Archive of Our Own

Prologue
The man now known as “Eddie Hope” is still as he scrolls through news site after news site; his eyes are exhausted and blurry, his head aches, his muscles cramped from hunching over the laptop. His search history reads like a biography of a life, and in a way, it is. Not his own life, no - the life of the man he blames for taking the only family he truly cared for away from him.

Ellis Miller is dead, has been now for almost four years, but in Eddie’s mind, he lives. And speaks, and directs him to continue his work, and not stop until he is done.

And when he will be done, is when Special Agent Stiles Stilinski of the BAU is dead by his hand. Bonus points if his unlikely pack goes with him. And the cherry on top would be the wolf Derek Hale.

Then the Halestroms and all those who had died when they should have lived will be avenged.

Then there will be peace.

Until then, there’s work to be done.

Derek Hale didn’t know the nightmare had resumed until he got a call from Beacon Hills about a robbery.

Robberies were unfortunately too common as the suburb grew, as 9 to 5-ers from Sacramento discovered this area and surrounding towns and started moving in, pushing out older homeowners by inflating asking prices and moving in sight unseen. With these people came money, and a fair amount of it, and money bought nice cars with nice sound systems in them, high end electronics and other financial booty, and the criminals of Beacon Hills had taken note and upped their game. They weren’t alone, either - theft was on the rise in all neighboring cities and the police departments were busy at all hours, nonstop.

Elk Grove was one of those neighboring cities, and was where one now Captain Derek Hale resided; the promotion was recent, but well-deserved, and with it, Derek had finally sold the building that housed his loft in Beacon Hills (for a good profit, he was no idiot) and made his full move to Elk Grove, to a small house on Abrigo Way, in a cul de sac. He was one with those putting out their garbage cans on Monday mornings, raking leaves in the fall and washing his car, a sweet Camaro the other dads envied, in the driveway. He was also the only one on the block with a police scanner (a legal one, at least) in his kitchen, the ability to make paella to die for, and who was, incidentally, a werewolf.

While he still was, and always would be part of the Beacon Hills McCall pack, the town had memories he didn’t always handle well, and after a lot of thought, he had chosen to transfer to Elk Grove, even though it had saddened both John and himself, it was the right thing to do. Elk Grove had no preconceived notions of Captain Hale, and had welcomed him - and his solve rate. The joke was that nothing got past Derek Hale’s nose, and boy, wasn’t that the truth.

He didn’t think about Stiles much. Once a day, maybe. Twice, three times. This was a vast improvement over the 24/7 period of rage and sadness he’d experienced right after the incident, and the day he’d shut the door on that shattered man a part of him had winked out of existence too. But he didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

Till he had to. Till John called him. Till he started researching murders that seemed unrelated, if you hadn’t been there at the start. And when you had been, it turned statistically interesting into terrifying. He didn’t know if Stiles knew about the murders that were cropping up amongst a group of people previously targeted, but if he had, he hadn’t told his Dad. John might have even let it go, simply scanned the notices on crimewatcher’s sites and taken only cursory notice, until the day he came home and knew. Knew someone had been in his house. Knew someone had taken something from him. Found what had been taken away.

Worse, taken from his son, in order, John knew, to hunt his son. And that’s when he’d placed a call to Captain Derek Hale, who, despite every brain cell screaming at him not to, had gotten into the Camaro and drove the familiar roads of Beacon Hills, to the house he knew so well, and then, gone into the room where he’d scowled in a too tight t-shirt, where he’d been called “Miguel,” where he’d lounged on a desk chair while Stiles slept, then nearly pissed himself upon waking to find a wolf at the door. A wolf in his room.

After that, he’d sat at his own desktop for hours, making notes, printing accounts, paper piling up in his printer while kids messed around in the park near his house, while baseball scores blared from phones in backyards, and the smell of bbq filled the air.

And finally, he knew. Sitting back, head aching, wolf senses hackling the hair on his neck, he knew he had to see Stiles. Tell him, ask for his help. No matter how it made him feel, or how it hurt, he had to.

For all of them.

This is what he told himself, as he asked for leave from his job, booked a room and made contact with Quantico, flew there and got into his rental police issue vehicle (a professional courtesy) at Stafford Regional Airport and set his GPS for Quantico, Virginia.

Derek straightened his jacket and smoothed his hair before entering the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The building itself was intimidating, let alone what it housed, and he took a breath before passing the security guards, showing them his official ID and allowing himself to be scanned; he had only paper in his wallet and leather folio, no rings, earrings, necklaces … and no gun. His gun was stored securely in his highly alarmed police vehicle in the subterranean parking garage. Cleared, he took back his wallet, gave the security guards a nod and went to the information desk to get his visitor’s badge and directions to the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

As he stepped into the elevator with similarly other suited people, added his floor and felt the floor lift, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to banish the last sight he’d had of Stiles; thin, desperate, and so, so sad. But that had been three years ago now, and he was back here and not in a padded room, so he’d had to have recovered, found his way back to himself, right?

He got off at his floor and entered an office through a frosted glass door, approaching the large circular desk, presided over by a young woman - Derek didn’t feel like he’d ever been that young - who smiled at him. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Hello, I’m Captain Derek Hale of Elk Grove, PD in California. I’m here to see Special Agent Stilinski.”

That whole sentence sounded so odd to him, surreal. When had they become these people?

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, and he shook his head. “I wasn’t sure he’d see me, so I decided to just risk it.”

“Oh, you two know each other?”

“We’re acquainted, yes.”

She eyed him, then smiled. “Well, he stepped out for a moment after a morning of meetings, but he’ll probably be back in soon. Depends on how many cigarettes he allows himself.”

“So much for quitting,” thought Derek, and smiled back. “Is it okay if I wait?”

“Of course, feel free,” she said, and waved him to a set of couches. “Can I offer you coffee, tea, water?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

He took a seat on the blue couch, looking around at the photos of former Bureau Heads, and politicians and all the movers and shakers who used the FBI to hide their dirty deeds - his recently-finished history and world politics BA came in handy as he identified most of them, his concentration only broken by a surprised, “Derek?”

He looked up into the brown eyes, mole dotted skin and shockingly blond hair of one Stiles Stilinski, Senior Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. He opened his mouth to say hello, or hi, or hey long time no see but I need your help, but what came out was “Why the hell are you blond?”

Stiles raised one still-dark eyebrow. “Why are you not blond?”

Derek opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out cause Stiles should look fucking ridiculous, and didn’t. Also, he had a point, though he would look absolutely bizarre as a blond; he could never pull it off, and had honestly never even considered it.

Stiles was watching him, and Derek finally forced himself to his feet. “It’s been a while, Agent. May I speak to you about a police matter?”

“Of course, once you tell me why you’re not blond.”

“Because I’d look like a TikTok tryhard is why,” said Derek, and Stiles, not expecting that, laughed. A big laugh, at that.

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “And of course you may, come on in. Leigh, can you hold my calls?”

“If you get any, sure,” she agreed and Stiles glared at her briefly, and she smiled back.

He sighed. “The young agents are pretty snarky these days,” he said, as if he were an old agent. “But she’s not wrong. In here.”

He opened his door for Derek, and passing by, Derek’s wolf nose picked up coffee, smoke, and what smelled like Release the Kraken body wash. Dammit.

He indicated the chair across from his desk, though there was a perfectly serviceable couch and table setup in the corner, but Derek understood - authority was key here, and they were not on level playing ground - he was the supplicant, and Stiles, if not King, was at least Prime Minister of this kingdom.

Derek sat, placing his actual briefcase next to him and crossed his legs, getting comfortable, while Stiles took his seat, reached for his water bottle. “Spring water?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

Stiles nodded and took a sip, then reached behind him to adjust the blinds for the changing light. His office was uncharacteristically neat, but then again, Leigh had recently made him schedule a long-overdue official lunch meeting and come in and tidied, recycled all his cans and bottles, washed his coffee mugs and wiped down his desk. He did not deserve her, and no one knew that better than her.

“So,” said Stiles. “I thought you told me to lose your number.”

Ah, right to the point - Derek should not have expected any less. “I did tell you that, but never said I would lose yours. I have not, by the way. And I kind of knew where to find you.”

“They could have kicked my ass out and I could be chopping wood in an idyllic clearing somewhere with bunnies and chipmunks scurrying around.” Stiles was watching him, and Derek didn’t blink, just shrugged.

“Maybe you do that on weekends.”

Stiles’ lip curled. “Maybe.”

Derek shrugged again. “You’re a curious sort, Agent. Who knows what you might get up to?”

Sacrificed anyone lately? Maybe that’s what you’re doing with the chipmunks.

Jesus, Hale.

He looked back at Stiles. “So let’s get the obvious out of the way, so we can get back to the vigorous verbal sparring we’re known and loved for.”

He took a breath, noting the unwilling smirk Stiles let cross his face. “Three years ago, we went on a couple of little adventures that got out of hand, shall we say. You suffered a serious loss in the line of duty and it hit you hard - then you hit me hard, at least by proxy. I nearly died, Scott saved both our asses - and Peter too, let’s not forget - and we parted on bad terms. On my terms. And I would say I’m sorry, but I really don’t know how else I was supposed to feel about what happened.”

Stiles was uncharacteristically silent, so Derek continued. “I understand you were trying to make amends and I pushed you away. You probably weren’t surprised by that, as that has been my lifelong MO, but it hurt you. It hurt me too. We - I - can’t pretend it didn’t happen, but I’m hoping you’ll be willing to work this case,” He patted his briefcase, “With me as a colleague.”

More silence; Derek kept eye contact with Stiles, until the other man spoke.

“That’s a lot of words,” he noted. “I’m still shocked when you string a lot of words together.”

Asshole. “I read at a fifth grade level now. And yes, I’m aware I’m not verbose.”

Stiles couldn’t help snorting, then raised a brow. “Verbose. Jesus, vocabulary much?”

“I have a word-a-day calendar. So, did you just listen to me?”

“I did.” He picked up his phone. “Leigh, would you mind going down to Crackbucks for me? This conversation calls for caffeine. My usual Venti, and for the Captain,” (cause yes, he’d noted the bars on the suit jacket) “a Grande, with one sugar and no cream. Yes, he’s that guy. Raw sugar for me, please. No, no extra shots of espresso, I plan to go from lung cancer, not a heart attack. Yes, get whatever you want. And a pastry. Just put it on the account, yes. And no, no pastry for me.” He looked at Derek, then changed his mind. “Two chocolate croissants for the Captain and I. Thank you.”

Derek had to smile, a small one. “So much for living healthily.”

“I tried for a while, but I got bored.”

Stiles tapped his fingers on a stack of folders. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re still mad at me - and fine, justifiably so - and you realize that I was trying, in my pitiful way to try and apologize, still told me to fuck off, have not seen me in a good three years, but are now in my office with Captain’s bars on your uniform - and not a BHPD uni either - asking for my professional assistance. Is that about right?”

“I’m not mad,” said Derek - and he wasn’t. “I moved past it as best I could because being mad was … I’ve spent the majority of my life angry now, Stiles, and I don’t want to live like that anymore. It’s no way to live. What you did was a terrible thing, but I am also pretty damn sure that you didn’t expect things to go as they did. But the fact remains, you were willing to trade my life away. So truly, what is there to say anymore? It happened. Grief makes people do things they never would in their true right minds.”

Stiles looked down. “I - there is no excuse. Grief is not an excuse for what I did. I can’t explain my thought process at this point, but there is no excuse. I am sorry with every ounce of my being that I hurt you so badly. I’m grateful you survived. I hope you’re happy in your life. And I cannot imagine why you would come to me, even in the direst of circumstances, because you must look at me and see a monster.”

Derek shook his head. “I look at you and see Stiles. Stiles is a lot of different things. He’s smart as fuck, brave, exacting and calculating. He’s funny, he’s kind, he’s loyal and loving. Sometimes he fucks up and when he does, it’s a big deal. But his heart and soul are bigger than anything I’ve ever experienced, and I need Stiles’ massive brain and his skill set right now.”

A beat. “Please.”

Stiles listened to this, and then sighed, unclenching his fingers - his knuckles had been white, and the blood now rose to the surface as he flexed.

Clear brown eyes met Derek’s green ones.

“What do you need me to do?”

An hour later, the conference room table adjoining Stiles’ office was covered with a huge map, and a thick file of papers; police reports, letters, emails, scraps and bits of post it notes and even napkins.

“I did try and organize this whole mess,” said Derek. “But I don’t have your skills at that. And right now, all I have is a lot of information that seems connected.”

Stiles’ hair was standing on end where he’d run his fingers through it again, and again. “Okay, so run this by me will you? In chronological order, as much as you can.”

He was standing before the white board, marker in hand, and Derek smiled. “You have that whole Kelly Siegler “Cold Justice'' vibe going on.”

“I do? Thank you!” Stiles grinned. “She’s my fucking hero, no lie. I want to do a show with her.”

Derek laughed. “I can see that all too clearly. You can be the Snoop and Martha of crime and punishment. Okay, ready?”

He looked at the board- he knew the notes, while beside him, Stiles was trying to get past the mental image Derek had just painted.

God, he missed him. Missed this.

“All right. As you know from past experience, an acquaintance of ours was a born omega wolf. No pack, no familial knowledge to fall back on, bent on revenge. You remember him.”

He watched to see if Stiles would tighten up, pause, but he didn’t, just wrote the name “Ellis Miller” on the board in the center of the board in block letters.

“You also know he had peripheral ties to a pack related to my family; his grandmother, Helena, had borne her wolf husband three children, one being Miller’s mother. She in turn bore one son, Ellis. When she died in a raid on the pack, Helena took him in, along with another cousin, a human named Edward Hopper.”

“That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” said Stiles, drawing a quick family tree under Ellis’ name. “He disappeared and no one has been able to find him, which seems odd. On the other hand, Bartley was ready to forget any of this ever happened, so I’m not that surprised.”

“No, no one’s heard that name. Edward Hopper has vanished into the wind.

Derek tapped the papers. “A year and a half ago, one of the families that left Bartley after the mine explosion and moved to Montana was found butchered in their vacation cabin. Father, mother, thirteen year old son. Only the dog was spared, an Australian sheepdog, and it was his barking and wailing that drew the attention of hikers, who found the bodies and called police. It was investigated and chalked up to a …”

“Animal attack.” Stiles' voice was flat.

“You got it. Their family name is Houtz; an H.G Houtz, who was, as it turned out, the chief engineer of the Pond Creek Pocahontas Coal Company. He was the one who deemed the mine safe, even when the wolves amongst them had told him otherwise. He’s been dead for 23 years, but this was his grandson and his family that fell.

Stiles nodded. “And the case is closed as such?”

“Officially, yes.”

“And unofficially?”

“People talk.”

Derek moved on to the next. “14 months ago, a man who was hunting in the woods of Wisconsin with a friend was found strung up in a noose that had been rigged up between two trees. According to his friends, he was sure he saw a six point buck and had broken away from his group to scale a tree and hopefully net himself some venison. He was found hanging, neck broken, and underneath him was a branch with enough prongs to approximate antlers at close range. The branch appeared to be freshly cut, probably with a big hunting knife, the kind sold at any store like Bass or Cabela's. Difficult to trace, especially during hunting season.”

Stiles turned. “His name must be either Salvati, Stalling, Francis or Sturgis.”

“Ding ding ding! Sturgis is the one; you’re good at this game.” Derek reached for his water. “W.C Sturgis, a mine official, who was also told by townspeople that they’d heard a problem with the mine was imminent, and dismissed it as “coffee shop talk,” and never relayed the information any further.”

“Relation?” Stiles was writing busily.

“Distant cousin of Sturgis; people tended to die early of natural causes in that family, so whoever killed him was just going for the nearest relative.”

Stiles rolled his neck. “More?”

“Always is.”

For the next hour, Derek delineated the crimes that had come next, leading up to the last, two months ago, and Stiles was completely unsurprised to hear that the last victim’s last name was Francis - James Francis had been the president of the Pond Creek Pocahontas Coal Company, a name, he mused, that would never fly today.

“I need a smoke,” said Stiles, putting down his marker and looking at the board. “And more coffee. All the coffee. And fresh air.”

“Which you will then pollute.”

“I’ll breathe deep first. Come with me.”

Leigh was finishing up her last hour at work and looked up when the two men walked out of the office. “Ah, that “Hmm, this is interesting,” look,” she said. “Soon to be followed by the “I’m on the case, yo,” look, and in tandem, the “Where did my “insert expletive here” pack of Marlboro Reds go?” look.”

“Cheeky,” said Stiles, shaking his head while Derek snorted in amusement. “You young agents are all so insouciant.”

“Yes, because you’re such an old agent,” she smiled, and Stiles sighed. “I’m 30. That’s 60 in FBI years.”

“No, no. That’s 60 in lung health years,” she corrected. “As in your lungs look like a man of 60 with terrible health habits would look.”

She nodded, and Derek didn’t even bother to suppress a snort, while Stiles sighed. “Thank you for the PSA,” he said. “Duly noted.”

“I do what I can,” she said modestly, and the two of them left, Stiles still shaking his head. He had chosen Leigh personally for her wit and her ability to see through bullshit, never thinking those qualities might be used against him. How short-sighted of him.

Outside, he lit up, taking in a deep drag, that one motion betraying his own emotions brought to the surface.

Ellis was dead - of that he was sure - but his evil lived on. He berated himself for not going after Hopper right after the incident, but he’d been gutted and enraged, and by the time he could focus again, Hopper was gone and he didn’t have it in him to try. He’d rationalized his decision by appointing Hopper as a try-hard who had been a follower, not able to carry on any vendetta on his own.

Had he been wrong? Was this him, or yet another copy cat set of killings? And if this was him, well, Stiles had underestimated him, and that alone infuriated him.

Derek watched him, sipping the last of his now-cold Grande. “There’s more,” he said. “If you can handle it.”

Stiles’ head was tilted back, exhaling smoke, and the neck muscles tightened - Derek shouldn’t even have to ask, but here he was, concerned.

Stiles had liked it better when no one from his former life crossed into his present life, but that had been shot to hell almost four year ago now on a warm day in Bartley, West Virginia. And the fallout had been entirely his fault.

“Hit me,” he said calmly enough. “But not literally, please, cause you could wipe the floor with me, you wolfy bastard.”

Derek smiled a little. “I could. But no, I’m not gonna smack you one, deserving of it as you may be.” He rubbed his neck. “Okay, so a few weeks ago, there was a burglary in Beacon Hills. A house was broken into and at first, nothing of note seemed to be gone. Electronics, a nice watch, a stash of credit cards, none of them were taken. When the owner returned home, as a trained police officer, he noticed small things off kilter - a drawer not closed all the way, a door not shut tight, and became suspicious. He searched the house with his gun drawn, but the robber was gone.”

Stiles put out his cigarette, turned to face Derek. “Someone broke into an officer’s house? Are they fucking stupid?”

Derek shrugged. “The burglar was looking for something specific, as it turned out, and he found it. Whether or not he’s fucking stupid is still up in the air, but frankly? I’m thinking he’s a lot smarter than he looked. And let’s not forget that he, too, was trained as a police officer in Bartley.”

It took a second.

“Hopper broke into OUR house? Into Dad’s house?”

Derek nodded. “Your dad didn’t want to tell you until he figured out what happened, but when he called me and told me what was taken, I tied it together with all these bits and pieces I’d been collecting, and yeah. Pretty sure it was him, even if he was careless.”

Stiles had turned pale. “Dad’s all right?”

“John’s fine. He’s probably talked to you since it happened, he just didn’t want to add to your workload or make you freak out, like this. I told him that I’d bring all this to you and then have you call him once you had the whole picture.”

Stiles was literally vibrating with rage, and Derek reached out and wrapped his fingers around his forearm. “Stiles. John is fine, the house is fine, only a specific few things are missing.” He squeezed. “Your notebooks, Stiles. Remember those? You had four notebooks filled with crimes and all that had happened to us in Beacon Hills, complete with annotated pages. You’d written accounts, then notes, and what we should have done v. what we did do, and compared it to other crimes and how they’d been solved, mocking them. Your dad said you called them the …”

“...Scoff Books,” said Stiles slowly. “Because I’d read those accounts of other crimes and, yeah, scoff. Also, I liked the word. It’s very dismissive.”

“Yeah.” Derek paused. “He took those. He took those to study you, study us, figure us out. What better source than the actual source?”

Stiles was reeling. “How did he know about those? Only you and the pack knew!”

“You told him,” said Derek simply. “You told everyone. “Dateline” did a special on the BAU five years ago, remember? They interviewed you, your boss, Rory … and Keith Morrison asked you about your early interest in profiling, and you told him - and the world - that you kept detailed notes of cases, what should have been done, what you’d do, etc, You told him. I guess Hopper figured that they might still be in your childhood home. You even said they were in composition books.”

Stiles managed to make his feet move over to a bench and sat down, hard. “I am such a fucking idiot,” he whispered. “I gave him the fucking keys to my brain.”

“You did,” agreed Derek, sitting down. “And I’m really shocked that Ellis didn’t get to those first. I suspect we - you - derailed him by finding out his identity and he had to change tactics. I have no doubt that Ellis brainstormed with Hopper and that this, all this, is just to fulfill Ellis’ vision.

Stiles’ face was in his hands. “You’re sure Dad’s all right?”

“I would have called you immediately if he wasn’t, Stiles. I’m not a fucking monster.”

“No, that’s me. I am one and I make ones in my spare time.”

Stiles’ knuckles were white again, and Derek sat on his heels in front of him and reached for both hands, wrapping his hands around them. “Stiles. You’re not a monster. You’ve made mistakes, but those are in the past and you’re dealing with them.”

It had taken him a long time to be able to say those words and mean them. He had been angry, hurt and depressed over those events in El Triunfo for a long time, and it had taken years to be at this point, right at this moment. “Ellis - and his acolyte, Hopper - were obsessed with you, are still obsessed with you. And the best way for him to make sure you don’t stop him too is to beat you at your own game.”

He took a breath. “We need to find him. The pack knows about him, your Dad knows, now you know. This guy is ramping up, maybe losing his mind, and we need to bring him down and make very, very sure there are no other random Halestroms with thoughts of vengeance. Alright? We need to. I need you to help me. I need … I need you, Stiles.”

Those words were like blows to the brain, and Stiles raised his eyes. “All I ever really wanted was to hear you say that, cause you never needed me. Ever.”

“Stiles.” Derek looked down after meeting his eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure when the right time to talk about our history is; I know it will have to be someday, and sooner rather than later, but listen to me now. I have needed you more times than I could count. I’m pretty sure I’d be dead without you - and no, fuck the last time, I’m not talking about that cause I still don’t think I can. But in the years before, your brains and your courage saved us all. So yes, I do need you. I did then, I do now. Your rapid fire mouth, elastic brain, face full of curly fries, your duct taped Jeep, your passion, your friendship. We all needed you, and me, maybe most of all.”

Stiles was holding his breath, then tried to speak, but couldn't. He squeezed his eyes shut tight.

“Help me, Obi Wan Stilinski. You’re my only hope.”

At that, Stiles blinked, and a bark of laughter escaped him, cause who the fuck would ever imagine that Sweet-and-Sour Wolf could quote Star Wars … and get it right?

“Princess, you have a pituitary problem,” he managed. “Is there no such thing as space electrolysis?”

Derek snorted, then laughed too, sitting back on his heels and breathing a little better due to the weight of emotion being lifted - a little. “I’ve missed my last six appointments,” he admitted, then smiled. “So. The good thing is that you, in all your wisdom, actually scanned those notebooks onto an old laptop of yours, and before your dad recycled it, he pulled out the hard drive. I got it from him. Stuck it in a unit and downloaded it onto a stick, so we have what he has, I hope. Or at least enough to jog your memory.”

Derek took a breath. “He has your notes and might think he understands your thought process, but he doesn’t know you now. He doesn’t know how your mind has grown and changed. He knows nothing of the past three years cause you have kept the lowest of low profiles. So right now, he thinks he’s all that - the Enhanced Ellis. But we, you and I, know that he’s not who he thinks he is.”

Another breath. “Peter has the Halestrom family tree; he reached out to their alpha and they’ve communicated electronically. The wolves that know about Ellis and what he did, don’t agree with him. They’re more evolved emotionally and they have a strong pack there in Montana, so find killing as a revenge for an 81 year old crime, and not even killing those responsible, but their descendants, to be dishonorable. So Hopper has no help there either. They don’t want to get involved, but they did give Peter their familial information after he swore that no one but himself, me, and you would see it. Maybe Scott, as the Alpha, but they prefer not, and I’d rather keep them out of it if I can.”

“Yes, please. They went through enough with this already. This is you, me, and Peter. I uhm, don’t suppose he’s speaking to me ever again?”

“That I can’t tell you,” admitted Derek. “He doesn’t want to talk about that time and I don’t want to make him.”

“Fair enough,” nodded Stiles, then rubbed his eyes. “Okay, I need another smoke and to get my shit together.”

“You do that. Both of those things.”

Derek stood up and moved away from Stiles, noting how the blondish tips of his hair caught the sun, and laughed to himself. Stiles raised a brow. “What?”

“You look like the fifth member of N’Sync,” he said. “Blond tips and all.”

“Fuck you,” said Stiles, lighting up. “It’s just the remnants of one of my many reinvention attempts, so lay off. It was either this or all black Goth, very Robert Smith or Billie Joe Armstrong.”

“Please no,” said Derek. “Black hair, nails and clothing would be too reminiscent of the kids at the EG high school. Did you know goth was back?”

“I didn’t know it had ever left,” admitted Stiles. “And EG … Elk Grove? That’s your new home?”

“Work and residence, yeah. I sold the loft, bought a little house in the Grove and I’ve been happily solving robberies, being a safety officer at the elementary school and busting a lot of clown asses for drugs. Good times.”

“Wow, go you,” said Stiles. “I bet Dad misses you in Beacon Hills though.”

“He says he does, and I believe him, but he has a good crew and he has the pack, so BH is pretty well protected, overall.”

Stiles blew out a breath and rubbed his neck. “I talk to Scott once in a while, but I think that like Peter, his feelings for me were kind of blown to shit after … yeah. He says I’m still pack, he still loves me and all, but forgiving is hard. I get that.”

He looked at his shoes. “I’m never gonna forgive myself, so I understand.”

Derek felt uncomfortable, but he had known he would. “I forgive you,” he said slowly. “I didn’t think I ever would, but seeing you now … I do. Not cause I pity you or any bullshit like that, but I had to try, so I could keep on, you know? And when I saw your face today, I did.”

He swallowed. “For what that’s worth.”

Stiles was blinking hard, throat tight. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Derek watched him, sighed inwardly and broke down, moving to tug Stiles away from the wall, and wrap his arms around him, pulling him in. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know what he could say, and after a moment, Stiles tossed away his cigarette and slid his arms around Derek, holding him tight.

No one was around to see him cry, so he did, shoulders heaving, face buried in Derek’s shoulder, feeling those strong arms tighten around him, supporting him. “I’m so sorry,” he managed, voice muffled. “Thank God you lived, Derek. I am … I was so awful, I lied, and … if I lost you forever I’d …”

He didn’t finish, overcome, and Derek closed his eyes. “It’s over now,” he said into his ear. “We’re here, alive, and we have work to do to finally close this fucking chapter.”

Stiles drew back a little, looked at him, eyes red. “We’ll get him. I promise.”

“I know,” replied Derek. “That’s why I came here, cause we have to. We have to end this.”

Stiles nodded.”Okay.”

“Okay.”

Derek finally let go. “Let’s get all that stuff back together and locked up in your office.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna take screenshots of the board to take home, but it’s safest here. Uh … where are you staying?”

Derek rubbed his neck. “I have a hotel room.”

“You could stay with me,” Stiles offered. “I have a townhouse I bought and it has a guest bedroom, a T1 line, and a garden tub. You could soak.”

“A T1 line AND a big tub?” Derek laughed a little, then looked at him seriously. “Is that a good idea?”

“No, probably not, but maybe you’d do it anyway. We should stick together now, till this is over and if you never wanna see me again after this, then you don’t have to.”

Stiles rubbed his eyes. “I won’t bug you or anything, you’d have space and it’s an incredibly secure building.I made damn sure of that when I bought the place.”

Derek considered a moment; this was a bad idea, he was sure. He had already held a broken man in his arms after a scant few hours together and had struggled with his emotions as well. Being in a personal setting like a home was like flashing a red DANGER sign in front of his eyes.

“Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll cancel the reservation, pay the fee and stay with you. For safety.”

“For safety,” echoed Stiles, and blew out a breath, shaking his shoulders out. “Let’s go pack up.”

They tossed their cups and Stiles’ cigarette butts and went back upstairs, both needing a moment to wash hands, splash faces and pull themselves together; Stiles used his personal bathroom, Derek took the deserted hallway restroom. Both of them looked at themselves and wondered what the actual fuck they were doing.

Neither knew.

Stiles’ townhouse was in a suburb, far from his previous home, yet still close enough to speed to work if he had to. He had purposely picked a place and a vibe that had no remnants of his former life. It was minimally furnished, mostly black and white furniture, with little of the personality of his former abode. There were a few pictures on the wall; he and Scott on the bench in Beacon Hills, first year, looking impossibly young, a newspaper shot of his first goal, a picture of the Jeep, and one of the pack, sans Derek, who had already left for parts unknown with Braeden at that time. His parents' wedding photo. A huge wall mounted TV, gaming consoles, an open kitchen which looked oddly unused, half bath, washer and dryer.

Stiles showed Derek his room up a short flight of stairs; a single bed, nightstand, dresser, empty closet. “It’s a little austere,” said Stiles, rubbing his neck. “I haven’t put a lot of myself into this place. Any place. My office is down the hall on the left with a full bath next door - complete with big tub - and I have the bedroom on the other side. I kind of live in my office, no lie.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Derek, setting down his suitcase. “You are sure this is okay?”

“Of course. It’s fine, there’s no trace of … of before-me, so it should be fine. But feel free to spread out, hang stuff up, make yourself at home as it were. I’m gonna change, and if you wanna take a shower or whatever, towels and everything are in the bathroom, take whatever you need.”

He patted his shoulder lightly and went into his bedroom, closing the door.

Derek was in his home. His cold, heartless home, cause his heart had been destroyed in Mexico and sure, he’d rebuilt his mind from scratch - mostly - but his heart was still in ruins like a Mayan temple. There had been no point in doing the work on that, and even his therapist had stopped bothering him about it. Stiles knew he’d never be able to love anyone again, and he also knew no one would love him. He’d destroyed the only two people he’d ever been able to truly love with his whole heart (sorry, Lyd) and one was dead, and one was lost to him.

He’d been a fool to think his life would turn out otherwise.

He changed into t-shirt and joggers, heard the shower running, and slowly made his way back downstairs, mixing a gin and tonic, and taking that and his pack of cigarettes out onto his patio; his nearest neighbor was a SEAL and rarely home, so no one bothered him about his filthy habits or being up all night.

He laid on a lounge and breathed like he’d been taught; deep breaths, trying to clear his head and focus. Focus on being hunted. Focus on this nightmare still not being over. Focus on Derek forgiving him. Focus on his family, blood and chosen, being in the sights of a killer.

Breathe, Mieczysław, breathe.

He heard Derek’s feet in the kitchen, and called out. “I host an open bar, pick your poison.”

Ice cubes clinked and moments later, a damp Derek joined him on the other lounge chair. “Nice,” he said. “Again, minimalist, but you do have a grill, so there is hope.”

He, himself, had the GrillMaster 6000, which had a griddle, burners and a sweet roasting rack, cause he liked meat, as did the pack. They also liked his fire pit and screened back deck.

“Some hope. I make hotdogs if I can’t be bothered for anything else. I’m supposed to track what I eat for the doc, you know? She thinks I starve myself.”

“Do you?”

“Not intentionally, but eating doesn’t bring any joy, so I eat what I have to to not pass out and that’s about it.”

Stiles opened his eyes, glanced over. “G&T, good man. Tanqueray is a gift from the Gods.”

“It is, even without any aconite for spice,” agreed Derek, then licked his lips. “Stiles, I’m gonna ask a really loaded, stupid question, and if you could try and answer without a shit ton of sarcasm, that would be welcome. All right?”

“Wow, you don’t ask for much,” muttered Stiles. “What then? I’ll do my best.”

Derek thought about how to phrase his question. “Have you deliberately done just enough to not die yourself in the past three years? I mean … you look thin. Thinner than usual, cause you’ve never been a hefty guy. You’re beyond pale. Your space is great, but very bare, and you’re a guy who likes stuff, likes mementos, who is, well, warm. Minimalism is fine, I can’t say anything cause I’m not a big “things” guy either, but I … this all doesn’t feel like you, Stiles.”

He trailed off, sure he had just made everything else worse; he had no idea.

There was a period of silence before Stiles spoke. “What else could I do, Derek? I’ve ruined my life. I caused a death and a near death, both irrevocably my fault. I shouldn’t be here, right? I shouldn’t. I hold no value. The BAU regards me warily between those who know of my crimes, and many more who suspect - I have my job based on past laurels and vague hope I might someday be useful again. Rory won’t work with me anymore. I can’t blame him and I wasn’t upset when he told me he just couldn’t after what I did. My best friend and my so-called pack stay away, mostly, as they should.” He looked straight ahead. “I am here, solely, for my dad. So he wouldn’t lose me too. That’s all. So if Hopper kills me, if he succeeds, it will be justice. For you. For her. For the pack. I just plan on taking him with me when I go.”

He took a sip of his drink. “I was thinking out here - you’ve given me a gift, Derek. You’ve given me a way out that will satisfy everyone. It will be a victory for the FBI, a fitting end for a problematic hero. It will be a relief for Scott, who will no longer have to pretend to care for my welfare. For Peter, it will be an eye for an eye. For her,” (He never spoke her name), "it will even the scales, and for you … you’ll be free from any lingering emotions. You will never have to see, hear, smell or sense me again. My messy feelings about you will be gone along with my body and soul. So thank you, because once more, you’ll save me - for the last time.”

Stiles closed his eyes again, while Derek, stunned, gripped his glass so hard that he had to force himself to set it down before he shattered it in his palm.

“What about John, then?” He forced his voice to an even tone. “You just said you were here for him alone.”

“I am. I have been. I didn’t shoot, OD or hang myself because I didn’t want him to deal with his only child’s suicide. I didn’t want that guilt hanging over him, the whispers, the speculation everywhere he went. It’s bad enough to imagine what might have traveled to his office despite everything done to keep El Triunfo quiet. But if I die in the line of duty? There’s no shame in that. And the result is the same - freedom from the troublesome son who he’s never really understood because that son is … he’s just wrong, you know? Wrong. When my mom died, he lost the wrong person. This is the least I can do for him.”

Derek was shaking; he clamped his hands together, feeling his fangs appear, his face change, claws lengthen as his emotions spurred his shift. He spat out the words.

“You fucking … “

His growl threatened to escalate to howl status, as Stiles sat up, his drink skidding across the iron table, caught at the last moment by a furred paw. His eyes were huge as he took Derek in.

“... coward,” Derek spat. “Coward, you don’t get to die cause you fucked up. That’s not how life works, it’s not how family, how pack works! You lived. You LIVED. There’s a reason for that! Because you were meant to be, you were meant to be STILES, every cell of you! And your dad loves you. Get that? He LOVES YOU. You’re his world, and losing you would wreck him. You don’t care about that, or about Scott, who still is your best friend, who worries about you, who wants more than anything for you two to be meshed again? For Malia and Lydia, who still love you, will always love you? For Liam who worshiped you, you, the smartest and bravest human he knows?”

His voice rose. “For Peter, who wants to beat the shit out of you, then hug you so hard your bones crack. And for me! ME, Stiles! Who loves you! Who has always loved you! If that means nothing …”

The shift took over, his anger cresting into a howl he couldn’t stop, a howl that turned blood cold.

The howl of a wolf in pain.

Stiles was shocked, shrinking back, staring at the huge black wolf with the electric blue eyes, pawing the ground, shaking all over. “Derek …”

The wolf stared at him, and Stiles didn’t even realize tears were coursing down his face till salt dripped onto his lap, and his eyes flooded till he couldn’t see.

He curled into a ball and cried, his heart - what was left of it - breaking. How could any of this be right, or true? After everything, everything? All he wanted to do was to not exist anymore, so how could anyone else feel differently?

Derek paced the large backyard, listening to the sobs till he could shift back, the shift coming slowly, painfully, till he was more or less human again, though his clothes were a bit of a loss; partially ripped and stretched out.

He went inside to take another breath and another, and finally, grab tissues. He sat down on the end of the lounge and pried Stiles’ hands from his face; his puffy, red, tear streaked face, and dabbed his cheeks with a surprisingly soft touch, then cupped his neck, pulling the throbbing headache into himself and away.

He gave Stiles water. “Drink up,” he said softly. “You’re dehydrated.”

Stiles fingers were trembling and Derek wound up holding the bottle for him, like he would for a small child. He watched Stiles’ throat move, the Adam’s apple bobbing and had to close his own eyes for a moment, willing memories away.

When Stiles had drained half the water, Derek took it away and sat back, taking a breath. “What do you have for food? I need to grill.”

“You need to grill?” Stiles’ voice was raspy and hoarse; he’d cried hard, and long, and loudly.

“It’s a wolf thing. Find meat, stick it with a fork, eat it. I’m cooking it over fire as a courtesy to you puny humans.”

Stiles snorted, wincing; he felt like he’d been put through a wood chipper - obviously a defective one since he seemed to not be missing parts - and rubbed his aching eyes. “Check the freezer, I have no idea.”

Hard hands tugged him up. “Go wash your face and take some Excedrin - I know you have at least eight bottles of it around - and finish your water. I’ll make you another drink and some food. Alright?”

Stiles managed to nod. “Okay.”

“Go, then.” Derek didn’t know how to follow up his explosion, so he didn’t even try, just shooed Stiles into the house and watched him trudge up the stairs.

Jesus, he had let loose. And shifted. And howled, a painful, gut wrenching howl in a fucking residential neighborhood. Thank God for the high fence and the layout of the yard - a large black wolf would be just a little bit noticeable to any neighbors, not to mention terrifying.

Nothing he’d said had been untrue though, not a single word - not even the last, horribly painful ones had been a lie. He had never planned to say them, and he was sure Stiles had never wanted to hear it, but it was still true.

He went through the freezer, finding chicken and some sausages; he could work with that. He set them to the defrost setting in the microwave, then dug around in the fridge. There were vegetables that were reasonably fresh, and he chopped them and whipped up a quick marinade, mixing them and letting them sit.

He could hear splashing and moving around - it didn’t matter where Stiles was, it felt like he was next to him.

Charcoal grills were a pain in the ass, but he got it going, and yes, mixed them both fresh drinks, then sat down to wait for the grill - he’d worked mechanically, using the familiar motions to soothe him. He’d found he loved cooking, and often the Elk Grove fire and police hosted potlucks and barbecues for the community, and Derek was becoming known for his steaks and side dishes, which always went fast, and resulted in him being pestered for recipes.

God, if his family could see him now; Cora had visited last year and been in shock for days over sociable, friendly Derek, and had met a firefighter from Sacramento, who she was now seriously dating. Derek had introduced them, and would now never hear the end of it.

He looked up when Stiles appeared, looking better in a fresh t-shirt.

“Ah, Ichigo,” he said, referring to the t-shirt. “I can’t believe it’s not Orihime on your chest.”

“I can’t believe you know “Bleach,” replied Stiles, honestly shocked. “And if I had Orihime’s chest on my chest, I’d fall on my face. I’m more of a Uryu sort of guy.”

“Shocker, right there. I prefer Yoruichi or Hitsugaya,” said Derek and Stiles just stared at him.

“I’m still not over the bubble bath and sitcom Derek, and now you’re throwing Anime! Derek at me. Give a poor nerdy boy a break, will you?”

“Nope, gotta keep you on your toes. We’re having sausage, chicken, and a summer vegetable medley. I wish I could grill some corn, but your fridge needs restocking in a big way.”

Derek sat back; he could tell the charcoal needed another ten minutes before he could put the food on. He turned his glass in his hands. “About what I said? I’m not sorry I said it. I know you have your feelings about all that’s happened and you’re more than entitled to them, but you’re seeing things in a far different light than the people who care about you do.”

“I guess so,” replied Stiles. “That was quite a rant.”

“And here you are thinking you’re the only one who gets to do that.”

“How wrong I was.”

“It happens.” Derek shrugged, relieved that Stiles didn’t seem to want to delve into the heart of the situation, at least not right now, and that was more than fine with Derek. “Even the great Stiles Stilinski can occasionally be less than objective.”

“Don’t tell my new boss that - he thinks I’m a freak as it is. He’s not wrong, but I try to not give him more to work with than I have to.”

Ice clinked as he drank, and Derek looked over at him. “Have you been involved in many cases lately?”

Stiles shrugged. “More of a consultant role, mostly. I do a lot of training, and I’m in contact with a few leads on some investigations in Chicago and Atlanta - none related to Hopper though, that already went through the huge, ancient IBM processor I call my brain.”

“Figured it had, and yeah, I know there’s a serial in Atlanta, and a nascent serial in Chicago. Hard to tell there - the sheer numbers of murders there boggles my mind.”

“People are angry,” said Stiles. “And they’re getting worse and worse at handling it, so the violence grows.The drug epidemic doesn’t help; so many of these killings are absolutely senseless, random incidents. At least Hopper is on a mission,” he added. “Which makes it a little easier to approach.”

“And we’ve met him, so those impressions help as well,” mused Derek. “I remember this sullen, angry-looking guy who tried really hard to look like a tough guy, and failed miserably.”

Stiles nodded. “He had the chip on his shoulder that the whole department sported, and I just dismissed him as a wannabe. My mistake. I’ve been thinking about him and his actions since you showed me your evidence, and a few things are clicking; things that seemed off are falling into place. Profiling is a puzzle, and you usually only have the corners - you gave me the whole sky.”

“That’s me, Sky Guy,” agreed Derek, and got up to get the meat to start cooking.

Stiles lit a cigarette, the hit of nicotine calming in its own carcinogenic way, and thought. Derek was looking out at the yard, thinking that Stiles had room for a good-sized raised vegetable bed, and that a swatch of, say, peonies around a couple of ornamental rocks would be a nice touch. Then he blinked and realized he had become a suburban guy. Jesus God.

He felt Stiles’ eyes on him, and sighed. “I’m not mentally landscaping your yard, promise,” he said, and was rewarded by an actual laugh. “Well, someone should, cause I don’t seem to be doing it. No good reason either, not like I don’t have time and some funds available.”

Derek flipped the chicken and sausages onto the hot coal bed and could already smell how good it was going to be - his stomach rumbled.

“The call of the wolf isn’t a howl, it’s a rumble,” said Stiles, getting up and walking over, switching his cigarette to the hand furthest from Derek. “Who knew?”

“Well, now you do,” offered Derek. “So how long have you been back on the cancer sticks?”

“Pretty much since I was dragged incoherent and screaming from the jungle,” he replied after a moment. “I think I bummed one from the paramedics, actually, and then after that, it was on. I was asked, or told, rather, to reduce my two-pack a day habit to one, or half of one, or preferably none by the company doc last year, who was dismayed by my stress and lung function tests. I would have ignored him still, but Leigh got the results, opened them by “mistake.”

Here, Stiles made actual air quotes. “And then proceeded to kick me eight new assholes. She was super pissed, and I got a lecture, and then “You’re one of my favorite people Boss, so don’t hurry along your own demise.” Now, little did she know, but I hate it when girls cry, and she did, and since then, I’m at like around four to eight a day. Not great, but better than 40.”

“Well damn, good for her for finding your weak spot and exploiting it like a true Fed,” replied Derek, then smiled a little. “I’m glad you’re listening to her. I don’t feel like I can lecture you on vices, but I’m not opposed to others doing so.”

“Maybe, but other than my dad, and possibly but not really Scotty, you have more authority to rag on me than anyone else.” Stiles looked down for a moment. “And there’s lots to complain about, so you’ll be busy.”

Derek chuckled, then rotated his shoulders. “Scoff Books,” he said and shook his head. “How very, very Stiles as a Young Man that title is.”

“I know, right?” Stiles moved away to take a last drag and stub out the butt, then moved back to where he’d been with his drink. “I just would write it all out and then go through it with the red pen and be like “Idiots, idiots, morons!” And then I’d make detailed notes that some psychopath now has. Irony, Alanis, am I right?”

“I’m not sure Hopper is a psychopath. Sociopath, maybe, cause he tried to fit in; remember Jenny’s funeral?”

Here, his expression darkened because he remembered Jenny Prentiss well, and knew Stiles did too. “You know, there’s a million things I wish had been different about this case, but the biggest one is …”

“...that we saved Jenny,” Stiles’ voice was flat. “I wish we had, too. I mean, obviously lots of other bad things happened that spurred more and more bad, but Jenny, in all of this. She was a lady who’d lived hard, played hard and deserved to go in her own time. We sped up that time.”

“No, Ellis sped up that time,” said Derek firmly. “We should have known he was that close, and we should have asked her more emphatically to go with us, but she wouldn’t have. You and I both know this.”

“Hm,” said Stiles, his most noncommittal sound. “You know, I approached that like any other fucking case that I’ve solved, and I expected this would be just like them, and instead, it turned into the Apocalypse.”

He paused, took a breath. “No. *I* turned it into a shit show. Me and just me. Had I done everything better, none of this would have happened. You’d still be in BH, or maybe you’d have moved on cause you found a nice girl or boy wolf and settled down and had cute little cubs. And I’d be … I don’t know. Maybe with her. Maybe alone. But not a fucking shell of myself, not having made the people I love hate and fear me, and not made you … well.”

“Dead. You can say dead. I had to learn to, you do too.” Derek flipped the food again, and had to take a breath, then another. “You tried to trade my life for another. Actually, you succeeded, cause I would have died without Scott and Peter.”

“Yeah.”

He looked at Derek’s profile. “I always loved you too,” he said, voice soft, shaky.”And you have always deserved way more than I could ever be. You were saved because that was your fate. But it’s not a fate you should have had to face. I am forever sorry, Derek. Sorry is the weakest word, I know, but it’s all I have. I am. I was selfish and afraid and detached and obsessed and awful. I know you wouldn’t be here if this case wouldn’t possibly touch those we love. You’d have left me here to rot, and you would have been right to. So before I kill Edward Hopper, I will thank him for letting me see you one more time and tell you that I was beyond wrong and that I hope you know that I do love you, Derek Hale, my Sourwolf.”

Derek’s throat felt tight, like it was closing up, and his eyes blurred. “Thank you,” he whispered, and Stiles, thank God, stepped away to get plates and cutlery - Derek couldn’t have taken hearing another word.

He did know. He had always known, deep down, which is why all the events since Bartley - oh fuck it; since Mexico and the Berserkers - had hurt the way it did. Hurt on another level. If Stiles had just been an asshole, if he’d just been selfish and self-centered and hadn’t realized what he was doing there in El Triunfo, that would have been terrible enough. But that he’d done it to someone he loved, who he had to know loved him too?

That was what he couldn’t wrap his head around. That is what Peter couldn’t forgive, what Scott was struggling so hard with - that Stiles had chosen to do that to him. How could you say you loved someone and then attempt to swap out their life for another?

He didn’t understand, and he didn’t think Stiles could, either.

Plates and silverware clattered. “I thought after dinner, I could hook up my laptop to the TV and look over the Scoff Books; it’s been a while and while I remember a lot of it, it’s a good idea to see exactly what Hopper is concentrating on. I still can’t believe I revealed that little tidbit - on Dateline, of all places. It’s gotta be Keith Morrison’s voice, man. There’s something about him that makes you want to tell him everything.”

Stiles was setting the table. “He has this way of saying “Ignore the cameras, let’s have coffee,” and you don’t think you can, and then you do, and before you know it; you’re telling him about your first middle school stiffie.”

Despite Derek’s train of thought, he had to laugh. “I don’t think everyone does that, Stiles.”

“I dunno man, he has a way,” insisted Stiles, then came back over. “Smells amazing. I’m actually hungry for the first time in a long time.”

“Good, cause you need to eat and replenish your strength,” said Derek. “Also, less coffee, more water. Hydration is very important.”

“Yes, Captain Hale, it is. Me and Poland Spring 1 liter will be best pals from here on out.” Stiles saluted and sat down as Derek dished up food. He had had some bakery bread that was still fresh and brought that out, and butter, and they had themselves a pretty fine meal. Stiles had seconds, and part of a third, and Derek ate the rest - shifting took a lot out of him.

After dinner and Stiles’ obligatory cigarette, they sat down on the couch in front of the giant TV, blinds drawn, a/c on low so no windows were open. They had beers and water - yes, water - and Stiles brought up the files, having to smile a little at the file names. What an annoying child he’d been. Now a pathetic adult, but annoying kid.

The entries read like stories - the notes were linear, but the sidebar was pure Stiles, and more than once he groaned, and Derek, who had not read these before, tried, and failed to not laugh. The notes on him, however, were the best, in his humble opinion.

That creepy guy in the woods is Derek Hale. Who the fuck looks like that? Who? All he does is lurk and scowl and he’s still the hottest fucking guy I’ve ever seen.

Today Sourwolf wanted me to cut off his arm. Cut. it. Off. These werewolves are psychotic. And violent. He slammed my head against the steering wheel once, and instead of being mad, I kind of wanted him to smack me around more. Maybe one of us could be naked. I vote him.

Derek’s brows shot up as he remembered that incident, and Stiles’ skin was flushed a very bright pink..

Peter Hale scares the shit out of me. He looks like your basic hottie now that he’s regenerated and stuff, but he has a cruel streak that Derek doesn’t have. I mean, Derek is pissy and stomps around like a rhino, but you never feel like he’s gonna claw your heart out if you don’t have salami in your fridge. Knowing Peter, it would have to be prosciutto, that fancy bastard.

Derek drove up to the school with Erica Reyes today and she looked like Sandy from Grease, and he was Danny. I kind of hate them both right now, but I hate him more cause he shouldn’t be looking at her like that. He should be looking at ME like that. With that smile. Like he’d rip your throat out and you’d like it.

That asshole.

All the crimes, real or imagined were documented, along with who could do what, who was scary, who was evil - the section on Gerard Argent’s violent abduction made Derek actually growl, cause he despised him, and his demise had been the best thing about the ending of hostilities in Beacon Hills, second only to Kate’s. Stiles had been meticulous in his documentation, including his injuries, and Derek leaned over and grabbed Stiles’ hand, looking at the fingers Argent had mangled. Stiles let him, understanding, kept his eyes down.

Werewolves are heavy and not buoyant at all. Like, at all. All that muscle nearly took me down with him in that pool. I avoid swimming in the gym pool for a reason, yo. And he’s so pissy about it. I’m saving his wolfy life and he’s being a jerk. But not as big of a jerk as Jackson, which doesn’t surprise me. No one is a bigger dick than him. I’m glad he has scales. Try gelling those, ya putz.

I told Derek today that even he couldn’t punch through an iron door with sufficient force to damage it, and he rolled his eyes and me, and tilted his head. I love it when he does that, like I’m too stupid to live. I love it cause I’m usually right and he is wrong, wrong, wrong, but this time? I was wrong. He nearly took my arm off with the punch. And then he just smiled at me.

I hate him. I mean it, I do.

Except I don’t.. Ugh.

When Stiles looked over, Derek looked as amused as he had that moment, and Stiles wanted to smack him, hard.

He rubbed his face, got up to go smoke out the window at the back of the house to calm down.
The time as the Nogitsune was sparsely documented, which was not surprising, and actually, worked to their advantage. If there was an account of it, it was not in the Scoff Book, which was a relief. Any information Hopper didn’t have was a bonus. It hurt Derek to remember that period, and how tormented Stiles had been. The Nogitsune had found a space to crawl into and had made its home there. Void Stiles.

Going through the Scoff Books took a while, and Derek knew he’d have to run after this; shift and run into the night, till his lungs gave out and he had to lay in wet grass and pant his way back into reality. Some of the accounts actually hurt to read, but none more than the Berserker incident in Mexico.

An entire country he never wanted to step foot in again.

Derek made me leave him outside the caves; he’s hurt, he’s bleeding, maybe bleeding out, and he makes us go in after Scott. Made me go. I had to, it’s SCOTT but … I think my heart broke. My chest felt tight, I felt like my bones would explode out of my skin, and his eyes were on me. All I could think is what if he died? Where would I be without Derek? What if he never knows how much I love him?

I hate this. I want to be just a normal, nerdy kid who doesn’t know shit about wolves or were creatures or demons or vampires or whatever the fuck. I want to just play video games and spy on the police scanner and fuck off in class. I don’t want to always be on the edge of death. I can’t fucking stand this. I want to go home.

Derek swallowed hard; he too wished Stiles had never had to go through all this. He remembered every single second of that night, every moment Stiles was detailing, his fury at Kate, the moment he’d transformed. And he remembered Stiles’ huge brown eyes meeting his electric blue eyes and understanding everything in a way no one else ever had.

And then Derek had run away.

We’re home. Scott is okay. We’re all okay, as much as we can be, I guess.

Derek shifted into full wolf. We came out, he was gone, I was sure he’d died, but there was no body and that fucking bitch Kate was there with her superior smile and I just wanted lightning to strike her. I wanted to rip her in half for what she’s done. But I couldn’t do anything. I’m just a human. I’m weak.

Why am I so goddamned weak?

But he’s beautiful. So beautiful, and when he leaped at Kate, I just wanted him to kill her. Kill her and erase her from history. But he didn’t, because he’s Derek, and Derek is better than that. Better than her. More human than she will ever be.

And now he’s gone. He left with Braeden, left me alone, left me with his memories and how he looked at me like he wanted me to stay with him, and now all I can do is go on without Derek. And he still doesn’t know. He’s never gonna know.

The Scoff Books ended with the Ghost Riders, which made sense - he hadn’t technically existed during that time, but the information the books included was more than enough, more than ample to tell anyone about them, the pack. About Stiles.

Stiles closed the screen, and then leaned back and rubbed his eyes - he didn’t know what to say. There was their history in words, some scrawled, some printed, some illegible, some water stained, or grease stained - onion rings, maybe - but all there.

Derek looked over at Stiles, and rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles. “Are you all right?”

“Nope. Not even a little.”

Derek sighed. “Me either. I think I might shift and go run, unless you want me to stay here with you?”

Stiles took his hands away from his face with effort. “No, you go run. You go out and get bad with your wolfy self. Now that I have no secrets, I need to put on 14 layers of clothes to cover my emotional nudity.”

The image made Derek laugh. “I feel you, though my clothes will actually be set aside for my process. Well, what’s left of them.” He looked down and Stiles eyed him. “I have some stuff if you need a fast change. I didn’t get rid of my clothes from before when I was 25 pounds heavier and we’re more or less the same height now. They don’t even smell of smoke, since I’ve never smoked indoors, cause gross.”

“I have to concur that smoking indoors is gross,” said Derek. “I will spare any further lectures since you already hear it at work, from your father and probably from others in the past.”

He stopped, cause yes, Stiles HAD heard it in the past from the person who he’d lost. Nice going, Hale.

“Indeed I have.” Stiles let that slide. “I can’t decide now though if I should indulge to my heart’s content now that I figure my days are for sure numbered, or if I should live my last few weeks as a reformed soul. I’ll have a smoke and think about it.”

Derek looked at him. “Your days aren’t numbered; Hopper’s are. And we will take him down and we will send him to hell where he and Ellis can reunite and become Satan’s right hand men.”

“You mean Crowley’s right hand men. Oh wait, that’s Sam and Dean.”

“And occasionally his lovely mum Rowena, possibly Castiel in a pinch.” Derek nodded and Stiles groaned. “Why do you know Supernatural now? Is it not enough that you’re fit as hell, can cook, are like super cop, AND you now have cultural points of reference? Are you trying to kill me?”

Derek smirked. “Let me reply to your question with the smug, wolfy smile that looks like I’m about to rip out your throat with my teeth, and I’ll leave you with that image.”

“Fuck you, Derek. Seriously, fuck you.”

Derek laughed and went to the door. “Lock behind me, puny human.”

Before Stiles could think of a suitable rejoinder, Derek was out, and he clicked the tumblers of the locks behind him; it wasn’t like that bastard wouldn’t wind up on his roof, tapping on his window like a vampire anyway.

He had every intention to go smoke, but instead, found himself sitting on the floor, looking at the now blank screen in front of him, where just minutes earlier, his entire emotional life - well his teenage life - had been displayed for Derek to read. And not just Derek - Hopper too. Now they both knew the origins and depths of his emotions and both could hurt him, and badly.

Only Derek had the right to do that, and he could, if he wanted to. Stiles could say nothing, do nothing, cause nothing Derek could do to him would be worse than what he had already done to him, to himself, to his life.

He stared ahead at nothing. If he had worked harder at loving Lydia, if he had been the boyfriend she needed and deserved after all that time, after those years of longing, where might he be now? If he’d never met her - the name he still couldn’t say aloud - if she hadn’t loved him, if she hadn’t been the tour leader that day, would she still be alive and well, and slaying cyber criminals with a single keystroke? What if he’d never let Derek leave Beacon Hills, stopped him from going with Braeden, told him to not leave him, that he loved him?

What if, what if, what if.

He turned out all but one light and leaned his head back, using the remote to cue up his iTunes, listening to it boom out of his speakers. Imagine Dragons was telling him to do whatever it took, and he knew he had to, whatever that was.

Hypocritical, egotistical
Don't wanna be the parenthetical, hypothetical
Working onto something that I'm proud of, out of the box
An epoxy to the world and the vision we've lost
I'm an apostrophe
I'm just a symbol to remind you that there's more to see
I'm just a product of the system, a catastrophe
And yet a masterpiece, and yet I'm half-diseased
And when I am deceased
At least I go down to the grave and die happily
Leave the body and my soul to be a part of thee
I do what it takes.

He breathed.

When Derek returned, he found a darkened house, save a small bit of light and his heart thudded when he saw a prone form on the living room floor, while “Demons” echoed through the walls, even rattling the window panes when the bass kicked in, and it wasn’t till he rapped on the door, two sharp raps, a pause, one more - a signal from long ago in Beacon Hills - that he saw the figure sit up and look around.

Derek sagged against the door as Stiles opened up, righting himself enough to step in. He was sweaty, covered in dirt, his clothes still tattered but covering him.

“You okay?” Stiles’ eyes looked gold in the dimness, and Derek nodded, nudging him in and turning to lock behind him, while Stiles punched in the security code to further armor the fortress.

“Yeah, I’m all right but you’re laying on the floor in the near dark and I thought …”

“That Hopper had already gotten me? No, there’d be a lot of blood if that were the case, cause you know I wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Stiles looked him in the eye. “No. Not anymore. We’re getting him. We’re ending him and I’m ending my stint in purgatory - I can’t live like this anymore, I can’t be a shadow. That Stiles, that ridiculous, sloppy, emotional mess on those pages? That is me. It’s still me, and I can’t be ashamed of it anymore. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve done things that saved people and things that hurt people deeply. I’m fucking flawed, but I have a job to do, and my blood is still moving through my veins, my neurons are still connecting - I’m alive.”

He smiled a little. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

Derek swallowed. “You’re welcome. And Stiles?”

“Mmm?”

“I like your messy self. I like your emotions. I’ve worked hard to feel things even a tenth as intensely as you do so effortlessly.” Derek was suddenly grateful the lights were so low. “I watched you emote and be all over the place and talk so fast I only caught every third word and had to duck from the pinwheeling arms and I just would be lost in wonder that you could access all that feeling so easily, when I no longer could.”

“But you can now.” Stiles’ voice was soft. “You can feel all the things now.”

“Mostly.”

“I never lost your number. Couldn’t. It’s still listed in my phone under …”

“Sourwolf?” Derek felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“No. Just Derek, because that one word means so many things to me.”

All Derek could hear was Stiles’ heart. All he could smell was Stiles’ scent, the one that had nothing to do with cologne, smoke, food. It was HIM.

They stood there in the near dark for what was likely a minute or so but might as well have been years.

“I think we should probably go to bed,” Stiles said, finally unable to bear any more. “I mean, uh, separately.”

Derek chuckled. “I wasn’t going to suggest anything else, Mieczysław.”

“Ugh, I fucking hate that you know that name,” he grumbled. “You get one use of it per year and it can’t be around another living soul, you hear me?”

“I do hear you. What will you do if I say it twice? Thrice? In front of the pack? Or in front of your boss, wouldn’t that be nice?””

Derek was now definitely amused, and proud of himself for defusing the cloud of emotion that had nearly enveloped them both. And of successfully using “thrice” in casual conversation.

“Who the fuck are you, Dr. Seuss now? I will …” Stiles paused to consider his options, which were few. “I will make you sorry.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet, but it will be embarrassing and awful and you will turn red under that magnificent fucking beard, the likes that I, a man over 30, can yet only dream of.”

Derek laughed aloud then. “Have you ever really devoted yourself to the beard life?”

“It still looks like pubes,” sighed Stiles, and that made Derek laugh more. “I’m sorry,” he managed, and Stiles scowled.

“You are not. But fine, bed, yeah? I want to go to the gun range tomorrow first thing; I qualified a couple of months ago, but I want to make sure in case of, well, anything.”

“Sounds good. I brought my personal weapon too, so let’s shoot together.”

“You have personal weapons other than that beard, those eyes, those bunny teeth, those shoulders, pecs, those …”

Stiles rubbed his face. “Okay, shutting up now. Bed. I think I might actually sleep, cause I’m full and not drunk, so that’s new.

“There’s a time and place for getting wasted, but it’s probably not right now,” agreed Derek and put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s been emotional as hell tonight and I think sleep will do us both good. All locked up?”

“Yes. Alarmed, locked, all the security.”

“All right.” Derek took a breath. “Good night, Stiles. I’ll see you in the …” he looked at his watch, “Later morning.”

Stiles nodded. “Later in the morning, gotcha. I’ll send Leigh’s work email a quick note so she doesn’t worry. She thinks you’re unbearably hot, so she’ll be imagining all sorts of lewd things, so I’m gonna nip this in the bud now.”

“Lewd? I like that word. It just sounds exactly like what it is.”

Stiles laughed. “It kind of does.”

He watched Derek go up the stairs, and took a moment to collect himself, sitting on the bottom stair and breathing deep; his therapist would be proud.

Maybe if Hopper got to him first it would be a blessing in a cheap, dollar-store disguise.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew Hopper wouldn’t. He might come close, but this needed to end, all of it. A crusade against the dead by two rage-fueled men who knew shit all about pack and being part of one. A murderous duo who had taken so many innocent lives deserved to have both of their lights extinguished too.

One down, one to go.

Much to his surprise, Stiles did sleep heavily, and was gently shaken awake by Derek around 8.30 AM; he blinked open his eyes to meet greenish ones looking back at him.

“Morning,” said Derek, who seemed to Stiles to be way too chipper for a person who had not had coffee yet. “Kind of hate to wake you at all, but school day and all.”

A groan emitted from half under the pillow. “Can’t I stay home and watch Hulu or something? I promise it will be educational.”

“Nope, sorry. Work first, watch red pandas having sex later,” said Derek, folding his arms. “Cause that is what you’d be watching, and don’t pretend otherwise.”

Stiles moved the pillow and eyed him. “Did I share my password with you? Have you seen my search history?”

“No, and I’m afraid to look. But once you get up and dressed, I’ll take us to breakfast and then hit the range. Sound good?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Derek smiled at him, making Stiles want to die, then left the room, the faint smell of soap following him.

Stiles forced himself out of bed and into the shower, reliving last night in his brain; he felt like he and Derek had, if not exactly, completely reconciled, at least come to an understanding.

And then he recalled Derek saying he’d always loved him, and Stiles replying in kind.

He rubbed his face, turning the temperature to cold. Focusing on Hopper would almost be a bonus, cause all this emoting was foreign to him these days. A serial killer, a sociopath, or just a really, evil twisted person was easier for him to comprehend and analyze than his own emotional landscape right now. So that’s what he needed to do.

Stiles pressed his hands against the cold tile and cleared his mind for the task at hand. He could think about what was or wasn’t going on between him and Derek later, after Hopper was dead or in custody - preferably the former - and then, and only then, could he think about himself.

He got out, dried, dressed and had to shake his head at himself, cause the blond ends really were 90’s boyband, but he liked them.

He tied his tie as he descended to the first floor, finding Derek waiting for him with keys in hand, both sets; he tossed Stiles’ to him, who caught it with one hand. “Nice reflexes. Almost would have thought you’d let Peter chomp on you all those years ago.”

“Jesus, no. That part of the books about him scaring the shit out of me is still valid,” replied Stiles, sliding his FBI tie clasp onto the fabric. “And he would have enjoyed it far too much.”

“He would have,” agreed Derek. “He always had a soft spot for you.”

“Had” being the operative word.” Stiles pulled on his jacket. “Not these days.”

He left it at that as he locked and armed up his home, and then made his way to his ride, an updated Fedmobile, and waited for Derek to back out before he followed and took them to a coffee shop near the Federal complex.

A strategy was developed; review the materials - including the records from their first tangle in Bartley - with details from the Scoff Books front and center, to refamiliarize themselves with Hopper and his actions during the events there. Then they’d requisition anything they would need, from extra arms to backup agents, and then contact the officials in Bartley to advise them that more trouble might be coming their way. Then, they’d head back there, because Stiles knew full well that the patterns he’d studied for years would culminate in a circle - it was a way of finishing the task, bringing things to a stop where they’d first started. He understood that way of thinking perhaps better than he should.

From the coffee shop, they registered at the firing range, donning protective headphones; rows of new agents, trainees and those re-qualifying for their levels emptying round after round into paper targets moving on metal arms backwards and forwards for inspection by the experts.

Both of their own weapons were examined and certified as safe, and then they took a firing booth, Stiles stepping back for Derek to go first. He was not surprised when the wolf’s score was near-perfect, given the eyesight and reflexes, but it was still odd to see Derek use a weapon - for so long it had literally been claws and teeth.

When Derek stepped back, Stiles took his place; he closed his eyes briefly, centered himself, and fired. He emptied the magazine and lowered his hands.

9 shots to the heart; one to the head.

He pulled off the headphones to find Derek looking between the target and Stiles; he understood. His ten shots circled the heart, with four splitting the middle.

“If only taking Hopper out was so easy,” said Stiles, barely audible, even for wolf ears. “But he’s not going to make it so, is he?”

“Not a chance. He’s going to try and fuck with your head, Stiles, and you already know this. He can try, with me, but I’m made out of trauma and I don’t think he has what it takes to hurt me.”

“No, probably not. That’s my jurisdiction, hurting you.” Stiles led the way to the cleaning area, expertly dismantling his Sig Sauer and grabbing the solvent and a cloth.

“And nobody does it better,” agreed Derek, and then gave Stiles a half-smile and grabbed his own cleaning cloth. There was really nothing Stiles could say to that, and he didn’t even try.

When they entered Stiles’ office, Leigh looked up, and the expression on her face instantly put Stiles on alert. “What is it?”

Leigh, normally composed, efficient, and consummately professional, looked scared. She stood. “There have been four phone calls this morning,” she said softly. “Each is more threatening than the last. Three were voicemails and one was in person and the voice … It sounded strange. It sounded wrong.”

“Wrong in what way?” Stiles moved over to her desk, searching her face; she shook her head. “It sounded like he knew he sounded crazy and was enjoying it.”

So much for plans, best laid or otherwise, thought Derek. It didn’t seem odd to him that the pace was picking up right after he’d come to Quantico - he had a feeling that Hopper knew much more about them both than they’d thought.

“Did you send the voicemails to me?”

She nodded and smoothed her skirt. “Is this what you two were talking about yesterday? Does this have to do with Marcy?”

The name. Stiles had consciously not spoken it in years now, but of course, Leigh must have known her. She had been a trainee agent and interned in cyber crimes before switching to profiling. He knew she was taking classes at the University of Mary Washington, and knew that his case - Bartley - was part of the curriculum on unexplained multiple murderers. She had never talked about it, never even let on that she knew about their relationship, and he had been grateful.

He swallowed, aware that Derek was mere inches from him, and feeling the change in emotional pressure in the room.

“Yes. If the messages are from who I believe they’re from, then yes, it was part of the case in Bartley that resulted in Marcy’s death.”

The first time, anyway.

“Leigh, if you want to step away, or even go home, you can, I understand.”

“No. No, I have a job to do and I’m here to do it. I just - Agent - Stiles, is this person coming for you? For both of you?”

This time, it was Derek who spoke. “Yes. He is. But we’ll be meeting him on his turf before that can happen.”

“You’re going back there?” Her voice wavered. “Back to the mine? You nearly died there the first time!”

“I might die there the second time too, but it’s my job to stop this person, Leigh.” He reached to squeeze her shoulder. “It’s been my job for the last three years and I should have stepped up to it sooner. I should have known it wasn’t over, so this might be my last case if I’m slipping this badly.”

“No way, no one is better than you! That’s why I’m here, that’s why I asked for this job, to learn from you! “

Stiles had to smile, then.”Thank you for that,” he said. “I mean that, thank you from my soul.”

She nodded, looked between them. “Get this guy, okay? I never want to hear that voice again.”

“You won’t. If any call you don’t recognize comes in, send it to me directly.” She managed to nod, and Stiles knew it was not workplace protocol to hug your subordinates, so he asked first, very clearly. She blinked and nodded, then said yes, and Stiles went behind her desk and wrapped his arms around her. She folded into him and Derek watched that, remembering how it felt to be hugged that way, by that person.

“I didn’t know you knew her, and this must have been hard as hell to come work with the person who failed to save her. I’m very sorry, Leigh. You’re excellent, the best, and I’m not sure I could have come back to work without you being here and guiding, scolding, and doing your job like no other. I am grateful to you, and thank you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t. You sign your life away to be FBI and the higher you are, the more you forfeit. She knew what could happen and she still chose you. It could be any one of us at any time, for any reason cause we paint a target on our back and put ourselves out there to shield others. To protect them before bad things happen and neutralize the worst when it does. You deal with the worst people in the world, Stiles, and not even you can take out all of them. But you’ve taken out so many awful people from this world so they can’t do more damage.”

She pulled back gently, still holding on to him., then looked over at Derek. “And you wouldn’t be a police Captain if you weren’t brave. So please, go get this fucker and end this.”

Leigh never cursed, ever. It was a fun counterpoint to Stiles, who used fuck as a verb, noun, adjective, adverb and split infinitive; he smiled, a true smile. “We will, indeed, get this fucker. I promise you. And her … Marcy. For you two. For our friends and for the families of people who never saw this coming.”

She looked up. “Do it.”

“I will. We will.”

She let go and excused herself to go wash up and Stiles rubbed his face. “Well, so much for our roadmap,” he said. “Let’s go in and listen, then do a very abbreviated version of what we planned, cause it looks like the timer might have been switched on.”

How right he was.

Leigh had been right; the voice sounded crazy and like the caller knew he was and not only didn’t care, but was glorying in it.

Agent Stilinski, how nice to hear your voice again; you sound level and normal even, though we both know you’re neither. Not quite as professional and condescending as in the office, and sure as hell not hoarse and afraid. I really liked hearing you sound hoarse and afraid. So did Ell, by the way, Your voice when you saw your dead girlfriend was literally music to his ears, I know, I liked it too, and as I’ve relived it, it’s gotten to be a number one hit in my brain.

Second number one hit in my brain is those books. Boy, aren’t you something, you condescending little fuck? Thinking you knew it all, but you know, I made it my job to read up on your hometown and all the shit that happened there and you were in over your head. You, your clueless Dad, your wolfy little friends, the girl you liked? Lisa. Liza. Lydia, right? I thought about going after her, but then realized I could kill two birds with one stone. I could take you and your other true love to hell with me, and not bother with her at all. I hate redheads anyway. Good thing your little receptionist is a sort of redhead too. Tell her that box hair dye probably saved her life.

His machine was set up to never be cut off; this was all being stored digitally onto his private server, so Hopper was free to ramble. And he did.

Stiles fingers were clenched as he listened behind his desk, Derek sitting across from him, his fingers curling into his palm.

Onto #2.

Now, onto the situation at hand. I know the previously mentioned true love is your shifty friend - see what I did there? Hale. He’s way smarter than he looks, honestly. I hear he can’t win a fist fight to save his life, but he can fully shift now, right, so better luck this time with the pounce and rip. I’m sure you’re reserving yourself for me, Stilinski - Stiles, rather, why not be on a first name basis? I’m Eddie, as you know. And speaking of being smarter; I played dumb, for Ell. Helena didn’t raise idiots. It was part of our plan for me to act dumb and like the mayor of redneck city so people would keep their guards down. Worked. You didn’t give me a second glance, did you, asshole? Neither did anyone else. Well, more about that later.

So I’m sure you want to end this. Sure you know about the murders, I’ve taken them all out now. All of those conceited, greedy bastards who put profit above lives. Me and Ell should be fuckin’ heroes, not hiding in the dark, doing God’s work. And if you’d just been a bump in the road, Ell wouldn’t have cared, left you alone, laughed at you, but once he realized you were tracking him, well … shit happened.

For what it’s worth, I liked Miss Prentiss. Everyone did. Everyone knew you got her killed. Surprised you weren’t strung up at her services, some wanted to. But you specialize in getting those you care about hurt or killed, right? Your dad, more than once because of the company you kept, Miss Jenny, and of course, of course, Marcy, lovely Marcy. She, I could go for. And I did.

Twice. I like them all tied up and helpless. She fought back the first time. Second time, well, she wasn’t breathing anymore. Still hot and tight as hell though; you remember that, right? Sweet piece, that girl.

Gonna leave you a moment to lose your fucking mind and then last call. On here, anyway. But after that one, you’ll have a lot more to chew on.

Stiles’ face was white, with only his burning, furious eyes lighting the room where the curtains were still drawn from the day before.

Derek didn’t bother to say that Hopper was probably just trying to mess with him - he was sure Hopper had assaulted Marcy, and maybe more than twice.

He had to consciously force his own claws back into his fingers, and his eye teeth to draw back - his stomach was churning and he couldn’t even imagine what Stiles was experiencing right now. The other man said nothing, just looked down as his bloodless fingers pressed play again.

Three, I like this. Get to speak my mind flat out. I know these are recorded, don’t care much. You can’t prove anything so far, all you have is, what they say, conjecture? But that’s not the point of this. I just wanted to tell you in advance, Stiles - you lose. I have already flipped the switch and like a good sailor, I’ll go down with this ship since the world means nothing when you’re alone. Guess you know all about that, don’t you, now that no one will come near you? I bet Captain Hale is there, listening - you think he doesn’t still hate you? If he ever read those books, he’d understand though, wouldn’t he? Understand that you loved him first and best, and the others paled in comparison to him. But you could never have him, he didn’t love you, nope, but you love him, and you tried to bury that love, and him too.

Nasty, nasty, to switch out lives like that. I might take lives in my fashion, sure, but I never tried to kill one to bring back another. That’s beyond even my scope. Even Ell would find that some fucked up shit, but you’re not normal. Don’t think you ever were, were you?

Ah well. Moving on from your sick psyche. All this is fun and shit, but I suspect you know the real reason I called. I reviewed Ell’s plans and decided to expedite them. He just wanted the owner’s families dead, and okay, done. But I’m not satisfied with such small ambitions. You might have known that had you paid me any mind at all, but hell, what’s past is past, right?

I want to take the whole fucking town out.

You know about mines? Tunnels? Pull up one of your fancy search engines and look at Pond Creek Pocahontas’ property maps. Take a good, long look. Bet you can figure it out from there, you smartass. Sad thing is, you’ll be too late. Just like with your Marcy. Always too late.

Bye, Stilinski. See you at the funerals - we’ll all be there in spirit.

Literally.

The sound stopped.

Derek was ashamed of the gorge that rose up into his throat, but Stiles was motionless, sitting there like a stone. He shoved the wastebasket over to Derek with his foot, still staring at a point above the screen, at something only he could see. Derek threw up, shoulders heaving, and closed his eyes against the nausea that washed over him.

While he was groping for tissues to clean up his mouth and beard, Stiles reached for the phone and placed a call. The former Sheriff had retired - Stiles hoped he was off taking nature photos somewhere far from West Virginia and the new Sheriff was a woman, Gail Ashworth.

There was no answer at the police station, just endless ringing until an automated service kicked in. “I’m sorry, but the voice mailbox is full and cannot add any new messages. Please try again later.”

Stiles tried it again, 30 seconds later, his face still not changing expression as Derek went to the bathroom to wash and get water. He didn’t even feel like he was inside his body at this point as he went through the motions.

Again, the message.

Stiles tapped in another phone number, waited.

Across the country, Scott was in surgery with an injured husky, and Malia was helping out with phones; she grabbed his personal one on the desk, seeing the number. “Stiles?”

She had not heard his voice in two years at least.

“Malia,” Stiles managed, the lump in his own throat finally registering. “Mali, hey.”

“Oh God, it is you. Are you okay?”

“Not ever, really. And not right now.”

“What’s going on?”

Stiles told her briefly about the situation, amazed that he could find the words, adding “I want to ask if you and Scott and whoever else could or would be willing to come, will meet us in Bartley. I can have my secretary book you all seats on the soonest flight you can manage. And I know you - some of you - won’t want to come for me, and I get that. I’m not expecting to survive this, but Derek brought me this and we’re finishing it. We need you to help evacuate people, to help save innocent lives that are going to end for no other reason than insanity.” He took a breath. “Derek is pack, so please come for him. I will never ask you for another thing, truly. I give you my word.”

“Stiles. Stiles. Fucking Miecyzslaw!”

Derek heard this as he reentered and despite all this unreal shit, he almost had to smile; Malia sounded pissed and he guessed she had just used up her once-per-year ration of the big M word..

“YOU are pack! You, not just Derek. Why don’t you understand that, why can’t you process that in that big-ass brain? We’ll come for you. For both of you. Me, Scotty, I’ll make Peter, Liam, and if I can find him, Parrish. He’s undercover.”

“Undercover HellHound? Didn’t Netflix just cancel that show?” Stiles was not over the use of his first name and if he lived, he was clamping down on this shit hard.

She laughed. “No, cause he’s just naked a lot. It’s in a strip club.”

Oh Jesus. There was an image, and a not unwelcome one, cause Jordan Parrish was fine, and on fire, often literally.

She continued. “So shut up and I will call you back within 30 minutes when I’ve rounded up people. And your secretary will book us seats? Fancy, Mr. Big Shot Yes You’re Pack Boy.”

“That name seems unwieldy,” said Stiles and she told him to fuck off and hung up.

“Malia McCall, what an auspicious person to reach,” said Derek, more composed now; he sat down heavily.

“Wait, they got married?” Stiles swallowed hard, cause now, now all the emotions had broken free and were rushing through him. “Without me?”

“Not officially, she just likes the name and they are engaged, so … we have other things to worry about.”

“You fucking think?” snapped Stiles, then closed his eyes. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. What about Bartley SD? Did you get a hold of them?”

“Full voice mailbox,” he replied. “I have a really bad feeling, and I think we need to go now. We can talk on the way, but .. it’s bad. I can feel how bad this will be.”

He did use a privileged data bank to pull up the town map, and jerked his head at Derek to come look. Derek did, but he took Stiles’ shoulders in his hands first. “I know you’re processing, but breathe. He just blindsided us both and we’re on the clock now. I’m here with you till the end of this, Stiles - no matter what. You, me, Eddie Hopper.”

Stiles nodded. “Yes.”

The yes was a lie, Derek knew; Stiles was fully ready for it to be him and Eddie Hopper, into the abyss, but no. No. Derek was not losing Stiles again.

The plan confirmed the threat; various tunnels and mine shafts undercut nearly the entire town, and how that had been allowed to happen, Stiles couldn’t fathom, except that it simply had. Whether the mining companies had gotten too greedy, or Bartley had expanded out towards the main mine, it didn’t matter. It was amazing that the town hadn’t already sunk into the depths, like Monty Python’s castle built on a swamp.

“See all these? I think he’s rigged the area with explosives, and in a lot of places, it wouldn’t take much to blow up the crust of the earth. He’ll start with smaller tunnels, to create fear and chaos, and take out the major shaft when we arrive. It might have already started.”

He called his boss, he called the head of HRT and requested a fly over Bartley with a Bell 412, which was tactically enhanced for combat situations. He sent his boss the audio files, and one hour later, they received news that there were reports of ground instability and what sounded like explosions on the outer edges of the town; the West Virginia National Guard was called out to the area.

Half an hour after that, and the pack was booked on a flight that would get them into Mercer County Airport at 5 PM; from there, Derek would pick them up; the Bell would have already taken he and Stiles into Bartley.

These arrangements were made with swift, cold efficiency by Leigh, who thrived under pressure, and when Stiles and Derek left for the landing pad, she grabbed his hand as he walked by her desk. “Come back alive,” she said. “You have to.”

“I’ll do my best,” promised Stiles, and squeezed her hand. “I really will.”

The helicopter lifted off, and Stiles put his headphones on, looking over his shoulder at Derek, who hated flying. The wolf’s knuckles were white, but his gaze was steady. Stiles nodded at him and turned back, taking the secondary controls of the Bell.

They rose into the air and headed over the mountains, into the unknown.

The first thing Stiles noticed after the Bell 412 shut down, the rotors slowing and finally stopping, was the quiet.

Sure, Bartley was no metropolis but still, this was eerie.

They had landed in the combined school’s single athletic field, as it was the only open space large enough to accommodate the Bell. Stiles had tried repeatedly to contact the Sheriff to tell her, but always, “The voice mailbox is full.”

Their system could be down, he supposed. They could have had an electrical storm, fried a transmitter; a tree could have fallen on a line. All these things were possible, but Stiles was sure that the reason was much more sinister.

He looked over at Derek, knew he felt it too. Even the pilot, a young HRT agent, was looking around. “Did we land in a cemetery? Jesus.”

It wasn’t a cemetery yet, thought Stiles, but if Hopper had his way, it would be.

The hell of it was, he understood the anger; he always had, he’d understood Ellis. But understanding and condoning were two very different things and it was still Stiles’ job to hold the line between what was right and what wasn’t. Yes, he’d failed at that before, and spectacularly so, but that had been the first and last time emotion would rule him in this role.

He scanned the ground, and then noticed minute cracks in the heat-baked grass. “Derek.”

Derek moved over, looking over his shoulder - he was grateful to be on the ground and figured the rest of the pack would be too. Werewolves and were-creatures were not happy fliers, but it had been the fastest way to get them here.

Both sets of eyes followed the cracks, which were not random, nor borne of scorching heat drying the earth to powder. The cracks radiated from a central point right about …

“Milo, get the Bell out of here,” barked Stiles, and Milo snorted, thinking Agent Stilinski had just made a funny, but then blinked at the expression on his face. “Why, is there …”

“You need to get off this patch of ground,” Stiles said through gritted teeth. “It’s not safe. Take the Bell up and get it to the next town, and radio the National Guard to leave their heavy vehicles at the town line and come in on foot or light Jeeps.”

Milo looked down, and then paled a little. “Roger that.”

The cracks shifted as they spoke - if this were California, you might not even notice it, but in Bartley, you did.

“He knew we’d land here,” said Derek, and Stiles nodded. “Not very sporting of him, but he is a dick.”

Milo had already started flight prep, and moments later, the bird rose slightly, then pulled up sharply, tilting in the wind that had whipped up.

“We need to get to the meet point with the NG,” said Stiles over the noise. “Grab their van, get to the airfield, get the pack. I’m going into town.”

“I don’t want you going alone,” said Derek, brows drawing together. “What if Hopper …”

“He’s not gonna snipe me from the woods,” replied Stiles. “He wants a grand finale, and shooting me on the road would be anticlimactic. He wants me to see all he’s done, all I failed to stop because I didn’t go after him when Miller died. That’s what’s at the heart of this, for him. Revenge, maybe. Maybe. But I’m willing to bet that he feels like he should have been counted in as a badass and pursued too, and because we didn’t - I didn’t - he’s gonna make sure he’s remembered.”

He shrugged. “He’s gonna go for the spectacle, Derek. Go big AND go home.”

“That fucker,” growled Derek, and even in the midst of all this, the growl made Stiles shiver. “Down boy, save some for the main attraction.”

Derek glared at him as the Bell spun over the trees and out of sight. “Did you just call me “boy?”

“In a colloquial kind of manner. You need to get going, now, before this whole field caves in.”

Far off, they heard a slow roll, then a bang, and Stiles tensed. “Okay, fireworks are starting early. I’m off.”

Stiles might be skinny. He might not exactly be in top physical shape, but he hadn’t had a cigarette since last night and he didn’t want one now. He could feel the adrenaline spiking in his blood and the almost audible click in his brain as every neuron fired - in short, BAU Special Agent Stilinski was inhabiting this body right now, just as the Nogitsune had so long ago.

Hell, right now, he could use some ancient shadow warriors - he already had the single-mindedness down pat. He looked over at Derek, and the light was back in his eyes, cold and clear. “See you at the OK Corral, Holliday.”

Derek returned the gaze. “I’ll be there, Earp.”

Had there been no chance of running into armed guardsmen, Derek would have shifted to run faster, but he had to rely on his human legs to get to the airfield, and Stiles watched him go, then turned and pulled out his sunglasses. Was Horatio Cane at the OK Corral too?

Stiles ran. He carried only his phone, his gun and his silver knife - always, because life had a way of circling around and sneaking up on you - and his wits. He couldn’t be weighed down, and in the end, he only had himself to blame for this ending. Not the situation, no, but the ending.

Clanton and Earp on a dusty, crumbling street, and the dust rose up around his feet as he moved.

Derek reached the airfield in record time, even for him, and flashed his badge at the NG stationed there - they looked confused. “What exactly is happening, sir?”

“Someone with a grudge and a lot of dynamite is going to blow the town of Bartley away, unless we stop him. I need you to ring your vehicles around town limits and be ready to transport the injured. If you enter the town, the chances you won’t get out are sizable.”

“Derek!” Scott grabbed his arm and Derek blew out a breath. This was one of a handful of times in his life he was beyond grateful for Scott McCall. “We’re here, a little edgy, but here.”

Malia was off vomiting, because she hated flying with a passion, and it took a moment for her to round the corner with Liam, Peter and Parrish bringing up the rear. “Goddamn planes,” she muttered and took a breath. “Where’s Stiles?”

“He went into town by himself and before you yell at me, I couldn’t have stopped him. My job was to get you guys to us so we could all go together.”

“Is he still insane?” Peter was rubbing his chin in the way Derek hated, cause it looked so theatrical.

“No more so than anyone else. Can we discuss his psychological state later?”

“Yeah, let’s move. Derek, good to see ya.” Liam flexed his fingers and grinned at Parrish. “Last one into Bartley is a naked Hellhound.”

Parrish smirked. “Last one into town is a short-ass wolf in Timberlands.”

“No shifting, for Christ’s sake,” ordered Derek and pulled open the van doors as they all piled in, Scott riding shotgun, cause True Alpha status had its privileges..

The NG followed them, and when Derek found the town line, he stopped and got out. “On foot from here. Remember what I told you,” he said to their lieutenant. “Just hang tight and pray we don’t need you too badly.”

Again, he mouthed “No shifting” and they left, a pack leaving the NG behind wondering who the hell these people were.

There was noise on Main Street in Bartley, thank God. Shops, a couple small restaurants, the news stand, all had people roaming in and out. A couple of old trucks were gassing up at Andy’s and Stiles made himself pause, taking slow, deep breaths. He had to get to the mine entrance, and to do that, he needed to make it down this street alive. But first, he had somewhere to check out.

The Sheriff’s office, located in their municipal building was his first, maybe only stop in town, and as he entered the building, he could smell it. Smell them.

He pulled out his handkerchief laced with mentholatum and went to the office door, pushing the frosted glass panel open.

The odor of decomposition hit him and he gagged, eyes watering, but he clamped the handkerchief over his nose and stepped in.

Four bodies in the office area; one draped over the desk, two behind it, one in the hall. Through an open door, Stiles could see a woman sprawled across her desk, flies buzzing over the crusted blood from the gaping head wound. That must be the Sheriff. Or had been.

He had feared this was the reason for the endless voicemail robo answer; there was no one to check the messages. But these bodies were at least a day old, maybe two, and the heat - this awful, swelling, wet heat - had pushed decomp along.

He heard the door bang behind him and turned, gun drawn, pointed right at Parrish. “Oh shit, Jordan,” he managed, holstering the gun. “Sorry.”

“Shit is right,” replied Parrish, and Liam, pulling up beside him, gagged. “Jesus fuck, are they all dead?”

“Looks like it. Look for survivors, will you Li?”

“Gross, but yeah.” Liam literally held his nose while Parrish and Stiles cleared the building, finding another body in the break room. “Makes sense he’d kill the authorities who never gave him the time of day,” muttered Stiles. “Ego is all.”

“You would know,” said Parrish matter of factly, without accusation. “Seems like you’re the perfect person to be ending this.”

Stiles met his eyes. “I am. Thanks for coming though.”

“Of course. And before you ask, I don’t hate you. No one does. We could probably use a little debrief at some point later, but only if you want to. For now, it’s good to see you, Stiles, and whatever you need, we have your back.”

“No wonder you’re my dad’s favorite,” Stiles replied, weirdly touched by Parrish’s words; the other man smiled. “Third favorite. You, Derek, me.”

Liam came back, pale. “No pulses and most of them are, uh, falling apart.”

“Meat falling off the bone?”

“That’s fucking gross, Stilinski. I’m gonna have to become a vegetarian now.” Liam glared and Stiles pushed them out of the building, stopping in the dooryard to give Liam a quick, hard hug which was returned with no hesitation at all.

For Liam who worshiped you, you, the smartest and bravest human he knows!

Stiles held on a moment longer, before he was pounced by Malia - literally - squeezed by Scott, and when he looked up, Peter’s eyes were on him, calm, cool blue.

“Thank you, all of you, for coming for us,” he said, when he could speak. “There’s no time for drawn out apologies and explanations, but whatever you want to know later, I’ll speak truthfully about.”

Nods of understanding, and then the pack spread out to the points Stiles had sent all of them, each noticing the ground starting to break up.

People were being spoken to and escorted into the street, towards the border of the National Guard company waiting there and Stiles closed his eyes, listened to his intuition, until a voice was in his ear.

“If it comes down to you and anyone else in the pack that I can save, I will choose them over you,” said Peter. “I have no more loyalty to you, Stiles.”

Stiles’ heart hammered in his chest, because yes, Peter would always terrify him on some level. Even when they were forced to rely on each other, he scared Stiles.

“You shouldn’t. And I don’t need to be saved ever again. If I go down, let me go down, cause this is my end of watch.”

Peter stepped back and was gone, and Stiles rubbed his face as another slow boom was heard, closer now. He needed to find Hopper, and he needed to find him now.

He turned, and his boots slipped, a hard claw grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking him back as a hole opened where he’d been standing and dropped straight down. “Bro, watch it!”

Scott dragged him back, as the rumbles grew louder all around; people looked up at the sky, not at their feet as the earth split and shifted.

“Scott, go!”

Stiles spotted Derek, who had hold of two young boys; he literally threw them to Malia, who grabbed them, their friend over her shoulder, and jumped as the space they had stood gaped open.

“It’s like looking into hell,” said Parrish over Stiles’ shoulder. “Ask me how I know.”

Then he too, was gone, and Stiles backed off behind a building, meeting with Derek. He could hear Peter bellowing to fucking MOVE, and Liam’s voice to his left, screaming to be heard against the booms coming faster and closer, closer.

Where was Hopper? Where was he?

He remembered Salvati, the COO of Pond Creek once had a home up on the side of the hill rising over the secondary mine, overlooking the town. He had left after the disaster, and now, thanks to the Dynamic Duo of Ellis/Hopper, there were no Salvatis left. But the home remained.

Stiles grabbed Derek. “We need to head up the hill, just follow me.”

Derek didn’t argue. He and Stiles maneuvered their way through rubble, only to watch the municipal building explode on its west side and start to slip under the earth. They skirted it, just barely, and Derek muttered something amidst the sound and shifted, slamming his body into Stiles’ legs; Stiles tumbled onto his back and Derek ran.

This is what it felt like to have the wind carry you like you were nothing.

This is what it felt like to be borne aloft like dust.

He dug his hands and knees into thick fur and kept his head down, rocking with the motion till the wolf skidded to a stop, and Stiles was thrown off.

“Look at this, better than a little red wagon.” An amused, gravelly voice was just in front of him, a slick, bloody hand pulling him up. “Your pet wolf gave you a ride? Impressive, I didn’t think wolves could carry dead weight, and also didn’t think you knew about this place.”

Stiles choked out dirt-clogged spit. “Your wolf carried you, so you do know about dead weight.”

The slick hand smacked him hard, knocking him down again. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Derek growled, and kicked Hopper’s legs out from under him, while Stiles staggered to his feet. “Where are the timers?”

“You’re about to die and you’re worried about those useless shitbags? How noble, Agent.”

Hopper got to his feet too, and in the waning light, Stiles could finally see the familial resemblance; he felt sick that this twisted being had touched Marcy.

Hopper was smirking at him, knowing what Stiles was thinking.

Derek shifted back into beta form effortlessly, and despite Hopper’s brave facade, he faltered, stepping back from the creature, who was neither man nor wolf, but split between. “Since you’re apparently hard of hearing as well as amoral and psychotic, where are the goddamn timers?”

Hopper blinked. “Ah, the wolf can talk! I love this reality. Maybe the birds will come and make my bed next,” he mused, and that comment alone sounded so much like Stiles that it enraged Derek. Not because it was so out of context, but because it was. It was ripped straight from the Scoff Books and Stiles’ own warped sense of humor.

“You know, it’s pretty sad when you have so little personality of your own that you need to steal someone else’s,” said Derek, forcing himself to sound calm. “If you’d had any presence of your own, we might have chased you down, but you were nothing, just a hanger on to your cousin.” He shook his head. “Sad, isn’t it Agent?”

“Pathetic,” agreed Stiles, going along. “I never gave you another thought, Eddie, my boy. You were just a surly local who got flustered at the use of polysyllabic words.”

Hopper flushed, a deep, dark red. “You’re really not in a position to fuck with me now, are you?”

Stiles rubbed his neck, the other hand on his holster. “Actually, I’m in a perfect position to fuck with you. You and I, and Captain Hale here, all know you’re not telling us shit. We all know the entire town is rigged to blow, but on the off chance you might slip up and give us a clue, we had to ask. Procedure, you know? I mean, Ellis knew all about procedure - he just flunked the FBI trainee psych test. Repeatedly.”

Stiles smiled. “Did you help him study? Did you role play? Were you the Big Bad Agent sometimes? Did you switch off?”

He looked over at Derek. “A brain injured snail could pass the old psych test, but yet …”

He didn’t mention that the new psych test had been based solely on widespread disbelief that his own crazy ass had passed it so easily. The institutional shrinks had been horrified and worked day and night on a new exam that practically required MENSA status to pass.

Hopper was trying hard to stay calm, Stiles had to give him that. He was, for sure, brighter than they’d thought and a lot craftier, and mental issues obviously ran deep in the Halestrom veins.

He held up his hands, reached into his pocket, and produced a cheap flip phone. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Is that what you use to call your 900 lines with?” Stiles knew damn well that was the timer, yet he couldn’t stop his mouth.

“Funny. You’re so fucking funny, Stilinski. So smart, so talented, so absolutely devoid of morals.” Hopper stared at him. “You know, they call Ell a monster. They’ll call me one too, but what I’m doing is ridding the world of bad people. The owners who willingly sent miners to die. Their families who forgot about it. The people in that useless little burg who kept living the lie. No one will miss Bartley. No one. But you … you had it all. You did. And then you lost it all, and instead of living with it, dealing with it, rebuilding - you went off your head and tried to bring back the dead with a human sacrifice. This human.”

He looked Derek over. “Well, semi-human. I might be a monster, but you, Stilinski, are the monster.”

“Then as two monsters, let’s stand toe to toe,” said Stiles, and that empty voice sounded very much like it had three years ago. “You give Derek that timer, and let’s go.”

Hopper smiled, dropped the phone, crushed it under his heel. “Yeah, no.”

Below them, fire spread as dry grass caught and burned, and screams carried on the wind; Derek winced as unwanted images sprang to life in his brain and his eyes flared blue as he leapt at Hopper, bringing him down to the ground.

Which was exactly what Hopper wanted.

Take out the wolf, Stilinski had no one.
And the FBI agent wasn’t the only one who carried a silver knife.

Derek howled as the knife drove into his side, and he gasped, rolling off Hopper, dragging his nails over Hopper’s skin; down the hill, the howl assaulted Peter like a body blow.

Not again not again not again!.

“Derek!” screamed Stiles, and in that moment, his mind blanked out. Back into the blackness that had consumed him after Mexico. Back to the black hole. Back to no Derek.

Back to nothingness.

He spun, and Hopper rocked back on his heels, standing in the blood staining the ground, then reeled from the force of the blow Stiles landed to the side of his head, then another, another, another, till Stiles was able to grab his gun and press it against his enemy’s forehead, blood and sweat dripping onto Hopper’s face.

No.

The gun was ripped out of his hand and Stiles was kicked away, off the body - he rolled onto his back as the shot echoed in his ears.

Hopper lay dead, the hole perfectly centered in the middle of his forehead and Stiles looked up at the man holding the gun - Peter.

“Why?” he croaked, and Peter shook his head, pulling Derek up, wrapping his arm around him. “Stiles, in my coat.”

Stiles blindly reached into Peter’s coat, coming up with a small glass vial; Peter popped it open and tilted it into Derek’s mouth till it was empty, holding him up.

Stiles was trying to process; Peter grabbed his wrist. “We need to go.”

“Where is … where is everyone?”

“On the other side of the hill - we got out everyone we could, but there’s no saving the town.”

Derek was standing on his own now, his features having returned to human, though blood still trickled through his shirt. “Stiles, move.”

Stiles moved, Peter fast, himself slower, only because he was holding onto Derek with an iron grip.

Liam was driving a four wheeler that had seen better days. “Get in - God, you two look like shit. Peter looks fine though.”

“I always look fine, you leprechaun. Where did this come from? Where’s the National Guard Jeep?”

“It fell into a hole,” said Stiles weakly, and Liam winked at him. “Exactly.”

The four wheeler cut ruts into the ground as they backed up, then sped down the mountain, every bump jostling his bones. Stiles kept hold of Derek, fingers digging into his wrist, and when they were on solid ground, Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles and pressed his face into ridiculously blond-tipped hair, nosing it and breathing in the man it belonged to as Stiles sagged against him, eyes closed.

The final incident report on the implosion of Bartley, West Virginia listed 47 dead, including the entire Sheriff’s department. More than 400 had been rescued by the combined National Guard and FBI tactical teams, and an additional 96 had been evacuated by five people who could only be described as “unnaturally fast.” They were also described as “being everywhere at once” and having “very bright, almost glowing eyes.”

Older survivors of the event would later gather together and read the reports, looking at each other knowingly over coffee in the closest neighboring town.

Of the confirmed dead, one Edward Hopper, aka Eddie Hope, was listed; he was later confirmed to be the suspect in several murders throughout the East Coast, as well as the planner and executioner of the destruction of the town of Bartley. The cause of death was a single shot to the head, which had killed him instantly. The gun was registered to Special Agent Stiles Stilinski, and fingerprints on the barrel and handle confirmed that he had held it and that a shot was fired. No other fingerprints were salvaged, and since the kill had been life or death in the line of duty, the file was closed and Agent Stilinski cleared in an internal investigation.

With Agent Stilinski’s recommendation and encouragement, Agent Leigh Hual became a fully trained and certified profiler in the BAU; she was also recognized for her lightning response to the crisis in Bartley and her coordination of units across agencies.

When she received her commendation, she looked to the back of the room and was rewarded with a wink from departing Agent Stilinski, who was leaving Quantico to head a new field office of the BAU in Sacramento, California, not far from Beacon Hills and even closer to Elk Grove.

Stiles sold his townhouse from across the country, bringing only a couple of boxes of mementos and a set of All-Clad cooking pans; Derek’s pans were for shit, and Stiles was an artiste who needed the right tools to create. There was much eye rolling during the orientation lecture on how to use and care for said pans, and later, a quiz. Much later.

The reunited pack had a couple of very long, very wet nights while discussing the events that had gone on in the past four years, and after one of them, a wilted Stiles had sat in Scott’s backyard, a cigarette burning down between his fingers. A weight had settled onto the bench beside him, fingers plucking the cigarette from his hand, a brief flare of ember as the last drag was taken.

“You know, Stiles, you have enough forces working against your longevity as it is - you really don’t need to add smoking to the list.”

“Granted, but did you or did you not just steal the last drag?”

“I’m fucking immortal, don’t worry about me.” Peter looked up at the stars and Stiles smiled at his feet. “I have a question.”

“Just one? That’s surprising.. But let me guess - why did I take the gun away from you?”

“Yes. I was fully prepared to shoot him, it was my job to finish that whole sick saga.”

“Maybe it was, but - and I hate to be all Dalai Lama on you - but speaking from experience? Every time you take a life, it takes a part of you with it. And you, Stiles, have lost enough of your soul already. I think you’ll earn it back in time, but why add to your list of sins?”

Stiles looked over at Peter, who looked cool, composed and slightly bored, as always. “You said that you wouldn’t save me this time.”

“I lied. I do that a lot. Makes life interesting. Don’t overthink it, Mieczysław.” A smirk spread across his face and Stiles scowled.

That name again. “God what is the matter with all of you, all of a sudden? Okay, you get ONE shot at that name and you’ve used it up. Next time, I will beat your ass.”

“You can try,” Peter offered. “I’ll even give you a handicap just to be sporting. But right now I need more beer - tell me there’s more beer.”

“Scotty stocked the garage fridge this morning when we did a grocery run.”

“See? You two can be useful if you put your minds to it.” Peter stood up and without notice, had an armful of Stiles; he smiled to himself and returned the hug, no further words needed.

Later that night, as the Jeep wound its way through the still unfamiliar streets of Elk Grove, Stiles looked over at Derek. “Peter was trying to save my soul.”

“Yeah, he still has that soft spot for you - don’t know how you do it, he never did shit for us as kids.” Derek hung his arm out the window. “Guess you’re just irresistible in every situation.”

“Am I though?”

A long, drawn out sigh was his response, followed by a quiet “Yes. You are.”

As they pulled into Derek’s yard in the quiet cul de sac, Stiles turned off the engine and took a deep breath. “You probably owe me another slam against the wheel,” he said. “You know, given everything.”

“Probably more than one, but neither of us are naked” agreed Derek and reached over to grab Stiles’ collar, like he had so long ago, but this time, before Stiles could answer, he used it to pull him close and kiss him. Hard.

Stiles whimpered and kissed him back, fumbling with the seat belt with one hand, then climbing over onto Derek’s lap, gripping his jacket and back of his neck without breaking the kiss.

He was not a Special Agent for nothing; talent was talent, after all.

~ The End