When Stiles woke up it was still dark, his skin chilled as the nightmare sweats cooled on his arms and chest. He'd come awake with a strangled gasp, unsure where he was, and the fucked up part was that he was glad of it. It was better, more familiar to him to be strangled into consciousness out of the black and blue grip of his dreams than to come slowly and gently awake with a murmur and the unbearable weight and warmth of his quilts.

Rolling out of bed, he found his jeans in the dark and dragged them on, tossing a glance at Pheelan over his shoulder, already star-fishing across the mattress as he sought the heat Stiles should have left behind on the sheets. Mornings like these he might have woken the wolf for a glow, kissing down his chest in apology, but he hated that feeling of neediness, dependency, even if Phee would just rumble at the scent of his guilt and drag him closer, bury his face in Stiles' neck and breath like he was more content than dreaming. A glance at the clock told him in glowing digital reality that it was only just past four, and there was a quiet to the house that was almost peaceful, so instead he just wandered down the hallway, passed his father's closed door and into the bathroom, where he stared at himself in the mirror above the sink, blinking against the hard glare of the light.

His eyes were black.

Stiles felt his breath catch in his throat and his heart start to pound, fear racing like static in his fingertips as he gripped the countertop. He knew the way that his world worked, knew the consequences he faced when he molded it to his will, but this was something different, something that was quite literally darker. The honeyed-whiskey tone of his irises always darkened after a nightmare, but this was an ebony void of nothing, no separation between his pupils and the rest of his eyes, stark against the white, and that was something that he did not know. Still, there was a wicked sort of playfulness in the way they sparkled, and the answering echo inside his chest forced his lips to curl into a grin that bordered on the maniacal.

He was looking into a fox's eyes.

Shaking, Stiles tore himself away from what was reflected in the mirror, stripped off his clothes and got into the shower without waiting for the water to heat. Planting both hands against the wall, he leaned into the icy spray like it could save him, letting the water rush against his face until he felt like he was drowning and he couldn't take the suffocation a second longer. Stepping back with a gasp, he slid down the wall until he crouched in the bottom of the tub, the water still beating down on him with a feeling like shards of glass, a quivering, shivering mess as he clutched at his own arms hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises over his elbows.

The fucking fox.

He'd never dreamt of it before, he was sure, but still he felt like he knew it. Like it belonged in that dark corner of the maze his mind was trapped in every time he closed his eyes, and he only just hadn't explored that particular corridor yet. It hadn't spoken to him, hadn't made him feel, and yet somehow it had been like an old friend, one that he knew better then he knew himself. It had stared at him for what seemed like hours, all sharp and lustrous, pink tongue lolling between black lips and fine white teeth. Stiles had been entirely empty then, as if he simply weren't, and all he could do was watch as the animal watched back, swiveling its ears, now and then switching its heavy red tail around delicate black paws.

Quiet, staring, empty.

Like winter.

Stiles broke out of the trap of his own thoughts with a start, lurching to his feet so fast he went light-headed. Grabbing on to a bar of soap, he began to scrub himself down, automatically, mechanically, suddenly desperate to get the sour sweat of dark dreams off of his skin. Rinsing off the suds he climbed out, toweled off roughly and pulled his jeans back up his hips, his gaze tight on the floor until he was out of the room and down the stairs where he rummaged through his duffel bag for Phee's black hoodie, suddenly able to actually feel the cold. Freezing, he snuggled down into the cotton, hiked the hood up around his ears and headed into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

The bubbling sound of the percolator was just enough to noise to keep him from feeling entirely alone in the house, from looking back over his shoulder in a parody of sick paranoia. The clock on the stove told him he'd been crouching in the shower for almost two hours, told him that the sun was coming and he decided it was late enough to start breakfast, if only to give his hands something to do. He had no appetite himself, but he guessed his dad would appreciate a hot meal judging by all the open boxes of cereal in the cupboard, and Phee ate like a wolf. It was easy to find the waffle iron; it was in the same old cabinet in the back, dusty because Stiles was the only one that ever used it. By the time the coffee was done he had gotten it down and washed it up, stirred together a bowl full of batter with brown sugar and pecans. He was turning the first one out onto a plate, golden and perfect, when Phee came strolling into the kitchen, rumpled in day-old clothes and messy bedhead.

"Hey," he tossed over his shoulder before the wolf could open his mouth. His gaze had gone sharp, flaring a deep, omega gold when he caught sight of the dark circles under Stiles eyes, the bitter scent of him beneath caramelizing sugar and sweetness of maple syrup. "Hungry Butterwolf?"

"Sure," he answered, and Stiles slid a knife and a couple of bananas along the counter towards him wordlessly. "Morning sir."

"John, son, please," Stiles' dad smiled as he wandered in as well, and Stiles turned his back to hide a grin, ladling another spoonful of batter into the sizzling iron. "Waffles?"

"Brown sugar pecan," Phee answered, slicing the fruit onto a stack of two and handing the plate over to the Sheriff. "Coffee?"

The Sheriff hummed an affirmative and Stiles watched silently as Phee located a pair of mugs and poured, catered to his father not because he was attempting to make an impression, but because it was his nature. Lone wolf he may be, but he knew how to love, knew how to care. Stiles' father was important to him, and so he was important to Phee as well. Finishing the batter, he turned out a high stack of crispy, fluffy deliciousness, making sure there was enough to keep the two men stuffed fat and happy before taking a small plate for himself and joining them at the table.

"Well Stiles," the Sheriff garbled around a huge bite, "I knew I missed you for a reason."

"Oh haha," he deadpanned over Phee's chuckling laughter, pulling the bottle of syrup out of his reach in retaliation. "You got funny while I was gone I see."

"Hmm. Well if I'd known it would get you home and cooking sooner…"

"Oh God, don't say it," Stiles groaned. "You live in Beacon Hills, you should not be tempting fate."

The Sheriff just laughed, shook his head and reached for another waffle. "So," he asked, a pleasant distraction from Stiles' sudden realization that he was apologizing for his absence with food, "What sort of plans do you boys have for the day? Could show you around a bit, see all the changes you've missed out on."

This time it was Stiles' turn to laugh.

"Come on Dad," he grinned, "Nothing here changes. Besides, you're gonna start hurting real soon, and all you're gonna want is your chair and your pain pills."

"Hmph," John grumbled, picking at the edge of the sling he'd threaded his arm back into on waking. "Thought you took care of it."

"I kept you from turning," Stiles corrected, climbing to his feet and starting to clear the table. "I didn't knit your muscle back together. As far as I go, I've got a couple of phone calls to make, but other than that…"

"Yeah, I should probably call the station," his dad huffed. "New deputies wouldn't know their ass from their elbow without me down there. Gonna have to call Der…"

Stiles froze, not because of the name but because his dad had stopped so abruptly, choked off the word and went wide-eyed and still, guilt written all over his face. Phee looked between the two of them, obviously aware of the tension that had suddenly flooded into the room.

"Think I'll work on getting the rest of our stuff inside, yeah?" he murmured as he climbed to his feet. Stiles nodded, leading in to the wolf's touch when he squeezed his shoulder in passing for the front door. He waited until he heard the click of the latch before he moved again, his throat tight.

"It's ok dad," he managed finally, leaning in to the chill of the fridge as he put away milk, butter, and syrup, his body flashing hot. "You can… talk about them. They're a part of your life, I know that."

"Have you…"

"Yeah. I saw them, few times. We're not…" He swallowed, dumped the waffle iron into the sink and started scrubbing. "Can we not talk about this right now please?" he asked in a small voice. "They know you're all right, but if you want to call just… don't talk to them about me ok? I don't want…"

"I wouldn't do that Stiles," his dad sighed. "I haven't, not in the whole time you were gone. I only ever talked to Lydia, and only what you said I could say. You're… you're mine. You, above and before them. Always."

For a minute Stiles just stared, all the parts of him screaming with love and contentment at this, this claiming, this acceptance he was so afraid he had damaged with his leaving, and then he was moving, launching himself into his dad's embrace and throwing his arms around his neck. The Sheriff didn't speak, only held him as close as one arm would allow, rocking him back and forth as he stroked his son's hair, feeling tears hot on his neck.

"I love you dad."

"I love you too Stiles."

XXX

As soon as he was out onto the porch, Pheelan collapsed back against the door, breathing hard. He could hear the Stilinski men inside, feel the fear and anxiety, the guilt and the sorrow through the walls as heavily as he felt the wind that blew hard through his hair. It made him feel sick to his stomach, a wolf's instinct that something was wrong, just a flicker in the periphery of his senses. It felt like a memory; the one and only time a group of rogues had broken across the border of his parents' territory and the entire pack had charged out to make a stand, a challenge that ended in more blood than a fifteen year old was ready to see. To have that feeling again and have it be connected with Stiles made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He'd known something was wrong as soon as he'd woken up, alone in an empty room. A part of it was the room itself sure, the scent of it - years-old Stiles and dust and decay… hell, it smelled like a tomb in there. But there was more to it too. Stiles was gone, long gone, the sheets cold where he'd slept, and he could smell the sharp, acidic sweat of fear that still clung to his pillow. He was quick to drag on his clothes and follow the sound of the young man's heartbeat to the head of the stairs, noting the water drops that still clung to the door of the shower as he passed the bathroom. Finding Stiles tucked up in his hoodie again in the middle of the kitchen hadn't dampened his suspicions, but he'd made it clear he didn't want to talk about whatever was bothering him, and all Phee knew that all he could do was wait him out.

He'd come to him eventually.

He always did.

So for now, he would wait.

Pushing off the door, Phee headed down the drive to where the SUV was parked, pausing to dig his cell phone from his jeans when it began to vibrate, groaning when he checked the caller ID.

"Mum," he greeted in Gaelic, his shoulders tensing against the tongue lashing he knew was coming.

"Pheelan Aengus O'Rourke, explain to me exactly why my mother says that you've taken the jet to the United States!"

Sighing hard into the receiver, Pheelan dragged a hand through his hair and played his trump card.

"I… I had to bring Stiles home."

A long silence met his admission before his mother replied, her voice soft and concerned this time, no longer trembling with an alpha's authority. "Is he all right?"

"Mum, I…" he began, and his words were low and quiet and small, "I don't know."

"What made him change his mind?" she asked gently.

"His father was hurt. He was hurt and Stiles saw, so I brought him home. And now his father is fine but Stiles isn't, and the pack here…"

"You're there for him my darling," she reassured him, "That's what's going to count. To him and to you. Stiles is strong, and certainly knows his own mind. Whatever he needs to do to deal with the pack there, to deal with his past, he'll do. You know that. Just be there for him."

"I'm scared for him mum," Phee breathed.

"Oh sweet boy," his mother murmured in the phone, her voice calming the rare swirl of emotion that was throwing him off his balance. "You're ruined for anyone else, the both of you. You know that don't you?"

"Mum, we're not…"

Suddenly Pheelan felt eyes on his back, his head jerking up from where he was staring at the pavement to catch the reflection of two pairs of flashing gold eyes in the back window of the SUV.

"Mum. I've got to go," he growled, disconnecting the line even as her voice protested through the phone.

Turning hard on his heel, he lifted his lip over sharp teeth and snarled viciously at the two wolves who stood nervously between the trees, a dozen or more yards back from the road. He recognized them as Hale wolves; the blonde with the huge, dark eyes and the calm, hard-muscled male with the coffee-colored skin who was holding her hand like he was the only thing keeping her from dashing across the street and breaking down the door. They shrank back from the growl that rumbled out of his chest, nervous, unsure, until the female dropped her eyes down and to the side, tilted her head in a show of submission that begged him to allow their approach. It hit him like a truck, that she was willing to do such a thing for him, an omega from a different pack, just so that she might talk, and he could only meet her halfway, crossing to the other side of the street and waiting until they came within a cautious ten feet.

"What do you want?" he asked, his anxiety forcing words out of his mouth that went against all hierarchy and protocol.

"Look, I know we're not supposed to be here," the female said, her voice tight with tears. "Derek told us to stay away..."

Pheelan's mouth twisted into a sneer. "Your alpha likes a familiar tune then?"

The female flinched, the male behind her casting his eyes to the ground.

"Please, just…" she began, and now the tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Could you please just tell us if he's ok?"

"You should be asking him," he said harshly.

The wolf's lower lip trembled as her gaze went over Phee's shoulder, staring up at the window that led to Stiles' bedroom. "I don't know how," she whispered. "Please! Please, just tell me how!"

"Why ask me?"

"You… you know him," she murmured, her eyes dropping to the dark crescent of Stiles' teeth on his collar bone that had been exposed by the pull of his chest as he crossed his arms. "Better than we do, maybe… maybe better than we ever did. Couldn't you just…"

Phee sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face before hugging himself tight, chilled in just his tank top as the wind cut between the widely spaced houses. He could feel the pain in these wolves, hear it, see it, smell it, and it was nearly as sharp as that which clung to Stiles on his bad days. He wanted… hell, he knew exactly what he wanted, he just didn't like the look of the path ahead. He knew which way healing would lie for Stiles, but he wasn't sure the boy was ready for that road.

He wasn't sure he was ready to watch him take.

But it had to be better, didn't it?

Anything had to be better than living with such shadows at his back.

Frowning, Pheelan opened his mouth and spoke the words he feared might break him.

"I'll see what I can do."

I just found out that the name Pheelan (or Phelan) comes from the Irish word for wolf. Craaaazzzzyyyy! But awesome, yeah? Let me know what you guys think (: