A/N: Trigger warning for very vague references to past abuse. I'm talking, super, super vague. If you want to skip it, though, you should be okay to continue reading the story without missing much. Stop reading at the italicized part that starts with "February 2" and begin again with the sentence that starts "Stiles turned the slim volume" and the should cover it.

"It was you!"

It had taken well over two hours to configure the basement of the new house to hold Scott for the remainder of the evening without damage to anything, most importantly Scott. They would have to devise a better long-term solution if he was going to stay there permanently. They left Derek coaching him through the change, arms wrapped around him, gruff voice keeping him calm.

Stiles had pigeon-hold Argent and practically dragged him into a back room. Now he was busy waving his baseball bat wildly in his direction.

"You're the agent from BUR! How stupid of me not to have seen it sooner! You rigged the whole thing back then. The whole Beacon Hills fire. But that was the problem, wasn't it? It was only supposed to be an attempt. It was never meant to succeed. The point was to convince the Beacon Hills Pack to turn against their Alpha, to give him a reason to leave. You knew he'd come here. You knew his sister and his uncle were here. You needed Derek to come to New York so he could challenge the old Alpha. The Alpha who had gone mad."

Argent turned away, walking to the other side of the room, his soft boots making no noise on the carpet. His head was bent only slightly. He spoke to the wall. "You have no idea what a blessing it is, to have a capable Alpha."

"And you are Beta. You would do whatever it took to keep your pack together. Even arrange to steal another pack's leader. Does my husband know what you did?"

Argent stiffened.

Stiles answered his own question. "No, of course he doesn't know. He needs to trust you. He needs you to be his reliable second just as much as you need him as leader. Telling him would defeat the very action you took; it would disturb the cohesion of your pack. Hell, he'd probably kill you."

Argent turned to face him. His eyes were tired, but there was no pleading in them. "Are you going to tell him?"

"That you were a double agent? That you destroyed his relationship with his old pack? That you got his mother and his brother killed? To steal him? I don't know." Stiles was suddenly exhausted by the events of the past week. "It would destroy him, I think. Treachery from his Beta, a second time. And I don't know what good would come from it."

He paused, looking him full in the face. "But to keep this information from Derek, to share in your deception? You see where that puts me, don't you?"

Argent avoided Stiles's direct gaze, wincing slightly. "I had no choice. You must see that? Derek was the only werewolf in the US capable of winning. When Alphas go bad, it's sickening. All that concentrated attention to pack cohesion and all that protective energy turns rotten—no one is safe. As Beta, I could shield the others, but only for so long. Eventually, I knew his psychosis would leak out, encompassing them as well. Such a thing can drive an entire pack to madness. We don't talk about it. The howlers don't sing of it. But it occurs. I am not trying to excuse myself, you understand, simply explain."

Stiles was still stuck on the horror of having such knowledge when his husband did not. "Who else knows? Who else knew?"

The door crashed open.

"For God's sake. Doesn't anybody knock?" cried Stiles, whirling to face the intruder, bat definitely at the ready.

It was Major Jackson Whittemore.

"And what are you doing here?" Stiles's tone was far from welcoming, but his bat relaxed into a softer position.

"Scott is missing!"

"Yes, you're late. He turned up next door, go into a fight with Laura, and now Derek has him downstairs."

Jackson looked puzzled, but Stiles abruptly lost interest in dealing with his husband's Gamma. He turned back to Argent, who was looking cowed. "Does he know?"

"Me? Know what?" Jackson's ice-blue eyes were the picture of innocence. But his eyelids flickered as he took in Stiles's militant attitude and Argent's intimidated demeanor, the latter as out of character as the former was standard. Everyone was accustomed to Argent skulking in the background, but he always did it confidently, not with shame.

Jackson looked back and forth between the two, but instead of leaving them, he turned, slammed the door, and wedged a seat under the handle.

He approached Stiles. "What do I know?" He asked as if he could predict Stiles's answer.

Stiles looked at Argent.

Jackson cocked his head. "Is this about the past? I told you no good could come of your meddling."

Argent raised his head, smelling the air. Then he turned to look at Jackson.

For the first time, Stiles realized the two men were probably old friends. Sometimes enemies, of course, but only the manner of those who have been too long in each other's company, possibly centuries. These two had known each other far longer than either had known Derek.

"You know?" Argent said to the Gamma.

Jackson nodded, all patrician beauty and aristocratic superiority as compared to Argent's middle-class inoffensiveness.

The Beta looked at his hands. "Did you know all along?"

Jackson sighed, his fine face becoming suffused with a brief moment of agony. So brief, Stiles thought for a moment he had imagine it. "What kind of Gamma do you take me for?"

Argent laughed, a huff of pain. "A mostly absentee one." There was no bitterness to the statement, simply fact. Jackson was often away fighting in the military. "I didn't think you realized."

"Realized what, exactly? That it was occurring? Or that you were taking the brunt of it so he'd stay off the rest of us? Who do you think kept the others from finding out what was really going on? I didn't understand you and Zee—you know I didn't—but that doesn't mean that I approved of what the Alpha was doing either."

Stiles's previous self-righteousness disintegrated under Jackson's comments. There was more to Argent's manipulations than he'd realized. "Zee? Who is Zee?"

Argent twisted his lips into a little smile. Then he reached into his pocked—he always seemed to have everything he needed in one pocket or another—and pulled out a tiny leather-covered journal, navy blue. It looked achingly familiar.

He walked softly across the room and handed it to Stiles. "I have the rest as well, from when you were born on. She left them to me on purpose. I wasn't keeping them intentionally away from you."

Stiles could think of nothing whatsoever to say. The silence stretched until finally she asked, "Why from when I was born?"

"I don't think she wanted your father to find out about you, if she could help it." The Beta's face was a study in impassivity. "But this one was her last. I like to keep it with me. A reminder." A whisper of a smile crossed that deadpan face, the kind of smile one sees at funerals. "She didn't have an opportunity to finish it."

Stiles flipped the journal open, glancing over the scribbled text within. The little book was barely half full. Lines jumped out at him, details of a friendship that he—and he was sure his father—never knew existed. Only as he read it did the full scope of the ramifications come into focus.

February 2—for a while he walked with a limp, but would not tell me why,

said one entry. Another, from the following spring, read:

We talked about going to the movies tomorrow. He won't be permitted to, I'm sure. We both pretend he will, though and that he'll keep me company while John is at work.

For all the tight control of the penmanship, Stiles could read the tension and the fear behind his mother's words. As the entries progressed, some of her sentences turned his stomach with their brutal honesty.

The bruises are on his face now and so deep sometimes I wonder if they will ever heal, even with all his supernatural abilities.

He looked up at Argent, attempting to appreciate all the implications. Trying to see bruises twenty-five years gone. From the stillness in his face, he supposed they might be there—well hidden, but there.

"Read the last entry," he suggested gently.

It is full moon tonight. He is not going to stop by tonight. Tonight all his wounds will be self-inflicted. He used to let me help him. Now none of them can be sure unless he is there to help. He is holding their whole world together merely by enduring. I will do anything to stop his suffering. Anything. In the end, it comes to one thing. I hunt. It is what I am best at. It is what I was born to do.

Stiles closed the book. His face was wet. "You're the one she's writing about. The one who was being hurt."

Argent said nothing. He didn't need to respond. Stiles was not asking a question.

Stiles looked away from him, finding the pattern of the wallpaper quite fascinating. "The previous Alpha really was a monster."

Jackson strode over to Argent and placed a hand on his arm. No more sympathy than that. It seemed sufficient. "Chris didn't even tell Zee the worst of it."

Argent said softly, "He was old. Things go fuzzy with Alphas when they get old."

"Yes, but he—"

Argent looked up. "Unnecessary, Jackson."

Stiles turned the small slim volume over in his hand—the end of his mother's life. "What really happened to her, at the end?"

"She went after our Alpha." Argent said softly.

Jackson seemed to feel further explanation was necessary. "She was good, your mother, very good. She'd been trained by the Templars for one purpose and one purpose only—to hunt down and kill supernatural creatures. But even she couldn't take on an Alpha. Even he was still an Alpha with a pack at his back."

Argent rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I told her not to, of course. Such a waste. But she was always one to pick and choose listening to me. Zee was too much an Alpha herself."

Stiles thought for the first time that Argent and Laura shared some mannerisms. They were both good at hiding their emotions. To a certain extent, this was to be expected in vampires, but in werewolves. . . Argent's reserve was practically flawless.

Argent said, "Your mother's death taught me one thing. That something needed to be done about our Alpha. That if I had to bring down another pack to do it, so be it. At the time, there were only two wolves in the US capable of killing him. The dewan and—"

Stiles filled in the rest of his sentence. "Derek Hale. So it wasn't simply a change of leadership you were after; it was self-preservation."

One corner of Argent's mouth quirked upward. "It was revenge. I am still a werewolf. It took me nearly four years to plan. I'll admit that's a vampire's style. But it worked."

"Did you love my mother?"

"In a way. In three hundred years, I think she was the greatest friend I've ever had. Things are never good when immortals love someone. Mortals end up dead, one way or another, and we are left alone again. Why do you think the pack is so important? Or the hive, for that matter? It is not simply a vehicle for safety; it is a vehicle for sanity, to stave off loneliness. The reason we don't like omegas and roves is not just custom, it is based on this."

Stiles nodded, his mind whirling. He didn't know what to say. Finally he took a deep breath. "So, back to the crisis at hand. I don't suppose either of you is currently planning an assassination are you?"

Two almost simultaneous head shakes met that question.

"Are you telling me I've been on the wrong track all this time?"

The werewolves looked at each other, neither of them willing to risk his wrath.

"And it's entirely coincidental that the same scientist helped with both?" Stiles sighed and extracted the notebook Lydia had given him. "No connection between the fire and this attempt? Just the same scientist who possible became a ghost who delivered a warning to me?"

"I guess so."

"I don't like coincidences."

"I can't really help with that," was Jackson's very useless reply.

Stiles sighed again. "Back to the beginning, I suppose."

As Stiles made to leave, Argent touched his arm lightly. Stiles had never had the opportunity to see him mortal before. He looked about the same as he did when immortal—perhaps a few more lines around his eyes—but he was still the same man.

"Are you going to tell Derek?"

Stiles turned around slowly and leveled a decided glare in his direction. "I really don't know. I understand why you did it. And I know that telling him now would do more bad than good. But I don't like keeping secrets from my husband, either. So, no, I don't really know."

He had barely made it down the hall when Jackson caught up with him.

"Stiles, can I talk to you for a moment."

Stiles sighed heavily, but stopped.

"I wanted to say, about Chris, he's different than the rest of us wolves, you realize? Your mother was the love of his life, and we immortals don't say such a thing lightly."

Stiles made to interject, but Jackson stopped him.

"I don't mean that in a romantic way. I mean that she was his best friend – his truest friend. I don't think he has had a friend like that since or really had one before. He loved her just as much – or more – than he could any lover he might have."

Stiles frowned. "I'm not sure what you want me to do with that information."

Jackson panicked slightly. "I'm just pleading for leniency. I couldn't confide this to Derek and you are also our Alpha."

Stiles rubbed his forehead wearily. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"No. Have you forgotten? Tomorrow is full moon."

"Dammit. Later, then. I promise not to make any decisions about Argent without thinking everything through."

Jackson clearly knew when to retreat from a battle. "Thank you."

Stiles tumbled into bed exhausted. So exhausted, in fact that he didn't awaken when his husband later crawled in next to him. His big, strong husband who had spent the night holding onto a boy afraid of change. Who had coached that boy through a pain Derek could no longer remember. Who had forced Scott to realize he must give up what he used to love or he would lose all of his remaining choices. His big, strong husband who curled up close against his back and cried, not because of what Scott suffered but because he, Derek Hale, had caused that suffering.

Stiles awoke early the next evening. Derek had slept pressed against him the whole day through and his face was rough with a full day's growth. He smoothed his hands along Derek's massive shoulders and chest, resting fingertips at the base of his throat for a moment, before petting him as if he were in wolf form. He trailed his hands back over Derek's chest and then down along his sides.

A rumbling snuffle of amusement met this action.

"That tickles." But Derek did not make any move to prevent Stiles's continued actions. Instead, he picked up his own hand and began smoothing it over Stiles's stomach.

Derek grinned after a moment and caught one of Stiles's hands, bringing it in for a kiss, all prickly whiskers and soft lips.

Stiles snuggled against him. "Did you manage to settle Scott?"

Derek shrugged, an up and down of muscle under Stiles's ear. "I spent the remainder of last night with him. I think that helped mitigate the trauma. It is hard to tell. Regardless, by this point, I should be able to sense him."

"Sense? What do you mean sense?"

"Hard to explain. Do you know the sensation you get when there is someone else in the room, even if you can't see them? For Alphas, pack members are like that. Whether we are in the same room or not, we know the pack is there. Scott isn't a part of that yet. So he isn't a part of my pack."

Stiles was struck with a moment of inspiration. "You should encourage him and Argent to spend more time together."

"What? Why?"

"I think they would get along. I think Argent needs a friend—someone he can trust. And I think Scott needs someone who isn't quite as, well, werewolf as the rest of you."

Derek obviously decided he didn't want to delve into the subject, so he grappled for a means of changing it. Only to recall exactly what night it was.

"Dammit. It's the full moon, isn't it?"

"It is. Good thing we're all cozied up together, isn't it?"

Derek pursed his lips, trying to decide what to do. He had not intended to sleep the whole day through. He had wanted to be back on his way to the dungeons before moonrise. But, Stiles had also refused to be with him at night on a full moon since they'd returned from Europe. He sighed. He needed to take care of his pack. As much as he hated it, his marriage would have to wait.

"I left orders to Chris and Jackson to take Scott back to Newark before sunset, but I really should get there myself."

"Too late now—the moon is up."

He grunted, annoyed with himself. "Would you mind coming with me? Downstairs might hold a new wolf, but it won't hold me. And I should be with him, tonight of all nights. Even not in my right mind myself, my presence will be helpful."

"Yes, but I won't be able to stay. I need to return some documents to Lydia and get back to questioning ghosts. I shouldn't have allowed myself to get sidetracked by history."

"Please take some precautionary measures or something?"

Stiles grinned. "Oh, but that is so boring."

Derek growled.

Stiles kissed the tip of his nose. "I'll be good. I promise."

"Why is it that I am always most terrified when you say that?"

Above the ghost, under a full moon, the living celebrated being alive.

Mortals trotted about in shoes and dresses made to limit the movement, fashion for prey. They drank and smoked, behaving like the food they were. Silly, thought the ghost, that they couldn't see such simple comparisons.

Immortals saluted the full moon with blood, some in crystal glasses, and others by tearing into meat and howling. Aside from the ancient Greeks and their long-ago offerings, there was no blood for ghosts. Not anymore.

The ghost could hear himself crying. Not the himself that still remembered what being himself meant. Some other part of him, the part that was fading.

He wished he had studied more of the nature of the supernatural and less on the defense of it. He wished his passions had taken him into a learned that would allow him to tolerate the sensation of disanimus with dignity. But there was no dignity in death.

And he was alone. Perhaps that was not so bad, under such circumstances?

Sill, where were the academic journals that taught a man how to listen to himself die?