Archive of Our Own

Noah grumbled as something pulled him from sleep. He had a rare day off, and he intended to sleep in for as long as he could before getting up and making a breakfast his son would not approve of. He rolled over, pulling his blanket further up and trying to drift off to sleep once more, before the sound reached his ears again and dragged him back.

Beeping. Stiles's alarm clock.

Normally, Stiles was pretty good about shutting it off and stumbling out of bed on school mornings, but he wouldn't be shocked if his kid had once again stayed up hyperfixating on something until four in the morning and was now sleeping soundly through the alarm. It had happened before.

"Stiles!" He called, listening for sounds of life from down the hall, but none came. Just the alarm continuing to go off.

Noah tried in vain to ignore it, but he finally couldn't take another repetition of the grating beeping noise and threw off his covers, getting out of bed. He was gonna toss that thing out the window, hand to God.

"Stiles, c'mon, time for school." He said, knocking on the door before swinging it open.

He froze.

Blinked, several times, wiped the sleep from his eyes just to be sure.

The chill of the early morning was nothing compared to the ice in his veins. His son's room was empty, his bed was somehow an even worse mess than usual, and his window was wide open, curtains blowing in the breeze. He was gone.

The Pack was gathered in the loft. Scott looked around the table, at the faces reflecting the worry he felt. Lydia was perfectly poised on the arm of the couch, but her fingers were shaking until she began twirling her hair between them to hide it. Derek's "broody face", as Stiles liked to call it, was worse than usual, and he had been the one to call the others after the Sheriff called Scott and told him what happened. Except for Lydia, Scott called Lydia. He didn't want to know what she'd do to him if she found out he hadn't called her first.

Malia was pacing, a low growl erupting from her throat every so often before she cut it off. Kira was the most openly concerned, glancing between them all with worry and fidgeting restlessly. Even Peter was being… less Peter than normal. It was a little unnerving. Stiles would have something to say about it, he was sure, the kind of sharp witty comment that made Scott choke on laughter and pretend he was having a coughing fit to cover it up.

"Whoever took him, they're good, his scent trail vanished right at the edge of the Preserve." He said. He had raced over as soon as Stiles's dad called, still in his pajamas, not even noticing the biting chill of winter over his panic and werewolf warmth. He'd followed the trail as far as he could, but no matter what he tried, he couldn't pick anything up after they entered the Preserve. He'd called Derek then, and Derek convinced him to regroup with the Pack at the loft rather than blindly trying to follow a trail that didn't exist.

"How is that possible?" Lydia asked, her fingers freezing in her hair. "How does a scent just disappear?" Her voice shook, just slightly, betraying her worry, and her hand resumed its motions. "I don't know." Scott admitted, turning to Derek and Peter. Derek shook his head, but Peter spoke up. "There are a few ways. Magic would be the most obvious, but there's not much we can do against it without a magic user of our own." Right. Because magic exists too.

"So let's find a magic user." Malia said, pausing her pacing to stare at him. He looked away first. "If it were that easy, we'd have one by now. No, the closest we've got is Deaton, and that's not saying much. I doubt a druid will be able to counteract a spell strong enough to hide a scent from a werewolf's nose." She growled in frustration and started pacing again, this time in circles. "I can talk to him, see what he can tell us." Scott said, even though every bone in his body was screaming at him to just run into the woods, search every square mile, shift and run and find Stiles.

Kira opened her mouth, but a knock on the door cut off whatever she was about to say. All heads whipped to face the entrance, even the werewolves (and coyote) being startled. No one had heard anyone approaching.

Malia strode over to the door, the metal screeching in protest from how she almost forced it off its tracks as she shoved it open. She looked around sharply, but then turned back and shook her head. "There's no one here." She huffed and moved to slide the door shut again.

"Wait." Lydia stood, her gaze falling to the ground in front of it. "What's that?"

There was a small package. Malia picked it up, sliding the door shut and locking it. The package was laid on the table. No one moved to open it. Finally, she lost her patience and flicked her claws out, neatly slicing it open in one move. Scott tipped it over, and there was a collective inhale at what fell out.

A picture. Of their missing friend.

The first thing he felt was the cold. Consciousness came sharp and swift after that, in the form of a pounding headache and a vicious full-body shivering. Stiles blinked his eyes open, and immediately regretted it as the glaring white intensified his headache.

He was not in his bedroom, that was for sure.

God, what's it take to get one quiet month around here? Not even a full month, I'll take a moon cycle. Stick with the whole werewolf theme my life's taken on. Just one peaceful moon cycle, that's all I'm asking.

Unfortunately, his griping complaining completely reasonable request went unanswered, and he was left with the situation he was in. Out in the freezing cold, probably (hopefully) somewhere in the Preserve, in his PJs, and, he tried to move his arms, yep, tied to a tree. Fantastic. At least he was sitting down, so he didn't have to worry about his legs getting tired.

When you get into as many supernatural incidents as he does, you learn to find a bright side where you can.

And this did not appear to be a situation with too many bright sides. He was alone in the Preserve, tied to a tree with nothing to protect him from the elements but his Batman pajamas and the fluffy wolf-patterned socks Scott had gotten him as a gag gift. Oh, and also, it was snowing.

Because of course he had to get kidnapped and left in the woods the one singular time it snows in Beacon Hills, California. The one time! Because of course. Of course! And Scott wanted to say he didn't have the worst luck? Stiles was going to be giving him "I told you so"s for a week after he got out of this.

No bad luck, my human ass.

Frustratingly human, in fact, when over a minute of flexing and straining against the rope tying him to the tree resulted in nothing more than raw skin on his arms and shortness of breath. At least the activity warmed him up a little.

The snow on the ground around him was already turning to slush from his body heat, making his socks wet. Which, ew. But something in his brain was pinging a warning, something about hypothermia and wet clothes and possibly pneumonia. He couldn't quite recall whatever fact he'd picked up from some google rabbit hole, but he got the gist. Wet clothes + cold = bad.

Well, I'll get right on that as soon as I can, y'know, move, a very sarcastic part of him sneered. Unfortunately, it was right. There wasn't much of anything he could do until he escaped his binds. And given that the knot had to be on the other side of the tree, much farther than he could hope to reach, and was tied with very little slack, an escape anytime soon didn't sound likely.

They'll find me. They'll come looking, and they'll find me. He reassured himself, breath puffing visibly in front of him like a dragon breathing smoke. Are dragons real? Gotta remember to ask. The cold felt like it was seeping into his bones as the wind blew. His chin dropped to his chest and his eyelids drooped before he shook himself awake.

Hypothermia. Can't fall asleep. He knew this, but the freezing chill, already numbing his skin, was sapping the energy from his body and drawing him into lethargy. Gotta stay awake. They'll find me.

He hoped they made it in time.

The photo laid there, as innocent as could be, as if it hadn't sucked the air right out of the room. As if it wasn't responsible for the terror flooding her veins, the pain in her chest. Lydia Martin did not get sucker punched by inanimate objects, but in this instance, she didn't really have a choice.

Not when that was Stiles.

Not when there was blood streaking from his head, not when he was outside in the snow in his pajamas (the ridiculous Batman-patterned ones Erica had gotten him, before), and certainly not when he was unconscious and tied to a tree.

Scott reached out with hands that trembled like hers. She couldn't bring herself to keep twirling her hair, keep pretending she wasn't as worried anymore. She doubted whatever expression was on her face would've let her, anyway. He lifted the photo, and she caught sight of the writing on the back. Red ink, like the blood on his face.

"Flip it over," she said, and no one commented on the waver in her voice. He read out the message. "'Season's greetings, McCall Pack! Since you were so polite in enforcing your territory and only got one of our group arrested, we decided we'd return the favor and take away one of yours. In the spirit of the season and all, he's not dead — yet. Clock's ticking. Good luck finding your little pet human before the cold gets him! Sincerely, your dear friends in the Morrows Pack.'" His voice was steady, but he had to pause a couple times; most notably on the word dead.

Malia's eyes lit their vibrant blue the moment he finished speaking, and she whirled away from the table and resumed pacing, this time with her claws extended. "I'll kill them! Let's go, let's find them and rip them apart—"

"Malia!" Scott's voice was sharp, commanding. She stopped and looked back at him, growling until his eyes flashed red at her. "I want to get them too, but right now we have to focus on finding Stiles. We can make them regret this after he's safe." Lydia was a bit surprised by the vehemence in the usually peaceful boy's tone, the promise of vengeance, but then she remembered, this was Stiles they were talking about. However close they all were to each other, Pack, whatever that meant, Scott and Stiles had had that with each other since they were four years old. She could recall how inseperable they'd always been, the whole school knew it. Everyone in the grade, year after year, either already knew or quickly learned that they were a pair, practically joined at the hip.

She hadn't paid them much attention in middle school, but as the reigning queen bee/popular girl, it was her job to know all the gossip and rumors, everything interesting that happened. So of course she heard about the time in seventh grade one of the older jocks who was new to the school decided Stiles looked like an easy target, and skinny, asthmatic little Scott had tackled him in the middle of the hallway.

So yes, she supposed it made perfect sense he'd be even more aggressively protective now, werewolf strength and instincts and whatnot. She couldn't deny that she'd like a piece of the people who'd hurt Stiles herself.

He was just… he was Stiles. The sun moved east to west, Stiles was there, the planet spun round on its axis. These were the basic rules of her universe, and Lydia didn't take kindly to people who defied them. Stiles was always there, unshakeable, ready to make a sarcastic quip or give her a hug or do insane supernatural research with her, to make her smile and to come up with some crazy, creative plan that would save the day once again. Except now, he was the one who needed saving. He was the one who needed a hug (and a hospital), and he had never once let her down when she needed someone. He had been there for her, always, even when she really hadn't deserved his kindness and care.

She refused to let him down, and she refused to live in a world without Stiles Stilinski. It was unthinkable. It could not be allowed to become a reality.

But somewhere, deep in the part of her that led her to corpses, she could feel the cold.

As it turned out, human nails were not sharp enough to cut through rope. It probably didn't help that his were short from biting, but given how stressful his life was, could you blame him? It was a better vice than others he could've picked up like his dad.

His eyes were threatening to shut again as a gust of wind blew right through him, setting off another round of shivers. At least I'm still shivering.

He dug his raw, bleeding fingertips into the coarse rope they'd been scratching and scraping at, the jolt of pain waking him back up. Maybe not the healthiest option, but staying awake was more important. He hissed through his teeth, putting his hand into an unmelted patch of snow. It turned red faster than he liked, but the cool relief on his burning, stinging fingers was worth it.

He was forced to admit that he wasn't making any progress, he wasn't any closer to breaking through the rope. He wasn't going anywhere. But when faced with the alternative, sitting there and doing nothing, he went back to the portion of rope he'd been picking and scratching at, biting his lip against the jabs of pain from his raw, bloodied fingertips. At least it was keeping him awake.

More wind blew, carrying with it a flurry of snow, and he was too busy shaking it off to notice he'd stopped shivering.

Kira hesitantly spoke up, for the first time since the meeting was called. "The Preserve is huge, right? There's no way we can search it all, not even if all six of us spread out. Not in time, at least. So why don't we split up? Some of us can go question the Morrows, and some of us can go search the Preserve."

Silence reigned for a moment, as they turned the suggestion over in their heads. "That's not a bad idea," Peter allowed, and her nervous expression turned into relief. "However," he continued, because he was an asshole who couldn't allow anyone to be happy without ruining it, and Kira's small smile vanished, "that requires volunteers to not go looking for Stiles, and deal with the people who harmed him instead. …Any takers? Malia, put your claws away." She growled at Peter, her eyes flashing blue, until Scott gave her a short growl, more like a sharp rumble, and she acquiesced.

Lydia watched the turn of events almost clinically, mentally filing away the interaction in her 'Werewolf Behavior' drawer. Stiles might get a laugh out of the parallels she was drawing between a mama dog snapping at her pup.

She tapped a manicured nail on the coffee table, drawing everyone's attention. Stiles might be the one who came up with outside the box, creative ideas, but Lydia knew logic better than anyone. "Peter should go talk to Deaton, if he's capable of lowering himself to ask another person for help. You know, without invading their mind." She flashed him one of her sickeningly sweet little smiles, and his ever-present smug look vaguely resembled a grimace. "Peter knows the most about magic and can out-cryptic him to get the answers we need. Derek and Kira will go talk to the Morrows while Scott, Malia, and I search the Preserve. Any questions?" She arched an eyebrow at the group assembled before her.

"Um—" Kira spoke up, and Lydia softened the burn of her stare on the girl. Stiles was running out of time, though, so not too much. "Why are Derek and I going to talk to them? I mean, not that I'm complaining or anything, it was my idea after all—" Lydia cut off her rapid rambling, both to save her the embarrassment and because they don't have time for this.

"If they covered his scent, it won't matter how good a tracker Derek is, but he is intimidating. I don't know about you, but if a six foot werewolf with muscles that size and a glare like his asked me where his friend was, I'd tell him. And you because you're sweet and cute, so they'll underestimate you. You're a kitsune, and you're gonna make them remember what happens when they mess with a kitsune's friend. Clear?" She phrased it like a question, but it wasn't. She knew Kira might seem nervous and unassuming, but Lydia was confident she'd show them exactly how assuming she could be if they didn't hand over Stiles's location.

Derek looked vaguely amused by her description, showing as much emotion as possible for him, while Kira looked assured as she nodded. More confident.

"No more questions, let's go, we're wasting time." Malia said impatiently, standing by the door. Lydia glanced over at Scott, who was technically her Alpha, even if she didn't feel the same pull/bond the were-creatures did, and he nodded back at her. "Let's go."

She did not need the approval of anyone, of course, and especially not a teenage boy. But she had to admit, coming from that teenage boy, it made her feel a little warmer.

Stiles woke up. Or… did he? The world was hazy, or maybe that was just his perception of it. Blinks felt like they took minutes rather than seconds. Maybe they did, he had a horrible sense of time on the best of days.

Stiles woke up. Had he gone back to sleep? Was he still asleep? Where was he?

He opened his eyes, but all he could see was white and gray, blurry shapes sliding across his vision as his head tilted to the side. Or maybe the world tipped over.

Stiles woke up. He would've been frustrated if he wasn't so confused, if he had the energy to be frustrated. If he had the energy for anything. Why wasn't he sleeping in his bed? Where was he? And why was everything so numb?

All he knew was that he was ridiculously tired for as much sleeping as he seemed to be doing. Or maybe all those other times he'd woken up (how many? He'd lost count, or maybe he'd never counted to begin with) had been a dream. Maybe he was stuck in those Matryoshka dreams again, a dream within a dream within a dream. Maybe this was a dream.

His eyes closed. He didn't have the energy to stop them. They were numb, too, like the rest of him, like even his thoughts were becoming. Trying to think harder was like wading through a heavy fog, and each step dragged him farther… and farther… and farther… down.

Stiles didn't wake up.

Behind him, something cracked.

"Malia! Wait!"

She didn't respond to Scott's call, already gone into the white haze covering the Preserve. He huffed in frustration, shaking his head. Lydia eyed him warily, as if he was about to take off running too. "She'll howl if she finds something. She knows these woods better than anyone, she'll be fine." He said, and she didn't comment on how he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than her.

"Let's get started. He's not going to find himself." She said, huddled in her puffy jacket, scarf, and earmuffs. She'd started shivering long before they'd even gotten out of the car, and Scott would tell her to go back if he didn't want to avoid the verbal dressing down she'd give him in return.

"The scent disappears right here. Malia went west, so we'll head east. Stay within earshot, okay?" Scott said, and Lydia fought the urge to tell him to save that worry for Stiles. He was the Alpha, it was only natural he'd be protective over all of them. "You too, I don't have super hearing." She said instead, and they trekked into the woods together.

Time would've quickly lost all meaning, stretched out and covered in a dusting of the snow that blanketed everything, if Lydia hadn't had her smart watch on. As it stood, she knew it had been fifteen minutes, and even with their rapid pace she'd barely covered a square mile of land. Scott had super-everything, so he'd covered three, making four total. Out of the hundreds in the Preserve. God, they just didn't have time for this. There was nothing identifying in the photo at all. She'd forced herself to stare at it, committing it to memory, to ignore the sharp pains in her chest, and, oddly, her hands, at the image of Stiles, hurt and alone.

She swore it was getting colder by the second, even though it was supposed to be warming up soon. She was wearing winter clothes but she still felt almost numb. Her hands were starting to burn from the cold, despite her thick woolen gloves. 'Protects in any weather', her foot. She was planning to write a scathing review of them online, once they had Stiles back and were warming up at the loft.

She paused as she was wracked with another round of shivers. She gritted her teeth, stamping her feet to warm them up and get the blood flowing. This was ridiculous and wasting time. Couldn't being a banshee come with any useful side effects, something besides an ear-splitting scream and the ability to always arrive too late to help? Even just a higher core temperature or more energy like the werewolves had would really come in handy right now.

Something that would help Stiles, something that would stop her from finding another body.

God, she was so tired of finding bodies.

Scott appeared next to her, as if summoned by her distress. "Lydia? Are you okay?"

She wiped at her face, barely feeling the soft wool on her numb skin. "Stiles doesn't have time for me to not be okay." She said, and was horrified to hear her voice crack.

"Hey, it's not—"

"We don't have time for this! Stiles doesn't have time for this! He can't— He's going to— and I can't—" It was like the floodgates had burst. She wiped at her face again, but she couldn't stop the tears from coming. Scott wrapped his arms around her, and she couldn't force herself to push him away. "This forest is too big, and we just don't have enough time, and we can't—" Her voice broke on another sob and she buried her face in his shoulder.

"It's okay, Lydia." Scott's voice rumbled next to her ear, soft and steady. She clung to it, and hated herself for needing to.

"I'm terrified too." He admitted it so quietly it was almost a whisper, like he was confessing a sin. "But we can't give up. We have to keep trying."

She finally pulled away, turning from him and wiping her face again. "Of course I'm not saying we should just give up. But we can't— there's just too much ground to cover!" Tension wound tight inside her, in a place she didn't have the words to describe. She tore off her gloves as her fingers stung, flexing them as she paced. Her breaths came quicker, puffing in front of her.

"He's running out of time, and we don't even know the first place to look, and—"

She heard something crack.

"And he can't— I can't—"

More cracks.

She closed her eyes, squeezing her burning fingers into fists.

Scott, from behind her: "Lydia—"

It's like it's on the tip of my tongue, and I don't know how to trigger it.

She opened her eyes, and screamed.

Malia knew these woods. She knew them in her core, in her bones. She wasn't as familiar with the snow, but they were still the same woods she'd lived in for half her life underneath. She ran on all fours, claws digging in to anchor her to the ground beneath the slippery white blanket.

She felt alive.

The human part of her remembered why she was here, though. She couldn't catch a scent, not even the faintest hint of Stiles. Even if they weren't dating, he was still her anchor, her way back from the wild side. He helped keep her grounded, keep her instincts at bay in favor of control. She needed him.

He needed her now. He needed his Pack.

She covered distance a human search party could never, more coyote than human as she bounded between trees, over hills, through ditches. She knew what spots would be better for holding someone, which areas had more traffic, and focusing on that helped her keep a temporary tether on her humanity, for as long as her real tether was in danger.

She didn't find him. A growl erupted from her chest as yet another clearing proved empty, snapping her teeth at a bird that ventured too close.

She would keep going, for as long as it took. She would never leave Stiles behind.

She was about to continue on when she heard it. The scream of the banshee.

Her every hair stood on end as the high-pitched wail echoed throughout the Preserve, reverberating farther than any human scream could ever, her instincts telling her to run in the opposite direction, because that sound meant dead dying death, run, escape—

She ran towards it instead.

The tension inside her was gone. The banshee-related tension, at least, the general concern and fear was still there.

Lydia breathed softly as the echoes of her scream died out. She heard it louder now, the cracking. "Do you hear that?" She whispered, wanting to be certain.

"Hear what?" Scott asked, urgent. "That cracking sound." She said, cocking her head, her gaze distant as she looked at nothing but listened. "Like— like sugar, hard candy. Or glass. Or—"

The sound splintered, like spiderweb cracks breaking apart, (like a warm hand holding hers, soft and steady as they glided), like—

"Like ice."

She whirled around to face him. His face reflected the realization she could feel on hers. "The river!" He said, excitement practically glowing. The river had frozen over, but it was warming up now, the ice would be cracking and breaking apart.

They both turned and ran. Scott easily outpaced her, but Lydia pumped her legs and ignored the burn. Stiles had been out here for too long already. It was time to bring him home.

Malia almost crashed into them as they reached the river. She was shifted and on all fours, but she physically shook herself out of it when she skidded to a stop in front of them. "Where is he?" She asked, wasting no time as her bright blue eyes flicked between them.

"He's somewhere along the river. It's still a lot of ground, but it's a start." Scott said. "Look for cracking ice." Lydia added. She flexed her fingers out almost absently; she couldn't feel the burn anymore.

Malia nodded sharply before shifting again and leaping across the bank to the other side. They watched her tear off, before turning to do the same, albeit on two legs instead of four.

Scott started walking, but after a moment he noticed Lydia wasn't following. "Lydia?" He turned and called. She didn't respond, she just kept walking in the opposite direction. He jogged to catch up. "Lydia?" He asked again, more concerned. She frowned, slightly, and turned to face him. "You're going the wrong way." She said, and her voice had a distant lilt to it that he recognized.

The elation that he felt when she led them to the river plummeted. His heart dropped into his stomach. No.

"You know where he is?" He asked, praying she would say no. She tilted her head, her eyes focusing somewhere over his left shoulder. She flexed her fingers out several times. After a long moment, she shook her head slowly. "No."

Scott breathed possibly the largest sigh of relief in his life. He couldn't lose Stiles. He just— He couldn't.

Lydia started walking again, her head still cocked, as if she was listening to music from far away. Scott glanced back at the direction he'd initially gone, before following her. "You don't know where he is, but you know he's this way?"

No answer. It was like she was in a trance. She just kept walking, unwavering, one foot in front of the other. He sighed and followed.

She'd never been wrong before. He just hoped that just this once, she wasn't entirely right, either.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Scott tried to keep the anxiety at bay, the fear that it was already too late, that Stiles—

Stiles!

There he was, tied to the tree, just like in the picture. Beside him, Lydia stumbled and gasped in a breath, as if she was waking up from a bad dream.

As if seeing him had broken the spell, Scott could suddenly smell him again, monster energy and adderall and green apple shampoo and Stiles. Scott was frozen in place. His gaze was drawn to Stiles's chest, werewolf vision zeroing in, watching for movement, keenly aware of how Lydia had led them right to him.

It was taking too long. Was he—

There! A slow, rattled breath that was too shallow and spaced out for his liking, but it happened. He was alive!

"Stiles!" Scott exclaimed, rushing forward, apparently also startling Lydia out of her stupor. He hardly noticed her following him over, all his attention focused on his friend. He barely remember to howl for Malia, so she'd know they found him. He heard an answering howl moments later, and knew she was on her way.

Lydia had her hands on his unnaturally pale cheeks, not noticing or not caring about how freezing they must feel. Scott cut the ropes pinning him to the tree with one slice and a growl. Stiles slumped forward without them holding him up, and Lydia caught him in her arms, holding him close to her chest. "God, he's like ice." She bit out, sounding more shaken than she looked. She unzipped her jacket, pulling him into it. "Body heat is the quickest way to help with hypothermia," she snapped when she saw the face he must've been making, her already rosy cheeks getting pinker as she huffed.

He crouched next to them, placing a hand on Stiles's leg before withdrawing it with a yelp. He was so cold it burned. How was Lydia snuggling him? Scott put his hand back, pulling Stiles's legs onto his lap for more contact, and almost burst out into either tears or laughter, he wasn't sure which, when he saw the socks his best friend was wearing.

He pulled out his phone and called an ambulance first, then Derek. After a short conversation — including a terrified scream and someone who sounded a lot like Kira shouting angrily in the background that he decided to ignore — he hung up, just as Malia arrived. Derek would call the others.

Once she saw Stiles, safe if not sound, it was like a weight lifted from her shoulders. She shifted back and immediately crowded in, working to help get him warm too, lacking any concept of personal space as ever. For once, he could tell Lydia didn't mind any more than he did; they were all focused on Stiles.

"We need to bring him to the edge of the Preserve, so the ambulance can get to him." Scott finally said. Lydia reluctantly relinquished their friend, and Scott lifted him in a bridal carry he was sure Stiles would protest if he was conscious. The thought made him put on an extra burst of speed, as he heard the sirens in the distance getting closer. Stiles was a little warmer now, but his pallor was still a deathly pale, his lips were still blue, and his breathing was still too slow. Scott listened for his heartbeat, reassured himself with the slow but steady pace of it.

"Over here!" He called to the paramedics pulling up as he broke the trees. He brought Stiles right to the ambulance door, too preocuppied with telling them what was wrong with his friend to notice Lydia disembarking from Malia's back as they also arrived. He caught her eye when they asked if he wanted to ride along, though, and she nodded at him. "Go."

He rode along. And for the whole ride, he drowned out everything else to focus on that sound, the sound that meant his best friend, his brother, was alright.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

One week later — Stiles's bedroom

"Psst. Hey, Scotty, guess what."

"Mmph— Stiles, it's two in the morning, go back to sleep."

"Guess what."

"…What?"

"I told you so."

"Go the fuck back to sleep Stiles."