comment_fic 839: Teen Wolf
Title: The past is now another land
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Aida
Warnings: violence; lack of morals; talk of death; character death; future!AU;
Pairings: implied Derek/Stiles; Allison/Scott
Ratings: PG13
Wordcount: 2565
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, Is this the place we used to love?
They come back to Beacon Hills at the height of summer, on the hottest day of the year. "You sure about this?" Fáeluachail asks.
"Yes," Derek says shortly and steps over the territory line, sending a message to the McCall pack's witch.
"Alright," Fáeluachail murmurs and follows his wolf into town.
...
Eight years ago, Derek and Cora Hale left Beacon Hills.
Seven years ago, Sheriff Stilinski died in a completely avoidable skirmish between the McCall pack and invading hunters.
Stiles Stilinski died that day, too, but no one realized that until he left two nights later.
In the wake of the sheriff's death, Allison Argent took control of the hunters and created a treaty with the McCall pack (made easier by the fact that she was engaged to Alpha McCall).
No hunters have gone to Beacon Hills since, save the ones that live there, unless invited by the alpha pair.
They tried to find Stiles and never could.
...
Derek and Cora settled in La Serena, by the ocean. Derek spent most of his time by the water while Cora connected with the local packs, with witches and mages and shifters of all kinds. Within two years, Cora was Alpha Araya’s confidant and easily joined the largest pack in Chile.
“Isa’s offering you a position, too, Derek,” Cora told him before she left for good, two and half years after they found La Serena, four after they left Beacon Hills behind. “Derek, you’re losing yourself. Come with me.”
“No,” Derek said, looking down and barely baring his throat to her.
Cora sighed, but she rubbed their cheeks together and kissed his forehead before walking away.
Derek turned to watch the sun set over the ocean.
…
“So, this is where wolves go to hide, huh?”
Derek jerked upright, spinning around to crouch and bear his teeth at the intruder, before catching his scent and blinking in shock. “Stiles?”
“Not exactly.” Stiles’ grin looked more like a grimace and he gestured for Derek to stand. “C’mon, get up. I’m not a threat to you.”
His heartbeat didn’t blip so Derek rose to his full height. “I live this way,” he said and had no hesitation to let Stiles at his back.
Derek offered Stiles what was left of his dinner (not much) and something to drink, but Stiles declined both. They sat in silence staring at each other for a few minutes, and Derek took the time to examine Stiles. He was taller and thinner, his hair longer - older and harder than he’d been in Beacon Hills. And he smelled like blood, like it had soaked into his skin, and had for a long time.
“I’m hunting hunters,” Stiles said abruptly. “The same way they hunt everything else. It’s why I’m here.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh for a few seconds, waiting for Derek to respond, but Derek had no idea what to say. “I’ve been following this group for a long time. They think they’ve caught the trail of a kalku and they’ll be moving in soon.”
“Cora’s with the Araya pack,” Derek said. “I’m omega now. I don’t know what you think I could do to help - ”
Stiles laughed. It sounded sharper, colder, than it ever did in Beacon Hills. “I didn’t come to you for help, Hale.” He met Derek’s gaze straight on, nothing submissive at all in his body. “I’ve come to offer you a hunt. That’s what wolves do, isn’t it?”
…
Martina Vasquez was a kalku who’d been making deals with spirits to curse the men who’d killed her parents for reasons Stiles either didn’t know or didn’t care to tell Derek. Not that it mattered.
Johan Treyor was an American who’d spent the past three decades in Argentina training hunters. He and his men considered South America their territory and went around killing anything they didn’t like, which included an entire flock of bird shifters that had never hurt anyone. Even the babies. That, Stiles said, is what caught his attention. That, Stiles said, is why Treyor and all of his men are going to die screaming.
“So, you in?” Stiles asked.
“Yeah,” Derek said. “I’m in.”
…
Derek called Cora’s number, pretty sure she’d have gotten rid of the phone when she joined the Araya pack, but she answered. “Derek,” she said, “what’s wrong?”
“I’m with Stiles,” he said, watching Stiles sharpen a knife. “We’re leaving La Serena. I just - I wanted to tell you goodbye.”
“Stiles?” Cora repeated. “He - how?”
“Goodbye, Cora,” Derek said. “I love you.” He ended the call and destroyed the phone.
Stiles asked, “Do you know how to use a gun?”
…
The hunters struck in the middle of the night, breaking into the kalku’s apartment. They were armed for magic, with protection charms against spirits and counterspells for anything a kalku might throw their way.
They weren’t prepared for a werewolf. Derek tore half of them apart within a minute.
Stiles eeled his way through the dead and the dying to Treyor and pressed his knife to the hunter’s throat. “Come with me,” he said, leaving the rest to Derek. When Derek was finished, he’d follow.
…
“Did you have fun?” Stiles asked when Derek caught up with him.
“Yeah,” Derek said. “Where to next?”
Stiles looked at him for a long moment and Derek waited. Finally, Stiles gave him a tiny smile. “I’m not Stiles anymore,” he said. “I haven’t been since Dad - ” He cut himself off. “I used to be Fáel, when Mama was alive. She was the only one who could pronounce my actual name, so everyone else called me Fáel. Do you know what it means?”
Derek shook his head.
“It’s a version of wolf,” Stiles chuckled. “She told me my real name meant protector of wolves, the only time I ever asked.”
“What is your real name?” Derek murmured, reaching out to caress Stiles’ jaw.
Stiles smelled like old and new blood, like ashes and gunpowder, like earth and ocean. All of
Treyor’s men in the kalku’s apartment disappeared into thin air once the last one’s heart stopped beating. Whether that was the kalku or Stiles, Derek had no idea.
“Fáeluachail,” he said.
…
Stiles died with his father, the way Fáel died with his mother. What remained was a spark, skin and sinew, soul and spirit.
Derek had no idea how to treat Fáeluachail, how to act around him, how to be pack anymore.
They traveled along the coast of the Pacific, then crossed to the Atlantic and went the other way. Fáeluachail found their hunts, planned them, gave Derek broad instructions and let Derek do what he liked within those bounds.
Derek was never meant to be an alpha, but he’d always excelled at being a beta.
“It’s time to go back,” Fáeluachail told him one morning, as Rodrigo Alverez choked to death on his own bile. (Alverez had gutted a sloth that was sometimes a man. A sloth. How, exactly, a sloth could be any threat to anyone escaped Derek.)
“Why?” Derek asked.
Fáeluachail shrugged. “I don’t know. But something… there’s something building on the wind and I have to be there.” He glanced at Derek. “You don’t have to come, you know.”
Derek never wanted to set foot in Beacon Hills again, but the thought of Fáeluachail going there alone… he couldn’t stand it.
“We’ve got time,” Fáeluachail said. “There’s no rush.”
…
They flew into Los Angeles on IDs that weren’t theirs. They rented a car that was almost as gorgeous as Derek’s old Camaro. They meandered their way north and left the car two towns from Beacon Hills.
“I don’t suppose you’ve kept up on current events at all?” Fáeluachail asked the night before they planned to return.
“How, exactly?” Derek asked.
Fáeluachail grinned at him. “Good point.”
…
Just before they cross into McCall pack territory, the day before the full moon, Fáeluachail asks, "You sure about this?"
Derek doesn’t want to go back, doesn’t want to be in Beacon Hills, see the land that should’ve been his family’s, see the pack that should’ve been his. "Yes," he says shortly and steps forward.
"Alright," Fáeluachail murmurs and follows his wolf into town.
…
The McCall pack has a treaty with American hunters, held by Allison Argent, matriarch of the Argent family (leaders of American hunters) and mate of Alpha McCall.
Fáeluachail doesn’t respect treaties, doesn’t care about them, doesn’t acknowledge them.
Seven year ago, Fáeluachail’s father was killed by a stray wolfsbane bullet and died before Stiles even knew he’d been wounded.
That bullet was fired by Bobby Henderson, son of Greg Henderson, ally and friend of Chris Argent.
At the time, Stiles didn’t know that. He does now.
The nemeton is acting up and Allison called in the troops to help deal with it. Something terrible is on the way. Something vicious. Lydia keeps dreaming of blood and pain, and Deaton’s been stocking up on all sorts of odd things.
Bobby Henderson is staying at Scott and Allison’s house, babysitting their daughter (Claudia Ann Argent-McCall), friendly and affable.
When Derek and Fáeluachail set foot on McCall pack land, Deaton, Lydia, and Yasmin (a hedgewitch) feel it.
“What do you think, Derek?” Fáeluachail asks.
Derek stretches his senses out. “Ten shifters,” he says. “Five of them wolves. Two humans, a hunter, a druid, a banshee, and a hedgewitch.”
“Anyone we know?” Fáeluachail leads the way to a diner he used to enjoy. Best milkshake in Beacon Hills.
“The alpha pair,” Derek says, baring his teeth. “Lydia, Deaton, Peter. I think - Jackson’s in town, and that hacker kid, but they’re more auxiliary than pack.”
“Danny?” Fáeluachail shakes his head. “I thought for sure he and Lydia would make it out of here.” He shrugs. “Oh, well.”
…
The emissary arrives just as Fáeluachail sets down two twenties for the check. “Stiles Stilinski?” he asks, shock clear on his face. “And Derek Hale?”
“Hey, doc,” Fáeluachail says nonchalantly. “Long time, no see. What’s new?”
“Stiles,” Deaton says. “Why have you come back?”
Fáeluachail smiles, showing his teeth, and says, “Why do you sound frightened, Emissary? I wonder - what have you heard?”
Deaton’s heartbeat stutters and Derek smiles, too.
Fuck, but he hates this town and everyone in it.
“Alpha McCall has invited you to his table for a meal in good faith,” Deaton says, nearly choking on the words. He clearly wants them nowhere near the pack. “There are hunters in town, at the alpha’s invitation.”
Neither Fáeluachail nor Derek react to that, except for Fáeluachail noisily finishing his milkshake. “I ask that you refrain from baiting the hunters,” Deaton says. “They are our allies.”
“Sure they are,” Fáeluachail says. “We’ll be there.” He slides out of the booth, forcing Deaton to back up. Derek follows, bracketing Deaton, but still doesn’t speak. “Has Scott heard the same things you have?” Fáeluachail asks, reaching out to straighten Deaton’s collar.
Deaton’s pulse leaps, but his face remains expressionless. “The alpha pair and I often have discussions about various rumors,” he says.
Fáeluachail pats his chest twice and says, “Good to know.” He turns and leaves without another word.
Derek follows, but Deaton calls his name. He glances back but while Deaton opens his mouth, he doesn’t say anything. Derek gives him one last smile before catching up to Fáeluachail.
...
Bobby Henderson doesn’t know he killed Sheriff Stilinski. That fight was so crowded, so furious - anyone could’ve shot that bullet. Anyone could’ve pulled that trigger.
But Fáeluachail has resources Stiles never did, and he’s without the morals Stiles had. (There used to be three voices in Stiles’ head, voices that counseled and cautioned him: Mama, Dad, and Scott. Mama died, and then Dad died, and Scott - Scott chose other people over Stiles. So now, there are no more voices in Stiles’ head, because Stiles is as dead as his parents.)
So Fáeluachail knows that Bobby Henderson was eighteen years old when his daddy dragged him to Beacon Hills to put down the pack that killed Gerard Argent, and his daughter, and his daughter-in-law. And Allison and Chris stepped in to stop the brewing war, but not soon enough to save the civilian that caught in the middle because of his little shit of a son, who had just turned seventeen.
“It’s not too late,” Deaton whispers when Fáeluachail and Derek step onto the Argent-McCall porch. It almost sounds like a prayer.
If it is prayer, no one’s listening. Fáeluachail meets Derek’s eyes and they both think, Of course it’s too late.
It was too late when Sheriff Stilinkski got out of his car, his final night. It was too late when Kate Argent set that fire.
It’s been too late for too long.
…
For the dinner, Fáeluachail pulls on a mask. He wears Stiles like his old plaid shirts, like that helpless little boy he used to be. Scott’s pack has five wolves including him, a raven, a cougar, an elk, a bear, and a skinshifter, Danny and his boyfriend Will, Deaton, Lydia, Yasmin, and, of course, Allison Argent. Scott and Allison’s daughter is with Scott’s mom tonight.
Peter spends most of the dinner baiting Stiles. Isaac avoids Derek’s gaze, Jackson rambles about lacrosse, and Zeke and Donna, like the other shifters, have no idea what’s going on.
Only Deaton, and maybe Peter and Lydia, realize that Fáeluachail is watching them all from Stiles’ eyes.
Three hunters share the table: Greg and Bobby Henderson and Emily Callow.
“So,” Scott says after dinner, pulling Stiles into his game room. “Stiles, where have you been? Why did you leave?”
Derek is ‘visiting’ with his uncle and the only remaining wolves he’d turned. The rest of Scott’s pack head out, except for Allison. She takes the hunters into her armory to discuss what might be coming.
“Cora called me a few years ago, out of the blue,” Peter says. “She mentioned an urban legend making the rounds south of the border - the hunter of hunters, she said.”
“And?” Derek asks.
Peter shrugs. Isaac and Jackson share a glance.
Fáeluachail stalks out of the game room, barely holding onto Stiles, and Derek doesn’t look back as they leave.
…
“I hate this town!” Fáeluachail shouts at the sky. They’re in the middle of the preserve, what was once Derek’s land. It belongs to Scott now, along with everything else.
“So let’s do what we came to do,” Derek says. “And then let’s get the fuck out.”
“Yeah,” Fáeluachail breathes.
…
Bobby Henderson doesn’t know he killed Stiles’ father. That doesn’t matter.
Greg Henderson has a lot of friends all over the lower 48. That matters even less.
Both of them are staying at the Argent-McCall house, and the McCall pack has spent seven years living in peace while Fáeluachail waged a bloody war across a continent.
It’s not a question of whether or not Bobby Henderson will die, or even when. It’s a question of how.
…
On the full moon, Scott and his pack run through the preserve. The hunters remain at the den, watching bad movies and shooting the breeze.
Fáeluachail gives Greg and Emily to Derek, but keeps Bobby for himself.
At dawn, when the pack returns, there isn’t even a trail to follow.
Fáeluachail and Derek are long gone.
…
“Where to?” Derek asks
Fáeluachail shrugs. “Let’s see where the wind takes us.”
The world is big and there’s always new hunts to find.
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Aida
Warnings: violence; lack of morals; talk of death; character death; future!AU;
Pairings: implied Derek/Stiles; Allison/Scott
Ratings: PG13
Wordcount: 2565
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, Is this the place we used to love?
They come back to Beacon Hills at the height of summer, on the hottest day of the year. "You sure about this?" Fáeluachail asks.
"Yes," Derek says shortly and steps over the territory line, sending a message to the McCall pack's witch.
"Alright," Fáeluachail murmurs and follows his wolf into town.
...
Eight years ago, Derek and Cora Hale left Beacon Hills.
Seven years ago, Sheriff Stilinski died in a completely avoidable skirmish between the McCall pack and invading hunters.
Stiles Stilinski died that day, too, but no one realized that until he left two nights later.
In the wake of the sheriff's death, Allison Argent took control of the hunters and created a treaty with the McCall pack (made easier by the fact that she was engaged to Alpha McCall).
No hunters have gone to Beacon Hills since, save the ones that live there, unless invited by the alpha pair.
They tried to find Stiles and never could.
...
Derek and Cora settled in La Serena, by the ocean. Derek spent most of his time by the water while Cora connected with the local packs, with witches and mages and shifters of all kinds. Within two years, Cora was Alpha Araya’s confidant and easily joined the largest pack in Chile.
“Isa’s offering you a position, too, Derek,” Cora told him before she left for good, two and half years after they found La Serena, four after they left Beacon Hills behind. “Derek, you’re losing yourself. Come with me.”
“No,” Derek said, looking down and barely baring his throat to her.
Cora sighed, but she rubbed their cheeks together and kissed his forehead before walking away.
Derek turned to watch the sun set over the ocean.
…
“So, this is where wolves go to hide, huh?”
Derek jerked upright, spinning around to crouch and bear his teeth at the intruder, before catching his scent and blinking in shock. “Stiles?”
“Not exactly.” Stiles’ grin looked more like a grimace and he gestured for Derek to stand. “C’mon, get up. I’m not a threat to you.”
His heartbeat didn’t blip so Derek rose to his full height. “I live this way,” he said and had no hesitation to let Stiles at his back.
Derek offered Stiles what was left of his dinner (not much) and something to drink, but Stiles declined both. They sat in silence staring at each other for a few minutes, and Derek took the time to examine Stiles. He was taller and thinner, his hair longer - older and harder than he’d been in Beacon Hills. And he smelled like blood, like it had soaked into his skin, and had for a long time.
“I’m hunting hunters,” Stiles said abruptly. “The same way they hunt everything else. It’s why I’m here.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh for a few seconds, waiting for Derek to respond, but Derek had no idea what to say. “I’ve been following this group for a long time. They think they’ve caught the trail of a kalku and they’ll be moving in soon.”
“Cora’s with the Araya pack,” Derek said. “I’m omega now. I don’t know what you think I could do to help - ”
Stiles laughed. It sounded sharper, colder, than it ever did in Beacon Hills. “I didn’t come to you for help, Hale.” He met Derek’s gaze straight on, nothing submissive at all in his body. “I’ve come to offer you a hunt. That’s what wolves do, isn’t it?”
…
Martina Vasquez was a kalku who’d been making deals with spirits to curse the men who’d killed her parents for reasons Stiles either didn’t know or didn’t care to tell Derek. Not that it mattered.
Johan Treyor was an American who’d spent the past three decades in Argentina training hunters. He and his men considered South America their territory and went around killing anything they didn’t like, which included an entire flock of bird shifters that had never hurt anyone. Even the babies. That, Stiles said, is what caught his attention. That, Stiles said, is why Treyor and all of his men are going to die screaming.
“So, you in?” Stiles asked.
“Yeah,” Derek said. “I’m in.”
…
Derek called Cora’s number, pretty sure she’d have gotten rid of the phone when she joined the Araya pack, but she answered. “Derek,” she said, “what’s wrong?”
“I’m with Stiles,” he said, watching Stiles sharpen a knife. “We’re leaving La Serena. I just - I wanted to tell you goodbye.”
“Stiles?” Cora repeated. “He - how?”
“Goodbye, Cora,” Derek said. “I love you.” He ended the call and destroyed the phone.
Stiles asked, “Do you know how to use a gun?”
…
The hunters struck in the middle of the night, breaking into the kalku’s apartment. They were armed for magic, with protection charms against spirits and counterspells for anything a kalku might throw their way.
They weren’t prepared for a werewolf. Derek tore half of them apart within a minute.
Stiles eeled his way through the dead and the dying to Treyor and pressed his knife to the hunter’s throat. “Come with me,” he said, leaving the rest to Derek. When Derek was finished, he’d follow.
…
“Did you have fun?” Stiles asked when Derek caught up with him.
“Yeah,” Derek said. “Where to next?”
Stiles looked at him for a long moment and Derek waited. Finally, Stiles gave him a tiny smile. “I’m not Stiles anymore,” he said. “I haven’t been since Dad - ” He cut himself off. “I used to be Fáel, when Mama was alive. She was the only one who could pronounce my actual name, so everyone else called me Fáel. Do you know what it means?”
Derek shook his head.
“It’s a version of wolf,” Stiles chuckled. “She told me my real name meant protector of wolves, the only time I ever asked.”
“What is your real name?” Derek murmured, reaching out to caress Stiles’ jaw.
Stiles smelled like old and new blood, like ashes and gunpowder, like earth and ocean. All of
Treyor’s men in the kalku’s apartment disappeared into thin air once the last one’s heart stopped beating. Whether that was the kalku or Stiles, Derek had no idea.
“Fáeluachail,” he said.
…
Stiles died with his father, the way Fáel died with his mother. What remained was a spark, skin and sinew, soul and spirit.
Derek had no idea how to treat Fáeluachail, how to act around him, how to be pack anymore.
They traveled along the coast of the Pacific, then crossed to the Atlantic and went the other way. Fáeluachail found their hunts, planned them, gave Derek broad instructions and let Derek do what he liked within those bounds.
Derek was never meant to be an alpha, but he’d always excelled at being a beta.
“It’s time to go back,” Fáeluachail told him one morning, as Rodrigo Alverez choked to death on his own bile. (Alverez had gutted a sloth that was sometimes a man. A sloth. How, exactly, a sloth could be any threat to anyone escaped Derek.)
“Why?” Derek asked.
Fáeluachail shrugged. “I don’t know. But something… there’s something building on the wind and I have to be there.” He glanced at Derek. “You don’t have to come, you know.”
Derek never wanted to set foot in Beacon Hills again, but the thought of Fáeluachail going there alone… he couldn’t stand it.
“We’ve got time,” Fáeluachail said. “There’s no rush.”
…
They flew into Los Angeles on IDs that weren’t theirs. They rented a car that was almost as gorgeous as Derek’s old Camaro. They meandered their way north and left the car two towns from Beacon Hills.
“I don’t suppose you’ve kept up on current events at all?” Fáeluachail asked the night before they planned to return.
“How, exactly?” Derek asked.
Fáeluachail grinned at him. “Good point.”
…
Just before they cross into McCall pack territory, the day before the full moon, Fáeluachail asks, "You sure about this?"
Derek doesn’t want to go back, doesn’t want to be in Beacon Hills, see the land that should’ve been his family’s, see the pack that should’ve been his. "Yes," he says shortly and steps forward.
"Alright," Fáeluachail murmurs and follows his wolf into town.
…
The McCall pack has a treaty with American hunters, held by Allison Argent, matriarch of the Argent family (leaders of American hunters) and mate of Alpha McCall.
Fáeluachail doesn’t respect treaties, doesn’t care about them, doesn’t acknowledge them.
Seven year ago, Fáeluachail’s father was killed by a stray wolfsbane bullet and died before Stiles even knew he’d been wounded.
That bullet was fired by Bobby Henderson, son of Greg Henderson, ally and friend of Chris Argent.
At the time, Stiles didn’t know that. He does now.
The nemeton is acting up and Allison called in the troops to help deal with it. Something terrible is on the way. Something vicious. Lydia keeps dreaming of blood and pain, and Deaton’s been stocking up on all sorts of odd things.
Bobby Henderson is staying at Scott and Allison’s house, babysitting their daughter (Claudia Ann Argent-McCall), friendly and affable.
When Derek and Fáeluachail set foot on McCall pack land, Deaton, Lydia, and Yasmin (a hedgewitch) feel it.
“What do you think, Derek?” Fáeluachail asks.
Derek stretches his senses out. “Ten shifters,” he says. “Five of them wolves. Two humans, a hunter, a druid, a banshee, and a hedgewitch.”
“Anyone we know?” Fáeluachail leads the way to a diner he used to enjoy. Best milkshake in Beacon Hills.
“The alpha pair,” Derek says, baring his teeth. “Lydia, Deaton, Peter. I think - Jackson’s in town, and that hacker kid, but they’re more auxiliary than pack.”
“Danny?” Fáeluachail shakes his head. “I thought for sure he and Lydia would make it out of here.” He shrugs. “Oh, well.”
…
The emissary arrives just as Fáeluachail sets down two twenties for the check. “Stiles Stilinski?” he asks, shock clear on his face. “And Derek Hale?”
“Hey, doc,” Fáeluachail says nonchalantly. “Long time, no see. What’s new?”
“Stiles,” Deaton says. “Why have you come back?”
Fáeluachail smiles, showing his teeth, and says, “Why do you sound frightened, Emissary? I wonder - what have you heard?”
Deaton’s heartbeat stutters and Derek smiles, too.
Fuck, but he hates this town and everyone in it.
“Alpha McCall has invited you to his table for a meal in good faith,” Deaton says, nearly choking on the words. He clearly wants them nowhere near the pack. “There are hunters in town, at the alpha’s invitation.”
Neither Fáeluachail nor Derek react to that, except for Fáeluachail noisily finishing his milkshake. “I ask that you refrain from baiting the hunters,” Deaton says. “They are our allies.”
“Sure they are,” Fáeluachail says. “We’ll be there.” He slides out of the booth, forcing Deaton to back up. Derek follows, bracketing Deaton, but still doesn’t speak. “Has Scott heard the same things you have?” Fáeluachail asks, reaching out to straighten Deaton’s collar.
Deaton’s pulse leaps, but his face remains expressionless. “The alpha pair and I often have discussions about various rumors,” he says.
Fáeluachail pats his chest twice and says, “Good to know.” He turns and leaves without another word.
Derek follows, but Deaton calls his name. He glances back but while Deaton opens his mouth, he doesn’t say anything. Derek gives him one last smile before catching up to Fáeluachail.
...
Bobby Henderson doesn’t know he killed Sheriff Stilinski. That fight was so crowded, so furious - anyone could’ve shot that bullet. Anyone could’ve pulled that trigger.
But Fáeluachail has resources Stiles never did, and he’s without the morals Stiles had. (There used to be three voices in Stiles’ head, voices that counseled and cautioned him: Mama, Dad, and Scott. Mama died, and then Dad died, and Scott - Scott chose other people over Stiles. So now, there are no more voices in Stiles’ head, because Stiles is as dead as his parents.)
So Fáeluachail knows that Bobby Henderson was eighteen years old when his daddy dragged him to Beacon Hills to put down the pack that killed Gerard Argent, and his daughter, and his daughter-in-law. And Allison and Chris stepped in to stop the brewing war, but not soon enough to save the civilian that caught in the middle because of his little shit of a son, who had just turned seventeen.
“It’s not too late,” Deaton whispers when Fáeluachail and Derek step onto the Argent-McCall porch. It almost sounds like a prayer.
If it is prayer, no one’s listening. Fáeluachail meets Derek’s eyes and they both think, Of course it’s too late.
It was too late when Sheriff Stilinkski got out of his car, his final night. It was too late when Kate Argent set that fire.
It’s been too late for too long.
…
For the dinner, Fáeluachail pulls on a mask. He wears Stiles like his old plaid shirts, like that helpless little boy he used to be. Scott’s pack has five wolves including him, a raven, a cougar, an elk, a bear, and a skinshifter, Danny and his boyfriend Will, Deaton, Lydia, Yasmin, and, of course, Allison Argent. Scott and Allison’s daughter is with Scott’s mom tonight.
Peter spends most of the dinner baiting Stiles. Isaac avoids Derek’s gaze, Jackson rambles about lacrosse, and Zeke and Donna, like the other shifters, have no idea what’s going on.
Only Deaton, and maybe Peter and Lydia, realize that Fáeluachail is watching them all from Stiles’ eyes.
Three hunters share the table: Greg and Bobby Henderson and Emily Callow.
“So,” Scott says after dinner, pulling Stiles into his game room. “Stiles, where have you been? Why did you leave?”
Derek is ‘visiting’ with his uncle and the only remaining wolves he’d turned. The rest of Scott’s pack head out, except for Allison. She takes the hunters into her armory to discuss what might be coming.
“Cora called me a few years ago, out of the blue,” Peter says. “She mentioned an urban legend making the rounds south of the border - the hunter of hunters, she said.”
“And?” Derek asks.
Peter shrugs. Isaac and Jackson share a glance.
Fáeluachail stalks out of the game room, barely holding onto Stiles, and Derek doesn’t look back as they leave.
…
“I hate this town!” Fáeluachail shouts at the sky. They’re in the middle of the preserve, what was once Derek’s land. It belongs to Scott now, along with everything else.
“So let’s do what we came to do,” Derek says. “And then let’s get the fuck out.”
“Yeah,” Fáeluachail breathes.
…
Bobby Henderson doesn’t know he killed Stiles’ father. That doesn’t matter.
Greg Henderson has a lot of friends all over the lower 48. That matters even less.
Both of them are staying at the Argent-McCall house, and the McCall pack has spent seven years living in peace while Fáeluachail waged a bloody war across a continent.
It’s not a question of whether or not Bobby Henderson will die, or even when. It’s a question of how.
…
On the full moon, Scott and his pack run through the preserve. The hunters remain at the den, watching bad movies and shooting the breeze.
Fáeluachail gives Greg and Emily to Derek, but keeps Bobby for himself.
At dawn, when the pack returns, there isn’t even a trail to follow.
Fáeluachail and Derek are long gone.
…
“Where to?” Derek asks
Fáeluachail shrugs. “Let’s see where the wind takes us.”
The world is big and there’s always new hunts to find.