He found his sister in the library, alone, sitting behind the wide oak desk that shouldn't really be there. She had an office, upstairs off the master bedroom that she shared with David, but Talia had always had a way of taking over a room, if only by walking into it. Now she sat with her hands folded, proud, regal despite the circumstances, but her eyes were far away.

Calvin sighed.

Striding to the cabinet nestled between a pair of bookshelves, he took down a cut-crystal decanter and two matching glasses, brought it back to the desk and poured, three fingers each. Dragging one of the wing-backed chairs in close, he sank back into it, stretched out his legs before closing his eyes and breathing out, long and slow and tight.

"Well."

Calvin huffed, smirked before opening his eyes, leaning forward to take a glass from the desk. Talia mirrored his movement, turned the glass in her hand before slouching in her own chair.

His sister never slouched.

Unfortunately for her, Calvin knew how to wait, had learned how to wait over long, painful years of being her brother, being Peter's brother.

She'd lifted the glass to her lips before his spoke.

"I think that went well."

Talia snorted, choked on a laugh and a slug of whiskey both and he smiled, an honest smile as his sister lifted a hand to her mouth and tried to stifle her mirth.

"Oh lord, it was a disaster wasn't it?" she chuckled, her eyes shining, and for a minute they sat with the statement, sipping wolfsbane whiskey and getting lost in their own thoughts.

"It could've been a lot worse," Calvin offered eventually, and Talia rolled her eyes, took another drink.

"It could've gone a lot better," she countered. "Good god, the Sheriff's son."

"You like John Stilinski," he reminded her.

"I do," she nodded. "He's a good man, not twisted by politics or swayed by racism and rumor. I was hoping that he'd come to collect Scott McCall himself, that we'd be able to talk. I never expected his only child to come marching in here like he owned the place."

Calvin rested his glass on his knee, turned it between his fingers and watched the lamplight warm the amber whiskey inside.

"He's something, that's for sure," he said quietly.

"You felt it."

Calvin's head snapped up at his sister's accusation, narrowed his eyes.

"I felt something," he snapped, flashing his eyes at her and then immediately settling when she responded with a fond indulgent smile. "Not a lot, but there was something there. Just… interest. More than I had expected there to be."

"Mom always said you and Peter were far too alike for your own good."

Calvin snorted, drained his glass in one long swallow in a bid to drown the sudden anger. He'd heard that all his life growing up, and a part of him could admit that yes, he and his baby brother were a hell of a lot alike. Still, Peter had always been there mother's clear favorite, and while nothing so petty as jealousy had ever simmered between them, Calvin had struggled at times growing up to find his own place, his own identity between his future Alpha sister and his brother, the apple of his mother's eye. It was one of the reasons he'd taken Nicky under his wing after Seth had been killed, moving him in to the house he'd built on the edge of the valley and for all intents and purposes adopting the kid as his own. He been drowning in the mist of the bloodshed and entirely lost, the least of his parents' concerns when it came to their children or anything else, and Calvin shuddered to think the direction the kid might've taken if he hadn't pulled him out.

"It's nothing like he feels," he muttered, reaching for the decanter to refill his glass, and then Talia's when she gestured. "Jesus Tally, our little brother just soul bonded."

The words came out in a rush, a breathy, disbelieving huff and for a minute they both froze, silent. It was as if they were both being hit by the reality of the thing for the first time, the seeming impossibility of it all.

"He's not going to take this well."

Calvin giggled, a hysterical little sound that bubbled up before he could stop it, hardly fit for a grown man to have made.

"He's already not taking it well," he pointed out. "Christ, he attacked the kid, and then he ran off to Luca… You need to get rid of him Talia." Leaning forward, he put his elbows on the desk, stared her in the eye as he drilled a finger against the desktop. "He's been causing problems since he got here, and if Stiles does start coming around it'll only get ten times worse."

"I'm well aware of the problems Luca has been causing," she snapped. "But I can't just ship him off like so much baggage. Our negotiations with the Ohio pack aren't nearly resolved, and you know as well as I do the kind of pressures we're facing right now. Besides, I've got a feeling that Stiles can take care of himself."

"Maybe, but does he deserve that? Shit, I don't want to deal with Peter most days, and it's going to be a lot worse for him, you know that. He's just a kid Talia, what sixteen, seventeen? He's human, they don't even consider him a legal adult yet."

"Don't remind me," she groaned. "On the bright side I suppose that just means more access to his father for me."

"Always a silver lining," he snorted. "Trust you to take advantage of the man while he's trying to make sure his son isn't sexually assaulted."

"In the Sheriff's defense, I'm sure that at this point he's more worried about Peter killing his son than an accusation of statutory rape."

"Can you blame him? Christ, he stormed in looking like Norman-fucking-Bates, practically went for the kid's throat…"

"I don't blame him," she replied demurely, setting her glass aside and sitting back in her chair. "And believe me, Peter will be paying for that little scene, the ass."

Calvin snickered. Peter knew how to push all his sister's buttons, and while Talia was perfectly willing to enforce her will and dole out a punishment where one was deserved, there was always something rather fond between her and Peter. By all rights she could literally tear him a new one for what he'd done today, but she was far more likely to hit their little brother with something more subtle, something that seemed unfairly light but that would humiliate him and drive him quietly insane. The last time he'd pissed her off she'd put him on babysitting patrol while all the older pack members went on a midnight run, and she'd been sure to load the kid's up on sugar before they'd left.

"But this could work out for us," she murmured, and Calvin instantly sobered. "When he brought up reintegration, god."

"Leave it to some smart-mouthed kid," he agreed. "You've wanted this for a long time."

"And now he's practically offering it up to me on a silver platter," she snarled, shaking her head as her eyes glowed. "Everything we've wanted, everything we've been working toward, and all I have to do is sacrifice a teenager up to my little brother."

"A fate so much worse than death," he laughed. "Come on Talia, it's not that bad. I'm not saying it won't be absolute hell for a while, because, yeah, Peter will make sure of that, but he's too smart not to drag his head out of his ass eventually. So Stiles has to come hang around the pack for a while until their bond stabilizes, so what? I like him, Nicky likes him. Give him to us. We'll clear out a room for him, give him a safe place, show him around…"

"That only takes care of half our problem," she sighed. "Setting aside the soul bond and the debacle that that will certainly be, without a doubt, we've still got all the rest of it."

"He said he would help," Calvin murmured. "We know the kind of influence the Sheriff has in town, the kind of reputation. He comes with the kid. And the other boy, Isaac…"

A low, angry growl rumbled up out of Talia's chest and her eyes flashed again.

"We could take him," he ventured carefully. "That law is old, ancient - hell, I doubt anyone even remembers it - but it's still there."

"But it comes at a price," she bit back, her voice rough with emotion and just a little bit of Alpha-thrum. "We're allowed to take him on the premise that eventually he'll take the bite, become a part of the pack. If he agrees."

"So what? Jesus Talia, we got wiped out after the wars. We could use new blood, someone young, healthy, strong. Taking him in, maybe even others, in addition to the political ties we get with Stiles, the possibility to abolish the borders and the separation between us and the humans… that would make the rest of our problems disappear. All the Alphas pressuring us, the packs hemming us in…"

Talia narrowed her eyes at him, trilled her claws against the desktop.

"Don't even deny it," he rumbled, his own eyes glowing gold. "The whole damn pack knows why Luca's here. They can all feel it. They know were on the edge of a fucking civil battle, that the fact the treat still stands is a huge, flashing weakness in the eyes of all the other packs. We've been waiting for months, years even, for the call to defend our territory. This? This could fix everything."

"You're getting your hopes up," she said in a wistful tone.

"And you're not?"

"Oh no, I am," she replied. "And that's what scares me Vinny."

Calvin sighed. Standing up, he crossed around the desk and waited for her to rise as well, wrapped her up in his arms and held her close, let himself sink into the heat of her body, the steady beat of her heart and the encompassing safety of alpha-sister-home.

"We have to take this chance," he whispered into her hair.

"I know," she murmured back. Squeezing the nape of his neck, she let him go, returned the alcohol to the cabinet and headed toward the door. "They'll be back, whether they want to come or not. The soul bond will force that and there's nothing I can do about it, as much as I wish there was. Until then, there are decisions that need to be made, and we'll make them."

Glancing back at him over her shoulder, her eyes were heavy and far away.

"Get some sleep," she said. "Hopefully things will be a little brighter tomorrow."

XXX

The ride back to the Stilinski household was eerily silent, given that Stiles had never had an easy time keeping his mouth shut. Tara and Jordan followed them at a discrete distance, blue and red lights flashing in the dark, and it felt strangely similar to a one-man funeral procession. They paused at the end of the driveway when the Sheriff pulled in, waited for him to walk down and speak to them quietly through the open window. Stiles stayed in the passenger seat, unable to drag himself out, watching his father's silhouette in the side mirror as he gestured up the street. Sighing, he unclipped his belt, got out and shivered in the cool night air. His dad turned and Parrish waved, tossed him a smile that was somehow both cheerful and understanding before they pulled away, but Stiles watched it all with an incredible feeling of detachment.

"Let's get inside," the Sheriff said quietly, his hand warm but light on his unmarked shoulder, and Stiles nodded blankly.

Once inside the front door he kicked off his shoes without a thought, wandered deeper into the house and trailed slowly up the stairs. He could feel his dad's eyes on his back, gaze heavy between his shoulder blades, but he made no move to stop him as he headed for the shower. He didn't remember getting there, didn't remember taking off his clothes or scrubbing down or brushing his teeth, but thought he must've because when he found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, reading those four black words over and over again, his hair was wet and his skin was pink and he could taste mint on the back of his tongue.

He wondered if this was what going into shock felt like.

Fugue, maybe.

Or disassociation.

The shirt he'd been given lay crumpled on the floor, a splash of green and white, and he kicked it into the corner behind the bathroom door, an angry burst of movement that didn't reflect the emptiness curled up heavy and cold inside his chest. Burrowing into the back of his closet he found a hooded sweatshirt, dark blue and thin with wear, pulled it over his head before hunting down a pair of shorts and some socks. He felt marginally better having the words covered, like he was wearing a Kevlar shell, but he could still feel the bite mark beneath the cotton, warm and cool and tingly all at the same time. He'd never been able to feel it before, not like this, and it was like…

He didn't know what it was like.

It was like those old nine millimeter photos that got double exposed, two images laid over each other all smudged and blurry and bright. He blinked and he saw red, felt bolts and flashes of emotions that weren't his, and halfway down the stairs he had to stop and sit, put his head between his knees to swallow down the nausea and wait for the dizziness to pass.

Eventually he made it into the kitchen, where his dad was standing at the sink, pouring out two glasses of milk. There were jars of jelly and peanut butter on the counter, an open loaf of white bread, and the sight of a sandwich had never made Stiles choke up before but he supposed tonight was a night for firsts.

"Stiles?"

"I'm sorry!" he sobbed, and then it was like a damn broke and he was off and babbling at break-neck speed. "Dad, I'm sorry! I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't want you to have to…"

"Woah, woah, easy!" his father rasped, his own voice tight and gruff as he stepped forward and dragged Stiles in to his chest, banded his arms around him and held him in a crushing hug. "Take a breath kid. You're ok. We're ok."

A minute passed as he worked to bring his breathing back under control, curled up in the security of his father's embrace as the man stroked his hand over his hair.

"Better?" he asked, and Stiles nodded, finally letting go and stepping back. "I know you're probably not hungry but you need to eat something ok? You're white, and I don't want to have to call Melissa over here."

"Is Scott ok?" he choked, clearing his throat and scrubbing at his cheeks with the back of his wrist.

"Worried about you, and probably grounded for the rest of his life, but yeah. He's ok."

Blowing out a long, slow breath, Stiles nodded and sat down at the table, forced himself to take a bite of the sandwich his dad had cut in half on the diagonal, the taste of childhood flooding him with nostalgia that somehow managed to make him feel worse.

"He's the real reason you went out there, isn't he?"

"Yeah," he sighed, dropping the sandwich back onto the plate. "Scott's an idiot, you know that. He would've gotten himself in some serious trouble out there."

"Well, I'll give you that one kid," he replied, leveling Stiles with a Level Two glare, the kind that meant he was in trouble but had already reaped enough consequences to warrant reprieve from punishment. "But I can't say you managed to do such a good job staying out of it yourself."

"Was the only thing I could think of," he mumbled, scrubbing his hands tiredly over his face. "Seemed like a good bargaining chip at the time."

"For Isaac."

"Yeah."

"And everything else? Ending the treaty, taking down the borders?"

Stiles felt his hands tighten on the edge of the table, anger surging in his blood suddenly and unexpectedly, unbidden. He clamped his jaw down on the words that bubbled up in his throat, confusion and shame burning hot on his cheeks as he battled the strange reaction down, shoved it violently away.

"I'm not blaming you," he heard his father say, his voice low and far away. "Honestly, I'm… I'm proud of you Stiles. You're a smart kid, I knew that, but you think on your feet and the fact that you went in there after Scott. It was stupid, don't get me wrong, but it was… brave. Loyal. You'll make a damn fine man one day son, if you live that long."

And just like that the anger was gone, replaced by pride and love and making him blush for a whole other reason.

"Thanks," he breathed, swallowing at the lump in his throat. "And dad, I… I am sorry. I know this could be… really bad for you."

"Don't worry about me," he replied gruffly, grabbing Stiles by the back of the neck and dragging him forward, pressing their foreheads together over the counter. "I'm the Sheriff remember? I'm good at what I do. We've actually been talking about this for a long time, working something out with Talia Hale. This might actually work out for us?"

"Really?"

"Really. Elections are coming up in November, that gives us what? Four, five months? If they take Isaac, not only is that big points in their favor but we can spin it as a trial run. Start reintegrating the pack back into town, start bringing people back and forth across the border. Then we can put it up on the ballot to make it permanent."

Stiles stilled, stared.

"Huh," he breathed. "Yeah. I mean, that… makes sense."

"Told you," his dad grinned wryly. "I'm good."

"I knew that," Stiles huffed, crossing his arms and sitting back. "Know that."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" he muttered, looking away as his heart suddenly started slamming up against his ribs.

"Are you good?"

He didn't respond.

"We have to talk about this Stiles. I can understand if you don't want to, but it's something we're going to have to figure out."

"You said we could walk away," he pointed out petulantly. "You said it didn't have to mean anything."

"I was wrong," he said quietly. "I wish I wasn't, but apparently I was wrong. If staying away could make you sick, maybe even kill you…" The Sheriff hung his head. "God knows I don't want to send you back there," he whispered, his voice tight. "Back to…"

He shook his head.

"We'll figure something out," he promised. "Because I will do whatever I need to to keep you safe. You know that right?"

"I know that," Stiles whispered. "Just… can we talk about it tomorrow? I don't… I don't feel so great, and I want a clear head when we…"

"All right. All right son, whatever you need."

Getting to his feet, the Sheriff rounded the counter and pulled him into another brief hug before letting him go again.

"Get some sleep," he said. "We'll talk in the morning. And Stiles? I love you, kid."

"Love you too dad."

XXX

Soul bond, fuck!

Wrong, wrong, right but so fucking wrong - it never should've happened.

Not to him, not now, not ever.

Damn it!

What was he trying to pull, that little shit, showing up here, waltzing into werewolf territory like he belonged? Beacon Hills had been the ones to put up that god-forsaken treaty, the damned border that kept them separate and away. That boy, that child never should've come, never should've been here at all - those were the rules, that was how it worked!

And yet here he was, slipping around with teeth marks on his neck, words on his body he thought he was being so clever by hiding under bright, flashing red…

Hadn't fooled him.

No, it had hit him like a wrecking ball, a full body-slam as soon as those words left his mouth, the name that he'd heard on every one of his pack members' tongues as he came stalking back in from the trees, flush and burning with the adrenaline surge of his fight with the big cat and the run back to the valley. It was like drowning in that moment, the space of a heartbeat when everything stopped, before the anger came rushing in like breathing underwater.

Everything that followed after that was a blur of battling emotion, suffocating underneath the young, clean scent of teenager, sweat and fear and everything he loved, and it made him sick to his stomach as he stalked away across the grass, spat vicious words at his brother and tried to make it seem like he wasn't running. It was lucky that he didn't run into anyone else because he was looking for a fight, would've welcomed the chance to fall back into the biting and bleeding and the hurt.

That at least made sense to him, the things that he could smell and taste and touch, not the wide, expanding chill inside his chest that threatened to steal his breath and knock him to his knees. Shifting didn't help the way it should've so he went back to the woods, ran and ducked and dodged through the trees, snapping and snarling and whirling on shadows as he raged back and forth through the underbrush. Whoever they'd sent after him was smart enough to stay well away, just on the edges of his senses, enough that he felt alone and that was for the best.

He wasn't sure he wouldn't tear into someone that got too close.

His heart was crashing around in his chest and his head was pounding, and he was hearing things he shouldn't be, things too far away. Nausea rolled in the pit of his belly but he forced it down, anger sweeping through him fast and hot and making it that much easier to latch back on to his control.

Fuck!

This was wrong, this was wrong, this meant that…

No.

No, no it fucking didn't.

This didn't change anything, nothing that had happened and nothing that would happen.

That he would make sure of.

And if he howled that rage and hurt to a heavy, waxing moon, that was his devil to deal with.