Derek came home not long after the rain cleared out.

Stiles was curled up on the couch, not really sleeping so much as dazedly turning over Peter's words in his head. They all started to jumble together into a maddening tangle of half-truths, and Stiles mind stuttered every time it encountered another red flag.

He blinked blearily up at Derek and jerked himself upright, but didn't move from the couch. Stiles knew he had to be careful. Something like this, something so obviously traumatic, it had to be handled delicately. Especially if he wanted answers.

"Derek-" Stiles started, voice soft.

"I know why you're here," Derek said, leveling Stiles with a look that fairly screamed not to approach. "I killed someone. Peter took the opportunity to tell the story of the other time that happened. Is that right?"

Stiles swallowed and nodded.

"Cora?" Derek asked, gaze sweeping around the room. He'd be able to tell she wasn't in the loft, but Stiles suspected that wasn't what Derek was asking. It was obvious that Cora had bonded with Boyd; she'd cried over his body for almost an hour before they finally pulled her off of him. Derek wasn't asking where Cora had gone. Derek was asking if she was coming back.

"She went with Peter. To see if she can pry some more details out of him. I don't know, Derek. Something about his story just didn't feel right," Stiles said, looking up at Derek with an expression both sympathetic and searching.

Derek visibly tensed at that, and Stiles sighed.

"She's coming back. We just weren't sure when you'd be home, so she went with Peter to try to get more out of him," Stiles said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "And I figured I'd just wait for the source."

Derek seemed to consider Stiles for a few moments. "I need a shower. Give me ten minutes."

He tugged his shirt off as he walked away, Stiles pretending not to watch him.

It was probably closer to fifteen minutes, and Stiles decided that for his own peace of mind he was going to blame it on some really elaborate exfoliating routine, and not on Derek standing in the shower doing something very human, like crying and hating himself.

Derek came out with fresh clothes and wet hair, crossing the room to the couch a bit tentatively. He didn't claim the space at the far end, like Stiles expected he would. He sat down right next to Stiles, so close that Stiles' knee pressed against Derek's thigh when he turned to face him.

And it was subtle, but the dynamic between them felt different then. Like they were allies instead of acquaintances. Like Stiles was suddenly his co-conspirator. It felt, in some small, strange way, like Derek was letting him in.

Derek gazed down at the floor, shoulders slumped like they were buckling under a heavy weight. And with another sympathetic frown, Stiles thought, they probably were.

"What do you want to know?" Derek asked, after a minute or two of silence. He could probably hear Stiles' mind wrestling for the right words, or at the very least the sound of his mouth opening and closing with each aborted attempt.

Stiles let out a little huff. "Well, let's see. Peter told us the whole story, so I guess what I'm looking for is the version of it that's actually true."

"It's not easy to hear," Derek said, eyes still downcast and jaw tightening. "Or to tell."

Stiles reached out to lay a hand on Derek's shoulder, just as he had before. It felt just as right the second time around.

"I know."

Derek nodded slowly, lifting his gaze to meet Stiles'.

"Okay."

—

It was a terrifying time to be a wolf.

Hunters descended upon the town, a slow trickle and then a flood, and they all answered to Gerard Argent.

While they claimed to have a code of conduct, most of them still preferred to kill first and ask questions never. It was a war between humans and wolves, and in the midst of all the bloodshed, it became apparent who the real monsters were.

The packs had meetings. Countless meetings, huddled in places they deemed safe enough for the time being. They were being persecuted, sought out for wrongs that only few of them had actually committed, not given a chance to prove their innocence. It didn't matter. To the hunters, they were all guilty.

They were slowly being picked off by diligent, merciless hunters who didn't even bother to distinguish one pack from the next, let alone to try to ascertain whether the wolves they killed had done anything deserving of it. They deserved it simply because they were wolves, and their packs were thinning at an alarmingly fast rate. They mourned when they could, when they weren't running for their lives. It wasn't a way to live. Something needed to be done, some kind of peace needed to be negotiated, or they would all fall.

The packs tried to keep their children as out of harm's way as they could, deigning that they wouldn't fight unless it was absolutely required in order to defend themselves. They were kept as far from the violence as possible.

And then Derek met a girl.

She was beautiful. Quietly confident, completely brilliant, and unlike any other girl Derek had ever known.

Of course, she found his inherent teenage werewolf arrogance to be abrasive, and that only served to further draw him in. She wasn't impressed, at least not outwardly, and his mind spun circles around that fact until it landed on her soft eyes and got stuck there.

She became all he wanted. Her and peace.

And Derek didn't know, but Peter was close by, planning a way for one to bring about the other.

Peter always seemed to steer the conversation to Paige. Always. Giving unsolicited advice, whispering things in Derek's ear that made his stomach lurch.

She won't love you anymore when she finds out what you are. She's just a fragile human, what if she gets hurt? You could lose her, Derek. You will lose her, Derek.

Peter's attempts were in vain. Derek would never agree to allow Paige to be turned. How could the bite be considered a gift when all it would do was put her in more danger? Turning her would just make her another wolf to be slaughtered. It wasn't safe yet. Maybe later, when peace had been brokered between the hunters and the packs. Maybe then.

But Peter didn't much care what Derek wanted. His idea was flawless, and he was going to put it into motion with or without Derek's consent. So he went to Ennis on his own, not because Ennis needed pack members. All of the packs were thinned to desperation, but Ennis was the alpha least likely to be halted by morals when asked to turn an unwilling young girl.

Ennis was the only choice, and his willingness to participate did not disappoint.

Derek didn't know it was happening. He wasn't waiting, nervous and shaking with guilt and concern. He was at home playing a video game. Peter had sat down next to him and clapped him on the back, leaned in close and said that everything was about to be fixed. For all of them.

You can't stop it. He's already got her by now. Trust me, Derek. It's for the best.

Derek ran as fast as he could, but Peter had been right, he couldn't save her.

He picked Paige up off the floor, bleeding and crying and shaking, and carried her away.

He held her as her body rejected the bite and went into shock. He leeched as much of her pain as he could, but it wasn't enough. He blinked back his own tears as her lips, pale and dripping black, pleaded with him to end it.

So he did.

—

Derek swiped a stray tear from his cheek. Stiles waited a deferential amount of time before speaking.

"That's pretty much the story Peter gave us. With a few incriminating details altered," Stiles said, frowning. "I don't get it, though. Why would he think turning her would stop the fighting?

Derek's eyes traveled Stiles' face, scrutinizing, like suddenly maybe he didn't know if he wanted to confide in him.

"Because of who she was," Derek finally said.

"And who was she?"

Derek clenched his jaw and his fists near simultaneously. "Argent," he said, locking eyes with Stiles. "She was an Argent."