Red hot heat scorches his side like a fire poker pulled directly from the flame. His vision whites out, but he doesn’t need to see to work his magic. Taking a deep breath, Stiles imagines light spilling from the tips of his fingers into the wound to stitch it back together. The threads are cool but not painless as they puncture his skin and Stiles has to bite his lip hard to resist crying out.

It doesn’t even take a minute before the pain fades to memory. Stiles opens his eyes again, breathing hard. With that taken care of, he needs to start moving again, needs-.

A twig snaps to his left, a deliberate sound made by his pursuers. Heart racing, Stiles schools his expression into one of fear and desperation, though it is just a mask to keep him from smiling. Because they think they’ve caught him. This might not have been his plan, but he can work with this. He’s nothing if not flexible.

“Boy,” the woman calls, voice singsong sweet. “Don’t be afraid.”

“This will only hurt a little,” the man echos. The voices come for different directions, one to the left and one to the right, leaving only the space in front of him clear. Or, he assumes, that is what they want him to believe. If there is one thing he’s gotten used to over the years, it’s having werewolves underestimate him because he doesn’t have their advanced senses. But he doesn’t need werewolf hearing to know that this is a trap. The trees whisper to him that the third pursuer is waiting for him to take the bait and make a run for it.

Instead of going along with their play, Stiles freezes and scrunches his face up in fear. “Please,” he says, voice shaking in a believable way. Slowly, he takes a step back so he’s once again pressed against the pine. This way, he doesn’t need to worry about anyone coming up behind him. 

The woman shows herself first, walking into the small clearing from the left, gun drawn and pointing at his chest while she smiles. “Oh,” she tisks. “Such a sweet thing, so scared.”

The man joins them from the right. He has a gun in his hand too, but he keeps his pointed at the ground, posture relaxed. “Such a pretty little thing.”

It takes everything for Stiles to bite his tongue. These two are absolutely cracked and it would be so satisfying to sass at them. But he needs the alpha to show face before he can drop his act. The wolf is the real target. His two psycho minions mean nothing if he can’t get him. 

A howl sounds from the distance, Isaac’s call echoing through the trees. The sound is far enough away that Stiles knows his backup won’t make it to him on time. But that’s okay. He prefers it this way even knowing that the pack is stronger together. When he’s on his own he doesn’t have to worry about the others getting hurt.

The call is enough to finally draw the alpha out. He’s in his beta shift, back curled into a hunch as he creeps forward. Stiles has to give him props. He’s lasted a lot longer than the other pack leaders come to challenge him for Beacon Hills. It won’t matter in the end, but it is kind of impressive. Especially given how crazy his pack is. 

“You’re surrounded,” the alpha says, voice rough around his fangs. His eyes, a bright, piercing red, track Stiles’ every breath. “Surrender this land to me and I will consider letting the betas live.”

How thoughtful, Stiles thinks, nearly giving his act up by rolling his eyes. He needs the alpha a little closer before he moves though, that way he doesn’t risk getting shot again. Not many werewolves use guns, and Stiles gives this pack mental props for being so practical. It won’t be nearly enough to beat him, but he likes their creativity. 

Magic gathers in the tips of his fingers, readying himself for the fight. But before he can act, the trees are hissing a warning, and then a large black wolf is breaking into the clearing, throwing the entire area into chaos. 

Both betas turn their attention to the intruder, shots going wide as they react to the new threat. Seeing how off their shots are, Stiles wonders which one of them was lucky enough to actually hit him. He doesn’t have long to think about it though before the alpha is lunging for him, teeth first. Stiles moves on instinct, letting the magic take over as he finally stops pretending to be afraid. 

This is his land and he will kill anyone who comes to challenge him for Beacon Hills. It’s finally time to show this pack just who they’re messing with. 

Catching the alpha around the throat, Stiles lifts him off of the ground, effortlessly dodging the claws aimed at his chest. Digging his fingers into the alpha’s skin, Stiles pushes magic into him like a tree taking root, using it to lock his enemy’s muscles so he can’t move. 

When he realizes what’s happened, the alpha’s eyes widen in fear. “What are you?” He hisses, forcing the words out as best as he can without being able to move his jaw. 

Pulling him closer, Stiles smiles. “I am the alpha of Beacon Hills, a monster of it’s making. You never should have come here. You said that you would let my betas live. I am not nearly as merciful.”

With those words, his Spark flares, burning through the alpha until the light in his eyes fades. Emotionlessly, Stiles drops the body. His power is nearly drained. That kind of magic takes a lot out of him, and he’s grateful for the tree at his back as he leans into it. He knows he should dispatch the betas too, knows that he still has enough energy to finish this fight, but he’s interested to see what this new player on the board will do. 

Across the clearing, the wolf fights both betas with unnatural speed. It is a sleek creature, it’s movements fluid as it bites and scratches. The man falls first, screams cutting off as he hits the ground and stops moving. The woman is able to hold out for longer, but Stiles can tell that she’s starting to panic. She knows that the rest of her pack is dead and that it’s only a matter of time before she is too. 

In an act of desperation, she turns her back on the wolf and makes a move toward Stiles. She only gets two steps closer to him before the wolf is on her, teeth ripping into her neck with a sickening crunch. 

The body falls, and the clearing goes quiet. Not even the trees react. Stiles watches the wolf closely, waiting to see what it will do. But when all it does is sit down, Stiles huffs. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, pushing himself off of the tree. Fatigue rushes over him as soon as he moves, making him stumble. The magic took more out of him than he realized. But, as he feels himself tip toward the ground, he isn’t too worried. He trusts the wolf to take care of him.

———

Stiles’ head is pounding when he returns to consciousness and he groans, throwing an arm over his head to press against his eyes. Without looking, he knows that he’s back at the pack house. The bed underneath him is familiar, though the weight pressed tight to his side is new. He remembers the fight, remembers the burn of magic leaving him drained, so either the wolf brought him here or the pack found him.

Whichever it is, Stiles is grateful. He always wakes up with twigs in uncomfortable places when he passes out in the woods. 

Somewhere deeper in the house, a door slams. Stiles can hear someone shouting, but it isn’t loud enough for him to make out any words. Given the way the lump next to him stiffens, he can imagine what’s going on though. It makes him sigh. An alpha’s job is never done it seems. 

Moving his arm, Stiles opens his eyes and sits up. From beside him the wolf watches closely as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His body is sore but it isn’t anything he isn’t used too. It defiantly isn’t enough to keep him in bed. Especially when the shouting gets louder. 

He takes one moment to address the wolf, rubbing his fingers through the fur on his head. He really is a beautiful creature, with thick black hair and intelligent eyes. Someone must have cleaned him up before letting him into the bedroom because there isn’t any blood matted in his fur or on the sheets, a fact that Stiles is grateful for. As much as Stiles would like to freeze time just to stay in this moment with him, he has work to do. “Time to face the music.”

It isn’t surprising when the wolf rises and follows him from the room, staying only a foot away from Stiles as they make their way downstairs. 

As expected, Stiles finds the source of the commotion in the living room. Scott is standing just inside the front door, hands curled into fists, glaring at the Erica, Boyd and Isaac who stand together in front of the couch. He would like to say that their opposition is a rare occurrence these days, but that would be a lie. And Stiles knows that this won’t help. It’s just a reminder of a time before they were friends. But it is what it is. And Stiles has been preparing for this for years. 

“What a nice wake up call,” Stiles drawls, crossing his arms over his chest when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Not one of his betas seem reprimanded as they look from him to the wolf and then back to each other. 

Scott is the first person to speak. “You can’t just let him in here,” he snarls, pointing at where the wolf sits at Stiles’ feet. “They never should have let him through the front door. And then they left him alone with you!”

“Like he would hurt Stiles,” Isaac says, pushing around Erica and Boyd. His eyes are glowing gold, a sign of just how close he is to losing control. Seeing this, Boyd reaches out and rests one hand on Isaac’s neck. 

Scott is not deterred though. “You don’t know that for sure! Stiles was passed out and vulnerable. You left him unprotected with a potential threat and-.”

“You weren’t even there,” Erica interrupts. Her posture is relaxed as she rolls her eyes, but Stiles can see claws in place of fingernails and knows it’s time to step in.

“I think that’s enough, don’t you guys agree? It’s been a tense morning but-.”

Scott snaps his head around to look at him, “You didn’t follow the plan! What were you thinking, heading out into the woods like that! We-.”

Stiles steps forward, power surging through him. He knows that his eyes are glowing, one bright purple the other alpha red, as he glares at Scott. “Are you questioning me?”

Instantly, Scott backs off. “No!” He exhales. “No. I know that you can handle yourself, obviously. I’m just upset that they’ve let him in here.”

“They were right letting him in, Scott. The wolf is welcome here.”

That makes Scott’s eyebrows draw down. “Stiles, that’s D-.”

“The wolf is welcome here,” Stiles says again, interrupting him. “And it isn’t up for debate. It’s not often that I put my foot down like this, but it is nonnegotiable, Scott. This is my house and I am the alpha of this pack.” Releasing his magic, Stiles smiles down at the wolf. “You are welcome to stay. I would like you to.”

Scott groans, but whatever complaints he has he keeps to himself. Still, Stiles isn’t done with him. “You are more than welcome to join us for breakfast, if you’d like, but do so knowing the wolf will be here.” It is the only olive branch he can offer. Well, that and, “If we’re lucky, Boyd will make some French toast.”

Boyd rolls his eyes. “Subtle. Do you think you really deserve French toast?”

“Duh. I took care of the threat to our town, managed not to have the police called on us this time, and made it back in one piece. I’m like, the best alpha ever.”

Erica settles onto the couch with a snort, apparently over the whole ordeal. “Oh yes, because passing out after overexerting yourself is so responsible.”

Very responsibly, Stiles sticks his tongue out at Erica and then turns wide eyes on Boyd. “Please?”

He knows he’s won by the long exasperated sigh Boyd releases. 

—————

It’s been three weeks since the incident in the woods. Like Stiles had hoped, the wolf stays at the pack house, acting as his constant companion when he’s home. The betas let him know that the wolf stays in his bedroom when he’s gone, and as much as he would like to press, Stiles knows that this is something he has to let play out on it’s own. Just having him in the house is a win, and he won’t risk running him off because he can’t wait. 

Exhausted after a long day at work, Stiles comes home on a random Tuesday to find half of his pack piled in the living room. They’ve gathered up all of the extra blankets and pillows bought specifically for this purpose and are sprawled across the floor with a movie queued up, talking amongst themselves. 

This is a normal occurrence, and it’s one that Stiles is more than ready to sink into in order to ease the stress of the day. Kicking off his shoes, Stiles slots himself between Isaac and Scott, sighing in relief when Boyd wraps a hand around his ankle and Erica links their hands together. The rest of the pack are absent, but that is normal too. Lydia and Jackson are attending college out of state, and Allison and Kira work odd shifts, but he can still feel all of the pack bonds when he focuses on them, and it is enough to settle him down. 

Once he’s comfortable, Boyd starts the movie, not that Stiles could tell you what it is they’re watching. His attention is solely focused on the way the wolf is creeping closer to the pack pile, crawling on his belly over the floor with his ears pressed back against his head like he’s waiting to be scolded. Scott is the first of the betas to notice him. Stiles can feel how he stiffens up. But, surprisingly, after he pinches Isaac’s arm to show him what’s happening, Scott’s entire body relaxes again.

Stiles presses his lips together to keep from smiling, knowing how crazed it would look if he allowed his grin to surface. He can’t help it though. This is what he’s been waiting for. Months of having to step in when Scott and the rest of the pack got into screaming matches, years of waiting for a phone call. It’s all lead to this moment here, one that feels so fragile but so perfect at the same time. 

By the time the wolf makes it all the way to them, all of the betas have turned to watch him. For a minute, it seems like this closeness is all they’ll get, the wolf laying beside them without touching. But when Isaac starts to cry, little huffs of sobs that shake his body, whatever trepidation the wolf was feeling melts away. He steps into the group, mindful not to step on anyone, and nudges Isaac with his snout. When the blond throws himself at the wolf, wrapping around him and dragging them both to the floor, the wolf doesn’t pull away. 

That’s all the invitation Erica and Boyd need to join the hug. Scott doesn’t make a move to do the same, but he does smile at the display which is more than what Stiles expected from this moment. 

Once the hugging and crying are finished, the group rearranges so that the wolf and Stiles are in the center of the pile while everyone else curls around them. It is comfortable and warm, and as the wolf tucks his head under Stiles’ chin, Stiles finally relaxes. For the first time since he became the alpha, only now does it feel like the pack is actually complete. For the first time in years, Stiles is completely content. 

—————

Stiles wakes up with Erica’s hair in his mouth. Spitting it out, he sits up and scowls at where she still sleeps peacefully. Looking around the room, Stiles is surprised to find that all of his betas are still asleep. The only one missing is the wolf. 

As carefully as he can, Stiles gets up off of the floor, cursing how his back pops. He stretches for a moment, working out a kink in his neck, before he goes off to search for his missing companion. 

Instead of finding the wolf, he finds Derek sitting on the edge of his bed wearing a pair of his sweatpants and holding an old tee shirt in his lap. When Stiles enters the room, he looks up and those multicolored eyes have him stumbling to a stop. 

All Stiles can do is drink in the sight of him. Memories pale in comparison to actually having him here, especially because he looks softer than he did before. Time and distance really can heal, and Derek has a relaxed way that proves that.

Stiles can’t say for sure how long they spend just watching each other, cataloging all the ways that they’ve changed. Seconds or years, it doesn’t matter. Because then Derek smiles, and everything else just melts away. 

“Should I call you Alpha Stilinski?” he asks, teasing and fond. 

Stiles scoffs. “Absolutely not. I mean, you can definitely call me alpha, but leave my last name out of it.”

Derek’s laughter is bright and clear. Stiles wants to bottle the sound to keep for bad days, wonders if he can use his Spark for magic like that. 

Having imagined this moment since Derek left Beacon Hills with Cora, he braces himself for the questions he knows are coming, hoping that one of them will be a request to stay. Instead, all Derek says is, “Of course it would be you.”

Just like that, the tables have turned. Now Stiles is the one with all of the questions. He isn’t as shy about asking though. “What do you mean?”

Derek’s huff of amusement is almost better than the full-bodied laughter from before. “Of course you would be the alpha. My mother always said that while it was important for an alpha to be the protector, it was just as important for them to be the heart of the group, and you have always been both of those. You were the one who stepped up when Scott got bit. You were the one who maintained communication with me and the betas after Peter was killed. You were the one who stepped in and helped deal with the alpha pack and the Argents.” His voice gets softer and his eyes gleam when he says, “You were the one I felt safe handing the betas over too after I lost the alpha spark. When word got around about a true alpha in Beacon Hills, Cora thought it was Scott. But I knew better. It could only ever have been you.”

Stiles is damn proud of everything he’s been through. It was hard, and there were moments where he hated it, but he’s proud of who he’s become because of it. He remembers, so vividly, when the alpha spark lit inside of him, how the alpha power felt as it wove around the Spark magic he had been honing with Deaton. It was the best feeling of his life, hands down. 

This though, this quiet and confident way Derek compliments him. Well, it might even be a little better. 

“Stay with me,” he whispers, unable to hold the words back. He knows by the way his magic flares that his eyes are glowing but he can’t stop. 

He let Derek go once because he knew that he needed to. He didn’t pressure him to stay because it wasn’t the right thing to do. Now he would beg if it would keep Derek in Beacon Hills. He knows, without a doubt, that Derek is a part of his pack. He knows without a doubt that Derek is his.

Derek smiles but drops his eyes to the shirt on his lap. Stepping closer, Stiles gets to his knees in front of the bed. He wants to reach out and wrap his hands around Derek’s knees, but he won’t touch without permission. 

“Please, Derek. Can’t you feel the land in your veins? It’s claimed you like I have. You belong with us.”

“Stiles.”

“I know that, when you left the last time, it wasn’t on the best terms with the rest of the pack. You felt like you had let your betas down. And Scott told me how he told you to leave and not come back. Erica, Boyd and Isaac still hold that against him. Because he never should have tried to chase you off. Beacon Hills is as much yours as it is mine, Derek. I know that you had to go. I know that you needed the space. But you’re back now. Don’t leave again.”

“Stiles.”

“And the rest of the pack, they want you here too. Even Lydia and Jackson know that you belong to us, and they haven’t even had a chance to see you yet. I know that Cora has her pack but Derek-,”

“Stiles!” A warm hand comes up to cradle his face. When he looks at Derek, all he sees is warmth. “Stiles,” his voice is a sigh. “You have to know. Surely, you have to see it.” If Derek’s huff of laughter is any indication, Stiles’ confusion is obvious. Carefully, Derek slides off the bed so that they’re both on their knees. “Cora’s pack is great. South America is beautiful. But when the alpha there offered me a spot with them, I told them no. Because I already had a pack I belonged to.” 

Leaning forward, Derek pushes their foreheads together. “Stiles, you were the biggest pain in the ass after Scott got bit. I hated you and I hated that I trusted you so much. But when I walked away from Beacon Hills, I was already yours. You were just a random human kid when I left, barely even a Spark at that point and definitely not an alpha. But I was yours all the same. I can feel our pack bond like a tether in my chest, and I have been able to feel it since that cab took me away from this town. You’re right, I had to go. But now that I’m back, I am not going anywhere.” His eyes glow that beautiful bright blue. 

Stiles feels like he’s shaking apart. “Promise?”

This time when Derek laughs, Stiles can feel it on his lips. “No, I just like carving my heart out and offering it on a plate for fun. Gods everywhere, Stiles. Yes, I promise.”

Stiles can’t help it. He never wants to take something from Derek that he doesn’t want to give, but he can’t help tilting his head and leaning in until their lips press together. The hand still resting on Stiles’ cheek twitches, and then Derek groans and pulls Stiles closer, wrapping his arm around Stiles’ waist to hold them together. 

It’s hungry right from the start. Years of daydreaming about what this kiss would taste like leaves Stiles hungry and desperate when he finally runs his tongue over the seam of Derek’s lips. Each huff of breath is better than any dream because it’s real. There’s no way he could have imagined how Derek’s fingers twitch against his side or how he growls when Stiles grips his hair tight. By the time the kisses change from biting to languid and deep, Stiles can barely hold himself up. 

Derek pulls back finally, laughing in a way that would make Stiles self conscious if he wasn’t still holding onto his hips so tightly. “Erica says that you need to figure out how to soundproof your room.”

Groaning, Stiles buries his face in Derek’s neck. A thrill goes through him when Derek tilts his head a little more to give him more room. 

“That’s it, I am disowning all of them.” Even with his human ears, Stiles hears Isaac’s squawk of indignation. “Every single one of them.”

Laughing, Derek gets to his feet, dragging Stiles along with him. “Come on. It will be good to see them now that I’m taller than them again.” Before Stiles can move, Derek links their fingers together and brings their joined hands up so that he can press a kiss against the inside of Stiles’ wrist. “Oh, and Stiles. I agree with Erica. You should work on soundproofing this room.” His voice is a purr when he adds, in a low tone, “We’re going to need it, oh alpha of mine.”

When he finally reaches the apartment building where Liam lives, Theo breathes a sigh of relief. There are no obvious marks of a scuffle—that rules out any new monster of the week. Liam's car is fine too, parked in its usual spot, so that means Liam is actually home and hasn't left after calling Theo. That has happened more than once in the past three months, and Theo isn't sure if he should be annoyed or worried.

He makes his way upstairs to Liam's apartment quickly, face already masked with annoyance so that Liam doesn't know he is worried—his chemosignals are harder to control, but he has had practice. It's harder now, to hide what he feels, but he remembers how to; he might have learned to not bottle up his feelings over the past few years with and in the Hale Pack, but some habits are hard to let go off, especially when he knows that he can't get over the worst consequence of letting his mask slip off.

Especially around Liam. Liam fucking Dunbar.

Who opens the door not a second after Theo knocks, looking harried and nervous and jittery and wonderful—buttoned up white shirt, red slacks, golden hair tussled just the right way, making Theo want to wind his fingers in it.

Dread crawls up Theo's spine. "Looking good, Dunbar," he says, and can't help but wish it were for him.

Not that he has that right. Liam might have been the first to accept him in the folds of the Beacon Hills Saviour Pack, but even now, they're still just friends. Just friends. And it's not like Liam has gotten over Hayden—Liam hasn't dated anyone since her. He has tried, but it's all failed. Theo can't say he is too upset about it.

"Really?" Liam asks, and Theo realizes that he is standing in the outside hallway. He walks inside the apartment, Liam at his heels. "Mason chose this outfit for me, but I'm not sure..."

"You know he has the braincells between you two," Theo replies, eyes on the small dining table that Liam and Mason had bought off of a flea market some two years ago. "Is that lasagna?" He sits down at the decorated table—table cloth, flowers, fancy plates and all—and takes a deep sniff. Pauses. Freezes, really.

Lasagna is his favorite.

"At least I have a braincell," Liam mutters. "Sometimes."

Liam is wearing fancy clothes and is ready for a date at home and Liam called him.

The last time Liam had called him and then not been home, Theo had hunted him down and then too Liam had been wearing fancy clothes—and even the time before that.

"Will you stop sniffing the food? It's not that bad!"

"What?" Theo blinks up at Liam, who has suddenly materialized in the chair opposite him. Liam is looking at him like he is crazy.

"I know I make terrible food," Theo snorts.

"Inedible would be the right word."

Liam glares at him. It's a little bit like looking at an angry puppy. It's cute. "Shut up," Liam says, but his tone is fond. Theo smirks.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

He takes an exaggerated sniff of the lasagna. "You know, it smells like, hmm. What's the word I'm looking for?"

"Chicken? I used lots of it. And cheese," Liam shares, genuinely excited. Theo almost backs out of saying what he wants to. But nope, he is committed, damnit.

"No, that's not what I'm looking for. Hmm. It smells suspicious," Theo raises an eyebrow at Liam. Liam goes wide-eyed.

"Mason was only joking, you know I wouldn't actually use—"

"Wait, you mean the whole debate about the werewolf drugs was about this? How many people have you told about this? And why wasn't I aware of this before now?"

Liam only looks more confused as Theo speaks. Theo feels the same.

"No- I- what?"

"We were at the Pack House," just this last week. Almost everyone was there, except Lydia and Jordan who were on a date at the time. "Malia suggested that you use—" not that Derek would've let anyone use drugs for what Malia was suggesting. That had been a not fun discourse, and Theo and Liam had hightailed it out of there as soon as possible; they know how to be human, thank you very much.

"No, I know what you mean by that. What do you mean you didn't know? I thought you did!"

"You're not making any sense, Liam. How would I know this is a date if you wouldn't tell me!"

"Oh, so you do know this is a date. And what do you mean I didn't tell you—" Liam doesn't finish his sentence. Theo locks his eyes with Liam's and dares him to.

"Uh huh, yeah. And as for how I know, I have a braincell of my own. I figured it out." He smirks. Liam smacks him on the arm before hiding his face in his hands. Then he pulls his head up so fast that Theo gets a whiplash.

"But you didn't know until now!"

Theo refuses to blush. "You are terrible at dating. Or well, trying to date,"

Liam blushes. Then, when Theo is sure he has won, Liam uses his werewolf fast reflexes to throw the whole plate of lasagna at his face.

Theo sputters. Liam giggles in his victory.

"Now you are sus," Liam says, like that makes any sense.

Theo tackles Liam down to the floor. He isn't sure how, since his vision is obscured with yellow sticky food, but he does, and starts tickling Liam.

"You are sus," Theo tells Liam, writhing under him with laughter, all of his inhibitions lowered, and god, Theo loves this man.

Deaton, somehow, still retains his patience. “It is entirely understandable that your experiences –” 

“Possession. Just call it what it was.” 

Deaton continues as though Stiles hasn’t interrupted. “ – have impacted the way that you have been able to interact with your magic. You’ve made remarkable progress over the last four years and are much further ahead than I would have expected, knowing you then.” 

“The longer Derek goes without an emissary, the weaker the pack is.” 

“The ritual can be dangerous if you’re not ready for it. Do you feel as though you believe in yourself enough that you can complete it safely?” 

A frustrated noise rips its way out of Stiles’s throat. “No, I don’t feel like I can do it, Deaton!” 

Deaton nods, like he’d expected that answer. “Let’s be done for today, Stiles. You know there’s no rush.” 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, briefly clenching his hands into fists, before releasing all the pent-up tension in a long, slow exhale. “Yeah, you and Derek are both more patient than you should be.” 

“Probably,” Deaton replies, not unkindly, before standing up from the table to clean up the few supplies around the room in a clear dismissal. 

Stiles is both grateful and disappointed for the clear opening, but he manages to swallow both his pride and his guilt, and leaves the vet clinic. 

  –

  Stiles is emotionally drained, cranky, and ready to sprawl on Derek’s huge sectional by the time he pulls up to the Hale house a little after noon. He’s looking forward to the comforting ritual of walking into the house to lunch already made, Derek prepared to listen to Stiles whine and complain about emissary training, and offer quiet encouragement with a soft look on his face that usually makes Stiles forget how to breathe. 

As he pulls up to the house, though, he notices that there were several other cars parked out front, which is odd; the pack usually trickles in one-by-one throughout the week, and they all congregate on Friday nights, but noon on a Saturday? It instantly sets Stiles on edge. He parks next to the Camaro, and by the time he jumps out, Derek’s waiting for him on the porch, arms crossed and face twisted up in an expression that made Stiles’s stomach drop. 

“How bad?” Stiles asks, practically jogging up to where Derek stood. 

“Bad.” Derek’s tone is relatively neutral, but Stiles can see tension in the lines of his shoulders, in his crossed arms, that he hasn’t seen since he was in high school. Derek steps aside, and Stiles’s brows furrow in confusion until he catches sight of the door. 

The red paint is marred in the center, clearly scratched into with claws, into some kind of stylized triangular symbol. One that, unfortunately enough, Stiles is familiar with. 

“Motherfucker,” he breathes, stepping up to run his fingers over the destroyed grain of the door and feeling the malice of the symbol spark underneath his fingertips. “What do they want?” 

Instantly, Stiles’s mind is racing, trying to think of ways they could handle this. Stiles knows that an alpha pack’s only purpose, really, is to act as the self-appointed vigilantes of the werewolf world, to make sure that “weak” and “unstable” packs are appropriately “dealt with.” Which really means that it’s an excuse for power-hungry werewolves to either recruit other power-hungry werewolves, or gain their power through other means. He didn’t think, though, that the Hale pack would be a target of them, now or ever. 

“I’m not sure what angle they’re going to take,” Derek replies after a long pause, and Stiles turns back to face him. 

“You mean you’re not sure if they’re going to try to kill all of us or if they’re going to ask you to kill all of us first?” Stiles is already too stressed to even bother with trying to find a nicer way to phrase it. 

Derek releases a deep sigh that Stiles is sure he was trying to play off as frustrated, but instead comes out as a tentative, shaky exhale. “Yeah, Stiles. That’s what I mean.” 

“Do you know how many there are? How much time do we have?” Stiles tries desperately to keep the nerves from coming through in his voice, despite the fact that he can feel his heart thudding hard against his ribs and knows that the wolves can hear it, clear as day. 

“I think there’s five, but it’s hard to tell. They’ll be here at dusk.” Derek’s voice is so carefully controlled, keeping up that same facade of neutrality and strength. 

Stiles feels his heart stop in his chest. Five alphas. His brain does the math quickly – Jackson and Lydia are on vacation in Europe, Allison is spending the weekend with her dad in their cabin in Washington, and Cora’s in Belize visiting the pack that had adopted her for so long, and dusk is in probably eight hours. That leaves himself, Derek, Isaac, Scott, Peter, Erica, and Boyd. Five betas, an alpha, and an almost useless emissary-in-training. 

Stiles can see his conclusions reflected in Derek’s face; they are completely and totally fucked. Even outnumbering the alphas, there’s no way seven to five is going to even the odds. 

For a moment, despair settles into Stiles’s stomach, a heavy stone that threatens to drop him right there. His offensive magic might help some, but only if his pack stays the hell out of the way, and his defensive magic is fucking dismal; he couldn’t even feel the alpha pack crossing through the warding on the territory lines. If they were stronger – if he was stronger – he could - 

Wait. 

He stills, even his racing heart slowing back down to something almost relaxed; it’s almost like the calm before the storm, brought on by stumbling upon the perfect solution, the obvious solution. It’s eerily similar to the beginning of a panic attack, that brief moment where everything seems so perfectly clear and obvious, right before his lungs stop working and his ribs tighten around his chest. 

Derek instantly notices the change, closing the distance between them with an easy step. There’s blatant concern written all over his face as he places a large, warm hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Stiles,” he says, voice quiet but firm as he lightly squeezes his shoulder, “it’s going to be alright, we’ll figure something out.” 

“I’ve got it figured out.” Stiles’s voice is dangerously calm.

Derek’s brows draw together and his hand clamps down a little bit tighter on Stiles’s shoulder. “What?” he says, more like a statement than a question, a short, bite of a word. Stiles doesn’t respond in favor of just looking into Derek’s eyes, and watching as the realization of what Stiles means hits him. 

“Stiles.” Derek’s eyes are almost comically round – Stiles might have laughed if he could catch his breath. “You don’t have to –”

Stiles doesn’t let him finish that thought. “Do you have any other ideas? Ones that don’t end up with us dead?” 

“We can figure something out.” Derek sounds firm, and Stiles doesn’t doubt for a second that Derek would do literally everything in his power to make sure that Stiles doesn’t have to take the emissary bond if he isn’t ready. If anything, it just adds to Stiles’s conviction.

“You know that having an emissary at least doubles the strength of the pack,” Stiles says, and it dawns on him that he’s resigning himself to this. This is happening. 

“I just –” Derek lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair before continuing. “I just wanted to wait until you were ready.” His shoulders sag, and Stiles’s heart can’t help but trip in his chest. 

“I think I’ve run out of time to wait.” And there’s the panic attack that Stiles has been fighting off since he’d first spotted the bastardized triskelion on Derek’s front door. 

“Stiles!” Derek steps even further into his space, the hand that was  resting on his shoulder sliding up to cup the side of his face. “Hey, Stiles, breathe, c’mon, breathe with me.” He reaches out and grabs Stiles’s wrist with his other hand, pulling it to his chest, taking deep breaths – not quite exaggerated, but enough that Stiles can feel it rising and falling beneath his fingers, giving himself something concrete to focus on. 

It takes a few long minutes of Stiles trembling under Derek’s hands and trying to mimic his breathing before he is finally able to speak. 

“Derek, I’m not — what if it goes wrong? What if I hurt you? What if the bond is wrong? What if I’m a bad emissary?” All of the words rush out of him at once, every single worry and concern he has boils down into four simple questions. 

Derek softens a little bit, some of the tension in his shoulders easing, and his thumb brushes lightly over Stiles’s cheekbone where he is still cupping his face. Stiles can’t help but lean into the touch, and his cheeks are heating up, but he’s entirely unwilling to pull away; he tries to convince himself that he would’ve taken the same comfort from anyone.

“Stiles, I know you don’t believe in yourself, but I have more than enough trust in you for the both of us,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles can’t tear his eyes away from Derek’s, awash in the sincerity in his eyes, his voice. Even Derek’s heart thumps steadily under his hand, and Stiles isn’t going to pretend that he could parse a lie from the truth by feeling someone’s heartbeat, but the fact that it doesn’t even jump eases a little bit of the vice grip around his chest. 

He lets out a shaky laugh, and Derek smiles hesitantly back at him, sliding the hand on his face back down to his shoulder and releasing his grip on Stiles’s other wrist. 

“I don’t know if that’s how this works, Der,” Stiles weakly quips, making an attempt at a smile. 

Derek simply raises one brow at him, an unimpressed look on his face. “It’s probably going to have to, isn’t it?” 

This time, Stiles’s startled laugh is genuine, and Derek all but beams at him. “Asshole,” Stiles says, shoving at Derek’s arm, but there’s no bite in it. Stiles stares at Derek for a minute, smile slowly falling into something a little more contemplative. 

“Do you really think we’ll be okay?” he asks. Do you really think I can do this? 

Fortunately, Derek can read him like a book, and he nods, no hesitation whatsoever. “Yes. I do.” 

Stiles stares a moment longer, waiting for Derek to take it back, to say something else, but when Derek just holds his gaze, Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck. Okay. Let’s call Deaton.” 

When he drops his hand, Derek is holding the front door open for him, a look on his face that could only be described as gentle, and Stiles has the almost overwhelming urge to reach out and cup his face, the same way that Derek had to him, and pull him into a kiss. He ignores that, as usual, but can’t fight the small chuckle that escapes him at the realization that he won’t really be able to keep those feelings secret for much longer. 

At Derek’s questioning glance, Stiles brushes past him into the house, shaking his head. Derek follows him into the house, where the pack is waiting for them and decidedly ignoring the conversation they’d heard on the porch, and where Stiles can call Deaton about an ill-advised, life-changing decision.

  –

  “You ready for this?” 

Derek’s voice makes Stiles flinch, fumbling with the stupid ceremonial dagger Deaton had handed him on his way out of the vet’s office. He manages to grab it by the handle in a shocking feat of coordination, securing it in his grip before it can hit the forest floor, and looks up at Derek. 

They’re both shirtless – they needed to be to complete the bonding – and Stiles can’t keep his eyes from wandering over Derek’s broad shoulders, the shape of his arms, the dark hair lightly dusting his chest. Something in his gut clenches and unclenches, all in the space between breaths. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Stiles asks, finally meeting Derek’s green eyes. 

“Quit deflecting.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, practically out of habit, before he forces himself to take a deep breath and answer honestly. “Yeah, I think I am.” 

His answer must have been satisfactory, because Derek quits scrutinizing him like Stiles is going to tap out if someone breathes at him wrong. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Stiles wants to give Derek one last chance to back out, one last chance to realize that maybe bonding with a twenty-year-old unstable spark isn’t such a good idea after all, one last chance to come to his senses and realize that Stiles isn’t going to be as good an emissary as he thinks he will.

“I’ve been sure since you were sixteen and laid mountain ash around that club, Stiles.” 

Well. There wasn’t much to say to that, was there? Stiles is entirely speechless, but he feels, deep in his chest, a tiny, tiny fraction of Derek’s certainty. If Derek can hold onto that belief, that trust in him, for four years and through a possession and all of Stiles’s baggage, Stiles can believe in himself, even if it was just a little bit of what Derek thinks. He can live up to that – he has to live up to that. 

Stiles swallows, hard. “Alright, let’s get this over with.” 

Derek steps towards him, which Stiles is grateful for – he’s not sure his legs are steady enough that they can carry him, nerves turning them to jello. Stiles steadies himself by placing his left hand on Derek’s chest and bringing the dagger up with his right. He hesitates, blade hovering right over Derek’s heart, and for a second, he falters. His eyelids flutter shut and he sucks in a deep, steadying breath, before opening them again, staring at the unblemished skin underneath the dagger. 

“Go ahead.” Stiles feels Derek speak, voice humming through his chest and into Stiles’s hand, and before he can think too much harder on it, Stiles brings the tip of the blade to Derek’s skin and cuts. 

He shapes the rune without a second thought, the shape flowing on muscle memory alone; Deaton had made Stiles practice them into oblivion, and he probably could’ve done it with his eyes closed. Derek’s skin heals mere seconds after the cuts are made, but there’s enough blood that trickles out before he can heal that he’ll be able to make the second rune. 

Stiles’s mind is almost blank as he finishes, tossing the blade to the ground beside them. He isn’t sure if it was Derek’s presence that brought about the calm, or if he just felt resigned to his fate, but either way, he doesn’t flinch as Derek dips the fingers on his right hand into the blood on his chest, reaches out, and makes the second rune on Stiles’s forehead. It’s a simple shape, just a few lines, and when Derek is done, he swipes his hands absently on his jeans, blood smearing into the fabric. 

“You good?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods. He’s calmer than he thought he’d be when Derek puts his hand on his chest, mirroring the action Stiles had taken before he’d cut the rune into Derek. 

Instead of focusing on the fact that Derek is going to be cutting a rune into Stiles’s chest using his claws, he focuses on Derek’s face, his long lashes sweeping just over his eyes, brows furrowed into careful concentration, lips parted just so. He barely feels it when Derek scratches his skin, automatically dipping his fingers into the blood on his chest when Derek pulls away and lightly tracing the runes on Derek’s forehead. 

“You know what to say?” Stiles asks, voice hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in days. 

“Ek binda í min er,” Derek replies, pronunciation perfect, and Stiles can feel his magic respond, pushing against his chest and tingling in his fingers, ready to complete the unfinished bond. It’s the most his magic has responded to anything, and it’s the most eager Stiles has ever felt to complete something using his magic. Every single bone in his body is screaming at him that this is a good thing, and something in Derek’s face is telling him the same thing. 

Stiles waits a beat longer, reveling in the fact he feels at peace with his magic for the first time since the Nogitsune, and trying to take advantage of the fact that this might be the last time Derek will be willing to look him in the eye, before he speaks. “Ek binda í min er.”

Whatever Stiles had thought the bond might have felt like, it was absolutely nothing like this. Their runes glow with bright white light before they disappear, smoothing out into unblemished skin, the bond snapping into place instantaneously, and to say that it’s overwhelming is a dramatic understatement. 

Suddenly, Stiles becomes aware of the Hale territory, the magic tying each and every pack member to the land itself, and he can feel the bonds tying him to every pack member, likely as Derek feels them; he can tell who was close, and can feel the bonds stretched thin by the members who are further away. 

More than that, though, is Derek. 

The bond tying him to Derek settles in his chest, right behind his heart, and he can feel everything Derek feels like they’re echoes of his own emotions. Underneath his own joy, his own relief, his own unavoidable feelings about Derek, are Derek’s own feelings; relief, happiness, and something warm and unfathomably deep, and Stiles swears it feels like – well, it feels deep. Serious. Something like trust and happiness and safety all wrapped up into a package that Stiles is afraid to put a name to. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles gasps out, and Derek just nods, looking entirely too wrecked to be able to formulate words, breathing heavily and staring and Stiles like he’s hung the sun and the moon and maybe all of the stars in the sky. No, he isn’t just looking at Stiles like he’s single handedly created the sky – he’s feeling that, too. That look in his eyes, the open, soft, trusting one that softens all of Derek’s hard edges, that’s adoration, and Stiles can feel it. 

Stiles can feel himself gaping, and can’t really bring himself to care, because it’s occurring to him right then and there that his feelings might not be as unreciprocated as he previously thought. He finds himself following a similar path to the one Derek had tracked on him hours before, the hand still planted firmly on Derek’s chest sliding up to cup his cheek, and with the way Derek leans into his hand, it’s almost like deja vu in reverse. His other hand finds its way up Derek’s arm, settling comfortably on his bicep, and he squeezes. 

“Derek?” Stiles says his name like a question, and he can feel a burst of warmth, of hope and happiness and confidence, blossoming in his chest. He can’t really feel the difference between what he’s feeling and what Derek’s feeling, and he’s a little worried, but only until he realizes that it really means there’s nothing for him to be worried about. 

“Stiles.” Derek says his name like it’s an answer, and his hands are suddenly on Stiles’s face and he’s pulling him into a searing kiss. 

For a split-second, Stiles is frozen, but the moment his brain catches up with that feeling in his chest, he melts into the kiss, hand on Derek’s bicep sliding up and tangling into the short hairs at the base of his neck and pulling him in as close as he can. Derek’s lips are soft against his, tongue gently sweeping in his mouth, and the only reason Stiles pulls away after a few long, long moments is because, despite having access to a wealth of magic, he still needs to breathe. 

“I didn’t think you felt the same way,” Stiles breathes in the scant inches of space between them, and Derek gently leans his forehead against Stiles’s. 

“That’s really not a concern,” Derek murmurs back, and Stiles laughs a little despite himself. 

“Thanks for that, Captain Obvious,” he mutters, but he sounds so obviously fond, even to his own ears, and Derek just grins back at him. 

They stand there like that, just soaking up each other’s presence, until a nice strong gust of wind blows through the trees, sending a shiver down Stiles’s spine, and they’re both brought back to reality. 

“How much time do we have until dusk?” Stiles asks, letting go of Derek so he can find his discarded shirt. 

Derek sighs, picking his shirt up off the ground and tossing Stiles’s to him. “Probably three hours?” 

Stiles nods, chewing absently at his lip. “That’s enough time to lay some good wards. Scare them a little.” 

He’s standing there, lost in thought, when Derek presses a chaste kiss to his lips, bringing him back to the present. “C’mon,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles’s hand and pulling him towards where the Jeep is parked along a trail in the Preserve. “We have to get moving if you’re gonna ward the perimeter and the house, and we need to come up with a plan.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes at him but allows himself to be pulled. “You sure the bond didn’t let you read minds?” 

Derek snorts, rolling his eyes, but there’s a grin curling at the edge of his lips. 

“Get in the car.” 

  –

  Somehow, Stiles manages to both lay wards along the entire perimeter of their territory and fill the pack in on the plan. He and Derek both pretend not to notice the long glances, snorts of laughter, and exchanging of money that occurs; how they can tell that he and Derek are – well, whatever he and Derek are, besides scent, is beyond Stiles. 

The pack members that are currently present in Beacon Hills are curled up in Derek’s living room, in various types of attire ranging from bare feet and pajamas (Erica) to dressed vaguely like a model (Peter), when Stiles feels the alphas cross into their territory. His new wards, made strong with pack magic and the emissary bond, tell him exactly where they are and how fast they’re moving. Stiles can feel the way that the land is warning them with every step they take, and he can’t help the smirk that spreads on his face despite his growing unease.

“They’ll be here soon,” he warns, and everyone perks up, Isaac and Scott moving to watch out for them out one of the windows like they won’t be able to hear them long before they’ll see them. Peter and Erica share some elaborate eyeroll at their expense, and Boyd is impassively settled in the corner of the couch, one arm wrapped around Erica, looking as nonchalant as could be. 

“Here,” Isaac announces, and the entire pack exits the house as planned. Stiles leaves first, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt borrowed from Derek, barefoot. Erica and Peter trickle out next, with Isaac, Scott, and Boyd following, all of them looking as relaxed as possible. Derek takes up the back, leaning casually against a support beam on the porch. Stiles can feel the tiniest hints of their nervousness, but mainly, he’s getting overwhelming confidence; Derek is only projecting confidence, not in the least bit nervous, like he has no doubts that Stiles’s plan is going to work. 

The alphas arrive moments after the pack has arranged themselves in the front of the Hale house, looking a little on edge, and Stiles feels a hint of pride; his wards were doing that. 

Stiles gives them a moment to take in the sight before them, taking advantage of the pause to get a good look at all of them; he knew that Deucalion was their leader, and he was easily identified by his dark sunglasses and cane, but he had no idea what to expect from the others. His eyes skim over a young set of twins and a huge hulking brute of a werewolf, but he doesn’t like the way the olive-skinned woman is looking at them. 

Once he’s decided that they’ve waited long enough, Stiles announces to the alpha pack, “This is your only warning: get out of Hale territory and don’t return.” It’s formal, but it feels right, especially with the way his magic surges at his words; it’s a threat he can substantiate. 

The alpha pack’s eyes all snap to him, and they stare incredulously for a moment, before the woman breaks their silence with a cackle. “It’s cute,” she says, “how the human thinks he makes the rules around here. We’re testing your alpha, sweetheart, not seeing how many seconds you’d last before we tore your throat out.” 

Stiles can feel the indignant flash of anger from Derek, hot in his chest, and the way that Derek wrestles to get it under control. If he was watching, he was sure he’d see a flash of bright red eyes. 

“The test of an alpha is their pack,” Derek replies, “and you’re welcome to give it a go, but you’re not going to make it past my mate.” There are a few supportive growls from the wolves around him, Erica and Peter sounding exceptionally vicious about the whole thing.

The “mate” bit almost knocks Stiles off his feet – Derek had most certainly not told Stiles that’s what he was going to say – but it fits nicely, he thinks, so he recovers quickly, leaning into that warmth in his chest, waggling his fingers and smiling at the alphas in front of him. 

Instantly, the alpha pack breaks out into laughter, the woman and the giant seeming to find it particularly amusing. Stiles is a little indignant, if he’s being honest – you’d think that a pack of alpha werewolves would be a little bit more well-versed in magic users, and how not everyone was built to bench press semis. 

“You want us to be worried about this kid?” It’s the woman again, and Stiles has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I’ll be using his bones as toothpicks in minutes.” 

Stiles can almost feel Derek’s shrug. “Your mistake,” he says, nonchalant. 

There’s a charged moment where Derek and Deucalion are staring each other down – or at least, it looks like they’re staring each other down; as far as Stiles is aware, the other alpha is blind – that Deucalion breaks with a single, sharp nod. 

All four of his wolves immediately rush at Stiles, which is a little bit of a surprise – he thought they’d be more for a one-on-one, but it seems that they just want to take him out as quickly as possible. He can feel both his magic and his pack holding back, both wanting to lunge out in front of him and eliminate the threat. They hold back, though, and Stiles waits until the alphas are a split-second away from colliding with them before gathering up his magic, which is white-hot lightning in his limbs, and he just waves a hand in front of him to direct it outwards. 

All it takes is that little wave of his hand for the werewolves in front of him to go flying into the trees behind them, and Stiles can’t help but be a little smug at the sounds of their bones breaking against their trunks. He’s pretty sure he can see branches sticking out of one or two of them, and damn, that must hurt. Too bad. 

Deucalion is doing a poor job of hiding his rage in front of him; Stiles is watching his limbs tremble with the effort of not retaliating, but he’s probably making the smart move, since the rest of his pack is curled up on the ground, broken and bleeding. 

“Peter,” Deucalion grinds out, trying to force a pleasant smile on his face and missing the mark by a mile, “you didn’t tell me your little human was a spark, let alone the emissary and the alpha mate.”

Y’know, Stiles thinks this shouldn’t really surprise anyone at this point. There are a few warning growls, and Stiles can feel Derek’s irritation bordering on anger in his chest; he glances back so he can see the look on his face, and surprise surprise, Peter’s just shrugging at Deucalion, huge grin on his face. 

“You didn’t ask,” he says simply. 

Stiles looks back to Deucalion, who’s eyeing him with newfound interest, his eyes also flicking to Derek. “If you two ever decide that you want to join something bigger, you know who to call.” 

Stiles snorts humorlessly, and Derek growls low in his throat. “If you ever come back, there won’t be anything left of you to find,” Derek snarls, and Deucalion just dips his head, slowly turning his back on the Hale pack and walking back into the forest. The rest of his pack manage to gather themselves enough to limp off after him, limbs dragging and breath labored. 

The pack waits, straining their ears to make sure that the alphas are gone, Stiles feeling them get closer and closer to the border. The moment they’re out of earshot, Derek’s throwing himself down the stairs and to Stiles’s side, catching him just before Stiles’s legs go out from underneath him. Stiles’s bond with Derek is humming with concern, but also pride and love and a million different other things. Stiles lets Derek manhandle an arm around his waist, leaning heavily against him while Derek drags his nose along Stiles’s temple. 

“Was that absolutely badass?” Stiles asks, and Derek snorts. 

“That was so fucking badass,” Erica agrees from behind him, and Stiles raises a shaky fist above his head, which Erica taps effortlessly. 

“Impressive, Stiles,” Peter coolly agrees, and Derek snarls at him as he turns Stiles around and starts to help him back into the house. 

Stiles lightly pats Derek’s arm in what’s hopefully a comforting motion before pointing an accusatory finger at Peter’s smug face. “You are so lucky I can barely walk right now, buddy,” he says, “because if I could walk I would send your sorry ass to fucking space.” 

“We are talking about this later,” Derek growls, and Peter raises his hand in surrender. 

“I hear you loud and clear,” he replies, stepping out of the way and moving obviously towards his car. “Let me know when you want to have that talk!” he calls out as he crawls into the driver's seat, and everyone lets out a collective noise of irritation as Peter pulls out of the drive. 

Derek drags Stiles into the living room, dropping down on the couch and arranging Stiles until he’s comfortably settled in the V of Derek’s legs, pillowed on his chest.

“Y’know,” he says at the tail end of a yawn, “I am really thinking it’s time for pack movie night.” 

Before he can blink, everyone’s arranged on Derek’s plush living room furniture, and Erica managed to snag the remote before Isaac did and is gloating about it. 

Stiles relaxes into the familiarity of it all, perfectly comfortable with Derek’s warmth wrapped around him physically, and the warm hum of Derek’s emotions nestled deep in his chest. He tries valiantly to keep his eyes open, trying to soak in the success of the day, the feeling of pack. 

The last things Stiles remembers before falling into unconsciousness is Erica loudly selecting 10 Things I Hate About You, and Derek brushing a soft, loving kiss to his temple.