Archive of Our Own

Never compromise.

It’s the code Derek’s lived by all his life, the only one he’s found worth following. A man has to stick by his principles. Otherwise, what is there to separate him from the common beasts? He may be an animal, but he doesn’t have to be immoral.

His uncle didn’t understand that. He had been willing to murder his own niece, his own flesh and blood, for no other reason than to aid him on his quest for vengeance. He’d violated the trust of the very people he claimed to be avenging: his family.

Derek’s different. He sticks to the laws he’s fashioned for himself.

So maybe he overreacts to Stiles’ suggestion a little bit.

“No,” he says flatly, growling low in his chest. “Absolutely not. We don’t deal with the devil, Stiles.”

Stiles just scowls at him, like he knew that Derek would respond this way. “The devil? Don’t be so dramatic. I don’t like it any more than you, but it’s the best idea we have. It’s the only idea we have.”

Derek shakes his head vehemently. “We can’t trust them. For all we know, they were involved.”

“I know you don’t believe that. And I never said we have to trust them. Just that we need to work with them. They can help us, Derek.”

“The Argents are vipers,” he snarls, eyes glowing red, and Stiles shrinks away instinctively. “They’re responsible for killing my family. Or have you forgotten that?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Stiles says gently, taking a brave step forward and placing a hand on Derek’s arm calmingly. “But they weren’t all in on that. Only Kate. And she paid for it.”

“They tried to kill Scott.” Derek’s not backing down from this. “Your best friend, remember?”

Stiles sighs, smacking his forehead with his palm. “Once again, I’m not defending them. I don’t like this, and I’d rather have nothing to do with them. But we need their help, and I really don’t think they’d try anything against us so long as Scott’s dating their daughter.”

Derek considers this for a moment, then shakes his head again. “No. Not happening. If we go down that road, where does it end? How many compromises do you make before you decide you’ve gone too far?”

“Don’t think of it as making a deal with the devil,” Stiles says patiently. “Think of it as us manipulating our enemies to protect ourselves from our greater enemies.”

“They’ll infect us with their poison,” Derek replies, but looking into Stiles’ eyes, he can feel his resolve crumbling. “We’ll have to watch our backs every second.”

Stiles nods. “I know.” He squeezes Derek’s forearm. “At least let Allison talk to them about setting up a meeting. We don’t have to make any deals yet. Just a talk, okay?”

Every instinct Derek has screams that this is a terrible idea, but Stiles is right; he doesn’t have a better one. His shoulders slump, defeated.

“Just a meeting,” he growls, glowering at Stiles’ relieved expression. “No promises.”

Stiles pulls him into a hug, and Derek’s heart flutters.

“That’s all I ask.”

***

Derek makes them train every day. He’s not sure what good it will do, or even if they’re going to fight at all. But it’s something to pass the time, something to make them all feel a little less helpless and little stronger.

There’s tension in the air, and he can’t quite make up his mind whether or not that’s a good thing. It keeps everyone on their toes, gets their blood pumping hot in their veins; but he needs his pack to be focused. Petty distractions aren’t doing them any favors.

Lydia shows up for every session, even though Derek’s refused to give her the bite until she’s fully healed up. She’s still a bit miffed about that, but she (grudgingly) understands his point, and for the time being, she’s happy to sit on the sidelines and play cheerleader.

She whistles approvingly as Scott manages to pin Danny to the forest floor and twist his arm around his back. He reaches around, unsheathing his claw and taps Danny’s neck gingerly. 

“Dead,” he says breathlessly,” hopping up and pulling Danny to his feet.

“Good,” Derek standing from his crouching position a few yards away. “Well done.”

Scott just nods at him once in affirmation. Things are still uncomfortable between them. They haven’t had a one-on-one conversation since their falling out. Since Peter.

But at least Scott seems to on board now, if for no other reason than loyalty to his friends.

“Again. This time with Jackson.”

Danny claps Scott on the shoulder and steps off to the side to sit next to Stiles and Lydia on the rotting log. Jackson gets to his feet and joins Scott in the middle of the clearing.

Derek starts to circle them. “Go.”

They snarl and dive in, a mess of fists and claws, limbs kicking and twisting, each trying to get one up on the other. Jackson scratches an ugly gash down the side of Scott’s face, and Derek can see Stiles and Lydia cringe out of the corner of his eye. Scott’s knee connects with Jackson’s face, and they can all hear the crack of bone. Jackson stumbles back, spluttering and wild-eyed, blood dripping from his nose.

Derek hears a sharp gasp which he registers as Danny’s.

Jackson wipes the blood away and growls, jumping forward to tackle Scott to the ground.

Derek lets them go at for a few minutes before he seizes his chance, leaping into the middle of the fray as Scott’s about to punch Jackson in the eye. He grips Scott’s arm and wrenches him away roughly, shoving him into a nearby tree. He swings back and kicks Jackson in the stomach, drawing forth a surprised, pained cough.

“Shit!” he hears Lydia exclaim, and he can sense Stiles jumping to his feet in startled outrage, but he ignores them both. He kicks Jackson again, and the younger boy whimpers and scrambles away in submission. Scott, on the other hand, has no such intentions of going down easy. 

With startling speed, he’s latched himself to Derek’s back, biting at his shoulder, jaws piercing skin and gripping tight. Derek winces, but keeps his jaw set in a firm line. He throws himself backwards, pinning Scott between his body and the ground, and Scott releases his shoulder to gasp for air. Flipping over, Derek holds Scott down with his knee and taps his claw against the boy’s heart.

“Dead,” he says softly, standing up and wiping blood off his shoulder, the bite wounds already healing quickly.

“What the fuck was that, Hale?” Lydia yells furiously, marching forward to help Scott up.

“This isn’t sparring,” Derek says calmly, totally unapologetic. “This isn’t high school sports. We’re training for war. If we actually have to fight another pack, they’re not going to play fair with us. They won’t go easy on you, they won’t help you to your feet when it’s over, and they won’t stop when they’ve got you down. They will kill you. Actually kill you.” He looks at Scott and Jackson pointedly. “And they’re not going to come at you one-on-one. You need to be able to fight off multiple attackers at once.”

“Fuck, I think you broke my ribs,” Jackson groans, wrapping his arm around Danny’s shoulder as his friend helps him onto the log.

“They’re just bruised,” Danny mumbles, touching Jackson’s side gingerly. Jackson hisses sharply, but gives him a grateful look.

“I know this isn’t fun,” Derek says, looking each of them in the eye. “I know this isn’t fair. But we don’t have a lot of options here. If this is the way it’s going to go down, it’s better for us to be bruised and prepared than to be pampered and weak.” He looks directly at Scott, and the teenager just glares at him, still breathing hard, but no longer itching for a fight. Derek turns and heads off down the dirt path. “I’ll be back in five. Take a break.”

Stiles follows him, as Derek knew he would, but he doesn’t acknowledge his presence until they’re far out of earshot of the group.

“Yes?” he prompts, turning to meet Stiles’ frown.

“You don’t think that was a bit extreme just to make a point?”

“Physically, I’m the strongest one here,” Derek replies. “If they can match me in a fight, or better yet, take me down, then we might actually have a shot. Otherwise, all of this practice is useless.”

“You could have at least warned them that you were going to join in the fight,” Stiles says, crossing his arms in front of chest, chin lifted in defiance. “You could have seriously hurt one of them. What if Jackson’s ribs had actually been broken? We can’t afford for anybody to have to sit out for week or two. We’ve got less than a month to prepare.”

“Exactly,” Derek shoots back, trying not to let his temper get the best of him. “Less than a month. I don’t have time to coddle them.”

“I’m not asking you to coddle them. I’m asking if, maybe, you could find a way to train them without, uh, I dunno, kicking the shit out of them? Maybe act like you’re doing this because you care about them, and not just enjoying the chance to beat someone up?”

Derek sees red and the next thing he knows, he’s got Stiles pinned up against a tree, gripping his biceps tight, hard and punishing.

“I do care about them!” he hisses. “Don’t you ever fucking suggest otherwise!”

Then the anger starts to fade, and he notices that Stiles looks legitimately terrified, breathing shallowly and starting to sweat. Derek can taste the fear in his scent, and he feels a rush of self-loathing for being the one to cause that.

He lets go immediately and backs away, casting his gaze downward in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I...” - he breaks off, biting his lip hard enough to draw the blood to the surface - “I would never hurt you. You know that, right?”

Stiles is looking at him warily, but at that last sentence, his expression softens, and he moves forward to place a tentative hand on Derek’s cheek.

“I know,” he says gently. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have provoked you. I was out of line.”

Derek feels a little sick. He shakes his head, eyes closed tight. “Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Don’t say that like it’s an excuse. I don’t have a right to hurt you under any circumstance.”

Stiles mouth quirks up a little. “Dude, you throw me against walls all the time. You’re a rough guy. It’s in your nature.” He pats Derek’s cheek, forcing him to open his eyes and meet his gaze. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says carefully. “You’re trying to pigeonhole yourself into the abusive boyfriend stereotype, and it’s just not going to fly. Okay? That’s not who you are. Don’t doubt that.”

“I don’t want to be a bad guy,” Derek says suddenly, surprising himself with the bluntness of his own honesty. He’s generally not one for sharing feelings like that. But Stiles is looking at him strangely, and he’s already blurted it out, so there’s no reason to stop now. “I don’t want them to be right,” he admits, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “The hunters. I don’t want them to be right about us. About me. That we’re just vicious animals with no control. Just killing machines.”

“They’re not right,” Stiles says firmly. “They only think that way because it’s easier. It’s easy to fit someone into a narrow-minded view when you don’t understand what it’s like to be that person.” He mock-punches Derek in the arm playfully. “Don’t let them get inside your head,” he says, mouth twisting into a grin. “Only I belong in there.”

Derek can’t help but fall a little more in love with him in that moment.

***

Sheriff Stilinski takes the night off work to spend the evening with his son.

They try to make a habit of doing this on a semi-regular basis; just a night for the two of them to kick back with junk food and one of the sheriff’s old concert movie DVDs and just share each other’s company for several hours without interruption. Busy as both of them are these days, it’s difficult to find the time anymore.

Tonight it’s pizza and Stop Making Sense, and, against his better judgment, the Mr. Stilinski actually lets Stiles have a half-glass of whiskey. (“I drank all of the time when I was your age,” he says with a shrug, laughing at Stiles’ dumbfounded expression. More seriously, “Tell anyone about this and I’ll deny it.”)

“I like the music, but what’s with the crazy suit?” Stiles asks, pointing at the screen. “It’s way too big for him. And it’s sort of dorky...”

His father snorts. “That’s the point, kiddo.”

“Being dorky is the point?”

“Nothing’s hipper than understanding how unhip hipness is,” the sheriff responds sagely.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I think my brain just broke trying to understand that sentence.”

He just gets a chuckle in response. “It’ll make more sense when you’re older. Or maybe less. I suppose there aren’t really any guarantees for things like that.”

“How drunk are you, exactly?” Stiles smirks.

“Not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

They finish the film and flip on the TV to some inane documentary about beetles’ mating habits. Stiles is just starting to drift off to the monotone drone of the narrator’s voice when his dad speaks up again, more than a little drunkenly, words slurring together.

“How’re things with...with, um, your boyfriend?”

Stiles’ stomach lurches a bit, even though he’s not entirely sure why. His father’s been overwhelmingly supportive of the whole thing, although admittedly, they haven’t talked about it much beyond a horrific, uncomfortable trip to the gas station to buy condoms. Maybe it’s just the word “boyfriend” that’s off-putting. It doesn’t seem to fit.

“He’s fine,” Stiles replies. “We’re fine.”

His dad’s eyes flutter a little, and he yawns noisily, stretching in his chair. “He’s being good to you? Not pressuring you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, even as he feels a surge of affection. He’s glad to have a father who cares. “Yeah, he’s good to me. No pressure at all. “He’s a perfect gentleman.” That earns him a cocked eyebrow. “Okay, so he’s a little on the dark and mysterious side, but he’s much more of a nice guy than you would expect.”

“That’s...that’s good. I’m glad. I’m, umm....” - another yawn - “...I’m happy for you, son. It’s good that you have someone.”

Stiles swallows, reaching out instinctively to grab his father’s hand. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You....uh...you’re welcome, son...”

They’re quiet for a time, and Stiles just sits there, thinking. Trying to ignore the lump rising in his throat, he speaks softly, eyes fixed absently on the television set.

“Do you think Mom would have been happy for me? Would she have loved me anyway?”

But the sheriff doesn’t answer. He’s already fallen asleep.

***

They meet at the Argents’ house bright and early in the morning. 

Stiles and Mrs. Argent sit on opposite ends of the table, staring each other down with forced politeness. Derek and Mr. Argent stand behind them with their arms folded, looking determinedly anywhere but each other. Scott and Allison sit together in the middle of the table, looking back and forth between the two sides as if observing a particularly intense tennis match.

“So,” Mrs. Argent says in a down-to-business sort of voice, tone brittle and uninviting, “to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Stiles reaches for the pitcher of grape juice that’s been set out, and pours himself a glass, maintaining his in-control poker face. “Well, we have some business to discuss, don’t we? But you already know that. So this might go a little more smoothly if you don’t pretend like you don’t know why we’re here.”

She purses her lips, glowering at him silently. Mr. Argent cuts in.

“You’re right, there are some things that require our attention,” he says, directing his comments to Derek. “For example, I read the strangest article in the paper the other day. Made the front headlines, actually. Something about a shooting downtown.” He pauses dramatically, trying to let the effect soak in. “Apparently,” he continues, voice dripping with sarcasm, “there was a maniac with a gun shooting at passing cars. He managed to kill one truck driver before, suddenly...out of nowhere, they say...a ‘wild animal’ came running onto the scene and tore the shooter to pieces in seconds, just before an...” - he looks at Stiles pointedly - “...‘anonymous witness’ appeared to try and help the driver.” He crosses his arms, looking between Derek and Stiles skeptically. “Quite frankly, the police are baffled. Never seen anything like it.”

“Cut the cute shit,” Derek retorts venomously. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” Mr. Argent says coldly, dangerously, “is that I warned you what would happen if you broke the agreements of our truce. Harm no one, and we stay out of your business. I would have thought that such perimeters would be fairly simple to obey.”

“Obey?” Derek snarls, stepping forward. Stiles puts a hand out to grab his wrist.

“But it appears you can’t even follow basic instructions,” Mr. Argent finishes. “Unless you’ve come here with some sort of explanation for this mess.”

“Are you really so naive?” Derek sneers. “You don’t seriously think this was an unprovoked attack, do you? The man was a hunter. One of you. He tried to murder two teenage boys, and unless I’m mistaken, that violates one of your rules, doesn’t it? Am I correct in remembering that you are against harming children?”

Mr. Argent’s face twists into a truly ugly sneer. “Yes, you would be correct. Although, I’m a bit surprised that you care, considering your own lack of regard for the law as far as children are concerned.” His eyes flicker between Derek and Stiles, an amused smirk twitching at the corners of his lips.

Derek’s eyes flash red, and Stiles has to stomp discreetly on his foot in warning. Scott just looks down at his lap, obviously uncomfortable. Allison frowns at Derek in confusion.

“What?” she asks, bemused.

“So much for staying out our business, eh?” Derek says nastily, looking as though he would very much like to rip Mr. Argent’s throat out.

“If you boys are finished,” Mrs. Argent interrupts, clearly annoyed, “I was thinking we could actually get down to business.”

“I agree,” Stiles says hastily, silently pleading with Derek to calm down. Derek just grunts and leans back against the wall, still glaring at Mr. Argent, who glares right back. Stiles clasps his hands together, looking at Allison expectantly. “Wanna show them now?”

Allison nods, reaching into her purse and pulling out an old photograph. She slides it across the table, giving her parents an apologetic look. “I had to go through your scrapbook to find it,” she admits.

It’s a group photo shot, twelve people standing on a hill, a vast expanse of land stretched out behind them; an orange grove. Stiles can pick out a younger Mr. and Mrs. Argent in the back row, startled to see that they’re smiling; their genuine good cheer seems out of character. He doesn’t recognize any of the other faces, but two in particular stick out to him. In the front row, in the center of the picture, a man and woman stand side by side. They’re unsmiling, posture rigid. The woman is beautiful - maybe the most gorgeous woman Stiles has ever seen, tall and curvaceous - but she has a certain terrifying quality that cancels out the sexual allure of her form. There’s a deadness behind her eyes that makes Stiles’ stomach churn.

The man, somehow, is even more frightening. Physically, there’s nothing too remarkable about him He’s an older man, leaning for support on a gnarled wooden cane. His dark-rimmed glasses magnify the size of his eyes, making him look sort of owlish, like a cartoon. His black hair is greying, his nose crooked. Just your average older gentleman.

But he’s looking directly into the camera, and although there’s nothing in his expression to directly indicate wicked intent, Stiles feels as though the man is looking through the picture. Looking directly at him. It’s deeply unsettling.

Stiles taps the picture, pointing to the beautiful woman. “Who is she?” he asks.

Mr. Argent is no longer sneering. He and his wife both look apprehensive. Perhaps even afraid. Stiles takes that to be a bad sign.

“That woman tried to kill Lydia Martin in the hospital,” Derek says roughly. “She was working with the man who took a shot at Stiles and Jackson. Who is she?”

“Damn it...” Mr. Argent mutters, eyes glued to the photograph. Mrs. Argent stays silent, sitting frozen in her chair.

Allison taps the picture lightly. “Come on, Dad,” she begs. “Lydia’s my best friend. If Scott and I hadn’t stopped her, she would have -”

“If you hadn’t what?” Mr. Argent snaps, turning to look at his daughter with wild eyes. Stiles notices that Mrs. Argent definitely looks scared now. “You stopped her? She’s seen your face?”

Allison shrinks back in her seat, startled by her father’s reaction. “Well, Scott did. He bit off her finger. I was just there to see it.”

Mr. Argent runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes wearily. “Heaven help us...” he whispers.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Derek grumbles impatiently. “Cut to the chase, Argent. What are we dealing with here?”

“Her name is Meredith Wakefield,” Mrs. Argent pipes up, voice shaking a little. She clears her throat and points to the old man in the photograph. “And that’s her father. Thomas Wakefield.”

“Victoria,” Mr. Argent warns, looking at her sharply.

“Chris,” she replies evenly, glaring him down. She turns back to Derek and Stiles, rubbing her forehead. “They are hunters.”

“We got that part,” Stiles says, relieved that they’re finally getting somewhere. “But who are they?”

“We used to run with them,” Mr. Argent says, gazing out the window with a distant expression on his face. “We worked together a long time ago. Before Victoria became pregnant with Allison.”

“What do they want with us?” Scott chimes in, speaking for the first time since they arrived. “We haven’t done anything to them.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Argent says, swallowing hard. “These...are a very different kind of people.”

“They don’t have a code, you mean,” Derek says, his mouth a thin line. “Unlike you.”

Mr. Argent shakes his head. “No, they do. All hunters have a code of conduct. Their rules are simply...a great deal harsher than ours.”

“It’s one of the reasons we left the group,” Mrs. Argent says, nodding in agreement. “That, and we didn’t want to raise our daughter in an environment like that. Around those people.”

“No, of course not,” Derek says sarcastically. “You wouldn’t want to teach her that murder is acceptable. It’s much better to teach her that it’s acceptable when someone deserves it.”

“That’s somewhat hypocritical coming from the likes of you,” Mr. Argent fires back. “How’s your uncle doing these days?”

“Enough!” Stiles snaps, raising his voice over Derek’s growl. “We have enough shit to deal with right now without tearing at each other’s throats, too!” He glares between Derek and Mr. Argent until they both look away, muttering lowly to themselves. “Great.” He looks at Mrs. Argent. “Go on, please.”

“Their code is simple,” she says, clutching at her daughter’s hand. “They will do whatever it takes to exterminate the werewolf threat. Anyone who stands in their way is regarded as necessary collateral damage.”

“Terrific,” Scott says faintly.

“Why are they here?” Stiles asks, impressed with how calm he sounds, even though his heart is hammering loudly in his chest. “Why now? How did they find us?”

Mr. Argent shrugs. “Any number of reasons. They might have caught wind of the killings Peter committed and come to investigate. Or it may have been a coincidence.”

“Pretty convenient to be a coincidence,” Derek says, eyes narrowing. “Interesting that they decide to show up and make their move the week that you just happen to be out of town with your family, safe from their reach.”

Mrs. Argent looks legitimately scandalized. “Are you implying that we called them to do our dirty work?” she asks disbelievingly. “That not only were we scheming to murder innocent children, but that we were also too cowardly to do the deed ourselves?”

“How dare you,” Mr. Argent grinds out through clenched teeth, hands balled into fists at his side. “What kind of monsters do you think we are?”

“The same kind you take me to be,” Derek replies. “And my pack.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Stiles groans, rolling his eyes. “Why am I the adult here? Can’t you guys just chill the fuck out for thirty minutes and have a civil conversation about the psychos trying to kill us?”

“I agree,” Allison jumps in. “We need a game plan.”

Stiles shoots her a grateful look. “My proposal...” he starts, looking at Derek for affirmation. Derek just grunts, which Stiles takes for assent. “My proposal is that, at least for the purposes of dealing with this threat, we all join forces.”

“Join forces,” Mr. Argent repeats blankly, expression openly skeptical.

“Yes,” Stiles nods firmly. “You’re familiar with this person, with these people. We could really use your help.”

“And,” Derek adds, “there’s also that other matter we have to deal with. Right, Stiles?”

Mr. and Mrs. Argent frown, looking at Stiles quizzically. He sighs. “Uh, yeah...there’s also a pack of werewolves from another town who have...well, basically given us an ultimatum. Submit, leave, or die.”

They stare at him in stunned silence for a moment, then Mr. Argent coughs, shaking himself off, and asks, “When?”

“About three weeks,” Derek answers readily.

“How many?” Mrs. Argent asks, stone-faced, jaw set.

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, then does a double take. “Actually, to be honest, we have no idea.”

“You have no idea,” Mr. Argent repeats. Fucking broken record, this guy.

“That’s what I said, yes.”

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Mrs. Argent says coldly, directing her focus at Derek, eyes accusing. “Do you realize the position you’ve put us in?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Derek says defensively. “I didn’t do anything.”

Ignoring him, she goes on, “We can’t leave. The Wakefields will find us wherever we go. Now that they know where we are, now that they know who our daughter is,” - she glares at Scott, who slumps in his seat - “we will never escape them.” She laughs mirthlessly. “And we can’t stay. We’re hunters, not soldiers. We can’t fight off an entire pack at once, especially if it’s a large one. Which, if they feel confident enough to make threats like this, I’d hazard a guess that it is a large one. So basically, we’re fucked.”

“Mom!” Allison says, stricken. 

“Shut up!” her mother hisses, smacking the table, open-palmed. “They’ve ruined us!”

“Then it would seem,” Mr. Argent says, voice deadly calm, “that we don’t really have a choice.” His wife stares at him in shock, and Derek looks up in surprise. Mr. Argent meets Derek’s eye, then looks to Stiles and nods once. “I guess we’re in.”

“Chris!”

“What other option do we have,” he says quietly. “It’s like you said. We run, we have to fight. We stay, we have to fight.” He looks at Derek, determined. “If this is the way it’s going to be, we might as well stand together.”

Derek studies him briefly, then bobs his head in agreement.

“Great,” Stiles says, standing up to draw attention back to himself. “Now, first things first. Are there any other hunters you know - hunters who aren’t a part of this group - that you can call for help?”

“What?” Derek yelps, eyes widening. He shakes his head vehemently. “We did not discuss this, Stiles.”

“Let me finish!” Stiles says hastily. He looks back at Mr. Argent, morphing his face into an expression of dead seriousness. “Any hunters you know you can trust with absolute certainty? And only ones who abide by the same code as you; meaning, they won’t turn around and betray us after this is all over?”

Mr. Argent looks thoughtfully at him, squinting as he racks his brain. “I can think of...maybe five?”

“Maybe?” Derek growls.

“Okay, four then,” Mr. Argent relents, raising his palms in surrender. “Four for sure.”

“And how many of those would be willing to risk their lives to save you?” Scott chimes in.

Mr. Argent pauses. Thinks. “Two.”

Derek sighs, but Stiles nods. “Two is better than none. Call them.”

Mr. Argent looks at Derek. “Shall I call them?”

Derek huffs, turning on his heel to walk out of the kitchen. “Whatever he says,” he calls over his shoulder.

Stiles shakes Mr. Argent’s hand awkwardly as Scott kisses Allison goodbye. “Thank you, sir,” he says sincerely. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

He and Scott hurry out, leaving the Argent family alone in their house with their thoughts.

“All things considered, that went pretty well,” Scott whispers as he closes the door behind him.

***

Every day they train.

Every single day. No exceptions.

Derek works them as vigorously as ever, but he’s toned down the element-of-surprise aspect considerably since his conversation with Stiles. The tension within the pack has lessened noticeably. They’re behaving more and more like a real team.

“He’s doing a lot better,” Lydia whispers to Stiles as Danny manages to pin Scott against a tree.

“Dead!” Danny pants triumphantly, tapping a finger gently against Scott’s throat.

“Yeah, he is,” Stiles murmurs, watching as Danny and Scott shake hands.

“Scott, take a break,” Derek barks. “Jackson, get in.”

Watching Danny and Jackson go at it, Stiles notices Lydia’s somber expression out of the periphery of his vision. He turns to look at her quizzically.

“Everything okay?”

She chews on her lip, fidgeting restlessly. Stiles hears Danny yip in pain, but ignores it. “Derek gave me the bite,” Lydia says quietly. Stiles realizes that there’s a thick length of gauze wrapped around her wrist, and he feels his heart skip a beat as his mind flashes back to Peter Hale touching him in that same spot (“Yes or no?”).

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “When?”

“A couple of days ago.” She looks at the grounded, clearly frustrated. “It didn’t take.”

Stiles starts, staring at the bandaging. “It didn’t take,” he repeats numbly.

She shakes her head. “Again.”

Jackson yelps as Danny swipes a line of slashes down his back.

“How is that possible?” Stiles mutters, completely bewildered. “I mean...out of all the werewolf lore I’ve been reading up on the past several months, I’ve never come across anything like that. Is it...is it even possible for someone to be immune?”

Lydia shrugs. “I dunno. I’m stumped.”

Jackson lets out a startled Oof! sound, and Stiles and Lydia turn back to the fight. Jackson’s pinned on his back, breathing heavily with a bloody scratch down the side of his cheek, and Danny’s straddled on top of him, fist raised in preparation for a punch he never delivers. They just sit like that, frozen in place, staring at each other.

Derek looks startled for a moment, then jumps forward quickly, gently pulling Danny off Jackson.

“Good job, guys,” he says, looking between them shiftily. “That was...uh, yeah. Good work.”

Danny’s blushing furiously, and Jackson’s staring distractedly away from the group, wiping droplets off the already-healed scratches. Scott looks momentarily surprised, but doesn’t say anything and quickly shifts his expression to a neutral stare.

“I’m going to take five, if that’s okay?” Danny says embarrassedly, not looking at anyone.

Derek nods. “Yeah, that’s fine. Scott, you and me.”

Danny walks quickly off towards the river and Stiles looks at Lydia pointedly. She spares him a quick smile. “Go ahead,” she says. “We’ll talk later.”

Stiles pats her on the shoulder, then hops up to follow Danny.

He finds him down by the riverbank, skipping stones like some figure out of Mark Twain novel.

“You lied to me,” Stiles says casually, popping down next to him, squinting in the afternoon sun.

Danny looks confused. “What?”

“You said it was just a crush,” Stiles says, not unkindly. Danny turns red.

“It is,” he retorts, without any heat behind it. “I think...” he adds after a pause.

Stiles makes a gesture of indifference. “You guys are best buds,” he says. “And you happen to think he’s hot. It’s only natural for those two types of feelings to bleed into each other a little bit.”

“It can’t happen,” Danny says angrily, throwing another rock into the water forcefully. “It can’t happen, and even if it could, now is not the time to be thinking about this kind of shit. We’ve got more important things to worry about than my stupid hormones.”

Stiles makes a soft noise of dissent. “Actually, I think this is the perfect time to worry about this kind of shit.” Danny looks at him strangely, and he explains, “We’re teenagers. We’re young and stupid and horny. This is exactly the type of crap we’re supposed to be going through right now. Everything else? All the other stuff? That’s just...bad luck.”

“I shouldn’t have done this,” Danny laments, rubbing at his eyes angrily. “I shouldn’t have asked to be turned. It was a stupid mistake.”

Stiles puts a hand on his back. “You were always going to do it,” he says, knowing that it’s true even without justifiable cause to say so. “You were going to do it no matter what. Because you love him.” Danny looks stricken, and Stiles is quick to add, “Whether as a friend or something more than that. Either way, you love him. And you were never going to abandon him to fight alone.”

Danny’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Why couldn’t I?” he asks, more to himself than to Stiles. “Why couldn’t just care less?”

Stiles smiles at him sadly. “Because you’re a good guy, dude.”

***

Derek’s been hesitant to bring up the question for some time now. He would never have tried anything in the aftermath of Peter’s death, what with all the confused emotions surrounding that event. Again, he didn’t think it was a wise play at the start of his relationship with Stiles.

But it’s been on his mind, nearly daily, without fail. It’s something he has to know.

So it just sort of spills out of him as they’re lying together in bed, mere minutes after they’d stroked each other to orgasm in the calming darkness of the house.

“Do you want the bite?” he asks, and immediately wants to kick himself seeing the surprise on Stiles’ face.

“Do you think I should?” Stiles mumbles uncertainly, laying his cheek against Derek’s chest, wrapping his arms around him.

“That’s not what I asked,” Derek says softly, running his fingertips through Stiles’ short hair. “I asked if you want it.” He kisses the top of his head. “Do you?”

Stiles doesn’t answer for a moment or two, and Derek waits patiently with bated breath.

Then, “No.”

And that genuinely, actually surprises him. He’s not hurt. It doesn’t really matter one way or the other. But it’s not what he expected.

He swallows. “No...for now? Or for always?”

Stiles pulls back to look him the eye, expression open and sweet. “No for always,” he says gently, firmly.

And it’s stupid that Derek feels a lump rising in his throat. Because it’s fine. It’s Stiles’ choice. It should be everyone’s choice.

He nods once, biting his lip hard. “Okay,” he says shortly, and Stiles’ mouth twitches upward in a sad smile.

“Do you want me to take it?” he asks, curious and trusting. He snuggles closer, reaching up to run his thumb over Derek’s cheek. “If you do, I will.”

Derek cringes slightly, shakes his head. “I don’t want you to want it because I said you should. If you want it, it should be because you want it.”

Stiles studies him intently. “But you do want me to want it?” he asks carefully. “Don’t you?”

“I want...” Derek trails off, seriously pondering the question. Stiles waits without speaking, tracing lines on Derek’s arm with his finger. Finally, “I want to why you don’t want it,” Derek admits.

Stiles smiles, this time fond instead of sad. “I want to be human,” he replies honestly, holding a finger up to Derek’s mouth to prevent him from responding right away. “But,” he adds, “that’s not because I think it would make me lesser of a person to be a werewolf.”

It’s moments like this that make Derek wonder why he was ever worried about Stiles’ age. The kid may act like a doofus sometimes, but he’s eerily perceptive and mature when it really counts. It’s like he has direct access to Derek’s thoughts and feelings, like he can determine and understand what Derek’s really afraid of before Derek does.

“Then why?” he asks. “If not that, then what?”

Stiles lays his head back against Derek’s chest, taking a deep breath. “It changes people,” he whispers, voice small. “It’s different for you. You were born with it. You’re you. But Scott...” He trails off, his breathing stuttering. Derek holds him closer in a reassuring gesture. “He’s not who he was. Not in a bad way, exactly. But it’s different. And that scares me. I don’t like the idea of being someone...else. You know? Like, if I’m gonna change myself, I want it to be because of a decision I’ve made, or a though process I’ve gone through. I don’t want to have thoughts and feelings and...powers that make me something other than me.” His voice shakes a little. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Derek says, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I understand.”

Stiles looks at him, beads of wetness in his eyes. “I’d also be afraid to change because...if I was someone else, and you love me now, you might not love me anymore.”

Derek feels a twinge of pain in his chest, and he hugs Stiles tighter. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I understand.”

He never brings it up again.

***

It’s two weeks until the aggressive pack is scheduled to attack, and they’re treated to an unexpected stroke of good fortune.

“I found him skulking around in the woods outside,” Mr. Argent announces in greeting as he drags his captive into Derek’s living room, pushing him to the ground roughly. “You think this is one of them?”

Derek stares at the weaselly man dripping blood on his carpet, a growl rumbling low in his chest. “Yes,” he says coldly, glaring down at the werewolf. “He’s the one who came to visit me last time.”

“Great to see you again, Derek,” the scout snickers, grinning defiantly with a mouthful of yellowing teeth.

Derek looks at Mr. Argent and jerks his head toward the stairs. “Let’s take him down to the cellar.”

***

The scout’s sneaky, untrustworthy demeanor might lead one to assume that he’d give up any information requested with little struggle. Not the case. He may have a face like a rat, but as it turns out, he’s no snitch.

However, the Argents have enough wolfsbane and enough creative methods with which to put it to use to make anyone talk eventually.

One can only stand so much pain.

***

“This is our biggest leg-up yet,” Derek announces to the room. Gathered together in the Argents’ living room, everyone gives him their full attention. He points to the map sprawled across on the coffee table, tapping his finger against the key locations marked by red push pins. “We now know exactly where they’re going to strike, how they’re going to do it, and when. If we can thwart their expectations, we might actually have a shot at this. The element of surprise is our greatest asset at this point.”

“How much do they know about us?” Jackson asks, frowning that the map. “That’s my house you’ve got marked there.”

“It would seem like they’re very much aware of every single one of us,” Derek admits. “They’ve probably had spies checking up on us for a while.”

“When is this happening?” Danny pipes up from the corner of the room. “Do we know the exact date?”

“Date and time,” Mr. Argent replies, arms folded as he examines the map thoughtfully. “The 15th at midnight.”

“When are the other two hunters coming?” Allison asks, looking up at her father.

“In time,” Derek responds readily. “Hopefully.”

There’s a long pause, and then Scott asks the question that’s on everyone’s mind. “How many are there?” he speaks quietly.

Derek and Mr. Argent exchange a look.

Stiles feels bile rise in the back of his throat. “How many?” he reiterates.

“Not counting our prisoner,” Derek says slowly, “37 of them.”

They sit in stunned silence, reality sinking in slowly.

No one speaks. They just sit in close company, listening to the ticking of the clock in the hall.

There’s nothing more to say.

***

Everyone hangs around for a while longer, drifting to their respective homes one by one throughout the evening. They move from room to room, talking quietly in pairs, sharing thoughts and memories.

No one says that they’re preparing for death, but they all know that’s what this is.

Derek is perfectly capable of eavesdropping without being obvious, but he refrains, stepping out on the porch to allow the pack some privacy. The secrets they share between themselves are not for his ears.

Stiles follows him after a few minutes inside speaking with Scott. He leans up on his toes to plant a kiss against Derek’s mouth. “I’m going home,” he says. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“We’re going to figure something out,” Derek speaks lowly, not wanting anyone else to hear. “We’re going to get through this. I swear it.”

He can’t quite decipher the look Stiles is giving him. He can’t tell whether it’s sad or hopeful, weary or determined, full of promise or empty and drained. It’s a puzzle.

The kid just says, “Sure. Of course we will,” and walks off into the darkness. Derek hears the sound of his Jeep pulling away a minute or so later.

“Quiet night,” Scott remarks, and Derek jumps slightly, surprised that he didn’t hear the younger werewolf coming.

“Yes it is,” Derek agrees, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. Scott frowns at him.

“Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

“I’m not usually,” Derek replies. “But I figured...why not.”

Scott gives him an odd look, but drops it. They listen to the ambient sounds of the suburban nightlife, standing side by side, near-identical shadows looming out together in the drive, cast forth by way of the porch lantern.

“I forgive you,” Scott says, and Derek feels whatever tension remained between them dissipate into the night air.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, a retroactive apology.

“I already said I forgave you.”

Derek shrugs. “Yes, but you’re probably saying that because you think we’re going to die. It’s not in your nature to hold a grudge, and you want to clear the air in the likely even that things go south for us.”

Scott glares at him, but his mouth is twitching in amusement. “You’re such a pompous ass sometimes, you know that?”

“Right back at you, McCall.”

Scott extends his hand, looking pointedly at Derek’s coat pocket. “I think I’ll take one of those, if you don’t mind?”

Derek fishes out the box and hands it over, flicking the lighter on. “I shouldn’t, but...” He makes a soft noise of indifference. Scott nods in agreement, taking a puff and leaning back against the house. Derek looks at him askance. “So we’re good now?”

“Good as we’ll ever be,” Scott says honestly.

Derek nods. “Good enough for me.”

***

Stiles isn’t a werewolf; he doesn’t have the extrasensory perception skills of his pack. But he knows something’s off the moment he enters his puts his key in the front door of his house, the moment he steps inside and registers that all of the lights are turned off.

The smart decision would be to leave. To call the cops. Or Derek. But instead, he moves forward, feet carrying him further into the darkness against his better judgment, as if his body is operating under the influence of another mind.

He walks into the kitchen and turns on the light, and there she is, sitting at the table as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Meredith Wakefield, in the flesh.

He knows it’s her right away. Even if he hadn’t seen the Argents’ photograph, the bloody stump where her pinkie finger ought to be is dead give away.

“You must be Stiles,” she says, and maybe it’s her words, or the sickly sweet tone with which she says them, but Stiles’ brain flashes back to Peter before returning to the shock of the present danger.

“Yes,” he answers numbly, not even bothering to try and run away. It wouldn’t do any good.

She looks at studiously, cocking her head to the side. Studying his face, like he’s the most interesting thing in the world; like she’s a scientist discovering a new species. 

“I stayed for three days solid in my room at the motel,” she says, and her voice is like white noise. It’s a sing-song sound with no melody at all. A poor imitation of kindness that mirrors the dead space behind her eyes. “I stayed for three days without food or drink, just sitting on my bed with a shotgun under my chin. Waiting to let this” - she holds up her disfigured hand - “run its course. Waiting to see if I would be forced to put myself down.” She smiles, and Stiles shudders. “I was fortunate. Again. I was bitten once before.” She pats her left thigh in a gesture that in any other circumstance could reasonably be interpreted as seductive. “Right here. It didn’t take. Lady luck was on my side that day.”

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles whispers, voice coming out as a croak. “We haven’t done anything to you.”

Meredith’s face contorts into a look of profound sympathy, and somehow that’s more horrifying than outrage or contempt would have been. “But my dear,” she says sadly, “you have. You have done wrong to me. To your people. To the human race.” She leans forward, resting her chin against her palm, her elbow propped up on the table. “What is it like?” she asks, curious and eager. “To lie with an animal, as you have? To make it with a beast? I’ve often wondered, but never gotten the chance to speak with the mate of a creature before.”

Stiles brain does a double-take at the word “mate,” but quickly moves past that to genuine revulsion. “I wouldn’t know,” he says stiffly, moving slowly to sit at the table across from her. “I’ve never been with anyone else, so I don’t have anything to compare it to.” His nose wrinkles. “I imagine it’s pretty much the same. It’s not like we do anything while he’s transformed.”

Her smile widens, eyes flashing with interest. “Fascinating. I appreciate the ease with which you answered my question. Generally, people react badly to what they perceive as personal violation.”

He makes a sort of soft, desperate sound, shrugging. “I figure the longer we’re talking, the longer I keep living.”

Meredith’s expression shifts back to her standard blank-slate mode, and Stiles’ blood runs cold with fear. She reaches into her handbag, and for a heart-stopping moment, Stiles is certain she’s going to pull out a gun, but instead she pulls out a tiny notepad and a pen. 

“There will come a time,” she says matter-of-factly, “when your Alpha will find it necessary to contact me and negotiate the terms of his surrender. She scribbles out something on the paper and rips it out of the notepad, sliding it across the table. “Tell him he can reach me at this number. When he’s ready.”

Stiles takes it, staring at her. “You’re...not going to kill me,” he asks, stupefied.

She shakes her head, rising to her feet. “It’s not in the cards,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Not tonight. I thought it would be, but...well, plans of mice and men, as they say...”

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, voice shaking as she towers over him like some malevolent goddess of death. “I don’t understand.”

“I take my role as a hunter very seriously,” she explains patiently. “I have standards that I’ve set for myself, standards that my father passed down to me and my kin, as his father did before him. I strongly dislike having to bend the rules, and unfortunately, I had to break one tonight.”

“And what’s that?” Stiles whispers in a small voice.

She looks at him with such terrifying kindness, Stiles actually wants to throw up. “The rule of good sportsmanship, of course.” She places a hand against his cheek, mock-lovingly. It’s like ice on his skin. Meredith leans down, bringing her lips close to his ear. “You may not understand,” she breathes tenderly, “but take comfort in the knowledge that, more likely than not, there is nothing to be understood.” She steps back, withdrawing her hand, and then she’s walking away into the shadows.

Turning back momentarily to give him one last look, her expression morphs into a look of stern somberness, like that of a teacher giving a lecture. “Pain is the road to strength,” she says airily. 

And then she’s gone.

Stiles sits frozen for about a minute, only remembering to breathe when he’s certain she’s really left.

Then he hears a sound. It’s been present since he entered the house, and it was constant throughout his conversation with Meredith, but now that he can think straight again, he can pick it out clearly. It’s the sound of the tap running in the bathroom. The one in the master bedroom.

Stiles feels a cold rush inside of his soul. He stands up shakily and begins to walk down the hallway.

Please, God, he thinks to himself, over and over like a mantra in his head, Please, God, if you’re real, if you’re there, if you care, please no. Please not this. Please anything else.

He steps into the master bedroom and sees the bar of light shining underneath the crack in the bathroom door. His heart is hammering inside his chest, his blood is pumping in his ears like the beat of a drum.

His hand trembles on the doorknob, and he’s not sure if he can face what awaits within. But he has to be strong. He has to be brave. He’s come this far, and there’s no turning back now.

He turns the knob and pushes the door open.

It’s not too grisly. There’s a safety drain in the bathtub that prevents it from overflowing, so most of the mess has seeped away. There’s no splatter on the floor or the walls, just a pair of long, red gashes in the sheriff’s arms, extending from his wrists to his elbows. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed. His mouth is a thin line, closed shut instead of hanging open. Were it not for the blood and the unmistakable pale complexion, Stiles might have thought his father was merely sleeping.

But it’s not the case. And Stiles thinks he can actually hear the sound of his heart shattering to pieces over the sound of the water thundering from the tap.

Pain is the road to strength, she said.

He gets the joke now.

***

The police take Stiles to the hospital for a psych evaluation after they finish with the paperwork at the station, and the pack meets him there shortly after he arrives.

Scott just looks horrified, and Stiles allows himself to be pulled into a tight embrace. “I talked with my Mom,” Scott mumbles in a shaky voice, unable to look his best friend in the eye. “You’re going to stay with us for a while. Until...you know. Whenever.”

Allison hugs him as well, even though they’re not as close, and Stiles can hear her sniffling into the crook of his neck.

Jackson looks deathly pale, and he just mouths wordlessly for a moment before turning away, unable to come up with any words of comfort adequate enough for the situation. Stiles doesn’t blame him.

Lydia is torn between horror and fury. She grips Stiles’ hand tightly, sitting at his bedside and glaring at the wall, not bothering to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.

Danny just seems numb.

Derek stands at the foot of his bed. He’s the only one who is able to meet Stiles’ gaze without flinching away. He just looks into Stiles’ eyes, unspeaking, without touching him. He doesn’t need to talk. His expression says everything. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it. I’m so sorry. We’re going to kill her. She won’t get away with it.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

***

The hospital wants to keep Stiles overnight, but he insists on going home with Scott.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he says succinctly, and that puts a stop to whatever arguments they may have had ready.

Mrs. McCall is waiting for them on the doorstep, and she bursts into tears when they walk up the drive and she sees the emptiness in Stiles’ face. She pulls him into a hug despite Scott’s complaints that they just want to got to sleep.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she chokes out, rubbing circles on his back. “I’m so sorry. You can stay here as long as you like. As long as you like...”

Stiles takes a long shower, just standing beneath the nozzle and letting the flow cascade over him. He doesn’t even use the soap; just listens to the sound of the running water. It’s tattooed in his brain now, never to fade away.

When he finally gets out and changes into his pajamas, Scott is already asleep, conked out on a chair with his head resting against the desk. He’s left the bed empty for Stiles.

There’s a quiet sound at the window, and Stiles isn’t surprised when Derek slips in quickly, pulling the latch shut behind him. He looks at Stiles uncertainly. “Want company?” he asks, requesting permission. Stiles nods, and the two of them slide into bed together. Derek pulls Stiles close against his chest and strokes his hair gently as they drift into slumber.

Derek falls asleep relatively soon. Stiles stays up far longer, thoughts and schemes swirling around in his mind as he listens to the sound of Derek’s heartbeat, thrumming through his body like the beat of a metronome.

***

It’s school the next day, and Scott’s already gone when Stiles wakes up. So is Derek.

Mrs. McCall called in sick to work as an excuse to stay home with Stiles, and she fixes him a big breakfast of waffles and fruit salad.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and she smiles at him sadly, her eyes still red and blotchy.

“Of course,” she replies, kissing his forehead. “You want me to stay and talk, or would you rather be alone?”

He smiles apologetically. “Alone, if that’s okay. Just for a little while.”

“No problem. Just holler if you need anything.”

As soon as she’s gone, he whips out his cell phone and sends a text message to Lydia:

You at school?

Her response comes less than a minute later:

Yeah. I’ll ditch if you wanna talk.

He feels a surge of affection, as well as gratitude for her not asking “Are you alright?” He sends back:

Yes please. Meet you at the park in ten?”

Lydia writes back yes, and Stiles gathers up his stuff and scrawls out a hasty note to Mrs. McCall that reads Gone for walk. Be back later. Thanks for breakfast.

He gets there in five minutes, but Lydia is already there waiting for him on a bench. She hugs him in greeting, and pulls back, expression determined. 

“So what’s the plan?”

Stiles does a double take, startled. “How did you know there was a plan?”

She looks him over, chewing on her lower lip. “I saw the look in your eyes last night,” she says softly. “I know that look. You’re not the kind of guy to sit idly by. You’ve got something in mind.”

He nods, mouth turning upward. “Yeah, I’ve got something in mind.”

Lydia takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not yet. We’ve got to make one stop first.”

***

Neither of them are particularly surprised by the state of physical decay the werewolf scout is in when they find him in Derek’s basement, but Stiles still cringes a little at the smell of rotting flesh as they approach the rack where their prisoner is chained.

“Where’s Hale at?” the scout spits, mouth twisted into a crude imitation of a grin, blood dribbling down his chin and neck. “Sending his young human friends do his dirty work now, eh?”

“He’s out,” Stiles says shortly, folding his arms across his chest. Cutting straight to the point, “The information you gave him, that junk about your pack’s strategy. That was all bullshit wasn’t it? You didn’t give up anything, did you?”

The scout’s grin widens, a raspy chuckle escaping from the back of his throat. “Smart boy. They should have sent you in from the beginning.”

“He lied?” Lydia says, scandalized. “So none of it’s true?”

“I wouldn’t say none of it,” the scout giggles, eyes gleaming mischievously. “I may have left out a few key pieces of information. I may have thrown in a few fibs here and there. But the basic idea stands: you don’t submit or flee, and you’re going to die.”

“I don’t care that you lied,” Stiles interrupts, jaw set. “That’s not what we’re here for.” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. Lydia frowns, confused. “I have a proposal for you.”

The scout cocks an eyebrow, clucking his tongue thoughtfully. “Alright. Color me intrigued. Pray tell, what is this proposal of yours?”

“I’m willing to let you go,” Stiles says, ignoring Lydia’s gasp of shock, “if you lead us to your pack.”

“Stiles!” Lydia whispers, staring at him in disbelief. The scout looks oddly impressed.

“Now why,” he says dramatically, “would I do such a thing? How can I be certain you’ll let me go once we reach our destination?”

Stiles shrugs. “That’s a risk you’re going to have to take. Do you really think you’ll ever leave this room otherwise?” he says matter-of-factly. “As soon as they decide they don’t need you anymore, they’re going to kill you. I’m offering you an out. It’s this or nothing. No negotiating.”

The scout smirks broadly. “My, my, my. What a crafty little creature you are.” He nods in agreement, wincing in pain as the chains restrict his movement. “I accept your terms.”

“Good. We’re leaving tonight. I’ll come back for you then.” 

Lydia stares between them for a moment, then follows Stiles quickly as he ascends the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses. “I thought we were going to go after that bitch who killed your father.”

He shakes his head. “We wouldn’t stand a chance against one hunter, let alone an entire gang of them. The pack can hold them off when the time comes. Derek won’t let anything happen to them. And the Argents’ friends should show up any day now.”

Lydia flails desperately. “Then what the fuck is this all about?” 

Stiles places his hands on her shoulder, effectively silencing her. “Lydia,” he says seriously, “I need to know if you’re in this with me.”

She makes a soft, frustrated noise. “Stiles...”

“I need to know,” he begs, voice cracking a bit. “Are you in this with me? Until the end?”

She studies him for a moment, then nods resignedly. “Yes,” she sighs. “I’m with you.”

“Good. Because we’re going after the Alpha,” Stiles says grimly. “You and me. We’re going to kill him ourselves.”