Wake Me Up (Anywhere But Here)

When I participated in Steter Secret Santa this year, my giftee’s request inspired two different ideas. This is the first idea I had, but because I liked the second one better, I decided to gift that one to them. But I figure this one still deserves to be shared, so here it is.

Stiles has never enjoyed waking up on the Nemeton, regardless of the circumstances of how he got there. The first time, a witch had tried to sacrifice him to power a ritual, and every time since, bad things had happened.

This was the third time in as many days. With the supernatural, Stiles  has learned that anything more than one is most assuredly a pattern, so he'd skipped over coincidence yesterday. There was most definitely something wrong, though he'd known that before getting anywhere near the stump.

With one exception, everything was the same as it was yesterday. He was wearing the pants he'd gone to sleep in, his bond to his love was roiling with distress, and the Nemeton was agitated.

The exception was the way he could feel magic thrumming around him.

When Stiles had come to the Nemeton two days before and poured as much magic into it as he could and still stand afterwards, it had latched onto him and refused to let go, pulling magic out of him until he'd passed out. When he woke up again, cradled by his love, he had barely been able to feel his magic, there was so little of it. And the damn tree had still been trying to pull it out of him, faster than it replenished. Only leaving the clearing and hurrying out of the Preserve had kept it from draining him dry.

Then yesterday. Stiles had gone to bed in the hotel room they reserved, curled up with Peter, and woken in the morning lying on the Nemeton, very nearly drained again of what magic he'd been able to replenish. And the same again today.

The first two times, despite the enormous amount of magic that had been drawn from him, Stiles  hadn't been able to sense so much as a drop of magic. Even from the Nemeton  itself, which was supposed to be tied to the world's wellspring of magic, both drawing from and feeding it.

But this time, Stiles  didn't even have to reach out to feel for it. The magic was everywhere, thick and heavy it was practically suffocating. Stiles had never felt it like that before. So much and so present he almost couldn't feel anything else. Even the bond in his chest that tied him to his mate felt muted.

“Stiles!”

Peter stumbled into the clearing, barely keeping his footing with the way he practically skidded to a stop. His relief rushed down their connection with all the swiftness of a river, and Stiles nearly smiled to feel it.  But equally as quickly, it was soured with panic, even as Peter's expression reflected it for Stiles  to see. And at the same time, Stiles felt the magic swell.

He reached out even as his wolf lunged for him, and everything went black. 

~~~

When the Sheriff's name flashed across the caller ID on Stiles’s phone that morning, dread sunk like a stone in Peter's stomach.

If asked, he couldn't have explained why. The Sheriff's calls were sporadic, no schedule because of the time difference and the way the Stilinskis’ different lines of work tended to clash. So timing-wise, it wasn't out of the ordinary.

The stone only grew bigger when Stiles, after the usual round of greetings, catching up, and teasing, started to frown. And then he put the phone on speaker.

“Say that again, Dad.”

“There’s definitely something going on, though I have no idea what it is,” the senior Stilinski said. “There have been a number of odd happenings, to put it mildly. Birds falling out of the sky, and squirrels out of trees, sick or dead. Falling branches that turned out to be rotting inside. Sick and dying plants, particularly trees, all over the place. Various wildlife stumbling out of the Preserve and breathing their last.”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, just trying to cover all the angles, but have you checked the water?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, took some samples from the town’s water source and the river, sent them to a guy down in Sacramento and had Deaton take a look. Nothing toxic or that should be even remotely harmful to any kind of life.”

“What about the animals?” Peter asked. “Did anything show up when he examined them, sick or dead?”

“No, nothing,” the Sheriff answered. “Just ordinary sicknesses for the ones that were still alive, and the dead ones looked like they either just dropped dead out of the blue or had signs of the same ordinary sicknesses.”

Stiles glanced at Peter. “It definitely sounds like something. Maybe a curse?”

The werewolf snorted. “I’ve said for years that Beacon Hills is cursed. Wouldn’t surprise me if there were more to it than just being a draw for nasties.”

“There’s something else,” the Sheriff added, sounding almost a little hesitant to Peter’s ears.

“Dad?” Stiles prodded when the silence stretched.

“I’m not sure if it’s another sign or if it’s just me. None of the pack here have picked up on it, even when I’ve asked. But I’ve been getting this smell, coming from the Preserve. Like rotting and death.”

“I’m not particularly inclined to believe that nothing’s wrong just because Deaton and the McCall pack aren’t sensing anything out of the ordinary,” Stiles said. “Especially not when there very obviously is. They’re not exactly reliable about this stuff. We’ll come check it out.”

He glanced at Peter, who nodded in response to the silent question. No way he was going to sit this one out. Like he’d ever just sit back and watch when his mate walked into something dangerous. Especially something to do with Beacon Hills.

Even if the very thought of something going on there, and going into it, chilled him and only made the stone in his gut heavier.

The pair were back in Beacon Hills by sunset, and checked in with the Sheriff. He took them around town, pointing out some of the places where the more extreme events had occurred.

To their internal relief, they didn’t run into any of the residential pack in the process.

Peter knew Stiles was sensing something, it practically reverberated along their bond. But from the saturation of confusion, he had no idea what it was he was sensing.

The werewolf was picking up on something too, and it had him on edge. His wolf growled and paced in his head, their hackles raised. Not quite unlike something that was pinging just the very edges of his enhanced senses, but also different. And definitely something dangerous.

By the time they finished with that, it was past dark. Stiles wanted to check out the Preserve, but they all three agreed that was something best left for daylight hours. So the mated pair checked into their hotel, and made plans to investigate further in the morning.

The Sheriff hadn’t tried to trace the scent he’d been picking up, but as they approached the edge of the Preserve, Peter started to pick it up himself and realized that there wouldn’t have been much point. It was so strong and horrible, it was unlikely to lead them anywhere. Just a strong smell that was saturating probably most of the woods.

“How could Scott and the others possibly miss this?” Stiles exclaimed, holding his arm over his nose. From the disgust coming down the bond, it probably wasn’t doing much to block the smell. “You’re getting it, aren’t you?”

Peter nodded. “Oh yes, I am definitely smelling it.” It was so strong that he couldn’t even pick up Stiles’s scent past it, and his mate was standing right next to him. Resisting the temptation to reach out and make sure of it was difficult, and only further aggravated his wolf. And of course Stiles picked up on it. His clever, intuitive little mate stepped closer, brushing their shoulders together.

“We should check the Nemeton first,” Stiles said. “It’s possible that whatever’s happening is centered somewhere else in the Preserve, but there might be signs of what it is around the Nemeton.”

“Or communing with it could point us in the right direction,” Peter agreed. And dodged the elbow Stiles aimed for his side. “Is there another descriptor you would use?”

Stiles grumbled and flailed a little, but reluctantly subsided when he couldn’t come up with anything, and they started into the trees.

~~~

Once, the Nemeton had been hidden, its location erased from the minds of anyone who found it including those who guarded it from harm and misuse. But that time had died with Talia Hale, and now the protections were aimed more clearly. Intent wards around the perimeter of the Preserve kept it from being found by those with ill intent. And for anyone who managed to trick their way past those, there were others that prevented anyone who came without a specific escort from going past a certain point.

Stiles and Peter were among those few keyed to the wards as escorts, and so long as their intentions remained benign, they could pass through without hindrance. Two days ago, they’d walked the path together. Now, and yesterday, Peter ran it alone, panic singing in his veins, howled by his wolf.

For the second morning in a row, he’d woken to find his mate absent from not just his arms, but also the bed and even the entire hotel room they shared. Phone and wallet and magical supplies all left behind where they wouldn’t do any good, and which Stiles definitely wouldn’t have done if he’d left willingly.

Twice now, the Nemeton had dragged him away, and only their bond, being able to feel Stiles and track him, had kept Peter from losing his mind.

Whatever was going on here in Beacon Hills, Peter wished so very much that they hadn’t come back to deal with it.

Just as yesterday, when Peter burst into the clearing, Stiles was laying on the damn stump, blinking and shifting like he was still waking up and feeling out his environment. But he was waking up, and he seemed much less bleary than he had been yesterday when Peter had found him, or the first day when they had first come and the Nemeton had tried to drain him of every drop of magic he possessed and then some. His mate even smiled to see him, the relieved nature of it flowing both ways down their bond.

And then Stiles started to glow, and all Peter’s relief drained away in an instant.

The light pulsed, growing brighter and brighter each time. Whatever the Nemeton had wanted all that power for, it was happening now. And it was happening to Stiles.

He lunged forward, reaching out, saw Stiles reaching back. And then the light flared, blinding in intensity. Not only could Peter not see through it, but it burned, and he closed his eyes. It flared again, practically visible through his eyelids, and he was flung back, into one of the surrounding trees.

Peter didn’t hesitate to push himself back to his feet, ignoring the pain as he healed from whatever injuries he’d gained on impact. But he waited to open his eyes until the light suddenly winked out.

The clearing was empty. Stiles was gone.

The pain slammed into him then, as the bond felt like it was torn out of him by the roots. Peter collapsed to his knees, howling, clutching at his chest like he could catch it, and then just like he could stopper the jagged, gaping hole that was left behind.

~~~

Yeah, Stiles thought as he came to on top the Nemeton yet again, he was really starting to get sick of this.

Even as he blinked away the spots that crowded his vision and tried to bring his senses to heel, he could feel that there was something different about the clearing than there was before he had passed out. A different energy, one more vibrant and alive than it had been, though there was a darker edge to it. Multiple actually, and they felt familiar, like he would recognize them once he had his faculties back.

It was dark when he managed to focus on the sky overhead. Night had fallen.

If it had been that long since he’d conked out, Stiles was surprised Peter wasn’t hovering over him. Was surprised that Peter had let them stay in the clearing the longer he’d been out, since it would’ve driven his wolf crazy.

Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t feel Peter. The place in his chest where their bond was supposed to sit was empty, and the ache of it slammed into him with all the force of a truck.

Yeah, something was very wrong.

Stiles pushed himself up, forced himself to stand. And after he waited for the dizziness to pass, he took his first proper look around and suddenly it felt like everything in the world ground to a halt in its tracks.

“Stiles?”

Because there was Peter, standing on the roots and looking like a stiff breeze would blow him over, shock and confusion clear on his face. But what really got Stiles was the blood on his claws and the body of Jennifer Blake sprawled at his feet.

This had been years ago, what…what was going on?

Pull Me From The Grave (Help Me Prevent Another)

When Peter resurrects himself, Stiles is waiting for him.

@stetersecretsanta2022 For @i-might-be-in-over-my-head

Happy Holidays, Friend!

When he woke up, Peter was expecting Derek and Lydia. He was not expecting Stiles.

He pulled himself out of the dirt, and then out of the hole in the floorboards, and came face to face with the teenager.

Stiles was crouched on the edge of the hole, bat over one shoulder, and grinning broadly. “Hey, Peter,” he said.

“Stiles,” Peter responded. “What brings you here?”

The boy shrugged. “Oh, nothing much, just checking in on the place, making sure it hasn’t crushed any dumb interlopers, checking in on your resurrection, nothing major. Speaking of which though, how are you doing? Everything where it’s supposed to be and working correctly?”

Peter was pretty sure everything was ‘where it was supposed to be’, but he didn’t think his more supernatural qualities, including his healing factor, were going to be up to par quite yet. But he wasn’t about to reveal such a weakness like that, especially not when this particular teenager had already demonstrated a willingness to kill him.

“Yes, thank you.”

The grin on Stiles' face only got bigger. “Liar.” He held out the hand not holding onto his bat, like he was offering to help Peter out of the hole.

Equally possible was that he was going to take advantage of the position that put Peter in to swing that bat. And against a werewolf who wasn’t entirely in one piece, he would definitely be able to do some serious damage. Might even be able to kill Peter, if he hit him hard enough in the head and crushed his skull. Even breaking ribs and puncturing his lungs with them would probably take him right back out at the moment, since he wasn’t going to be healing anywhere near as quickly as he was accustomed to.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I didn’t bring this with a plan to use it?” Stiles bounced the bat on his shoulder a little, like he’d known what Peter was thinking. “More of a precaution, in case your brains were still all scrambled. Can’t have an insane werewolf running around on top of everything else that’s going on right now. But you seem better than you were, wouldn’t you say?”

Clever boy. Yes, Peter would say that. He definitely felt better, even if there were definitely parts that still felt raw, like there were still healing burns in his psyche. But it wasn’t all consuming like before he killed Laura, and there wasn’t the also painful burning rage clouding his vision either. “Not going to offer to put it down though?”

Stiles snorted. “Not stupid, Peter. Can’t trust you, yet. But I don’t want to have to use it, if that helps.”

Yet, Peter caught, can’t trust you yet.

Oddly enough, that did help. So he took Stiles' hand and let the teenager pull him out of the hole. Let Stiles catch and stabilize him when he stumbled, keep him on his feet with an arm around his shoulders until he stopped swaying. Only then, when he seemed sure that Peter wasn’t going to keel over on him, did Stiles step away. And even then, he didn’t go very far. Only a few paces away to where a pile of fabric lay waiting, and Stiles turned back to Peter with it in hand.

“Think you can manage putting some clothes on so you don’t get cited for public indecency on our way to somewhere you can get cleaned up?”

With a little more space between them, and feeling less like he had to watch for an attack even if he still wasn’t going to fully let his guard down, Peter looked more closely at Stiles. Something had felt off about the boy from the moment he’d come far enough up out of the hole to see him, and now Peter was able to try and see what it was. And instantly, he could see several things that would have been pinging his radar if he’d been able to pay them more attention.

Stiles' hair was longer, grown out and spikey. There were scars poking out from his sleeves and collar, and lines around his eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there when Peter had died. And was that ink too, those black edges peeking past his clothes? Tattoos? And the bat. Wooden, but carved and burnt with symbols, the faintest glow around it visible to his enhanced eyesight. And it smelled like wolfsbane, mountain ash, mistletoe, and so many other things bound together with a layer of ozone. The same smell that coated Stiles too, the edge of an approaching storm.

And all of that was completely ignoring the way he stood, the tension in his shoulders, the look on his face when he thought he wasn’t being observed. The way he’d watched Peter like he was waiting for something, but it was different depending on whether or not he thought Peter was looking back at him. For a threat or danger, guarded and sharp when he was. And like he was waiting for something when he wasn’t, but pained like he didn’t expect to get it.

“You know,” Peter said as he reached out and took the clothes, “if I hadn’t been haunting Lydia these last few months, looking at you would make me think it had been longer.”

Stiles blinked a moment, like he was taken aback, and then a startled laugh burst out of him. “Oh yeah?”

Stiles didn’t volunteer anything, but Peter bet he could guess, even without being given the time to think it out further. Something sung in Peter’s veins, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t a surge of energy from the moonlight, or a jolt of energy delayed in returning. “Yes.”

He didn’t really need the details. Just the way Stiles was watching him, and the knowledge that whatever had happened before, it was going to be different this time. This Stiles was going to make it different.

And maybe he’d consider letting Peter help.

Hi there! Feel free to go any direction you'd like with Scott. He has a lot of potential across the range of good to bad, and I'm always happy to see what different people do with that. Thanks for asking!

Home Calls (Even When It Doesn’t Have Your Number)

“I have to go back to Beacon Hills to figure this out, don’t I?”

“That is what it sounds like, yes.”

@stetersecretsanta2021 For IthacaontheMove

“Alright, what’s the matter?”

Stiles looked up at his mentor from where he was flipping through the grimoire she’d set him to read.. They were on opposite sides of her workshop. She stood behind the table where she worked on preparing spell and potion ingredients and he sat on the floor in front of a wall of bookshelves that were stuffed so full that they were near to overflowing. “What?”

Amanda - “None of that Mrs. Raine nonsense,” she’d insisted when they’d first met, “I’m old enough as it is, no need to make me feel older” - pointed at him. “You’ve been rubbing over your heart whenever you’ve had a free hand for the last week. What’s going on?”

He blinked and looked down. His hand had stopped moving, but it was still pressed to his chest over his heart. “Huh. I mean, I don’t know that I’d say anything is wrong? It just sorta aches a little.”

Stiles thought that would be the end of it, but Amanda set down the pestle she was using to grind herbs and crossed the room to sit down in front of him. Curious, Stiles set aside the grimoire to give her his full attention.

“Is it an ache?” she asked. “Or is it more of a pull? Like there’s a string tied around something inside you and it’s being tugged on from the other end?”

He frowned. “That is…eerily specific…and accurate. How did you guess?”

“Has it ever happened before?”

Stiles thought back to a few months after his mother died, to the week leading up to and the month after the Hale fire, and the ache that nothing had been able to soothe or make go away. “Yeah.”

“Has it been constant since then?”

“No, it faded as I left Beacon Hills to come here. This is the first time I’ve felt it since.”

That seemed to relax Amanda a little bit. “So it’s tied to something in Beacon Hills,” she murmured. “An object, or a being? Odd that it would be weakened by distance and yet crop up against so many years later. Unless…”

“What?”

She focused back on Stiles. “Did you ever try to follow it to its source?”

He had to give that one some thought, and Amanda was patient while he searched his memory. “Not intentionally…" Styles settled on. “There was one night Dad woke me up and I had the front door open, he said I'd been sleepwalking. But I've never sleepwalked before then, and I haven't done it since. And there were two other times, one before that and one after. I found myself walking when I hadn't intended to be."

“Do you know where you were headed?”

“Only the two bracketing times, but it wasn’t clear the first time. I think I was headed for the Preserve, but I don’t know where in the Preserve, or why I wanted to go there. And the second time was different, I was headed for the hospital. But I don’t know where I was going the time I was sleepwalking, though I know I was dreaming before Dad woke me. And right after, I thought I smelled smoke.” He paused. “I never made the connection before, but that was the night of the Hale fire. Dad got the call from the station a few minutes after waking me.”

“Two different destinations, very odd,” Amanda murmured. “And the Hale fire? There’s something important there, but we’ll come back to it.” Catching the stubborn look that was starting to form on his face, Amanda sighed. “Alright, I suppose I’ve gotten enough to mostly confirm my suspicions. I’ve heard stories of people experiencing something similar, but they never specified the cause beyond that there was a bond in place and it activated in times of need. There are rumors that there is a Nemeton somewhere in the vicinity of Beacon Hills, but somehow I don’t think that’s the source of the pull. I definitely would have known if you had been bonded to one, I would’ve been able to sense it from the start. And a Nemeton would have no reason to pull you to the hospital, so it’s something else.”

“So…something needed me, and now it needs me again?”

“More likely, it never stopped needing you, the distance was just too great for you to feel it. More likely the source has gained some sort of power boost that allowed the…signal, if you will, to travel farther.”

Stiles sighed. “I have to go back to Beacon Hills to figure this out, don’t I?”

“That is what it sounds like, yes.”

---

Amanda had not been able to leave right away, but she had insisted that Stiles go on ahead and promised to follow as soon as she could. So Stiles had booked the earliest flight he could that still left him enough time to pack, and in no time he was back in Beacon Hills.

He had called ahead to inform his father, and Noah Stilinski had refused to even entertain the thought of his son staying in a hotel when Stiles’ old room was still perfectly serviceable. Noah had also insisted on picking Stiles up from the airport, and when he refused to budge on either, Stiles was forced to give in and let him.

It was more than a little surprising. Not long after Stiles had left, Noah had become the sheriff of Beacon Hills and his schedule had become a good deal busier. From what Stiles had known of his work ethic after Claudia Stilinski had died, Noah taking time off for anything personal was unusual.

When Stiles had expressed this surprise to Amanda, she had laughed a little. “He hasn’t gotten to really see you for nine years, of course he wants every opportunity he can get to spend time with you.”

Stiles hadn’t had the heart to remind her that he had wanted to see his father more often, going as far as to make a schedule for visits that included holidays, both of their birthdays (and Claudia’s), and multiple opportunities in the gaps. But Noah had been the one to turn him down, telling Stiles to focus on his apprenticeship.

It was the most Stiles had ever heard the man refer to the reason Stiles had left Beacon Hills.

Something in his expression must’ve hinted at these thoughts though, because Amanda had patted his cheek and said, “Nine years is also a lot of time to grieve and be able to move on.”

To Stiles’ relief, the reunion had been more than amiable. Despite not having seen Stiles since he was ten, Noah had recognized him on sight and enveloped him in a hug. It might’ve been a quick hug, but it had been warm and unhesitant. And on the drive home, Noah had asked him about the apprenticeship and the things he was learning, even prodding Stiles to elaborate and asking a number of detailed and insightful questions.

There had only been one point where tension had risen. Stiles had asked what sort of things had been going on in the town lately. Noah had been a little hesitant, but he explained the recent string of mountain lion attacks and the body of a young woman that had been cut in half discovered in the woods.

“Has she been identified yet?” Stiles asked curiously.

“Yes, that was earlier in the week. We were pretty sure she was Laura Hale, and then her younger brother Derek arrived in town and confirmed it.”

Laura and Derek Hale. Two of the three survivors of the fire that had claimed the lives of almost all the rest of the family, and only because they hadn’t been home at the time. The third survivor, their uncle Peter Hale, had been inside the house and been burned so badly that he’d been comatose ever since. Stiles was pretty sure the only reason he’d survived at all was because he was a werewolf, the same as the rest of the family. Stiles could feel the edge of something there. That was what Amanda had meant when he’d said his sleepwalking episode had occurred the night of the fire. There was definitely something important there. But what was it?

“Any idea who was behind it?” he asked.

Noah gave him a look that reminded Stiles of the month before he’d gone to stay with Amanda, his father’s irritation whenever Stiles had been digging through his case files. He almost retracted the question, but Noah only sighed and shook his head, the look fading as he turned his attention back to the road. “No, no leads. There was some concern that it had been Derek, but we managed to confirm his alibi, he was still in New York at the time we estimate her death to have occurred and there’s nothing in any travel records that indicates he might’ve doubled back.”

That was where things had teetered on turning sour. Stiles had mused aloud about whether or not any of it might be related to what had brought him back to Beacon Hills. Noah had asked what that was, and Stiles had explained the resurgence of the pull he’d experienced before leaving Beacon Hills.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Noah sounded so hurt and Stiles couldn’t squash the sudden surge of frustration.

“I tried. But you were too focused on the fact that Mom’s magic hadn’t helped her, that it had been what killed her. You didn’t want me to have it too, so you ignored it until it was shoved in your face so hard that ignoring it was impossible, at least so long as I was there for you to see it.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Stiles knew he had gone too far. Noah’s jaw clenched, and he looked firmly at the road, not so much as glancing at Stiles.

They didn’t exchange any words until Stiles saw the sign that marked the town limits approaching. “Could you pull over, please?” he requested, breaking the silence. “There’s something I have to do before we get into town.”

For a moment, he thought his father was going to ask, but Noah didn’t. He did pull over as Stiles had asked though.

Stiles got out of the car and approached the sign. He reached out with his magic, feeling for the invisible boundary lines that ringed the town. When he found them, he sent a nudge of power along them to either side, forceful enough to go all the way around. It only took a few minutes for both pulses to come back from the opposite direction, having gone full circle, and when it did, Stiles couldn’t help frowning. If there was indeed a Nemeton in the area like Amanda thought, then it should have a guardian, and that guardian should definitely have some wards up. And if there wasn’t, there should still be at the remains of wards at the very least that the Hale pack emissary should’ve placed. But there was nothing to indicate there had been a magical alarm system around the town within the last few decades, perhaps even longer than that.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Amanda.

A short conversation later and Stiles walked back to the car. He opened the passenger side door, but didn’t get in.

“Whoever the last emissary to the Hale pack was, they didn’t even put up intent wards around the town. I’m going to do that now, and then we can get going.”

Noah frowned. “Don’t you have to walk the borders to put up wards?”

“Most people do. And if I were doing anything beyond intent wards, I would too, otherwise they’d be so weak as to be basically useless. But I just want to be alerted if something intending harm or the like crosses the boundaries, and as powerful as I am, I can do that so long as I am standing on the boundary line. Be right back.”

His bag was in the trunk, and Stiles rifled through it quickly, gathering the materials he needed for this particular spell. Then he returned to the sign and the boundary line it marked.

Stiles was strong and his reserves were deep, but it had been a while since he had performed a working this large. He stumbled slightly when he stepped off the line and out of the loop of power circling the town. Sleep was going to be wonderful when they got back to the house.

Noah didn’t say anything when he got back in the car. The rest of the trip to the house passed in a silence that was a little less strained than before they had stopped, but only barely.

Inside the house though, Noah finally broke the silence. When Stiles moved toward the stairs, his father held out a hand. “Hold on a second.” He dropped his key ring into the bowl kept for that very purpose and pulled another key out of it that he held out to Stiles. “If you need to go anywhere. The jeep is in the garage.”

Stiles stared, struggling to believe that what was happening was more than just a hallucination conjured up by the exhaustion of jet lag and extensive magic use.

“I - We wanted to give her to you when you got your license. And I wanted to hold true to that…after. But I…I was a fool. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s late, but she’s yours, if you want her. She’s old, and likely in need of some care, but she’ll still run. I checked before I left to come get you, and she has a fresh tank of gas as well.”

When his father stopped talking and didn’t continue, Stiles slowly reached out and took the key. It was cold and solid in his hand.

“Thanks,” he managed. And then he darted up the stairs. 

---

“Note to self,” Stiles groaned. “Stop antagonizing hunters by pointing out their bigotry when you don’t know how much backup they have.”

Everything hurt, or at least it felt that way. Stiles doubted the hunters had actually managed to land a blow on every single inch of his skin. They’d definitely gotten a lot of him though.

The fight had started out pretty even. When Stiles had gone out to see what had tripped his wards, he’d come across a trio of hunters. He could’ve passed for an insomniac jogger or a star enthusiast, a normal human with a perfectly ordinary and reasonable excuse for being out in the woods so late. Stiles didn’t doubt that’s what they’d mistake him for, as they’d started lowering their guns before he’d opened his mouth.

Stiles hadn’t gone away to learn magic for nothing. He was more than powerful and skilled enough to take on three hunters with ease, even when he was tired from casting the intent wards around the town earlier. It was when their backup had melted out of the trees, bringing the total of hunters up to ten, that the odds had tipped against him.

He’d fled as soon as he’d figured that out, but Stiles had been gone from Beacon Hills for some time and he hadn’t had a very thorough knowledge of the Preserve to start with. So instead of running towards civilization and the safety they would have provided, Stiles headed deeper into the woods. Unable to use his magic to navigate, he’d gotten horribly lost, and the hunters had managed to trap him.

The beating they delivered was quick and thorough. Stiles was more than a little surprised that they left him alive. The bigotry that ran rampant in hunters like these didn’t usually distinguish between the shifter nonhuman and magic user nonhuman. Hell, even just being involved with the supernatural in a non-hunting capacity was enough for condemnation. Stiles had heard stories of humans who had joined or had been born into packs and been killed for it.

He’d spent too much time laying on the forest floor. The hunters’ negative attitude was definitely enough for them to have been what crossed his wards, but Stiles wasn’t about to risk their crossing having masked something else. He needed to get back to town, tell his dad about the hunters.

Bracing himself for the pain, Stiles started pushing himself into an upright position. Gritting his teeth ground them together as his body protested the change in position. He paused on his elbows to catch his breath, forcing himself to breathe through the pain. Then he rolled enough to be pushing up from his side rather than his back. This has a nasty effect of dragging his ankle across the ground and sending a flare of pain up his leg.

Stiles remembered when the hunter had brought his foot down hard on his ankle. That had felt deliberate, more calculated than the rest of the attack. For some reason, they hadn’t wanted him to go very far, if he made it anywhere at all.

Now Stiles definitely wanted to get out of here as soon as he could. Whatever the hunters wanted him stuck for it couldn’t be anything good.

The back of his neck prickled, the hairs there standing up in alarm. Stiles froze.

There wasn’t anything that he could see in the trees in front of him. So the threat, whatever it was, was behind him.

Stiles gathered the dregs of his magic that remained. Then, slowly, he turned to face the other direction.

His breath caught in his throat when he met the stare of a pair of glowing red eyes.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed as the puzzle pieces clicked into place.

He’d seen werewolves in their full shift before. A little larger than normal wolves with similar coloring and eyes that glowed red, gold, or blue depending on their role.

This werewolf… Its eyes were alpha red, but the form, the shape, was all off. Like it was bear and wolf. And it was larger than any fully shifted werewolf that Stiles had ever seen. 

This was why the hunters had left him alive.

“I’m bait for you,” he breathed.

The hunters probably hadn’t gone far, just enough to be past the range of the werewolf’s senses, and close enough to hear if Stiles yelled or the wolf howled.

Even if this wolf was a rogue in need of dealing with, Stiles vowed silently to himself that he wouldn’t draw the hunters back to it. Not hunters like these, whose ideas would only be reinforced by taking out an actual rogue.

But thankfully, the wolf wasn’t coming after him. It stayed where it was, watching.

Absently, Stiles wondered if it was using him as bait too, waiting for the hunters to come back to check their bait. If it was, that was a rather large indicator that it was not what they likely thought it was.

Stiles hadn’t encountered any rogue wolves, alpha or otherwise, personally. He had heard stories from people who had though. Rogues were smart, but they were driven so much by their instincts that overly complicated plans beyond the capabilities of an ordinary wolf were beyond them as well. The hunters probably suspected this one of being behind all the attacks that had gone on in town recently, but a rogue couldn’t have pulled all that off. There was something calculated about the kills, and arranging for a mountain lion to be caught and blamed for them? That was too clever for a rogue.

The wolf growled, and Stiles realized he was still looking it in the eye. He didn’t look down or away, but slowly, he lifted his chin and tilted his head to bare his throat. “I’d raise my hands too, but I think I’d fall over if I did that.”

Those red eyes blinked, and then there was a quiet huff. Almost like the wolf was laughing at him.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

When he focused on the wolf again, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Before, it had been several yards away. Now there were barely a few feet between them.

Stiles swallowed the instinctive, startled shout, but there was nothing he could do about his heartbeat or the pheromones he was putting off. He held very still, not even daring to breathe as the wolf took the last few steps between them. Its muzzle was inches from his face.

When all the wolf did was stand there, Stiles lost control of his mouth. “You’re just a dick, aren’t you? Just standing there with your teeth in my face because you know it scares me and you’re getting a kick out of it.”

He barely repressed his flinch when the wolf huffed again. He did yelp when it pushed its nose into the curve where neck and shoulder connected. Only the sharp bite of pain from his injuries, reflexively stiffening his body, kept him from flailing backwards more than a couple of inches.

“That’s just cold, man,” he complained, careful to keep his voice low. “Literally. Your nose is cold. And wet. I thought weres were more respectful of that sort of thing than the average domesticated canine. Apparently not. Oh wait, I forgot, you’re a dick.”

Then there was a prickle, teeth against his skin. Stiles snapped his mouth shut so fast, his teeth clicked together.

The wolf snorted, and put the teeth away. Definitely not a rogue despite the odd form. A rogue might tease and terrify, enjoying the fear, but a rogue would’ve taken that advantage in a heartbeat, not backed off when it felt it had made its point.

But if it wasn’t a rogue, then what the hell was going on here?

The odd form was indicative of problems, that was for sure. Stiles took advantage of the wolf’s proximity to study it. Beyond the odd shape, it moved strangely. Less like a wolf and more like something either bipedal, or that could switch between bipedal and quadruped. But it wasn’t bipedal itself, not really, there was still too much wolf in it for that. And the fur was patchy, scars visible in places down the left side of its body. Burn scars, Stiles realized.

And the puzzle pieces clicked into place.

An alpha that came out of nowhere. Laura Hale, an alpha who was killed. A burn victim who was also a werewolf. Who lived in the Preserve with his family until a fire killed them and put him in the hospital.

“It’s you,” Stiles breathed. And then, “You’re Peter Hale, aren’t you?”

The wolf snarled, and all the breath was knocked out of Stiles when Peter head butted him in the chest and knocked him on his back.

“Ow,” he coughed.

Peter moved to stand over him, and even as he wheezed, trying to get his breath back, Stiles was careful to keep his chin lifted, his throat bared.

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” Stiles managed to say. “But I swear, I’m not here to hurt you, and I’m not gonna try anything. I’m here to help.” Peter snarled again, but Stiles kept talking. “I’m here to help. You’ve been calling me for nine years, though I’m not sure you knew it. I’m sorry it took me so long, I didn’t understand, but I’m here now.”

Slowly, carefully, telegraphing his movements, Stiles raised his hand. He stayed away from Peter’s throat, going for his shoulder instead, and gently combed his fingers through the fur there.

The werewolf growled, but it sounded like less of a threat and more of a warning to Stiles. He ran his fingers through the fur one last time, and then he pulled his hand away, putting it back on the ground at his side. Peter started to step back and away.

Then he paused, ears pricked. Stiles closed his mouth, breathing through his nose so as to make less noise and let the wolf listen.

From out in the darkness came the crack of dry, dead wood snapping.

And then the soft whistle of something flying through the air at high speed.

Almost before the sound had registered in his brain, Stiles threw up a shield around himself and Peter. The projectile hit the shield immediately after, and the impact lit up the clearing as it made the shield visible.

The hunters stepped into view, weapons drawn and aimed at the now surrounded pair.

“You know, you are really just proving my point here,” Stiles said. “Neither of us were doing anything that would hurt anybody, but you’ve still got weapons pointed at us.”

One of the hunters scuffed. “You really think a were that looks like that is innocent, boy? What about all the killings that’ve been going on around here, hmm?”

“You mean the mountain lion attacks? Cause they caught the lion, ya know.”

Stiles knew they didn’t buy it though. The only reason the hunters hadn’t tried to fill him and Peter with holes yet was they were waiting for his shield to fail. He’d already used up a lot of energy fighting them earlier, and they knew it.

He looked at Peter. “You know, I think they care more about you than they do about me. You could probably manage to escape if you run, and I could keep the shield around you for a minute or two to give you an advantage.”

The werewolf continued watching the hunters, lips lifted away from his teeth in a snarl. But he flicked an ear as if in acknowledgement.

“Right then, time for a distraction.”

Stiles turned his attention inward to the well of magic he held. He looked at the sphere that was the shield and the tether of magic it was pulling away from him in a careful trickle.

Creativity, faith, and willpower, Stiles thought. So long as he believed it was possible, it would happen.

He pushed magic at the shield, briefly increasing the flow, and then just as sharply pulled it back, simultaneously pulling on the shield at the same time. Around him, the shield’s glow briefly flared bright enough to blind, and then the shield started to shrink.

Focused on holding the shield, Stiles only distantly heard the hunters’ startled shouts. But he definitely felt it when Peter’s teeth latched in the front of his hoodie and he was dragged up and forwards until he was draped over the werewolf’s back. When he felt fur beneath his hands, Stiles couldn’t spare enough focus to not reflexively latch on. Then Peter began to move, and Stiles couldn’t spare any thought to his surroundings, only concentrating on holding the shield and moving it with them.

He didn’t know much of the run through the woods. He willed the shield invisible to keep the hunters from following them by its glow right away. Each bullet and crossbow bolt that hit it threatened to make it flare and crack into pieces. Only Stiles’ will held it together.

Thankfully, it was only after the impacts had trailed off and then ceased altogether that Stiles felt his control slip.

“Losing it,” he muttered, trying to warn Peter. “I’m losing it.”

He’d barely gotten the words out when the shield collapsed, his energy reserves too drained to maintain it any longer. And then the darkness swelled.

“Oh,” he said, tone almost conversational. “Guess I used too much today. Been a while since I’ve done that.”

---

When Stiles woke up again, he was in his old bed in his childhood room. He might’ve thought the previous night was an extremely vivid dream, if not for the way his body hurt, and the scarred man sitting in his desk chair. “Good morning, Stiles,” the man said.

Stiles smiled. “Hey, Peter.”

There was a lot to be done, like calling Amanda to tell her about the previous night’s events and telling his father about the hunters. Figuring out the odd bond he had with Peter would be on the list too, though Stiles was sure that would take a bit longer. And he and Peter would have to have a conversation about the man’s health and goals and how they overlapped. Particularly how they overlapped if the man’s full shift was any indicator. And the murder.

But there would be time for all of that, and the unique stresses and problems each would undoubtedly bring, later. For the moment, Stiles enjoyed the unexpected comfort of being in his old room, the pain drain Peter started when he moved to sit on the bed and took Stiles’ hand, and the way the tug in his chest had gone from an ache to a warm, steady thrum.