(Author's note: this story was written for a Teen Wolf holiday gift exchange. I was given the opportunity to write Stanny, which is a pairing I hadn't even considered, but it's lovely! The prompt was for Alpha Danny, which gave me a little trouble, trying to make it work with canon and to stay as much in character as possible, so I played a little fast and loose with details — including resurrecting a dead character only to kill him again in a different way. The prompt also requested the soulmate trope, which is something I've not really written before, so I made up my own version of that. The first four chapters are written, with plenty of room to continue it. This is set after the third season hiatus. Warnings for m/m sexual exploration and angst, but I'm a believer in happy endings, so they'll get there. Enjoy, and happy holidays to consumedly! -amy)

When Stiles had been a boy — he wasn't sure exactly when, but his mother had definitely still been alive, because she'd laughed at him — they'd had a conversation at school about good touch and bad touch. A conversation, it had been, rather than a lecture, because instead of filing into the gymnasium and lining up in rows on the dirty floor to watch adults speak too earnestly about uncomfortable topics, they'd sat down in a circle in their classroom with Mrs. Ramsay. She was the school counselor who smelled like breath mints and wore wrinkly soft skirts. They'd been forced to look each other in the face while Mrs. Ramsay spoke in her sonorous voice. It had been embarrassing enough that they hadn't even laughed when she said words like private parts, but had sat in silence while she encouraged them to communicate their needs and establish a bubble around themselves and stuff like that.

They'd certainly had gymnasium lectures about other things, before. Maybe they hadn't quite been old enough for sex education, but before they'd turned eight, the school had made sure to teach the kids about the facts and myths about pairbonding. The kids who had parents who were pairbonded didn't necessarily understand it better than any of the rest of them did, and although there was a certain cachet to being a child of pairbonding, the phrase my parents are soulmates had the tendency to inspire more fights than smiles.

Stiles almost never talked about his own parents' pairbond anymore, because it tended to make his dad go silent and get out the whiskey, but at the time, the lecture had been useful to explain a few things. No, there was nothing physical to indicate who would be your soulmate, or when you might meet them, but it was a generally agreed-upon truth that when you knew, you knew.Yes, you could choose to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away, and you wouldn't get a second soulmate if you declined to partner with the first one. Yes, the biochemical mechanism behind pairbonding was well enough understood by now, but it still felt like magic, in the same way that flying on a multi-ton airplane was still pretty amazing no matter how much physics you knew. And yes, partnered soulmates had some remarkable collective abilities, beyond the doe-eyed stupid smiles that usually marked them, including but not limited to empathic connection and enhanced reflexes. Like every romantic song ever, it was the stuff of legend, and even the people who spoke of it with derision or skepticism still did it with a certain wistful hope: maybe, someday, I'll get that.

Stiles had liked Mrs. Ramsay. She'd given him plenty of squashy hugs and listened with patient aplomb to whatever he'd been going on about on any given morning in the hallway at school. Mrs. Ramsay had listened, as well, when Stiles had complained to her about the conversation. It wasn't the fact that they'd had the conversation to which he objected. It was the idea that somebody would think touching was bad.

"There's no such thing as bad touch," he'd declared. "All touching feels nice."

That had prompted Mrs. Ramsay to make a phone call home. Claudia Stilinski had never been particularly appreciative of the public school system, but she liked Mrs. Ramsay too, and when she'd come to school to talk in her office with Stiles present, he'd simply felt pleased that he had two nice snuggly people to stand beside and lean up against.

Stiles' mother had laughed when Mrs. Ramsay had asked Stiles to repeat what he'd said about bad touch.

"He's a tactile kid," she'd agreed. "But that doesn't mean he wouldn't say no to something, if he didn't want it. I trust him."

That had felt good, to hear his mother say I trust him, about anything at all, but especially about feelings. Feelings weren't something anybody in their family talked about much — not then, nor eight years later.

Eight years later, Stiles still hadn't figured out this compunction some people had about touching. He'd hung on to his mother's label, tactile kid, because it was true. He liked to pick things up and handle them, enough that every teacher in the school had yelled at him on more than one occasion to put that pencil down or so help me Stiles.

But it was more than just hands. Scott had pointed this out to him one day during freshman year, while they were in the locker room. They'd been having a conversation about lacrosse drills, and Scott had taken a step back, and then another, and finally another until he'd stopped, pressed up against the bank of lockers, looking uncomfortable.

"Dude," he'd said, putting a hand on Stiles' chest, "I know you have zero personal space, but can't you at least wait until we have clothes on?"

It hadn't occurred to Stiles that they hadn't been wearing clothes, nor that the amount of space between them as he talked at Scott was anything less than appropriate. But after that, he started to be aware of other people's reactions to his physicality.

"I feel weird if I'm too far away from people," he'd said one day to Allison. She'd slipped an arm around him and pressed her thigh up against his, in a completely fraternal way, and Stiles had grinned and rested his head on her shoulder and felt understood.

But although it was clear that most people just didn't get it, nobody was actively irritated at Stiles for his tendency to want to be close. Nobody, that was, except Danny Mahealani.

Danny had always been too polite to say more than "Stiles, back off," but he'd refused to let Stiles get too close to him. It had always been that way, even when they were kids. Stiles thought later that this might have had something to do with Danny being gay. That would make sense, except Danny wasn't that way with any of the other guys on the lacrosse team. He was physically demonstrative with Jackson and his friends, but when Stiles would try to fist-bump him or make a move that looked like it might end in body contact, Danny shied away.

Stiles had noticed this, of course, but he didn't really have any feelings about it until the day in June when Stiles returned from visiting his uncle in Oregon. While Scott was scavenging in the kitchen for food, Allison happened to mention that things had changed for Danny. Like, a lot.

Stiles literally fell off Scott's bed onto the floor, resurfacing to stare at her.

"He's what?"

She nodded, looking sympathetic to his confusion. "I only got the story secondhand, but it seems like the Alpha pack was angry at Ethan about his relationship with Danny, so they sent one of their werewolves — Ennis, I think his name was? — I get so confused at all the players..."

"Danny's a werewolf?"

"Well, Danny was defending Ethan — which, okay, stupid, but it was his boyfriend, right? And Dr. Deaton had given Danny this mistletoe tincture to use for protection, and he had it in his coat, and after Ennis bit Danny, I guess he just basically shoved it down Ennis' throat." She grimaced. "So that took care of Ennis. And Ethan took Danny back to Derek, and he —"

Stiles had finally regained his footing, but he didn't feel particularly steady. "Wait, wait, wait. Danny got bitten by a werewolf and nobody thought to tell me this?"

"I'm telling you," Allison said patiently. "It happened, what, three days ago? And you never respond to Scott's texts."

"I would have responded to this," he insisted. He ran a hand over his forehead. "Jesus christ. And he's — what? He's okay?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. He healed. Derek took care of him. Scott and I went over to see him yesterday. He looked…" She shrugged. "He looked fine?"

Fine was probably not what Danny was feeling, if Stiles had Scott's transformative experience to judge by. But there was something else niggling at him, something that didn't leap to the forefront of his understanding until Scott returned, bearing a bag of tortilla chips and a container of guacamole.

"So Danny shoved his hand down Ennis' throat,"Stiles said casually to Scott, who choked on the chip he was eating.

"Yeah," Scott said, when he could breathe again. "I wasn't there when Ethan brought Danny over to Derek's, but he told me it was pretty gruesome. But his hand was all better by the time we saw him yesterday, along with everything else."

It would have been easy for Stiles to curse and stomp around and complain how everybody and their brother was becoming a fucking werewolf, but he had marginally more sense than that.

"He's going to need somebody to talk to," he said instead. "Somebody who's not already a werewolf or a kanima or a siren or — or anything else mystical."

Scott glanced at Allison. "You mean he needs a Stiles?"

"Yeah… Wait, no! No. I'm not volunteering. Danny thinks I'm annoying. I'm just thinking, after killing a —" That's when the other shoe dropped, almost loud enough to hear. Stiles closed his mouth, which had been hanging open. "Oh, my god. He killed Ennis? One of the Alpha pack?"

"Yeah," Scott said grimly. "Like we needed another Alpha around here. Derek and Peter have been giving each other a lot of dark meaningful looks, but they haven't gone into detail about what's going to happen next."

"Like, does he start his own pack?" Allison asked thoughtfully, taking a handful of chips. "Does he have to join the Alpha pack? And is Ennis his Alpha, technically? I don't even know if that matters, anyway, if he's dead."

Stiles wondered if he should feel at all bad for Ennis, being dead and all, but the majority of his brain's processing power was still being taken up by imagining Danny, straining at the bonds of his own flesh. Okay, not going there. He swallowed.

"What do you say to somebody who just became a werewolf, anyway? Is there a card for that? How about a cake? Congratulations, you've been infected!"

Allison reached out and smacked him on the shoulder. "Who says Danny's happy about it? As far as I could tell, he was pretty pissed off."

Scott shook his head. "Yeah, and as much as I don't trust Ethan, I feel kind of bad for him right now. I don't think he's happy about it either."

"He doesn't want his boyfriend to be a werewolf?" Stiles was reaching the end of his tolerance for all this gift horse-mouth-looking. "Why the hell not?"

"You'd have to ask him," was all Scott said.

That was all Stiles heard about Danny for two more days. On the second day, he met Scott at the end of his shift at the veterinary clinic, waiting for Deaton to clear him to leave so they could regroup at Stiles' house for their usual diet of summer reruns and pizza.

"I'll be right out," Scott called.

"No more than five minutes," Stiles told him, "or you'll have officially nasty cheese on your pizza."

Stiles put all his weight on the exit bar, shoving the door open — and found himself abruptly nose to nose, up close and personal with Danny.

"Jesus," he exhaled, flinching away. "What the hell? Can't you hear me coming now?"

Danny actually looked more startled than Stiles felt. "I'm still trying to figure out that hyper-sensitive listening business." He took a step back, looking beyond Stiles to Scott, waiting behind him. "Scott, I need a favor."

"Uh… sure?" Of course, Scott didn't bother to ask what it was first, because he was that kind of guy. Danny dodged Stiles as they stepped down onto the concrete.

"Would this be a favor of the werewolfian variety, or more like an I need to borrow ten bucks kind of thing?" Stiles asked, falling into step beside Scott.

Danny didn't bother to acknowledge him. "It's Ethan," he said to Scott.

"What's going on?"

"He's kind of… freaking out about me. Being like him, in the pack of Alphas?" Danny was fidgeting, biting his lip and playing with the hem of his shirt sleeve. Stiles would have said Danny was the one who was freaking out, but he wasn't going to say that to him.

"I'm sorry," Scott said, with a regretful grimace.

"Seriously, I think… I think he was already getting ready to break up with me, when Kali sent Ennis after me."

"Hey, that sucks, man." Stiles watched Danny's eyes flicker over to him. He didn't try to hug him. "And now Ethan feels, what? Guilty? Because you saved his life?"

"Maybe. Scott, I just need to be somewhere where he won't come, just for one night. I can't go to Derek's or my house. Can I crash at your place?"

"Sure, of course. Stiles and I were just going to hang out." He looked meaningfully at Stiles.

"Yeah, totally, you come too," Stiles chimed in quickly. "The more the merrier."

For a second, Stiles thought Danny was actually going to bolt. He didn't seem anything like the usual Danny. Normally he was calm, relaxed, but right now he looked completely wrecked.

As Stiles watched, he appeared to make an effort to pull himself together, growing more focused and still. Eventually he nodded.

"Thanks."

Danny sat, silent and withdrawn, in the back seat of Stiles' Jeep. Neither Scott nor Stiles attempted to engage him in conversation; he didn't seem to want it anyway. Even after Stiles guided the Jeep into the driveway and put the parking brake on, Danny didn't seem to be in any hurry to climb out.

"Should we just leave him there?" Stiles murmured, coming around to the passenger side.

Scott looked somewhat disturbed, but he shrugged.

"It's not like he can't take care of himself," he said. "Even against Ethan — or Aiden, if it comes to that. He'll be okay."

It was weird, though, thinking of Danny sitting by himself in Stiles' driveway, especially knowing he was specifically trying to be alone. While he got plates out of the cupboard and poured glasses of soda, Stiles kept flashing on memories of Scott's first couple weeks after he was bitten, how frustrated and anxious he got reacting to every little sound or smell. Danny didn't seem to be feeling that way, but he was clearly dealing with some heavy shit. Not that Stiles had ever been Danny's best bud, but it just felt… wrong, that he was coping with it on his own. He didn't even have his boyfriend to help him anymore.

Stiles didn't even make it through the first commercial before he was on his feet, setting down his Coke and heading for the door again. Scott looked up, startled.

"What is it?"

"He could just sit in the kitchen or something," Stiles called back from the hallway, "if he doesn't want to watch with us."

But Danny wasn't in the car. It wasn't pitch black, and there was plenty of light from the half-moon, but Stiles scanned the side yard and down both streets without any luck.

"Danny?" he called softly. He could only hear the sound of frogs and far-off traffic.

Finally Stiles wandered around to the back of the house — and almost collided with Danny for the second time in an hour. Danny seemed less surprised to see him this time, but he shied away from Stiles' approach with a frustrated groan.

"What is it?" he said, his voice clipped.

"Well, I don't know, man, but last time I checked there was some pretty serious shit going down in your life. You gonna blame me for being a little worried?"

Danny huffed. Stiles tried to make eye contact with him, but Danny wasn't having any of that.

"Just go back inside, Stiles."

"See, I don't think you actually want me to do that."

Danny gritted his teeth — ordinary teeth, but no less intimidating for all that. Stiles felt himself flinch a little, but he stood his ground.

"Go… inside."

Stiles was done being subtle. He grabbed for Danny's arm, all the while desperately hoping that Danny's wolfly instincts didn't suddenly kick in and make him eat Stiles' face or something. But Danny stood there, as solid and impenetrable as ever, and let Stiles try to budge him — without any luck, of course.

Danny closed his eyes for a moment, and took a long breath in, then let it out. Then he raised his face to Stiles', as though he were resigning himself to some cruel fate, and looked him straight in the eye.

"Hey," Stiles said, but that was as far as he got before his breath stopped.

Everything stopped — the blood pumping through his veins, the air ghosting over the hairs on his skin, even the ability of his lips to form words. The stars seemed to recede, enclosing them both in an envelope of silent darkness. Stiles just paused there, frozen in Danny's regard, as though he had all the time in the world to resume breathing.

It wasn't anything like he'd always thought it would be, Stiles decided later. There were no fireworks, proverbial or otherwise, except the ones behind Danny's anguished eyes. He didn't feel sweaty or tingly or faint, just maybe a little hyperaware of his body, and the way Danny wasn't looking away. He understood, though. He wasn't looking away from Danny, either. He never wanted to stop looking at him.

"… Oh," he said. It was inadequate, but it was all he could get out.

"Yeah." Danny's voice was barely loud enough to hear. "That."

"You — you knew?"

Danny's glare was petulant. "I've known for years."

Stiles wasn't putting any distance between them, and for once, Danny wasn't requiring it. He blinked, clearing his throat.

"So we're…"

"Soulmates." Danny didn't say it with distaste or scorn. He just sounded exhausted. "Yeah."

For years? Stiles wanted to demand. You knew for years and you didn't say anything? He wanted to yell, to take on some of the righteous indignant anger he thought someone was entitled to feel upon discovering he'd been lied to for that long.

He thought he should feel those things, but what he actually felt was a deep, abiding calm that settled over him like a blanket. He realized, for the second time, that he was still holding Danny's arm.

"Well." His mouth was dry. He sought to moisten it, running his tongue over his teeth.

Danny dropped his eyes to the point of connection between their bodies. His skin was several shades darker than Stiles'. Stiles' objective mind appreciated the aestheticism of the contrast, even while the rest of it was throwing a complete shit fit.

"Tell Scott I'll find him later at his place," Danny said. He gently disconnected Stiles' fingers from his arm, his mouth set in a grim straight line. Before Stiles could muster a reply, he was gone.