Stiles' listened with a smirk from the edge of the parking lot, crouched low with his back pressed flat against the tire of their rented black SUV. He'd recognize that heavy shift and grind of gears, that dull roar of an engine with a steady drip anywhere.

God he'd missed his jeep.

He hadn't been able to go inside the house. He'd wanted to. Really wanted to. Standing in his driveway, gazing at the house where he'd grown up, where his mother had lived and where his dad had raised him filled him with a sweet sense of melancholy and nostalgia. But it wouldn't have felt right, not without his dad there. Not to walk through those empty rooms, like a still-frame out of a movie, to see life that had gone on without him and then had stopped when his father had been jerked out of it by a werewolf allowed to run and rampage…

He was lucky Phee had been with him then, because the shadows had started to wrack and swirl up through the soles of his boots and send his vision off in a spin of black and gray, and even though the wolf didn't know how bad the shadows were, didn't know that they were starting to cut and bite and hammer away at his glow, he could smell his distress. He knew enough, recognized the shaking in Stiles' hands and had grabbed on hard to his wrist, the bones shifting under his fingers until Stiles had blinked stupidly and come back to himself, the ringing in his ears fading away. He'd never told anyone about the shadows. He'd always just though it was something he had to deal with, a consequence just like his inability to sleep that resulted from the elements and forces he chose to tamper with. Never told Phee, never told his grandmother who had taught Stiles most of what he knew. It was his burden to bear, and the fact that he could feel it growing, feel it in his chest just underneath his breastbone, a constant presence ever since he'd stepped back into Beacon Hills, well it was just that. A presence. A consequence he dealt with.

So he hadn't gone inside, afraid to face the metaphorical hearth of the home that he had left, afraid to bring the shadows inside with him.

The garage was another story.

He'd gotten in easily enough with the lock picks from his pocket, and he'd almost cried at the condition his jeep was in. He'd told his father that he could sell it, as much as it would hurt, but when he'd left he hadn't thought he'd ever be coming back. Still, there it was, parked in the corner instead of outside or in storage, and it looked even better than he remembered it. His dad didn't know a lot about cars, mostly just took the cruiser in for a tune-up at the little garage on the edge of town when it needed an oil change, but it was clear that he had spent time, care on the old blue rust-bucket. It had been washed, waxed, the floors and seats vacuumed out… there was even one of those little trees hanging from the rearview mirror, cracked and dried out. It was odd and unsuspected and sweetly touching.

The keys were stashed in the ashtray Stiles had always kept full of change, and his baby started up for Phee like a dream, turning over without a hiccup, a testament to the general maintenance it had gotten over the years. Stiles consoled himself with the promise of a nice long drive later on, trying not to think about when later on would be, how long he'd stay in Beacon Hills before going back to Ireland, how he would break it to his dad that he was going. Instead he pulled Phee through the driver's window, kissed him hard and told him to wait ten minutes, then ran for the SUV and burned rubber for the hospital. His trap set, all that there had been left to do was wait.

Stiles shifted on his heels, adjusted his crouch as the low rumble of his jeep got closer and closer, trawled slowly in front of the hospital parking lot. In his mind's eye he could see Pheelan sitting low and easy in the driver's seat, hands strong and confident on the wheel and the gear shaft, and he had to blink and shake his head before he could refocus on the doors of the hospital. He wasn't sure who'd be waiting to ambush him, might even be the entire pack, and if that was the case he was screwed, but he didn't think Melissa or the hospital would let that fly. One or two then, and he was… hesitant to guess who it would be.

He didn't have to wait long to find out.

With the jeep idling loudly on the street, the doors of the hospital came crashing open and Derek Hale came skidding out, Scott McCall behind him.

Stiles hissed in a breath between his teeth as the knife in his side twisted sharply. It had been driven in hard and deep some time ago, but it had been lodged between his ribs so long that he'd pretty much forgotten it was there, forgotten it could make him bleed.

The sight of his once upon a times reminded him.

His once upon a time best friend.

His once upon a time… well. Whatever the hell. He didn't label what Derek was to him. No word was right, no word fit, and in reality, he was nothing. Nothing to him.

Because Stiles was nothing to Derek.

Still, seeing them again, finally… he couldn't even describe it. It was just like with Melissa, his desires tearing him in half as easily as any werewolf could've. At least back then.

Stiles sneered.

Wouldn't be so easy now.

Hug him.

Hurt him.

Stiles wasn't sure which wolf he met. Which option he preferred.

Probably all of the above, and then some.

Luckily he wasn't about to find out, because as Derek's head whipped back and forth, searching for the sound that had brought both of them running, Pheelan nailed the gas and peeled out, painting long black lines onto the asphalt with an admirably vicious screech. Stiles had all of three seconds to admire the burnout, run his tongue over the points of his canines in a display of arousal that he'd picked up living with the wolf before he had to duck, chuckling as Derek flew by in a streak of black and grey, Scott close on his heels.

"So long chumps," he muttered darkly, rolling to his feet and bolting across the lot to the doors. Pulling up his hood and popping the collar of his jacket, he moved quickly down the hallway and slipped into his father's room.

The Sheriff was still sleeping, an unnatural sleep, almost a coma as his body fought what had been done to him. Stiles knew, just from looking, listening, that he hadn't gotten the job done yesterday but it didn't scare him. It had never taken him just one try, never been that easy, and so he was prepared to finish what he'd started. He didn't have a lot of time; the jeep was faster than the wolves but he'd told Pheelan just to run them around the edge of town and come back – he would need him when he was done.

Moving to the side of the bed, Stiles slipped his hand beneath his father's pillow and pulled out the sprig of mistletoe he'd left there, found it black and shriveled, crushed easily to ash under his fingers and brushed away. Opening up his hard-sided satchel, he took out his chalk, his mountain ash and began to draw his circle.

XXX

Phee didn't think it would work.

Why would a werewolf, especially an alpha, chase after Stiles' jeep? It was a little too much like a dog chasing a car for dignity, so why wouldn't they just wait, find him at the hospital or his house or his motel? Why would they chase someone who clearly didn't want to be caught?

Well, ok, that last one he got.

The chase, the hunt, running your prey to ground.

Yeah.

That he got.

Of all the games he and Stiles played, that one was definitely his favorite.

Him? He'd chase.

But then again, that was him. They weren't in love, but he'd chase Stiles to the ends of the earth, cherish him while he had him. These wolves, they hadn't done that. This alpha hadn't done that. And still, they seemed almost desperate, hauling ass after the beat-up blue box of bolts that Stiles had looked at with something close to familial love and that Phee had been nervous to climb into in the first place. The damn steering wheel was on the wrong side for Christ's sakes, but he had to give it to the rust-bucket, it was hiding some power under the hood.

Phee grinned as he took a corner hard and fast, and it was feral and full of fang.

Just like its owner then.

Checking his side mirrors, he was pleased to see that he'd lost the two wolves on his tail and debated slowing down in order to give them something to sight on, but Stiles had told him to go and get back, run a wide circle that would keep the wolves hunting but would end back where it had started. And besides, Stiles was going to need him. He always did. So instead of slowing down he hit the gas, laying his trail as the jeep belched the acrid black exhaust of an oil leak into the air, impossible for any wolf to miss.

Halfway back to the hospital Phee had decided that he almost felt bad for them, the alpha and the pack. Stiles had told him enough when he was in his cups or the throes of a nightmare that he suspected the boy was missed, despite the way things had ended. He could feel dislike towards these wolves because of that, because of the things he knew, but he could still feel bad for them. He believed what Stiles had said was true because the first time he'd heard the tales three long years ago the words had been colored with pain, not bitterness or anger, but he'd also seen a pair of red eyes glowing in his rearview mirror, and so yes, he believed that Stiles was missed. And personally, though he himself wore the fur of a lone wolf quite contentedly, he believed down to his toes that Stiles would be better off if he just confronted the pack, confronted what he'd left behind.

He didn't much care about the other wolves, not really, even though conceptually he could feel bad for them.

But Stiles would be better off.

It would hurt at first, viciously, but every wolf knew that you couldn't leave your foot in the jaws of a steel trap. Couldn't drag that injury around with you. Even if you had to bite through flesh and bone to free yourself.

Whipping the jeep into a parking space across from the SUV, he pocketed the keys and jogged inside, following the scent of clean soap and the woods and the mountains and his own heavy blonde pelt, the scent of Stiles, down the hallway to the little room where the Sheriff lay, fighting the poison that would change him but destroy his son. The door was closed and a quick look through the glass inset showed him Stiles sitting calmly on the floor inside his circle, his hands resting lightly on his knees as the candles flickered an inch off the ground. Around him chairs hovered, a pillow, the clipboard that held the Sheriff's file, and Phee knew he was well into the flow of whatever forces he was bending. Huffing a gentle breath of relief, he moved to the other side of the hall and dropped into a chair to wait.

I Promise, next chapter you'll get an actual encounter, if not a reunion (: Reviews please!