There was a bright flash of light. Somewhere to his right, a storm cloud thundered twenty-two seconds later. A shining, fat moon peeked from behind the angry clouds as if daring Scott to hide from it.
He sighed. He'd done this before, though he dreaded this night in particular. He always dreaded the night of a new werewolf's first full moon. For Malia, Stiles had done the majority of the work; he was, after all, the one to help Scott through his initial transformation. He was also Malia's first love, a title which Scott knew from experience belonged to the sole person who could anchor you during a shift. Scott had done a little in the way of coaching, but in the end, it was Stiles alone who managed to coax the humanity out of her during her first successful moon.
Liam had been haphazard. It took him several months to get accustomed to the change after that disastrous night on the hospital roof. Seemingly agitated by his already-existing anger issues, the wolf inside had clawed its way out of him every single time—until it simply didn't anymore. Bleeding palms was the worst he'd seen in a while, which was a hell of a step up from unbridled rage and bloodlust. Scott and Stiles had worked together, coming up with some bizarre werewolf mental workout regimen, until that first successful shift out in the desert. It was Derek who had initially offered Liam the triskelion, but it was Stiles who had observed it and come up with the idea to experiment and help him in different ways—ways of controlling human anger, instead of werewolf ferocity. Stiles had somehow gotten Melissa to talk to Liam's father, reinvigorating efforts into anger management. He had gotten him to take his medication again, and had given him a list of therapists to choose from. One of them had worked very, very well.
With Hayden, the change had been largely uncomplicated. Her anchor was fairly obvious, so all that remained was keeping her safe and confined for the night. Still, they had no idea what to expect for an undead chimera-turned-werewolf. It was Stiles who suggested they stick with one tree to chain the new werewolves up against, the same one they'd used for Liam a couple times: the Were-Tree, he'd called it. The Were-Tree wouldn't snap in half; it wouldn't go anywhere—and as long as the chains were thick enough, neither would any werewolves. So while Liam told her it was okay, and Scott tried to walk her through the process, Stiles stood by and calmly told her to feel the bark beneath her fingertips. So Hayden did. She felt the rough grooves left by Liam's claws on previous moons, and the cracked bark which had worn away from jumbled chains and an angry young werewolf. Stiles asked her to get through this, because Liam had and she would too. And bit by bit, she did.
Every single time, Stiles saved the day. He knew just what to do and say, somehow, and Scott was ever thankful. But tonight, he really hated that moon. He could feel it; it was high enough where its effects were likely to cause a shift at any minute. Turning away from his reverie, Scott crunched over dead leaves and snapping twigs toward the Were-Tree. It was a weird sort of home base now.
Liam and Hayden were leaning against the hood of the Jeep, watching uneasily as Stiles chained his father up like a dog.
He'd insisted on being the one to do it. He wouldn't let either of the betas—or Scott, for that matter—help him. He said he had to. That now, he was responsible for both protecting his father from others, and protecting him from himself. Because the sheriff would never forgive him if he managed to kill an innocent. Now, his father simply stood there with an empty look on his face, chains encircling his torso and confining his wrists as Stiles clicked the lock in place. He stepped backward a bit, checking over the restraints and nodding to himself.
"Okay, dad, this is gonna suck." He patted his father on the shoulder. "But you'll be okay."
"I know, Stiles," the sheriff said, gently. "But will you?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine, the puppies are in control and you're not going anywhere, daddy-o."
"That's not what I meant."
Stiles looked at him a moment, before giving a shaky breath. He rubbed the back of his neck, finally meeting his father's eyes. "I know what you meant. The answer is still yes." With that, he backed up a little more, but still not taking his eyes off his father's form.
The sheriff nodded, seemingly satisfied with said answer. He wriggled his hands within their manacles and glanced over at Scott. "So when will it start? I already sort of feel it, but when will it…you know."
Scott didn't respond right away. All he could do was stare at the scene before him and feel a tightening in his chest. Sheriff Stilinski was chained to a tree, and he was the one who forced him there. And to top it all off, Stiles was giving Scott this look, this look that was so pathetic and dead and sad, and just a little bit disdainful.
It felt wrong—so horribly, utterly wrong to be an alpha to the man twice his age and then some. The man who had dressed shredded knees, wiped away his tears; the man who had so often filled the place of a genuine father and protector. He was the man who protected an entire county. He was his best friend's father.
His best friend's father was his beta. Out of anything Scott could have expected, the sheriff becoming a werewolf hadn't even been on the list. The Stilinskis were supposed to be human and stay that way. Everything he knew had been turned upside-down.
Scott swallowed down whatever lump was in his throat. "Within a few minutes, probably. Do you feel that…that headache?"
"Oh yeah," said the sheriff. Stiles winced.
"W–Well it's gonna get worse. But," he breathed, "just try to stay calm. You know how we all deal with it." He shook his thumb vaguely between himself and the other two werewolves. "So I guess…just try to keep your mind on that. Just—cling to that. And hopefully it'll work, and this'll be the last time we have to chain the sheriff of Beacon Hills to a tree." He laughed a false, little laugh, and surprisingly enough, the new werewolf chuckled with the real thing. Stiles wasn't doing anything, instead distracting himself with the ground.
"Yeah, this is pretty uncomfortable."
"Tell me about it," blurted Liam. Hayden hit him lightly on the arm.
Scott ignored him. "It's, uh, a good grounding tool. Pain makes you human. It won't tonight, not really, but if you can grip that little…ledge it gives you, you can sort of…help pull yourself out of it. I mean, you don't need it but it can never hurt to think about it, right? But to even get to that ledge, you need to use something to, um—to ground you, and you can start to sorta pull yourself up from that." His words sounded like a babble, hardly making sense to his own ears. He wondered how intelligible he even was. "You need that thing to grab you, that makes you you. You need to focus on it, hard. You need—"
"—an anchor?" interrupted the sheriff. He smiled. "I know what you're trying to say, Scott. But I already know what thought will keep me human." He turned his gaze fondly toward his son, who was now looking up at him with watery eyes. "I know my anchor."
Stiles let out a mangled sound—something between a sob and a gasp. He spun around, striding in the direction of the Jeep, wiping at his eyes with both hands.
Scott glanced at the sheriff, whose face was drawn, before following Stiles. His friend stopped at the back end of his car, the end facing away from everything but trees and growing shadow. Liam and Hayden had enough tact not to follow them, drawing the appropriate conclusion that this did not involve them.
Stiles was leaning against the rear window, frantically grabbing at the sleeves of his hoodie and rubbing his eyes with the loose fabric.
"Stiles—"
"Don't. Just stop."
"No."
Stiles dropped his sleeves from his hands, meeting Scott's steady eyes with his own puffy ones. He didn't say anything. He simply stared with that hopeless look that Scott hated so much.
"I won't stop because it's not okay, Stiles," he said, his voice loud and breathy. "We're not okay. You've hardly been able to look at me. You haven't looked at me, or–or really talked to me since—"
"—since you bit my dad?" he snapped bitterly.
Scott paused, flinching at his accusing tone. Stiles was fixed in an expression that was so un-Stiles-like that it physically pained Scott to see it. It was angry, it was terrified; it was full of grief, and worry. It said a thousand things at once that all gripped Scott's heart in a vice and didn't let go. It didn't make it any better that the expression was directed at him.
He took a breath. "If I hadn't bitten him, he would be dead."
Stiles bit his lip, shaking his head at Scott as tears threatened to fall.
"Stiles." Scott reached out a tentative hand, grazing his best friend's shoulder lightly. "He wouldn't be here."
Stiles was still absently shaking his head, though his gaze had shifted to the ground, his arms crossed in front of himself.
He gripped his shoulder harder. "He wouldn't be here and you know that."
"I know!" Stiles blurted. He pushed Scott's hand from his shoulder and continued, shakily. "I know that, of course I know that. I know he'd be gone, I know he'd be dead. But that doesn't make it okay." His voice broke.
"Stiles…"
"I never wanted this for him. Do you remember when you told me I should tell him? About all this?" He waved his hands in a vague arc, gesticulating wildly. "And–And I said it might get him killed? This is what I was talking about. And it's not just him, and it's not just getting killed, Scott, it's–it's having everything change when I don't want it to!" He took a deep breath. His watery eyes bored holes into Scott's. "It's like—when all this started, we had no idea what was going on. We had no idea how deep this all goes, and now that we know, now that we've seen it, and we've been through so much—" The tears he'd kept at bay suddenly seemed to fall all at once. He sobbed. "And I'm just so sick of it."
Scott didn't need to hear anymore. He pulled Stiles to him, wrapping his arms tightly around his friend's shaking frame as they buried their faces in each other's necks. They were both crying, but neither of them tried to stop. They just let it happen until the tears stopped hurting as much, and their hearts felt a little less painful. They both knew that on the other side of the Jeep, the werewolves have heard anything. They just don't care.
Stiles lifted his head from Scott's shoulder slightly, sniffing. "I don't blame you. I'm sorry."
Scott cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry that everything's that happened to us has absolutely sucked."
Stiles laughed—a real laugh, and it's music to his ears. It's a good feeling against Scott's chest. "Not all of it. There's been some good times. And there's enough there that I wouldn't trade it for anything." Scott's not sure if Stiles notices, but he hugs him almost imperceptibly tighter as he says those words.
"And hey," Stiles continues, "maybe having a kickass werewolf dad won't be so bad. Only…I can never lie to him again. I'm terrible at that controlled heartbeat stuff. And if I try to do something 'dangerous' he can make me stay away." He shudders—not from sadness, but from humor. Scott smiles. "He can pick me up and throw me without his back breaking now."
Scott chuckles. "Yeah. I have a feeling he'll be a great werewolf sheriff, too."
"Ooo, I didn't even think about that. With claws and a gun."
"Yeah. And Stiles?"
"Hmm?"
"You'll be great at helping him through it. You always have been." He rubs his friend's shoulder with his thumb. "I know firsthand."
Stiles doesn't say anything, but he returns the motion. And that's all Scott needs to know he heard him.
They fall silent, still locked in their little embrace. But then there's a flash of light, and the sound of thunder comes seven seconds after. And then it abruptly starts to pour.
They let go of each other, but Scott immediately regrets the loss of body heat as the ice-cold rain hits his skin. For the middle of summer, the rain is surprisingly cold. Stiles must have the same thought. He scowls at the sky, as if it just ruined his birthday party. But then he looks back at Scott, and he smiles. He opens his mouth, but then Liam's voice calls their attention.
"Guys!"
They share a look, then hurry to the front end of the Jeep where Liam and Hayden have moved closer to Stilinski. The sheriff is pulling against the chains, his eyes wild and burning yellow. He's growling, and shaking, and looks the perfect picture of a new werewolf. Wolfy sideburns and all.
He feels Stiles still beside him, faced at last with the picture he'd likely been preparing himself for. Scott squeezes his arm briefly, in a mild show of comfort. But then Stiles keeps moving, and soon enough he's almost directly in front of his father. As soon as he gets close enough, the sheriff pulls harder at his restraints, claws scraping against whatever purchase he can get against the tree and the steel chains. He's writhing, yearning to get free. Wanting to kill. Wanting to kill his son.
"Dad. It's me, dad." The only response he gets is more frantic thrashing and snarling. "I know you can't respond real well, but I know you can hear me." He has to practically shout to be heard over the rain. "Somewhere in there, I know you can. I know you can do this."
The others simply watch. They watch as Stiles sits on the muddy ground in front of his dad, uncaring that he's now covered in filth, ready to tough it out right along with him. Seeing that nothing major is going to happen, soaking wet Liam and Hayden share a look with Scott, to which he nods. They both make their way to Stiles' Jeep, opening the door and clambering inside with a squelch. They all know they need to be prepared for anything, in case something goes wrong. In case the unexpected happens. But only one of them needs to be out in the rain—just in case. So Scott stands a little behind Stiles as he sits and watches his father. They don't really talk; the rain makes it pretty impossible, anyway, and the growling drowns out anything else.
As it turns out, they needn't be prepared for anything at all. About two and a half hours into their silent vigil, they hear a faint voice. Above the pelting rain, they hear his father.
"Stiles?"
The younger Stilinski immediately shoots up, looking incredulous. The entire back of his jeans, and then some, is covered in muck, but he doesn't care. He turns and stares wide-eyed at Scott for a second before responding. "Dad?"
His father's face is no longer deformed by the wolf inside him. His eyes are still glowing, and his claws are still out, but he looks fairly in control, considering. He pants slightly from the exertion of struggling against his bonds for so long.
"Stiles. I…" He concentrates for a second. "Stiles."
"Dad?" he repeats. He steps forward. But he's met with the sound of rattling chains as his father's face distorts again. He reaches forward as much as he can, and Scott swears he can hear a few sections of bark breaking off.
"I want to kill you!" he roars.
Stiles recoils in shock, blinking at his father saying those words. But he steels his face. "No. No you don't. I know you'd never hurt me." He swallows. "You're my dad. You'd never hurt me."
All he gets in response is a guttural snarl. So Stiles steps forward.
"Stiles," is all Scott says in warning. But he doesn't stop him.
"Dad. You've got to get control." He stares into his father's yellow eyes, merely a foot from him. "So get back to me, alright?"
His words don't seem to have an immediate effect. Yet, as the minutes tick onward, Scott can see the more human movements of the sheriff return to him; he's less feral. Ever so slightly more controlled. Stiles can see it too.
"Come on, dad. You can beat it," he says, conviction dripping off of every syllable. "It's just a wolf."
A low, very canine whine emerges from his father, almost as if in pain. His eyes stay wide open, forcing himself to look at Stiles. Scott can tell there's been a fight behind those yellow eyes for a while. A fight for control. And the sheriff is starting to win. Slowly, the growls stop and the chains quiet. His face becomes human once more; his eyes are a little less wild, his movements less frantic. The wolf withdraws, and the sheriff finally wins.
"Stiles," he gasps. "Sorry I said that I wanted to kill you. Didn't mean a word of it."
They both stare, their eyes impossibly wide and even more astounded. Scott had barely even taken in what Stilinski had said, every thought taken up with a series of questions and good feelings. So he laughs instead. He almost can't believe it. It's still the middle of the night. Less than one full moon, and he's already got a handle on it. The sheriff is completely human right now. "Sheriff, how—that's amazing," he says, stupidly. "It took all of us way longer."
"Well, none of you have kids," he replies, as if it's obvious. Stiles gives a little throaty laugh and he smiles at his father.
"I guess that makes me a really heavy anchor?"
The sheriff of Beacon Hills grins, fixing his son with the most affectionate look which Scott had ever seen him wear. "Very heavy. In the best, most amazing way."
Stiles swallows, his eyes looking suspiciously wet even through the torrential downpour. "I'd hug you, but I see you're a little tied up at the moment."
"Oh, hah."
Stiles paused, seeming to be in thought. He spun around toward Scott, a question formed on his lips. But Scott had a feeling he knew what it was, so he shook his head.
"You know we can't untie him. It's too early for that, it's way too early."
Stiles frowned, but he huffed in agreement. "Yeah. Okay."
"It's not so bad," chimed in his father. "Trust me, it's been a hell of a lot worse up till now."
"How do you feel now?" asked Scott.
"Like I just fought an instinct I really didn't wanna have."
"That's—well, that's exactly what happened," Stiles admitted. "But I think he meant less literally."
"I feel—I dunno." He thought for a moment. "I feel okay."
"Just…okay? Dad, you're chained to the Were-Tree."
"I told you to stop calling it that! And yeah. I'm okay. I'm okay now," he said, setting his eyes on his son's. "So are you okay now? Are you both okay?" Neither of them responded. Just looked at each other and at the ground. Stilinski sighed. "Boys, you know I heard everything. I can kind of do that now."
Stiles set his lips into a thin line. "I'm okay now," he said, quietly. He made a small smile at Scott. "I feel like…like I'm not drowning anymore." Scott looked up, surprised.
Drowning. Yes. They'd been drowning for the past two years. (Had it really only been two years? It felt like a lifetime.) Every once in a while, they'd get a gulp of frantic fresh air, but inevitably they'd sink back down and nearly succumb to it again, only to propel themselves upwards at the very last possible moment, spots dancing in their eyes, before darkness claimed them. And sometimes, it simply evened out, right in the middle. Treading water.
Regression to the mean.
Scott realized then that Stiles was drowning just a little while ago. After all…their lives had become an endless loop of drowning, over and over again. Werewolves. Kanimas. Evil druids. Evil foxes. Hit lists. Chimeras, doctors, eighteenth-century French beasts.
Allison dying.
The sheriff very nearly dying. Stiles' most important person in the whole world. Stiles' last family member.
All the bad things had caught up to him, and then his father became a werewolf. It was too much to handle, so he had just…sunk to the bottom. And Scott had anchored him, and pulled him up from his own personal hell.
We anchor each other, Scott realized. Because Stiles does the same for him. Belatedly, he also realized that the rain had stopped—it had likely stopped a while ago. Hopefully now they could have some better weather.
"Yeah," said Scott, slowly. He smirked at his brother. "Me neither."
Thanks for reading. As a bonus, I also wrote a silly alternate to a few lines:
Stiles paused, seeming to be in thought. He spun around toward Scott, his mouth opened to speak—but he slipped on the mud, and fell face-first onto the ground. The slimy, filthy ground. He simply laid there for a second, as if accepting his fate as a mud-man. Or just too disgusted to move. Scott picked him up, helping him back on his feet. Most of his front was coated with mud; a small bit had gotten on his face and mouth.
"Eugh," said Stiles, sputtering mud from his lips. He wiped off whatever bits of mud he could from his body, but the mission proved futile. "My shirt!" He stared sadly at it, then seemed to realize his entire body was covered in it too. "Aw hell, and my shoes! My pants!"
"Um. Stiles?" asked Scott, tentative. Stiles made a sad sound in response, still assessing the damage. "What were you going to ask me?"
His head shot up. "Oh. I was gonna ask if we can unchain him. I wanted to hug him."
His father stared down his mud-covered son, dubiously. "No."