A/N:This is Part Three of the Watchtower series. I'm afraid it will make little sense unless you read "This is Not Our Fate" and "Shouting Back to the Night."

This story is beta'd by the great and powerful Chiomi! The title is from Fall Out Boy's "The Phoenix."

Warnings: violence, language, self-destructive behavior

One: Talisman

Stiles tried not to bleed on the trees. He wiped blood from his ear with his fingers and rubbed it on his pant leg absently. The leaves surrounding him shifted slightly with his movement, so Stiles swung himself down and around the tree limb he'd been perched on just before an arrow sailed past where his mouth had been moments before. Stiles resisted the urge to shout something sarcastic. He was supposed to be serious. He hit the ground and tucked into a roll that turned into a sprint. He'd had a throwing knife but already lost it. A can of mace rode at his hip for all the good it would do against an archer, and he was about as good at hiding as he was at shutting up.

Speaking of shutting up... "This isn't exactly a fair fight," he shouted. Screw being serious. Stiles couldn't defend himself if he was serious.

"That's kind of the point." She was above him. It sounded like she was moving east, so she would have changed direction as soon as she finished speaking. Stiles darted around a tree and began zigzagging through the dense brush, praying that she would miss him. Not that he could count on it.

When he found the tip of an arrow pointed at his face, Stiles was ready to leap aside. He sprayed his little can of mace as close to her face as he could get mid-jump, and she rolled her eyes before releasing an arrow at his gut. She drew another and set it against his nose lightly before pulling back.

"And you're dead. Again."

"Ease up, Allison. I have three months of training to your lifetime." Stiles coughed. "Also you almost actually killed me like five times." He scratched at the bulletproof-fucking-vest he'd stolen from the police station to help him survive Allison's cruel excuse for training.

"I knew you'd dodge." She smirked at him as she retrieved the arrow that would have been soaked in his intestinal fluids if Stiles didn't wear armor while she "hunted" him.

"Did not. You just don't like me anymore."

"I thought you were supposed to be some sort of big bad killer now." She'd pulled out her sarcasm voice. That meant Stiles was in trouble. Not the deadly kind of trouble and not the playful kind of trouble, but the Allison-was-on-to-him kind of trouble.

"No, no I'm a Joker; it's completely different." He neglected to mention that Joker was the name he got when he became a killer, or that maybe his gladiator-style captivity had been a little bit of training before the months he'd spent with Allison.

"No, no," she mimicked, "You're a faker. I've seen what you can do, and this isn't it."

"You gave me a knife and pepper spray and expected me to take out a trained hunter with a bow."

"No, I told you to beat a trained hunter with a bow. I get the feeling that if I'd actually told you to take me out, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

Stiles winced. "Come on, Allison, you know I wouldn't kill you."

"Unless you had to. But Stiles, life isn't built entirely of exceptional circumstances. You have to learn to fight under normal conditions, or you're going to wind up dead."

Stiles collapsed back against the earth and foliage and pretended Allison didn't exist.

"And if you're bad enough, you'll get Derek killed too." Her foot lifted off the ground for a moment, but she only spun on her heel and left. Allison knew Stiles well enough to realize she wouldn't need to kick him after that.

The trees swayed above him with a breeze Stiles had prayed for to mask his movements during training. Of course. The only thing to ever work to Stiles' advantage was murder, and he was supposed to be avoiding that sort of thing now. Mostly. Sort of. He had promised not to kill anyone not actively trying to kill him. Or his dad. Or Derek. Or Scott. Or anyone else in their dysfunctional pack. Everyone Stiles had ever killed still qualified, so his promises left a sour taste in his mouth.

Derek was on his way. They had practiced keeping space between their minds even more diligently than Stiles worked on martial arts and weapons training, but he always knew where Derek was, even if he tried not to know what he was thinking. Stiles studied the leaves as he waited. The breeze died out again, but the leaves still moved with what Stiles was sure Deaton would call either 'the pulse of nature' or 'nothing, Stiles, I'm a veterinarian.'

"Allison said you were getting mopey," Derek said as he walked the last few feet to kneel beside Stiles. 'Mopey' was their word for a depressive expression of instability, as opposed to violent or manic. Stiles hated when they called him mopey.

"Well, fuck Allison. She's a terrible teacher."

"She's a really good teacher, actually."

"Don't you dare take her side. She tried to kill you."

"I'm over it."

Stiles closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at Derek's face. It didn't help since he still felt Derek in his head. "Go away." It felt childish, especially after everything they'd been through, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to take it back. Even with training and strategizing and researching The Watchtower, Stiles' life had lost the constant adrenaline rush that kept him going. His brain was falling back into place, and not all the pieces fit anymore. Derek understood. Most days Derek was worse off than Stiles, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to accept Derek's comfort because he didn't know how anymore.

After a long silence, Derek said, "It's getting dark."

Stiles nodded and stood.

"She thinks I'm holding back," he admitted as they walked toward his Jeep.

"Aren't you?"

"It doesn't feel like I am. It just..." Stiles struggled. He knew what he meant. Derek knew what he meant, but Stiles still wanted to find a way to say it. Maybe letting it out from himself could help him solve it. "I didn't win because I was better or stronger. I mean, sometimes I was, but that wasn't what mattered. I won because they thought they understood me, and I used that against them."

"I know."

"I know you know."

"I know you know I know."

"I hate when you're chill and I'm freaking out. Stop it. And don't say anything witty." Stiles shoved his fists in his pockets.

"Yesterday I dropped an envelope bringing in the mail for your father and wound up gripping the doorknob so tightly I cracked it."

"I know."

"I know you know."

"Shut the fuck up, you piece of hot werewolf shit."

Derek smirked. "You're sending really mixed signals right now."

Stiles snarled. It wasn't as intimidating as when Derek snarled since, well, human versus werewolf, but the point wasn't to scare Derek. Stiles needed somewhere to vent his frustration, and a sound was less dangerous than, say, hunting rogue monsters on his own or downing a bottle of Jack Daniels, also on his own. He forced himself to breathe more slowly. Derek was trying to distract him. He knew (because Derek knew) that distracting Stiles was the easiest way to work past his mood swings.

"Did you replace the lock yet?" he asked.

"Yeah. We changed all the locks because..." Because Derek got a little obsessive when someone gave him a project, so he couldn't just stop after one lock. Stiles didn't make Derek say it. He understood.

"Did you bring me my key? Because I'd really like to get into my own house."

"No, I've claimed your house for my own. Only I can enter it."

"What about my dad?"

"Well, he's the sheriff. Gotta stay on his good side."

"But I'm his son. Wouldn't he want me there?"

"Not if I let him eat cheeseburgers."

"Fucking traitor." They had reached the Jeep by now, and Stiles leaned against it. Derek had driven out in his Camaro, so they would drive home separately even though the sheriff had let Derek move in after he realized it was the best way to keep Stiles nearby. Sometimes the way he looked at his son after Stiles and Derek had not-so-discreetly just had sex made Stiles think his father may not have thought it through fully.

Derek tossed him the key and had the nerve to chuckle when Stiles and his human reflexes fumbled it. "I'll see you at home," he said once Stiles had the key in his hand.

"I have to make a stop first."

"Where?"

"Deaton's."

"Is something wrong?"

"No." Stiles bit his lip. "No, I just have something I want to ask him about."

"Well, have him clean up your ear, too. Your dad will freak out if you come home bleeding again." With that Derek slid into his Camaro and pulled away like Stiles running mystery errands and asking mystery questions and bleeding constantly didn't bother him.

Stiles had forgotten the blood. "Yeah," he muttered to the empty space Derek had left. "I'll do that."

~.x.~

The sign said 'Closed,' but the door was unlocked. Either Deaton wasn't strict about his office hours, or he'd known Stiles was coming. Stiles wandered through the veterinary clinic until he found Deaton in his office filing paperwork. He ignored Stiles.

"So, uh, about that stuff you won't talk to me about," Stiles said, fidgeting in the doorway like he hadn't been through torture and murdered dozens of people with his bare hands. "I don't suppose you'd give me Ms. Morrell's number so I could ask her instead?" Marin Morrell had been Stiles' and Derek's primary therapist since she knew about the supernatural. She had also, apparently, been emissary to a pack that tried to recruit Scott and kill the rest of the werewolves in Beacon Hills while Haha, No held Stiles and Derek at one of Watchtower's facilities. He figured it was reasonable that she'd skipped town even if she told everyone she was holding the bad guys back. Deaton kept saying she was coming back, but Stiles got the feeling he didn't know when.

"Your father is waiting on you at home. He called a few minutes ago." Deaton spoke without looking at Stiles.

"She just mentioned something about a talisman is all, and I kind of wanted to follow up on it, you know?"

"Derek called too. There's a bandage and Neosporin by the sink in the restroom. You can clean up on your way out."

"I also sort of wanted to know how much it's going to hurt everyone when I try magic alone because no one is willing to teach me."

Deaton set down the files and stood. He looked Stiles in the eye. "I can't teach you, Stiles. I maintain balance, and that's not something I believe you're capable of anymore."

Stiles winced.

"I understand you have other concerns, but I do too. Maybe when this has passed, you'll be ready." He turned away and returned to his files.

"If I upset your balance, I assume you'll stop me," Stiles said. It was a challenge, but Deaton refused to look at Stiles again.

"Your father and Derek are waiting."

Stiles rubbed at the blood crusted on his ear where Allison had nicked him and stalked out of the clinic. He'd researched talismans and magic until he passed out at his desk every night for a week. Derek knew what he was doing but didn't say anything, so maybe they were getting better at pretending they were still separate after all. Research didn't help much when Stiles couldn't judge how much of the information he found was accurate. Stiles could write a thesis on talismans, but he had no idea how to make or use a real one.

He drove too fast and ran a few lights on the way home. The Jeep felt dull and weak, but Stiles didn't know what he was comparing it to. Derek would tell him he was just emotional, but Stiles thought Peter might understand. Sometimes Peter understood Stiles better than Derek did, and that scared him. Derek was in his head, but Peter had been too, once. Stiles gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and swerved around a little old lady in a sedan to go to Peter's apartment. His father and Derek could wait as long as they pleased because Stiles couldn't find what he wanted in their comfort.

Peter lived downtown in one of the larger cities near Beacon Hills. He never asked why when Stiles came to visit, though sometimes he looked happier to see him than others. Tonight Peter rolled his eyes and motioned for Stiles to enter.

"Derek already texted me. You'll have to drive faster next time." Peter waved his hand at the kitchen, which was as close as he got anymore to offering Stiles a drink. Stiles could help himself if he got thirsty.

"Do you know anything about magic?"

"Stiles, I'm a werewolf. You'll have to define 'magic' before I can begin to answer that because yes and also no."

"Talismans?"

"Very little."

"But more than nothing?" Stiles tried on a grin.

Peter rolled his eyes again. "They're just something to channel power through. Raw magic is the force of nature, and very few humans have the capacity, much less the training, to harness even an iota of it. A lot of magic involves activating the latent, dormant power already present in an object, much the way you create a barrier with mountain ash. Talismans are different. You assign power to a talisman, and it pulls through raw magic and feeds it into your purpose."

"Like a filter."

Peter grimaced at being interrupted. He loved his speeches. "Sure, like a filter, but I don't know how they're made."

"Not even a little?"

"No, not even a little."

"Ms. Morrell said I was using my expressions as a pseudo-talisman. Does that make any sense to you?"

Peter shrugged.

"Great, thanks." Stiles turned to go.

"Oh, and Derek says to wash your ear."

"Well, tell him Stiles says to fuck off."

Peter laughed as Stiles slammed the door too hard on his way out. Through the drive home, he became more and more agitated. He knew it was bleed-off from Derek, that Stiles was annoyed but not surprised, so his plans hadn't actually changed. Derek wasn't surprised either. He'd just used up his cool in the forest and couldn't hold himself back any longer. Stiles massaged his temple. Sharing his brain with Derek was exhausting. Derek thought the same of Stiles and smashed his fist against something as Stiles smashed his foot into the brakes because holy fuck that was a car oh shit oh shit don't hit it. The other guy blared his horn, flipped Stiles the finger, and drove off. So not too bad a screw up. Just a little slip. Nothing bad happened. No one got hurt.

Stiles pulled over and put the Jeep in park just in time to realize he couldn't breathe. No one died this time. He was fine. His mouth worked as he struggled to pull air into his lungs, but only a thin wheeze of breath made it through. Haha, No was dead. He couldn't take Stiles again. He couldn't make Stiles hurt anyone again. His breath came rapid-fire. The lights of passing cars blurred with the darkness of his own. His forehead beat against the wheel. Stiles pulled back only to hunch forward again because he couldn't breathe.

He stopped breathing altogether. Haha, No was dead. Stiles killed him. Stiles would kill anyone who hurt him, and no one could stop him. He held his breath. Cars drove by. Stiles wondered why reminding himself he was a killer was supposed to calm him down, but then he took a long, deep breath and the world made sense again. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and just breathed. Derek hunched over the carpet of their bedroom with his forehead, shins, and clawed hands against the floor.

"Goddamnit," Stiles muttered. The whole point of distancing their minds had been to keep this from happening. They couldn't watch each others' backs if they always broke down together.

After a few more breaths, Stiles put the Jeep into gear and drove home. He found Derek and his father sitting together in the living room waiting for him. Derek held his arms out, and Stiles melted into them.

He saw me, Derek thought. He watched me have your panic attack.

Stiles eyed his father and hunched against Derek's chest. His father watched. Stiles thought he should have been tense or angry, gripping at the chair arm and shouting at Stiles to sever his bond to Derek like he'd tried to sever their codependency. He only looked worn.

He knows, Stiles. What do we do?

I don't know. This wasn't a problem he could solve by lying or killing, so it wasn't one Stiles understood. Maybe he would have once. He knew he must have, but the idea of facing down the Watchtower and their custom-made shapeshifters frightened Stiles less than lifting his gaze to meet his father's and telling him exactly how screwed up he and Derek were.

"Stiles," his dad said, and his voice was as worn as the angle of his shoulders. "Please tell me how I can help."

Stiles gripped Derek's shirt in his fists and finally looked his father in the eyes. "I don't think you can."

When his father's eyes closed slowly, Stiles realized that had been the answer his father expected of him. When his father let out a long, uneven breath that left his shoulders even more stooped than before, Stiles realized it wasn't the one he should have given. He clenched the cotton of Derek's shirt in his fist and watched his father cry.

~.x.~

Stiles winced just looking at the chair. This probably wouldn't even work. He should go home and make a new plan, a better plan, a plan that could be salvaged if it failed, maybe a plan that involved letting his father help him like he'd offered. Whether this worked or not, Stiles would be stuck with it for the rest of his life. That might not be so long a time if he couldn't find a new way to fight back. Stiles gripped his hands into fists so tight that his stubby fingernails dug into the skin of his palms. It wasn't too late to go home and face the sad eyes his father had given him ever since he found Derek sharing Stiles' panic attack. He sat down in the chair. It reminded him of sitting in Haha, No's torture chair.

"I, uh, might pass out," he warned. "I don't really like needles."

"You don't like needles, and you're having me tattoo your face?" The tattoo artist raised a pierced eyebrow.

"I don't like tattoos either. How 'bout that." When the artist hesitated, Stiles plunged on. "But I'm getting one. Right now. On my face, just like I said. I'll get marked, you'll get money, and we'll both go on our ways."

"Whatever, dude. It's your face. Lean back."

Stiles didn't pass out, not even with the needle coming almost directly at his delicate, defenseless eyeball. Maybe he'd spent too much time with Haha, No for that, or maybe it helped knowing that Stiles had chosen this. It hurt, but not as much as he'd feared. He focused less on the pain and artist and more on his intent. He focused on talismans and magic and the way people looked at his face and stopped in their tracks. He focused on how he used his grin and laugh to win when he should have died. Stiles thought as hard as he could about this mark being his new Joker grin.

With his thoughts so focused, he couldn't hide them from Derek. Derek knew where Stiles was and what he was doing but didn't burst through the door to stop him. Stiles doubted his father would be so accepting, but his father didn't have a telepathic bond with Stiles to give this plan away before it was complete.

Stiles hoped this worked.

When it was done, the artist let Stiles study his new tattoo in a mirror before bandaging it and reminding him to care for his skin since he didn't want an infection on his face. It sat on his cheekbone at the outer corner of his left eye. Stiles had chosen a spade, following a card theme set by his nickname. The tattoo artist had given the small spade character, exaggerating its arches just enough that it looked like art instead of a direct imprint from the corner of a playing card. The spade wasn't large, but Stiles wouldn't be able to hide it or pass it off as anything but a tattoo. He wondered briefly what the school would do if he went back, but Stiles wasn't sure he cared to finish school, even if he could stay in town long enough to make it to classes. He winced imagining what his father would do.

"It looks good," he said instead.

"I can tell you're lying."

"I was trying to be polite since it's what I asked for."

"Just don't expect a discount for not liking it." After a beat the artist added, "I hope it grows on you anyway."

Stiles paid and left, wondering if his dad would yell or collapse on the couch when he saw the tattoo. It made Stiles feel guilty. When he pressed against the bandage, the skin underneath was tender. Stiles wondered how long he should wait before trying it out.

Stiles wandered away from the tattoo shop on foot. He couldn't go home yet, not until he'd steeled himself to face his father. Maybe he could have warned him, but Stiles thought if anyone knew, they would have stopped him because they always thought they knew better than he did, especially his father. He'd backed off since letting Derek move in, but Stiles thought he owed the space more to exhaustion than respect.

More paint had peeled off the park bench where he and Derek had first reunited. Stiles sat down and picked at it absently. He hadn't been here since then, hadn't thought about it. Stiles and Derek didn't see therapists anymore. The only one they could really talk to had skipped town, and the rest weren't worth the money Stiles' father had been paying them. Maybe they would have been if they had all the information, but the most useful advice they could give was to see a therapist cleared for the "classified police information" Stiles' father had used to explain away their secrets. Stiles thought he wouldn't want to hear what Morrell had to say about him and Derek anyway. He leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes.

When Stiles got home, his father noticed the bandage immediately. Derek widened his eyes to say he wouldn't help Stiles out with this one and left the room. Stiles ground his teeth. Just because it had been three months didn't mean they were safe. He had to find ways to defend himself and his loved ones, and if a little mark on his cheek was the price, he considered it light to the point of weightlessness.

"What happened?"

Stiles winced at his father's concern. "I, uh..." He reached up and ripped the bandage away rather than explain.

His father didn't yell. He didn't even look angry. He stared at it silently for nearly half a minute, then turned and walked away without a word. Stiles swallowed the defenses he'd prepared, but they went down chalky and bitter. Glass clinked in the kitchen as Stiles' father poured himself a shot. Stiles waited long enough to hear the glass two more times before he charged to the bathroom to wash his tattoo. He'd been prepared to cover it with a generic ointment afterward but found one designed specifically for tattoos waiting for him on the counter with a grumpy face drawn on it in sharpie. Derek's passive aggression was adorable.

The bathroom mirror offered Stiles a more complete view than the handheld mirror he'd used before. He'd made his decision prepared to sacrifice his face in a way, to mar it with a permanent sort of grin instead of the temporary one he flashed. To be honest, he'd thought of the tattoo almost as a less extreme version of the scars Haha, No had tried to give him around his mouth before Cat stopped him.

That wasn't what he got.

The mark was small but not delicate. It had presence in its sharp form but grace in its curves. The stark black ink stood out from his pale skin even more than any of his moles, but it somehow didn't look out of place. Stiles turned his head a little to catch it at an angle. Maybe tattoos weren't so bad. His face certainly didn't look normal, but it did look, well, hot. He traced the skin below the tattoo rather than pressing on it directly.

"Stop admiring yourself and go apologize to your father before I start fixing that peeling section of tile by the back door because I will."

Stiles yelped. He hadn't been paying attention, and now Derek stood directly behind him. Stiles' mouth worked, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

"Yeah, it's a first, I get it. Now go."

Stiles grumbled, but he dropped it. Derek worried about Stiles' father more than Stiles did. Guilt welled in his chest and propelled Stiles toward where he'd left his father in the kitchen. He found him staring at a glass, swirling amber liquid in it. Stiles opened his mouth again without finding any words. He flinched, and the movement pulled at the sensitive skin of his new tattoo.

"Did you know," his father began with only a slight slur to his speech, "when you pulled that bandage off, I couldn't have moved if I wanted to for a full eight seconds. I couldn't even remember to be angry you'd gotten a tattoo on your face without asking me first because I couldn't do anything at all."

"That's what it's designed to do," Stiles said. "I think."

"You think."

"Well, I know, but I don't know if it actually worked or if you just..."

"You'll have to ask your friends when you show it to them." He downed his drink and poured another.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

"It's fine. You can go do whatever it is you do now."

"No, Dad, I really—"

"Stiles," his father cut him off, and Stiles choked back another explanation. "I don't know if I can look at you now. Go away."

Stiles backed away from the kitchen until he stumbled and changed the motion into a turn so he could flee to his room. Derek waited for him there, already in bed feigning sleep. Stiles undressed with his hands shaking and climbed into bed pretending to believe Derek was asleep. Derek pretended not to notice Stiles was crying.

~.x.~

Allison and Lydia froze when they entered Stiles' room. Stiles winced as they recovered. He'd only had the tattoo a matter of days, but he'd already gotten enough dirty looks from his friends to last a lifetime. Allison glared directly at his tattoo like looking at it longer would make her immune to its effects. Lydia chuckled nervously to herself.

"I keep forgetting," she said. "Well, not forgetting, but just..." She shook her head and sat next to Stiles, carefully looking out at the group and not at him.

Stiles winced. "Sorry, guys. I'll figure out how to turn it off eventually. Or wear a bandage after it's healed, but right now it needs air."

Everyone reacted the same way. As soon as they saw the little spade below Stiles' eye, they froze completely for several seconds, mentally and physically. His father refused to be in the same room as Stiles. Derek, thankfully, was immune. Stiles thought it related to the bond somehow. Less fortunately, it worked on literally everyone else who looked at the tattoo, so Stiles couldn't go out in public just now. He wondered how many people he'd startled without realizing it after getting the mark and if the artist who gave it to him was immune for having created it.

"No," Derek said. "You have to learn to control it. Sometimes you'll need it in the middle of a fight instead of the beginning."

Stiles nodded. Derek made it clear to Stiles that he didn't approve, but otherwise he'd been nothing but supportive. Sometimes Derek made Stiles feel like a shitty person.

Scott arrived last. He froze exactly like the others, but his eyes flashed red as he came out of it. Sometimes Stiles forgot how much his friends dealt with mostly without his help during all the time he'd spent either wounded or kidnapped or both. Scott's eyes, proof of his status as a true alpha, always reminded Stiles how much he'd missed. The pack had been leaderless with Derek gone. Or, not leaderless so much as alpha-less. Somehow, Stiles kept forgetting anything outside of Haha, No's schemes were real .

No, it was more that Stiles didn't feel real.

The pack had changed, but Stiles hadn't changed with them. He'd followed some nearby but divergent path that intersected with theirs without fully melding into it. Derek set a hand on Stiles' shoulder to ground him.

Scott took the seat they'd left for him. In a way, he'd always been alpha of this pack, even when Derek thought he was in charge. Now Scott was alpha in truth, but less of a dictator than Derek had tried to be. Even though they were both alphas, Derek agreed to leave leadership to Scott almost immediately. He and Stiles already had too much to deal with.

"Okay, Derek," Scott said. "What's up?"

"Cat wants to join our pack," Derek said. He wasn't much good with preambles.

"Wait, is this werewolf stuff? Because last I checked, I'm not a wolf." Lydia arched an eyebrow.

"I think the wolf stuff still affects you though," Stiles pointed out. He didn't understand why Derek wanted everyone here or why Cat hadn't come herself. It would be as easy as leaning against Derek to slip into his thoughts to find out, but Stiles resisted.

"Why didn't she ask me herself?" Scott asked.

"She's one of The Watchtower's targets and doesn't want to risk drawing their focus here without permission, especially since they haven't moved in on us yet."

"Why didn't she stay with us before?"

"She was afraid, so she ran. Now she thinks we may be her best hope," Derek said. There was something more. Stiles didn't pry for what.

"Best hope for what?"

Derek leaned forward. "For surviving."

"And why did you want to ask me with an audience?"

Derek leaned back.

Allison answered for him, "Like Stiles said, this affects us too."

Scott nodded. "I don't want to turn anyone away who needs my help, and especially not someone who has helped us already." Most of the others nodded. Peter rolled his eyes. Scott studied the room briefly before turning back to Derek. "She's welcome with us." His eyes flashed again as they passed over Stiles' tattoo. He blinked the glow away and left. Stiles wanted to scratch at his face.

"Was that really all you wanted us here for?" Lydia made it clear Derek had just wasted her time.

"No," he said, with a glance at Stiles. The others followed his gaze, and each flinched. "I also wanted to see how long it takes to reset."

Lydia stormed out with Allison on her heels. Isaac looked like he wanted to say something, but he bit his tongue, shook his head, and followed the girls out. No one wanted to stay in a room with Stiles' tattoo long, so he quickly found himself alone with Derek.

"That was kind of a dick move," Stiles pointed out.

"I'm not the one with the disarming face."

"Oh, I'd say you're disarmingly handsome."

"Nope."

"What? Why nope?" When Derek ignored him, Stiles poked his arm. "Hey, why nope?"

"We're in the middle of fighting. You can't just flirt with me and expect it to go away."

"How long have we been fighting?"

"I don't really know."

Stiles chewed at his lip. "Can we make up?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

Derek shook his head, and Stiles resisted the urge to pull the answer from his head. Instead, he left the room. If they had to be fighting, he might as well act like it. When he passed by the office, he saw his father at his desk with a hand blocking his line of sight to the door. He must have heard Stiles coming. Stiles' eye twitched above the tattoo, and his hands shook as he fumbled his way from the house. A neighbor glanced Stiles' way to say hello and froze. Stiles swallowed something bitter and climbed into his Jeep.

~.x.~

It had been three days since Stiles left home. No one had come looking for him. He laughed into the empty wood because no one could stand the sight of him. Literally. This was exactly what he wanted. He reached a hand toward the tattoo. He'd sneaked into public restrooms to clean it, but he didn't think he was supposed to be living in the woods with a healing tattoo. It was supposed to take weeks to get better, but it was already almost healed. That was the bond, Stiles thought. He'd never had time to notice how quickly he recovered from his injuries because there had always been so much going on, even all the way back to the night they killed Peter. Stiles was hyper-aware of the tattoo though, desperate for it to heal perfectly to keep its power even though everyone hated him for its effect on them.

Stiles studied the moss on the tree above his head and tried to remember which side moss grew on. Was it north? He thought it might be north. He glanced over and noted the moss wrapping entirely around the trunk of the tree beside the one he stretched on the ground beneath. He clenched his jaw. Excessive moss was how they spotted ambushes outside of Haha, No's training facility. Stiles rolled and scrambled to his feet to bolt the other direction. Someone tackled him from behind. Stiles groaned because he couldn't bring himself to be surprised. He wondered if they'd seen his face already.

"How did you find us?" It was a male voice, stern but smooth. He shoved Stiles' face against the ground to growl in his ear.

"Well, I mean, there's only so much forest out here." Stiles reached his mind toward Derek to let him know he was in trouble, probably nothing Stiles couldn't handle, but better safe than sorry. Instead of Derek, Stiles ran into something like a wall. He felt the panic start and shoved it down. There would be time to worry later. For now, Stiles needed to find a way to take out the man on his back and whoever had accompanied him.

"When are you due to report in?"

Stiles laughed. He didn't know yet if this was a human or a werewolf, just that he was physically strong enough to hold Stiles down. If he was a wolf, or had a wolf partner nearby, he would be able to hear Stiles' lies, but Stiles couldn't admit no one was expecting him any time soon.

The man above Stiles tensed at the sound of his laughter. "You can't scare me with your little tricks, Joker." He'd used the name. That was always a bad sign.

"Then what can I scare you with?"

"Answer the question."

"I don't think I'm scared of you either, to be honest," Stiles said.

"I don't know what he's done to make you work for him, but I know you can't possibly be loyal to him."

"Now I'm confused."

The man growled in Stiles' ear, and the vibration ran through his body. Definitely a werewolf. "Give up Sorokin or give up your ear. It's your choice, Joker." He pressed cold steel against Stiles' ear.

"Who the fuck is Sorokin?"

"Dimitri Sorokin, the scientist, the one you helped escape from the training facility where he developed the Rook Project."

"Okay, parts of that make sense, except that I killed that fucker." Peter had told them Haha, No's name was Dimitri, but Stiles had more taken the scientist captive than helped him escape. He'd been under the impression that Haha, No was both in charge of that facility and charging eagerly ahead with his twisted experiments.

The man over Stiles grunted but pulled the knife away from his ear. "I can tell you think you're telling the truth, but our intel clearly doesn't line up."

"You think?"

"You're not working for Sorokin or the Watchtower?"

"Of fucking course not."

"My partner is a sniper with a rifle aimed at you and twelve years of experience that says she's not going to miss, so when I let you go, don't run again."

Stiles sighed and rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Then man pulled his weight off of Stiles' back, and Stiles rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. His maybe-captor had dark skin and hair except for the tips, which he'd bleached and dyed red. Tattoos covered the visible skin on his arms and neck, but Stiles doubted they were magic like his lonely little spade. The man's clothes looked more like light armor than anything else, and he wore several knives and a handgun at his belt.

"It looks like we might not be enemies," the man began, "but I want to make it clear that this is an interrogation. I'm sorry, Joker, but I need to know what you know." Stiles wanted to roll his eyes again; the man seemed startlingly sincere. "You can call me Rider."

"What do you ride?"

"Nothing. That's my name."

This time Stiles did roll his eyes. "I didn't realize we were friends enough to share actual names."

"You were captured for the gladiator facility, correct? Along with Derek Hale?"

Stiles nodded stiffly. He hadn't realized Rider knew their real names. Did he know Stiles' name too?

"I need you to answer me aloud." Rider probably meant to accustom himself to the sound of Stiles' truths, like the pre-test set up for a polygraph.

"Yes, Derek and I were taken to the arena."

"Your pack was the group that stormed it?"

"Yeah, but someone else burned it."

"Standard procedure to eliminate evidence on a compromised base," Rider explained. "You were more recently at the training camp where Sorokin went missing from?"

"Also yes." Stiles wondered how long Rider would keep asking questions he clearly knew the answers to. Stiles wasn't ready to share actual secrets with the guy.

"Why did you take him if not to help him get out?"

"Hostage. We didn't realize he was a prisoner as well."

Rider looked confused. "You didn't notice the scars?" Haha, No had kept his scars hidden until Peter forced him to show them off. Even then, Stiles got the feeling he'd aligned himself with the Watchtower because they bribed him with a cure for the kanima scales creeping alongside the scars, not because he couldn't leave.

"Not at first, no."

"And you still killed him after?"

"Well, you see, I had reason to hate his fucking guts."

Rider sighed. "Are you sure you killed him?"

"I rammed a knife into his throat several times. It wasn't clean or pretty, but I'd call it effective. Why do you think he's alive?"

"We were in contact with Sorokin. He acted as our mole within the Watchtower, and in return we would eventually get him out. For a while, we believed he was dead, but last week we received a communication with his identification code."

"Last week?"

"Only Sorokin and myself knew that code. We set a mental block on him to prevent him from ever revealing it to another person, so only Sorokin himself could have sent that message."

There was one other person who could know it because he learned all of Haha, No's secrets after Stiles ordered them to bond. Peter Hale. Stiles mouth went dry. "What did it say?" Stiles liked Peter and thought they might even be friends, but he didn't trust Peter. He would have his own agenda, and Stiles wasn't sure how much the pack's wellbeing factored into Peter's plans, if at all.

Rider hesitated, clearly unsure whether he should share with Stiles. "Just two words: 'Project Remix.'"

"Okay, yeah, that clears up all of nothing."

"It doesn't match up to any known Watchtower operation. We think it's what he started based on studying you."

"I thought he was failing."

"You're special, Joker, but not that special. Sorokin figured you out."

"You said you think it's based on me."

"Well, my source hasn't answered back, hence my visit to your exciting little town."

"Why the hell would he stay here even if I hadn't killed him?"

"Because you either saved him or took him captive. Stop pretending to be dense."

"Who exactly are you to be asking me this again?"

"Rider."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. They both knew that wasn't what he meant.

"You don't think something like The Watchtower could exist without making enemies, do you?" Rider asked.

"How powerful an enemy would you say you are?"

Rider smiled softly. "Let's not force you to find out."

"Whatever. I still say I killed him, so you can skip town and look for your dead guy elsewhere."

"At least hear my pitch before you try to kick me out."

"I'm not working for you." Stiles gritted his teeth.

"Sorokin's research was about strengthening and manipulating the bond, but ours is on tempering and balancing it. We know what he did to you and Derek, and we can help you control it. I'm sure you noticed when we blocked you from him. When was the last time you were able to be only yourself, Stiles?" So he did know Stiles' name. What was the point of a codename if it didn't protect his secret identity?

Stiles stood. "I'm going to leave now, and you're never going to speak to me again."

"You want to take them out as much as we do. You think we haven't noticed the hunter movement through Beacon Hills? We could use allies like that. Together we might actually be able to take The Watchtower out instead of just inconveniencing them every once in a while."

"I'm not working with the hunters." Stiles said it slowly and clearly so Rider would know it was true. "I don't care about your war, and I don't want your 'help.' So get the fuck out of my town before I cripple your little army by killing you." He grinned, and Rider froze as if stunned. Stiles turned and walked calmly until he thought the trees had obscured the line of fire between him and Rider's sniper. Then he ran as fast as he could to where he'd left the Jeep and drove home. The wall between him and Derek fell, and Stiles felt Derek's relief echo his own.

Shit went down, Stiles told him. I'll explain when I get there.

~.x.~

"So you disappear into the woods for a few days and accidentally learn to control your magic tattoo by doing absolutely nothing and also meet someone who just happens to know everything about the guy who kidnapped you?" Allison's tone caught somewhere between confusion and sarcasm. She kept her face straight as she leaned against the cement-and-brick wall of Deaton's clinic. Beside her, Isaac raised the sassy eyebrow Allison held back.

"I think the tattoo just needed time to heal," Stiles muttered. No one had freaked out over his face unless he wanted them to since he returned, though it would take some practice to separate when he wanted them to and when he wanted them to but probably shouldn't be stunning them.

"Stiles, tattoos take several weeks to heal. Yours has had less than one," Lydia said.

"I, um, magical werewolf bond healing powers activate?"

Derek grunted, but Stiles heard it as a laugh. Everyone else kept glaring at him.

"What about Rider?" Scott asked. He was in the chair while the others, even Deaton, stood. Stiles wondered if Scott had planned it as a display of power before he remembered that Scott would never think of that. Someone else had left the chair for him, probably Deaton himself. Stiles sent Deaton a smirk and got only a steady, emotionless stare in return. "Stiles, this is serious," Scott added when Stiles didn't respond.

"I think Peter contacted them," Stiles said. The others shared their significant glances. None of them liked or trusted Peter, and Scott had argued against it when Stiles invited Peter to the little get-together at Deaton's. Not that Peter was likely to show, and if he did, he would do his best to listen in without being noticed.

Scott asked, "How? And how did Peter even know they existed? You said Rider was asking about the scientist, but you didn't mention Peter at all. Why?"

"Well, I told you what Rider said, and Rider didn't say anything about Peter."

"Stiles, why didn't you tell us?" Scott's eyes flashed.

Stiles flashed his grin and kept it frozen on his face while the tattoo's stunning effect wore off of Scott. "I did tell you," he said. "Just now. I didn't say it sooner because I was waiting for Peter. At this point he's either not coming or hidden somewhere listening to us. And before you ask, I waited for Peter because he is my friend and deserved at least that little consideration."

Lydia said, "I don't know what lies Peter's told you to convin—"

"No," Stiles cut her off but didn't use his talisman against her. "I know he's kind of evil, but he used to be a part of my soul."

Lydia glowered at him but skipped the 'remember what he did to me' speech even though Stiles deserved it.

"We're your friends, too," Scott said. The betrayal in his eyes made Stiles feel guilty, just like having Derek tell him to be decent to his father did.

Stiles sighed. "And you'll note that I am telling you that I suspect my other, somewhat more evil friend of drawing a new mysterious group's attention to us."

"Do you think he really wants an alliance to take out the Watchtower?" Allison asked.

"Yeah, but I don't know how morally outstanding Rider and his friends are or how they treat their allies when the enemies are down, assuming you could take the enemy down. All I know is he plans to tell Haha, No that they don't get to stop being friends, which strikes me as a little iffy to be honest."

Lydia said, "If he wants an alliance with the hunters, shouldn't we let them decide if he's worth the risk or not?"

"Except hunters have a habit of killing werewolves regardless of alliances," Derek said.

"I don't see how that hurts us," Lydia replied, eyebrows raised. "I don't have any stake in Rider and his friends making it past this, and it might be the answer to Rider's possibly inevitable betrayal anyway."

Derek shrugged.

"Should I tell my dad?" Allison asked. When she told him about the Watchtower, Chris Argent organized the hunter army circulating through Beacon Hills, but he'd also sworn her to secrecy. The Argents had a unique relationship with the local pack. Most hunters wanted nothing to do with werewolves unless it was killing them.

Scott stood. "We already handed the war off to the hunters when we decided to tell them about the Watchtower in the first place. If there's something, or someone, they could use to win, then we shouldn't keep it from them. Tell your dad. If they want to meet with Rider, I'm sure Stiles or Peter could find a way to arrange a meeting." The way he said Stiles' name with the same dark undertone he used for Peter's made Stiles flinch. He'd need more than a few days and a Call of Duty match to get Scott to forgive him this time.

Scott left without another word, and Isaac, who hadn't said a word to begin with that Stiles could remember, followed him out after a too-long glance at Allison. When Stiles turned to go, Derek took hold of his arm and leveled a flat stare at the girls. Lydia eventually rolled her eyes and strutted from the room with Allison in tow.

Deaton spoke into the silence Stiles left him, "The ancient Celts would paint their faces with woad before going to battle. It intimidated their enemies, weakening their resolve. In some cases, the Celts' woad was so strong they didn't see the need for armor because they were already protected by their opponents' fear."

Stiles let Deaton's comments hang over them, waiting until he got to the point rather than rising to the bait.

"I admit," Deaton said at last, "I thought you were bluffing. When Derek warned me that you weren't, I still thought you would fail."

"Are you here to stop me now?" Stiles clenched his teeth. He had no doubt that Deaton could guard himself against the talisman somehow.

"No. You haven't upset the balance, so I don't have to stop you. Yet."

Beside Stiles, Derek's eyes flashed red. "You said you wouldn't hurt him."

"And I won't, but Stiles might hurt himself. I'm sure you know what a sacrifice is." He meant ritual sacrifice. Along with a pack of alphas, Stiles' friends had face a darach, a dark druid, without him. The darach had sacrificed innocent people to make herself strong enough to kill the alpha pack, but that power made her strong enough to face the Beacon Hills pack, too. If Stiles' dad hadn't learned about werewolves after Stiles was taken, they might never have stopped the darach at all. Deaton continued, "The sacrifice is a transaction; you give something up and gain something else. Not all sacrifices have to be fatal. The tattoo is a wound, a minor form of sacrifice, but power can be a slippery slope, Stiles. At what point will the sacrifice be too much?"

"I guess that depends on what I expect to gain from it," Stiles said.

"I guess so," Deaton agreed. He motioned for Stiles and Derek to leave.

~.x.~

Cat looked different clean. When they first met in the Freezer, she'd been washed, but otherwise Stiles always saw her covered in dirt or blood or both. Her hair was still wild and curly, but it smelled like flowery shampoo, and the shirt and jeans she'd borrowed from Lydia were clean even if they didn't quite fit. She kept tugging at the hem of the shirt. Stiles had never seen her nervous before.

"It's okay," Scott assured her. They had gathered at Scott's to welcome her to the pack, not to interrogate or test her.

She nodded, but her eyes kept darting to Allison with exactly the sort of panic a scared werewolf might eye a hunter.

"She's pack, too," Scott said, and Stiles wondered if Allison was still bound to him even though they'd broken up. She and Isaac kept giving each other looks that they probably thought were subtle, but did that mean her bond had shifted to him or that Scott was going to feel it when they finally got to making out even though he wouldn't be part of it? Then again, Scott and Allison had a passive bond, not an active one like Stiles and Derek's, so maybe Scott wouldn't feel anything at all. Maybe the bond stayed until they stopped caring about each other, a moment Stiles was sure would never come.

Cat nodded, looking around the room at the others. Eventually, she settled her gaze on Stiles. "What did you do to your face, anyway?"

Derek snorted, so Stiles punched his arm.

"It's a magic tattoo," Stiles says. "It does magic."

"I forgot how sociable and well-spoken you were."

"It's a stunning talisman. It makes people not move for a few seconds."

Cat smiled, which wouldn't have been strange except that it looked like a real smile. Her eyes lit up, and it made her look closer to Derek's age even though Stiles had assumed she was nearer thirty.

"Do you have somewhere to live?" Scott asked like Stiles' tattoo had never come up. Most of the pack had taken to ignoring it by this point.

Cat shrugged. "I'm not picky."

Scott winced. "Are you saying the way Derek squats in any abandoned structure he can find is normal for werewolves?"

"Hey," Derek muttered.

"No, I'm saying I'm personally used to being homeless and on the run," Cat said.

"I'm staying in a house right now," Derek continued. "We have running water and family dinners." Well, we used to have family dinners, Derek added for Stiles, until my boyfriend alienated his father so they can't be in the same room together anymore. It ruined the joke of Derek's public comment, and Stiles choked on what would have been laughter.

Is that why we're fighting?

We're fighting for a lot of reasons.

You know that TV plotline where the girl is emotionally competent and complex and all this stuff is going on that the boy doesn't understand because he's dumb and always wrong? I feel like the boy right now.

Derek rolled his eyes. Scott and Cat were talking about something.

Come on, Derek. If you tell me what I did wrong, I can try to make it right.

No you can't.

Why?

Because he broke you too well.

Stiles scowled and wished his talisman worked on Derek. I'm not broken. Not more than Derek was, anyway.

If you're not broken, then why don't you mind that you're fighting with everyone you know? Why am I the only one you want to make things right with?

I'm not—

Derek strangled the thought before Stiles could finish it. All of Stiles' friends were angry at him, except maybe Peter because he wasn't invested enough to mind Stiles lashing out at him. Even Scott could barely be civil around Stiles, and they had been best friends for years. The excuses came to mind next. Stiles had been tortured. He hadn't chosen to be who he was now, but that didn't mean he could change what happened. His friends should be more understanding. It wasn't the job of the victim to make things right. It wasn't Stiles' fault Haha, No ruined him.

You're friends now, aren't you? Stiles asked because while Stiles kept breaking things, Derek had started fixing them.

They're worried about you.

Stiles wondered if this was how Derek used to feel. Stiles used to be everyone's friend while Derek pushed them all away. Now they'd switched places, and Stiles hadn't even noticed.

Are you saying we're going to be fighting until I make up with all of them? Stiles asked.

No, we're going to be fighting until you stop wanting to.

You spend a lot more time in my head than I spend in yours, don't you?

It's harder for me to pull back than it is for you.

Before Stiles could get defensive, Derek pulled him in and showed how hard they both worked to separate their minds. It was harder for Derek. Stiles couldn't argue against feeling both of their efforts and knowing that Derek worked harder and failed more. It was why Derek had Stiles' panic attacks instead of the other way around.

That's why you've been acting so weird, Stiles realized. Because you've been acting for me. Protecting Stiles' dad, keeping in touch with Stiles' friends, and even forcing a fight when Stiles tried to act like everything was alright had all been things Stiles lied to himself about, so Derek took care of them for him. Why does it feel like the more time passes, the more I'm the one who won't get better?

Stiles, I don't have my own life. I'm living yours. It feels like you're the one not getting better because you're a selfish asshole who can't be bothered to have empathy for someone whose emotions you literally feel as your own.

Stiles winced. He didn't have to admit defeat because Derek could feel it, but Stiles didn't deserve the easy way out of this. Sorry. Derek raised an eyebrow. He wanted Stiles to say the rest. I've been a selfish asshole and ignored you and your feelings and everything you're doing for me and that you need me to do them for you too.

"If you two are done staring soulfully into each others' eyes, we've got company," Scott said.

A wall slammed down between Stiles and Derek as the door burst inward. Rider stalked through the doorway scowling, eyes glowing blue, claws and fangs ready. Derek, Scott, and Cat answered his threat with growls and typical werewolf posturing. Stiles winked at Rider and activated his tattoo. As Rider froze, Stiles dropped to the ground. Rider's partner had seen Stiles' trick before, and he didn't expect to catch her off-guard and escape this time. A dart flew over Stiles and bounced harmlessly off the wall as Stiles rolled. He adjusted his direction to escape her line of sight now that her shot gave her position away.

A dart meant they wanted to incapacitate Stiles without killing him. Maybe they even intended to ignore the lesson the entire world should have learned from Haha, No's mistakes and kidnap Stiles. Stiles crouched in the corner away from the windows. Cat had taken Rider hostage against the sniper exactly as she'd once taken Haha, No hostage against his soldiers. Scott had calmed himself, though his eyes continued to glow red, and seemed to be waiting for Rider to recover from Stiles' attack. Derek shoved himself into the corner with Stiles and checked him mentally for wounds.

"We found Sorokin's grave," Rider said. "Who was it?"

"Well, I killed him, so do you mean who helped clean up?"

"WHO BONDED HIM?" Rider screamed, eyes wide with... terror.

"One, calm down, dude, geeze. The shithead's dead," Stiles said. "Two, if you're worried about your secrets getting out, I think I'd have them by now if I was getting them. Three, what the ever-living fuck made you think you could come in here and make demands of me?"

Rider gritted his teeth and visibly took control of himself. "You don't get it, do you? All your supposed insight into Sorokin's plans, and you don't even realize what you've done."

"Wow, cryptic non-answers, just what I always wanted."

"We found his grave, Joker, and it was empty. You might have killed him, but Dimitri Sorokin didn't stay dead."

Derek screamed. Stiles couldn't tell if it was out loud or just in his head. This must be what his tattoo made people feel. No wonder they hated him. Stiles came to himself on his knees, staring at his own hands where they clenched into trembling fists. He had killed Haha, No. He was supposed to be safe now, but Stiles would never be safe again. He had forced Peter to bond Haha, No because the bond would become what he needed and give Peter information to keep them all alive and free. Haha, No had bonded Peter knowing he was going to be killed, and the bond became what he needed too. Stiles retched over the hardwood flooring his fists couldn't grip. Haha, No was alive.