AN: Guys. I suck. I am so sorry about the massive delay with this chapter. RL got overwhelming and chapter 22 was kicking my butt (you'll see why when we get to it), and I wanted to have a rough draft of it finished before posting this one because the next couple of chapters run together. But I really didn't mean to take this long, so apologies again.

Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me this far. Hope you enjoy the chapter! xx

Chapter 20 – The Calm

Allison had been running for what seemed like days.

Her calves burned. Her breaths came in quick, shallow bursts, and the sides of her feet rubbed uncomfortably against the insides of what were once well-fitted shoes.

And, still, the heavy thud of footsteps dogged her path.

She had picked up quite a tail when she first escaped the station. Two werewolves, who crumpled against a wave of carefully-aimed arrows. A fox-like creature, who only fell back when Allison slashed wildly across its chest, leaving a wound that leaked orange blood. And a woman who would have been pretty if her face hadn't split in two to reveal several rows of sharp teeth and an impossibly long tongue. She had been harder to evade, and it wasn't until she had one hand wrapped around Allison's throat that Allison finally gained an advantage. Gripping a short knife in her sweaty palm, she not to think about what she was doing and thrust upward, sinking the blade into the woman's left eye.

The woman dropped her pretty quickly after that. Allison darted away into the darkness and didn't look back.

But this creature. This thing, whatever it was, had been impossible to lose. It wasn't fast and it didn't seem smart but it was relentless, catching up to her no matter how fast she ran or how well she hid. Twice, it had nearly cornered her until she lashed out with fists and boots, making a gap just small enough to slip past and run away.

She had caught it off-guard both times. She didn't think it would happen again.

At first, she had angled toward the school, but then she glimpsed half-a-dozen silhouettes running the same way and her heart sank. Peter wouldn't attack the camp – or, she didn't think he would – which meant they were likely trying to capture her. No doubt, they would position themselves near every entrance, supernatural senses peeled and waiting, ready to pounce as soon as she showed her face.

She hadn't dared approach the school after that. Instead, she spent the night wandering aimlessly around the town, eyes and ears straining through the darkness, desperately trying lose the thing hunting her.

Now, though, she sighed with relief as the first rays of sunlight bounced off the dull bitumen streets and warmed her cheeks. The camp would be stirring soon, so she banked right at the next corner to start heading home. Peter's people wouldn't be likely to try anything if there were witnesses. I hope, anyway.

It wasn't really a choice, anyway. Exhaustion dulled her senses and reduced her steady stride to an uneven hobble – she couldn't keep going like this forever. In the last half hour alone, the heavy footsteps had drawn noticeably closer.

Overhead, a drone buzzed lazily along the street, its camera twisting this way and that. The dark lens landed on her and it hovered steady for a moment, watching, before continuing on. Allison narrowed her eyes at it – the drones had always made her uncomfortable, unobtrusive though they were – and pursed her lips in annoyance when she saw it come to a stop two blocks away. Directly over the elementary school.

Then realisation struck home, and a wave of hope momentarily drowned out her fatigue. The drone had stopped, which meant there were probably people outdoors, which meant –

"Allison!"

The cry came from her left and Allison lurched sideways, crossbow rising automatically. The weapon shook, fatigue betraying her aim, and she bit her cheeks in fear.

"Woah, calm down! It's just me."

Relief pushed all the air out of her lungs. "Isaac," Allison breathed, lowering the bow in an instant. Her cheeks coloured pink in embarrassment, but she was too tired to care. "What are you doing here?"

He stepped further into the sunlight, a head taller than her and paler than she'd ever seen him. His expression was a mixture of confusion and hurt, and his eyes were strangely red-rimmed. "Looking for you," he replied, hoarsely. "You just took off. You've been gone all night. I thought you were…"

The words hung awkwardly between them. Allison was still trying to figure out how to respond when a soft thump interrupted her thoughts. Somehow, she'd forgotten about her stalker.

"Come on," Allison urged, grabbing Isaac by the wrist. She took off at a jog, drawing on every last drop of energy, and the curly-haired teen thankfully fell into step without question. His shoulders were stiff with unanswered questions, though, and every few seconds he turned to glance behind them.

She half-expected that they wouldn't make it. Maybe the creature would put on a burst of speed at the last minute, easily catching up to their slow jog. Or maybe Peter's people would snatch them off the street and drag them kicking and screaming back to the station. But, for once, luck was on their side, and they tumbled through the school gates without issue. The heavy footsteps faltered to a pregnant silence as the creature considered its next move. Allison held her breath and listened intently, then then sagged in relief as the thud-thud picked up again, this time growing more distant with each passing moment.

"Oh, thank god," she muttered fervently, rocking forward to brace her hands on her knees. "I'm never doing that again."

"You think?" Isaac, annoyingly enough, didn't sound remotely out of breath. "We got your note, by the way. Gone with Jackson to help Derek. Super-informative, and not at all something that I'd like to have been told in person." Allison twisted to glare at him, only for her anger to instantly vanish at the sight of his pinched face and shaking hands. "What the hell happened, Allison? Where's Jackson?"

Sighing, Allison dragged herself back to a standing position. "Not here," she warned rather than answering, casting a wary glance at the nearby street. "Is Boyd around?"

Isaac led the way, matching his pace to Allison's weary hobble. If he happened to walk a little closer than necessary, well, Allison couldn't blame him. "We're holed up in the old music building, since Jackson's house isn't exactly liveable anymore. Although, honestly, I would have stayed here regardless," he added with a tight-lipped frown. "Everyone's on edge because of the fire. Satomi needs all the level heads she can get."

Allison glanced at him in surprise. "Is she expecting trouble?" It was almost unthinkable, but then again, it wouldn't be the first time she'd had to redefine the word.

"I wouldn't say she's expecting it so much as being cautious. She's as worried as everyone else, though you'd never tell by looking at her. But – and don't tell anyone, because I'm not supposed to know – but it sounds like negotiations are finally getting there. A few more weeks, and maybe –"

"Don't." Allison's voice was harsh, and she suddenly found herself blinking back tears. "Just…don't get my hopes up. Please."

For a moment, Isaac merely looked at her, blue eyes unreadable. Then he turned away and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

The music building was a tiny one-room construct at the back of the campus. Isaac knocked twice before opening the door to reveal a round, oddly-quiet, carpeted room. Lydia stood near the far wall, blinking blearily at the empty space to her right, while Boyd lounged lazily on the floor. When he saw them, he sprung to his feet with a broad grin. "Allison!" he cried, pulling her into a crushing hug. "Thank god you're okay."

Allison let out a squeak at the pressure and patted his arms gently. Eventually, he got the hint and let her go. "Are you guys alright?" she checked.

"Fine," Boyd replied, glancing back over his shoulder to where Lydia was now mumbling something under her breath. "She wasn't keen on breakfast this morning, but I pilfered a bag of dried fruit. We can keep trying in here."

"Okay, that's fine, that's…" Allison trailed off, running a sweaty hand through her hair as she tried to sort through the crush of information in her brain. Sighing, she dropped to floor and patted the carpet, too tired to bother finding a chair. "Sit down. I need to tell you what happened."

It didn't take long. Ten minutes, maybe, to catch them up on everything. On Scott's explanation about Stiles' spark, on her decision to leave and Jackson's surprising insistence on following, on their infiltration into the station which was far too easy until it wasn't. Ten minutes, to explain one of the worst nights of her life.

"Wait, back up a second," Boyd frowned when she finally fell silent. "Before the twins found you. What was the smell Scott noticed?"

Allison wracked her brain, trying to recall the tiny detail from the mass of events. "Uh, fertiliser, I think? Why?"

Boyd's eyes widened in horror, and two things happened almost simultaneously.

Shouts of alarm burst across the silence, accompanied by the low grumble of engines.

And Lydia screamed.

Stiles woke with a gasp.

Then he yelped and clapped a hand to the back of his neck as sharp pain lanced out from four deep wounds. Scrunching his eyes shut as though to block it out, he muttered a volley of curse words and tilted his head skyward.

Fucking hell. Had it hurt this much for Jackson, back in sophomore year?

"Stiles?"

Stiles instantly stilled. His back was pressed against familiar steel bars, so he knew he was still in the Sheriff's station, but if Scott was here…

Dread flooded his limbs, and he reluctantly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a barred ceiling – yep, he was still in one of the holding cells, although weirdly it looked like the one nearest the door – but worse than that, he was no longer alone. In the next cell, Scott wore a relieved grin that was at odds with his pale face and blood-stained clothes while Derek stood beside him, fists clenched even as his eyebrows lifted in surprise. Jackson sat in the far corner of the cage, one side of his face purpled and swollen, and his right arm bandaged into a make-shift splint.

Stiles hissed in sympathy. "Shit, Jackson. Is that broken?"

Jackson somehow managed to arc a disparaging eyebrow, swollen face or no. "Obviously," he said dryly. "Here's a better question: what the hell happened to you?"

That…was a good question, actually. Stiles licked his lips, uncomfortably aware of his bone-dry mouth, and hesitantly brushed his fingers over his neck. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the flare of pain and gently mapped out the too-familiar shape with his fingertips. Peter had clawed him, and then -

The memory slammed into him like a truck. Scrambling to his feet, he glanced frantically around his bare cell, then the rest of the room. But there was no one there – no green eyes, no wicked smirk, no strawberry blonde hair. She was gone.

Stiles sagged against the cell wall in disappointment, then scowled at Jackson's unimpressed stare. Oh, wait. He was still waiting on an answer.

"Peter," he finally explained, glancing at Derek in time to see his expression darken. "He wanted information and he wouldn't take no for an answer, so he did that claw thing. You know." He bent his fingers into an imitation of a clawed hand and mimed sinking them into his neck.

Jackson crinkled his nose in disgust while Derek nodded, unsurprised. "I thought so. But it doesn't matter, now." Stepping forward, he pinned Stiles with a sharp look. "He's planning to use you, one way or another. Is the spark back?"

"He – what? Why would he –?"

Stiles snapped his mouth shut at Derek's impatient glare. Was the spark back? Taking a deep breath, he turned his attention inward. It came easier, now, and…there, right next to his heart, was a tiny lick of flame. Hey, there. The flame flickered, just slightly, in response, and Stiles smiled. Good to have to you back, he thought with relief, and was surprised to find that he meant it. Desperate times, and all that.

Raising his head, Stiles gave Derek a small nod. "It's there, but barely. I don't think it's enough to actually do anything."

Disturbingly, Derek didn't look reassured. Instead, the alpha's brow knotted even further and he took another step closer to the bars that separated their cages. He wore the same expression that he always did just before barking orders, so Stiles decided to jump in before he could.

"So, I have three questions," Stiles announced, speaking rapidly so Derek couldn't cut him off and thrusting an index finger into the air. "One: why do you look like the world's about to end? Two:" he raised a second finger as he continued, "what did you mean about Peter wanting to use me? And, three:" here, he raised his third finger and allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk as Derek glowered at it in irritation, "why are Scott and Jackson glued to the ground?"

"Oh, I'll take that one," Scott volunteered. He waved his hand in the air, then let it smack his leg in annoyance. "We're slowly recovering from being paralysed. Supernatural venom from a giant lizard – who knew, right?"

A giant – oh. Stiles buried his face in his hands with a groan. "There's a kanima here? Man, I hate those things. No offence, Jackson."

From between his fingers, Stiles saw the blonde stare at him with his one good eye, nonplussed. "Why would I be offended?"

"Because you…" Stiles trailed off and hesitantly lowered his hands, realising the other two were also looking at him in confusion. "Huh, I guess that didn't happen here. Never mind, then."

Scott looked curious, but Derek cut in before they could get side-tracked. "To answer your other questions," he interrupted, tugging listlessly at a nearby bar, "Peter says he's getting out of town in the morning, and he's using you to do it."

Stiles surprised himself by letting out a short bark of laughter. "That's ridiculous," he chortled. "I don't even know how to control this thing. And why would I help him?"

Derek didn't seem to share his humour. Anguish twisted his features as his hand tightened on the metal bar, hard enough to leave a dent. "I don't know what he's thinking." By his tone, he considered that a personal failing. "But Peter knows more about sparks than any of us, and he's not the impulsive type. He'll have a plan."

Stiles swallowed, hand once more drifting to his neck before he realised what he was doing and yanked it back down. The wounds throbbed in time with his heart and he clamped his hands together to hide the his suddenly-trembling fingers. "Alright, so, what's our plan?" he demanded. "Is someone coming for us? Are we fighting our way out? Is this a stealth mission? Also, side note, does anyone else find it weird that Peter doesn't have any guards in here? Talk about overconfidence - someone really ought to have a word with him."

"Stiles." Derek's jaw was clenched hard enough to break, but it was Scott who spoke. His dark eyes were steady and his voice firm, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. "Stiles, there's no plan. Our plan failed."

A fist tightened around Stiles' heart even as he shook his head. "No, no," he argued, waving a finger at his friend. "No, we always have a plan. And a plan B. And usually C through F, although I'll admit that's more me than you, and when they fall apart we figure something else out. We're good at pulling plans out of our asses, so. What is it?"

Scott's eyes tightened. "I'm not him, Stiles."

The blatant hurt in his tone cut through Stiles' panic like a knife. A lump formed in Stiles' throat, and he pressed his lips together in frustration.

Because, yeah. Somewhere along the line…or, if he was being honest, from the minute he first set eyes on Scott, the line between his version and this new one had blurred. Part of him had warned against it, arguing that it wasn't fair to either of them to treat Scott with such familiarity, but he hadn't been able to help it. This Scott spoke freely, he never worried about reopening old wounds with a casual remark. This Scott didn't watch him when he thought he wasn't looking, dark eyes conflicted. This Scott had never held a bloodied wrench in his hand and accused him of unspeakable things, made worse by the fact that they were true. It was like having a second chance at the best friendship he'd ever ruined, and despite himself he'd grabbed it with both hands.

Stiles' jaw worked, silently. Of fucking course he would ruin it again. Maybe that was fate. Maybe it was the one constant of every parallel universe, that Scott and Stiles would always fall apart.

The silence was broken by a scraping sound. It was Scott, dragging himself toward the bars of Stiles' cell, then reaching out and grabbing hold. His legs hung uselessly behind him as he pulled his body upright, climbing the bars until he was at standing height, and then he propped his feet on the ground and tentatively shifted his weight. Somehow, his legs held, and he exhaled in relief as he raised his head to meet Stiles' gaze.

"Hey, it's okay," Scott said, softly. He pushed one hand through the bars, offering his hand to Stiles. "I know this is still weird for you."

Stiles hesitated only a moment before closing the distance and grabbing Scott's hand like a lifeline. "I'm sorry," he muttered, all-too-aware of Derek staring pointedly at his feet while Jackson gawked openly from the corner. "I shouldn't have put that on you."

Surprisingly, Scott responded with a warm smile. "Honestly, it's kind of flattering. It's nice to know there's a version of me out there who's kicking butt and taking names. Almost wish I could meet him. But, Stiles," and now his smile faded and worry creased his brow, "it's not looking good. We're surrounded by mountain ash, the kanima creeps in every few hours to re-paralyse us, and even if Allison rallies the others, they're not going to come until tonight at the earliest. By then, it'll be too late."

Stiles shook his head, releasing Scott's hand. "There's got to be something we can do. Maybe I can try something?"

Scott's dark eyes studied him for a moment, unreadable, then nodded. "Okay," he said, ignoring Jackson's muttered oath from behind. "I trust you."

Despite himself, Stiles snorted a laugh. "Oh, that's a bad idea." Still, he determinedly took a step back, as though putting a foot of distance between them would make any difference if something went wrong. "Remember what happened last time?"

Scott rolled his eyes, and suddenly he looked like a teenager again, rather than a world-wearied survivor. "It was literally yesterday, dude."

Stiles met his grin with one of his own before turning his attention inward. The flame was there, all he had to do was –

A loud bang broke the silence, startling him out of his thoughts. Spinning on his heel, he inhaled sharply at the sight of a half-dozen men and women striding confidently through the now-open doorway, some baring teeth and fangs, all of them carrying rifles. On the ceiling, a scaly-green kanima crawled toward the cells, long tongue fanning from its mouth.

"Oh, you're awake," a woman drawled. "I suppose that will make things easier."

Stiles reluctantly dragged his attention toward her, groaning when he recognised her brown skin and dark hair. "Kali," he greeted, sourly. "Of course you're here. Might as well invite the Darach and Dread Doctors while we're at it."

If Kali was surprised that he recognised her, she didn't show it. Her dark eyes glittered over her proud nose, and she stared at him for only a moment before turning to the next cell. "Here's what's going to happen," she announced, sounding almost bored. "We're going to take him, and you're going to let us. You kick up a fuss, you'll be paralysed. You try to attack, you'll be shot. Understood?"

None of the wolves replied, unless Stiles counted Derek's furious glare.

Kali didn't seem to care one way or the other. She let the glare slide off her and turned to her companions. "Get him out of there," she snapped.

Two small women stepped out of the pack to unlock his cell. Kali stayed where she was, as did the larger werewolves flanking her, and moment later Stiles realised why: at her feet, encircling all three holding cells, was a thick line of fine, black ash.

The lock clicked and the cell door swung open. For a wild moment, Stiles eyed the distance to the door and considered making a break for it, but a pointed cough brought his attention back to the two women, now aiming rifles directly at him from point-blank range.

So, that was that.

Stiles raised his hands in surrender and stepped out of the cell, turning his attention once more to his heart. The spark was right where it had been, so he mentally grasped it and pulled. Within seconds, it flared to a bundle of flames that filled his chest and spilled over his collarbones, flowing down his arms with an ease that was so right, so natural, that he could have been convinced that he'd done this a hundred times before.

Before he could overthink it, he gathered the fire into his hands and pushed.

A small front of air, no more forceful than a light breeze, raced toward Kali. It tugged at her hair, briefly fanning it out behind her, before fading away to leave a horrible, empty, stillness in its wake.

Kali froze. Her dark eyes flicked to Stiles', momentarily wide with surprise before crinkling in amusement. "Is that it?" she laughed. "Peter did say you were burned out."

Fear froze Stiles' lungs and rang in his ears, distracting him enough that the words didn't immediately register. When they finally sank in, though, he blinked at her in confusion. "Wait, Peter knows I'm burned out?" he echoed. "Then what is he planning?"

Kali's lip curled. "There are ways," she responded, cryptically. Abruptly, she twisted toward the door and tossed a final order over her shoulder. "Someone restrain his hands."

The man nearest Stiles – a middle-aged, bearded fellow with golden eyes and clawed hands – gave Stiles a sympathetic look before twisting his arms behind his back. His enormous hands easily encircled both of Stiles' wrists, and he tightened his fingers once, warningly, before relaxing into much less painful grip. "Don't give me a reason to hurt you," he warned.

Stiles shot him a sardonic side-eyed glare. "As if you need one."

He had braced himself for another squeeze of his wrists, or maybe a forceful shove. To his surprise, though, the bearded man merely grimaced. "I don't like their methods, you know," he muttered, voice pitched low to avoid being overheard. "In other circumstances…well, it is what it is. Peter says he can get us out if we cooperate, and I have a daughter, you understand? I can't help her from in here. You understand, right?"

Did he understand? Stiles tried to imagine it: being trapped here, helpless, while his father was in mortal danger somewhere frustratingly out of reach.

Leaving Scott to die at the hands of his own beta because his father was bleeding to death on a dilapidated concrete floor.

Yeah. Yeah, he could understand.

The bearded man prodded Stiles into a walk and they set off, the pace limited by Stiles' awkward position. Frantically, Stiles craned his neck, trying to glimpse his friends one last time before leaving the room.

Instead, his gaze landed on the line of mountain ash, lying thick and steady in a circle around the cells.

This time, Stiles didn't have to search for the spark. It swelled within him automatically, spreading down his arms and into his hands in the space of a single heartbeat. It was weaker than before, quiet as a whisper, but that was okay. He didn't need much.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he focussed on the line of ash and imagined it moving, the tiny specks of dusting shifting and swirling, separating to leave a clear path on the tiles.

Then then it did. He felt the heat ripple out from him, and a moment later the line broke, right before his eyes.

Relieved, he let the heat simmer down to its usual lick of flame and allowed the bearded man to propel him through the door. The last thing he saw was Derek stepping up to his cell door, staring at the break in the line as his fists clenched in determination.