Having to keep Scott mortal made for a pretty inconvenient several hours. They had to wait around the house, connected, until Laura was awake to watch over Connor. They were now sitting in a car together. Newark Castle loomed on the horizon – a sizable blob in the moonlight.

Major Jackson Whittemore, Newark's Gamma, strode out the front door to greet them, still knotting his tie and looking as though he had only just arisen, despite the late hour. "We weren't expecting you till the full moon."

"Emergency trip. Have to stick certain persons down in the dungeon sooner than anticipated."

There were rumors as to the original owner's use of the dungeons, but regardless of initial intent, it had proved ideal for a werewolf pack. In fact, the whole house was well suited.

Stiles helped Scott down into the dungeon and into one of the smaller cells. Two clavigers accompanied them, carrying the requisite amount of silver-tipped and silver-edged weaponry, just in case Stiles lost his grip.

Stiles didn't want to let go, for Scott's face was pale with the imminent terror of transformation. It was an agonizing process for all werewolves to endure, but the new ones had it the worst, because they weren't yet used to the sensation and they were forced into it more frequently due to lack of control.

"I am sorry," was all Stiles could think to say.

Scott shook his head. "No. You've given me unexpected peace, for a moment."

They stretched apart, fingertips just touching.

"Now," said Stiles, and he broke contact, moving as fast as he could through the door of the cell. Scott, mindful of any damage he could do before Stiles could touch him again, threw himself away in that same instant, using all his regained supernatural strength and speed, before the change descended upon him.

Stiles hurried away, not wanting to hear his friend go through the painful transformation.

Instead, he decided to try the pack's library. Sometimes Argent left old BUR files there – ones that the agency had tried to get rid of. Argent didn't particularly like throwing them away, just in case they could be used at some later date. Stiles was counting on that now.

Instead, he ran into Jackson.

"Stiles," he said, unconvincingly. "I was just looking for—"

"A book?"

Jackson and Stiles had gotten off on the wrong foot and never managed to stabilize their relationship – despite the fact that he had, on more than one occasion, saved Stiles's life. As far as Stiles was concerned, Jackson was uncomfortably good-looking, which might not have been such a bad thing if he wasn't so arrogant. As to Jackson's opinion of his Alpha's mate, well the less said on the subject the better, and even he was wise enough to understand that.

"What are you researching?"

Stiles saw no reason to hide. "The old Beacon Hills fire. Do you remember any of it?"

The Gamma could not quite disguise the look of concern on his face. Or was that guilt? "No. Why?"

"I think it might be relevant to our current situation."

"I hardly think that's likely."

"Are you certain you remember nothing?"

Jackson evaded the question. "Any success?"

"Nothing."

"Well" – Jackson shrugged and made his way nonchalantly out of the room, without a book – "I think you're on the wrong track. No good is going to come out of looking into the fire." Only Jackson could put on such an air of dismissive disgust.

After that, no one intruded on Stiles in the library until a few hours before dawn, when his husband came in.

He looked up to see Derek watching him fondly, propping up a bookshelf with one shoulder.

"Ah, finally remembered me, have you?" He smile, his eyes soft and dark.

Derek strode over and kissed him gently. "Never forgot. Simply misplaced while handling the pack."

"Anything important?"

"Nothing that should concern you." Derek had learned enough to add, "Although I'm happy to relay all the small details, should you wish to drop dead of boredom right here. You'd be leaving Connor to be brought up by just me and Laura, though."

"No thank you. Please restrain yourself. How is Scott?"

Derek looked guilty again. "Not so good."

"I'm afraid your brand of roughness isn't working to pull him into the pack."

"You're right. I've never had a reluctant werewolf before. They used to have to deal with this all the time. God knows how they managed it. Scott is such a unique case these days, though. I can't…" He paused, struggling for the right words. "I can't fix his unhappiness."

He cleared himself some space among the piles of documents around Stiles settled next to him, flush against his side.

Stiles took one of his hands in his own, stroking it softly. "We'll get there. You'll figure out how to make him happy again." There was a lot of things Stiles adored about his husband, but it was how much he truly cared for his family – both biological and his pack – that Stiles truly loved.

Derek, to his credit, was learning to have a good deal of faith in Stiles's ability to help him fix things, whereas before he had been mostly running things on his own. "You'll help me think of something."

Stiles smiled softly and they sat a moment in silence.

Finally, Derek asked, "What have you been up to all this time? Are these old BUR records?"

"Yes. I'm not having a lot of luck finding anything about this threat to the President. I'm sure you have more than just BUR on it now – probably the whole FBI and probably Homeland Security, if I know you. Not to mention the Secret Service. But I can't help but think that warning was meant for me. I think I'm supposed to figure it out and I can't."

"Perhaps the ghost was mistaken or misheard? We haven't really considered that. She was close to poltergeist."

"That's possible. And of course it's possible that there is no connection at all to the Beacon Hills fire."

Derek growled in irritation.

"Yes, I'm well aware that you hate to be reminded."

"I just can't believe there is a connection."

"It's all I've got. And it's a hunch. Maybe it's all for nothing. But all of you government types are following the normal leads. Let me try the obscure ones."

Stiles slept on the far side of the bed from Derek. This was not because he was a restless sleeper. In fact, Derek was still as any supernatural creature, though not quite so dead-looking as a vampire. Stiles just didn't want Derek vulnerable while he slept.

Derek was snoring, though. Which was why Stiles was partly awake when the burglar entered.

There were many things wrong with a thief breaking into Newark Castle in the middle of the day. First, what thief in their right mind traveled all the way to the middle of nowhere to perform a break-in? Prospects were much better just about anywhere else. Second, why bother with Newark Castle, a den of werewolves? And third, why aim for the top floor and not downstairs?

Nevertheless, the masked form clambered over the sill with graceful movements and stood, light and balanced on his feet, silhouetted against the thick curtains that could not entirely block out the full afternoon sun. He inhaled sharply upon seeing Stiles up on one elbow staring at him. Clearly, he expected to find the room abandoned.

Stiles screamed.

His husband was no young wolf who, required by recent metamorphosis and weak control, must sleep solid the entire day through. Oh no, he could be awakened. It just took a lot of noise. Stiles was up to the task. It didn't bring clavigers and other werewolves running, though. It had taken only one or two highly embarrassing incidents for the residents of Newark Castle to ignore any and all noises produced by Derek and Stiles from inside the room.

Still, one angry husband was all Stiles really needed. He might have been okay on his own if his bat and gun weren't on the other side of the room.

The burglar darted to one side of the room, running for Stiles's dresser. There he opened several drawers, finally extracting a bundle of papers. He shoved these in a bag.

Before either Stiles or Derek could get to him, the thief dove for the open window. Literally dove right through, opening some sort of cape that became a parachute. Derek leaped after.

"Oh, no, Derek, don't you dare—" But Stiles's admonishment met only empty air, for he had already jumped out the window. A werewolf could take such a fall and survive, but not without damage, especially during daylight.

Concerned, Stiles looked out the window and noticed the thief taking off on a motorcycle. The sun was full in the sky, so Derek was unable to change into his wolf form. Stiles watched him run a long distance on two legs before finally stopping. Sometimes the hunter instinct took a while to defuse.

He rolled his eyes and turned to look at his dresser. What had he left in there? He hadn't even looked in there since after moving in. As far as he remembered, it was full of old letters, birthday cards, and maybe a photograph or two. Why would anyone what to steal that?

"Seriously, Derek," he said from next to the dresser when Derek finally got around to climbing back up the many flights of stairs to their rooms, "how you managed to jump around like that without any permanent damage is a mystery to me."

Derek snorted at him and went to sniff suspiciously at Stiles's dresser. "So, what was in that drawer?"

"I'm not sure. Some notes and letters. A card or two. I can't imagine what anyone wants with them."

"You'd think they'd be after your briefcase or laptop if it's classified things they want."

"Exactly. What did you smell?"

"A bit of grease and oil – probably from the motorcycle. Not much else. And you, of course – the whole dresser smells like you."

"Mmmm, and how do I smell?"

"Vanilla and old whiskey," he answered promptly. "Always. Delicious."

Stiles smiled.

Derek returned to his examination of the drawer. "Do we need to call the cops?"

"I don't think so. Not for a few bits of paper."

Derek nodded.

"It must be someone I know who stole it, though. I saw him enter. He was after that drawer in particular. I don't think he was expecting us to be here – he seemed startled to see me. Somehow he must have known that we weren't supposed to be staying here and which one was our room."

"Or it is meant to throw us off. Maybe he stole something else or did something that has nothing to do with those papers."

"There's really know way to know. I'm going back to bed. We can speculate later." And with the Stiles crawled into bed, Derek not far behind.

Stiles awoke to his phone chirruping in his ear, realizing he was alone in the bed – Derek having already left.

"Hullo?"

"Did I wake you?"

"Erica?"

"Oh, sorry! But I needed to call you ASAP. I figure your phone is secured and I'm on a payphone in the middle of nowhere, so we should be safe from wiretapping."

Stiles rolled his eyes and tried to prop himself up on pillows. He wasn't sure she needed to quite that far, but whatever made her feel better.

"I take it you have news?"

"Yea! I think the pack here was in contact with someone supernatural in Manhattan before the fire. It may have been his idea."

"Really? Did you get a name?"

"No. The only person who had any idea was whoever the Beta was at the time. They don't even speak her name around here. Cora always looks like she's going to bite one of them if they do."

Stiles closed his eyes in annoyance. It wasn't Erica's fault, though.

"Okay, thanks. Unless you think there's anything else to find out, you're welcome to come back to New York."

"Will do, boss! The call is about to cut off. I'm out of change. Bye!"

"Take care of yourself, Erica!"