~*~FOUR YEARS LATER~*~

The thing about Dreams is that they were ever-changing. Sure, there were some consistencies, some things that never differed. It was clearly always the same Mate and it was always sexual in nature. They were always in a nondescript field somewhere—at least that's what Stiles assumed, considering the grass he could feel itching against his bare skin that he'd eventually just stop feeling as his mind was overwhelming with other touch sensations. They were always naked—obviously. And he always woke up before he came or was knotted.

But some things changed, evolved over time. Stiles noted how his hair always remained the length it was in real life, keeping up with trims and when he grew it out. His own body changed with it, a growth spurt making him the same height as his Mate, allowing them to press together completely. Muscles he'd formed from lacrosse and cross-country also formed in the Dream version of himself, granted it was nothing compared to his Mate.

The alpha had packed on more muscle of his own, biceps getting bigger in Stiles' periphery and when he grabbed hold of them. Abs were more defined, pecs broader as they pressed against Stiles' back and his stomach. His frame felt wider, back muscles more defined as Stiles clung to him in the heat of the moment. A smooth jawline gradually changed to a rough whisker-covered one, scratching at the sensitive skin of his neck.

But it was still the same alpha, Stiles knew it deep within his soul. It was the way his wolf was always at peace, the way they moved together like they knew each other, like they'd done this hundreds of times—which, in the Dreams, they had—the way his Mate's thumb always seemed to smooth along his jaw, his cheek, his bottom lip in a reverential manner, like Stiles was something precious and fragile and to be worshiped. And the few glimpses Stiles managed to get of his Mate proved that it was the same male. He saw the same tan skin, the same round shoulders, the same strong jawline—even when covered with scruff—the same sharp nose that ended at a point, like a blade. When he was on his back, he was able to look down and see those chiseled abs and flat pecs, could see dark hair trailing down from his navel, could see smooth skin and tan flesh.

But any time he tried to raised his head to meet his Mate in the eye, something would happen to block the action. His neck wouldn't work, his head would be too heavy, his Mate would duck his head into the crook of his neck and essentially hide from him—although he wasn't quite sure if it was because his Mate actually wanted to do that, considering the nibbles he'd feel on his collarbone and the huffs of air he'd feel against his skin as he was scented, or if some outside force controlling the Dream made him do it. And while Stiles knew that no one ever got a full glimpse of their Mate in their Dream, he still couldn't help the disappointment he felt or the aggravation at not getting his way.

He wondered what it was that his Mate saw of him, what body parts he was able to get a peek at. He wondered if his Mate knew how pale he was, how mole-covered, how lean. Surely, the alpha knew that he'd put on muscles of his own, could feel that his hair had gotten longer—since he sometimes felt fingers tangling in the strands as opposed to ghosting over his buzzcut—but what else? What clues did he have about Stiles' identity? What small hints had he obtained over the years in order to help him figure out who he was meant to be with? Just knowing it was a pale skinned, leaner-than-him male omega wasn't gonna be enough.

Or maybe it would. Who the hell knew how this crap worked?

The Dreams came with the same frequency, about once a month, meaning his Mate was close but not quite in the same town. It was another fact that was completely infuriating, knowing that his Mate was nearby but they still hadn't met. He hadn't been quite so desperate when he'd first started having the Dreams, knowing he was sixteen and not quite ready for that level of commitment. But after he'd turned eighteen, he felt like he was ready, like he was in the right place to find his Mate and begin a serious relationship, one that would culminate with a Mating Ceremony and a Claiming Bite on his neck.

But it didn't happen.

And while it was aggravating and upsetting to know his Mate was still out there and not currently with Stiles, at least he was still having the Dreams. Meaning his Mate hadn't died or anything. And he was only twenty. There was still plenty time for them to get together.

He hoped.

Not that it mattered at that moment, not when he had his Mate pressed against his back and driving his cock into him. The two laid side by side, soft grass tickling his buzzing skin and adding to the overwhelming sensations. A strong arm was draped over him, holding his leg up, elbow tucked into the back of his knee. Rough whiskers rubbed at the sensitive skin just below and behind his ear, causing him to cry out. He could hear the sound of his Mate's pants, hot breaths of air ghosting over his skin and driving him higher. He could hear the squelch of a cock sliding amongst his slick, the slap of their bodies as his Mate's groin pounded against his bare ass. He could hear small whimpers and loud groans when he squeezed against the hard length driving inside him, the warning growl when he tried to take over and make his Mate go faster, the alpha tightening his hold and keeping him in place before giving him exactly what he wanted.

But no words. Never any words. Stiles had tried it out, had tried asking what his Mate's name was, had tried making requests for more, don't stop, harder, faster, had tried just letting out swears at a particularly good thrust. And while he knew his mouth was moving and his tongue was forming the syllables and his voice box was vibrating against his throat, no words came out.

Annoying.

Really, it was kinda funny and ironic. The one time he was actually speechless was while he was being pounded, mated, claimed, and in mind-blowing fashion. He'd be vaguely aware of his lips moving as he tried to babble and ramble, knew in the back of his mind that he was trying to speak, but nothing ever came out. When he was awake, he was more aware of that fact, would laugh about it, would imagine his friends' reactions to him being unable to speak and their quips over how they wouldn't mind seeing him getting fucked because at least he'd be quiet for once and that it'd be worth the awkwardness.

But at that moment, all he could think about was how much he was dying to hear his Mate's voice, dying to get feedback. Was he just as good as the alpha? Was he pleasing him? Was he a good omega taking it like that?

It was just his omega nature, he knew it for a fact. Yet he couldn't help but want it, couldn't help but feel that overwhelming urge to be told how good he was at pleasing his alpha. And, fuck, what he wouldn't give to hear his name being groaned out in the heat of the moment.

Wasn't gonna happen though. At least not in a Dream.

The thought was shoved from his head after a particularly good thrust, making his eyes go wide and his lips part as he cried out, the sound shaky and wavering but no less passionate for it. He dug his fingers into a thick forearm, feeling how tense the muscle was, the hair covering the limb, the veins protruding from the contracted muscles. He was honestly surprised he hadn't sprouted claws, that they were still sheathed, but really, it was only a matter of time. He could already feel his gums tingle where his fangs wanted to descend, could feel the rough catch and scratch of his Mate's sharp teeth as he ran them up the side of his neck, causing him to shiver and goosebumps to break out over his flesh.

His Mate pulled back, not stopping until the head caught on the rim, before quickly thrusting back inside. That was one thing Stiles could say for sure about the alpha: he never left him wanting or empty. The Dreams usually cut-in with the two of them side-by-side on the grass, the other man quickly rolling over and connecting their lips in a kiss that became more frenzied as time went on. And it was only a matter of seconds before Stiles was manhandled into position and filled up with a cock that was hard from the get-go—just like he was slick and stretched as soon as he became aware in this Dream Realm.

The retreat and return repeated over and over, hot puffs of air gusting down Stiles' sweat soaked spine, his Mate pressing his forehead to the base of his neck. A muscular torso was no longer pressed against his back and he imagined his alpha looking down the space between their bodies, watching himself continuously enter his omega, claiming him. He groaned, free hand stretching out and grasping at the soft grass, tugging it free from the soft ground. He felt the prick of his fangs digging into his bottom lip before parting them, gasping out an exhale as he struggled to keep the air in his lungs with the way he was being pounded from behind. Fucking hell, if Dream sex was this good, then real sex had to be beyond comprehension.

Unless he was being set up for disappointment.

No, no way. Fate had taken enough from him. It wouldn't deprive him of unbelievably amazing sex for the rest of his life, too.

A tugging was felt at his rim, the alpha now struggling to get his cock inside with each thrust in. Stiles relaxed his body, hitched his leg up higher to stretch his hole even more. His Mate's knot was pressing against him, growing, wanting in, wanting to lock them together as the alpha filled him up, marked him from the inside out.

Just the thought of it was enough to speed up his own orgasm, his balls drawing up tight to his body. He'd felt like he was on the verge the entire time, only for more space to be built past it, more room for him to be pushed further, the end always just out of his reach. But now it was right there, just on the tip of his fingers, ready for him to grasp it, ready for him to be shoved over with a few more thrusts.

He felt the indent of sharp teeth on the crook of his neck, right over the soft area where it met his shoulder. His Mate's fangs were pressing against his skin, trying to break through the flesh, trying to mark him with a Claiming Bite, right where everyone could see it. Stiles' tilted his head to the side, fangs sinking into his bottom lip, lids sliding over his eyes in pleasure, body relaxed yet taut at the same time. Almost, so close, just a little bit more pressure...

Stiles came like he'd been electrocuted, hips thrusting up off his bed as his cock sprayed out ropes of come, painting his boxer-briefs. He gasped loudly as his eyes shot open, hands flying out and slapping against his otherwise empty bed, his next inhale a rough drag that burned the back of his throat. His entire being felt like it was trembling, from his skin to his lungs, his heart pounding erratically and out of control as he flew off the precipice.

Coming down from that high left him feeling strangely sated and dissatisfied at the same time. His wolf was pleased, rumbling contently in the background, clearly happy with the happenings of that night's Dream. But the human part of him was painfully aware that he was alone in that bed, that he'd come untouched and solely due to an erotic revery. Fuck. Pathetic really.

Laying there, he stared at his ceiling, vaguely aware that his room was lit up with the early morning sun. His chest was still heaving as his lungs struggled to regain a normal breathing pattern, his heart still pounding from everything, but his chest still felt empty and hollow. Christ, how many of those had he had by that point? Too many really. The whole thing was starting to grow old.

Once he'd regained a sense of normalcy, he sat up, swinging his legs onto the floor. A groan escaped him as he roughed his hands over his face repeatedly, before shoving them through his messy hair. He was sure it was covered in cowlicks, the brown strands doing their own thing no matter how much effort he put into styling them. Stu had always seemed to have a better handle on how to tame the locks. Then again, he probably just naturally had better hair. Guy had better everything.

With a sigh, Stiles slid open his nightstand drawer and pulled out the marble notebook he kept inside. A pen was clipped to the page he needed, making it easy to find the first blank one. The former sheets were all previously filled with his all-caps scribbled notes, details of the last Dream, clues he could use to figure out who his Mate was. He'd always loved a good mystery and the literal man of his dreams was a damn good one.

Scanning the notes about the previous Dream left him feeling hollow and alone again, free hand absently rubbing the center of his chest. NOTHING NEW had been scrawled there and he didn't even need to flip back in order to know he'd been putting that for a while now. Another sigh left him as he scribbled that same note on the blank page before jotting the date in the top right corner.

That gave him pause.

He smeared a hand over his face as he stared at the date, skin tingling all over, chest tightening even more. The day after his birthday was a strange anniversary of sorts for him now. Four years to the day since his first Dream. Two years to the day since his brother had disappeared.

Tossing the notebook on his bed, he raised his head, coming across the clear board he'd been using to try and find Stuart. Not that he had much to go on.

The day after his eighteenth birthday, Stiles had awoken with a strange sense of dread, worse than anything he'd ever felt before. A quick check of Stuart's room yielded no brother, no suitcase, and a whole lotta missing clothes. But his cell and laptop had been left behind, something that had further sparked that dread and turned it into fear.

A search by the sheriff's department—headed by their dad who'd shoved protocol aside and gotten involved in an investigation he was too emotionally invested in, taking advantage of his status as the sheriff of Beacon County—proved fruitless, no evidence as to where Stuart may have gone. But a lack of body turning up had given Stiles the hope that his twin was okay and that there was the possibility of him returning safe and sound.

The first first email arrived a week later, telling them not to look for him and that they were better off now that he was gone. No clues were truly found from that, the IP address from somewhere in Kansas. The sheriff hadn't even bothered trying to hide the info from Stiles, knowing he'd figure it out somehow anyway—possibly through not-so-legal means, but whatever.

It was the first thing to go up on Stiles' board, along with a timeline of Stuart's last known actions, who he'd been in contact with, where he'd gone. But none of that had been any sort of cause for alarm, everything perfectly ordinary. No suspicious activity had been found in his phone and internet logs, his emails were cleaned out and even a computer forensics team found nothing out of the norm. The guy had just vanished into thin air.

And he'd remained a ghost for another six months, when another email arrived—this time from an IP address in New York—announcing that he'd been Mated to a guy named Derek and that they didn't need to worry over him. He really should've known that was cause for their dad to become even more worried, going so far as to use contacts with the FBI to try and find records of the Mating and any Derek in New York.

Another dead end.

Really, Stiles shouldn't be surprised by that fact. Stuart had a genius level IQ and if anyone was gonna manage disappearing to parts unknown, it would be him. It just hurt like hell that his own twin brother didn't trust him enough to tell him where he was going or why. He'd always thought they'd shared everything with each other. And it was pretty obvious that running away was something that Stuart had been planning for a while, yet never thought to clue Stiles in on, instead letting his younger brother be completely stunned by the turn of events, leaving him to be questioned by every authority figure possible because no one would believe that a guy would take off like that without telling his twin.

It was only the fact that his heart rate was steady and his dad vouching that he was, in fact, a terrible liar that caused anyone to believe him and let him go without charging him for aiding and/or abetting.

A heavy sigh left him, his entire body slumping with the action. His brother being gone felt like he was missing an intricate part of himself, like something had been taken from inside. He figured it was a twin thing, remembering legends of twins being one soul split into two bodies. Which was almost true really, if one replaced "soul" with "egg", considering they were identical twins. Whatever. Didn't matter the reasons or explanations or what-the-fuck-ever. Stiles just knew that without his brother around, he felt...wrong.

He hoped Stuart was feeling just as shitty, if not worse, wherever he was. Guy deserved to feel like ass after what he'd put their family through. Wasn't bad enough that they'd lost the Stilinski matriarch, oh no. They had to lose one of the kids, too.

Rubbing his hand over his head repeatedly, he rose to his feet, shuffling around the board to his drawers, yanking the top one open and snatching a random pair of boxer-briefs and socks. Agitation replaced emptiness and upset, aggravation aimed in his missing brother's direction. Yeah, wherever Stuart was, Stiles hoped he was completely fucking miserable.

A glance over at the board showed the back of the print-outs of the emails, his eyes drawn to the backwards letters of the second one, the one announcing Stuart's Mating. Chances were he wasn't as miserable as Stiles wanted him to be. Chances were that he was happy and healthy and living in domestic bliss with that Derek guy as they built their happily ever after together. Chances were that the wish Stiles had made four years prior, the one where he'd flippantly decided to give up his own Mate so his brother could find happiness, had come true.

And while Stiles still wanted nothing more than for his twin to be happy and living a life full of love and joy, he just wasn't too thrilled that it had personally cost him so damn much.

Stiles took a thorough shower, scrubbing himself down with scent-neutralizing soap.

The last thing anyone needed was to scent the come and slick and arousal that was surely clinging to him like the sweat that had soaked his skin. His emotions vacillated between anger and upset, both aimed his brother's direction, before he decided to completely shift his mental tangents to a more pleasurable one.

Meaning he started thinking about the Dream again.

Which didn't help brighten his mood all that long, considering the ache he felt in his chest at the knowledge that he still hadn't found his Mate. But Stuart had. A guy who claimed the whole thing was bullshit and only morons bought into Dreams and there was no such thing as a fated pair, he was now Mated and presumably living in Mated bliss.

'Course being Mated didn't mean he was with his actual Mate. Lots of Dream-less people Mated someone they weren't fated to be with. Scott's mom had done so with her now ex-husband, same with Lydia's split parents. And okay, so the few examples he had about it weren't exactly happy endings, but that didn't mean all of them ended in nasty divorces. There were people who lost their Mates who went on to have a long lasting, happy Mating with someone else—something that Stiles would not so subtly remind his dad about, usually when also pointing out how much time the elder Stilinski was spending with Mama McCall.

Point was, maybe Stuart was still Dream-less and so was this Derek guy, and they'd fallen in love in a less traditional route. Would suck for either one of them if the other suddenly began Dreaming, but Stiles figured that was the risk one took when entering a Mate Bond with someone you weren't actually fated to be with.

Shower done and body clean and scent free, he got dressed in whatever clothes he'd hastily grabbed from his closet: khakis, black graphic tee with the Agents of SHIELD alien writing on it, and a red plaid flannel, his usual go-to outfit. If anything of his would be considered a trademark, it would definitely be plaid overshirts.

Breakfast was a quick meal of Pop Tarts and coffee, barely tasting any of it and eaten more out of necessity than enjoyment. He'd hit a serious wall of depression after Stuart had left, long days spent in bed, struggling to work up the energy or desire to do anything but wallow. It wasn't until he'd gotten a thorough tongue lashing from Lydia that he finally dragged himself up and back into the world, motivated by a need to track Stu down and kick his ass for worrying them all with his moronic actions.

'Course that didn't mean he was entirely with it or back to being his normal self. Instead he'd thrown himself into the investigation—despite not being allowed to, since he was both a civilian and an omega—becoming consumed by an all-encompassing need to find his brother, forgetting to eat or sleep or bathe. Another intervention from Lydia—joined by his dad this time—snapped him out of that spiral, too.

The fact that he was finding nothing and the sheriffs department was declaring the trail lost and the case cold also helped.

Not that Stiles had completely given up. Every now and then on sleepless nights, he'd go back over his board, rereading the emails, checking the map he'd taped up, scrutinizing the timeline, all in the hopes that a refreshed mind would allow him to find something, anything he'd previously missed.

But nothing ever changed there.

He filled his morning with mindless chores, cleaning the house, tidying things up, throwing out expired food from the fridge and tossing his dad's stash of junk that he was still unsuccessful in hiding. Music played in the background, his mind and emotions unable to really settle on one thing, instead letting shuffle decide what to play for him. It was nothing special, nothing exciting, and exactly what he needed.

Until the house was spotless and he was bored and his mind was allowed to wander again.

Crap.

He found himself actually hating summer break and wishing he was back at Stanford. He'd have classes to go to, homework to finish, research to do. There'd be parties and club activities and friends and a million other ways to occupy his time and keep his mind focused elsewhere.

Not that he didn't have friends in Beacon Hills, because he did. But Scott was busy with work, Allison and Lydia were having a girls day shopping, Danny was practically glued to his recently found Mate, and Stiles' social circle apparently wasn't as big as he'd previously thought it was. That, or he'd just flat out lost touch with most of the people he'd hung out with in high school. Bound to happen really.

A glance at the clock told him it was nearly noon and an idea quickly formed in his head. Dashing upstairs, he slipped his feet into a pair of Vans and grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone before heading back down and out the front door. His powder blue Jeep started up on the first go—thank god—and he was soon pulling out the driveway and towards the diner on Main.

Beacon Hills was like any other small town in the country. It had its own school system, its own shops and mall, its own government buildings and law enforcement agencies. Security was more lax, though, since it was on the small side of things, home to not just the Alpha of the city, but of Beacon County—Natalie Martin. It was common knowledge that she was grooming her daughter Lydia to take over in her stead when she grew too old for the job, but Lydia had shown no interest in such a thing—despite a huge love of bossing people around and a commanding presence that belied her short stature—preferring instead to pursue a degree in mathematics with the goal of winning a Field's Medal for solving the unsolvable. It was both impressive and intimidating and Stiles had often told her she should seriously follow in her mom's footsteps, that she'd excel at it, but every time he was met with green eyes being rolled so hard it had to hurt.

As he drove around the outskirts of town, he caught sight of the fifteen foot electrified wire fence that marked the perimeter of Beacon Hills, a security measure to ensure the safety of not only its lycanthropic residents, but the Alpha herself. Guards were positioned at the only two entrances to the town and IDs were always scanned and run through the system before anyone was allowed to pass the gates. It hadn't always been that way, the system put in place in the fifties when a vast amount of Alphas were slaughtered in their homes, their positions taken by power-hungry zealots who started fights with other towns in order to claim their territory. The federal government then established a new branch to handle any wolves who broke newly established laws set to protect Alphas and their families, as well as civilian wolves and their Mates, and more security measures were put in place to protect the towns themselves.

Stiles had learned all about it in school, about how some towns only had a single Alpha in charge of that city and didn't have fences like Beacon Hills, about the hierarchy of Alphas with one in charge of a town, then one in charge of each county, then one in charge of each state, then the Alpha in charge of the entire country. He was glad he lived in a middle-of-the-road kind of place, that he was free to come and go as he pleased, making it easy to attend college in a different county—granted it took a whole lotta paperwork and political bullshit since Palo Alto was a bigger city with more security and he was a lowly omega.

But despite the higher security and the sturdier city walls and the increased difficulty entering and leaving, Palo Alto was still easy to commute to and from when compared to other places. He thought of Oak Creek, the city where the Alpha of the state resided, of stories he'd heard about multiple walls and security check-points, about extensive background checks and long interview processes, of how it was practically impossible to enter the place without permission given weeks in advance. Made sense, yeah, to protect the wolf in charge of everyone living in the state, but sometimes Stiles thought it was a bit ridiculous and over the top.

Not that he said any of that out loud. Criticizing the heavily guarded city would be misconstrued as him whining about being unable to get to the Alpha and harm her in some way. Which he obviously didn't wanna do. He was perfectly happy with the way things were laid out and how the system worked. And from what he'd heard from everyone who'd ever interacted with the California Alpha herself, she was pretty much perfect at her job: firm but willing to see another's point of view, caring but not a bleeding heart, giving but not a pushover, harsh but fair and reasonable. Her job wasn't an easy one, but she did it with grace and poise with zero complaints from any wolf living under her jurisdiction.

He shoved aside thoughts of Alphas and walls when he pulled into the diner parking lot, not wasting any time in finding a spot and shutting the engine down. Entering the diner, he felt eyes on him as he approached the counter, trying his best to ignore them as he placed a to-go order. But his anxiety still got the best of him and he sat hunched over at the counter, hand wringing the back of his neck. Try as he might, snippets of conversation reached his ears, people leaning over to their dining companion to point out how that was the sheriff's kid over there, how that was the kid who'd lost his mom at a young age, how that was the kid whose twin brother had run away.

The last factoid was the one that most people seemed to harp on the most, rumors having swirled since it was made clear that nothing bad had happened to Stuart, that he'd chosen to leave. People would gossip over their own reasons why, ranging from the romantic belief that Stuart had run off to be with his Mate to the fucked-up belief that their dad had been abusing him. When it was pointed out that the latter reason couldn't be true because otherwise Stiles wouldn't have stuck around, the story grew to include threats sent the younger twin's way, that if he tried to leave, too, he'd be hunted down and killed like an animal.

That had been the most damning of them all, the one that inflicted the most pain upon the meager remains of their family. Stiles would lash out at anyone claiming such bullshit, only to be met with sympathetic eyes from bored housewives who'd tell him it was okay and that it was unfortunately typical for omegas left under the care of a single alpha parent. His dad had told him to ignore it, that they knew the truth and that that was all that mattered, that in the eyes of the law, he'd done nothing wrong. But it wasn't enough for Stiles who wanted to prove his father's innocence and make everyone around him see that he really wasn't to blame for anything. Yet those fools bought into the gossip and stood firm in their "guilty until proven innocent" belief.

Assholes.

His order thankfully came quickly and he hastily paid, telling the cashier to just keep the change for herself. He refused to spend another second under those scrutinizing eyes, hearing those voices judging him and commenting on what a poor soul he was, trapped in that house with that ruthless alpha. Didn't matter that Stiles had actually been going to college in a different town, didn't matter that his alpha father was the sheriff of their county and was above reproach at his job, didn't matter that the County Alpha herself had elected John Stilinski to that very position. Hell, before Stuart's disappearance, gossip had been over what a shame it was that a good man like him wasn't the Alpha of their town and how it was his endorsement that had given Natalie Martin everyone's support in her new position.

"I heard that the mother had been telling everyone that someone was out to get her, but the father had the doctors and everyone else convinced that she was just crazy," one last gossip-monger's voice reached his ears, followed by the judgmental "mm-mm-mm" of her friend. "Rumor has it her supposed car accident was just a cover-up for her murder. Guess the poor dear was right after all."

Stiles yanked open the door with clawed fingers, eyes glowing gold as he stormed out the diner with his wolf snarling in his head.

Low. Fucking. Blow.

The Beacon County Sheriff's Department was located in what would be considered downtown Beacon Hills. And despite being within walking distance of the diner, Stiles still drove there in his Jeep, refusing to give himself any reason to return to that godforsaken place, even if it was to just pick up his car and drive home.

That being said, chances were he'd be back there in a few days, since they had the best curly fries in all of Northern California. Or at least out of Beacon Hills and Palo Alto both.

Stiles arrived at a good time, the station in a lull of sorts. Deputy Graeme waved at him from her station at the front desk while speaking to someone on the phone, only one other line lit up. A couple random deputies were at their desks, chatting away as they typed up reports. He could hear the sounds of another in the back area, locking someone in a cell and promising them they'll get their phone call later on.

His dad was alone in his office, signaling Stiles to enter with a wave of the arm as he gave a few placating "uh huh"s down the phone line. The younger Stilinski did as he was told, closing the door behind himself to alert others that the sheriff was gonna be busy for a while and to only burst in if it was an emergency. Standing on the opposite side of the desk, he placed the plastic bag of food and his soda on the wooden furniture, trying to be subtle as he focused his hearing on the phone and what the person on the other end of the line was saying.

"I gotta go. My kid's here and chances are he's tryna spy on our conversation," his dad correctly assumed, cocking an eyebrow at his son, blue eyes wordlessly saying that he knew exactly what Stiles was up to and that nothing got past him. There was a reason why Alpha Martin had made him sheriff.

Stiles mouthed an elongated "boo", getting a hand wave of dismissal in return, before focusing on pulling the styrofoam trays of food out the bag.

"Yeah, I'll call later and finalize the details," his dad continued down the phone, nodding though the person couldn't see it. "Talk to you soon, Alpha." With that, he hung up and gave his son an unimpressed look. "Glad that wasn't confidential information pertaining to a case."

The younger man snorted, placing his dad's meal in front of him, plastic wrapped set of disposable cutlery on top. "Like that's stopped me before," he pointed out with a look before sinking down onto his seat, sipping from his coke.

A bob of the eyebrows and a tilt of the head was the sheriff's concession that he made a good argument, sweeping the cutlery to the side before opening up his styrofoam container and revealing the salad that'd been purchased on his behalf. Stiles prepared himself for a fight, readied his arguments for the healthy lunch and not the cheeseburger and curly fries he'd gotten for himself, only to have no objections sent his way. Weird.

His brow furrowed in confusion, the puzzlement growing as his dad poured low-fat dressing over his salad without complaint. Sniffing the air, he caught the scents of worry and apprehension, the emotions having nothing to do with any sort of reluctance to eat his lunch, especially not given the way he shoveled a giant forkful of veggies into his mouth.

"Hey, Dad?" Stiles began lowly, reluctantly, clearing his throat of the rasp his voice held. "Everything okay?" When his dad didn't answer, just raised his eyebrows in question, he went on, his knee slightly shaking. "You didn't complain about not getting a burger or fries."

The sheriff looked down at his meal, eyes widening like he'd only just become aware of what it was he was eating. He shrugged his shoulders in dismissal and nonchalance as he raised his head back up, scent remaining the same. "Got a lot more on my mind than whatever crap it is you're tryna get me to eat," he stated bluntly before shoving more of his salad in his mouth.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his eyes flicked up above his dad's head. On the wall behind his desk was a case board, a lot like Stiles' back home. Only this one was on cork and featured pins and red string, rather than on glass with thin red tape connecting items. But the Missing Persons sign was exactly the same, as were the copies of the emails and phone records, as was the fact that the sheriff's department had no clue where Stuart Stilinski had disappeared to.

His wolf whimpered in the back of his mind, a lump forming in his throat. The earlier tightness in his chest came back, that same hollow, empty feeling he got whenever he thought about his missing twin. Glancing down at his food, he found he no longer wanted to eat any of it, despite having craved those curly fries for a week straight.

Sensing the shift in mood, the sheriff peeked behind himself, his own scent becoming salty with upset. He swallowed hard as he turned back to his remaining son, nodding absently as he reached for his coffee mug, gripping it around the top rather than the handle. "I know what today is," he murmured, acting afraid to speak any louder, like Stiles would fall apart if he did.

And it wouldn't be the first time talk of Stuart had caused a meltdown in the younger twin. The initial few months of him being gone saw Stiles screaming himself awake at nightmares of horrible things happening to his twin, of him falling to his knees and crying out in anguish because some random online friend had posted on Stu's Facebook wall or mentioned him in a tweet, of him bawling alone in the bathroom because someone had brought Stu's name up in conversation. His dad had bore the brunt of it all, had been the one forced to comfort his son when he was busy worrying over the other and missing him, too. It further disproved all that bullshit over the sheriff being abusive, given the way he held his eighteen year old kid after having a bad dream as though he was a small child or the way he handed over tissues and gave massive bear hugs as his uniform shirt was covered in snot and tears, taking it all without complaint or instructions for his son to be a man and get over it.

"But believe it or not," his dad continued in the same low voice. "That wasn't what I was referring to."

Stiles frowned in confusion, closing the lid on his food, appetite gone. He sometimes forgot that not everyone was as obsessed with finding Stuart as he was, that despite the sheriff being the missing person's father, he wasn't as emotionally invested. He figured it was just another twin thing, that because he felt like he was missing such a huge important piece of himself, he was more determined to find it. No matter the reason, he still spent the most time trying to solve the case, even after the department had closed it. To that day, he still found it strange to see people going about their everyday lives like nothing happened, like an eighteen year old hadn't just up and vanished. He had no clue how people could just...be after having dedicated weeks to searching for any clues or trails. But they had, and they were. Locals no longer offered condolences to the Stilinskis or asked if there was anything they could do. Wolves from other towns had headed back home, their services no longer needed and their minds no longer thinking about the kid they'd been searching for. Life went on for all of them, while Stiles was still stuck in place, despite having left for college, despite having spent more time outside of his small town than in it during the past two years.

He sometimes wondered if he was stuck because he didn't want to move on, that going about his life like nothing was amiss was admitting there was no hope of Stu returning and that acting like all was well was like saying he'd died. Until proven otherwise, Stiles was gonna continue to act like his brother was alive and well and coming back home.

Leaning back in the chair, Stiles fiddled with his fingers as they lay loosely clasped on his lap, right leg bouncing up and down. "So what's going on?" he questioned, almost afraid of the answer. Because if it was a bigger deal than the anniversary of his son's disappearance, then it had to be majorly fucking bad.

His dad bit down on a slice of cucumber, wiping his hands on a napkin as he chewed thoughtfully. Stiles' apprehension grew with each passing second, worrying over the reasons why his dad would be stalling, his mind racing with a million possible items of bad news. Another missing person. Talk of someone trying to enter the city illegally. More rumors about his dad and another investigation into his personal life, followed by another impeachment hearing.

His eyes flicked to the phone, remembering that he'd been talking to Alpha Martin when he'd walked in. Maybe there were threats against her. Maybe Lydia was in danger. Maybe she was already hurt and laid up in a hospital and Stiles was gonna lose one of his best friends just like he'd lost his brother and—

"Stiles!"

His dad's voice snapped him out of the anxiety spiral he was falling down, cutting off his negative thoughts as they grew darker and increasingly morbid. He realized he was breathing heavier than usual, taking a large, shaky inhale to try and calm his fraying nerves. His dad hadn't actually said anything was wrong, hadn't said anything bad was happening. He was just jumping to conclusions like he always did, overthinking and taking things to the extreme.

"Sorry," he muttered, wringing the back of his neck before dropping his hand onto his lap. He tried for nonchalance and to act like everything was cool, that he was cool, all was cool. But more than likely, he failed. He wasn't the best at covering shit like that up, not to mention his dad could always see right through him. Like at that instant, when the sheriff was staring at him with raised eyebrows and a look that said he knew exactly what Stiles was trying to pull at that moment in time.

Shit.

"Right," his dad commented, bobbing his eyebrows in dismissal before shuffling in his seat in an effort to get comfy. "Anyway, that was Alpha Martin on the phone—which I'm sure you already knew," he added with a pointed look before continuing. "She's been called to a Meeting with all the other County Alphas down in LA and she wants me to accompany her for security."

Stiles slowly nodded once, licking his lips as he let it all sink in and felt his body relax with the knowledge that it wasn't actually anything bad. His dad was going outta town for a few days, a week at most. Wouldn't be the first time that happened and it most likely wouldn't be the last. Definitely not a big deal and definitely not worth a panic attack in the middle of the sheriff's station.

The elder male's words fully sunk in, causing Stiles' brow to furrow in confusion once more, eyes narrowing analytically as he tilted his head slightly at his dad. "Wait, LA? Why not Oak Creek?"

His dad shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head with a wry grin as he gestured helplessly. "I dunno, Kid. I just go where I'm told, just like everyone else." Picking up his fork, he stabbed at his salad, gathering more lettuce and cheese. "But I told her I'd think about it, since it would leave the city without an Alpha or a sheriff."

He nodded in a combination of agreement and thought, chewing a hangnail at the side of his thumb. "And it's all the Alphas in the state? Not just region wise?"

"From what I understand, yeah."

More nodding as he mulled it over, finding the whole thing highly suspicious. It wasn't unheard of for Alpha Meetings to be held, but usually it was in a regional basis. His dad had gone with Alpha Martin to countless ones over the years, always held in the Bay Area, always featuring the Northern County Alphas. And sometimes the California Alpha, Alpha Talia Hale, would make trips to visit individual counties, to check in with Alphas and discuss any issues, help solve any problems. It was more rare and Stiles only had a blurry memory of seeing Alpha Hale in Beacon Hills when he and Stuart were about six or so, their mom holding on to each of their shoulders during the procession of cars that led her to City Hall to meet with their Alpha at the time.

But for all fifty-eight County Alphas to go to one place at the same time...it was pretty much unheard of. Not to mention risky as hell. There had to be something major going on, something bad, something terrible brewing on the horizon to the point where bringing everyone together was the only option. Maybe another rebellion was building up, more alphas not happy with their rank, not happy with the way things were being run. Maybe the Meeting was a warning, an investigation, a secret Hearing to pass judgment on those who've been suspected of conspiring against any—or possibly all—Alphas.

"Oh, no," his dad commented, shaking his head before pointing a finger in warning at his son. "You are not getting involved."

Stiles bolted upright, legs kicking out with the sudden movement. His mouth hung open as he stuttered out a few offended noises he was pretty sure were meant to be words, hands held out in front of himself in a "what the fuck?" gesture. Sure, he might have been considering a way to finagle some info out his dad and conduct his own investigation, but the old man didn't need to point it out. It was pretty rude of him to accuse his remaining son of such treachery and sully his good name like that.

The sheriff gave him a completely unimpressed look, lips twisted to the side, eyebrow cocked. "You're not foolin' me, Kid," he stated, stabbing at his salad. "I know you and I know what you're like, always snooping where you're not supposed to, especially when it comes to criminal investigations. You're a nosy li'l punk like that."

He scoffed, trying once more to look offended and hurt. "Ouch, Dad. I like to think I've helped you out over the years though," he argued, grinning proudly, fingers interlocked on his lap.

His dad rolled his eyes. "Helped me into an early grave, sure."

"I bought you a salad."

"Probably to make up for all the shenanigans you, Scott, and Stu pulled over the years."

The mention of his brother's name killed the mood in the room and brought back that earlier emptiness and the lump in his throat. He swallowed hard as he turned away, hand in front of his mouth, elbow on the arm of the chair, knee bouncing up and down more vigorously as he tried to cover up the fact that a sore spot had been hit and he was trying not to cry.

Two years later and it still wasn't any easier to hear his name out loud.

His dad sighed, dropping his plastic fork into the empty styrofoam tray before steepling his fingers in front of his face. "Aw, hell, Kid. I didn't mean to upset ya," he confessed lowly, gently. "But you and I both know you have a knack for sticking your snout where it doesn't belong."

Stiles nodded, conceding the point. But it couldn't be helped. Mysteries had always intrigued him, had always captured his attention and managed to be the one thing that actually held his short attention span for longer than five minutes. Wasn't his fault that his dad just happened to be the chief law enforcement agent in the county and his kids visited him at work a lot and just happened to catch sight of an open file for whatever case someone was working on.

"Come on, Dad," he pleaded, voice low as he leaned forward in his chair. "You gotta admit it's a little suspicious. All the County Alphas being gathered at one time. It's never happened before."

The sheriff bobbed his eyebrows, silently confessing that his son had a point. He gestured with an open hand as he shrugged and shook his head, lips parted as he struggled to respond. "I'll admit it's strange, yes, but there's not really anything I can do about it."

"You could look into it," Stiles pointed out, flailing an arm for emphasis. "You could ask around, talk to someone close to Alpha Hale, find out what's really going on."

A humorless laugh left the older man, a wry grin on his face. "Right, sure. Because I'm sure I'll get the truth out of people if I ask nicely." He held a hand up when the omega opened his mouth to argue further, effectively silencing him. "If I see anything sketchy, I'll get myself and Alpha Martin out immediately. But until otherwise, I'm gonna act like everything is copacetic and do as I'm told. Which is what you should be doing."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue more, only to be cut off again, this time by his phone buzzing in his pocket. Slipping it out, he found a new text from Lydia, alerting him to the fact that her girl's day had been cut short and she was dropping Allison off before heading straight to his house. He sent back a quick message to let her know he'd be there in a few himself, knowing better than to talk her out of it. Alpha or not, the girl was a force to be reckoned with and he'd long since learned his lesson when it came to changing her mind or going against her wishes.

"I gotta head home and meet up with Lydia," he murmured, not entirely thrilled to have their conversation draw to a close. He wanted to stay, to further argue with his dad, to get him to see his way and agree with him that, yeah, the entire thing was more than a little weird and definitely worth looking into. He knew he could eventually wear the old man down and gain permission to do some investigating of his own, if for no other reason than to get his kid to just shut up.

Just sucked he wasn't gonna get the chance to try.

"Alright," his dad replied as he rose to his feet, Stiles mimicking the action. The sheriff gathered his trash, depositing it in a can to the side of his desk while rounding the furniture, pulling his son into a tight hug. "I meant what I said," he stated, pulling back enough to lock eyes, one hand cupping the back of his son's neck, the other on his shoulder. "Keep out of this. It's Alpha only business, and not only are you not an Alpha in rank, you aren't one in orientation."

The reminder of his place in life was like a slap to the face and Stiles had to fight away a grimace. Instead, he turned his head to the side, lips twisting in annoyance, leg shaking in aggravation. Omegas weren't granted a whole lotta freedom, laws still fairly archaic when it came to treatment of them. Sure, some were helpful, and others had been added to help keep omegas safe, ones like abuse by Mates and an alpha raping an omega was no longer dismissed in court due to how good an omega smelled or the fact that they were in heat. But a lot of the restrictions put on them in the name of protection were just stupid, shit like what jobs they could or couldn't get or how they needed permission from their alpha to go to a different town—if not be escorted there by the alpha themselves. Stiles had filled out twice as much paperwork and forms as any other student wanting to attend Stanford, solely due to his orientation, and his omega-only dorm didn't allow alphas or even betas to enter the building at all.

Which was fine, since no one really came up to visit him—despite his friends all being of the other orientations—but he was still operating under the assumption that one day he'd meet his alpha Mate and he'd wanna show off his room, only to not be allowed to. They'd probably have to stay in a nearby hotel or some crap, while alpha students could bring whoever they wanted to their room to fuck for the night and dump the next morning.

Which was also a bunch of hypocritical bullshit. Alphas being able to bed whoever they wanted, but omegas who lost their virginity outside of a Mating were sluts and whores and ruined forever. The whole thing pissed Stiles off to no end.

The fact that it was all being rubbed in his face—and by his dad of all people, who knew where Stiles stood on the whole thing—just made it hurt all the worse.

His dad clapped his shoulder twice, tight-lipped smile on his face, scent apologetic and slightly guilty. "Just go home, Kid. I'm sure Lydia is gonna wanna talk to you about her mom's upcoming trip."

Stiles just nodded, forcing a small smile of his own on his face, before gathering up his uneaten lunch. Goodbyes and "I love you"s were exchanged, another hug given. And as the omega was held close by his one remaining family member, his eyes locked on to the photo of his missing twin. Stuart would've backed him up, would've helped him hack into this database, search through that file, done whatever needed to be done in order to get to the bottom of it.

Closing his eyes, Stiles fought back the tears that were blurring his vision, not even trying to hide the sorrow from his scent.