali, and Deucalion are all dead."

Ah. So Stiles did kill Deucalion. Derek found himself smiling even as he began washing some green onions.

"Deucalion is dead?" Scott hisses, betrayed, "Did you kill him, too?"

"Yes, Scott. I told you, I'll do what I have to do to protect my Pack."

"I thought we were Pack?!"

Derek was about one more rude comment away from disregarding his morals, stepping in, and decking Scott.

"We were. But I'm different now. And you'll never accept all of me, you'll never be able to reconcile who I was with who I am, you'll never be able to get over the fact that I do what I have to do. And maybe it's because you think yourself honorable, because you see the world in black and white and I see it in fucking technicolor, maybe it's your ethics, maybe it's your dick, I don't know, but you will never be able to see me as anything but the blood on my hands.

"And I am so much more than that. Your idealization of me? Your immature need for me to be the pure human to your pure 'were? It isn't fair. It's cruel.

"And Derek is so, so good for me. He's kind and, if you give him a little push," Stiles chuckles, "he's one of the best Alphas I've ever seen. I'm honored that he's mine. That I'm his. And, you know, he could be good for you, too, Scott. You can't last without a Pack forever."

"I don't know what the hell happened to you," Scott mutters disgustedly, "that you can just-" Scott makes a growling noise, like he can't find the words.

And that's, that's enough, that's really enough, now.

Derek steps out of the kitchen and tries not to stumble under the strain of the scent wafting off of Stiles, a scent Scott doesn't even seem to fucking notice.

"You're a murderer, Stiles!" Scott is accusing by the time Derek gets to them. He stands in between the two of them, effectively shielding his little mage from the Beta's sight, he puts a hand on Scott's chest and pushes him back slightly.

"I think you need to leave. Now," he growls, and Scott, barely managing to hold back a sneer, scoffs, nods, and slams the door behind him after he goes.

Derek feels Stiles flinch behind him at the finality of the sound.

He waits until Scott has retreated far enough he can't be heard before he turns and wraps the boy up in his arms, soothing his shaking frame as well as he can. Stiles just holds on tight and whispers:

"I knew it would be like this, Der, I did, but. It still hurts."

"I know, Stiles," Derek murmurs into his hair, sighs, wishes things were easier for him, for all of them, for any of them, "I know."

A few weeks later Derek finds Stiles sitting on his bed, everyone else having vacated the loft, no light save for what was leaking in through the open windows. Stiles smelled wonderous, sun-soaked-honey-rainbow-electric-sky, with just a hint of heavy-storm-cloud-anxiety.

The boy smiles up at him, whiskey eyes alight with something Derek can't quite place, before patting the space in front of him on the matress, silently requesting Derek sit with him. Derek, of course, obliges.

"Stiles?" He questions after he's sat cross-legged in front of Stiles, who mirrors his position, scooting on the bed until their knees knock together. He takes Derek's hands in his and looks him in the eyes.

"I don't want to lose you," he admits softly.

"I know," Derek tells him, because he does, "you won't."

"Maybe. Der, I-" Stiles bites his lip, storm scent increasing. Derek pulls one of his hands out of Stiles' in order to cup his cheek, coaxing the abused lip away from gnashing teeth with a gentle touch of his thumb.

"Whatever it is, little mage," he assures in the still-quiet between them.

Stiles swallows, nods, and continues, a little shakily:

"Der, Alpha, I, I know more than anyone how short life can be. And I know, I know you're the same. Which is why, whatever time you have, whatever time I have, I don't want to waste any of it. And. I don't want to have any regrets. So." He licks his lips, a flutter of rose-pink tongue, a little rough-wetness on his thumb, "There's something I have to tell you."

Derek rests his forehead on Stiles', squeezes the hand still holding his and cradling his face as comfortingly as he can, a silent prompting to continue. A promise that he's not about to let go.

Stiles takes a deep breath, steeling himself as his heartbeat skyrockets.

"I'm in love with you."

Derek's eyes snap open and lock on his, all of his breath stolen by the vulnerability, the intamacy, the absolute devotion swirling in those whiskey irises. He grins before he can even stop himself, big and boyish and accepting before he leans in again to capture the boy's lips with his.

"Really?" He breathes between kisses, "Are you sure?"

Stiles laughs breathlessly into his mouth before taking Derek's face in both his hands and beaming, "I'll have to admit, that wasn't the reaction I was expecting."

"You're an idiot," Derek tells him fondly before pouncing him, pinning him to the bed and kissing him senseless.

"I love you, too."

Two days later the Pack walks in on them making out. Cora and Isaac seem thoroughly grossed out, but accepting. Peter and Lydia aren't even surprised, the latter cackling evilly when Cora makes exaggerated gagging noises at the scene. Boyd raises an eyebrow but otherwise appears to have no comment on the matter. And Stiles?

Stiles just grins at him, and that's all it takes, for everything to fall into place.

It isn't perfect, everyone's still just a little (read: a lot) broken, but it's beautiful, and he's surrounded by the people he loves.

Derek really couldn't ask for more.

_{An Ode to Malia}

Stiles walks the Preserve until he finds her, coyote, wild, free, undaunted and scared all at once. He tells her a story, long and terrifying and true, then he asks her if she wants to live her life as woman or animal.

And she decides, because she has only ever lived as what she is now, because there are other coyotes whom she knows and loves and frolics with, to remain an animal, and he gives her a boon, one of peace, of clarity.

Her freedom and her happiness are easy to accept then, and the family of coyotes she'd found, who were going to migrate soon, accepted her as one of them. It was a much easier thing, however bittersweet it would forever be, to leave that rusted, bloodied, terrible car, to leave her sister's doll.

It was time for her to finally move on.