Title: A Policy of No Regrets

Author: Sunshineditty

Fandom: Teen Wolf – future fic related to episode 2x10 "Fury"

Word count: 2,756

Rating: T for language

A/N: I thought the first chapter would be the end, but Stiles the Alpha wouldn't let go, so I wrote this to appease his Wolfy Highness. Oh and I gave Stiles' dad a first name.

Stiles drove the truck down a quiet residential street, similar to the one he grew up on back in Beacon Hills. It was a bit surreal seeing normal human interactions, kids playing on their lawns, and people sipping drinks on their porches. The late summer sun was nearly past the horizon, but it was the weekend and the temperature was seasonable, so everyone tried to hoard what was left of the light.

He could almost understand it, dimly remembering the need to cram every experience into every available minute because the countdown of life was a loud ticking in the ear. Now that he was wolf, nearly immortal without hunter interference, time stretched loose and lazy into a hazy future of endless tomorrows. It made sense now why someone would take the bite, if only to keep this feeling of superiority. Of course, Stiles hadn't chosen this existence, more or less forced into it with Peter's resurrection, but five years later he'd adjusted.

And how.

He pulled into the driveway, checking the address against the one written down, and turned off the ignition. The engine ticked a few times as it cooled down, and Stiles contemplated the front door. He didn't bother scenting the air, knowing this was the correct house by the subtle signs on the front door and in the yard. The owner, most assuredly a hunter, had small purple flowers planted in a neat row in the shade of the porch. If you didn't know horticulture, they were a gorgeous specimen with a delicate fragrance; if you were wolf, it was both a warning and a threat. Wolfsbane didn't normally grow this far north, practically straddling the Washington-Canadian border, but it would be this man who found a way to make it happen.

Sighing, deciding to stop procrastinating, Stiles exited the truck and gamely loped to the door. He'd spent a good portion of his time – when not battling Allison and her cohorts – creating a cure for his kind against the deadly flower. No one wanted to be the guinea pig for his experiments, so he'd dosed himself gradually over the last four years, until he hoped he'd built up a tolerance for Wolfsbane. He wasn't often in the thick of fighting against hunters, so he didn't have a chance to find out if it worked.

The door opened before he knocked, a gun thrust in his face. The man behind the gun was older than the years could account for, broken, lined and cragged with the pain and frustration of seeing his life's work and family fall apart.

"Chris."

"Stiles." The Taurus 9mm didn't waver. "Tell me what the hell you're doing here." The ex-hunter didn't bother asking how he'd been tracked down. Even if he'd left the hunting life, he still had contacts and had to know Danny – a computer prodigy – accepted the bite a year ago, coinciding with Jackson's return to the Hale pack after they finally wrested him away from Gerard.

"I come bearing gifts."

Chris' light gunmetal gray-blue eyes flickered to the covered bed of the truck. He didn't have the senses of a wolf – therefore couldn't smell anything – but Stiles could see his nose ripple as he tried to guess what it was.

"You didn't..." his voice faltered briefly. "If you're alive that means they're dead."

Stiles leaned against the jamb. "You knew it was going to end one way or another. We tried to broker peace, but that ended up with Peter dead, so..." he shrugged. It was a nice piece of fiction, but only Stiles knew the truth of that particular confrontation, even if Derek did suspect.

Peter, who'd murdered John Stilinski to ensure his "courtship" of Stiles ended exactly as he wanted, wasn't killed by Allison so much as Stiles ensuring he was weak enough for her sword. Stiles hadn't wanted to be Alpha, so he'd made sure Peter's wounds weren't fatal, leaving it up to the hunters to finish him off. Unfortunately his gamble didn't pay off exactly how he expected: Peter died, but he still ended up with the mantle of Alpha either because he was the next closest in rank or due to his position as the Alpha's mate.

"So you've completed the destruction of my family."

"Kate started it all – the Hales weren't doing a goddamn thing to hurt humans. Hell, they'd been in that area for generations and had never taken a human who didn't want the bite. You want to blame someone for this, blame her!"

All roads of war led back to that psychotic bitch.

Stiles felt his face change shape with his anger and knew his eyes were glowing red by the shocked look crossing the ex-Hunter's face. Very few people knew what Stiles was, beyond a wolf. He had purposely kept his ascension to Pack Leader under wraps because he had no desire to fight outsiders for his position; they were already vulnerable being landless and on the run without adding stupid pack dynamics to the mix. It was easier for everyone to believe Peter's pack was absorbed into Derek's after his uncle's death. Stiles did much better leading from behind; made taking people by surprise much easier.

"You killed Derek?" Chris' shock made little sense, coming from that angle. Guess he didn't know about Peter and Stiles after all.

The young Alpha's head canted to the right, the wolf very close to the surface. "No," he growled in response. He hadn't seen Derek in a few months, but he would've heard Derek was dead. He would've known damnit. "He's still alive." He better be or Stiles would be fucking pissed. Just thinking about the other Pack Alpha eased his wolf's anger and he was able to wrest the physical changes back so he looked human again.

Chris un-cocked his gun and eased it down to the side. He backed away from the door then deliberately turned his back and walked down the hall to the living room. Stiles sniffed the air then to see if anyone else was present but couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary. He gently eased into the house before traveling the same way as Chris.

The living room was barren of any decoration or pictures, a single Lazy Boy positioned in front of a decently sized flat screen tv. Chris was already seated, his gun in his lap, eyes trained on the archway. Stiles leaned against the wall, his default position in almost any situation because it made him seem less threatening, but he suspected Chris wasn't fooled.

Not anymore at least.

"So..." Stiles drawled.

"So tell me how it ended."

A small part – the still human side who remembered being scared of this man – wanted to justify the deaths, explain they had no choice, and it couldn't have ended any other way, but the wolf was stronger and prouder. He'd defended his pack and made his enemies pay for their temerity in attacking them.

"You would've been proud of Allison, ya know. She was magnificent in her deadliness." Stiles could praise her because she was mesmerizing in everything she did, the girl torn away, and only the warrior remained. It had pained him to look at her, see what she'd become, and know she was the reason for his best friend's death, but he could still respect her strength.

"I didn't want her to become...that..."

Stiles nodded, knowing it was true. Chris had changed after his wife's suicide – once he was on the other side, seeing someone he loved going through the change, he hadn't the courage to kill her like he did all the wolves before her. It was only through Victoria's pleading that had enabled the older man to thrust the killing blow to her heart.

"I dunno if there was ever hope for her, especially after she killed Scott. Him dying killed the last piece of her humanity," he responded, pretending not to see the other man's flinch. Whatever had happened in the months after her mother's death had completely gutted Allison, but her grandfather's influence had warped her into a reflection of Kate. Chris might've held firm against his father, but he was too sunk in depression and the bottle to notice what was happening until it was too late.

Grief and regret were two smells Stiles was too familiar with and he sneezed to clean them from his nostrils. In some ways the Argent Clan's declaration of war had come at a good time for him; it helped him crawl from the dark hole he'd fallen into after he failed to stop Peter from turning him and killing his dad. Now that it was all over, he didn't know what he would do. He never wanted to lead the pack, had fought against the possibility, but life had a way of sneaking up on you.

Before this all started, before he went into those fucking woods looking for a dead body, Stiles had dreamed of leaving Beacon Hills and getting a law degree or maybe Criminal Justice and eventually becoming Sheriff like his father. Those tentative dreams had faded even before the Bite, knowing he could never go far from Scott and Derek because they needed him in a way no one ever had.

But now? Now he was free to do whatever the hell he wanted, and he felt paralyzed by too many choices.

"What now? Has the Hale-Argent War ended?"

The quiet question burrowed into Stiles' consciousness as he debated the answer. It had started with Kate, exacerbated by Gerard, and inflamed by Allison; with their three deaths, there was no one left save Chris to continue it. Most if not all the hunters who'd supported the Argents were dead or scattered to the winds; they would need to rally behind a strong leader to finish it. Stiles, Lydia, Derek, and Jackson – the only original Beacon Hills wolves left – were never in the same zip code and only communicated through carefully planned Skype and phone calls. He felt a quivering in his chest at seeing his friends...Derek...again in person.

"That's up to you, Chris. I come bearing symbols of peace."

Chris' hand fluttered to the gun before resolved hardened his expression. This man was more familiar to Stiles than the broken ex-Hunter he'd been a moment ago.

"Let's see it then."

The walk to the truck was nerve-wracking for both as neither really trusted the other, but it helped having a semblance of normality surrounding them. In a way, Stiles completely understood Chris' need to be connected to human life, however distantly, since it reminded him of what was at stake.

The tarp was a little stubborn so Stiles unleashed his claws and shredded it. Chris made a small sound beside him.

"How long have you been Alpha?"

"Two years."

"You have a lot of control..." this time his trailing off was an invitation to satisfy his curiosity.

Stiles knew his ability to shift between full wolf, Alpha form, and half-turning in human form usually took years for new wolves to adjust to; hell, even Derek was impressed by him.

"I had incentive."

Peter had forced both the Bite and their mating on Stiles, taking his virginity while his father's body was still cooling beside them, and had nearly broken his will through shame. He hadn't been able to look anyone in the eye for months afterward, which caused problems with the new betas Peter turned or recruited. His cringing and passivity provoked their wolves into demonstrations of power, which nearly led to a gang-rape that Peter only stopped a moment before the first cock breached his ass. Stiles knew then, looking up at his mate, that any respect Peter felt for him had eroded and he hadn't let the rape continue because it was an affront to Peter's power. The lower-ranked wolves had touched what belonged to the Alpha without permission and needed to be taught a lesson.

After their merciless punishment, the betas never again tried to touch him sexually, but their taunts and digs still cut deeply, and what initially started Stiles dosing himself with Wolfsbane in hopes of dying. He did sicken, though not as badly as Derek or others of their kind, and it had sparked an intellectual curiosity that led him to deriving a possible cure. In a way, the flower saved Stiles and led to Peter's downfall at his hands; him and the five betas who tried to fuck Stiles into submission.

Chris shifted uneasily, perhaps sensing the roiling emotions beneath Stiles' carefully crafted mask, and didn't press for more details. Smart man. Instead he helped roll the tarp back eyeing the two silver urns askance and the large box beside them.

Stiles unhooked the bungee cords strapping everything down and handed him the box first, smirking when the ex-Hunter staggered under its unexpected weight.

"Sorry, I forget my own strength sometimes."

"Riight," Chris muttered as he adjusted his hold. "What's in it."

Stiles grabbed the urns and headed back towards the house without answering. It wasn't something that should be spoken out here; this was ostensibly only a human neighborhood, but Stiles knew more about the supernatural world now, and appearances were deceiving.

They reconvened in the kitchen, covering the small little used table with the objects Stiles brought.

Chris didn't bother asking again and opened the box instead. Lying against white cotton, black magnesium alloy gleaming, was Allison's favorite compound bow and the remaining arrows in her quiver when she died from Stiles ripping her throat open with his teeth.

The sound he made was anger and sorrow combined, almost wolf-whine to Stiles' ears. A strange urge to soothe Chris came over him, but he aborted the movement before it happened; he might not be an enemy, but he definitely wasn't a friend either.

"And the urns?"

"I couldn't bring the bodies to you, so I brought next best."

The flames devouring Allison and Gerard had soothed his wolf, an ending of the cycle that started them all down this path of destruction. An Argent had started the fire, but a wolf had finished it. Stiles wished Derek could've been there in person to see it happen, but he would have to be content with the video.

"Why?" Why would you do this for me? For the enemies who took so much from you?

Stiles kept his eyes locked on the bow as he responded to the unspoken words. "I was never able to bury my dad and I know how it feels to lose your family."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable; it was a moment of reflection between two men who were the last of their families felled by stupid senseless tragedy. Stiles was twenty-one, but older than his years suggested, the weight of responsibility coming to him at a very young age; Chris was Hunter born and reared, schooled in a tradition stretching back several centuries, brought to the New World with the influx of immigrants. They were men apart, steeped in a second underworld many brushed against but so few understood or even recognized.

The hand extended between them was one of peace and forgiveness; Stiles gently grasped it, his claws brushing against fragile skin but not marking it in anyway. A declaration of its own, species to subspecies, an Alpha's promise. No words were exchanged, no farewells, each understanding this was the last they would see of one another in this life.

Stiles quietly closed the front door behind him, breathing deeply as he tilted his head up to the dusky sky. The half-light veiled the stars, but his vision was sharper than a human's so he could appreciate the twinkling dots. Feeling inexplicably lighter, he dug into his pocket for his cell phone and quickly dialed a number he knew by heart.

His call was answered on the first ring. "Are you safe?"

"Yeah, it's done. They're dead and Chris isn't a threat."

"Come home now."

An Alpha's order, a lover's plea.

"I'm coming home, Derek. I'm finally coming home."