Disclaimer: I don't own MTV's Teen Wolf or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This story is meant to fit into the canon events of season 4 until just before the end of 4x12, "Smoke and Mirrors" where it goes very AU. The premise is that Scott and co. escaped Kate in Mexico and return to Beacon Hills without the showdown we saw in the final episode where Kate is 'defeated.' In this au Derek still 'evolves', but Chris doesn't go with the Calaveras to track down Kate, but rather returns with the whole pack to Beacon Hills. – This is a Bobby Finstock/Chris Argent fic, with minor references to: Stiles/Derek & Lydia/Parrish here and there.

Warnings: spoilers for seasons three and four and one or two vague illusions to things that have happened in season five. *Contains: sexual content, blood, guts, gore, canon appropriate violence, references to using alcohol as a coping mechanism in both past and present tenses, kidnapping. - There will be more warnings to come as the story progresses. There will be 40 chapters and this fic will update once a week.

Regress to my mean (and kiss me pretty)

Chapter 28

"I don't-" he started, only to abandon the train of thought before it could leave the metaphorical station. More or less aware that Chris was grilling Bethan and Deaton with questions he doubted either of them could answer. Struggling just as much he was as they started to raise their voices. Frustrated. Afraid. Filling the air with a thousand different shards of shared emotion.

How the hell could Bethan's grandparents have known that?

They were dead!

The briefcase would've been in that stupid bank for decades already.

It wasn't possible.

There was no way-

Static rushed to fill the gaps as he spread his palms across the cool stainless steel. Whining like the siren-pitch of dying frequencies as he breathed through it. Feeling the straps of a phantom pack digging into his shoulders, the sweat-tact of his fingers sticking to the plastic tails of his trail-markers. Trying to remember what he'd been feeling before he'd found her, lost in the woods. What he'd been feeling before that unearthly calm had ushered in. Allowing him to focus on what wasn't there. The missing pieces. Everything that wasn't being-

There was more.

It was the same feeling. It was about pushing past the hows and the whys in favour of reaching for what was tangible. What he could do. Who he could save. It was the moment where his head had jerked up in the middle of marking off his section of the search grid – realizing that somehow he knew exactly where she was. This was the same damn thing. It was just details. All they needed was the last few pieces of the puzzle and somehow he knew Bethan had them.

"Enough," he growled, loud enough that the building argument stopped in its tracks. Leaving him very much aware that holding the room like this wasn't anywhere close to his forte. That for better or worse he wasn't assertive, at least not like this. But here he was. Doing it like he actually had half a clue. "There's more, isn't there?"

Bethan nodded, face flushed.

"My grandmother called it a guardianship. That they'd been chosen somehow. Chosen to pass on what they knew from generation to generation until the time came when- when what had been lost was returned," she replied hurriedly, face screwing like saying the last few words physically pained her.

He didn't blame her. It sounded like a bad Hollywood script.

Worse even. Like late night work-week television bad.

He could practically see the air quotes.

Ugh.

"Keep in mind I was very young when she told me these stories, but she described it like a cycle. When there was a need, the ysbryd arth and his mate would awaken. Each time they relied on their guardians to find them and pass on what they needed to know. To tell them what they were – and about their purpose. Their strengths, their history, their place in everything. But with the spread of Christianity, the old traditions and faiths were seen as ungodly. Many Guardians died. And, as Doctor Deaton feared, much was lost," Bethan shared.

"There were a number of cycles where the ysbryd arth and his mate had to make their own way in the world. There were also many years where the ysbryd arth couldn't be found, even when the need was great. The second World War, our ongoing failure to preserve our planet, as you all know the list goes on. It was believed by the few that knew of them, until now at least, that their line might have gone extinct. That the world had changed too much, too fast for them to ever hope to achieve that balance again. Nature can only heal if we let it. And so far, mankind has done the opposite."

"Hold on. Cycles?" Chris questioned, forearms bare. Muscles corded and tense as he braced himself against the table – looming low with the shadows. It made him think of storm clouds looming on the horizon and the growing threat of winter. Deciding to just go with the nature-related metaphors for the sake of convenience at this point as he pressed his leg into Chris' under the table. Nose twitching with the sudden flood of barely tempered aggression that seemed to be leaking from the man's pores. "We've been operating under the assumption that whatever this was it was going to be either a supernatural species or a calling. Something passed down. Now you're telling me it isn't either? That it's something- what? Predestined? That sounds almost like-"

"At this point I can't say anything for certain," Bethan interrupted, one hand going up to massage her temple like there was a headache she was trying to stave off. "And it would be disingenuous to all involved – especially you two - if I tried. All I know is that this isn't as simple as an undiscovered supernatural creature or even a mantle that's been passed down through the ages and fallen to you. It's far more complex, I'm afraid."

"From what my grandparents understood of the old histories, one of the ways the guardians were able to protect themselves and the knowledge they possessed was to take the written word almost completely out of the equation. The point was for all living descendants to know the lore from childhood. So it could be passed down, father to son, mother to daughter."

"But that didn't happen," Deaton remarked, once again stating the obvious. Making him want to bang his head against the table as a black pit of nerves churned in his gut. Vibrating at what felt like a super high frequency underneath his skin as the tension ramped up another impossible notch.

"No, unfortunately not. My grandparents became guardians a different way. As I mentioned earlier, and from what I confirmed before our flight, is that after the Industrial age there was, well- for lack of a better word, an absence. The ysbryd arth and his mate never resurfaced," Bethan shared, pulling out a small puddle of notepaper and paging through it pointedly. All crinkled edges and chicken scratch, but still mostly legible.

"I wrote down several passages on the plane, things I could remember that might be of use. I know it's not much. But perhaps there is something here that might drum something up," she added, picking up the sheath of papers and spreading it bodily across the length of the table. "If I'd known I would have written it all down. Every story, every word, inflection- everything. But, as you both know, hindsight can be quite brutal on the unsuspecting."

They were snatches of passages more than anything. A handful of words piled here and there that caught his eye as he chewed on his lower lip. Making him feel like he was courting anxiety in the same way Chris was hinting aggression beside him. A hot mess of a clenched jaw, a jutting chin and deepening frown lines he had to fight not to reach up and smooth flat with his thumb.

'Guardians are chosen by the ysbryd arth and mate.'

'The trust often follows family lines, but not always.'

'It is a harmony, not a solo. There will always be two, if one dies then the other cannot-'

"However, I don't think they are going to give you the answers you seek," she admitted, pressing her thumb against the edge of the case until another series of clicks echoed. Popping open to reveal hidden section edged with packing foam.

"But these…" she murmured, pulling out a shallow tray and setting it on the table in front of them. Letting them see the three protective cases set into the dimpled foam before she leaned back in her chair and nodded, eyes bright. "These are where the real clues are hidden."


They leaned in as she laid the items out carefully. Getting drawn into the building atmosphere as she continued talking, unwrapping the first bundle as she mentioned carbon dating and legitimate antiquities. How she'd had a professional, someone she trusted, look into it specifically. Making some excuse about family heirlooms that he stopped listening to the same moment she gentled the bundle out of its case and set it down in front of him.

He blinked down at it. Not sure if he should be disappointed or- well- honestly, he didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling anymore. Because it was a nail. Just an old nail. Forge-made from what looked like old iron, the finish thick and pitted with age. It's original color lost under a layer of discoloration and rust. The only thing he could really make out otherwise was five curved slices that had been etched across the head.

A maker's mark?

The second case was far more interesting and took at least three times longer to unwrap. Revealing an Indian arrowhead and a crude musket ball wrapped up in what looked like an old linen shirt folded inside a deer-skin pouch. The animal hide and linen was ancient and crumbling despite the banks best efforts of preservation. Adding an authenticity that made his breath catch.

He reached forward like he was drawn to it. Fingers itching to trace the inky edge of the arrowhead as something indescribable built in the center of his chest. But Chris stopped him halfway. Clasping his hand in his before squeezing him gently. Sharing a look that made everything he'd been feeling suddenly far too clear.

They weren't ready yet.

He couldn't put a finger on why.

They just knew.

The last case contained a secondary box with an intricate clasp, richly lined with worn red velvet. It immediately made him think about museums and dusty antique stores where you had to promise either your eternal soul or maybe a liver to even look at some of the shit they had mouldering away in the back.

"It's a crucifix," Bethan informed them, stroking the polished bronze cross with the flat of her thumb before laying it out across the foam. "Catholic of course, with mother of pearl beads and gold inlay depicting the Crucifixion. It was likely the necklace of someone who was very rich, perhaps an heirloom passed down through a family. Or an exceedingly generous gift to a priest upon gaining a position in the church."

The gentle clack-clack of the rosary beads reminded him to breathe. Throat tight as the ghost of a half-forgotten song threatened to find it's way to his lips. Finding an odd comfort in the sound as the echo of painfully young voices sang to honor the first Sunday of the Advent.

Salve, Regina, Mater misericordae.

vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.

Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevæ.

"What does all this mean?" Chris asked, voice distant as sweat beaded across his temple. Desperately trying to hold it together as he stared hard at the opposite wall. Fingers curling against the metal table until he could feel the metal start to give. Jerking away like it'd burned him as Bethan and Deaton shared a look, watching him warily.

How the fuck had he known that?

"They're clues," Bethan imparted, voice kind. Looking up at him not with pity, but with the kind of understanding that comes part and parcel with loss and a few other emotions he didn't want to examine too closely as Chris nudged in beside him. Steadying and firm as he leaned in without filter. Inhaling the man's scent as the panic attack he hadn't even been aware of faded around the edges.

"Clues to what?"

"Past lives," she answered with a weak smile. Forging ahead as they baulked. Popping mental what the hell wheelies like they were going out of style. Meanwhile, Bethan looked like she knew it. Like she was trying to stave off the Spanish Inquisition as she reached into the main part of the case and retrieved a plain manila envelope.

"To be honest, I wasn't going to come until Deaton showed me your pictures," Bethan confessed, slicing an official looking seal from the back with the pocket knife Deaton handed her. "I was holding quite firmly to the idea that was all some grand joke or a coincidence - anything but reality."

"Why our pictures?" Chris demanded, voice soft this time as she pulled something out of the envelope. Filling the room with the scent of aged paper and dew. Something that wafted like the English countryside on the very cusp of spring.

"Because of this," she replied, sliding the sole contents aross the table and into the light. Momentarily blinding them with the glossy finish of an old photograph.

It was a party of four captured in a parlour library. Left to right there was man and a woman, sitting side by side on a black satin couch. Demurely holding hands as a trio of brandy snifters gleamed amber-warm and full from the side table. But what really caught his eye were the two figures on the right. Mirror images of him and Chris, if they'd been ten years younger and standing side by side in uniform. Smiles huge and honest, so close together that if you really looked you could see tangled fingers beside the green-tans that dominated the allied uniforms in World War one.

He barely felt it when Bethan's hand gentled atop his. Looking at him with her grandmother's eyes. With soft tears catching in the shallow creases around her eyes before they could fall.

"She missed you both. So did granddad. They missed you so very much."

And all at once, carved out of a part of him he that recalled the smell of burning flesh and the distant cries of men calling out for their mothers, the ringing in his ears suddenly sounded a whole lot like gunfire and distant explosions.


A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be more to come, stay tuned.

Reference:

*ysbryd arth: Welsh for "spirit bear."

* Salve, Regina, Mater misericordae. vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevæ.," – is the Latin translation of the Salve Regina, meaning:"Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy. Hail, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry," The Salve Regina, also known as the Hail Holy Queen, is a Marian hymn and one of four Marian antiphons sung at different seasons within the Christian liturgical calendar of the Catholic Church. The Salve Regina is traditionally sung at Compline in the time from the Saturday before Trinity Sunday until the Friday before the first Sunday of Advent. The Hail Holy Queen is also the final prayer of the Rosary.