Finding Your Way Home

Synopsis: In the aftermath of the Nogitsune, the Pack collapses and Stiles and Isaac both find their lives spiraling out of control. But perhaps they can help pull each other out of the Void before it is too late, and possibly start picking up the pieces together. Eventual Stisaac.

A/N: Hi all! Yeah, yeah, I know, I have two major stories I haven't finished yet or added to recently, so what do I do? Start a third one of course. In my defense, this idea popped in my head and absolutely refused to leave, so here we are. I blame it on Stiles and Isaac just being too cute and my on-going frustration that the series writers never said what happened to our favorite curly-haired wolf after he went to France. Just a couple of quick points of clarification for this story – this takes place immediately following the end of season 3, with almost everything up to that point remaining canon and only bits and pieces afterwards. The biggest changes I've made are: Aiden was injured but didn't die (what can I say, I like the twins and his death so soon after Allison's detracted from both); the remaining members of the Pack basically fell apart/split up after the Nogitsune was taken care of (they're grieving, so they're being somewhat irrational and giving into their emotions); Kate is not going to come back to life (Derek is, however, kidnapped by the Calaveras; we'll find out what their motivations are later on); and the Deadpool is not going to happen, though Liam is going to be joining the group, because he is also adorable and I have some fun plans for him (or at least fun for me; I'm not exactly sure how fun they will be for him). At any rate, I hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave me your thoughts or comments or questions, I always enjoy engaging with other readers and authors alike. Oh, and the obligatory "I don't own Teen Wolf" disclaimer.

Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

He looked over at the young man seated next to him, forced to grow up too quickly and experience far too much, too soon. Neither of them spoke; in all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure the wolf fully recognized that he was even there. They had remained in silence for hours now, lost in the world of grief, agonizing in pain and death and defeat. It was not a new feeling, this overwhelming grip of grief. They had both experienced it time and time again in their lives; that was something he was starting to realize they shared. But it was different this time: holistic. They didn't just lose someone, or something. As far as he was concerned, they had lost everything; it felt as though the world itself had ended, and his body simply hadn't realized that it was supposed to end too. Before – when it was his grandparents, his uncle, his mother, his sister, his wife – it had been hard, but he had been able to rely on his training, on his ability to compartmentalize, and focus instead on what was still there to hold onto, or what still needed to be done, who still needed to be protected. But now there was nothing left, no one left to focus on or to cling to, no purpose to aim towards, no one relying on him to be the guardian. That final light had been extinguished, and all that remained was the inexorable cloud of darkness. All he had left in this world were the broken, tear-wrenching memories and a few boxes filled with reminders of what had once been.

That one memory in particular still haunts him: the look on his daughter's lifeless face, her broken body cradled in the arms of the boy she had once fallen in love with. It is seared upon his brain, keeping him awake long into the night and often overcoming the light of day. The wail of the banshee and the cries of their friends echo through his skull, drowning out all other thoughts and feelings, overwhelming his senses with fresh pain and grief on a daily basis. Wanting to collapse in horror when instead he had had to be the adult, the hunter, the one to take charge and pretend his precious child had been killed by a common mugger when he knew, he knew, that that was not the case, could never be the case. She was too strong, both in body and in spirit, to be taken down by some petty criminal. And yet, this had been the Hunter's way for centuries, the Code that had been drilled into him since his youth taking over when all else seemed lost and nothing mattered any longer, a Code that bent for no man. These thoughts and feelings raced through his mind, refusing to give him any peace, any comfort, refusing to let him rest or even process the world around him.

The funeral had been an absolute nightmare. It was so…final, laying her to rest next to the bodies of his wife and sister. Who would have believed that this small, inconsequential town would be the end of the world-renowned family of werewolf hunters? He could trace his lineage back countless generations, they were men and women of renown, members of a legacy that struck fear into the hearts of the supernatural world and aspiration in the minds of those who fought against it. Yet, like moths to a flame they had, one by one, been snuffed out by the powers drawn to the Beacon in less than a year's time. The words of the pastor and the condolences of the well-wishers in attendance had all fallen on deaf ears, for he had been far too lost within the swirling cesspool of his thoughts to know or care. Many of her classmates had come, as well as most of the members of that Pack. It had been awkward, and he had felt like they were encroaching on something that should have been reserved for him alone, private. The tears of an Argent were never meant to be on display for all to see, yet another part of the Code he had torn to shreds in the wake of the end of his world. At least the one responsible for all this pain and misery had chosen to stay away. Regardless of whether or not the boy had been in control of his actions, the young Stilinski had murdered his daughter, of that he was absolutely certain. And there could be no forgiveness for that. He regretted no decision more than his concession to not kill the trickster spirit's host when he had the chance.

Far worse than the funeral itself had been returning to that empty apartment afterwards. His home was supposed to be filled with smiles, laughter, life. Walking across the threshold, he was supposed to be greeted with hugs and kisses and squeals of delight. Now, though, the barren walls only reflected the barrenness of his own soul, and the pictures strewn about served only to remind him of all that he had lost. Ironically, perhaps the only thing that had really kept him going there those first few days had been the grief-stricken wolf that had followed him home like a little, lost puppy. Teaching him the Hunter's method of handling grief had at least given him a task to focus on, even if it had ultimately done neither of them any good.

At first the presence of the wolf next to him had seemed ridiculous. What benefit could he possibly get from being here? The Argents were known for a great many things, but comfort and counseling had never been on that list. Then again, perhaps that was the teen's goal; to not be comforted or counseled, but instead to simply be. That was something he could understand and relate to all too well. As he paused to contemplate the young man hidden beneath the oversized clothes and impractical blond curls seated next to him, the thought solidified for him. They were not so different from one another. Isaac had lost his mother, brother, father, and now the girl he thought he had fallen in love with. He was alone in this world, without family, without anyone really, the fringe member of a Pack left in total disarray. A lone wolf.

That makes him dangerous, Argent thought ominously to himself. His family's history was littered with run-ins with lone wolves. And it was never a pretty sight. In their defense, the plight of an omega was seldom its own fault. The Pack could be killed off by a rival pack or a group of hunters, the wolf could become separated by circumstances outside their control or abandoned during a shift in power and alliances, the possibilities are numberless. And the result is always the same regardless. A slow, painful descent into madness; the gradual loss of control and sense of identity; all personality replaced by the onset of insanity. The go-to metaphor in the past had always been a rabid dog, in part because that was exactly what became of a lone wolf who remained alone too long. Though he probably had not yet considered it, that was the fate that awaited Isaac if he decided to go through with his plan to leave his pack behind and was unable to find a new one to take him in. It was not a proposition to take lightly.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" the lone Argent asked, finally breaking the tense silence as his eyes remained fixed on the road in front of him. "It's not too late you know, to change your mind and go back to your friends." He was met with no answer for a few moments, unsure the wolf had even registered the fact he had spoken.

"No," Isaac finally replied softly, staring unseeingly at the passing countryside. "I don't think there is anything left for me here anymore." A lone tear trailed slowly down his cheek, unnoticed by the teen who shed it. "This is for the best."

"I hope you're right," Argent muttered to himself solemnly, glancing at the boy beside him one last time before getting lost once more in his own thoughts. They arrived at the airport not long afterwards, leaving the keys to the SUV in the hands of an ex-hunter he had once worked with and dragging their few bags along behind them into the daunting hive of activity. I can't even begin to imagine what my father would say about this. The last remaining Argent, descendant of the first werewolf hunters, the progenitors of a supernatural legacy, choosing to abandon the Code, the Trade, the Responsibility, and instead flee to start a new life with only an omega were for a traveling companion. He shook his head absently, glancing around to get his bearings. Isaac remained dead to the world around him, following Argent's directions without comment and looking too much like the lost, kicked puppy he used to be teased for resembling. Together they made their way through check-in, customs, screening, and everything else without incident, before finally taking up temporary residence in the small waiting area.

They had arrived very early. There had been no goodbyes to say, no wife to kiss on the cheek and whisper sweet affections to, no daughter to hug tightly and promise to bring a souvenir back for, no last minute giggles or backward glances in the rearview mirror. They left behind only an empty shell of an apartment, aptly depicting the empty shell of a man he had become. He had offered to take Isaac to say goodbye to any of his friends or packmates, even that one, but the wolf had only responded with a very odd expression and a quick, "that's ok, there's no need," before settling into the passenger seat and staring off into space.

It was all too obvious that the wolf was not handling this well. And Argent knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that running away like this would not solve anything, would instead only make things worse for him. But, he thought to himself, who am I to judge him and tell him to not run away, when that's exactly what I am doing?

"Isaac? Hey, Isaac!" a voice suddenly called out, breaking both men out of their respective reveries.

-o-

"Why am I still alive?" he said aloud with a sigh, though no one responded. He didn't expect anyone to, of course, he was completely alone after all. He had been completely alone ever since that night, so why would now be any different? "Why couldn't it have been me instead? It was my fault. I'm the one who left a stupid door open in my head. I'm the one who got possessed. That freaking nightmare was draining me dry and close to killing me off anyway, why didn't it just finish the job? Argh!" He grabbed the pillow out from under his head and threw it against the wall of his room. For a few moments he remained sitting upright, despondently looking at the pillow that was now out of reach and no longer under his head, before flopping listlessly back down flat on the bed and staring once more at the ceiling, lacking the energy or willpower to do anything more.

"I mean, what's the point? No one wants to see me, they're all afraid to talk to me, so why even go through the trouble of saving me or keeping me alive? I didn't ask them to. I didn't want them to! We'd all just be so much better off if they had killed me when they had the chance, or let that stupid Nogitsune finish me off. I'm weak… I'm worthless… I don't deserve to live when… when she c-can't." The tears began to flow again, as they had so often done for the past few days. Stiles wiped them away angrily, frustrated that this is all he seemed capable of doing anymore.

His body remained weakened from his time spent under the Spirit's spell. Deaton had warned him that it would take quite awhile for him to truly recover his strength back from the ordeal. Until then, he was confined to bed rest by his father out of fear that he might injure himself or become sick because of his temporarily compromised immune system. As a result, Stiles had been forced to miss Allison's funeral, something that had eaten away at him ever since. Feeling he was responsible for her death had been bad enough; but being denied the opportunity to say a final goodbye and stand in solidarity with his friends at her grave had broken him. It was something all of the others seemed to take as a form of betrayal as well, since none of them had taken the time or made the effort to speak with him or check up on him since then. Loneliness and depression gnawed away at his mind as the hours slowly passed him by.

"What's even left anymore? Boyd is dead. Erica is dead. Allison is dead. Cora is missing, presumed dead. Peter and Derek are missing; probably dead too at the rate we're going. Scott… oh Scott, my best friend the Alpha, can't even look at me after I killed the girl of his dreams. Lydia, the girl of my dreams, can't stand the sight of me either, though I guess that isn't really anything new. Jackson ran away to London; smart man, he left before everything went to Hell around here. The twins disappeared too, come to think of it, and as far as I know no one really knows where. Malia is busy trying to get her powers under control, so she can't be around me, not that she would have any reason to want to be anyway. Dad's swamped with work; that's also my fault, all those people I hurt and the destruction I caused. Kira's… you know, I don't actually know what Kira's up to. I guess she and I were never actually friends to begin with, so that doesn't make much difference. And Isaac… Isaac… wait! Isaac's leaving soon. Is that today? What day is it?" Stiles flailed around suddenly, crashing to the floor of his bedroom in his haste to reach his phone and check the date. "Crap! That is today. I have to go!"

Stiles rushed to put his shoes and jacket on, pausing at the top of the stairs as the sudden rush of dizziness that hit him caused him to almost lose his balance. After taking a moment to reorient himself, he cautiously made his way to the Jeep parked out in front, easing himself into the driver's seat and then taking off at an alarming rate down the road. He arrived at the airport in record time, though lost most of the time he gained by struggling to make his way inside and locating the proper terminal. "Argh, I know I've never had werewolf strength, but this is ridiculous," he groaned in frustration as he paused again before his legs could totally give out on him. His limbs trembled slightly as sweat beaded on his forehead; wiping it away, he noticed his skin felt cold and clammy to the touch. "Maybe Deaton was right after all, I'm not sure I'm up for this. Oh well, too late to back out now, Stiles."

The teen slowly made his way down the seemingly endless corridor, keeping an eye out for the proper gate. After what seemed like half an eternity, he finally found the correct waiting lounge, and scanning through the crowd of people managed to locate a familiar head of curly blond hair. "Isaac? Hey, Isaac!" he called out as loud as his weakened lungs would allow him. Isaac flailed a bit at the sudden calling of his name while the man next to him glanced quickly around the area with a much calmer, more practiced eye. Stiles waved weakly at them to get their attention, unable to cross the barrier separating those who had been cleared by security from the rest of the crowd. Argent noticed him first, penetrating him with a dark glare before pointing him out to the young man next to him and urging the wolf forward. Isaac stumbled, shaking his head slightly, before cautiously walking over and stopping on his side of the barrier.

"Um, hi?" he said, avoiding Stiles' eyes and staring instead at the ground.

"Hi? Really? Isaac, what are you doing here?" Stiles retorted.

"Waiting for my flight? I told you guys I was leaving with Argent," Isaac replied, words uncertain and slow to come.

"Yeah, yeah, I know that," Stiles huffed with a flailing arm waving through the air, "I meant, why didn't you come to say goodbye? I thought we were, you know, ok now. Friends even. Are you… do you not want to see me or talk to me anymore either? I mean, I'll understand if that's the case, I know it's what I deserve after everything that happened…" He trailed off towards the end, expression downcast and hurt.

"No, no," Isaac interjected hastily, finally looking up and making eye contact, "it's not that. I just, I don't know, I guess I wasn't sure I could."

"I don't understand," was the confused reply.

Isaac scuffed his feet against the tiled floor aimlessly as he tried to think of what to say. "This is it, you know?" he finally began, still uncertain. "I'm leaving… and I'm not coming back. Not after everything that's happened here. I mean, how could I? Why would I? But, it means I won't be seeing you or any of the others anymore and I… I was afraid you would try to stop me."

"Um, ok… why France though? I mean, it's so far away. What are you going to do there? Do you know anyone there? Do you even speak French? What about your, you know, 'furry little problem?' Don't you still need a pack or bonds or whatever?" Stiles rambled as the questions came to his mind, all confused and sad and frustrated.

"It's ok, Stiles. I have a plan," Isaac said solemnly.

"You do? What's your plan? Is it a good plan?" came the quick response.

"It's… well, it's the best plan for me, that's all I can say," Isaac's answer was far less sure and confident.

"Ok," Stiles said, dragging the word out uncertainly as he studied the taller teen. "Can you tell me what your plan is? Maybe I can help? If you, you know, want me to, that is."

"No, Stiles, not this time," Isaac said, looking away once more as a sudden chime from the loudspeakers announced that his flight would begin boarding passengers soon and missing the downcast, almost heartbroken look his words elicited from the human. "That's me. I should get going," he added, turning to walk away.

"Promise me something before you go?" Stiles half-shouted earnestly, stopping Isaac before he could get very far. The wolf turned back and gave him a nod to continue. "Promise me that, if you don't find whatever it is you're looking for in France, or wherever else you go, and things don't work out like you want them to, or whatever, you know what I mean, 'cause there are a million and one possibilities out there and you never really can know what might happen, best laid plans and all that…"

"Stiles," Isaac interrupted with an exasperated sigh, "can you get to the point already?"

"Right, right," he replied sheepishly before collecting himself and becoming serious. "Just… promise me, if things don't work out, you'll come back. Promise me you'll find your way back here, back home."

"Stiles…" Isaac started, unsure how to respond. "I, I can't. I don't think I can really call this place my home anymore, and I don't think I could ever come back, even if I wanted to. Scott is already so angry with me for wanting to leave; there's no way he'd let me just come back. And besides, I know my plan is going to work, one way or another, so I know I won't be coming back."

Stiles gave a dejected, genuinely heartbroken look towards his friend before staring down at his own feet and noticing for the first time just how unsteady they had become while he stood there and talked. "Please Isaac," he half-whispered, quiet enough that Isaac could barely hear him even with his enhanced senses, "I need to know that you at least might come back, even if it's a small, tiny possibility. I need… something to hold onto. Please."

There was a long pause, the silence stretching between them lasting for what seemed like hours. "Alright," Isaac finally sighed, torn between wanting to give Stiles what he wanted and knowing it would never happen. "I promise I will come back if things don't work out."

"Home," Stiles interjected, looking back up.

"I will come back home if things don't work out," Isaac amended, slightly exasperated. "Now, I do really have to go, they just called my seat number." He turned once again, rushing towards the line to board the plane. "Goodbye, Stiles," he called out over his shoulder.

"Don't forget your promise!" Stiles called back as loud as he could muster, smiling slightly at the shake of blond curls he got in response. A lone tear slowly meandered its way down his cheek as he watched the young man he had so quickly grown attached to walk away. They had never really spoken to one another before the supernatural world invaded their lives, and had gotten off to a rather rocky start when they were both spontaneously thrust into it, but recently they had come to rely on one another for support, comradery, friendship. But now, just like all the others, it appears as though he was leaving, abandoning him for something better. He waited until the wolf was out of sight before adding under his breath, "goodbye, Isaac. Please come back to me some day. I'll be waiting for you."

Stiles' legs began to tremble violently in protest of keeping him upright for so long. Oops, I guess I really overdid it this time. Dad's going to kill me. He took one step away from the barrier before suddenly collapsing, losing consciousness before he even hit the floor.