Phee woke up the next morning with Stiles' scent in his nose and for just a minute he thought he was back in Ireland, curled up warmly beneath his quilts with his Touchstone beside him. Squirming deeper into the blankets, he rubbed his face into the pillow, seeking to get closer to that smell, all woodsmoke and chocolate and river glades, but then the heavy knock on the front door that had woken him sounded a second time and dragged him back into reality. Cursing, he rolled out of the sheets and dragged on the black hoodie that Stiles had been wearing for the last few days, inhaling deeply as he pulled the hood up over his head and moved quickly for the stairs, hoping to get to the door before the Sheriff was woken up.

He hauled open the front door to a UPS delivery kid, covered in pimples and snapping a wad of gum way too loudly, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop an angry rumble and a flash of gold in his eyes.

"O'Rourke?" the kid drawled, shoving a clipboard into his chest. "Gotta sign."

Leaning around the kid, he caught sight of three large cardboard boxes stacked near the steps, things finally clicking inside his sleep-fogged head. Scribbling out his signature, he took the liberty of tearing off his carbon copy of the receipt himself before stuffing the clipboard back into the kid's hands and practically shoving him of the porch. Dragging the boxes inside, he lined them up next to the hall closet before locking the door and heading in to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. He could hear the Sheriff shifting around on the floor above, so he used the time it took to get the machine brewing to try and figure out what he was going to say to the man.

He'd gotten so swallowed up by the drip and bubble of the percolator that when Stiles' father did eventually step into the kitchen, he jerked hard enough to clip his elbow off the counter with a sound like bone on concrete.

"All right there son?" the man asked, one eyebrow cocked as he watched Phee rub at his elbow.

Phee just shrugged, visibly withdrawing, folding in on himself as he tugged the edge of his hood more tightly around his face. John watched attentively as the wolf poured two mugs of coffee, leaving one on the counter and carrying the other to the table where he sat down quietly, running his fingers around the rim. Sighing, he picked up his own coffee and added a spoonful of sugar from the bowl on the counter before moving to sit down across from the young man whose broad shoulders were slanted in defeat, his face hidden by the shadow of his hoodie.

"So," he murmured, sending the word out into the silence between them with no way to draw it back. "Where…"

"He's gone!" Pheelan blurted, and John saw him wince as though he hadn't meant to say it at all. "Sir, I am so sorry. I tried, I… I tried to ground him but… it keeps getting harder and harder and the stuff that used to work isn't working anymore and…"

"Woah, woah, easy!" the Sheriff urged leaning back in his chair as though he could feel the words he was being pelted with. "Slow down kid. Let's… start at the beginning ok?"

Phee ran his hands shakily through his hair, dropping his hood back around his ears as he tried to control his breathing. He'd been away from Stiles before, once for three weeks, but this felt different. He felt untethered, loose and at odds with his wolf and everything around him, and it made him want to run and claw and howl for his m…

Fuck.

"We went running last night in the Preserve," Pheelan tried again, and his voice was hoarse. "We ran into the others… Hale's pack. It was… fine, you know? They joined in and it was great and Stiles was… God he was smiling like he hasn't in a long time."

Looking up, he found the Sheriff watching him with a sort of tender half-smile on his face and it made him squirm in his chair.

"He's supposed to be a part of a pack you know?" he continued. "I could feel how happy he was with them chasing him. Playing."

"So what happened?"

Phee's face darkened and he wrapped his arms around his ribs, hugging himself.

"I don't want…"

"Never mind," the Sheriff sighed, scrubbing his good hand over his face. "I shouldn't have put you on the spot; not when I can guess."

"He didn't want to go," Phee said suddenly, his tone serious and insistent as he met John's gaze. "He told me. He said he wasn't ready to leave. And he wouldn't have left you before you got better."

"Nice of you to say son," the older man said, and the werewolf could hear the sadness knotting his throat. "But he's left before. And he is gone. Again. Did he say where…"

He couldn't finish the sentence.

"It wasn't like that," Phee assured him. "It wasn't planned. He just… he got mad. He snapped."

There was a beat of silence before the Sheriff found his voice.

"Are you telling me my son just disappeared?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes. That's… a thing he can do."

"Well… damn."

"I don't understand," Phee muttered, more to himself than to the Sheriff now. "He has more control than that. I've always been able to…"

"This wasn't your fault son."

Pheelan's gaze flashed up to meet the Sheriff's and he couldn't stop a piteous whine from escaping him. It felt like his fault. He'd failed Stiles, somehow, hadn't been enough to keep him centered for the first time in a long time and he didn't understand. It was painful in its own right, cutting at his insides, but with Stiles' father letting him off the hook and steady flare of blistered skin on his wrists reminding him where he'd laid his circle down, he could hardly swallow under the weight of his shirked responsibility. Whether it was rightfully his to bear or not.

"Stiles is a grown man who makes his own decisions," John continued. Getting to his feet, he moved around the table, jostling his empty mug into his sling so that he could squeeze Pheelan's shoulder as he passed. "I can't blame you for his decisions."

"I don't think he meant to go," Pheelan said again, his instincts urging him to defend Stiles even if he wanted to strangle him at the same time.

"No idea where then?" John asked, pouring himself some more coffee.

"None," Phee admitted. "But I… put down another circle, after he left. So he'll be able to come back, once he's cooled off."

The Sheriff's head snapped up, wary hope burning in his eyes as his hand froze on the handle of the coffee pot. Pheelan could see the question that the man didn't want to ask written all over his face, so he let it stand on its own weight and answered it before it could be dragged from him.

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't believe," he murmured, staring down into his mug. "He'll be back. Probably today, unless I miss my guess."

From the corner of his eye he saw John's shoulders sag, the unspoken relief to great to be hidden as the fear he'd been trying to hide ran off him like water.

"Why so down then?" he asked, his tone several notches brighter than it had been all morning.

Phee frowned, tried for a minute to understand the turmoil that churned in his chest before giving up. "I don't know," he confessed. "It was never like this, we were never like this. I wasn't his but I could always…"

"What's in the boxes?"

Pheelan started, surprised by the sudden change in topic. "It's just… clothes," he answered, voice tinged with confusion and even something that might be identified as bitter irritation. "He said he wasn't ready to go, and I didn't want him to have a reason to…" He swallowed, shrugged, cut off the emotions that were swamping him hard as he got to his feet. "I had some of our things shipped so that he would be more comfortable staying. If that was what he wanted."

The Sheriff humphed into his coffee mug, returning to his place at the table as he allowed the wolf his space, both physically and emotionally as the younger man struggled not to shut down entirely. Pheelan began to poke around in the cupboards, wishing he could just climb inside and close the door behind him, but he had chosen to step up for Stiles now, and that came with responsibilities.

"Breakfast?" he tossed over his shoulder in an empty tone, the sudden cold in his chest too great to force any warmth into the words.

"There's bacon in the freezer," came the reply. "Inside the bag of broccoli."

XXX

After eating a quick meal with Stiles' father, Pheelan prepped a couple of sandwiches, wrapping them in waxed paper and stashing them in the refrigerator for the man's lunch. The Sheriff had grumbled about feeling like an invalid, cursed the torn muscles in his neck and shoulder as he squirmed around in his sling, but the werewolf eventually got him settled into his easy chair, remote, pain pills, and a heavy quilt all within easy reach. He apologized for having to leave him alone all day but John just waved him off, muttering half-heartedly about his son passing on bad habits. Only partially satisfied that he'd set the man up for a comfortable afternoon, Phee had carried the three boxes from the hallway to the stairs, stacking them neatly near Stiles' dresser. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, he stared fixedly at the boxes and let his mind drift.

He had to go.

He knew that.

Had to be there when Stiles got back, whenever that would be.

But here, alone in his Touchstone's childhood bedroom, he could admit to himself that he really didn't want to.

He'd known when he laid the circle down on the parlor floor of the Hale house that he was setting himself up to get bitten in the ass. With more than one set of teeth too, because this was going to be hell for him. He was injecting himself into a pack structure, something he'd committed to avoiding, something that made his skin crawl, and he was doing it without Stiles as his buffer. His own anchor was deeply entwined with the Touchstone's and he felt rather shaken knowing that something might be wrong with the young man. If he weren't so solid on his own, didn't have a True Form's hold on himself, he thought he might be going a bit to pieces.

Outside of his own mental well-being, he was also facing the attentions of the pack. He would be stupid to think that they would leave him alone while he watched the circle, while he waited. The very best case scenario had them all grouped around him, staring silently; the worst would have them talking. Asking questions.

A low, hard growl shocked Pheelan out of his musings, and it took a few seconds before his brain came back online and he realized that he was the one making the sound. Shaking his head, he shoved to his feet, cursing himself for a whiny bitch as he jerked on a pair of jeans roughly and tightened his belt. He should've changed out of the black hoodie, should've just taken the high road and pulled a clean shirt out of one of the boxes but decided that right then, in that moment, he didn't give a damn if the other wolves could smell Stiles all over him. He just wished the teeth marks on his collar bone hadn't faded.

Stuffing his feet into his boots, he didn't question his actions when his hands dug Stiles' Ruger out of the bedside drawer. He loaded the gun with fluid, automatic movements, chambered a round and made sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back of his waistband and pulling the hem of his sweatshirt down. He had no reason to think he'd need it, no conscious thought telling him that he was better off safe than sorry, he just took it, and maybe that was what it meant to have instincts. Burying his hands in his front pockets, he tripped back down the stairs towards the front door, waving to the Sheriff on his way out.

He took the jeep though he would've rather run. He could feel his wolf pressing against his breastbone, feel the gun pressing against the small of his back and all of it was biting at him, especially Stiles' impending return. He would be too tired to walk back home, hence the drive now, but he was more worried about how he would respond to finding himself in the Hale House at all. He wasn't going to be happy, that much he was sure of. In fact, Pheelan had a creeping suspicion that he was about to be on the receiving end of a cold shoulder, the silent treatment that Stiles was so efficient at given his nature. When a Touchstone pulled away from a wolf, willfully withdrew, it was a viciously painful experience.

Consequently, by the time he'd turned onto the road into the Preserve, Phee decided that he'd just as soon have Stiles get back and beat the holy hell out of him with his fists or his baseball bat than to suffer that long, drawn-out chill.

His hands shook at the thought of the Touchstone's Iceman routine.

Pulling up in front of the Hale House, Pheelan killed the jeep's engine and skimmed his eyes over the three cars parked in the open garage, the two others parked along one side of the drive beneath a spreading Willow. It was mechanical, the wolf's need to know its surroundings. He was walking into another pack's den, and he'd rather know what he was facing than go in blind, but the only vehicles he recognized were Lydia's sporty little compact and the Alpha's ostentatious Camaro. Still, if he had to guess, he would put his money on every one of them being present, and after last night, maybe even a little bloody.

He didn't have to knock on the door.

As soon as his boots hit the steps it swung open, the dark Alpha attempting to fill the doorway and failing miserably. He was pale and drawn, bruises splashed darkly beneath his eyes, and it was evident by his appearance that he hadn't slept. His hair was in tufted disarray as though he'd spent the night tugging on it, and his clothes were creased and rumpled in a way that suggested he'd been rolling around in them for a while. More than that though the wolf looked haunted, small like he was collapsing in on himself and in that moment Pheelan thought he might feel bad for the man.

The feeling didn't last.

The Alpha refused to move from the doorway, one hand on the frame as he blocked the hallway, and as Phee stood unmoving on the porch locked in a silent stalemate, the wolf's eyes flashed a deep, blood red. Pheelan cocked an eyebrow but refused to drop his own gaze or bare his throat, and the air between the two of them tightened like a ratchet strap.

"Oh for God's sake Derek, let him in!"

The dark wolf flinched infinitesimally when Lydia's voice sounded sharply behind him, claws gripping the wood of the frame until it squealed under his fingers, but he did as she said and turned away without a word, leaving Pheelan alone in the doorway staring down an empty hallway. Swallowing hard, he tossed a Gaelic prayer over his shoulder towards the moon and stepped back into the belly of the wolves' den.