Chapter 1

The first thing that he notices is the silence.

A complete void of sound.

Then he takes a deep breath and everything seems to break.

He can hear his breathing, feel his chest moving up and down with each ragged motion. Then the birds, distantly chirping in the trees. The sound of the wind rustling the leaves on the ground; the crunch signaling the crisp beginnings of fall.

He knows he's standing still, his arms stretched out with the beginnings of a deep ache in his muscles and he releases them, letting his hands fall dead at his sides. Everything is calm now and it only makes the remaining memory of the chaos he'd left a glaring reminder of where he'd just been.

When he'd just been.

Opening his eyes confirmed the flickering light of the afternoon sun filtering through the forest canopy. His face was tilted towards the sky, allowing the warmth to sweep across his cheeks.

The world felt new. Real. Different. But despite that, hope couldn't seem to well in his chest. Instead there resided a firmly planted pain. Familiar and distinct. After all, he'd held it within him for the last few months, unable to loosen the tense knot of despair even when he heaved dry everything he had. When he had sobbed for hours on end. In the way these things did, it seemed only to grow; to consume his entire being until he'd given in and fought back.

They'd yelled at him, screamed for him to stop, to come back to reality, to stop the insanity and come back, but coming back would be to a world without-

he wouldn't.

He refused. Outright refused to allow that to be the end of all things, everything he'd worked so hard for. They had worked so hard for. So he'd pushed, pulled, drained every ounce of energy, had the gall to draw from others. He'd ignored their cries, their fear and driven forward, pulling it all in and then pushing it all away, forcing away that world and remembering a time that seemed so long ago, when everything was okay. When it wasn't...when he hadn't lost so much...lost everything. And as suddenly as the light had engulfed him, it had gone and he was left standing in silence with only the echoes of Scott, Lydia and Isaac's desperate shouts lingering in his ears.

Letting out a deep sigh he hadn't realized he'd even taken in, Stiles allowed his head to drop, glancing at his surroundings. He knew where he was in moments. Each tree, each dip in the earth, had become familiar over the years and he knew these lands well.

It was harder than it should have been, logically, to force his legs into motion. After all, that was why he was here, why he'd pushed so hard to bring himself to this point. Why he had given up so much, to come to this place against all reason. One last time, that's all he needed.

With the blood rushing heavy in his ears, lankily grown limbs moved carefully, barefoot through the forest, the crunch of the leaves below his feet nearly deafening. Each step seemed farther, longer until it finally came into view not a few feet away, hidden only by a scarce few trees.

Heart pounding hard within his ribs, Stiles approached the shell that was once the Hale house, a thick ball of emotion breaking within his throat and burning like acid up through his sternum.

The distant familiarity of the burnt remains was even less reassuring, not a bit of whatever relief he'd hoped it would be. It was a terrible reminder of what he done, what they'd destroyed and rebuilt only to lose it all in seconds. It was winning the race, celebrating the glory and feeling the pride only to wake on the morning before, realizing it was all a dream, a wonderful dream torn from you too soon. The surreality was compounding with each step he took towards the house. Even from here he could smell the charred wood and brick, remembering vaguely in the back of his mind a short memory of somber celebration when the second floor of the western wall had finally come down.

For a long moment he allowed himself to drift into that memory, remembering the spiraling relief that had crossed Derek's face when the last few bricks crumbled to the ground. They'd all stood there for long seconds, uncertain, looking to their alpha for direction. Derek had finally rolled his shoulders, shooting Stiles a look then moved towards the next wall, grabbing up the sledgehammer and pounding away. His betas hesitated for only seconds before following, everyone working on taking down the next wall, then the next, and then the next. It had been a monumental day. The day everything had changed.

That night they had celebrated quietly with pizza and a rerun of Spawn on CBS. That night the house was a little cooler, open air breezing through the hallways from the newly emptied space. That night it felt like the weight of the past began to lift. That night, Stiles stayed till dawn long, after everyone had retreated to their homes.

The memory left him then and Stiles found himself standing before the steps of the old home, hearing the echo of laughter in his head. With a deep breath, he took his first step up, careful of the partially worn away board on the second rise. The one he'd tripped over the night of the full moon only months after the entire second floor of the house had been demolished. He'd been in such a rush that he'd forgotten, stumbling and scraping his knee. Like a child he'd sat, listening to the admonishment he'd received from a sour werewolf, who really wasn't so put out as he liked to pretend he was. Stiles was fairly positive that he actually felt rather important in this way. Taking care of someone who couldn't heal like he could. So Stiles let him. He may have even smiled a bit too when Derek wasn't looking.

Ignoring the harsh tightening in his chest, he pushed a hand roughly through his hair, breaking his stride at the top step. It felt like hours standing before the door. His hand trembled inches from the dented knob, a fear he didn't quite understand yet knew too well was hard to quell rolling through his lungs, making it hard to breath. Letting the air rush from him, he pushed the door open, watching it squeak and swing to a stop against the back wall, opening the ruins of the house to his view. The shaking seemed to grow then, swelling up his arm and into his shoulders. This close, he could smell the familiar scent of the house, Derek, the family long gone, even some of his friends. He didn't have werewolf abilities but that didn't stop him from using what senses he did have. Over the years he'd grown to know, to absorb, to adore these scents. Now, though. Now they didn't bring the emotions they once did. Now they cause the trembling to spread through his limbs making it hard to move forward. But as he did with everything else in his life, Stiles forced himself through it. Forced himself to move forward, taking another step.

To his left the kitchen came briefly into view and the air he'd finally taken in rushed from him once more, the burn returning to his throat. In an instant another memory came to him, unwanted but undeterred by his welling emotion. The refrigerator door cold against his back, even through two layers of cotton; Derek's warmth at his front a sharp contrast. A rough man with a soft mouth, softer than he'd ever have anticipated. A first kiss that destroyed any chance of salvaging his heart.

Hands warmer than his pressed against his arms, not holding but pleading and the unbelievable way his pulse pounded in his ears, thrilling against his will.

Scrubbing roughly at his cheeks, Stiles closed his eyes again. Memories surrounded him with every step, every smell, every sound. Scott and Jackson bantering in front of the television over which wrestling match they were going to watch. Lydia calmly turning the station to Sex and the City while they fought and smiling to herself when they didn't argue her choice. Isaac laughing at a snarky retort Stiles shot Derek's way. Four irritated wolves and a banshee glaring at Stiles while he jumped up and down yelling his victory in Clue. Derek absently making Stiles a bowl of soup along with his own when the pack settled in for dinner. Derek presenting him a new leather bound journal when he said the old beastiery was falling apart. Derek stunning everyone into silence by pelting the pack with snowballs at their first meeting in the newly rebuilt house. Derek's laughter echoing through the bedroom when Stiles said something funny. Derek taking too long in the bathroom and making Stiles late for his first AP of the semester at Berkley. Derek happily shoving cake in his face before getting a nose full himself. Derek admitting after the fact to asking his father for...

He hadn't even noticed how tightly his fists had been clenched until he unfurled his fingers, letting the blood rush back into the deep white crescent marks on his palms. Inside the memories were harder to ignore, harder to push away and he wasn't even sure he wanted to. Shaking his head, Stiles took another step, then another until he was halfway up the staircase to the second floor. Trailing his fingers over the wood of the railing, he frowned. The digits stretched across the smooth grain, absent of the deep grooves from claws yet to be made. An angry reminder of a fight he'd begun, an argument of tearing down the old and building the new. One of their first. One of their only real fights.

Everything else was nothing, nothing at all in the light of all they had. All they had created.

The second floor was less familiar than the first, likely because they'd removed it so quickly. Quick enough to rid themselves of the memories buried in the scorched out walls. Memories of a family long gone but well remembered and the ushering in of a new family, built of friends and fights and need and love. Born of something wild and terrified and molded into something that resembled a real future.

The doorways were familiar and Stiles knew in the back of his mind which room had belonged to which family member. He didn't venture into them, however. He never had before and he wouldn't begin now, no matter how much of a second chance this appeared to be. He knew it wasn't. It couldn't be. You couldn't change some things, no matter how hard you tried.

The corner had been so difficult to turn when his father had them helped carry the new mattress up the stairs. They'd struggled with it for a while, getting stuck more than once or twice in the strange turns of the hallway before they'd finally made it to the bedroom, simply dropping it on the floor just inside the door and having a good laugh about it. Then the sheriff had proceeded to drag him into his arms, hugging him tight and making sure Stiles knew exactly how much he was going to miss his son.

To which he'd pointed out that moving into Derek's wasn't him moving across the country, it was just another step into the future. That had prompted more hugging and a home cooked dinner of his mother's meatloaf recipe to which Derek had been pleasantly surprised. He would never forget the prideful smile he'd had while setting their new table, watching his boyfriend of then two years and his father share commentary over their beer.

Instead he turned right, moving down the hall towards the one room he'd known better than any other room in the house. Moving into the room, rubbed raw hazel eyes took in the old, remembering the new, feeling the momentary relief as his lungs worked rhythmically in and out. They'd never really fought over the room once the house had been finished. Stiles had picked out the kitchen, feeling pride in the placement of every piece. Lydia had all but taken over the major rooms. The living room, the den, the library and some of the guest rooms. Even a bathroom or two (though Jackson had rebuilt and redesigned the basement when she was in New York with her parents for a week). This room, however, this was theirs. A room that had been rebuilt over again, remade into something that wasn't all Derek and sometimes too much Stiles. He'd never seemed to mind though. They'd never argued over the placement of items. The long dark burgundy curtains that allowed them to sleep late. Derek. The Batman original movie poster above the nightstand. Stiles. The left side of the closet full of dark hues and too-worn jeans contrasted by the bright flannels and screen-tees that were just a bit smaller. Stiles never told Derek how much he loved the way their shoes looked, like a jumble all tossed together on the floor just inside the closet doors. Or the way their towels end up in the corner on top of one another. It had taken some convincing but he even coerced Derek into hanging a few pictures of their pack, of them, on the walls, Stiles' grin always the brightest in every photo. All but one. One where Derek's enormous grin rivaled even the sun.

That memory. That memory hurt the most in the best of ways. Every time he glanced at the silver frame, the bright shining faces staring back at him reminded him of that day. The best day of his life.

He didn't need the picture, though, he only had to look out the window if he had dared, only had to glance down at the back of the house where the new yard had been built to remember. To remember the laughter and the joy, the tears and the banter. A cake that Lydia had picked out, suits that were a little too tight to be comfortable, flowers that made the sheriff sneeze at just the wrong moments, a kiss he would never admit nearly made his legs give out and the tightness of his new husband's hand gripping his as they sat at the table next to his father and Mrs. McCall.

It had been the best day of his life, aside from the night Derek had compared the size of a plain silver band to the size of the full moon, a sly, nervous grin on his face as they lay out under the stars on a cool September night. Stiles hadn't cried. Not one bit and not for nearly half an hour. Scott would back him up that those were definitely not hiccups over the phone when he called, wrapped up in warm arms and overwhelmed by love.

They'd made them dance, pushing the flustered duo onto a rather rickety wooden dance floor that Isaac and Scott had built a week prior. He would deny it for weeks but that had been one of the most amazing moments of his whole life. He'd pressed his face into Derek's neck and relished in the grip of their arms around each other. His husband whispering in his ear, but Stiles never knew if it was the words to the song or his own, too flustered and in love to listen too hard. It was the best memory he had.

The memory he loved most, the one that brought the best tightness to his throat.

Now though, it was the worst. The worst feeling in the world and in an instant he was so grateful that he was standing in a half destroyed room instead of the bedroom he'd come to love, staring down at the picture itself. It was still there. Back there in the room he hadn't been in for months. The home he hadn't been to in just as long. Scott had tried, he had and Stiles couldn't blame his friend or even his father for trying, but he'd rather sleep on the worn out plaid couch than go back into that house by himself. Knowing what waited for him. Knowing that the dishes were still in the sink, dirty and waiting to be washed. It was Derek's turn. He was going to do them when he got back that night. That the food in their fridge would have gone bad by now. The chocolate milk he'd badgered Derek into buying for him, spoiled. The remote would still be out, the dead batteries laying beside it, waiting to be replaced so they could finally watch that movie they'd DVR'd. The cheap store-bought pizza they were going to make, the beer, still sitting out on the counter. The coins he'd dropped on his way down the stairs. The half used bottle of shampoo in the shower. The closet door still half-open. The bed unmade and the sheets half tumbled off of it. He could never sleep when Derek was away. The load of laundry still in the washing machine, never switched over to dry. The towels and clothes thrown haphazardly in the hamper still needing to be washed. Derek had reminded him that morning over the phone, his voice teasing. 'Don't forget the laundry, it's your turn.'

It rose so quickly that he had no time to prepare for it. It wasn't unfamiliar, not at all. He'd had
panic attacks for the last few months, after all. Sometimes when someone else was there, sometimes alone. Sometimes he woke up curled in his covers, sometimes he woke up with his father wrapped around him, his own quiet tears lost in Stiles' hair, both of them trembling against one another. Sometimes he just sat for hours and let it wash over him, stared out the window and ignored the tears streaming down his face until it was dark and another day had passed him by pointlessly.

This time though, it wasn't like it had been. It was slower, softer. A build up of pain and regret and memory that swept over him. He could breathe, unlike last time but his vision blurred and in moments the room swam in a sea of salt-ridden tears. The sobs heaved his lungs, making his chest hurt, his stomach tighten up with each cry. Before he knew it, his cries were louder than they'd ever been, his face and shirt soaked with the large droplets falling from the curves of his cheeks. He tried to reign them in, thought for an instant of how he should quiet himself. Why? Why should he now censor his pain, when no one was around to share in it, when no one knew why, would be following him or come running. Even when the pain of his legs giving out and his knees dropping to the hard wood of the darkened floor shot through him, his cries continued to flood from his throat unchecked and full of pain. He cried for his loss. He cried for the emptiness that it left, for seven years he'd thrown away to return to this place and time. He for all of the unfinished things that sat waiting for what would never return.

Derek had smelled him instantly, confusion and shock jolting him out of his revelry. He walked the woods near his old house often enough on full moons and nights just prior and following. He would spend hours of the day just walking, watching the light move across the sky until nighttime. Sometimes it helped to keep his mind occupied as he did, but it also helped to be close. He could remember his family, leaving behind the pain of his loss momentarily for the happier memories of family dinners and the laughter of children in the house. Of tossing his cousin's and siblings in the air as they played. Showing each other up while they chased the light of the moon. Sometimes he could forget the bad completely and it almost felt like moving forward.

He had a growing pack now, something closer to a family than he'd ever had before. They were learning and they would move into something greater eventually and that was something he looked forward to.

He could feel even Scott breaking down, closer to giving in and becoming a part of his pack, could feel the closeness that begun to grow between all of them, even allowing humans to integrate their way into the fold. Sometimes they came to him out here in the woods, sometimes in the newly purchased loft and sometimes even in the old Hale house. But they always came in groups, always together to seek his advice or simply to bother him.

This though, this felt different. This felt...not new, but more. More than what had ever permeated the air. It was Stiles, of that he had no doubt, but it was sudden. One moment nothing, the next there. And it was different, so very different. Stronger, stranger, bolder and filled with so much more. With pack and home but more than anything, pain. Anguish and anger and pure unfiltered pain. It made the wolf in him whine, the sound sliding unbidden from his throat before he could stop it and in an instant he was moving towards the source, careful and quiet.

He caught sight of the boy just outside of his childhood home, brow furrowing in confusion. He seemed different, the closer he got the stronger his scent became; as though the air were encompassed in it.

He knew Stiles. Not well, not so well as he should for one making a firm place in his pack, but this was nothing he ever normally associated with the kid. Something out of place and it compelled him forward, following silently as the human moved into the home like it welcomed him. There was a familiarity about the steps that drew the confusion even tighter. The way the lithe hands drew over the woodwork with the intimacy of a well-known lover; reverent and sure but tentative and careful. The scent of agony spiraled higher, then seemed to dissipate some as the younger man ascended the staircase.

He should stop him now, tell him to leave, get out and go back home before his father caught him out on curfew. He should shove him into the nearest door and knock some sense into his teenage head before he got himself hurt. He should do a lot of things. But what Derek did was follow silently up the staircase. He didn't know what he had expected, why he hadn't thrown him out instead of watching soundlessly while Stiles invaded his home, his bedroom. Whatever it was that he may have anticipated, it was not what came.

Instead, what filled the space between them was the most agonizing sound he'd heard since the imagined cries of his own family echoed in his head. Since he and Laura had howled out their own pain for the loss of their family. Derek's body jerked, his heart clenching with the flood of emotion pouring off of the man. He couldn't move, could barely breathe himself, uncertain of what to do until the human fell to his knees, a hard thud signally the loss of his balance, weakness allowing him to slot himself to the floor in complete resignation to the hurt.

He had no idea what had happened. Was Scott hurt? His father? Had something happened to their pack and had he sought out Derek to tell him only to be overcome by grief? No matter his reasons, no matter how much he bantered with Stiles or threw him around, he was pack. He would always be pack and inside his wolf was pacing and straining, pulling him towards the younger man as though drawn in by a cast line.

Empathy swarmed in him and a sudden need to stop the source of his pain flooded through his veins and Derek found his hand dropping gently to the other man's shoulder.

The reaction was instant, his sobs heaving harder, the scent encompassing him filling the room like a cloud of need and he knew instantly why it was different. It wasn't just Stiles, it wasn't just more pack, it was him. Them. A scent that usually was only an undertow with all of his pack was now the predominant one rolling off of him in waves, soaked in sorrow and pain. The burn in his own throat rose for no reason and he found himself gripping harder, Stiles' name embarrassingly choked out, his voice nearly unrecognizable in the flow of unbidden emotion.

The man below him spun and again a revelation came to him. Again he knew what had changed. In the back of his mind, he knew it was impossible and already he was shaking through the veil of denial. It was Stiles. Of that he had no doubts. But his hair was longer, his shoulders broader, his face older if only by a few years. He was not seventeen year old, lanky and stumbling, unsure but stupidly brave Stiles. Not a boy on the verge of being a man and fumbling through things he should never have to cope with. This was the man he would become, the one who had gone through god-know-what and come out the other side completely broken. A man who somewhere down the road had lost something, maybe everything if the pain that rolled off of him in waves was any indication. A man who had seen more pain than he should be allowed to and Derek had the sudden compulsion to find Stiles' younger self. To go seek out that seventeen year old idiot and hide him away from the world and whatever would come into his life that would take away everything that made him smile like the very sunshine in a way only Stiles could.

He didn't let that thought settle, didn't let it fester and grow, instead he stared down at the other man for only a moment before helping him to his feet without prompting, his hands gripping the human under his arms and lifting him effortlessly to stand. He was met with golden eyes rimmed with shock before they melted into creases again, nearly closed save the tears that poured from his eyes anew.

His own name shot from Stiles' throat like a bullet, painful and far too telling. His arms were full before he could breathe a word and for a long moment he fought against instinct to push the warm body away and demand answers. Instead he took it in stride, throwing aside his usual demeanor towards the younger man, wrapping his arms around the his tall form and holding him close. It felt right in a wrong sort of way and he wondered briefly who he was taking this from. Was it his father? Scott? Was it himself?

Was he taking this moment of comfort that should have rightfully been someone else's as his own and letting himself fall into it selfishly? He should let go. He should ask the right questions and yell at him for something...anything. Instead, he held him tighter and let the man soak his shoulder in tears.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours or it could have been days that they stood there, just inside the doorway to Derek's room clinging to one another like the light of the world was going out. The years could have passed by and neither would have known.

When they did pull away, the light outside was dimming in hues of pink and orange and the light of the evening sun. Stiles shivered slightly, feeling the cool of the evening beginning to creep into his bones at the loss of Derek's embrace. It was hard to meet his eyes at first, knowing that they were red-rimmed and bloodshot. And truth be told, he wouldn't have known what to say. He had thought this through a million times. Thought of what he would say, what he would do, how he could change everything but now, in this moment, all he could do was stare. Take in the face he'd woken up to every morning over the last few years. The face that was younger but still looked just as incredible in the dimming light of the evening as it did in the early morning rays of the sunlight that streamed in through their windows. The face he had trailed his fingers over a million times if just to see a smile, to trace the outline of his eyes, the crinkles at the corners, over his mouth as he woke from a night curled into one another. This was Derek. His Derek, but not. One that didn't know, he didn't have those memories and in a way that left Stiles utterly and completely alone in this new, old world.

"Stiles.."

Stiles closed his eyes briefly and let his name wash over him in a familiar ocean of warmth. It
couldn't last though and again he found his eyes drawn to Derek's. He felt the beginnings of acidic pull drifting into his throat again, the nauseating burn forced down with a hard swallow. What could he even say to him? How could he explain who he was, how he was here? Why he was here.

How do you tell your soul mate that you couldn't go on without them? That you defied everything screamed at you through the blinding light of forbidden magick? How do you tell them that you did the unthinkable to see their face one more time when they didn't even know what they were to you? That you drew from the souls of people you loved most in this world just to say goodbye to the one you couldn't live without? There were a million things he could say, a million he shouldn't say and even more that he should.

"I should have been there."

That wasn't one of them.

Derek's brows furrowed deeply, hands still on Stiles' shoulders. "Should have been where, Stiles? What are you-"

In a rush, he was talking. He knew he should stop, his brain was screaming at him to shut up, to stop speaking now before he said too much, but then again, too much had happened, too much to keep inside and really, what did it matter anymore? What would it ever matter again?

"I should have been there with you! I should have gone. I only said no because I was mad that you fought me on the pool. It was stupid, sofucking stupid. I don't need a pool, I never did and if I had gone, if I had been there, they wouldn't have questioned you, you wouldn't have gone on the run and they wouldn't have- I should have keep my mouth shut and just gone with you because that was my job! I should have been by you, just like I promised I would be, I should have-"

Stiles found himself pressed against Derek's shoulder, taking in his warmth again, his hands clutching tightly to the sides of the slightly taller man's faded shirt. "Stiles what the hell are you talking about? Go where? You're right here and so am I, I'm fine." Derek huffed, uncertain of his words, himself. His mind whirled in confusion, the rambling sentences making no sense what-so-ever. He clutched the other man to him if for nothing else than to keep him from breaking down again, to keep him coherent. Stiles didn't stay put though, he pulled away again, his hands moving along Derek's side and arms, grasping at him as though he were positive that he would disappear in the next instant.

"You're not though." he breathed. "You're not fine and it's my fault. You should have been, you should be home with me right now but you're not and you never will be again and I can't go back, Derek." he gasped, fighting back the onslaught of another panic attack rising in his chest. "I can't go back to the emptiness and the laundry and the pizza we never cooked and I can't go back because you aren't there!"

Shaking his head, Derek's brow furrowed even deeper. This was not Stiles, not as he'd ever seen him. That crawling suspicion, the one that worried him far too heavily weighed again in his mind. Impossible as it seemed, it grew more and more with each word. He knew Stiles, he'd known him for a while now and though they bantered and argued and fought, they still had some awkward form of companionship. Something bordering on the edges of friendship, tentative but ready. That was not what this was. That was not what the Stiles standing before him was expressing and it both thrilled and terrified him. For if what he was rambling was truth…

"You aren't making sense, Stiles." He stated calmly, making the executive decision to remove them from the room. He drew them down the stairs, not certain if he should feel relief or anxiety when Stiles went silently, eyes slightly unfocused when he was settled onto the couch. Carefully, Derek sat next to him, watching his face carefully and letting long moments stretch between them before he spoke again. "Start from the beginning." He offered, eyes still skimming the other man's face.

Stiles wasn't sure how long he sat there, feeling the weight of the broken couch beneath him, the warmth of Derek next to him. He didn't know how long his mind spun in circles. Consequences. Dangers. Hundreds of thousands of reasons he should stop now, reasons he should lie and walk away while he still could. But when his eyes rose to meet those of the werewolf, those reasons bled away like the last of his memories circling the drain, waiting to fade away to nothingness and he knew he couldn't.

"I've done a terrible thing." He stated quietly, eyes never leaving Derek's. "I lost my husband and may have killed my friends just to see him again. I don't know if I can make it right or if it will matter," he took a deep breath, finally feeling weariness creep over him, "but if you could call Deaton, I think I should go home now."