Author's Note: Hey lovelies! I wanted to just say a quick thank you to everyone who is still reading this story. Ya'll are so patient with updates and I appreciate that so, so much. I have so many fics going right now, on top of real life, and I know that the wait between updates can get super long, but I love you guys for sticking with me.
Ya'll really are the best!
Standing in the middle of his father's bedroom, the bedroom that seemed so echoingly empty after his mother's death and now felt somehow even more desolate, Stiles tried not to think about what it would be like to walk into that room knowing both of his parents would never step foot inside again. He didn't quite manage to stop his mind from wandering down that painful path and had to catch himself on the edge of his parent's bed just to stop himself from sinking to the floor when his knees went weak beneath him.
"Need help?" Derek asked from the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with one shoulder while he watched Stiles move around inside.
Stiles startled, not having heard Derek come upstairs. He tossed the black canvas dufflebag onto the bed and pushed himself upright, determinedly crossing the room to dig through dresser drawers in search of a few spare sets of clothes.
"I'm good." Stiles grumbled, pulling out a few pairs of sweats with trembling fingers. "You should be downstairs, resting."
Derek rolled his eyes at the slight admonishment in Stiles' tone and the lie he heard in his heartbeat. "I'm a werewolf, Stiles, not a labradoodle. Supernatural healing, remember?"
"Which is why you still look like you got hit by a train, right?" Stiles argued mildly, dropping a couple of well-worn t-shirts into the bag beside the sweats he'd already tucked inside. "Why can't you just admit you're in pain, Der? It doesn't detract from your Big Bad image, I promise."
Derek chuckled warmly, shoving lightly away from the doorway to cross the room. He wrapped his arms around Stiles from behind, hooking his chin in the curve of Stiles' shoulder while he slipped one hand under his t-shirt. He spread his palm wide just below Stiles' navel, thumb rubbing soothing circles against skin.
"Stop worrying about me, alright?" he murmured, words muffled against Stiles' neck. "I'm healing-"
"Slowly."
"I'm healing," Derek repeated, giving Stiles a gentle squeeze around the ribs, "and your attention is needed elsewhere right now."
"But-"
"No buts, Stiles." Derek sighed. "Everything is being dealt with, Okay? Scott, Deaton, and Melissa have things under control at the hospital, Lydia is working on the cure, Chris and Allison are handling things on the hunter's side, and Parrish is running things at the Station. So, let's focus on your father, alright? He needs you the most right now, Stiles, and you need me."
Stiles snorted even as he leaned more solidly back into Derek's chest. "A little full of yourself there, aren't you?"
"Maybe." Derek shrugged, nuzzling his smile into Stiles' throat, inhaling his scent. "Or maybe I know that you're feeling overwhelmed, like the world is spinning around you and you're just standing still. And, maybe I know that I can help you with that."
"There's just so much going on inside my head right now, I can't focus on anything." Stiles admitted, confirming what Derek had already known. "My brain won't stop, you know? It keeps replaying shit, reminding me of the things I'd rather forget and not letting me concentrate on the things I should be concentrating on; like my dad."
"What do you need from me, Stiles?" Derek asked, the dry rasp of his lips dragging and catching lightly on Stiles' skin. "Just tell me what you need me to do, and I'll move heaven and earth to make it happen."
Stiles shuddered in Derek's arms, a combination of Derek's words and his breath against Stiles' pulse point making his heart trip.
"That's the thing, though." he sighed, turning in Derek's arms so that he could meet his gaze. He was knocked a little bit breathless by the intensity in Derek's eyes, the depth of emotion blazing in varying shades of green and bronze. "I don't know what I need, from you or from anyone else. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing right now, Der."
"Okay, so let's try to refocus." Derek suggested, guiding Stiles back toward the bed, holding onto him until his knees hit the edge and Stiles had no choice but to sink down onto the mattress. Derek squatted at Stiles' knee, held his shaking hands in his own and looked up into his eyes. "One thing at a time, okay?"
Stiles nodded jerkily, eyes watering as he bit his bottom lip.
"We have to get some clothes for your dad and bring them back to the hospital." Derek said softly, tipping his head toward the bag beside Stiles' hip. "Nothing tight, because he won't be able to wear it over his cast, but nothing bulky either, because then his sling won't fit properly."
"I was getting sweats and t-shirts." Stiles remembered with a slight frown, eyes sliding toward the bag. His brain was foggy, a messy swirl of worried thoughts and bloodstained memories, all jumbled together.
"I'll finish." Derek offered easily. "While I'm doing that, why don't you tell me again what Dr. Cordon said."
Stiles' frown deepened while he concentrated on pulling up the memory, Derek's eyes flitting back to him while he shuffled through John's dresser.
"Uh," Stiles started, chewing his lips and tapping his fingers against his thigh in an attempt to ground himself, "she said that my dad has a torn rotator cuff, a broken femur and a fractured tibia, and a few superficial abrasions that don't require surgery."
"Anything else?" Derek asked as he stuffed a few more articles of clothing into the dufflebag. "What did she say about the surgery?"
"It went well." Stiles said, the words coming out with a deep, shuddering burst of air. His shoulders lost some of their tension, his brain finally feeling like it was capable of following one thought pattern at a time, instead of a thousand at once. "She said that they were able to reattach the tendons without any further damage, and that he'll have to wear the sling for up to six weeks and do rehab, but it shouldn't prevent him from returning to work later on. He might have to retire early, or at least take a desk job if the tear heals a certain way, but she's optimistic."
"That it?" Derek asked as he zipped the bag closed and set it on the floor.
"There was some other stuff, but those are the bullet points." Stiles sighed, leaning into Derek's side when he sat down beside him. "Thanks." he added softly as Derek's arm went around him.
"For what?"
"For- For being here." Stiles mumbled, looking down into his lap, watching the way his own fingers twisted around on themselves. "For distracting me so I could find some focus."
"Anything I can do." Derek murmured, pulling Stiles gently toward him until he took the offered solace and tucked his head up under Derek's chin. "I'm here, Stiles, and I'm not going anywhere. Just say the word and I will do whatever you need me to do."
"What if I need you to slay a dragon using nothing but your bare hands?" Stiles teased quietly, playing absently with the hem of Derek's Henley.
Derek's laugh rumbled beneath Stiles' ear. "For you? I'd do it in a heartbeat."
Stiles tried not to let his smile take over the entirety of his face, but he was pretty sure he failed.
Days passed in a blur, not enough hours in each day to deal with everything that needed dealing. Stiles spent the bulk of his time at the hospital, at his father's bedside. He was thankful the superintendent of Beacon Hills School District had been smart enough to listen to Parrish and kept the school closed beyond the scheduled vacation time. Returning to school with Carrick and his hunters still on the loose wouldn't have been an option, not for Stiles and not for the rest of the pack. Most, if not all of the student body were dealing with loss in one fashion or another as well, either having lost family members or loved ones in the explosion, or having lost their homes. Either way, not being forced back into the classroom was a blessing.
Funeral after funeral took place, each of the fifteen casualties being laid to rest with almost the entire town in attendance.
Stiles went to Deputy Leema's funeral in his father's absence, Parrish and Derek by his side. It was harder than he thought it might have been, having to watch Leema's husband and two daughters grieve. It reminded Stiles of him and his father after his mother's death, brought a whole new wave of guilt and loathing crashing over him. He had no right to mourn Deputy Leema, not when her death was his fault.
They only stayed long enough to pass along the Sheriff's condolences before Stiles made Derek take him back to the loft, where he spent the rest of the afternoon staring into nothingness and fighting with tears.
Everyone in town was tense; skittish, like they expected another bomb to go off at any time. Stiles wished he could tell them there was nothing to worry about now, not while there was so much attention on the town, but he couldn't find the right words. There weren't enough words in the world to explain what was happening, what had brought this hell upon them, and after the first few days, Stiles stopped trying to find them.
Beacon Square and the surrounding area remained a war zone, none of the area's residents able to return to their homes until the Sheriff's department and the FBI had concluded their investigation. With the arrival of the FBI came the arrival of Scott's father, Rafael, which mostly served to aggravate Scott and add another layer of stress to an already impossibly stressful situation. Covering up what was going on got that much harder with the eyes of the FBI fixed on the blast and its facilitators.
According to Parrish, Agent McCall had been spending his time playing go-between for the Sheriff's department and the FBI. Rafael knew more than the FBI did, though his information was much less expansive than what the pack knew. It had been Scott's order to keep his father as far in the dark as was possible given the things he'd already seen, but that didn't mean he hadn't drawn his own conclusions. If Agent McCall suspected that Scott and his friends had any connection to the bomb other than having been nearby when it went off, he was keeping that to himself.
Chris and Allison, the former having left the hospital against medical advice and the latter refusing to stay off her feet until her sutures could be removed, spent most of their time at Derek's loft, along with the rest of the pack. While Lydia, Deaton, Danny, and Isaac focused on gathering ingredients and concocting the cure, Allison and her father gave their attention to the Kearney issue.
Lochlann and his faction of the family had denounced Carrick after news of the bomb had reached them. According to Allison, Lochlann was furious with his nephew. Even Carrick's own people were jumping ship, seeing Carrick's action as the terrorist acts they were rather than the justified retaliation he tried to sell them as. Most of Carrick's faction had already thrown themselves at the mercy of Lochlann's feet, begging forgiveness for the atrocities committed under Carrick's orders. If Stiles understood correctly, only Carrick and a few of his most loyal followers remained. Parrish had the entire Sheriff's department focused on finding them, but so far, no one had seen hide nor hair of Carrick and his people.
The pack kept up a rotating schedule just in case, at least two shifters inside the hospital at all times, standing guard over Stiles' father. Boyd, Liam, Jackson, and Malia had all been released after a two day stay at Beacon Hills Memorial. Each of them was more than a little worse for the wear, all very nearly human but restless and eager to be back with the rest of the pack.
Derek's loft served as a temporary den, a place where everyone could be together. Even Melissa and Chris stayed there more often than not, protective parents unwilling to let their children, their pack, out of their sight. The downstairs bedroom was even set up for the Sheriff, once he was released from the hospital.
No one traveled alone, especially the human members of the pack. If anyone set foot outside the loft or the hospital, they had to have someone with them. Preferably someone with an active supernatural power, whenever possible. Stiles, of course, was never allowed out of either Derek or Scott's sight. He was beginning to feel a bit like a butterfly pinned to a board, but he couldn't find the will to argue. If his pack needed to watch him every hour of every day to feel some kind of relief from the constant worry that Carrick would snatch him from under their noses, Stiles was resigned to enduring it.
It was nearly a week after the explosion when Stiles, Derek, and Erica returned from their protective detail at the hospital, having swapped out with Scott and Kira. Stiles was exhausted but smiling when he collapsed onto the couch beside Allison.
"What's with the teeth?" Allison questioned, nudging him with her knee.
Stiles rolled his head toward her, beaming. "My dad can come home tomorrow." he informed her. "Dr. Cordon said that he's well enough to be released, as long as he has someone at home to help him."
"That's wonderful, Stiles." Allison matched his smile, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug. "Of course we'll all do whatever we can to help."
"I know." Stiles assured, settling back into the couch cushions with Allison tucked under his arm. "What about you guys, anything new to report?" he asked, craning his head over the back of the couch to see Lydia.
She was sitting at the table Derek had set up for them to use as a workspace, stirring what Stiles knew would eventually be the cure to the pack's severe lack of wolfliness.
"Nothing new, exactly." Lydia hedged, chewing her bottom lip. Jackson scooted closer, wrapping her hand up in his.
"What's wrong, Lydia?" Derek asked, taking a few steps across the room as Stiles struggled to his feet.
Lydia set the wooden spoon down against the lip of the copper pot she was using to brew the elixir. She turned and stood, crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
"It's not wrong, really, just... I've been looking over the translations, to make sure we've done everything correctly up to this point."
"And?" Stiles was quick to ask. "Have we?"
"Yes, we're right where we should be." she assured. "The color is on point, deep scarlet, just like the bag says it should be. It even smells right. Another sixty-three hours and we'll be ready to add the remaining ingredient."
Stiles had been aware of that much, had been able to smell the heavy scent of honeysuckle and thunderstorms wafting from the pot for the last day or so. "That's all good, Lyds." he frowned his confusion.
She rolled her eyes. "I know that. I've been extremely careful and precise with each ingredient so far, including the ones we had to have Deaton acquire through whatever shady channels he uses. Obviously it's perfect. I wouldn't produce anything less than."
Derek huffed a laugh under his breath. "What's the problem then, Lydia?"
She looked down at her feet, scuffing the toe of her high-heeled shoe at the concrete floor. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and sincere. "I'm worried about the last ingredient."
"What's the last ingredient?" Erica asked from her perch on the arm of Boyd's chair.
"Jordan." Stiles sighed, nodding understandingly. He'd been worrying about that himself, to be honest.
"Jordan, as in Jordan Parrish?"
"That'd be the one." Stiles shoved a hand through his hair.
Erica's mouth pulled down at the corners. "I don't understand."
"How can a person be an ingredient?" Malia asked, coming out of the kitchen with Danny.
"He's not, not exactly." Stiles tried to explain. "His blood is the activating agent for the last ingredient, if we want to get technical."
"The Fae plant?" Derek asked.
Lydia and Stiles nodded in tandem.
"Lasair Fola." Stiles said, trying not to butcher the pronunciation. "Or, Blood Flame. It's an ancient, mystical plant exclusive to the Irish Fae."
"It's healing properties are beyond the scope of anything we've ever seen." Lydia informed them, everyone listening intently. "There are even cases documented in the lore of individuals being cured of terminal illness when ingesting cures created with Lasair Fola as their base. Unfortunately, the only way to access its mystical properties is to activate it with the blood of a phoenix."
"Why does any of this mean we need to worry about Jordan?" Allison asked. "Can't we just prick his finger and borrow some O-Neg?"
"It's not that simple." Lydia said softly, eyes finding Stiles'. "This is what I was trying to tell you. I looked over the translation again, and I found something we missed the first time through. Two things, actually, but the second is easy enough to deal with."
"Alright," Stiles gave her his full attention, grateful when he felt Derek's palm in he small of his back, "hit me."
"Once the elixir is finished and ingested, it will take up to twenty-four hours for the bullets effects to be entirely neutralized. It's not an instant cure all. The effects will deplete gradually, until they're no longer present."
"We can totally deal with that. Another day without our abilities is tolerable when we know exactly when we'll get them back." Stiles nodded jerkily. "What's the other thing?"
Lydia let out a pained breath, like she'd been holding it for hours and just now realized she'd been doing it. "The blood requirement? It can't be freely given, not the way we've been thinking. It's referred to as a sacrifice for a reason."
"Spit it out, Lydia, you're killing me." Stiles demanded, fingers clenching by his sides.
"The blood has to be harvested from a specific place, from the place from which it's given."
"Meaning?" Derek asked.
"An croi." Lydia whispered it, almost shamefully. "The blood must be harvested straight from his heart, using a specific sacrificial dagger."
Stiles blinked, brows drawing down and together.
It was Derek who spoke. "Am I missing something?" he asked hesitantly. "Phoenix can regenerate, we know as much. It's the only reason Jordan is still here, considering all the shit he's been through. So, we harvest the blood. It's not going to kill him."
"And even if it did, he'd come right back." Danny threw in, nodding his agreement with Derek.
"Maybe." Lydia reluctantly agreed.
"Maybe it'll kill him, or maybe he'll come back?" Stiles questioned, a lump of nausea lodged in his throat.
"Oh, no, it'll definitely kill him." Isaac interjected when it became clear Lydia wasn't going to answer. "The dagger has to be thrust into his heart and remain there until the blood stops flowing."
"In other words, one of us has to stab him and then wait until he's officially dead for the sacrifice to be complete?" Erica asked.
"Not just any one of us." Jackson said, eyes ringed in glowing blue. "It has to be our Alpha."
"Scott."
Lydia nodded. "He's Jordan's Alpha. It would normally be left to a phoenix's Mate, but since Parrish doesn't have one, the only other acceptable option is the phoenix's declared Alpha."
"If there's any chance that this could kill Jordan, Scott's not going to want any part of it." Stiles frowned, looking around the room, seeing the faces of Isaac, Malia, Boyd, Jackson, and Liam, all of whom were depending on this cure. "We have to be sure, Lyds."
"Deaton and I both agree," she said, voice small, "there's no way to guarantee Jordan's survival. Normally, he could come back from a fatal wound to the heart. But, given the blade used in the ritual and the fact that an Alpha will be the one delivering the blow... There's reason to be concerned."
"Fuck." Stiles growled, rolling his neck and shoulders in frustration. "What are the odds?" he asked, determinedly looking Lydia in the eye. "What are the chances Jordan will come back?"
Lydia pursed her lips, eyes hard. "It's a fifty-fifty draw. There's no way to narrow it down, Stiles. All of the previous instances in which this cure was utilized and the ritual was documented, the phoenix survived when its Mate was the one to wield the dagger."
"What about when it was wielded by an Alpha?" Derek asked the question Stiles couldn't seem to articulate.
"It's only happened twice before." Lydia informed them. "And only one of them survived."