Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.i.

Boyd isn’t looking for a fight, exactly. He’s just particularly prepared if a fight should happen to start up. And as Bennett brushes past him in the hardware store with a mumbled “bitch,” he’s got the man crowded against the paint shelves in no time flat. 

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Bennett asks with a pleasant smile.

“What you just said. Sorry, didn’t catch it.”

“Oh, nothing,” Bennett smiles wider.

“Sounded to me like you said ‘bitch.’ Some loaded language to be throwing around at ten o’clock on a Friday morning.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Yeah?” Boyd rises onto the balls of his feet, towering over the hunter.

“Yeah.” Bennett doesn’t flinch. “Didn’t say it to you, though.”

“No?”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘P’ in Boyd’s face. “I said ‘bitch,’ but, like, in general. Life’s a bitch. Or haven’t you heard that? I guess you’re a little young. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he pushes away from the shelf, forcing Boyd back a step. “I’ve got a party to set up. So long, b--”

Boyd growls.

“B-b-buddy,” Bennett teases, grinning over his shoulder. Boyd is about to go after him when a firm hand comes down on his shoulder. 

“Really, Boyd?”

He grimaces and turns to Derek. “What?”

“Two days before the full moon, middle of the school day, you just so happen to wander into the one store that just so happens to be popular with both hunters and cops? You know what Stilinski said. No more warnings.”

“I needed some--”

“There’s a Home Depot a block from your house. Don’t give me that.”

“I--”

Derek grabs him by the back of the collar and herds him towards the door. “Let’s just not actively try to get everyone massacred. Can we do that? For one fucking day?”

I.ii.

“It’s just . . . I’ve done everything.”

“We know,” Stiles and Isaac both groan.

“Everything I can to show her how I feel about her, but nothing seems to--” Scott trails off when Stiles smacks the back of his head with a chemistry textbook.

“Stop it! Forget about Harley for, like, twenty seconds. Can you do that?  Everyone knows that it’s a stupid attempt at an Allison rebound--”

“It is not--”

“And everyone also knows that she only went out with you because she felt bad for you.”

“That’s okay! I’d be okay with pity! Better than nothing! Now I’m stuck back at finding excuses to email her about homework--”
Stiles covers his face and groans.

“You have seriously got to stop pretending to suck at chemistry so she’ll talk to you.”

“I do suck at chemistry,” Scott blinks at him.

“He really does,” Isaac pipes up from the other side of the bed. Stiles drops back so he’s spread out between them and groans in frustration.

“Just drop it for a day. That’s all I ask. Forget about Harley, forget about Allison, forget about wolf shit, and let’s just be normal teenagers. Stop twitching. Let’s be normal teenagers and crash that party, so Stiles can get some quality time with Lydia.”

“Speaking of hopeless,” Isaac starts, but Stiles is on him in a flash, trying to get a solid tickle in without taking an elbow to the face. 

Scott sighs and turns away from them, “Laugh all you want. I don’t expect either of you to understand love.” He deletes the email and stares glumly out the window as the others make sad puppy noises behind him.

I.iii.

“You are not wearing that,” Lydia says flatly, staring at Allison’s all-black combat gear like it’s very existence offends her.

“What?”

“It’s a party, Allison. Not a funeral or a  . . . a bank heist.”

Allison rolls her eyes, but unbuckles the dagger at her waist and starts kicking off her boots.

“Yes, it’s a party, but it’s a party for hunters. I’m not going to put on some frilly costume in front of the men I’m going to lead someday.”

“Allison, darling.”

Lydia looks at her expectantly. Allison rolls her eyes and drops down on the bed, obediently replying, “Lydia, dear.”

“I’ve known you since your first day in town--”

“Well, actually--”

Lydia holds up a hand and gives her a stern look. “Your first official day. Your first day interacting with Beacon Hills society. I took you under my not-unimpressive wing from the start. Did I not?”

“Yes, Lydia.”

“I guided you through the treacherous waters of high school life, did I not?

“Yes, Lydia.”

“I put your reputation above my own; I raised you in the ranks of Beacon Hills High School like you were my own shadow, did I not?

“Yes, Lydia.”

“I dressed you for your first date, did I not? And I was right by you the whole evening.”

Allison’s face falls and she slumps down on the bed.

“Forget the date itself, for a moment. I was there for you, was I not?”

Allison says nothing, turning on her side and holding onto her pillow. She stares at a crack in the wall and tries to ignore Lydia poking her side.

“Allison. Don’t be like that. Allison. Allison, darling.”

She does not respond, holding her pillow tighter. Lydia crawls over to her, tucking her chin over Allison’s shoulder.

“Allison, darling. Allison, darling. Allison, Allison, darling, darling.”

Allison groans and flips over, batting Lydia away with the pillow.

“Lydia, dear, please shut up. What’s Kate wearing?”

“I don’t know. Something sexy, probably. Her mask is some kind of cat, I think.” Lydia rolls onto her back and sighs. “Probably something barely appropriate, but still practical.”

“Your crush on my aunt is seriously disturbing.”

“I don’t have a crush on your aunt,” she snaps, bouncing off the bed. “I have a crush on your aunt’s wardrobe. And her body. And her weapons. And . . .  Ugh, whatever. Come on, let’s see if you can borrow something of hers. No work clothes at a party. That’s, like, style 101.”

Allison grabs the green feathered mask from the desk and follows her out of the room.

I.iv.

“This is an awful, awful, awful, really really bad, straight up terrible, awful idea,” Isaac whispers into Stiles’ ear. Stiles shushes him, blowing on his face and making him jerk back with a scowl. They’re crouched behind the tall hedge that marks the edge of the Argent’s front lawn, watching partygoers come and go. 

“This is a fantastic idea. Super quality. It’s a costume party, Isaac. A badass hunter party with masks. They can’t smell you, they won’t recognize you, and if you shift at all . . . well . . . masks!”

“You say that like it’s actually a solution.”

“Harley’s not really friends with any hunters, is she? Well, she and Lydia were friendly for a while, so maybe--”
“Shut up, Scott,” the others groan.

Stiles pulls them each by a coat sleeve until they’re jogging around the corner and down the block to where Stiles’ jeep sits in an empty lot.

“Gentlemen, your costumes are in the back. Oh,” he stops Scott with a hand on his arm. “I don’t need to tell you, do I? Not a word of this gets back to Derek.”

Scott looks exasperated. “Yeah, like I want to piss Derek off on the full-moon weekend. My beta status is shaky enough as it is.”

“That’s your own fault,” Isaac says, with a good-natured smile. “If you’d listened to me and joined up back at the beginning--”

“Isaac--”

“Okay, pups, enough squabbling. You, here.” Stiles shoves a wad of olive green clothing into Isaac’s arms, topped with a gas mask. “Trench chic. All the rage.”

“I won’t be able to breathe!” Isaac protests. 

“You’ll look charming and mysterious. No whining. Scotty-boy!” Scott receives his pile with a nervous laugh.

“Chainmail? Isn’t this your Halloween costume from back--” 

“It’s classic. Keep the visor down, you’ll be fine. Don’t let anyone see the seams--I had to alter it, and I didn’t really have any thread, so I just duct taped them. You’re a lot bigger than I was in middle school.” Scott grumbles, but obediently peels off his street clothes and yanks on the costume. It’s a little ratty, but from a few feet away it looks mostly decent. Isaac emerges from the shadows behind the jeep, and Stiles whistles.

“That-- That really fits you, man.” He clears his throat and busies himself in the backseat again. He pulls out a single mask for himself, a demon face with a twisted smile and a hooked nose.

“That’s it?” Scott asks. 

“Didn’t have time to get anything. Anyway, if they find me, it’s no big deal. Sure, I’m crashing, but no one there wants me dead. Well, no one wants be dead badly enough to  risk pissing off my dad. So. Safe.” 

He straps the mask on and tips it back to the top of his head, long nose sticking grotesquely skywards like a leathery horn. He looks over his friends, their own masks tucked under arms, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. He tosses his head back and whoops, taking in a sharp breath of early autumn air. Isaac grins, but Scott looks uncomfortable.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he says, scratching under the neck of his shirt. “I had this weird dream before I woke up this morning. Couldn’t remember anything about it but I jumped right up, couldn’t breathe. It was like an asthma attack. I’ve been twitchy all day.”

“You know why that is, don’t you?” Stiles twitches at him, teasing, a current of energy running up his spine. “The moon’s got you. She does! She does, indeed.”

Isaac laughs at him as he aims a crackly howl skyward. Even Scott can’t keep his frown as Stiles grabs him by the wrists and spins him around, cheap metallic cloth rustling around his shoulders.

“You can’t let her get you, man. Weave, duck, duck and weave--” He turns on Isaac and shadowboxes for a second before looking back up at the clear sky.

“Diana, they call her. The Hunter. It’s funny, isn’t it? The thing that makes you what you are, named for the thing that hates you. The Hunter giveth and the hunter taketh away. But when she gets you-- It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

He grabs each of their hands, pulling them in close, eyes glinting with manic energy, and an edge of danger, a faint odor of whiskey on his breath.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t know, would I? But I can see it, when she slips under your skin-- No, no, she doesn’t slip under does she? She vibrates through. Like soundwaves, like little, perfect soundwaves. And she goes through me like nothing, like I’m not even there at all. But you--” He presses against their ribs, the two of them, and they press back without thinking, leaning into him and out again and the back in, like tides. “You resonate,” he murmurs.

They stand silent for a long moment before Stiles opens his mouth to speak again. Scott clamps a hand over it and shakes his head, sternly. 

“Are we going to do this or not?”

Stiles licks him and he pulls away, wrinkling his nose.

“Come on, guys, or all the food’ll be gone!” Isaac pulls his mask over his face, calling an eerily muffled “Cry havoc! Let slip the dogs of war!” into the night as he takes off down the lot.

The others follow behind, Stiles crowing triumphantly and Scott yelling “What does that mean?”, feet pounding on the pavement like invincible creatures.

I.v.

They manage a decent twenty minutes with no slip-ups. Stiles is probably recognized by a couple people from school, but everyone seems to be in too good a mood to stir anything up. Isaac sticks by the wallflowers, gaining a few appreciative once-overs that stop at the creepy, alien appearance of the gas mask.

Scott fouls it up, of course. He smells wolfsbane in three pockets in a row, carried unconsciously by hunters who wear it like cologne, and he starts to shake. Stiles is dancing with a pair of laughing women, older than high school but not quite adults. He keeps his mask on, but Scott can tell by the women’s laughter that he’s keeping up his usual running commentary. Scott doesn’t have the heart to interrupt, not when Stiles seems to be getting actual positive attention from a female for the first time in his life. Isaac is nowhere to be found, which frightens him, but he’s sure there would be screams if anything went wrong. The thought of it kicks his heart rate up a notch and he grits his teeth and shuts his eyes, fighting off the shift. 

This was so much easier when he had--

And there she is. 

He catches the smell of her, first, drifting down the stairs like leaves, like soft, dry leaves blowing around him and he feels suddenly still. He turns to her and catches her eye through the delicate green feathers of her mask, and she smiles at him without thinking, without meaning to and he--

He is an idiot.

He lifts the visor to look at her, feeling like he needs to bare his face to the light of her, the warmth of her. Her eyes widen, flit around the room, and land on a dangerous figure in gold, feline mask matching her predatory movements.

“Get up here,” Allison hisses and darts down the stairs to pull him up by the hand. His breath catches and he follows, memorizing every inch of her like she’s about to disappear: the way her green dress flares out around her legs, the pale strength of her legs themselves, a stray curl catching on her lipstick as she whirls around to check for followers.

“Are you crazy?” she hisses as she closes her bedroom door behind them. 

“Allison,” he says, stupidly. He feels like waking up after being down for a week with the flu. Her face softens, against her will, and she takes off his plastic helmet.

“You shouldn’t be here. Kate almost saw you.”

“I don’t care,” he breathes. “Allison. Allison, I--”

“Don’t. Don’t, don’t do this now.” She casts a nervous eye to the door. “You have to leave. Scott, leave, now. I’m supposed to be meeting everyone; my dad will notice if I’m not downstairs.”

“One minute. Please, just one minute.”

He takes her hands, and she doesn’t pull away.

“I pretended I was fine, but I wasn’t fine. Without you, I mean. I pretended to care about your dad, the hunters, the full moon, all of it, but I can’t if you hate me. I can’t care about anything if you hate me.”

“I don’t--” She looks up at the ceiling, blinking furiously. “I never hated you. Jesus. Is that what you think it was? I hurt you, I hurt your friends. I hated myself, never you.”

“I love you.”

She stares at him, chewing on her lip, before wiping her eyes and laughing softly. “I forgot how you did this. How can you always do this?”

“What?” His eyes are huge, warm, his face more than an open book. It’s a diagram, a picture done in primary colors, the easiest thing to read. Looking into Scott’s face isn’t like reading at all, it’s like knowing. Instinct.

“This is crazy,” she whispers, but she lets him pull her in and kiss her, soft and barely there like she might dissolve under his touch. “Come back tonight,” she says, eyes closed. “Everyone should be asleep by three, three thirty. Now go. You have to go. By the time I open my eyes--”

There’s a soft rush of air. She opens her eyes and she is alone, hair blowing softly in the cold breeze from the open window. She stands, holding two fingers to tingling lips, when  there comes a sharp knock on the door.

“Allison! Are you coming down at all?” Lydia pokes her nose around the door. “Oh my God, you look beautiful. Seriously. I did not do all this work to have it wasted up here all evening.”

Allison slowly crosses to the window and shuts it, dazed.

“Hey. What’s the matter? Allison, darling.”

“Lydia, dear,” she says softly. “Scott was here.”

“What?”

“He was-- I think I still--”

“No.” Lydia takes her by the shoulders and sits her down firmly on the bed. “No, no, no, no, no. You know what Scott did during your little separation? Huh? Did he tell you the big new developments in his life?”

“Well, no. I mean, we didn’t really talk--”

“He didn’t tell you what he’s been up to the last three months.”

“No?”

Lydia looks suddenly regretful, wiping a hand over her face and dropping to a squat, forearms crossed on Allison’s knees. “Allison. Scott joined Derek. He declared his allegiance. He’s a beta, now; he’s one of the pack. I guess your father didn’t want to tell you--”

“No. No! Why are you saying that?” She pushes to her feet and stomps towards the door. “That’s bullshit. He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t. Stop--”

“Allison--”

“Stop trying to ruin things!” She slams open the door and down the stairs.

“Allison!” Lydia calls after her, slumping in the doorway when her voice gets lost in the hubbub below. “Darling,” she says softly, running fingers through her hair. 

“This is not good.” She crosses to the window and looks out, watching masked figures dart back and forth across the yard below. “This is so very, very far from good.”

Chapter Text

II. i.

“Scott! Hey hey hey Scott!”

“Aroooooo!”

There’s no one in the lot when they get back to Stiles’ jeep, so they haul themselves--actually, Isaac hauls the both of them--onto the roof, kicking their feet over the side. 

“How long do you think he’ll stay?” Isaac asks, leaning back on his elbows and ruffling his mask-flattened hair.

“Maybe gone already. Moping around in the bushes by the side of the road. Poor puppy.”

“Scott!” Isaac bellows, voice swallowed up in the empty air.

“Wait. Wait, I know how to flush him out.” Stiles stands unsteadily on the roof, one hand resting on Isaac’s curls. “Hey!” he shouts gleefully. “Hey, is that Harley? Hi Harley! What’s that? Scott? Oh, I don’t know where he is.”

Isaac cracks up, leaning into Stiles’ leg.

“You should really put some clothes on, though. It’s getting kinda chilly.”

He loses his balance with a bellyful of laughter and slumps down, half-sitting on Isaac’s shoulder before tumbling them both into a pile of elbows and knees. Isaac manhandles him so no sharp bits are damaging any soft bits, and they fall into companionable silence.

“Do we wait for him?” Isaac finally asks. “Or should we just go home?”

“Let’s stay here for a sec,” Stiles mumbles, face squished against Isaac’s coat buttons. “Just ‘til it gets cold.”

They settle, as comfortable as they can be on the roof of a dented old jeep in the middle of the night.  Somewhere down the block, Scott sneaks out from the shadow of a garage and into the Argent’s back yard.

II.ii.

His first instinct is to call to her. He’s on the roof, having crawled over from the back of the house and perched with a clear view to her window. She’s looking out at the street, window open and screen pulled out, hair falling loosely around her face. He freezes, heart in his throat, and just watches her. It feels like so long since he’s been able to just watch her, like this.

She reaches one hand out, playing her fingers through the light breeze and watching the moonlight on her skin. She sighs, loud in his ears, and whispers to herself.

“Why can’t you just-- Why can’t you just be . . .”

She tips her chin up toward the sky, eyes narrowed like she can read secrets in the patterns of light and cloud. His stomach twists painfully when he understands.

Why can’t you just be . . . normal, human, safe, constant? Even half-blocked by cloud, the near-full moon pulls at him, vibrating in his pores and singing in his blood. It’s always there, weaker and weaker as the month goes on, before surging strong again. But always the pull the magnetic hum of it in the base of his skull.

But she, she has her own pull. Stronger, more immediate. Not a hum but an orchestra. Not a vibration but a full-body shiver. 

She’s the Sun, he thinks suddenly. She’s warm, she’s light. She’s pale and distant, but so warm underneath. The way her cheeks turn red when she laughs, the flash in her eyes when she’s angry. She’s stronger than the moon. I can be . . . for her, for the Sun, I can be . . .

“I can be,” he murmurs, and she jumps, dagger at the ready and ice in her eyes. “Easy. Just me. Sorry.”

“Jesus,” she breathes, dropping the dagger to her side. She holds out a hand, and he takes it. He doesn’t need the tug through the open window, but he takes it gratefully. 

“I don’t know what to say now.” She blushes down at her hands. She notices the dagger and jumps to shut it in a drawer. “Sorry. I. Habit. Sorry.” Her hands are shaking. He takes them.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t--”

“Yeah, I did. I do. You never said it, but I always new. If I could change it, I would. You know that, right?” He tips her chin upwards, just a brush of skin on skin. “I would do anything. I would-- I don’t know. I feel like I should say something, like, poetic here.”

She giggles, softly, barely a soft huff of breath. “You wrote me a poem, once.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. But I mean. I. I would start myself over. I’d tear myself apart, piece by piece, you know, atom by atom, and I’d start it all over. If I could figure out how.”

“Scott--”

“I would rather be nothing, be a, a, a handful of atoms floating around on the wind than have you hate me. To live knowing you were scared of me, that your dad hates me, that everyone you love, that I can never be--”

“Scott, please.” She opens her mouth to speak again, but no words come. She leans in and presses her forehead to the curve of his shoulder, and his arms come around her like instinct, like springs released from tension.

“Allison,” he breathes.

“I want to believe you,” she whispers. “I do believe you. I know you. But I can’t-- This thing is too--”

“Don’t say dangerous, please don’t say dangerous.”

“It is! It’s fatal, Scott. This is the kind of love people die from, don’t you get it?”

“I don’t care. I don’t care! So I’ll die for it. A thousand times! Happily! Where do I sign?”

“Stop it!” She shoves him, hard, and he stumbles against the wall.  “We need to think rationally. We need to try . . . I thought avoiding you would work, that I’d forget. But I didn’t. And I won’t. I won’t ever. So we need a new plan.”

“What are you saying?” He stays against the wall, hunched a little, like he’s afraid of what she might say. 

“I’m saying I love you. I love you, and I always will, but if we’re going to be together, we have to be smart about it. We have to be--”

“Smart! Yes! Definitely! You love me?” His eyes are so wide, his face split open with that unconscious smile, leaning forward like he always is. It’s like he’s baring his neck to her, sticking out his neck and saying Look, Allison, look how I trust you.

“Of course I love you, idiot,” she says, and cuffs the back of his head. That’s the intention, anyway, but her fingers find their way into his hair and her teeth find his bottom lip and his tongue is waiting, and it’s like no time has passed at all. He touches her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, and that makes her press closer, harder, dig in her fingernails and hook an ankle around his knee.

It only seems a moment later when Scott tenses and lets her go.

“Al?” Lydia’s voice floats through the door, softer than a shout but deafening in the still of the room. “I’m done in the shower. Can you unlock the door?”

Scott edges towards the window, reluctant to unwind his fingers from the back of her shirt.

“Just a sec!” Allison calls, shoving him faster.

He leans in and murmurs in her ear. “Meet me tomorrow, at noon. At the vet’s, okay?”

She nods and pushes him towards the window.

“Come on, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before!” Lydia whines.

Scott raises his eyebrow and Allison smacks him on the arm.

“Get out of here, you!” she hisses.

“I don’t want to go.”

There’s something so painful in the way he says it. Simple and clear, looking her directly in the eyes. Giving it to her, the truth, to do with as she will.

“Tomorrow. Nine o’clock. Go.”

He slides out the window and away, quicker than a thought. She takes a second to breathe, then opens the door with a practiced annoyance.

“Does patience mean nothing to you?”

“Just let me at the bed, okay? Jackson was insufferable tonight.”

They tumble under the covers, Allison suddenly sleepy and warm.

“There’s something up with you,” Lydia mutters, beginning to doze. “I’m gonna figure it out. Tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Allison breathes back, and they’re both fast asleep before five minutes pass.

II.iii.

The vet seems to have a sixth sense, by this point. Internally he calls it his “Something Is Up With Scott” sense. Not that Scott can hide anything from . . .  anyone. But all the same, he gets it when he wakes up in the morning and immediately wonders what his young assistant is up to. Stiles would call it “a disturbance in the force,” and though Deaton rolls his eyes at the phrase, he can’t stop it from popping into his mind this morning. He takes his time with breakfast, driving the long way in from his house at the edge of town. Sure enough, Scott is already there, feeding the mice.

“Hey Doc,” he says lightly, but there are deep circles under his eyes and he smells like he hasn’t showered in a few days.

“Stop by my office when you’re done there, okay?” he asks gently, rapping a knuckle on the edge of the cage and leaving the room. Gentle, that’s how he’ll deal with it. Whatever it is. Probably Derek. Usually something Derek-related.

When Scott pokes his head in fifteen minutes later, Deaton has managed to distract himself with a pile of insurance claims.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” Scott asks nervously, as though he hadn’t been invited in.

“Anytime.”

The boy pulls at his hair, awkwardly, looking down at his feet.

“Um. I was wondering . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I was wondering if you know any other packs. In California. Or, no, actually, out of California would be better. Like. Do you . . . know anyone?” He colors at the phrasing, chewing on his lip.

“What’s this about, Scott?”

“Don’t think I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m young or I’m stupid or anything. Okay? Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

He blows out a long exhale, leaning on the back of a chair. “Allison’s family wants me dead. They can’t kill me until I screw up, but that doesn’t mean they don’t want to. My . . . pack doesn’t trust her. But I-- I mean, we--”

“You want to be with Allison, so you’re running away.”

Scott blinks at him. “Not running away! Not really! I mean. She’s eighteen so she can technically do whatever she wants. And I’ll talk to my mom. I mean. I did talk to my mom. Kind of. Um. Not . . . exactly.”

“You want a contact with another pack, one that might me more laid-back about accepting a beta who’s paired with a hunter?”

“Yeah.”

Scott looks down at his hands.

“Not very likely, huh?”

If this were anyone else--Stiles, Isaac, even Boyd--Deaton would brush him off. Say he’s too young to know what he wants, that high school isn’t forever, that everyone has to put up with things the way they are. But Scott is different. The situation is different. Deaton saw the aftermath of Victoria Argent’s attack, and that was hardly provoked. He knows Chris, trusts him, but there are other members of the family who are less dependable. The sister, particularly.

And Scott doesn’t sound like himself. His words are stilted, sentences trailing off and interrupting himself. He sounds frightened, uneven, desperate. Usually, Scott isn’t the most articulate of boys, but he has a habit of thinking slowly, formulating full sentence before speaking. Deaton doesn’t like this new sound, the way his face is turned away like he expects to be hit.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, softly. It’s worth it for the jerk of surprise, the warmth washing into those big brown eyes. It’s the look that keeps popping up at unexpected times, the one that reminds him, suddenly, that this is a kid without a dad. The look that starts a rage in him-- No, doesn’t start it. Continues it. It isn’t kindness or wisdom that made him what he is. It’s rage. This rage that keeps him working after all these years, all the loss and the danger, the rage that protects kids like Scott, like Derek, like Laura-- Well. The idea that anyone could walk out on eyes like that, that anyone could hurt someone who tries so hard . . . This is what he does. This is why he’s still alive.

“Bring Allison by, later. We’ll talk.”

“Thank you,” the kid whispers, and his hand tightens on the chair back before he leaves. It’s like a handshake, in a way. An indirect gesture of affection. Deaton waits until the door shuts behind him before he picks up the phone.

II.iv.

“Seriously.” 

“What?”

Stiles doesn’t respond, but leaps for a low-hanging tree branch and lets himself swing.

Isaac rolls his eyes.

“Okay, then.”

“We’d know if they’d, like, kidnapped him. Right? Or if he was dead?”

“Yes, Stiles, we would know if Scott was dead.”

“Who’s dead?” Scott comes jogging around the corner, shirt buttoned wrong and smelling like dog shit.

“You, you son of a-- Shit, what did you do?” Stiles drops down from the tree and freezes mid-step.
“What?”

“Son of a shit?” Isaac laughs, coming over to clap Scott on the back. “I kind of like that, actually.”

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Isaac leans in and sniffs him. “He’s been at work. And stressed. And hasn’t slept. And . . . wait.”

“Privacy really means nothing,” Scott sighs, dropping down on a log and waiting for the interrogation.

“Don’t need a super nose, man. That’s the Allison Face. That is not a good face. That is a face that means extreme pain and suffering and the Ultimate Angst. God, why’d you even talk to her? Huh? Enjoy being kicked while you’re down, do you?”

“There was no kicking.”

The others stare at him.

“No . . . kicking,” Isaac says, slowly.

“Other forms of physical contact, though? That could be classified as equally violent, though in a pleasant way? Un-kicking, if you will?” Scott reaches out for him instinctively, sensing the ramble as it starts to build. He grabs a fold of Stiles’ jeans and tugs, anchoring him.

“Un-kicking isn’t a word. Guys, it’s okay. I just wanted to tell you-- It’s gonna be okay.”

Isaac joins him on the log, keeping an eye on Stiles who’s gaping like a fish. “You know Kate Argent was convinced she saw you last night. Chris managed to talk her down, said she was fooled by a costume party, but she didn’t seem very happy to let it go.”

“We won’t have to worry about Kate. Not anymore. Guys . . .” he scrubs through his hair, looking up at them cautiously. “I’m going away. For a bit. Just for a while and I’ll tell you where I am, I promise, and it’ll be okay, Jesus, Stiles, don’t freak out.”

Stiles lets out a soft breath and turns away leaning his forehead against the tree.

“You’re leaving,” he says, voice dead.

“I’ll come back?”

“No, you won’t. She’s going with you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s the only-- Stiles, I’m dead when I’m not with her. You know. You know! Don’t you?”

“You won’t. You won’t, you won’t, you won’t.

Stiles says nothing more, just rolls is forehead against the bark. It’s not quite a shake of the head, but it’s not anything else, either. Isaac rises and goes to him, leaning into his back.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Just breathe, it’s okay.”
“I’m fine.” He pushes away from the tree, knocking Isaac out of the way. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, violently, and turns to smile at Scott. “Sorry, man! I’m hungover as shit. That’s awesome!”

“Stiles . . .” 

“Where do you think you’re gonna go? Derek says good things about New York, but I don’t really see you as a city guy. Maybe like Canada? Somewhere with trees and lakes and stuff. Um. Exciting. Exciting stuff. Super awesome.”

“Stop. Stiles, stop. I’m sorry I didn’t talk about it with you first, I--”

“Naw, man. All good. All good. All good.”

Isaac jerks his head at Scott and takes his place in front of Stiles.

“Sit.” His voice offers no discussion. Stiles sits, fingers tapping on his knees like he’s typing, furiously. He opens his mouth to continue talking when his phone rings.

“Lydia?”

“Lydia?” Isaac echoes. They can hear her tinny responses, shouting into Stiles’ wincing ear.

“Is Scott with you?”

“Wha--?”

“He’s not answering his phone. He’s there, isn’t he? Hand the phone over.”

“He--”

“Hand the phone over, Stiles.”

Stiles silently hands Scott he phone, shaking his head with a look of I give up.

“Allison says she’s meeting you at Deaton’s. What are you doing at Deaton’s?”

“That’s none of your--”

“My business is whatever I decide is my business. Is that clear? What does Deaton have to do with you guys getting back together. As far as I can tell, he’s with Derek on the whole ‘fraternizing with the enemy’ thing.”

“Deaton doesn’t have a side. He’s gonna help us find someplace to . . . be. Somewhere we can just be. Okay?”

Lydia falls silent. Isaac looks down at his feet, digging his toes into a pile of dry leaves. After a long moment, she blows out an audible breath and snaps at him. “Well, then, don’t you have somewhere to be? The Doc’s on lunch break, and it’s freezing out here. Unless you’re planning on ditching her for Harpo and Groucho there?”

“No, I-- Sorry. I had to talk to-- I-- I’ll be right there.”

She hangs up on him and he jumps at the sudden dial tone.

“Okay. Um. I have to-- I’ll see you after. I’ll see you later. Okay? You gonna be around here?”

“It’s a Saturday,” Isaac shrugs. “Where else are we gonna be?”

Scott nods jerkily and hangs Stiles his phone. He leans in and presses his forehead firmly into Stiles’ shoulder before straightening and wiping his hands on his jeans.

“It feels like I’m getting married or something. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous?”

“You kind of are,” Stiles says softly, looking at him gently. “Good luck.”

Isaac gives him a quick shoulder squeeze and shoves him away.

“Go on.”

II.v.

“He’s coming?” Allison asks, shyly.

Lydia sighs. “Why didn’t you just call? I thought you were sure.”

“I am! I was! I just-- I mean. You called anyway, so. Never mind.”

Scott arrives on his bike, dropping it unceremoniously on the asphalt before tugging Allison in for a kiss. A long one, all wrapping arms and fingers in hair. Lydia coughs.

“Witness,” she says, raising one finger. “Are we going in or are we going in?”

“Why is she--?” Scott starts to ask, but Allison shakes her head, grinning, and kisses him again. 

An hour later, they’ve spoken to a pack in northern Wisconsin who have raised a pair of orphaned hunters as their own. They have plane tickets, Melissa’s blessing, and a fake ID for Allison, provided by an unexpected Ms. Morrell. Lydia sits, uncharacteristically quiet, and watches them all with narrowed eyes. She only speaks once, offering to help set Allison up with an untrackable, closed-network cell phone. Allison reaches over and holds her hand after that, hanging on through the rest of the discussion. 

“You’re sure your mom is okay?” she asks quietly, leaning in towards Scott. She hadn’t been able to hear the phone conversation, but Deaton’s warm smile as he hung up helped reassure her.

Scott smiles at her. “She has a romantic streak. And she’ll know where we are. When we get there, I promised, I’ll write to her and she’ll come up. They won’t get anything out of her; she’s tougher than any hunter." He blushes and bumps her shoulder. "Sorry.”

“No problem,” Allison smiles at him. “It’ll be nice to see her. You know, without worrying about my dad finding out.”

“It’s gonna be okay. It will. You won’t-- I mean obviously you can’t tell your dad. But maybe, you know, later. Maybe he’ll come around.”

“He’ll come around,” she says quietly. “It’ll take a while. But he’ll come around. They all will, eventually. Derek, too.”

Scott snorts. “Yeah, him too.”

He kisses her softly, seriously, something of a ceremony about it. Deaton looks down at his desk and smiles. He hands them each an envelope and shakes their hands, formally. Scott stands straighter, and Allison grips his hand with an honest, open expression. They look grown up, he thinks as he shuts the door behind him. Lydia remains behind, picking at a loose thread in her armchair.

“Can I stick around here, just for a bit?”

Deaton waits a second for her to say “never mind,” and when she doesn’t he rises with a sigh. 

“Scott’s left quite a bit undone. Easily distracted you know.”

She smiles gratefully. “I’ll feed the cats.”

He hasn’t the heart to tell her that it’s already been done, instead unlocking the door and leaving her to it. He shuts himself back in his office and turns to the mountain of paperwork.