Chapter 1

Stiles was late for a very important date. He'd already missed his meetings for the last two months, and he didn't want to cash in on the "three strikes" policy. For the third time. If he kept this up, there would be questions. Questions that would require answers. Answers that Stiles was none-too-eager to share with the class. Especially since his answers would involve an idiot-human-turned-even-more-idiot-werewolf best friend.

That, Stiles reasoned, was why, while he tore through the woods faster than he'd run, even for lacrosse, he didn't see the tall, dark tree looming directly in his path until his face had become newly acquainted with it. Perfect. Just, perfect.

Stiles groaned as he pulled his nose out of the dirt and came face-to-face with the words "Get up" carved into the wood. Dread creeping into his stomach (like had been happening a lot lately, thanks to Scott and Derek and Jackson and Peter), Stiles got up, only to have the word "Higher" greet him at eye-level. Stiles craned his neck, stood on his tip-toes, and hopped around a little, but he only managed to spot the word "Highest" about a foot above his head.

Reluctantly (and grumbling about it the entire time), Stiles rolled out his shoulders, letting his wings slice through his shirt and jacket as they unfurled. Then, in the blink of an eye, Stiles was soaring up to the top of the tree, wind whipping his jacket and chilling his face.

The note stuck to the top of the tree like a star on Christmas eve was not, surprisingly, from his ever-complaining, ever-diligent council representative, Dain. It was unmarked except for the little smiley-face sticker holding the flap in back down (definitely not Dain), but the words inside chilled Stiles to the very bone.

Scrawled in elegant, elaborate calligraphy on the plain, white paper were the words, "You're not alone anymore."

Stiles spent the next ten minutes hyperventilating in the woods. Then, he spent another fifteen slowly drowning in misery (and cold, because his shirt and jacket were still torn, and Stiles was feeling too self-pitying to repair them).

Then, when Stiles was just about to move onto the "go home and pretend like nothing happened" part of the plan, who besides Derek freaking Hale would step out of the woods.

Stiles rubbed at his eyes viciously. "You are so not even close to the person I want to see right now." He opened his eyes again, and was surprised at the look on Derek's face. "What? It's not like this is the first time I've run into you in the forrest. You don't own it, despite what you may tell yourself." The look was still there.

And that was when Stiles realized that his wings were still out.

"Oh." Stiles blinked once, then twice for good measure. "This is a costume," he began, the sound of his entire world falling apart echoing in his ears, "for a costume party that people tend to wear costumes to."

"They just twitched." And Derek's eyebrows were way too high on his forehead. Stiles couldn't remember ever seeing them so high.

Stiles sighed, trying to roll his eyes like he normally would when Derek was being a constipated idiot, except it came off as more of a convulsion than an eye-roll. "Very convincing, I know. I worked on them for, like, 11 hours. Also, there is such a thing as a breeze. We are in the middle of the woods, which reminds me, what are you doing in the middle of the woods?"

Stiles thought his attempts at distraction were flawless, but Derek didn't quite see it that way. "That wasn't a breeze, you moron. I know when you're lying. Those are wings on your back and they just twitched!"

"Woah," Stiles breathed, "you just italicized, like, half that sentence."

Derek growled, and Derek growling was never something Stiles aimed to make happen (although he did make it happen. A lot.). Then Derek's hand shot out, quick as lightning, toward Stiles' right wing, and before Stiles knew what was happening, he was hovering two feet above Derek's head, heartbeat thrumming in his ears as his wings effortlessly helped him defy gravity. Damn his reflexes to the darkest, deepest pits of hell.

Now, Stiles wasn't an idiot. Pair of wings? Possibly deniable. Derek always boasted that he could, like, smell lies or something, but Stiles figured it wasn't actually as accurate as Derek let on. After all, lie detectors themselves weren't as accurate as most people gave them credit for, and Stiles' "costume party" line would have made a lot more sense if Derek had had a few long minutes to ponder the idea that Stiles might be anything more than plain, boring, ol' human.

Flying above Derek's head, on the other hand? That was pretty black and white.

Still, Stiles had to try. "I can explain," Stiles began, hoping some brilliant inspiration would strike him, and soon.

Stiles had been hiding this secret his entire life. He'd lied and joked and excused himself out of all kinds sticky situations, like that one time that his dad caught him on the roof, ready to jump off. Stiles had told his dad he could fly; his dad had suggested therapy. The therapist had noticed some attention-deficit problems that Stiles had thought were about as covert as the broad side of a barn. Thus, Adderall.

"You can fly?" Derek asked, gobsmacked.

Stiles sighed, rubbing his hand on his head. "Wires, dude. Convincing, right? Like my wings. I'm hoping to impress Lydia with this one this year. I brought all my stuff out here to test-run it."

"You're wings are flapping."

"Animatronic," Stiles said without missing a beat.

"Earlier you called it a breeze."

This time Stiles didn't have to fake the eye-roll. "Earlier it was a breeze. Now it's animatronic. I know you're not the brightest bulb in the hardware store, but do try to keep up."

With a frustrated growl that Stiles liked to call his I-will-rip-Stiles'-throat-out-with-my-teeth growl, Derek leapt into the air, latching onto Stiles' ankle and dragging the pair of them down to the ground. Stiles had never flown with company before. He'd never had the chance.

"Hey, watch it! All my equipment is carefully calibrated for my specific height and weight, and it doesn't need your hefty, werewolf muscle-mass throwing it off."

"Stiles!" Derek shouted, and Stiles was pretty sure he saw some fang. "Have you said even one remotely true thing since I got here?" Yep, definite fang-age going on over there.

Stiles thought for a moment. He could continue to play dumb with Derek. Eventually, no matter how stubborn and pig-headed Derek could be, he would have to concede (as long as Stiles didn't admit to anything). Still, Derek would drag him to hell and back before he was satisfied; he would most definitely bring Scott into this whole mess (and that was the last thing Stiles needed); and, in all honesty, Stiles could sort of use Derek's help. So.

"Well, you really aren't who I wanted to see right now, you don't own the forrest, and I really do want to impress Lydia."

Derek released a harsh breath, and he looked both relieved and horrified that Stiles wasn't covering anymore.

"Also, I really can explain."