A/N: So guess who turned up not dead? (hint: it's me!) The long delay was not a part of the original plan, but I'm finally back up and running! Thank you SO much for all the reviews and kind words - I was blindsided by some life drama and haven't had a chance to reply, but I've been reading through them all and I love hearing from you. Plus, they've pretty much lit a fire under me to finally finish this story. The last chapter is being written and will be up very soon, hopefully within the next week or so.
Last time, on The Midday Lord: With his dad shadowing him from afar, Stiles interrogates Garrison Myers but gets very little information...only that the call for the insurance fraud was made by a woman. The Sherriff drives Stiles to the Hale house, where Peter decides to have Scott get a recording of Kate Argent's voice for comparison. When Stiles goes home later that night, he is attacked by Deputy Vargas, who reveals she's been working with Kate. He manages to fight her off by burning her skin but is badly hurt in the process, so his father decides to send him to the Hales for safekeeping.
Five – The Meaning of Pack
.
Stiles slowly floats back to consciousness the following morning, with a gradual awareness that something is off without knowing exactly what. His bed is firmer, the light on his eyelids brighter—he sits up quickly and instantly regrets it when a jolt of pain shoots across his side.
"Careful," Peter says mildly. The werewolf lounges in the fat armchair in the corner, and he only lowers his newspaper a little.
Stiles looks at him stupidly. It's mid-morning, and the harsh summer sun is streaming into the living room of the Hale house. At some point in the night, Stiles was given a pillow and blanket and made to lie down here on the sofa, but he only dimly remembers having come in at all. He has flashes of his dad opening the door for the McCalls, Melissa and Scott being distinctly freaked out. Scott had driven him here to the Hales' place in the early hours of the morning, but Stiles had been so out of it by then that he could barely remember climbing out of the car at all.
Peter watches him put the puzzle pieces together. "Apparently Scott's mother thought if you weren't going to be admitted to a hospital, you should at least sleep it off. Derek and Scott say you were still concussed and pretty much nonverbal. How are you feeling?"
"I...think I'm okay." Stiles frowns at the question, still pressing a hand to his side. "And you, did you—is my dad…?"
"I followed him to the station," Peter replies, giving him a long look. Stiles practically deflates in relief. "He formally processed the arrest, so it's all public at this point. If someone wanted to make sure none of this got out, they'd have had to get rid of him earlier. So either Kate and any other conspirators didn't find out in time, or…" He shrugs.
"Yeah. Although—when I texted, I wasn't sure if you would," Stiles can't help but add slowly. "Go with Dad, I mean. It's um, probably more tempting to stalk Kate right now, in case it is her. Even though she or any other hunters would probably be too smart to get caught in this. And I guess we don't officially know she's in on it, even though Vargas's face was, man, she was definitely surprised when I asked about Kate Argent...shit, I wish I'd've waited for her answer instead of going for the gun, but it seemed like the best chance I had...But anyway, I guess we're waiting on Vargas to talk? Maybe we'll find out how the fuck she's in on this?"
"Funny thing, that," Peter says, tossing the paper onto the sofa. "Sit back down, Stiles," he adds. Stiles blinks, not even realizing he'd gotten to his feet sometime during his rambling. He obeys. "Vargas was found dead in the hospital about two hours ago," the werewolf says slowly.
Stiles's stomach drops. "Because of the burns, because of...?" He manages to filter the gut reaction before he finishes with because of me.
Peter gives him a strange look. "No, Stiles. She was shot twice in the chest."
"She what."
Peter sighs. "Yes. 'Everyone's on high alert, police are asking for any suspects...' The usual. At least we should be happy that this time, they didn't bother to make it look like a suicide. This is...messier. They were caught by surprise, so they're on the defensive. They weren't expecting you to fight."
Stiles frowns, shifting under the weight of Peter's gaze. "And the Argents? Did Scott get Kate's voice, or did you find anything?"
"Nothing," Peter growls bitterly. "Kate Argent's skipped town."
"Skipped town? When?"
"If I had to guess, I'd imagine she did it right after putting two bullets in Vargas's chest."
Stiles swears, low and anxious. "Maybe it's for the best. If she knows we know, or that we probably know...she's gotta get out of here. Especially since she can guess by now my dad at least suspects, and he'll have the other deputies on it too. God. As long as Vargas is the only one on the hunters' side. There's no way of knowing…"
"No, there isn't," Peter confirms gruffly. "But I doubt it's a large conspiracy, if there are in fact more involved than just Kate. The hunter community, like the werewolf community, is relatively small."
"So...with Kate long gone, where do we—"
"Oh, I wouldn't count on that," Peter laughs. There's no humor in it. "I think you're underestimating how much she wants to finish the job she started. Think about it—nothing formal linking her to any of the crimes. Her hands are still legally clean. It's in her best interest, if she's going to finish things off, to do it before we find any evidence linking her to the fire, to your mother. And she knows we're looking."
"If, if," Stiles says quietly.
The lower floor of the Hales' home has high ceilings and airy spaces stretching from the open kitchen and dining area to the cluster of sofas and ottomans that make up the living space. That makes it easy, Stiles imagines, for the pack to feel closer, more at home, even when scattered across the underbelly of the house. But Stiles feels suddenly trapped here, restless even in this wide open room. "I gotta get outside," he says, standing abruptly. He's having a hard time with Peter's curious, intense stare. "I need some air."
He pauses partway to the door, though. "Thanks," he says, turning back to Peter. "For looking after my dad."
Peter quirks his head a little, as if he didn't hear the question, and then he slips off down the hallway.
Outside, Stiles drops into one of the wicker chairs. A few of the betas are sparring off in the distance. It must be Laura's turn to work with them, because she's out there shouting. But it's not just her, Stiles realizes suddenly. It's all of them, and they're not shouting, but cheering. The match is Isaac and Boyd, and though it's hard to make things out from so far away, Isaac looks to be giving as good as he gets.
One of the betas peels away from the pack, jogging toward the house. Scott. Of course.
"You okay?" Scott asks as soon as he's climbed onto the porch.
Blinking, Stiles considers this. "I'm okay."
"Good." Stiles finds himself with an armful of werewolf, but Scott pulls back almost before it fully registers. "You were like, in hardcore shock yesterday. Wouldn't stop shaking. I was really worried." He says it so matter-of-factly, and Stiles feels a rush of affection for his best friend, probably the only person in the world other than his dad who'd ever known him well enough to worry. "You're really okay, dude?" Scott repeats, almost shy.
"I'm okay," Stiles says again.
"Okay. I can't believe that deputy...it's crazy that she came at you like that. How did you get away? Man, I didn't even get the details, you were really out of it..."
"I guess we just ended up fighting for her knife. She got me a couple times, but I managed to keep it away from the vital stuff."
Scott is biting his lip, not looking at Stiles anymore.
"What is it, man?"
Scott frowns. "What aren't you telling me?"
"What do you mean?"
"I saw that woman before your dad got her into his car, Stiles—mom and I were at your house. She had, like, burn marks all over her. It was...weird. And, look, I don't know much," he rushes to add before Stiles can even work out a response. "But you're just kinda...distant lately. I thought it was just because of the whole werewolf thing, and having to be here, but now I'm not so sure. And...well, you're the one who helped me with the whole werewolf thing, remember? So if something's wrong...you can tell me. You know you can tell me anything, right?"
Stiles is thinking of Vargas's red skin, the way it glistened sickly in the lamplight. He wants to puke. "Yeah, I know."
Scott waits expectantly, but Stiles can almost feel Peter listening in from somewhere in the house, leaning forward in anticipation. Not to mention any other werewolf ears. He's not sure what he'd say to Scott anyway, but he's definitely not saying it now. "Okay," his friend continues at last, maybe realizing the bad timing. He moves back toward the rest of the pack. "Just let me know, if there's anything…"
"I will. Yeah. Thanks, Scotty."
.
As the sun reaches its zenith, Stiles begins to feel stronger. Better. Whole. He leaves the shaded porch to lie out on the grass like a beach-goer, sunbathing and careless. The pain disappears bit by bit, and though the usual restlessness is still there, his body seems to understand that he needs to heal, not act. At least for now.
"Stilinski has the right idea," a voice says from somewhere overhead. When Stiles pries his eyes back open, the sunlight makes him squint, but he can make out Erica's long hair. The other betas are clamoring past. Break time, probably. "You okay?" she asks.
Stiles wonders how many times he'll hear this question, and if it'll ever stop taking him by surprise. "I'm okay."
"Good," she says, and then she spreads herself onto the grass beside him. "I think if that bitch hadn't got shot in jail, one of the Hales would have gone up to quietly rip her throat out."
Stiles blinks, not knowing what he's supposed to make of this. "Not you?" he jokes.
"There's a pecking order. I don't get first dibs," Erica says matter-of-factly. "It was probably going to be Peter, I think. Go back to sleep, Stiles."
Stiles does.
.
Late evening finds the pack spilled across the living room, one of the rare times when everyone's present at once—including Peter, who'd left the house earlier to spend the day god knows where.
Scott and the others are clustered around the television, still a little sweaty from the second round of training, but no less energetic as they duke it out Playstation-style. Isaac and Erica are shouting conflicting advice at Boyd as his avatar navigates. Lydia's draped across Jackson's side, complaining that all they ever want to do is fight, and even Laura's got a stake in the game, arguing with Derek over whose turn it is next. Though the pizza's long since been devoured, the scent of it lingers in the air.
Stiles is plastered across one end of the sofa, lazily taking it all in. So maybe that's why he notices the pack perk up in a wave: Peter first and the newest betas last.
"What is it?" he asks warily.
"A car coming up," Isaac says, head cocked.
"It's...your dad's car?" Scott adds tentatively, and Laura nods once, giving him a pleased smile. Scott preens, a student praised by the teacher; Isaac mutters under his breath, but Stiles doesn't catch the ensuing argument about how Scott's had enough exposure to the engine to know it better. He's already out the door.
His father stands in the driveway, hands casually on his belt. He's still in his uniform, cruiser parked next to the Camaro behind him. "Hey, you," he says gently to Stiles. He looks him up and down, and whatever he sees seems to settle something in him. "Came to check in. Are you feeling better?"
"A lot. Not like dying anymore, anyway. And it was a nice day out today," he adds as an afterthought. "Got some sun."
His dad gets the message. "Good." He smiles warmly, and then he shifts in place. "I'd like to talk to you and Peter Hale."
"Um."
"What can I do for you, Sheriff Stilinski?" Peter asks. Stiles prides himself on only barely jumping at the werewolf's sudden presence at his side.
His dad stares at Peter, probably considering those breaking and entering charges, but at last, he sighs. "I've been going through Vargas's things at the office. Pulled a couple of deputies I know I can trust to dig through her apartment and bring me any files so I can look through them personally. So far, she's spotless. Nothing connecting her to this or any other crime, to Kate Argent or Garrison Myers. If she was the voice on the phone, we'd have no way of knowing."
"She said she wasn't," Stiles replies slowly.
"She could have been lying," Peter retorts.
"No. She said it was someone else."
His dad sighs. "Right. Any news about Argent?"
"Kate's scent's still fading around the Argent house," Peter says. "She hasn't been back. I haven't been able to track her beyond a certain point, but I also haven't picked up her trail anywhere around town. It seems the baby Argent isn't lying when she says her aunt's left Beacon Hills."
"But we're still not safe," Stiles continues. It comes out more like a question than he'd meant, and his dad takes it as one.
"No, we're not. I'm going to keep combing through the files at the station, maybe pull Parrish into helping. And I'm going to stay the night there—probably the best mixture of safety and somewhere I can work. I want you to stay here. If that's alright," he adds to Peter.
Peter nods. "Of course."
"And he'll be safe here?"
Stiles is scowling, knowing his father and suddenly realizing where the new line of questioning is going. "Dad, I'm fine. The Hales are fine."
His father ignores this. "I'd like to learn a little more about the situation here."
Stiles rubs a hand over his face and down his jaw. There's a smirk stretching over Peter's mouth, probably because he's an asshole who enjoys drama. "Let me get the alpha for you," the werewolf says courteously.
"No, don't—"
But Laura's already outside, Peter slipping back into the door like they'd planned it. "Sheriff Stilinski," she murmurs over Stiles's sigh.
"Miss Hale...Alpha Hale. I have a few questions for you. About werewolves. I thought maybe it would be best to come straight to the source."
Stiles isn't sure what that says about him and the explanation he'd given his dad, but he doesn't have much time to consider it, because Laura's politeness blows him away: "I didn't know you knew," she replies, eyes sliding over to Stiles. "I'm sure I have some answers. Do you want to come inside, or to sit here?"
They all sit on the porch. And what ensues is an embarrassing recap of every question Stiles's dad has ever asked him about werewolves, and then some: How does the hierarchy of a werewolf pack work? How much freedom and what kinds of restraints do betas have to disagree with rules? What kind of training do betas receive? Can werewolves lose control during the full moon? Are pack members free to leave the pack anytime they want?
It's like a weird moral-ethical-philosophical discussion, one that Stiles finds himself slowly drawn into, a fly on the wall as Laura and his dad fling questions and answers back and forth.
Laura answers the questions candidly, and if she's ever offended, she hides it well. At least until his dad's last few pointed questions, which concern Stiles's past injuries in a gnome hunt (It was one bite, okay? And gnomes are small enough that he passed it off as a dog bite anyway) and the Hale pack's ability to protect him.
"Dad, nobody can protect me from myself—" he interjects, rolling his eyes.
"That's the truth," Laura sighs, without any malice. She fixes a glare on Stiles's dad. "Look, we're...a relatively new pack. And yes, most of our betas are untrained. But any hunter who wants to hurt Stiles, or any of the betas, is going to have to go through all of us, because that's the way it works. Stiles is pack," she adds, "And we take care of our own, with everything we have."
Stiles isn't completely sure what mixture of disbelief and astonishment must be on his face right now, but Laura and his dad both look at him, and then back at each other. Something passes unspoken between them. Stiles's father nods. "Thank you," he says simply, standing. He holds out a hand to Laura, who is taken aback by the gesture for only a beat before she grasps it. "I feel better knowing he's here."
Laura straightens. "Go to work, Sheriff," she replies, smiling. An honest-to-god smile.
His dad clasps Stiles's shoulder, pauses, and then pulls him in for a brief hug. "Call if you need anything. I'll tell you what I find."
"Yeah," Stiles says, the breath gone out of him.
The Sheriff piles back into his car and leaves. Stiles watches the police cruiser disappear round the bend, slipping into the darkened forest, and tries not to feel like a little kid dropped off at school for the first time.
"Did you just adopt me?" Stiles asks half-ironically, still staring into the trees.
"Stiles, we adopted you a long time ago," Laura replies seriously. She slips back into the house, leaving Stiles on the darkened porch.
.
Over the next two weeks, Stiles sees more of the Hale pack than he probably has in the entire time he's known them. A couple of times, his dad swings by to pick him up for a few hours, bringing him to some greasy restaurant where he can both check in on Stiles and annoy him by eating decidedly not heart-healthy meats. And Scott seems determined to make sure Sunday breakfast with Melissa still happens. Other than this, Stiles has spent nearly every moment at the Hales' place, more even than most of the other betas. (Also, wait...is he a beta?)
It's enough time to learn that Isaac actually lives at the house, in one of several guest rooms, while the others only spend the night a few times a week. Enough time for Stiles to be given his own guest room, which now holds the meager clothes and necessities his dad brought by. Enough time to grow appalled at the sheer amount of takeout all of them eat, and to start cooking his staple breakfast foods, which the others devour every morning. Enough time to bond with Erica over their mutual great taste in movies. Enough time to learn that Peter maybe never actually sleeps, and enjoys scaring people who just need a drink of water at three a.m. Enough time to start fighting with Derek, who wakes around the same time as he does, over how much he spends in the bathroom (doing what, his hair?).
Enough time to get used to it all. To being part of a pack.
Scott never again asks what happened with Vargas that night, but Stiles knows he hasn't forgotten. He catches his friend staring every now and then, close by without pressing. Peter's observant enough to have questions too, probably because it seems unlikely that the fragile shell of skin and bone that is Stiles could fight off a gun and then a knife, with just flesh wounds and a concussion to show for it. Stiles is good with questions, though, and he can almost feel them in the air. So he avoids the two of them altogether.
It helps that Peter's often gone anyway, frustrated and unable to find where Kate has fled to. At one point, he disappears for three full days, and then appears suddenly at the doorway to the guest room (Stiles's room?) one morning with a grim look on his face.
"What's wrong?" Stiles asks at once, anxiety rising as he tries to read the expression. "Wait—did you find her?"
"No," Peter replies sourly. "Not for lack of trying. And there's nothing I've learned that we didn't already know. Just a confirmation."
"Where did you go?" Stiles asks slowly.
"To the county jail."
Stiles cocks his head, and then it registers: "Unger and Reddick?" he asks. "My dad already went up there to question them. He said they had nothing new."
Abruptly, Peter peels away from the doorway, turning to look down the hall.
"I know I'm interrupting." Laura's voice comes from outside the room, and Stiles gets up to peer around the corner at her. Her hands are stuffed into the back pockets of her jeans, and it takes Stiles a second to realize that she actually looks almost hesitant. Behind her, Derek stands with his arms folded, expression unreadable. "But since the two of you are talking anyway...I know you're looking into the fire, and I'd like it if you'd fill us in."
It's a toss up between who's more surprised, Peter or Stiles. Peter schools his face back to normal first, though. "Why now?" he asks, with a smirk that shows too many of his teeth. "You haven't been interested before."
"Before, I was...we were pretending we didn't have to deal with it," she says quietly. "But it's our problem, too."
"Nice of you to notice," Peter replies, the uncanny grin still there.
For someone who'd been so determined to keep his young relatives out of this investigation, Peter has always cultivated a decent amount of bitterness about it. But maybe, Stiles realizes suddenly, it's because Derek and Laura haven't even tried to fight their way into this mess; they just left their uncle to tackle it alone.
"Peter," Stiles begins quietly. "Sometimes, it takes time."
"Two years."
"My dad just started looking deeper into what happened to Mom," Stiles adds. "Sometimes, it takes time."
Peter scowls, but at last, he inclines his head. Laura gives Stiles a grateful look, and they go up to his study and shut the door behind them. Stiles does most of the talking, filling Derek and Laura in on all they've done and all they've learned so far. Derek stays mostly quiet, moody, but Laura asks sensible questions, about the legwork and what Peter's learned about Kate. It's enough to make Stiles almost glad for her presence, though Peter remains distant. Formal.
Around the time they're winding down, Stiles feels his phone vibrate. He looks down to check it, and then back up at Peter. "Uh, Dad wants to know why he's gotten a report that Unger and Reddick were both killed in their cells. Preliminary evidence suggests...stab wounds?"
Peter smirks. "Yes. About that."
"Peter...you didn't," Laura sighs.
"I understand that your father recently visited them and found they claimed ignorance, but I was...curious whether they knew more. You probably know law enforcement has ways of making people talk. Though it's essentially bribery, offers of reduced sentences. But that only works if the person in question isn't terrified of the consequences of talking."
"Like someone killing them," Stiles guesses. "Like Kate killing them."
"Exactly. And the best way to find out, in this case, is to make them afraid someone might kill them right now."
"Which you did," Laura retorts sharply, at the same time that Stiles asks "What did you find out?"
"Neither of them could positively identify the woman as Kate Argent, but they both claimed that a blonde woman around her age met with them to give specific instructions about the fire, details about the house, that sort of thing."
Laura and Derek both look sick. Stiles looks down at his phone uncomfortably, taking the opportunity to add: "I'm just gonna text back here…'yep...definitely...not...a...coincidence…'"
"They also mentioned she wasn't alone; there were two men with her. Meaning we can assume she probably has at least two other co-conspirators aside from the deputy she killed at the hospital."
"Do I even want to know how you got into and out of the jail?" Stiles asks.
"Stiles. I can get into and out of anywhere."
"Isn't it—" Laura begins, and then she pauses. When she tries again, her voice is less accusatory. "Isn't it putting the pack in danger, killing those men like that? Even if it just looks like random stabbings, Argent and her...whoever, partners, whatever—they'll know you met with those men."
Peter levels his gaze at her. "And they'll know we know more about them. And they'll know we're not playing around. They'll know what's coming for them if they start something new."
Derek frowns. "That doesn't seem—"
"Peter's right," Stiles adds, surprising probably everyone in the room. "It's...a show of force. If they're looking at the pack and all they see is a bunch of defenseless new betas, we're sitting ducks. With this move, it makes them reconsider us. It buys us some time to pin them down, see if my dad can find something or Peter can track them. And," he adds, feeling his lip curling, "it's a warning about what they can expect if they try something. Whoever's behind this, whoever's wrapped up with Vargas...they're going to pay. We're going to make them pay."
Laura looks appalled. Peter looks delighted. "I knew I liked you," he murmurs. "Positively bloodthirsty."
"Oh, shut up," Stiles says, reddening in a combination of pride and shame. "Look—I'm still not sure what happened to my Mom, but I can't help but think she's tied up in this somehow. And even if she wasn't, Kate's bad news if she was involved." He clears his throat, uncomfortable. "I don't get the sense this kind of person would come along quietly for a trial. If we—when we figure out who did it, I don't think jail's the answer. The only way to keep everyone safe is to make sure they can't hurt anyone anymore."
Laura's staring at him, but Derek slowly nods.
"I'll add that this is all very hypothetical for the moment," Peter adds blithely. "We have no leads on where any of them are."
"Okay," Laura says slowly, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I'll contact Deaton. I mean, I haven't really talked to him as the alpha...but he's got connections. Connections I guess we need now. I'd be surprised if he couldn't help us at least get a better read on where she might have gone, or find out if she's been sighted in anyone else's territory."
"It's a start," Peter tells her, and they all pretend not to see the weak smile she offers in return.
.
Stiles is and always has been a boiling pot of anxiety mixed with ADD, but this entire situation grates on his nerves. The midday sun brings him so much restless energy and tension that he can hardly bear to be cooped up inside, still and useless.
It's weird. He knows it's weird. The noon sun is intense here, as it is everywhere in California; the heat is an arid one, the kind of heat that reminds him how close they live to the actual desert. A little before noon, the betas limp panting back into the air-conditioned house for a break after their morning training, and they stay inside until the shadows of the trees are at a firm slant. At noon, all Stiles wants is to be outside, burning with the rest of the world.
"You can't be serious," Isaac tells him one afternoon, the nth one in a row in which Stiles goes out for a "run" when the sun is at its peak in the sky. On the first and second days, the betas had come with him again; by the third, when it became clear that he didn't mean to end every excursion cooling off in the pond, they remained inside.
"I just need to get outside," Stiles replies distractedly, pulling on his sneakers.
"Yeah, f'ou say so," Scott manages around a mouth full of chicken, his face dubious. "'ave fun."
Stiles wonders again how much Laura has to tip to have someone deliver hot wings around here, listens to Jackson explaining why he deserves the last piece, and then he's gone.
He runs for ages. The forest disappears into a blur, a flash of violent greens and golds that spark white with reflected sunlight. It's hard to tell how long it takes him, but he always goes far enough that someone would have to really want to follow him—and no one ever does, at least to his knowledge.
There, in the middle of the forest, he lets himself go. He kicks up a dust storm, small enough that it wouldn't be possible to see above the trees. He paces and burns, feeling the sunlight on him, in him, the way he's never sure if he's reflecting it or causing it.
But he's careful, too. He doesn't want to start a fire, not here in the parched brush, in the middle of a drought, the earth dry and cracked underfoot.
He burns, but he's the only thing that does.
.
It's in this way that he discovers the weird things in the forest.
He doesn't know what kind of creature they are; he just catches sight of an odd movement out of the corner of his eye mid-jog. It's a green creature, squat and bearded—or maybe that's scraggly gray moss, it's hard to get a read. He slows down to take it in, the wide green eyes, the hunch of surprise. For approximately two heartbeats, he thinks, That thing's way cuter than the pixies were.
And then it grins, and its teeth shine like little knives.
It's not expecting a fight, he doesn't think, but it probably knows he's got speed on his side, because it pounces almost before he can react. He manages to kick it in the side—he's definitely not going to be telling anyone he got bit by a little green dude after all the shit he got after the gnome bite—and it falls hard to the ground.
It's up quickly, growling, and a pair of similarly bearded, ape-like things bound from the undergrowth behind it. Alarmed, Stiles lets his magic flare to life, a burning flame that surges in his chest. Light flashes in the clearing; Stiles looks down briefly to find that his red Thor tee and black jogging shorts are blinding white, sure as if they'd been bleached. His skin is pale, maybe even glowing.
The original monster-thing howls in fear, flinching back before Stiles can make a move. The others follow it into the forest.
Stiles stares after them, goosebumps covering his skin, and then realizes that something smells of smoke. The grass underfoot is alight with flames, and he quickly stomps them out with his foot.
At least when he looks down, his clothes are back to their normal color. Which is pretty sweet because this is his favorite shirt.
"Great," he gripes. "That's fucking new."
.
The creatures turn out to be trolls. This is according to Peter, who is essentially the Hale family's equivalent of a magical encyclopedia. Peter also, coincidentally, finds the trolls too irrelevant to be worth his time, if his sneering expression is anything to go by.
It doesn't matter though: as he makes himself scarce, the betas work themselves up into a riot at the chance to get out of the house and do something, at a rare opportunity to put their training to work. Like Stiles, they are being kept close, ordered to stay at the house as much as possible in the case of an attack by the hunters. Stiles isn't the only one feeling cooped up, he realizes, even if his is a different sort of anxiety from the 'wolves.
Stiles hangs back as the others work on tracking the trolls' scent, all of them stumbling behind Derek. He's not sure what's happening to him, not anymore, and he wishes his mom were here to explain. He wishes he could ask her if her powers had swelled with her emotions, or if she'd always been as collected as he recalls. He wishes his mom were here at all.
It doesn't matter now. Stiles will figure it out on his own.
He thinks it's probably because of the case, Kate and the Hale fire and the rogue hunters. The stress is getting to him; the duty to right this wrong, his wronged mother, is crawling under his skin nowadays.
"You're really okay?"
Stiles nearly tumbles forward, flailing at the voice so close by. Laura is beside him, fighting back a smile at his clumsiness. They trudge forward after the betas, who are farther off than they had been the last time Stiles checked. She must have doubled back for him at some point. "The trolls didn't get you?"
"I'm not as defenseless as I look," Stiles snaps at once.
"I didn't mean…" Laura sighs, shaking her head. "I'm not, like...trying to shoot you down or anything. I'm just asking a question."
"Yeah, ok. No, I'm fine."
For a moment, Laura's quiet again, and they trek through the woods, the evening thickening all around them. Laura slows a little, letting the betas gain a little distance on them. When Stiles realizes, he matches her pace, glancing at her curiously. "Look, Stiles," she says, once the others are out of earshot. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, alright? It's my fault," she admits. "And I'm sorry."
"Whoa, what? My ears just spazzed out."
A smirk flashes across her face, and then it's gone. "Yeah, I know. Okay. And I have a bunch of stupid excuses, like how I wasn't ready to be an alpha and didn't know how to deal with a new beta, and how I still wasn't past the fire. I'm still not…" she laughs awkwardly. "But I didn't handle it well for you and Scott. I think Scott forgave me for that already, but…" she stops, frowns. "I'm sorry it took me so long. To be okay with you guys as part of the pack."
Stiles's mouth works open and closed a few times while he figures out what to say. "Okay, first off: Scott's an idiot. He'd forgive an asshole who stole his lunch money. I'm his best friend. It's my job to hold grudges on his behalf."
"Uh, fair enough," Laura replies doubtfully.
"Second off: the fact that you even know what's most important for me to hear you apologize for, because of what you did to Scott, is going a long way to warming my cold, dead heart. I also don't care that you took it out on me, because Scott got what he needed. Seriously, he was going nuts, and I had no idea how to help him. So it's fine."
"Yeah, look, I'm not going to pretend I wasn't...or that I'm not still pissed half the time, but it's not really at you. It's just at life in general, and you were close by."
"No, I get it. I'm like, the non-werewolf sidekick, so—"
"That's not what I meant," Laura growls, frustrated. She bends down to swipe a long thread of needlegrass, which she idly plucks apart as they walk. "You're human, but that doesn't matter. You're pack. And I was worried about having to protect you on top of everything else, all these new betas...but I shouldn't have. That's what pack does. And in the end, it looks like you could protect yourself pretty well without help, anyway."
Stiles snorts. "I can't believe how many times I've heard you guys say I'm pack now. It's like I stepped into an alternate reality or something."
At this, Laura looks away. "You shouldn't have doubted it."
"Look, don't worry, Laura. I get it. You have a fucking temper. I have a fucking temper. I can relate. We're...I mean, I guess...we're cool. You keep an eye on Scott, and we're cool."
"You're a piece of work," Laura says matter-of-factly. "Scott's lucky to have you."
"I'm lucky to have him," Stiles retorts honestly.
From up ahead comes a series of growls that even Stiles can hear. He and Laura take off after the sound, Laura's supernatural speed catapulting her far in advance of Stiles.
By the time Stiles catches up, the fight is raging but controlled: the betas are spread in a semi-circle around the trolls who are springing forward with wiry limbs and sharp teeth. The pack's coordination looks great, even precise—all that training paying off in a big way. Erica and Boyd team up on a trio of the grungy-looking munchkins; Derek roars as one jumps onto Isaac, who tears it apart with his teeth. Laura and Scott are in the fray, too, farther off, backs together. For a minute, Stiles just drinks it all in.
There's a weird feeling in his chest, an odd glow. But it's not his fire burning. It's something happier, almost proud. A strange sense that all of this, these people fighting—they're his now, and maybe he actually wants them to be.
The fight dies down, the strange, bloodthirsty creatures either limp on the ground or weeping odd green tears as they flee into the brush.
"Stiles, move!" someone cries suddenly. There's a rustle of green just in front of him; he's let himself get too distracted—but in that instant, he recognizes the scraggly twist of nose and the mossy beard. What's more, it recognizes him.
Pausing in mid-attack, the troll whimpers lowly and darts away into the bushes after its retreating friends.
Stiles stares after it, open-mouthed, recovering from his own flinch. He locks eyes with Derek, who looks just as flabbergasted as Stiles himself must. "What the hell?"
"I call first shower," Erica announces irritably, wiping slimy green blood from a clawed arm.
.
In the end, Stiles guesses he shouldn't be surprised that someone eventually comes after him. He expected it to be Peter, probably, as observant as he is. Or maybe Scott, who still glances at him pointedly sometimes even now.
What he doesn't expect is that they've been comparing notes.
It's a few evenings after the trolls, which are dead and buried. (Although there are weird plants sprouting from their graves. Everyone's fervently hoping this won't be a problem.) Stiles returns to the Hale house after lunch with his dad, still half-distracted by the way his dad's obviously trying to hide frustration and fatigue. The case has gone nowhere; Deaton's given them nothing, Peter's found nothing, Stiles's dad has found nothing.
Stiles is burning with the need to know.
"You've been weird lately," Scott remarks casually as Stiles sinks into the corner armchair.
The living room is mostly empty. Laura and most of the betas are out of the house, fending off their boredom at the pond, but Scott and Derek are here, drooping tiredly on the sofa after a particularly long day of training. At the window seat, Peter absently flips through a foreboding-looking leather-backed book.
"I'm always weird."
"No," Scott says, making an effort to straighten in his seat. "Like, 'something's wrong' weird."
Stiles turns to him. "What do you mean?"
When Scott exchanges glances with both Derek and Peter, who are suddenly paying attention, Stiles stiffens in his seat. "You don't have to tell us what's going on if you don't want to," Scott assures him quickly.
"But it would greatly help," Peter snipes.
Stiles takes a breath, in and out. "What are you talking about?" he asks calmly.
"Alright," Peter replies, complete with an if-it's-going-to-be-like-this eye roll. "We have a list."
"A list." Stiles repeats flatly.
"First," Scott says, ticking off a finger. "You're always going outside when it's a thousand degrees out."
"That's not—"
"Every. Day." Derek interrupts, "And when you come back, you're exhausted and shivering. With no sweat or sunburn. Or even a tan. I mean look at you," he adds, gesturing vaguely with his arm.
"Thanks, buddy," Stiles snarks, heart thumping wildly. "Okay, maybe I like running in the middle of the day, and pale skin's making a comeback, okay? I don't know what you're getting at."
"You heal absurdly fast," Peter points out. He still hasn't left the window seat, and he turns a page in the book as though he's not even fully listening to the conversation. "Not as fast as we do, but too fast for a human. The day after the attack with Vargas, you were running outside."
"And there's Vargas, with her...those red marks," Scott says. "They passed it off like you guys were fighting in the kitchen and she got burned or something, but..."
"And that troll, which was definitely scared of you," Derek adds, "When it wasn't even scared of us."
Stiles blinks at all of them. And then, very slowly, he lowers his head into his hands. Scott rests an arm on his shoulder. "You're burning up," he remarks. "All the time now. Dude, you gotta calm down."
Oh yeah, Scott can hear Stiles's heart. Stiles forgets that sometimes. He takes a couple of breaths, trying not to make it seem like he's gasping for air.
"You don't have to say what's up," Derek says, though he's probably scowling when he says it. "But we're your pack. You have to tell us if we should be worried about it, or if you're not okay."
Stiles nods slowly, without picking his head up. He wants to tell them. He should tell them. He can feel the words there in his mouth, pressing to get out. But it also feels like too much, too soon—he wasn't expecting this, for any of them to really confront him about it beyond a few subtle pokes, and he's not prepared. This secret, the burning inside him, it's too personal, and he's guarded it for so long that he's not yet sure how to let it go. "Okay," he says at last, straightening. "You're right, there's something going on. But I can't...I don't know how to tell you about it. Yet. I'm sorry, I just…"
"Don't apologize," Scott says. "Dude, whatever's going on, you can talk about it when you're ready. Just...are you okay? Really okay?"
Stiles considers this. "I think I'm going to be," he says at last.
.
.
.
sheriff stilinski: alpha hale, i just want you to confirm in your own words that my son isn't accidentally joining a cult thx
stiles: dad pls no