Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1116365.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Scott_McCall, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski, Melissa_McCall, Alan_Deaton,
      Isaac_Lahey, Peter_Hale, Sheriff_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Biting, Marking, Scent_Marking, Come_Marking, Comeplay, Anal_Sex, Oral
      Sex, Hand_Jobs, Breathplay, Sexual_Inexperience, Internalized_Homophobia,
      Intercrural_Sex, Pack_Politics, Pack_Building, Rimming, Canon_Character
      of_Color, Ass_to_Mouth, Canon_Related
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-03 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 88412
****** Any Port In a Storm ******
by poisontaster
Summary
     aka How Derek Hale, Age Twenty-Mumblety Spent His Summer Vacation.
     (set between S2 and S3)
Notes
     Many thanks to merepersiflage, who prodded this story along from
     beginning to end. It simply would not exist without her help and
     encouragement. Further thanks to girlguidejones for her sharp insight
     and beta skills and quietdiscerning for audiencing. All the remaining
     mistakes are mine; they tried to tell me.
***** May *****
Three weeks and the dream keeps coming back to him:
Scott's claws pricking the back of his head and not being able to move, the
diseased stench of Gerard's skin in Derek's mouth, on his lips, his tongue, and
not being able to move, not wanting to bite, not wanting to give Gerard or
Scott the satisfaction, not wanting to sink his teeth into that hot, sick,
papery skin but not being able to move…
And then doing it anyway, helpless, seething, the drug-sickly crawl of Gerard's
blood in his mouth, oozing down his throat and Scott holding him there, making
him take it, and then letting him fall, down to the icy concrete, where
finally, finally, he can spit.
Derek comes up swinging and his eyes open to Isaac lurching back across the
aisle, away from him, his wide-eyed alarm visible even in the dimness.
Derek listens, casts his hearing outward, muscles bunched, but there's only the
usual sounds: water dripping, the sigh and settle of metal and stone, the quick
heartbeats and skitter of little vermin. Nothing else. It comes to him, way too
slowly, that they're not under attack, that the sharp vinegary stink of Isaac's
fear is because Isaac is afraid of him.
Derek stills, easing his weight back—though he hasn't moved—and, after a couple
seconds of staring at each other, Isaac relaxes, too.
"You were shouting in your sleep," Isaac offers, managing to sound apologetic
about it.
Derek stares back at him, sorting through a sluggish and unsatisfying
assortment of words. Isaac flits back and forth between Scott and Derek like he
doesn't know who his Alpha is, like he can't make up his mind. But Derek knows
Isaac is his—his responsibility, his pack—and that's enough. Isaac is here when
Derek needs him and the rest of the time…
The rest of the time is a relief on both of them, Derek's sure.
"I'm awake now," Derek says finally.
                                      ☽ ☾
They look at each other a while longer, Isaac's gaze asking things he won't
articulate and Derek refusing to answer those unspoken questions and concerns,
but eventually, Isaac's nerve breaks and he mooches back to the other—empty—end
of the train car and goes back to sleep.
Scott wouldn't have backed down that easily.
Not that he's seen or spoken to Scott.
Derek sits, until he hears Isaac's breathing change and deepen into the
sighing, half-snores that mean actual sleep and not just-faking-it (a bad habit
they share), before he gets up and leaves the depot, shoulders straightening
and the poisonous skeins of his dreams—nightmares—falling away as he emerges
into the crisp night air.
It's almost a month later, and you'd think with Erica and Boyd missing and the
Alpha pack sniffing around his territory, his dreams would have more variety,
but no. It's usually just Gerard. Fucking Gerard.
Though a part of him feels like running, Derek tucks his hands into his pockets
and forces himself to walk. His mom used to make him walk; agonizingly slow
rambles through the woods around the house, sometimes on into the streets of
Beacon Hills, after nearly everyone was asleep. He always hated it, right up
until he and Laura were fighting—after the fire, when they were always
fighting—and she told him how jealous she was, that she'd always been, that
he'd gotten to spend that much time with Mom, just the two of them.
Derek still remembers the sick-cold-nauseated, hair-prickling body-shiver that
rolled through him when Laura screamed it at him; still feels it when he thinks
of how he acted, his bitter and sulking resentment.
So he still hates walking, but he does it sometimes, now, homage, remembrance.
Penance.
Derek smells Peter before he sees him, which, of course, is just how Peter
likes it. The guy's never seen a shadow he didn't want to slink out of. If
Peter could figure out how to fuck a shadow, he'd do it.
"What do you want?" Derek calls, tired of the game.
Peter comes out into the light and spreads his hands. "Would you rather brood
alone?"
Yes, Derek thinks, but he won't give Peter the satisfaction and he can't think
of a witty comeback, so he just keeps walking and Peter falls in step with him,
like he was always going to.
"Though I do understand that all this pouting is just one more complimentary
benefit of the Derek Hale Experience," Peter says, blithely ignoring it when
Derek growls in warning, "I do have to wonder how long you're going to nurse
these hurt feelings about Scott before you just kiss and make-up."
Derek expects outrageousness from Peter, who revels in it, but it's such a
crazy comment and so out of left field that Derek can't fake indifference,
skidding to a stop on the pavement. "I'm not even thinking about Scott right
now!"
Derek hates the look Peter gives him in response, poor, stupid Derek, fuck,
he'd thought he was never going to have to see that expression again, when he
ripped Peter's throat out. There's no justice in the universe.
(His mom, with his chin scissored between her fingers in that calm but
attention grabbing way that she always had: "There's no justice, baby. There's
just us.")
"Look," Peter says, raising his hands again in a sham of helplessness that sets
Derek's teeth on edge, "if you want to nurse your hurt feelings over what you
see as Scott's betrayal…"
He knows Peter's goading him, but instinct wraps his hand around Peter's throat
anyway, lifts up and slams him into the brick of the building they're standing
next to.
"I understand," Peter says, undeterred, sounding calm if pinched. "You thought
you'd finally won Scott over, succeeded where I failed, in getting him to join
the pack…"
Suddenly disgusted—with Peter and himself, for getting drawn into it, yet
again—Derek drops him and turns away.
"I know you feel it too!" Peter calls, not following. "Beacon Hills is not
nearly a big enough territory and with the Alpha Pack prowling…we're going to
need Scott. We're going to need everyone!"
Derek just keeps walking. The thing is, Peter likes to hamstring his prey with
truth. Distorted truth, truth through a dark mirror…but truth nonetheless.
But at the moment, it's not a truth that Derek has to do anything about.
                                      ☽ ☾
"I know we haven't really been talking, but I need your help."
Scott shows up so promptly the next day that Derek would think Peter arranged
it, except for the fact that Scott loathes Peter and won't be in the same room
with him if he can avoid it. As it is, Derek's still not sure that Peter's not
orchestrating this, somehow.
The last three weeks have obviously been a hell of a lot better for Scott than
they have for Derek. He looks less tired, less stretched thin than Derek's seen
him in months, even jittery, like he is now, with whatever's on his mind.
"So is that how you think this goes now?" Derek asks. In his fingertips, his
mouth, it's like an ache, the call of the fattening moon like music playing in
another room, siren song. "You don't want to be part of my pack, I'm not your
alpha, but you want something, you need my help, and…what? I come running like
your pet dog?" Now Derek lets his fangs drop, lets the boil in his stomach and
chest flash red-rage in his eyes. "Wolves aren't dogs, Scott. And if I'm not
your alpha…you're not my beta."
"I know that." Scott doesn't take up the bait, sounding calm, despite his
overarching agitation. It bugs Derek, how much effort it takes to push Scott
out of that maddening calm, into action, into anger. There's something
distinctly not-normal about it, especially at his age. "But we don't have to be
the same pack to have mutual interests."
It aches even more when Derek makes his fangs retract; the wolf doesn't want to
recede. To cover it, Derek raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his
chest. "Mutual interests?"
"Yeah," Scott says, and now there's a bit of barb in his voice, "mutual
interests. Like not letting the public at large know that werewolves exist, let
alone that they're right here in Beacon Hills. You know, the kind of stuff you
used to yell at me for all the time."
Derek doesn't quite mean to, but he snorts. Weird to think he could ever look
back on that time with any kind of fondness—the gnaw of Laura missing, Laura
dead, still lingers, even with as little as they saw each other in that last
year—but there'd been a simplicity to everything then: teach Scott, find the
Alpha and kill him or her. He hadn't had to think about the future, more than
half-convinced that there wasn't one.
Derek shakes himself out of memory, fixing his scowl deeper. "What are you even
talking about?"
Scott fidgets. He's got a thick rubber band around his wrist, smudged with
newspaper ink and he lifts it up from his skin and lets it snap sharply back.
"I thought I had control of it," Scott says, hand restlessly creeping up to cup
the back of his neck and squeeze. "I did have control of it," he amends. "But…"
A shrug with only a slight tightness to show how much Scott's bothered, a dark
whiff of worry, less astringent than Isaac's.
Derek's heart picks up at the perfume of fear, but that instinctive thrill is
secondary to Scott's words. "You're losing control of your shift?"
Great. Because Derek doesn't have enough problems. He probably shouldn't even
be that surprised; most weres as young as Scott have trouble maintaining long-
term control. He'd let himself get complacent because of how easily Scott
seemed to find control in the first place—faster than any were Derek's ever
seen, though his dad had told stories about his mom…
Derek's eyes narrow. "This is about Allison, isn't it?"
With everything else going on, Derek hasn't been able to keep as much an eye on
the Argents as he'd like to, especially since post-Gerard, they seem just as
happy to leave Derek and his alone, but through the grapevine (i.e. Isaac) he
knows Allison broke up with Scott and then left town for the summer.
Scott shrugs, unhappiness printed across his face and coming off his skin in a
stomach churning stew of sweet and sour conflicting emotions. "She needs some
time," he says, his heartbeat a bass-line whose rhythm straddles the line
between truth and a lie. "We're going to be fine, it's just, with everything
that happened…"
"You mean like her mom trying to kill you?"
Scott ignores him, though there's a flash of fiery amber when his eyes flick
sideways at Derek. "She's been through a lot," Scott insists again. "She just
needs time. I'm going to give her time."
Derek is completely disinterested in Scott and Allison's star-crossed lovers
shtick, but—as much as Derek hates to admit it—Scott's not wrong. If Scott's
losing control of his shift, Derek needs to help him. Beacon Hills is his
territory. He's not willing to give it up or give it away again. Especially not
because some know-nothing, bitten kid can't keep his fangs up.
"Allison is your anchor." It's completely unsurprising, but Derek can't help
but shake his head anyway. "Of course she is."
"But it was working before," Scott argues. "Allison…" His face takes on the
dopey, dreamy cast it gets whenever he or anyone else mentions her name and
Derek wonders if he'd ever looked that freaking dumb when he…
Nope. Not going there.
"It was working," Scott says again, shrugging his shoulders, though the scent
of his longing stabs at Derek, dark and spiky, like perfume caught in an old
shirt. "I don't know why it's not now."
This kid. Fucking Scott. Derek rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and wonders
whether it was all just some cosmic joke on Peter's part when he bit Scott.
"I can help you," Derek says finally, straightening off the wall and coming to
a decision. "But you won't like how."
"I don't care how," Scott says, because he's still of an age where you say shit
like that and mean it. "I don't want to hurt anyone," Scott says and that, at
least, Derek believes.
"This is why you don't make a person your anchor," Derek says.
"What're you talking about?" Scott frowns.
Derek sighs. "You know, maybe I wouldn't have had to yell at you so much,
Scott, if you ever listened to what I said. What did I tell you to anchor
yourself on?"
"Rage," Scott says with a promptness that's kind of gratifying. "But…" Scott
shakes his head, "…that's not what works for me, I can't, I don't…"
"Look, you don't want my advice, don't come asking for it."
Scott's mouth twists. "I want your help," he insists. "I just…I don't have that
kind of anger, like, like you do." Scott eyes Derek sidelong, gauging whether
Derek's going to take offense, but Derek just snorts. "It doesn't work for me.
When I'm angry…" Scott rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving little
furrows through it and the breath of hair gel. "That's when I feel most out of
control."
"It's not about control!" Derek grits, because, seriously, there are limits and
it is way too close to the full moon for this. Then he pulls himself back,
because he's trying to be gentler with them, really he is. "You base your
stability on another person, your stability becomes subject to that person," he
explains, "your feelings about that person."
"Yeah, but Allison…I love her."
"Even now that you're broken up?"
"That's just temporary," Scott says quickly. The lack of hesitation gives it
the heft of a line he's repeated a lot. Probably to Stillinski. "It doesn't
change how I feel."
Derek blinks and lets that one slide, because there are some things you just
have to learn for yourself. There is no bypass route. Instead: "And how would
you feel if Allison died? If someone killed her? Murdered her?"
He's expecting it, when Scott snarls and shifts, but he lets Scott shove him
back into the wall anyway. See? He can be eerily calm, too.
"Are you threatening her?"
Derek lets Scott see his eye roll, watches Scott's nostrils flare and fail to
scent any threat.
"This is my point," Derek says pointedly, looking down at Scott's claws,
pricking through Derek's shirt. Scott remains shifted, but he looks sheepish,
taking a step back and letting his hands fall to his sides. "And I'm just
talking about her dying. What do you think happens if she's really dead?"
Scott growls and bristles again.
"Feelings change, Scott. Whether you like it or not."
The hardening of Scott's jaw is an expression Derek knows well, but his fangs
and claws shrink back, eyes darkening to human brown. "Will you help me or
what?"
"You're going to have to trust me," Derek warns.
"I do," Scott says, with that stark, simple earnestness that he's so damn good
at.
"Don't say that." The sharpness of his voice even surprises Derek. "Don't
ever…not when you don't even know what you're agreeing to."
Scott shrugs. "So what am I agreeing to?"
"Sex."
Scott's mouth drops halfway open and he looks like someone punted him in the
stomach and for one, glorious moment, it's totally worth it.
"I…" Scott's mouth works soundlessly for a couple seconds before he scrapes
out: "…with you?"
"You came to me for help," Derek points out, putting that nth degree of
distance between them by leaning his shoulders back against the wall. He
spreads his hands: you see anyone else?
"Yeah." Scott swallows, still eyeballing Derek like he thinks Derek's going to
pounce on him like the Big Bad Wolf. "But usually your help involves more
broken bones and less…um."
"Sex," Derek says again, mostly just to watch Scott squirm. "Like rage, it's
basic, primal."
"I don't know…" Scott rocks uncertainly on his heels like he's not sure if he
wants to leave or not, but his scent has a citrus bright hint of curiosity.
It's interesting, because Derek was pretty sure that at this point Scott
would've decked him or just walked out in a huff.
Derek shrugs. "Your choice, Scott. It's just my hand on your dick. Doesn't mean
we're dating."
"Your hand?" Scott echoes. He sounds confused and it takes Derek a moment but
then it clicks.
"You thought—?"
"It doesn't matter," Scott says firmly. "And…that'll really work?"
"It should. It has before." Derek shrugs a second time. "Look, I'm not
especially excited about having my hand on your junk, either, but you asked for
my help. You could do what you usually do, go play with Stiles instead…"
"No!" Scott says, even more quickly than before. His nose wrinkles. "Ugh,
Stiles is like my brother."
Interesting that his objection is that he's too close to Stiles and not that
Stiles is a guy.
Not that it really matters; like he said, it's not like they're dating. Derek
sighs. It's for the good of the pack. "What're we doing, Scott?"
"I just need to get through the next few months," Scott says. The up-down
evaluating look he gives Derek isn't unfamiliar, except that it is, from Scott.
When his gaze finally locks with Derek's, he says, "This'd better work."
"Kneel," Derek says, gesturing, and he doesn't mean it as a command, but he can
tell from the way Scott's back stiffens that he takes it as one and that he's
going to be stubborn about it. So: "Forget it," he says instead. "Just…" He
spins Scott around and pulls him back; jerks down the zipper on Scott's jeans,
pushing in and taking hold of Scott's cock. It's graceless, but it gets the job
done.
"Derek!" Scott squeaks and rises up on his tiptoes, but he doesn't move away
and his dick hardens up satisfyingly in Derek's fingers, though Derek remembers
sixteen well enough not to take too much credit.
"Shut up, Scott," and now that Scott's not trying to get away, Derek edges
closer still, resettling his grip, sliding in his other hand to cup Scott's
balls, press hard into the soft, taut-drawn skin behind them.
He tries to think about it mechanically, from a distance, (like an Alpha), but
he can't quite ignore the fact that he's got his fingers wrapped around a dick
that's not his own, one that pushes almost involuntarily into his touch, thick
and warm and well-shaped, and that he's going to wring an orgasm out of it.
"Oh, oh, fuck," Scott breathes, going loose and tight at the same time, his
shoulders relaxing back—just a little—into Derek's.
It's been a long time and, like the rest of his memories, Derek tries not to
think about it, but scent-memory, muscle memory lingers, sneaks through the
barricades in his head.
The first strokes of his fingers along Scott's length are tentative, soft, but
that muscle memory—and the first, choked noise that comes from Scott's mouth,
the way he pushes back into Derek's body—fists Derek's hand around him, hard
and dragging, and Scott convulses, legs jittering like he doesn't know if he
wants to get away or get deeper.
As the heat of Scott's skin rises, his scent overpowers all the others, like a
cocoon enclosing the two of them, blocking out the dirt and mildew and stone,
the chemicals of soap and shampoo, detergent and deodorant. That particular and
now familiar combination that—unlike Peter's mercurial scent—calls out as
Scott.
Derek snuffles up the line of Scott's neck, baby-fine hairs tickling his nose
as he breathes deeply: sweat and oil and want, the iron tang of wariness and
not-quite-fear. Derek drags his tongue along that same length of skin, tasting:
the rough burst of salt and bitter soap, the plastic nothingness of hair gel.
"Derek!" Scott's fangs have dropped a second time, gently mangling Derek's
name; when Scott's fingers close over Derek's wrist, his talons prickle Derek's
skin. "Nnngh, God, Derek…"
"Shut up," Derek says again, and the way the words move and sound show his
fangs have dropped too. Derek runs his tongue across the points, adding the
taste of his own blood to the taste of Scott in his mouth. He gives Scott's
nuts a good squeeze and then slides his hand up, to wrap around Scott's waist
and pull him back, hold him up, while Scott writhes like a fish on a line, his
cock surging hard and hot through Derek's fingers.
Allison flashes through Derek's mind, like lightning, did she do this for you,
but he shoves it away, aside, burying it the way he always does, in the
physical, letting his teeth just indent Scott's skin, there where the shoulder
and the neck come together so perfectly and thickly, sweet flexing muscle. He
lets himself feel the burn of tendons in his wrist and forearm as he jerks
Scott off, fills his ears with each moaning huff of Scott's breath.
Driving Scott up to that edge and then over it, it's like hunting, making
Scott's body go where he wants. When Scott comes, desperate, violent spurts
that wring through his entire frame, it all bursts over Derek, too: the moon
and victory and release. He throws back his head and howls, signal and outburst
together, and for a moment, Scott echoes him and then later, further, Peter and
then Isaac.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Do you want…?"
"No." Because of Scott's refusal to kneel, they kind of went from standing up
to sliding down to the floor without a lot of in between. Derek, at least,
managed to put his back to the train car; Scott is stretched out full-length on
the concrete and doesn't seem inclined to move.
Then, when the silence between them becomes a kind of vacuum and Derek realizes
he was maybe too harsh, too emphatic in his refusal: "No, it's fine." Even more
belatedly and grudgingly: "Thanks."
Scott tilts his head back so he can look at Derek. "I would, if you want me
to," he says. "I mean…it seems only fair."
Against his will, Derek smiles, because seriously, Scott. He's such an earnest
little do-gooder.
And someday it's probably going to get him killed.
His momentary amusement wiped by the thought, Derek rolls his head so he can
look back at Scott. "Maybe you missed the part where we're not actually
dating?"
"No, I know." Scott pushes up on one elbow, angling on the dusty floor so he
can see Derek better. "Just…" He gestures/reaches like he's going to touch
Derek's leg but stops before actually making contact.
It isn't that Derek didn't know he was hard, exactly, so much as he's gotten
into a semi-comfortable habit of not really caring whether he is or not. But
Scott, of course, he cares about everything.
"What," Derek says, pulling his legs up and looping his elbows loosely around
his knees, "you trying to imply I can't take care of my own dick, Scott?"
"No!" Scott sounds stricken, but after Derek raises an eyebrow at him, he seems
to get Derek's joking and his face and shoulders relax, his scent less peppery
beneath the overriding stench of come. He goes back to his prone position on
the concrete, staring up toward the ceiling and the silence that falls this
time is peaceful, rather than waiting.
So peaceful, in fact, that Derek's starting to doze just a little when Scott
says, quieter than before: "It's just I would, if you wanted." His hair
scratches against the floor as he tilts his head back again. "To be fair."
"Got it, Scott." Derek lifts his hand, waving the thought off, and lets it fall
again. "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
"Oh. Okay." Though he tries to cover it, Derek can hear the relief in Scott's
tone.
Derek imagines what Scott would've done if Derek had said yes. Follow through,
of course, because he's Scott and he's grimly determined in issues of fairness,
but what an awkward, weird sex act that would be. Derek's done dumber things
with his dick, but not lately. Even so, he's a little surprised at the hot
prickle that ignites in the pit of his belly when he imagines a hand—Scott's
hand—wrapped around his cock.
Man, it has been too long.
"So—" Even softly spoken, Scott's voice is a shock, jarring Derek out of his
unexpected and disturbing pornographic detour. "When you said that this has
worked before…"
He pauses, for long enough that Derek starts to think Scott's expecting him to
fill in the rest of the question and, frankly, Derek has no idea where he's
going with that. Then: "Did you do this with Boyd and Isaac and Erica?"
"Actually, I used chains."
Taken kind of off-guard by the direction Scott took the question—and slightly
horrified by the idea—Derek means it just factually, but Scott gives off
surprise like a puff of citrus oil when you dig your fingernail into the rind
and, after another long pause, he starts laughing.
After a moment to think about it, Derek starts, too. It escalates fast, from
grudging snorts to full out whooping, an ache in his abs. It's weird; he can't
remember the last time he's laughed that hard, belly laughing. Definitely never
with Scott. But it's oddly comfortable, like they've turned a corner or
something.
"I really do want us to get along," Scott says suddenly, when he's come down
enough to breathe again, talk again. "I mean, I think it's important, don't
you?"
Derek thinks about the Alpha pack triskele, now buried under a half-dozen coats
of paint on the door of the house, remembers Isaac's doubtful look at Derek's
decision not to tell Scott: "He doesn't want to be part of the pack, he doesn't
need to be involved in pack business."
At a distance of three weeks, he's no longer as furiously certain he can keep
Scott out of it, but he's not ready to talk about it yet, either.
"Yeah, Scott. I want that, too," Derek says, flexing his toes, his calves, as
they start to stiffen up. "I just think we mean different things when we say
that."
"We don't have to all be part of the same pack to help each other," Scott
bristles, popping up on both elbows and looking over his shoulder at Derek.
"It amazes me that you can say something like that and mean it."
Scott sits up and spins halfway around, so they're facing. "Not every freaking
werewolf in the whole freaking world can be part of the Hale pack, can they? I
mean, that werewolf we saw Gerard kill…"
"That was an omega!"
Again? They're having this argument again?
"And he died, Scott! Gerard cut him in half, or did you forget that part? You
don't want to end up like that!"
"But that's why we should work together!" Scott insists.
Derek knows Scott is bitten, not born, but he can't imagine how Scott doesn't
feel it, that pull, that need; the sensation that there's not enough air in the
world or maybe too much of it, hollowing out your insides, blowing you out like
an eggshell. Even when it was just him and Laura (and the shell of Peter) and
he and Laura had most of the continent between them, it was something, it was
pack.
Just thinking about it makes Derek's skin feel too small, makes him want to
pulverize and rend everything around until there's nothing but wreckage and
dust.
(Again.)
"Go home, Scott," Derek says, the words coming out thick and low as he fights
back the urge to shift, to destroy. "You got what you wanted."
"Yeah, but…"
"Scott!"
Scott doesn't like it, but the hand-job did what it was supposed to do; Scott's
solid again, focused. He leaves.
Apparently the corner they've turned has just taken them around in a circle.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Please don't make me ever go anywhere with him again," Isaac complains,
galloping down the steps like he's going to hide behind Derek. Peter,
naturally, follows at a saunter.
"What did you do?"
Peter widens his eyes and opens his mouth to declare his innocence but Isaac
interrupts before Peter gets out a word, looking around with furrowed brows and
flaring nostrils: "Was Scott here?" Not waiting for an answer, Isaac follows
the scent, eyes unfocused until he's right up in Derek's space, snuffling. "Why
do you smell like Scott?"
Derek glares.
"Why do you smell like…oh." Isaac recoils, Derek growls, and Isaac finally
seems to realize that he's practically on top of Derek, backpedaling hastily.
"I don't…" He glances at Peter and says, in a completely unconvincing voice, "I
don't know what that is."
"I don't believe that for one minute," Peter chides, "I don't even live here
and I know how often—"
"Scott was here," Derek says flatly, cutting off both whatever Peter was going
to say and the fast, frantic look Isaac tosses at him. Isaac's still new to it
all and he grew up with human notions of privacy and shame; Derek was raised in
the pack. They may not talk about everything they hear, scent, but they all
have the same senses.
Derek might not want to hear about it from either of them, but there are no
shower facilities at the depot; he knew that Isaac and Peter would smell it on
him—Scott, and Scott's come, and Derek's, from the fast, angry jerk-off session
after Scott had gone—and draw their own conclusions. He looks past Isaac to
Peter, making his voice harder when he says, "It's not a big deal."
Peter theatrically purses his lips and looks away, like he has no idea what
Derek's talking about. Isaac nods, but he's still scenting—albeit more
subtly—mouth open a little and nostrils flaring.
Too late, Derek wonders if Isaac hanging around Scott so much is because
Isaac's got a crush on Scott. Hell, Isaac can have Scott if he wants him. Derek
just wishes there was a way to communicate that to Isaac without having to
actually talk about it.
"How'd it go?" Derek asks, pushing all that aside for more important
considerations. "Did you find anything out?"
Peter shrugs. "Couldn't even find anyone to ask. The three wolves that I knew,
to look for…" The skin around his eyes twitches, tightens, Peter's tell that
he's more bothered than he wants to let on. Peter inhales, then goes on
smoothly, "Two of them were gone. It's anyone's guess if they left on their own
or were hunted out. It was clearly long enough ago that there's no way to tell.
Trevor…"
Derek jerks. He'd known Trevor, too, an extremely shy omega that Derek's mom
had let live right on the inside edge of the lands the Hales considered theirs.
When he asked his mom why she permitted it, she'd only said, "Not all flowers
bloom. It doesn't mean you stop planting the seeds," with an admonition that
he'd understand when he was older. Derek's not sure how much older she was
thinking, because even now, he's got no clue what she meant, but he still feels
a brief, pinching sorrow for Trevor, who hadn't had the strength or temperament
to be a threat to anyone.
"Someone definitely killed Trevor." Derek wants to punch Peter in the face for
his smooth, uncaring tone of voice, even as he gets the reason Peter uses it.
"Though that, too, was long enough that I couldn't tell you who did it."
"We didn't find any sign of Erica or Boyd," Isaac says, tugging at the cuff of
the long-sleeved shirt he's wearing, even in these first flushes of oncoming
summer. There's a ragged little hole worn or cut into the sleeve and Isaac
slips his thumb through it so only his fingertips are visible. "And nothing
about the alpha pack, either. If they're out there…"
"They're out there," Derek insists, because they can't afford for Isaac—for any
of them—to get lazy, complacent. That's just what Deucalion is waiting for,
probably.
"Well, we didn't find any sign of them, either," Isaac says, still fiddling
with his cuff. His tone is teenage sullen, but Derek can let that slide.
He nudges Isaac's shoulder. "It's fine. Go get some sleep, you're tired." He
is, Derek can smell it on him, oily and thick.
Isaac shakes his head. "I'm okay," he denies, "I can…if you need me…?"
"I don't," Derek says, and he thinks he says it gently but he can tell almost
right away that it wasn't gentle enough, with the wet newspaper fug of Isaac's
disappointment. "Just…get some rest," Derek says, rougher now that he feels
awkward. "I'll call you if I need you."
Isaac nods and moves off, disappearing into the train car.
Derek sighs and rolls his shoulders.
"You look plenty tired yourself," Peter observes, leaning back against the wall
where the shadows are thickest and crossing his arms. "You're overextended."
"Don't start this again." Derek rubs the bridge of his nose, where the ache is
deepest, with the ball of his thumb.
"Erica and Boyd left of their own accord."
"But they're still my responsibility!" Derek's hands fist, talon tips biting
into the skin. "While you were sitting on your ass, going crazy in the
hospital, Deucalion and his alphas destroyed almost every other pack in the
area."
In the beginning, just after the fire, Derek had been just as glad to get out
of California, away from the memories and reminders. But later, not even a lot
later, he missed it. He'd argued long and furiously with Laura when he found
out they were about to lose their land—the Hale land—to the county; he'd argued
with her just as fiercely—so many times—about starting a new pack, so it
wouldn't be just the two of them (and Peter), so the pack could live again. But
Laura was the alpha; she made the decisions and Derek had no choice but to go
along with them.
He'd thought he was doing things so differently.
"They'll kill Boyd and Erica just because they're mine," Derek hisses, low
enough that Isaac shouldn't be able to overhear, if he's still awake.
"And what, exactly, do you think you can do about it?"
"Maybe nothing," Derek grits. "Maybe something."
Peter rolls his eyes, visible even in the gloom. "That's very philosophical of
you. What about Scott?"
Derek frowns. "What about Scott?"
Peter raises his eyebrows and tilts his head in Derek's direction. "You really
need me to say it? I can smell it all over you."
Derek shakes his head. "Scott isn't going to join the pack." It's much easier
to say it to Peter than to hear Scott say it to him. Thwarting Peter is one of
the few pure enjoyments he has left.
Peter tches, shaking his head pityingly. "That's a very defeatist attitude. And
on a day when you've put yourself so deeply into young Mister McCall's
affections."
Derek sighs, rolling his eyes heavenward. He knew Peter would, of course, draw
the wrong conclusions, make more of out of it than necessary, but as usual,
Derek underestimated exactly how obnoxious it would be. "We're not having this
conversation."
"Touchy." Peter's mouth pouts like a kiss. "Maybe it's not Scott's affections
we should worry about?"
"Go away." Derek points in the direction of the exit, glad yet again that Peter
has his own apartment. Away from Derek. "Now."
                                      ☽ ☾
"You did WHAT?"
Scott sighs and hangs his head. "Please don't make me say it again."
Stiles has already made him repeat it three times, getting more hysterical each
time, rather than less.
"Okay, okay. Okay. Okay." Stiles stops pacing, drops into Scott's desk chair
and leans forward, hand and mouth opening like he's about to say
something…before he jumps up and starts pacing again. "Okay."
"And stop saying 'okay', okay?" Scott isn't even sure why he told Stiles what
happened with him and Derek, except that he's got years and years of telling
Stiles pretty much everything in his life, especially all things Derek-related.
In retrospect, this was maybe something he should've kept to himself.
"Yeah." Stiles spins around and looks at Scott, knuckling his mouth like he's
thinking.
Scott's a little afraid of what Stiles might be thinking. And he's completely
not sure of what he's thinking. Mostly, he's not thinking. Because if he
thinks, then mostly what he's thinking is stuff like: HOLY GOD, DEREK HALE JUST
HAD HIS HAND ON MY DICK! Which is a thought that just seems to go around in a
circle and bite its own ass.
Stiles throws his arms wide and shrugs. "So….what was it like?"
"I don't know!" Scott flaps his arms in a maybe-a-little-bit-hysterical shrug
of his own. "It was weird! It was really weird!"
Weird is definitely one word for it. Scott has never had a problem with any of
the handful of gay kids at BHHS—well, except for that time he hit Danny in the
face and that was totally about Scott being a werewolf and not at all about
Danny being gay—but at the same time, he's never felt any special solidarity
(yesterday's Word of the Day, meaning: union or fellowship arising from common
responsibilities and interests, as between members of a group or between
classes, peoples, etc.: to promote solidarity among union members.) or pull to
the gay kids and when he's thought about a hand that wasn't his on his dick,
he's always just assumed a girl's hand.
"Yeah," Stiles agrees, "of course, I mean, it was Derek. Hale!" Stiles runs his
hand over his hair, which is getting really fuzzy. "Like…how does that even
happen? And, you know," Stiles gestures at his head, "the perfectly groomed
facial stubble, I feel like I should've known."
Scott slants a look at Stiles. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, I know," Stiles says, bumping down next to Scott on the bed's edge, "but
I'm floundering here. I mean…Derek Hale!"
"Yes, I know," Scott sighs, flopping backward on the bed. "But since it was my
dick, maybe I could be the one to freak out? If it's not too much trouble?"
"Heh." Stiles grins, sheepish. Then he does a kind of swing-hop, crossing his
legs under him and then letting his weight drop on the mattress, bouncing Scott
a bit. "Okay, but how did that even happen?"
"I don't know!" Scott's voice goes all squeaky and he clears his throat, trying
to power it back down. He sits up again. "I just wanted some help not wolfing
out, and the next thing I know his hand's down my pants!"
"Whoa, whoa…" Stiles T's his hands together, time out. "He just… Stuck his
hands down your pants?"
"No," Scott protests, because he can smell Stiles getting wound up, starting to
get angry and yeah, okay, Scott's wording could've used some work on that one.
"Not like that. Not like you're thinking. He told me he was going to do it…"
"…and you said yes," Stiles prompts, the edge still in his voice.
"Yeah, of course." Scott nods.
Stiles opens his mouth and Scott can practically see the words before they come
out: no, not 'of course', not with Derek, but instead, Stiles just lets out a
hot, short sigh and says instead, "Okay, well. Not to derail the exciting talk
about your dick, but what do you mean you needed help not wolfing out?"
Between his knees, Scott's hands tighten on each other until the bone squeaks,
though the nails remain short, human. "Yeah…"
Along with everything else, he's been trying not to think of Allison, but the
longing for her spills back into him, crushing and hollow at the same time. He
shrugs. "I don't know. It's like…"
"Allison?"
Scott nods, not looking at Stiles. "Yeah. I know it's just temporary, but…" He
inhales. "She's not even there, man. I can't smell her or hear her heartbeat or
her voice or anything. She's just gone."
They hadn't even waited for the end of the school year. And the house is up for
sale. For sale. If Scott doesn't pay strictest attention, he finds himself
detouring past it, even though it's nowhere near anywhere he's going, school
and the hospital and Stiles'. He throws up his hands, "I mean, what the hell is
there even to do in France, anyway?"
"You mean other than the metric ton of museums and history and the cooking and
the wine…" Stiles trails off when Scott glares at him. "Right. Not helping
again, sorry."
"I just… I miss her so much."
So much you let Derek Hale jerk you off in an abandoned train station.
Scott growls a little under his breath, grinding the heel of his hand against
his forehead until colors spark behind his closed eyes. For once, Stiles
doesn't say anything, patting Scott awkwardly on his shoulder.
Finally, Scott wrestles back enough control that he can breathe again, open his
eyes again, lift his head against the gravitational pull of missing Allison.
"Anyway," he says, ignoring the thickness of his voice and hoping Stiles will,
too, "the wolf thing. I don't know. Sometimes it's okay and I can control it,
just like always, and sometimes…"
Sometimes I want to find out how much of Beacon Hills I can tear apart before
someone stops me.
Scott can't quite bring himself to say that part. Stiles has seen Scott at
almost his worst, but not his absolute worst (the school) and even so, Stiles
doesn't really understand how it feels, one part terrible and terrifying but
also really freaking good, like suddenly being all the things he's ever wanted
to be, tall and big and strong and powerful, all at once.
"So you went to Derek." Stiles is hurt; even if Scott didn't have years of
reading Stiles', he can smell it, ashy and like wet newspapers.
And, on the other side, the stiff bitterness of Derek's voice when he says:
"You could do what you usually do, go play with Stiles instead…"
"If you wanted to jerk me off, Stiles, all you had to do was say so," Scott
looks over his shoulder with a smirk, hiding the sinking suspicion that he's
somehow done this all backwards. He should've told Stiles about the wolfing out
and he should have kept everything about Derek and his dick to himself.
"I… That's not what I was saying, I wouldn't even come up with…! I just meant
that…"
Scott's pretty horrible at witty comebacks so any time he's got Stiles making
fish faces and stammering for something to say deserves a little pat on the
back. And he managed to distract Stiles from his issues with Derek, so double-
win.
"I'm not touching your dick," Stiles says finally, definitively. "I mean…gah!"
He shudders. "You're like my brother, ew."
"That's what I said!"
"Well, yeah," Stiles says, with an implied duh, looking and sounding—and
smelling—more upbeat again. "Okay, but here's what I don't get. Derek's usual
methodology is to, like…break something. Usually somebody's bone." Stiles
grimaces, rolling his eyes. "Barring, you know, the usual bone/dick related
jokes, why did Derek decide this time to, you know…" Stiles jerks off the air.
"Bone?"
"I don't know." Scott shrugs. "I mean…" He laughs a little. "It definitely felt
a lot better than a broken bone!"
"No, but it kinda makes sense if you think about it," Stiles lifts and then
resettles himself on the bed, hands opening like he can pull the idea in with
his fingers. "I mean, all the time, you hear about people talking about sex,
sexual energy as, like, a source of power. There was that whole thing with
Sting and his wife, and, and Blood Sugar Sex Magik…"
Scott squints. "That's a Red Hot Chili Peppers album. I don't think that was a
real thing."
"Okay, but you get my point!"
"I…'m not sure that I do."
"Okay, but power!" Stiles makes excited jazz hands. "If sex power is a real
thing, it makes sense that the energy you raise from having sex is something
you can maybe use to anchor yourself and keep from wolfing out."
It sounds as likely as anything else that's happened to Scott since Peter bit
him. Which is pretty much the problem. When you find yourself turned into a
creature that everyone says isn't supposed to exist, where did the goalposts of
possible versus impossible get moved to?
Scott shrugs. "I don't know. I just couldn't really think about shifting with
somebody's hand touching my dick."
"Yeah," Stiles shakes his head. "But it was Derek's hand."
"I…it wasn't really…that bad," Scott says, fighting not to squirm as he
remembers exactly how not bad it was.
"Oh, really?" Stiles face moves like he can't make up his mind to smile or not.
"Better than Allison?"
"Different than Allison," Scott corrects, not about to tell anyone, even
Stiles, that Allison's never done anything remotely like that. At least not
with him.
Especially not with the easy and completely casual knowledgeableness that Derek
had manhandled him. Everything he's ever done with Allison has been amazing…but
Scott doesn't remember ever coming as hard as he did with Derek.
Stiles makes a face, but he doesn't press Scott for more details about it, for
which Scott is seriously grateful.
Then Stiles's scent takes on the orangey scent that means he's thinking too
hard about it all. "So…did you?"
Scott shakes his head. Then, "I offered, 'cause, you know…"
"Right, yeah, can't leave a guy hanging after…" Stiles nods.
"Yeah, exactly! And, I don't know. He just didn't want me to."
Stiles rears back a little, shaking his head. "That's just not normal."
"I know, right? And it's not like…I mean, he was hard, you know?" More than
that, Scott had smelled, tasted, that Derek was turned on.
"Maybe he just didn't want you touching his junk," Stiles offers, picking the
worn spot on the knee of his jeans into a full-blown hole.
"I guess," Scott says, inconclusively. That had been last Tuesday's Word of the
Day.
                                      ☽ ☾
It's hot. It doesn't often get hot in this part of California, not really hot
and not this early in the year. The house isn't built for the heat, too old for
central air, too cut up to get a good cross-breeze, even with box fans working
busily in all the windows.
Scott has his fan pointed square at his bed, but it's not cooling anything,
it's just moving the warm air around over his skin and he can't sleep and he's
rolled across every spot on his bed and there's not a hint of coolness left
anywhere in the limp, tired sheets or the pillows that he's flipped so often
they might as well be rotisserie.
"So, is this a thing now? Hooking up with Derek? Friends with benefits?"
"I still don't know if wearefriends," Scott says, pulling at the fuzzballs on
his blanket.
"Fair enough. But if he's jerking you off, you're not enemies, either."
Scott shakes his head. "Derek and I were never enemies. Exactly. And we're not
enemies now, I just don't know what we are."
"Fuck buddies?" Stiles suggests, completely not helpfully.
"No!" Scott makes a face. "I don't know what, but not that."
At the time, he and Derek as fuck buddies was probably the most absurd thing
Scott could think of. He loves Allison. And he wants peace between him and
Derek…but he doesn't trust Derek, doesn't get Derek. And he doesn't like guys.
Not like that.
But now, in the dark and without Stiles staring at him, all that certainty is
draining away, as insubstantial as the light of the fattening moon coming in
the windows. He and Allison are broken up. Maybe just for a little while, but
(the house is for sale.) maybe forever. And Scott didn't just let Derek jerk
him off, he liked it. A lot. Which maybe doesn't mean anything for the future,
it might have totally been a one-time thing.
But what if it isn't?
What if Derek doesn't think it's just this one time?
Would he let Derek do it again? Does Scott want him to? What if it doesn't just
stop with a helping hand-job?
The sudden hot thrill in his belly, his cock, and Scott realizes he's more than
halfway to a hand-job of his own, fingers chafing idly at his shaft through the
soft jersey of his boxers.
Jerking off again doesn't sound like a terrible idea but he doesn't want to do
it thinking about Derek. Scott rolls to the side, fumbling in his nightstand
for the familiar caress of silk.
The scarf is one of Allison's, long, thin and black. Scott hadn't stolen it on
purpose; the day had been too hot for a scarf, Allison had decided, shifting
the scarf from her neck (too warm), to her wrist (too bulky and aesthetically
unpleasing) to her hair (Scott doesn't even know) before she handed it off to
him to hold for her, since her outfit had no pockets.
The fact that the scarf hadn't made it back to Allison, in the break-up
exchange of stuff…okay, that was on purpose, but Scott can't come up with more
than a half-hearted and not-very-real twinge of guilt about it.
It smells like her and, when Scott's feeling especially desperate, he'll close
his eyes and imagine the slide of it is the feathery tickle of her hair on his
skin. It's worth a little guilt. Really, it's worth a lot of guilt, even if he
doesn't exactly have any.
As he pulls his boxers down with one hand and a bit of wriggling, he flicks the
scarf out of its roll with a jerk of his fingers. It's light enough that the
sad breeze from the fan picks up the ends and tries to eel the silk from his
grip.
It's not the end of the world, Scott knows that, but he grabs for it like it
is, anyway, heart rabbiting fast against his ribs, and it's only when his
fingers close that he realize his hand has shifted, tough, bony talons
shredding through the delicate cloth.
"Goddammit!" Scott spits the word out thinly from between his teeth instead of
roaring it, the way he wants to, his chest burning and too tight. Perversely,
his dick surges up, harder than ever.
Scott growls, eyes burning as he pulls the scarf carefully off his claws,
holding it up and glaring balefully at the moonlight shining through the
three…no, four, there's where his thumb went through…holes in the silk.
It doesn't matter, Scott tells himself, closing his eyes and bringing the scarf
in to drag it over his forehead, down his cheek. It's just a couple holes, no
big deal. Scott grabs his swelled-up dick with the ease of habit. He's just
about jerked himself dry in the two and a half weeks since Allison left, and he
turns his face, into the silk, with that same comfortability of routine,
rooting for the sharp florals of Allison's body-wash and perfume and, mingled
with it, the vanilla-honey scent of her skin.
Except it isn't there. It hovers on the edge of Scott's awareness, like a word
on the tip of his tongue, or an object just a couple inches past his furthest
wingspan of stretch, but mainly what he smells in the ink-black folds is his
own whiff, sweat and oil and the faint milky tang of come, though he's
never—would never—gotten his spunk on Allison's scarf.
"Aw, come on," Scott moans, curling on his side. He grinds his face into the
pillow, though his hand stays twisted around his dick.
Scott knows Allison. He's seen—memorized—every inch of her, how she looks in
nearly every kind of light, how she smells, the sounds and texture of her. He
can track her heartbeat, her pulse, from across town.
It's not there now; there's nothing there now, when he listens for her.
Scott turns his face deeper into the pillow, literally biting it to keep in the
howl rising in his throat.
She's gone. She left him.
Worse, the part he hasn't even told Stiles, she might not be coming back.
They'd broken up already, Scott wasn't supposed to know, wasn't supposed to be
on the roof of the Argent's house, but he had been, and he'd overheard
everything.
This is why you don't make a person your anchor, Derek had said. It might be
the only true thing Derek's ever said to him, the proof of it a crumpled up rag
in his wolfed-out hand.
Derek.
In contrast to the scarf, Scott can still smell Derek on his skin. It's faint,
faint enough that he missed it or was able to ignore it, but now he's sweating,
now that his whole skin feels almost luminous with heat, the familiar/
unfamiliar tangle of his scent and Derek's bleeds from his skin.
Scott breathes out, opening his eyes and turning on his back. The moonlight
seems brighter. It fills the room, coats his body in sweet, cool silver. A
promise that it would feel cooler, better if he goes out, into the night, under
the waxing moon. If he shifts. If he runs…
No, no. This is what he went to Derek for.
If he can't call back his memories of Allison right now, this one, specific
memory of Derek is etched in hi-def 3D, from the press of Derek against his
back to the hot blurt of Derek's breath over Scott's cheek, to the rough
friction the tight ring of his fingers made around Scott's cock.
Scott tightens his grip, trying to replicate that touch, the feelings it gave
him, a pleasure that made things feel simple and clear.
He can't think about Allison anymore, can't keep chasing her ghost straight
into the haunts where the monster inside him lives.
Derek knows that monster.
Derek also really knows what to do with a guy's dick. Scott wonders if that's
just applied knowledge—you have a dick, you have a reasonable idea of what a
guy might like—or whether it's something Derek's done before, maybe had done to
him?
Picturing either sends a hot, unexpected jolt through Scott, arching his back
and speeding the slur of his hand over his cock.
Derek hadn't let Scott return the favor, but he'd been into it. Derek's arousal
is like siracha and lime, hot and sour, something Scott could smell and taste
at the same time. He wonders what it would've been like, if Derek had said yes,
what he'd look like.
What he'd feel like.
Scott's never had another guy's dick in his hand, not since he and Stiles were,
like, three and Scott doesn't think that even should count. What would it be
like? What would it feel like? Would it feel like his own cock, fat and warm
and smooth…
…is Derek circumcised? Can Derek be circumcised?
Just yesterday, Scott would never have considered thinking about a dude's junk,
especially Derek Hale's as something at all hot, but at that thought, at
picturing Derek's dick—with foreskin or without?—it turns some crank Scott
didn't know he had. He grunts, rough and surprised at the hot wringing pulse in
his belly, his cock, his balls, and then he shoots, thick splatters up his
belly, his chest, thick over his own hand.
"Jesus," Scott says weakly, and throws his other arm across his eyes.
***** June *****
Derek knows just enough about cars to know he doesn't have a chance in hell of
figuring out what's wrong with the Camaro and he's going to have to get a
mechanic to take a look at it. Fuck. Derek's fingers tighten around the useless
wrench, hard enough that the anodized metal creaks a little.
"Did you do something to me?"
The snarling sharpness of Scott's voice makes Derek's hand crimp tight, the
wrench becoming even more useless as it bows into a U. It takes more effort
than Scott will ever appreciate not to whip around and grab Scott by the
throat; put him down until he submits.
Not that Scott would ever submit, short of a level of violence that even
Derek's uncomfortable with and that would destroy any chance of winning Scott
around. Hell, Scott didn't even submit to Peter, who made him, even when he was
newly bitten and at his most vulnerable.
Derek's never going to say it to Scott's face and it's never going to stop
being annoying as hell when it's turned against Derek, but Scott's rock-hard
stubbornness is probably what he admires most about the guy. He can't even
really imagine what that kind of certainty would feel like from the other side,
from inside.
Of course, that's also what makes it most surprising that Scott's back. Almost
a month later, sure, but back. He'd figured Scott did what he normally does and
struck out on his own or, if worse had come to worst, he'd gone to Stiles, his
usual partner-in-crime. Of course, if he's just here to accuse Derek
of…something, then Derek guesses it makes a lot more sense.
He sighs and backs away from the raised hood, finally looking up at Scott as he
discards the ruined wrench to the driveway with a clank. "I assume you mean
more than the obvious."
He doesn't expect Scott will blush. Or…maybe he does and he just wanted to see
it happen, pink and hot, with a scent like Red-Hot candies taste. Derek leans
his weight back against the car, metal biting into his hands. "What's this
about, Scott?"
Scott's shoulders tuck in even deeper, almost a hunch, and he can't quite
manage to meet Derek's eyes, which is interesting, because he's never had a
problem staring Derek down before. His scent is sour, crab-apple-y with
embarrassment, even more hotly cinnamon-ish with something else, something
Derek can't pin down. "I just…feel different," Scott says.
"I don't know what that means." It takes them so long to get to the point of
anything. "Are you still having problems with your shift?"
Scott's eyebrows twist in, he looks and smells confused and Derek's patience
nudges another bit toward impatience, but he fights down the urge to throw up
his hands and snap, "What are we even talking about, then?!" because he is,
goddamn it, going to get better at this, even if it does feel like juggling
ducklings, right out of the shell. He wishes he hadn't thrown the wrench down;
maybe he'd feel better if he could twist it into a pretzel.
"I don't know…exactly."
Derek blows out a breath, rattling on the edge of shift himself. "Well, what do
you know? Exactly?"
Scott's blush deepens and his pulse and scent goes nuts, an overload that makes
Derek wrinkle his nose and fight a sneeze as Scott says, "I feel different
about you."
Oh.
Derek blinks, a white-noise silence filling his head and mostly replacing the
low-level but constant buzzing of the fattening moon.
"Scott—" Derek doesn't know what he's going to say beyond that, just the numb
repetition of Scott's name, but it doesn't matter, because Scott cuts in over
him:
"I know, all right? I know!" Scott kicks at the ground, scattering pebbles of
gravel and stars of shattered glass. Some of them ping against the Camaro's hub
caps and wheels; Derek's jaw tightens until he feels it in his teeth. "It's
stupid and it's creepy and it's weird and I don't even like guys, at least not
like that…"
Derek lifts his hand, a kind of hold on, give me a minute, but Scott either
doesn't see it or doesn't care, the words stumbling and falling over each other
in a way that shows Scott's spent way too many years keeping up with
Stillinski.
"…but then I'm wondering about if you've got a foreskin or not…"
Whoa. Whoa.
"…and I'm not saying you hate me or anything, but you definitely don't like me
very much, so there's that…"
"Scott, stop."
"…so it would just be a lot easier if it was like, a spell or something," Scott
babbles on, as though he can't even stop himself from talking now that it's all
spilling—vomiting—out, "or, or, because you're an Alpha, maybe and it's just
something that happens with Alphas…"
Scott makes a mournful little moaning sound, putting both hands in his hair and
tugging and shaking his head, "but it's not, I know it's not and you're going
to tell me it's not, that it's all me and I just…"
"Scott—"
"…I need you to not be a jerk about this, because I'm seriously freaking out
about it, I'm…"
"Scott! Stop!"
Scott skids to a crashing verbal halt, his face gone through pink and into a
hectic red. He looks like he's going to shift, die or burst into tears and,
really, Derek doesn't want that, none of those are good options.
"Stop," Derek says again, quieter, wishing that just saying it could make this
whole thing stop, go away. Why is it like this? Why is it that even the
simplest things he tries to do go awry and strange and wrong?
Scott is still looking at him, frowning, his arms hugged around himself,
waiting. Waiting for Derek to say something.
Derek sags back harder against the car until it squeaks slightly on its shocks.
"I…don't. I like you fine, Scott."
Scott's laugh is jagged, telling Derek he's gotten it wrong yet again, and he
backs up into and then slides down the trunk of the nearest tree, hands fisting
together between his spread knees. "Well, thanks for not being a jerk, I
guess."
Derek sighs and crouches down so he and Scott are on a level. "Scott." Again,
once he gets past the opening gambit of Scott's name, he can't think of any
actual words to follow it up with, just an inarticulate snarl of things that it
would be a whole hell of a lot easier if he could just beam it all into Scott's
head.
Scott stares at Derek for several seconds before his gaze swings sideways and
he knuckles across his cheek, his mouth, stretching them out of shape. "Yeah…"
he says, his voice as wavery as his laugh the moment before. He puts his hand
in the dirt, getting ready to push himself up again, "I'm just gonna…"
"Wait." Derek drags the heel of his hand up his forehead. "Jesus, Scott, you
show up here and start talking about, about…" my foreskin. Derek can't even
make himself say the word. "Just…give me a minute, okay? Give me a minute."
"Yeah, sure," Scott mumbles, still looking away, but he plants his butt back in
the dirt.
"I was just trying to help," Derek says finally, because that, at least, feels
crystal clear. "You wanted my help. I didn't do anything to you."
"Other than the obvious," Scott says with a flat little unamused smile.
"Other than the obvious." Derek agrees, biting off each word. Then: "I didn't
cast a spell on you."
"No…" Scott bonks his head back against the tree's trunk. "That was stupid. I
didn't really mean that. I'm just…"
"Freaking out."
"Yeah."
Derek sighs. He does remember what it was like, that first time with a guy, the
first time he realized a man could turn him on as much as a woman. To say it'd
been an adjustment was an understatement.
"So how do you see this going, Scott?" he asks, letting his own butt settle on
the ground. There's interested little zing in his belly at the thought of
having Scott again, but he doesn't let himself think about it, dwell on it.
"Because I already told you about having a person as your anchor."
"I don't want you as my anchor," Scott says quickly, fast enough to be a little
insulting but not so fast Derek thinks Scott's lying—to Derek or himself.
"It…it actually helped, the…" Scott's hands gesture meaninglessly. "What you
did. It helped."
Derek stomps down on the vague sense of pleasure at Scott's words, same as he
bit down on the desire to go all alpha on Scott.
Scott sighs, rolling his head against the bark. "I don't know what I want."
He does, though; Derek can hear it in the subtle skip/beat of Scott's heart,
the rank, oily lust fleeting off Scott's skin. "You want sex," Derek says
flatly, because seriously, Scott needs to get over this human coyness, at least
with other wolves.
Derek doesn't for a second consider that it has anything to do with him,
personally, except as the potential partner to/dispenser of sex…but he finds
himself considering it anyway.
Scott's nostrils flare and his eyes change, the irises darkening and the pupils
sweeping a little wider, but he doesn't say anything.
"If you can't say it, how the hell do you expect to have it?" Derek presses.
"You're not a kid, just say it." He leans, shifts his entire weight forward,
back into a crouch, fingers flexing in the dirt. It feels good, right, long
muscles humming with the tension…and the possibility of release of that
tension. "You want sex."
Amber swims beneath the natural brown of Scott's eyes, like light on waves, but
doesn't quite surface as he meets Derek's gaze, hot and not docile in the
least. "Yes," Scott says thickly and with a swallow that can be heard even
without enhanced hearing. "I want sex."
                                      ☽ ☾
What are you doing? Scott's inner Stiles screams. And Scott…he doesn't know.
Derek comes closer, a hip-twisting slither that should look awkward and instead
looks scarily boneless and just plain scary. His head tilts and for a moment,
Scott thinks Derek is going to kiss him—and panics briefly about whether he
wants Derek to or not—but instead Derek pushes Scott's chin up and Scott's
looking up through a lace of branches while Derek huffs hotly across Scott's
throat.
Scott knows it's just breath, knows Derek is just scenting him, but those
rational thoughts don't change the way the puffing sear of each exhale burns,
igniting Scott's skin, coursing down his veins and waking every part of him to
aching life.
Peter did something like this to him once, Scott thinks, as his legs spread
wider to accommodate his swelling boner and his fingers dig into the dead
leaves and dirt. He remembers the heat and weight of the Alpha's—Peter's—body
over his, pinning him.
Except with Peter, it'd been the Alpha—Peter—forcing something, forcing himself
into Scott and, though he can feel the power that radiates from Derek, the
strength, Derek isn't doing anything like that.
If anything, he's waiting.
What is he waiting for?
"I can smell myself on you," Derek's murmurs, sniff-breathing up behind Scott's
ear. His grip shifts from Scott's chin to cup the side of Scott's head,
threading into Scott's hair, pulling a little to move Scott's head how he wants
it.
"Derek—" Scott says unsteadily, fisting Derek's tee-shirt. The cloth is old and
skin-soft, the shoulder underneath rock-hard, solid with muscle.
"Scott," Derek says back, sounding way more calm than Scott feels. Warmth
swipes along Scott's neck and his cock swells harder when he realizes that
Derek licked him. Tasted him.
But then Derek doesn't go on from there, simply tugging Scott's head the other
way to give himself access to the other side of Scott's neck, still scenting.
What is he waiting for?
The answer comes without any blare of trumpets or even real surprise: he's
waiting for you, dumbass.
The thought of touching Derek, actually putting his hands on him, is scarier
than Derek pushing him into saying it out loud: I want to have sex. Actually
touching him…
Scott can do this. He absolutely, totally can.
First contact is Derek's knee. Which is fine. Totally fine. He's probably
touched Derek's knee some time before, right? If not, it's still a safe place
to touch, a normal place, to be touching another guy. Moving up the inseam,
though…
Scott doesn't get that far up the inseam before he hits what's undeniably
Derek's cock, pushing out the denim. Before he can think too much—or freak out
too hard—Scott cups his palm over it, feeling its resilience, the solidity of
the core. It's not quite the revelation Scott thought it would be—it's a
dick—but it kind of is, too: a dick that's not his own, that twitches under his
touch, taut with blood. Derek's dick.
Okay, now dick doesn't even sound like a real word anymore. But Scott keeps
touching Derek's, tracing the thick shape of it, moving his fingers back and
forth along the shaft.
"Scott."
Scott snaps back to realize how long Derek's been crouched like that, letting
Scott just pet his cock, same as he'd caress a cat or dog at Deaton's. He's
suddenly aware of how much heat is radiating from Derek's skin, how harsh
Derek's breath is, in Scott's ears, against his skin.
"Sorry!"
Derek growls, makes a bull-like snort before dropping to his knees so he's
straddling Scott instead of crouching over him. "No, I just—" Derek says, "I
need more." He opens Scott's jeans just like last time, like he does it all the
time, like he's done it a million times, and augh, if Scott keeps thinking like
that, he's going to jizz before Derek even touches him.
Scott takes a deep breath and poises his fingers over the waistband of Derek's
pants. "Do I…? Should I…?"
Derek snorts again, pushing Scott's hands aside and leaning in again to press
his mouth and scratch his teeth against Scott's neck in what, if it were anyone
else but Derek Hale, Scott would call kisses. "I got it, Scott."
Derek does, fishing Scott's cock from his underwear with one hand and bringing
out his own—holy crap, not circumcised—with the other in an act of
ambidextrousness that Scott's going to have to think about and marvel over at a
time he's more capable of thinking of something past the fact that his dick is
again in Derek's hand and then, oh, his dick is rubbing against Derek's, in
Derek's hand and, and, wow that's really awesome.
"Yeah?" Derek is smiling against Scott's skin, which is weird (maybe he's just
baring his teeth?) and he sounds pleased, which is even weirder. "You like
that?"
Scott laughs. "What's not to like?"
The laugh turns to a much less identifiable noise when he feels Derek's fangs
extend, needle sharp tips pricking against the skin without actually breaking
it.
Grabbing a fistful of Derek's hair is instinct. So many of his memories of
Derek are wrapped up in pain, directly or indirectly: Derek breaking his hand,
the brawl—multiple brawls—in the burned out wreck of the Hale house behind
them, the fight at the ice rink. Even the stuff that turned out to be Peter and
not Derek, it's hard to separate it out, to not see Derek as the one who
brought it all crashing into his life.
But with Derek only gliding the tips of his canines across Scott's throat and
shoulder, and Derek's thumb circling from the head of Scott's cock to his own
and back, it's harder for Scott to remember why letting Derek bite him is a bad
idea.
"Derek—"
"It'll only hurt for a minute, Scott," Derek says promptly, like he's been
waiting for Scott's half-hearted, not-exactly-an-objection. "It'll heal."
It will. Slower than a bite from another beta, but it will heal.
"Don't."
Even as he says it, Scott fingers tighten and he braces for the knife bite of
fangs unconfident that Derek will respect "don't". But Derek only makes another
slow teasing scrape of his fangs over Scott's shoulder before pulling back.
"Don't want anything that'll leave a mark," Derek says, tone and scent so flat
that Scott doesn't know what to read from it. "Nothing that'll show."
Easier to grasp is when Derek shifts forward, planting one hand against the
tree's bark and rocking his cock into Scott's. Scott isn't good at comebacks at
the best of times and the slick friction of Derek's dick against his makes all
the words fall out of his head.
Derek's heavier body pins Scott without a lot of room to move, but he finds
himself trying to thrust up anyway, desperate for the rub of Derek's forefinger
back and over his cock head, the push of Derek's dick against the shaft.
Around the feeling of them moving together, the gathering tightness and
electric zinging pleasure from his nuts, twines the struggle not to think of
Allison, not to think of how nothing with Allison was like this. The dark stab
of missing her all over again is like the bite he denied Derek, breathless pain
mixed muddily, confusingly, with the want and need to come.
Derek's head is mostly pointed down, eyes hidden behind the lowered lids, the
long sharp arrow of his nose, changing shape just a little with each flare of
his nostrils, half the panting and half because he's scenting, he's smelling
Scott, even now, and beneath, Derek's mouth, always unsmiling but now half-open
and pink.
Scott snarls, fingers snapping tight in Derek's hair again and dragging Derek's
face up so he can slam his mouth over Derek's, not so much a kiss as forcing
those feelings—the rage and longing and howling hunger—forcing them all into
Derek, making Derek take them, like a bitter pill he can share from tongue to
tongue.
There's a brittle crackle behind Scott and then a soft shower of particles over
his shoulder. Scott's senses expand and he realizes Derek's claws are shredding
the bark from the tree right as Derek growls into Scott's mouth, a vibration he
can feel all the way down to his balls. Then Derek thrusts against Scott, hard,
shuddering, and the salt-milky smell of Derek's come blooms in Scott's nose. It
spatters over him wet and hot, chest and belly and one squirt all the way up to
Scott's neck.
Derek came on me, Scott thinks, equal parts grossed out and freakishly turned
on, and then it's on Derek's fingers and between their cocks and it's slicker
and warmer and better and oh, fuck, oh, God, oh…
Scott throws his free arm around Derek. It feels like the only thing he can do,
twisting inside out, drowning under it, and then the fall, freefall, the
dropping release into nothingness where he's not thinking, he's not worrying,
he's not doing anything, he's just being and it's awesome, it's so freaking
awesome.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Stiles is here," Scott's mom says unnecessarily, when Scott walks in, like he
didn't see the Jeep parked on the curb, like he can't smell fresh eau de Stiles
in the house over all the old tracks, or hear him upstairs, a combination of
rabbity pulse and Stiles' habit of randomly talking to himself when there's no
other audience.
"Oh," Scott says, "Um. Sorry?"
His mom gives her customary half-hearted sigh and goes back to unsorting the
now-clean laundry into his and hers by tossing them over the coffee table to
either end of the couch. "Just go find out if he's planning on staying for
dinner, okay?" She leans forward and squints at him. "You do know your shirt is
on inside out, right? Is this some new fashion thing? Because, honey…"
"No, Mom." Which seems to be not good enough an answer, because she's still
looking at him expectantly. "I, uh…" Scott longs to be better at making things
up on the fly the same as he takes a defiant pride in the fact that he's not a
better liar. "I just got something on it."
He has never been so glad that his mother is not a werewolf, with a werewolf's
senses.
He washed the shirt out best he could in the river, but it still reeks of jizz
and Derek and who knows what else. The shirt mostly covers the stains on his
jeans, but they're a lost cause, too.
His mom tips her chin and makes a little 'heh' noise. "Well, here, take your
laundry upstairs. And put it away. Don't just toss it in a pile on your bed or,
God forbid, back on the floor."
Scott's skin prickles as he scoops up the pile of clean laundry from the couch,
half-afraid that his mom will be able to smell it on him anyway, or that she'll
just know, but she seems preoccupied at picking at a salsa verde stain on one
of her shirts that didn't come out. Scott escapes sweaty but unscathed, holding
his clean clothes as far from his unclean body as he can without dropping
anything.
"Hey, what are you doing here?" Scott works really hard at sounding normal,
looking normal, as he kicks his door open and crosses to dump his clean laundry
on the very small part of the bed not currently taken up by Stiles, Stiles'
laptop, a Captain America comic book and a thick book of what looks like
physics.
"Kicked out of my house," Stiles says. Translation: his dad's working night
shift. Stiles jerks both his phone and body to the left, over the thumping
drums of Temple Run 2, almost falling off the bed. No good; a tinny scream and
Stiles tosses the cell aside in disgust. "I was just about to beat my best
score," he complains.
"I would apologize, except it's my room you're squatting in, so I guess you're
just going to have to suck it up," Scott says, digging through his laundry for
a clean shirt. "By the way, my mom wants to know if you're staying for dinner."
"I don't know, what's for…OH. MY. GOD, you did it again, didn't you?"
"Did what?" The words are automatic, but Scott holds his fresh shirt in front
of him like a shield. He can't tell if he's blushing, but it sure feels like
it.
"Seriously?" Stiles' eyebrows stretch toward his hairline. "You think I don't
know jizz stains when I see them?" His nose wrinkles. "And smell them. Jeez,
you smell like a gas station bathroom." He fans his hand frantically in Scott's
direction.
"Shut up, I do not," Scott says, mostly on reflex and not because he really
disagrees with Stiles. "Anyway, I'm about to take a shower."
"Please do," Stiles says, nasally because he's pinched his nose shut with one
hand, waving Scott toward the bathroom with the other. "And while you're doing
that, I'll negotiate with your mom about dinner."
In the bathroom, Scott strips mechanically out of his clothes and turns the
shower on to full-hot. The heater is too old for the water to ever get really
scalding but he feels cold, despite the unmoving air in the house and as warm
as it gets will feel good on his skin.
When he climbs in, though, he sags back against the tile, freezing cold and
slick against his spine. The bike ride from Derek's hadn't been hard; Scott
doesn't know why he suddenly feels so tired, why it's crashing down so hard
right now, like he could sink down into the tub and just...sleep.
He can hear his mom and Stiles downstairs. Though the actual sense of their
words is washed out by the hissing rasp of the shower, the bickering,
negotiating tone of it is very familiar. Scott breathes in and out for a
second, like he's steeling himself for that first plunge off the high dive,
then he straightens up and steps under the spray.
                                      ☽ ☾
"What are we doing here?" Isaac looks around the diner doubtfully yet again
before going back to poking with equal doubt at his food.
"We're having dinner." Derek likes his burgers the next thing to raw, but he
likes his bacon super-crisp, the next thing to burnt. He swipes his thumb
through the shattered slivers that had fallen to the plate and brings it to his
mouth, a salty, fatty burst across his tongue.
"Okay, but…why?" Isaac jabs his fork in a piece of his meatloaf and holds it
up, frowning.
Derek frowns too, shoving his plate away. "Because we needed to eat."
Isaac looks up from his inspection of his meatloaf and blinks at Derek, the
slow, wide-eyed blink that means he's surprised and trying to be non-
threatening. "Sorry," he says, as if he's testing his way across ice. "I just…
I don't know what's wrong with take-out. We usually have take-out."
It's true, they usually do. Half the numbers in Derek's phone are for
restaurants around Beacon Hills. It used to be more than half, but Peter giving
the bite Scott brought all these other people crashing into his life and now he
has all these numbers to go with them, all these people who aren't even pack:
Stillinski and the vet, the flirty redhead.
Derek shrugs, looks away, a low level simmer already starting up in the muscles
of his back, his jaw. "Maybe I just wanted to do something different."
This is also true, as far as it goes. The car dealership across the street
mocks him through the diner's storefront window, but the diner itself seemed
like a good idea, too, because they never do it, and because the husked out
shell of the house, or at the depot, isn't the same as eating in the light, at
a table.
"Yeah, sure, okay," Isaac says, in a way that lets Derek know he doesn't
actually understand at all. Derek wishes he knew if it was him or Isaac or both
of them and what he could do to fix it. Isaac swirls his cube of meatloaf
through the slurry of mashed potatoes and gravy before popping it in his mouth.
"The food's not half-bad," he allows. "The mashed potatoes are real, not from a
mix." Isaac shrugs, then looks up at Derek from under his lashes. "Are you
going to finish your fries?"
"Kill it," Derek says and shoves the plate across the table. Hunger still gnaws
dully in his stomach, but Isaac's still growing, on top of his new metabolism
and the upcoming full moon. He needs it more and Derek can remember his father
pushing his leftovers at Derek with those same, offhand words.
The memory is like dry ice, hot and cold at the same time and, rather than
dwell on it, Derek looks across at the dealership again, letting the floodtide
of worries great and small wash in and drown it.
"Why don't you go see what Scott's up to when we get out of here?" Derek says.
He has the money, it's not that he doesn't have the money, especially as low-
key has he's been living. It's just that he doesn't like actually using the
money…
"Because you want me to keep an eye on Scott," Isaac asks slowly, in that same
cautious voice, "or just because?"
Derek gives Isaac his full attention again, aware he went off the rails
somewhere but not quite sure where. Mostly he was thinking about how much he
didn't want to spend the money to replace the Camaro, even though technically,
the money is there for that.
"Because I have something to do," he says, "and with the…" His voice is
starting to rise and sharpen. Derek throttles himself back, lowering his voice
and leaning in, "With the Alpha Pack in town, I don't want you going off by
yourself. If you'd rather go hang out with Peter…"
"No," Isaac says hastily, "I can go to Scott's, if you don't want me with you."
Derek sighs. "It's not a punishment, Isaac. I'm trying to keep you safe."
Isaac says nothing, but his jaw juts mulishly, and he's starting to bend his
fork, cheap pot-metal that it is, into a U. Still, he knows better than to try
and stare Derek down—especially this close to full moon—instead stubbornly
eyeballing a point in between Derek's collarbones.
"I thought you and Scott were friends," Derek tries again. Why is this so
stupidly hard?
Isaac shrugs. "We are. I guess. I don't know." Another shrug. Then Isaac brings
his gaze up to look up at Derek, lucid and straight-on. "Are you and Scott
friends?"
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell what Isaac means by that. Scott's
scent is still all over him and, even with his current preoccupations, he feels
more relaxed than he has in weeks, if not months. But it's not what Isaac
thinks it is.
"Scott and I aren't anything," Derek says. "If you want…"
"I could go with you," Isaac offers. "Whatever it is you're doing, I could go
with you. You shouldn't be alone, either."
"I'll be fine."
Isaac huffs, a cloud of coppery annoyance exuding from his skin, but he goes
back to eating his dinner, albeit with sharp, jerky motions, fork clanking
against the plate in a Morse code of displeasure.
"Is there something else I can get for you boys?" The waitress refills their
water glasses without a splash hitting the table. She smells sick,
sickly—diabetic, Derek thinks, he had a teacher once who was diabetic—but
despite Isaac's insistence of sitting like he expects Sheriff Stilinski to
burst in with a SWAT team at any second, and Derek's apparent general air of
skeeviness, she's been very friendly to them both. "Refill on your Cokes, some
dessert?"
Isaac perks momentarily at the prospect of dessert, then his gaze darts at
Derek and he shakes his head.
Derek sighs again, squaring his shoulders against the booth back. Then, putting
on his best pretense of patience and his prettiest smile, "Dessert sounds
great! What've you got?"
                                      ☽ ☾
He ends up taking Isaac with him to the dealership. He'd planned to take Isaac
with him in the first place, but after Isaac started bitching about the diner,
Derek thought he was doing Isaac a favor by giving him an out. But Isaac seems
just as happy trailing behind him through the rows of cars, sniffing busily.
"I think…" Isaac leans in toward one sedan, nostrils flaring and then recoils.
"Augh. Someone had sex in there. That's so nasty." He draws closer to Derek,
bumping into him in a way that would probably seem clumsy if you didn't know he
was taking on some of Derek's scent, and leaving his own on Derek. "Why are we
here, anyway? Is this something about the Alpha Pack?"
"We're here because I need a new car."
Isaac spins around, wide-eyed. "What's wrong with the Camaro?" He sounds as
wounded as if it's his car.
Derek nudges him back, moving past the lines of low slung sedans to the bigger
vehicles; mini-vans like giant eggs and pick-ups like the one his aunt had to
haul lumber and scrap metal, and SUVs that look like he's either joining a
militia group or a government agency.
"It needs some work," Derek admits, with a shrug, like he wasn't cursing over
the engine just that afternoon. "But that's not why."
They're all ugly and functional and slow, the opposite of sleek, the opposite
of sexy.
"We need a new car." Derek bends to look in the interior of one of the mid-
sized SUVs and is slightly—grudgingly—impressed by the amount of legroom
inside. "Something bigger."
He hears Isaac's indrawn breath but ignores it, moving around the car to look
at the amount of cargo space in the back. Then, quietly—but not quiet enough to
hide the wobble in the middle: "Do you really think we're going to find Erica
and Boyd?"
"I do," Derek says, holding steady to his voice and scent. He straightens up to
look at Isaac. Putting a hand on Isaac's shoulder feels fake, theatric,
bordering on absurd, but Isaac's weight shifts slightly into the touch and so
Derek leaves his fingers hanging there. "If they were dead, we would've found
their bodies by now. So they're not dead. And if they're not dead, we can find
them."
Isaac nods, looking at Derek with such luminous belief that Derek's glad he
didn't eat anything more as his stomach sours in knots around what little is in
there.
The trail to find the missing betas is stone cold and he and Peter are pretty
much out of ideas on how else to find them. Peter's of the opinion that the
Alpha Pack has them, holding them hostage for who knows what reason. Derek
hates agreeing with Peter, just on principle, but more and more, he's feeling
like Peter is right. And if that's true, what can he do then? How does he save
them? All of them?
"We'll find them," Derek repeats, before looking up and past Isaac at the
saleswoman headed their way. She looks a little like Erica, the same brass
highlights to her blonde hair, the pouting bottom lip made fuller by the
darkness of her lipstick. When she gets a good look at him, her step and
heartbeat stutter a bit, the waft of her—soap and perfume and the woody scent
of the woman herself—get stronger as her skin warms.
Though the Camaro had been (mostly) his choice, it'd been Laura who did all the
negotiation, Laura who has—had—all the experience. She always did all the
talking.
Scott would probably look at this as some kind of opportunity. A learning
experience, something. Something optimistic and full of sunshine and rainbows.
Derek will just be happy if he doesn't get cheated out of all his dirty blood
money.
The saleswoman holds out her hand, upping the wattage on her already brilliant
smile and Derek makes himself smile and reach his hand out to meet her.
                                      ☽ ☾
"I can't believe you are actually doing homework," Stiles says over his
shoulder, in between throwing popcorn kernels in the air and trying—and mostly
failing—to catch them in his mouth. On the TV, Chris Hemsworth is about to jump
his motorcycle into an invisible wall and die.
"I have school tomorrow," Scott says, like he's already says the other dozen
times Stiles has complained about it. His stomach is growling for more popcorn,
more food, period, but he ate his bowl's worth, Stiles isn't sharing and he's
too lazy to get up and make more. Scott compares the numbers in the textbook
with the ones he wrote on his scratch paper, frowning. Something's not right
somewhere. "I gotta get my grades back up, man. My mom'll kill me if I flunk
summer school, too."
The upshot of everything that happened is that his mom finally understands what
happened with his grades, with his everything, last year, but she also made it
perfectly clear she expects him to do better and though his mom's threats are
about as meaningless as any time she estimates she's going to be home, he can't
stand that look of helpless disappointment on her face.
Scott finds the number he'd written wrong. Erases the old number and scribbles
the corrected one in. "Besides, I promised myself I'm going to do better this
next year."
"And you think fucking Derek Hale is the way to go with that?" Stiles tilts his
head over the couch back so he's blinking upside down at Scott.
Scott sighs and tosses his pencil down. It bounces off the side of his phone—no
new calls, no texts—and rolls; Scott stops it absently with his thumb. He knew
this was going to come up again. Stiles is just like his dad; neither one of
them can let go of a puzzle and yeah, okay, what the hell Scott's doing with
Derek is probably the biggest puzzle of all, but he hoped he'd have more time
to come up with an answer.
"I'm not…" Scott rolls the pencil back and forth, letting the bitten yellow
barrel fill his vision. "It's not what you think."
Stiles twists and flops around in a particularly disturbing and boneless way
until he's perched on the couch's back. "So what is it, then?" He spreads his
hands wide between his knees. "Because last I checked, you didn't even like
Derek all that much."
"I know." Scott nods. This is quieter Stiles, serious Stiles. Which has the
benefit of being less hysterical Stiles, too, but it's harder to distract him
when he's like this, too.
Stiles is watching him now, eyes sharp as Scott's, missing nothing. "And you
know, the first time, okay, sure, though I still think it's crazy and weird and
seriously skeevy that the only way he could come up with to 'help' you is to
jerk you off."
"But it worked!" Scott protests. God, his math homework was so much easier than
this.
Stiles clutches his head, his hair long enough to stick up through the spaces
in his long fingers. "So not the point!"
Scott flicks the pencil across the table and off the other side. "What is the
point?"
Stiles looks left and right as if for some invisible audience, throwing up his
hands. "The point is: what are you doing, man? I know you miss Allison, I get
that…"
Beneath his skin, Scott flinches, that yawing darkness opening again in his
chest like a poisoned flower. It shouldn't hurt this much. He told Allison it
was okay; it shouldn't hurt like this, still.
"…I really get that, but Derek is bad news, he is very bad news. And just…."
Stiles jerks in one of his Kermit the Frog imitations. "What are you doing?"
"Stop asking me that!" Scott's fingers ache as his nails start to lengthen; he
grips the table's edge and sucks air, fighting the change, fighting the wolf,
who wants to snap and bite, root in the soft parts.
When he gropes for the memories—human memories—to put up as a blockade between
him and the wolf, Scott thinks that what'll come is the sweet friction of his
cock against Derek's, but what comes instead is friction of a different kind:
the movement of Derek's mouth on his.
He surprised himself when he kissed Derek; it'd been a bigger surprise to
realize Derek was kissing him back, that they were kissing, coming down, easy
and slow, like it was something they'd done hundreds of times before, something
they always did. A surprise to realize that, even though they'd both come,
though they were both covered in it, they were in apparently no hurry to stop,
to disentangle.
Everything with Allison had always been so frantic, so hurried, (no, not
Allison, don't think about Allison), always stolen time. Not having to worry
about it, to be able to just go, as long as they wanted to, as long as it still
felt good…
(actually, Scott's mouth feels a little sore, in retrospect, and he broke out
his lip balm for the first time since February, but it's a good soreness, one
he likes)
Kissing Derek hadn't sucked.
"It's helping," Scott says, when he can breathe again, unrestricted, clear.
There are tiny scars from the tips of his claws in the table, but it's the
cheap one, from IKEA, and not the good one in the dining room that belonged to
Grandma Rodriguez, so his mom probably won't do more than sigh. Scott traces
his fingers over the small indents before sighing and looking up at Stiles. "I
know you hate Derek…"
"I don't hate him," Stiles interrupts promptly, "I hate his crazy, murderous
uncle, I hate his creepy Edward Cullen stalkeriness, and his habit of breaking
your bones to make a point…"
"Did you just make a Twilight reference?" Scott asks.
Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, I'm not proud of that." He jabs his
finger at Scott. "The point still stands, though."
Scott frowns, replaying the last couple minutes. "What's your point?"
"That—disliking—Derek used to be something we had in common." The back of the
couch creaks as Stiles' shifts his weight and Scott hopes it doesn't break.
Stiles' isn't nearly as weedy as he used to be, and that won't get just a sigh
and a look from his mom.
"We disliked him," Stiles repeats, as Scott gets up from the table and hops
over the couch's back, settling in his favorite spot in the corner on the side
with the lounger. He grabs the popcorn bowl and sorts through the detritus for
any good kernels.
Stiles slips down from the back to sit sideways and cross-legged, hands
twisting and untwisting in the space between. "And now…what? He's your
boyfriend? Your new best friend?"
"No," Scott objects immediately, a rejection so thorough he can't even come up
with other words to put around it. "No."
"Then what?" Stiles is worried about him, Scott can see that, smell it, but
it's covered all over in the bright-eyed and vaguely lemony need to know how
the pieces fit together.
Scott tosses a half-handful of rescued popcorn into his mouth. "If I was
getting laid with anyone else, you'd be cheering me on."
"But it's not anyone else," Stiles argues, which, really, Scott totally knew he
would. "It's Derek."
On the TV, Dana is getting beaten and tossed around and half-drowned on the
dock while everyone in the control room celebrates. It's Scott's least favorite
part of the movie, it always makes him a little sick and a little sad, and he
looks away again, back at Stiles. "I don't have a plan," Scott says and shrugs.
"I don't know what I'm doing. I don't…"
The words, I don't know how I feel, are right there, almost spilling off his
tongue, but it feels like too much, too big an admission, like telling Stiles
about him and Derek sitting there and making out afterward, and Scott can't
make himself say it. He's always known how he feels, even if he hasn't always
known what to do about it.
"It's just sex," Scott says finally. "He's there and he's willing and," when
it's happening, I don't have to think about Allison, "it feels good," Scott
finishes. That, at least, is something he can cop to, shrugging. "It feels
really good."
Stiles doesn't look satisfied—the pieces don't fit together well enough for
that—but he looks…what's the word? Mollified. Which, really, is going to have
to be good enough; Scott doesn't have more to give right now. "Huh," he says,
rubbing his cheek with his knuckles. "I always thought if one of us was going
to bang a dude, it would be me."
"Why you?" Scott sort-of laughs, not sure if he should be offended or what.
"I am totally attractive to guys!" Stiles protests, straightening up. "Ask
Danny!"
As Scott recalls, Danny's never weighed in definitively on that, but Scott
holds up his hands. "Okay, man." This is not an argument he wants to get into
with Stiles. Again.
Still, it feels good, almost like normal, like they didn't just stumble over
another invisible line of permanent and unwelcome change. Like everything's not
changing too fast for Scott to keep a grip on it all, or any of it.
"And it's just sex?" Stiles says suddenly, jalapeno suspicion burning at the
edge of the question.
"Yeah," Scott says, because seriously, what else would it be? Still, that
feeling floods back, the terrifying sense that the foundation under he and
Stiles is shifting, dissolving, transforming into something like Jackson
changing into the kanima. Scott stirs the kernels in the bottom of the bowl
around, even though he knows he's picked out anything really edible. "Is that
okay?"
"Well, no." Stiles snorts and prods Scott in the knee with his socked foot.
"But it's your dick. Far be it from me to tell you who you can fuck with it."
                                      ☽ ☾
Derek never sleeps well on the nights just before the full moon, filled with
silvery restlessness and a corresponding darkness like the spaces between the
stars. The nightmares are the worst now; not just Gerard, but all the demons
and ghosts, all the dreams where everyone's still alive, all the ones where
everyone dies, Scott and Erica and Isaac and Boyd and even Stiles and that red-
headed girl that Peter attacked, and it's only sometimes at his hands, but
either way, it's all his fault. Always his fault.
It's quiet on the roof and high enough above the street that he can smell the
trees of the Preserve. Economic downturn means there's generally no one to see
him up there and that anyone who does won't care, far enough away from them to
be no threat.
(it's a lie; it'd hurt, but he could vault down from the roof's edge, mobile
enough even before the bones started healing to tear someone's throat out, rip
through their belly, he could do it, if he wanted to, if he needed to)
Derek's not sitting on the edge, though, not wanting to give his wolf that much
temptation. He lies on his back on the sun-baked tar in the middle, slow heat
radiating into his skin as he looks up at the sky.
He only slightly has to resist the urge to howl. The wolf knows as well as he
does how few voices there are to answer, shares the shivery fear that one of
these times, no one will answer at all.
He thinks of the Toyota. Tomorrow, he's going to the bank to get a cashier's
check for an amount of money that makes him slightly sick, and he'll trade in
the Camaro (His car, Laura's car, their getaway car, she'd always called it)
for whatever he can get for it, and then it'll be his. Theirs. A gesture of
hope that may ultimately turn out to be absolutely fruitless.
Really expensive hope.
Derek's cell buzzes against his hip bone. Derek fishes his phone from his
pocket and looks at the display. It's a text message from Scott, of all people:
Thx for today.
Derek's abs twinge with the laugh that rolls through his chest. Of course Scott
would write a thank you note even for sex. Of course he would.
Before Derek can even think up something to say in return, his phone vibrates
again; another message from Scott: Maybe again sometime?
Derek blinks, eyebrows arching. He'd been operating under an assumption that
Scott was just having full-moon fever…but that's more about immediate
gratification than making plans. Making…dates?
Isn't it past your bedtime? Derek texts back.
Can't sleep.
Come out, Derek types impulsively. We can run.
Derek's blood surges a little at the thought; the cool and darkness of the
forest, long miles in which to stretch and run and play. It's been a long time
since he's been able to do that; run for the fun of it, the pleasure.
Can't, comes the reply, before Derek or the wolf can get too excited. Then, a
couple seconds later: Stiles is here tonight. Don't want to leave him alone.
Derek hehs and lets his phone drop to his chest and his arms fall to his sides
again. No surprise there, that Stillinski's in the way even when he's sleeping.
Derek doesn't wonder as much anymore why Scott keeps Stiles around, but it
doesn't makes Stiles himself any easier to take. Though Derek is trying.
The cell rattles again. Sorry, Scott says.
Don't care, Derek types back, because it's nothing to him, one way or the
other, what Scott does. Have fun braiding each other's hair. Derek grins.
He starts to put the phone down again, then pauses. Slower, he types: Full moon
tomorrow. Come out w/us then? Derek stares at it for several seconds before
hitting SEND.
"What're you doing?" Isaac's voice is sleepy, not accusatory and when Derek
turns his head, Isaac looks like an oversized kid, standing slack, rubbing his
gritty eyes.
"Couldn't sleep." He jerks his shoulder the best he can while lying flat on his
back and Isaac crosses the roof to him, folding down close enough that his knee
almost touches Derek's arm. Along with the sweaty, thick smell of sleep on
Isaac's skin is the now-familiar vinegar tang of fear.
Derek's not the only one with nightmares.
He reaches up, ignoring it when Isaac flinches, and tugs Isaac by his sleeve,
to lie down next to him. "Oh," Isaac says, when he's stretched out, surprise
like linseed oil. "It's really warm."
"Feels good, right?" Derek nods knowingly. There's so many things that he's
failing to teach Isaac (that he failed to teach Scott, Jackson, failed to teach
Boyd and Erica), about being a werewolf, about how to be one, about their
history, so big, so rich; it's absurdly satisfying to be able to give him this
one thing, however small.
Isaac's hum of agreement almost cancels out the buzz of Derek's cell, but the
tickle of it across his breastbone grabs his attention. He'd almost forgotten
he was waiting for Scott's answer: Yeah sounds good.
"Scott?" Isaac asks.
Derek nods, the scritch of his hair against the roof oddly soothing. "He's
coming out with us tomorrow."
"Oh," Isaac says again. It's distinctly less pleased than the first time.
Derek doesn't need Isaac's approval or permission. "What?" The wolf bristles in
Derek's voice.
"Nothing."
Isaac insists his dad wasn't always a monster, but however few years he spent
torturing Isaac, the scars run deep. It's too early to say Isaac's stunted but
if the scars were a little less metaphorical, they'd be keloiding over, the
kind that binds the flesh and catches at the muscle. Isaac's not weak, but
he'll never be an alpha.
Derek doesn't know whether he's grateful or sad about that.
"Isaac—"
Isaac springs, faster than Derek thought he could, so he's crouching over
Derek, eyes flashing reflective amber even in the low light. "Why Scott?" Isaac
asks, tilting his head. "Why not me?" He backs down Derek's body, scenting and
rubbing his face down Derek's shirt. "It could be me. Everything he does for
you, I could do it, if you'd let me."
Isaac reaches Derek's crotch, breathing hotly into the crease of his groin and
it jolts Derek out of his paralysis. He shoves Isaac, harder than he means to,
and Isaac skids across the roof before he uses his talons to scratch to a halt.
"Why?" Isaac asks again, on his hunkers and his head down. "Why not me?"
He doesn't smell aroused, not even a little bit.
"What's wrong with me?"
"Isaac…" Derek shakes his head. Where the hell did this come from? "You don't,
you don't even want this…"
"Does it matter?"
"Does it matter?" Derek's stomach rolls like he's going to puke. "Isaac, is
this something your dad…?"
"No," Isaac says, steady enough and firm enough, in all senses, that Derek has
to take it as absolute truth. "No. He never. Never."
Derek jams his tongue against the roof of his mouth against the deeper lurch in
his gut. "Then did I?" It's harder to say the rest, but Derek forces himself.
"Make you think that's something I want from you?"
Isaac huffs, shoulders hunching deeper. "I don't know what you want from me!"
It's not a shout, but it might as well be, hurt and bitterness smoking acrid
from every word. "You don't want anything. You don't want me. You just want
Scott."
"Not to replace you," Derek says, just as hard, because, fuck, how can Isaac
not know that? He reaches out and drags Isaac close again, putting his face
right up in Isaac's, nose to nose. "Just 'cause I don't want to have sex with
you…" Derek doesn't know how to end that sentence. It's probably better he
doesn't.
He shakes Isaac a little, not hard—not hard—because Isaac's fragile, so humanly
fragile, and: "You're mine," he says, because that much, at least, Derek is
rock solid on. "My wolf, my get…I made you." Isaac looks at him with those huge
want-to-believe eyes. "I made you," Derek repeats, quieter.
He slings his arm around Isaac's neck and pulls the other wolf tight to his
side, rubbing his cheek, his face, into Isaac's hair. Isaac's shoulders and
breath hitch, all his weight falling into Derek as if from a height.
"You're my wolf," Derek says, showering Isaac in the words as thoroughly as he
covers him with his scent. "Mine."
                                      ☽ ☾
The sound of Stiles' Jeep laboring up the driveway's slight incline makes Derek
pause mid-pull-up, letting his senses spread and sharpen, though with the moon
as close as it is, everything is already almost sharp enough to cut.
Of all the shocks of the last week, Stiles tracking him down to confront him
about Scott is the least surprising, like watching a chain of dominos fall.
Scott told Stiles, because he tells Stiles everything, and Stiles thinks Derek
is evil incarnate, and now, quid pro quo, Clarice, Stiles is here.
Isaac hears it a moment after Derek does, looks a question across the room.
Derek drops to the floor in a puff of dust and shakes his head, snatching his
shirt off the hallway newel.
By the time the Jeep speeds—too fast—out of the trees and skids to a halt,
Derek is outside and clothed, leaning against the RAV's bumper. Waiting for the
little terrier Stiles to come and snap at his ankles.
Stiles jerks the emergency brake with a crunch that makes Derek wince and is
scrambling out of the Jeep almost before it stops rocking on its shocks. "What,
huh?" Derek can smell Stiles anger almost before the funk of teenage boy.
Stiles throws up his arms like a challenge, shoulders squared. They look
broader than just the last time Derek's seen him, though he still looks like he
has too many bones and not enough skin to cover them. "You couldn't just bully
him into being on your side, so now you think you're going to fuck him into
it?"
Derek wants to straighten up, he wants to be moving, he wants to take Stiles by
his too-big head and put him down in the leaf mast until he shows belly and
learns some respect.
He doesn't do any of that. He stays where he is, ass glued to the bumper,
despite all his inclinations.
"What did you do?" Stiles demands, stalking up to Derek like he's any kind of
threat. "What did you do to him?"
He is really fucking tired of being called either a rapist or a sorcerer.
Still, a sped-up montage of all the things he'd done to Scott flickers like a
lightning bolt across Derek's mind, hazy heat of a different kind coiling
around the more volatile simmer in his belly.
"Augh," Stiles says, the righteous fury on his face melting into a more
familiar disgust. "Stop, with your face…don't… I can't unsee that!"
Derek allows himself a smirk, just enough to make Stiles look that much more
cross-eyed with horror and get that much closer before he says, "Scott came to
me." He doesn't even raise his voice.
"For help." Stiles enunciates both words with excruciating clarity, the 'p'
almost like Stiles dragged his fingertip over Derek's eardrum. "And you stuck
your hand down his pants."
"I gave him a choice!" And Derek doesn't even know who to be pissed at here.
It's just as likely Scott's covering his ass by making Derek out to be the
villain—wouldn't be the first time—as it is that Stiles took Scott's story and
heard what he wanted to hear. Fuck, maybe it's both.
Derek keeps his hands from shifting only by reminding himself how much he paid
for the damn Toyota and he can't mess up the paint job on its first day. "He
had a choice," Derek says again, spitting each word through his clenched teeth,
"and he chose to have my hand down his pants. He chose to come back and
proposition me, after he got his wolf under control again."
Stiles heartbeat stutters and his scent shifts, though outwardly, there's
nothing but a hard blink.
"You didn't know?"
The shake of Stiles' head is brief enough that, without the painful clarity of
his senses, Derek might think he imagined it.
"He didn't tell you." Also not surprising, Derek doesn't know why it feels like
a sucker punch anyway. Why would Scott tell anyone he's voluntarily having sex
with Derek?
"No," Stiles agrees, in a voice that promises he and Scott will be having a
conversation about it later. The moment wavers, but Derek senses the moment
Stiles decides he's going to be angry—angry with Derek—anyway. Stiles shakes
himself. "Scott can barely be trusted to find his own way home. You're twice
his age."
Derek frowns. He is not twice Scott's age.
"His very not legal age." Stillinski arches his eyebrows and cocks his head
like he's just scored a point off Derek.
"You're not going to tell your father." Derek folds his arms over his chest.
"No?" Derek wouldn't think Stiles could get his eyebrows any higher, but he
manages another couple millimeters of height.
"No," Derek repeats smugly. "Because you might hate me but you're not going to
drag Scott into it. And he would be dragged into it."
Stiles eyes flicker. Derek bets Stillinski's great at card games, poker, but
he's not werewolf good.
Stiles sighs. "Seriously, Derek," he turns around and leans against the RAV.
"What are you doing?"
Derek tilts his head and stares at Stiles. He clearly needs to work on how much
Stillinski's afraid of him, because it takes a full ten seconds for Stiles to
get the hint.
"Sorry!" Stiles leaps away from the SUV, looks from Derek to the car, then
leans forward and polishes the place where he leaned with the bottom of his
tee-shirt. "Sorry." Stiles bites his lip and screws up his face. "Where were
we?"
"I was bored and you were just leaving."
Stiles crosses his arms and stands hipshot: not moving, buddy.
Derek sighs. "What do you want, Stiles?"
Stiles opens his mouth and it's not a scent, exactly, but Derek can practically
smell the sarcasm on whatever it is he's about to say and before Stiles can get
there, Derek growls. Just a little one, but enough to make Stiles lips plop
shut.
Then, after a short, impenetrable silence: "Stop having sex with him."
"No."
"Derek—" Stiles' jaw tightens, his eyes get darker, as does his smell. For a
moment, Derek can see the man Stiles is going to turn into, someone far more
dangerous.
But right now, he's still Scott's scrawny friend. "No."
"He's in love with Allison."
"Good for him."
"You don't even like each other."
"I don't think that's required."
Stiles face scrunches tighter and he shifts his weight to the other leg,
huffing. "He's underage."
"He's a werewolf."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
Has Stiles not been paying attention all this time? What does he think has been
happening, all around him? "What doesn't it?" Derek throws out his hands.
"Scott's a werewolf, he's one of us, subject to our laws, our values and those
say Scott gets to make those decisions for himself."
Derek might have things to say about the shitty decision-making abilities of
sixteen year-olds, especially when it comes to sex, but it doesn't change the
facts of the situation.
"He's going to get hurt," Stiles says, quieter, a note to it like he's asking
Derek to fix it. Which is stupid, because history has already proven, even in
their short acquaintance: Derek isn't much good at fixing things.
Derek shrugs. "That's his choice, too."
                                      ☽ ☾
Derek and Isaac are waiting at the curb when Scott finally gets out of school.
He probably wouldn't have even noticed it was them, except Isaac's leaning out
the passenger side window, grinning with a feral excitement that Scott can't
help but reciprocate as he trots over, blood quickening in his veins with an
almost audible hiss.
Isaac sits back and Scott ducks a little—though not as far as before—to crane
in, arms resting on the window ledge. His gaze slips from the mirrored
sunglasses covering Derek's eyes to the soft but solid line of dick on display
against Derek's splayed out left leg like the trail from one to the other is
greased and then he doesn't know where to look.
"This isn't the Camaro."
Derek and Isaac snort, which, okay, hello Captain Obvious, but it's not in a
mean way and the giddiness between them, Scott's starting to feel it too, now
that he's not clamping it down hard to get through the long, boring hours of
summer school.
Derek jerks his head at the back seat. "Get in."
He'd left his bike at home, hoping the run to school would shake out some of
his pent-up energy, so Scott can just climb in, Derek lifting his foot off the
brake before Scott's even got the door fully shut.
Another time, Scott would probably complain, but the little spurt of adrenaline
just feels good right now, like the first descending warm flush after a shot.
He pulls the door the rest of the way closed and settles back against the seat,
rubbing the upholstery with both palms.
It smells acridly new-car, a scent Scott never liked, even before he had wolfy
senses, but over it he can smell Derek-and-Isaac and, if they're not all one
pack, those are at least scents that are familiar and say to his wolf:
friendly, friend, safe.
"Why'd you get rid of the Camaro?"
Derek shrugs, not looking around. "It was just time."
Isaac half turns, looking around the passenger seat's edge. "We needed
something bigger."
We. And yeah, it's not that Scott didn't know that Derek's plans were to build
a new pack for himself but it's kind of the first time it seems real, something
inevitable, the Hale pack phoenixing itself from some pretty literal ashes.
"It's nice," Scott says, because it's the polite thing and because he doesn't
know what else to say about it.
Derek lifts his chin where Scott can see his mouth in the rearview and bares
his teeth, half a grin and half the same smug triumph as when he'd first given
the bite to Isaac and Erica and Boyd.
Scott realizes he's rubbing his back, his butt, against the upholstery, too,
working his scent into the upholstery along with Isaac's and Derek's, and makes
himself stop.
"Where are we going?" They'd never talked about it and Scott hadn't known they
were going to pick him up straight from school. It's hours until sunset and
longer still 'til moonrise, though Scott doesn't think they need to wait nearly
that long; he feels like he could shift out of his skin right now if he didn't
have to worry about who would see.
"Thought you'd be hungry," Derek says and yeah, just at the mention of food,
Scott's stomach puts in its two cents, snarling loud.
"Cool."
                                      ☽ ☾
They end up at Old Country Buffet. The food is pretty uniformly crappy, but
they can eat in werewolf-on-the-full-moon quantities without paying a fortune,
though when Scott goes up for his fourth giant sundae with fudge and sprinkles,
the manager comes out just to glare at them.
Derek pays for Scott's lunch, which makes Scott wonder if this is a date of
some kind. He has no concrete feelings about that.
After all it'd taken for Scott to text Derek and ask if he wanted to hook up
again sometime, Derek hadn't given Scott a clear answer, just the invitation to
come out. And he'd brought Isaac. Which would suggest not-date.
Scott thinks he catches Derek looking at him a couple times in ways that go
past a hey, there you are kind of look—they go straight to Scott's cock,
anyway—but he can't tell if it's a real thing or because he has sex on the
brain.
God, he has sex with Derek Hale on the brain…
After lunch, Derek drives them up to his family's house. Stiles told Scott that
the land doesn't belong to the Hales anymore, it's county land, but the county
doesn't seem to want to do anything with it and, as Scott found when he came up
just yesterday, Derek can't seem to stay away from it.
"You ever think about buying it back?" Scott asks, as they carry flats of
bottled water into the house. Wolfing out is thirsty work.
"No." Derek drops his water just inside the door and gestures for Scott to do
the same, moving out of the way. When Scott slides his cases of water on top,
Derek crowds close again.
Scott's more skittish than he thinks; he flinches aside to keep from being
pinned between Derek and the wall, but Derek just hooks one shifted talon into
the plastic shrink wrap around the bottles and rips it away. Derek's eyebrows
cock a little but he just snags a bottle from the herd and holds it out
wordlessly to Scott. Scott's mouth does feel a little dry, but he shakes his
head. Derek shrugs and cracks the cap off the bottle.
He starts to lift it to his mouth—and Scott may be watching this a little more
closely than he wants to admit—but then he pauses, letting it sink back to
waist level. "You're not going to ask me why?" Derek asks, eyes flickering to
all the little pulse points on Scott's face and throat. Scott's started to do
it too, though he didn't notice until Stiles pointed it out to him. "Not going
to make some heartfelt protest about how it's my family's home and how can I
not want it?"
"But it's not anymore." Scott shakes his head and looks around, torn up planks
in the floor, holes in the drywall, in some places, no drywall, just exposed
slats. Some of the damage is damage he's done, fighting with Derek or Derek
fighting with him, but not most of it. Not much of it at all. "It's just where
they died."
Derek doesn't say anything, just flexes his eyebrows and his jaw before tipping
the bottle up to his mouth but Scott feels it anyway, a knowing outside his
senses, like when Derek made him go into the basement at Isaac's house and
showed him the freezer. He feels Derek's surprise, that Scott would know that,
guess it.
"Where's Isaac?"
He never came in with them. Scott listens for him, but it's hard to hear
anything over the sudden panicky jump of his own pulse, imagining hunters,
imagining the Argents, Gerard… He glances at Derek, who's just finishing his
water calmly, crumpling up the plastic in his fingers like a beer can. Derek
shrugs. "He'll catch up with us later."
He doesn't look or sound happy about it, though honestly, Scott can count about
ten seconds of time in which Derek looked or sounded happy and at least half of
them were when he had Scott's dick in his hand.
"Oh," Scott says, when no other words come to mind, crowded out by the sense
memory of Derek gripping his dick. He goes over to the water, as much to keep
Derek from seeing his face as to kill the tongue-shrinking dryness in his mouth
and throat. All the bottles are room temperature, but Scott's so thirsty, it
doesn't matter.
"He probably assumes we're going to have sex," Derek says and Scott spews all
over the peeling drywall and floor.
"You did that on purpose!" Scott accuses, wiping water from his mouth and chin
as he whips around.
Derek shrugs again, but there's a curl to his lips, the jerk.
"I said it's what he thinks, not that it's what's going to happen." Derek leans
back against the wall, using his elongated nails to punch through the crumpled
plastic still in his hand and peel pieces of it outward like flower petals.
Scott looks down at his own water bottle, twisting the crinkly plastic back and
forth in his fingers. Derek's eyes on him, like he's waiting for Scott to say
something, waiting for an answer, is like a weight. But Scott doesn't know what
Derek wants him to say. The lack of an answer before seemed like an answer. And
now…what? Maybe sex is back on the table?
The itch that Scott's been trying to push to the background all day blooms,
spreading everywhere and making his skin feel too small and hot.
Are you going to do this? Are you really going to do this?
He is.
Scott sets the bottle of water down on the floor, aware of Derek's eyes on him
as he moves. When he makes himself meet Derek's gaze, there's nothing helpful
there; Derek doesn't look especially interested, but he doesn't look
disinterested, either. Scott wishes he'd taken at least one last sip of water.
"Does that mean it won't?" Scott asks, his voice wobbling between gravelly-dry
and embarrassingly squeaky. "Um Happen?"
Derek's breath hisses out his nostrils, somewhere between impatience and a
laugh, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms.
"Do you want it to?" Derek sounds bored, but there's a tension in his body that
makes Scott think Derek isn't as bored as he's trying to look. Scott sure hopes
so, anyway.
Walking into Derek's personal space is a little dicey; he remembers Derek
jerking him off, his body also remembers the more numerous times that Derek's
hurt him. The danger makes it a little hotter, though, too, the not-knowing.
Remembering how it felt when Derek did it to him, Scott leans in. "I said I
did," Scott says, pitching his voice low so it doesn't shake. He scents up the
side of Derek's throat, so close Derek's stubble tickles the tip of his nose,
his lips.
Derek hasn't showered; there's no scent of soap on him, or even deodorant. He
can smell that Derek's sweat hard today, sour and funky. Tastes it, when he
rasps his tongue up that same length of skin. Derek inhales and he grabs
Scott's shoulder, fingers closing hard, hard enough to bruise if Scott's body
still did that.
"What do you want?" Scott asks, because Derek's gone along with him, but he's
never come out and said that he wants Scott. Or anything. Derek's facial hair
burns his lips as Scott nips and sucks the soft skin underneath.
Derek's other hand kneads Scott's side in exact time to each movement of
Scott's lips, nails biting the skin, encouragement and direction both, urging
Scott in to him.
Scott thinks that's going to be his only answer to the question, Scott forgets
that there is a question, scenting and sucking and biting across Derek's neck,
pulling on the neck of his shirt to get to his shoulder, his collarbone, his
chest.
"Your mouth."
Tugs too hard, apparently; the ribbed cotton tears in a purr. Scott spreads his
fingers over the expanse of newly bared skin, touching first, and then
scratching, too light to leave more than a momentary pink blush. "What?"
Derek sighs, though it sounds more shuddery than his usual impatience. Scott
drags his mouth away and his eyes up from Derek's shoulder. Derek blinks slowly
like he's tired or just waking up before he turns his face to look at Scott. "I
want your mouth."
"Like a kiss?" Scott's gaze darts between Derek's face and the flex of his
fingertips against Derek's smooth, unmarked skin. Kissing Derek had been…nice.
Really nice. He wouldn't mind doing that again.
Derek just looks at Scott.
"I…oh."
Derek threads his fingers through Scott's and drags Scott's hand down his body
to his dick, swelled tight against the confining denim of his jeans.
Reflexively, Scott cups the bulge and Derek flexes against the touch, holding
Scott there as he ruts.
"You asked what I wanted," Derek says, voice rougher. "Don't worry, I don't
expect you to actually do it." Derek's pale eyes gleam, mouth curved with
something like satisfaction, like Scott's failed some test that Derek always
knew he would.
The thing is, Scott likes to think of himself as a good guy, one who comes
through in a crunch. Not that this is a crunch, it's not a disaster or crisis
or anything. It's not like that at all. Wow, it's nothing like that. But Scott
is a guy that comes through, is the point.
But this is a guy's dick in his mouth, they're talking about. That's a much
bigger deal that just putting your hand on someone's dick or letting some guy
put his hand on yours.
It doesn't sound so awful, though, once Scott gets past the initial freak out
of but I've never done that before! Derek keeps a pretty tight rein on his
scent since he became Alpha, but he can't hide the smell of his cock, the
bitter tang of precome, the hot prickle of sweat. Derek is turned on, he wants
this.
And Scott thinks maybe he does, too.
I don't have to tell Stiles. I don't have to tell anyone. I could do this. I
can do it and no one has to know. No one but me and Derek has to know.
Scott grinds the heel of his hand down the swell of Derek's cock one last time
before he grabs the waistband of Derek's jeans and thumbs the button free of
the hole. Derek inhales and a little zing of triumph goes through Scott, bright
and feral, to go with everything else. Scott lowers the zipper and goes to his
knees at the same time, breath breezing hard through his lungs, hard so he
feels it, as he prepares to get head to head with Derek Hale's dick.
Getting Derek out of his shorts is more difficult, clingy boxer briefs; after
Scott fumbles for a couple seconds, Derek snarls and does it himself, shoving
them and his jeans halfway down his thighs. Scott tugs them down the rest of
the way, lets them pool around Derek's ankles. Without those layers, the scent
of him is stronger, more intense, more deeply tempting.
Scott only has a second to take in how pale Derek's thighs are, how hairy, and
that fat, uncircumcised dick, the big, dark red head just starting to peek out
of the foreskin, before Scott needs to lean in, nosing at the sweat-damp crease
of Derek's groin, scenting along those hard cut lines, following them again
with his tongue. The taste of Derek is so thick here, so complicated and rich,
not like anywhere else on his body; Scott moans a little as it bursts over his
taste-buds, clutching Derek's legs with either hand.
He pushes Derek's thighs further apart, greedy, needy as he chases those smells
and tastes, along the plump, furred sacs of Derek's balls, further back,
deeper.
"Scott. Fuck, Scott."
He's almost forgotten that this is a body, a person, Derek. It takes Derek's
fingers in his hair, sharp, hard, dragging his head back, for Scott to
remember, for Scott to come back. Scott whines in his throat, wanting, needing,
please.
Derek looks at him. Scott looks back for long, hungry seconds before Derek
huffs out, taking hold of his dick and guiding it to Scott's mouth.
Scott closes his eyes and licks across that slick, peeking head, another
explosion of unfamiliar flavors. He roots his tongue into that enclosing
foreskin, exploring the soft-hard bulb of Derek's head, suckles slick-salt
precome from the slit, faint urine tang underneath it.
Derek's breath shakes out of him, his fingers flexing in Scott's hair. He won't
give Scott more, though. Growl building in his throat, Scott knocks Derek's
hand away, gripping the thick base of Derek's dick himself, for himself. He
squeezes and he feels it go through Derek, head to toes, bone-deep shudder and
it floods through Scott hot and joyous, victorious.
He sucks at Derek, taking him, sliding his mouth along that thickness, letting
its weight on his tongue stretch him wider to take more and more and even
more...
…and it's still not enough.
Scott slides his hands back, around Derek's taut-held thighs, to just under the
jutting curve of his ass. Derek's body is so tense; the first tug of Scott's
fingers, Derek almost over-balances, cock pistoning deep; Scott can't breathe
for a second, throat shrinking up tight. He doesn't have time to actually choke
before Derek recovers, legs spreading wider, weight pushing back and the hand
entangled in Scott's hair shoving the opposite direction.
Scott throws up his shoulder, refuses to let Derek push him away entirely,
still rubbing his tongue up and along the fat underside vein, sliding foreskin.
"Dammit, Scott!" Derek says, but it's not mad, it's shattered, it's Derek
falling to pieces.
Scott pulls him on again, makes Derek thrust between his lips, makes him do it
again, stronger, more definitive, until Derek doesn't need the goad anymore, he
holds Scott's head in place and fucks Scott's mouth. Hard.
The pivot of Derek's hips is more erratic than when Scott controlled the
motion, but that only makes it better, the unevenness, the not-knowing. The
bitterness gets stronger as Derek paints the inside of Scott's mouth, slick
drops slipping down his throat with each swallow, each time Derek's cock head
nudges into the tightness at the back. On each exhale, a noise, not quite whine
or whimper or moan, that Scott hears Derek fighting to stifle, to swallow back,
and his heart, racing hard, racing loud, a stuttering drumbeat in counter to
the grab and tug of his fingers in Scott's hair.
Like a song, Scott can hear the crescendo coming, feel it in Derek's
stuttering, frantic rhythm. He's ready for it when Derek tries to peel him away
again, cupping Derek's ass, digging in and stiffening his arms and shoulders:
no, not going. There's a moment, then, where Derek can't keep fighting him. His
fingers go slack and he half folds; Scott sucks harder, deeper.
The noise Derek makes sounds torn out of him, desperate, bordering on pain, and
he bucks hard, spearing deep, and even knowing what's coming, the hot spurt of
his come is a shock, splashing into the back of Scott's mouth, coating his
tongue. Scott laps at Derek's slit and Derek jerks again, squirts again. Once
more and then Derek lets out a sigh like an explosion, holding himself upright
on Scott's shoulder.
Scott lets Derek's softening cock slip out slowly, still cupping it warmly in
his hand as he turns his head and spits.
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott turns his head and spits. Then, while Derek's still trying to figure out
if his legs will hold him, Scott noses into the crease of Derek's leg again
with a soft, greedy noise, licks in broad, wet swipes.
"Scott," Derek groans weakly, twitching and twitchy with each stroke of Scott's
tongue. "Scott…"
The lines, the bones of Scott's face, are normal, but when Derek grabs Scott's
chin and forces his face to tilt up, he fully expects to see the amber-gold
flash of his wolf's eyes. It's the only thing that can make sense to Derek of
what the fuck just happened, the shift from I'm not sure about this to full-
tilt-boogie cocksucking, but when Scott's eyes flicker open, they're glazed,
they're hazy but they're also fully, indisputably, ordinary human brown.
Derek's thumb smudges across Scott's jaw as if he can just smear Scott's human
face aside.
Derek can't tell if the sound Scott makes is no or just "Nnn…" but he jerks his
chin out of Derek's loose grip, mouthing gently—too gently, fuck—at the base of
Derek's cock while his fingers release to fist between his own legs.
"Scott, wait, wait…" A ridiculous panic that he somehow broke Scott (with his
dick, what the hell?) fluttering in the back of his mind, Derek urges Scott's
mouth away from his cock again and goes to his knees, the hardwood gritty on
his unprotected skin. "I'll do it." He pushes Scott's hand aside to get to the
jeans button, ease the zipper over the bulge of Scott's dick. Scott moans
inarticulately, half-protest, half-need. "Let me. I got it, okay? Let me."
Scott sighs when Derek takes hold of him, leaning in and dragging his lips in
soft, wet kisses over Derek's half-naked shoulder, up his neck. One hand
bunches in Derek's shirt, ripping it more. "Could really get used to the feel
of you on my dick," Scott slurs, sounding shitfaced drunk, though his fingers
are sure, strong, when they close over Derek's encouraging Derek to grip him,
stroke him, harder.
Derek's gotten a lot better dirty talk, hell, a lot dirtier dirty talk, but
Scott's confession goes right to Derek's spent cock, a hot nasty tingle, a
spreading flush.
Derek zeroes in on the bared curve of Scott's throat, biting, sucking, chewing,
wanting to bruise him, mark him. Scott cries out, but he pushes in instead of
jerking away and his cock swells even harder in the cage of Derek's moving
fingers.
When Derek reaches the soft, tender skin behind Scott's ear, Scott makes that
shocked, pained sound again, and he arches up taut, the bitter-sour stink of
jizz melding with the warm, thick rain of it on Derek's chest, his belly.
"Fuck," Scott moans, grinding his forehead into Derek's collarbone as he rolls
his hips, rutting his softening cock between Derek's sticky fingers. "Oh, God,
oh, fuck…"
Derek puts his arm around Scott, hugging him close. "Shhh."
"That was…" Even with a werewolf's healing, Scott's voice is trashed, raspy and
gargling. "Fuck, that was, I can't…"
"Yeah, I know, shhh," Derek says again. He's not ready to use his brain or his
words yet. "Sshhh."
Scott slings his arm around Derek's waist, a mirror of the way Derek's holding
him and just nods against Derek's shoulder. Derek stares at the light slanting
into the old, burned house and all the churned up dust motes floating in it and
politely ignores Scott weeping soundlessly on his arm.
                                      ☽ ☾
"I'm going to look for Isaac," Derek says carefully, once Scott's dried up and
they're doing nothing but kneeling there and holding on to each other. Scott
nods. Then, just when Derek thinks he's going to have to say it again, Scott
inhales sharply and sits back on his heels, tucking himself back in his boxers,
pulling at his jeans.
Derek drags at his own clothes. His shirt's a lost cause. He wore it today
because it's been on the edge of destruction for months anyway; guess it's
finally done. He shucks it over his head and wipes at his body, not very
effectively. Scott's come is all over him and mostly dry; it won't take any
enhanced sense of smell to know they've been fucking. He pulls his underwear
and jeans up so he's not hanging balls out and goes over to the flats of water.
"Scott?"
Scott catches the bottle Derek tosses to him. He cracks it open and pours it
right over his head, tipping his face back into the deluge. Derek finds himself
staring, but shakes himself out of it and looks away before Scott catches him
at it.
Even with everything they've done—that he's done to Scott—he hasn't really
thought of Scott as sexual, as someone he might desire. He's thought of Scott
in a lot of different ways, but never that.
Derek slops water over himself, alternating it with scrubbing with his ruined
shirt. He ought to say something to Scott. Probably. Scott's first blow-job,
first time he's got another guy's dick in his mouth and…what? Derek still
doesn't know what happened and it doesn't seem like the kind of thing you can
ask about, exactly. He remembers that feeling, of too much, all at once. No one
ever asked him about it and Derek was just as grateful.
When Derek finishes his hasty bath, Scott's sitting on the stairs, stray
droplets like crystals snagged in his hair, on his skin. His head's down and
his hands are locked up together between his knees. He doesn't look like
someone who just came his brains out.
"Look," Derek says, "if you don't want to come out with us tonight…"
It's probably not the right thing to say, but seems like the least he can do is
give Scott an out. An escape, an excuse, whichever.
Scott's head comes up. His eyes are still red, red-rimmed, but they're steady.
"No," he says, just as steadily, "I'm coming."
Derek thinks about arguing the point, but it seems stupid. If Scott's old
enough to decide who he wants to fuck, he's more than old enough to decide who
he wants to spend his time with. It just feels weird that Scott would make the
choice to be around him.
The thought makes Derek snort. Having sex with Scott barely pings his radar,
but the idea that Scott might voluntarily spend time hanging out with him,
that's what fills him with horror.
Scott straightens from his slump, a familiar fire sparking in his eyes,
tightening up his jaw, his shoulders. "I said I'm coming."
"I heard you the first time," Derek bristles back. "It's not always about you,
Scott."
"Oh." Like the puppy he still mostly is, the fight falls out of Scott, he just
looks tired. "Sorry, I…"
"I'm going to go find Isaac," Derek says again, because it's been a while and
if he listens, he still can't hear Isaac anywhere close. He can't let this
thing with Scott blind him to everything else that's going on. And he's going
to have to have another conversation with Isaac, about why he left Derek and
Scott alone in the first place. He doesn't need his beta matchmaking for him,
or whatever it is Isaac thought he was doing. Derek and Scott are not dating.
"You coming, or what?"
"Y-yeah." Scott pushes up from his seat on the stairs. He still looks a little
wrecked, but he's pulling himself together. "Yeah, right behind you."
Derek grins. "Let's hunt."
                                      ☽ ☾
Right about the time he's diving from the branches of a live oak to tackle
Isaac, it occurs to Scott that he's never done this before.
Isaac hears or senses Scott just before Scott makes contact, dodging narrowly
aside so Scott has to tuck his head and roll instead.
From the time Peter forced the bite on him, Scott's been fighting for his life
and the life of his mom, his friends. Every superhuman thing he can do has been
aimed at that singular goal: survival. Survival for everyone.
Scott barely gets his feet under him again before someone—Isaac—hits him right
between his shoulder blades, pitching him forward again.
Clawed hands on his sides keep Scott from rolling a second time, and they hit
the ground hard, only Scott's palms and elbows keeping it from being a total
face-plant. Growling, Isaac puts his weight on Scott's back, keeping him pinned
in place, and leans in close enough that the hot puff of his breath on Scott's
unprotected neck makes goosebumps skitter across Scott's skin.
"Tag," Isaac says, the words burring through his fangs. "You're it."
There's never been time for anything fun.
Isaac smacks Scott's back, then turns it into leverage to push himself to his
feet, bounding off before Scott can twist and slither up.
This…is actually fun.
When Derek text-suggested that Scott come out with him and Isaac, Scott hadn't
known what to expect, but—totally aside from the thought that there could maybe
be more sex in it for him, which Scott only thought about a little (maybe more
than a little)—he'd mostly only been thinking about how he really wants some
kind of lasting peace between him and Derek.
Stiles has made Scott watch probably every nature documentary ever made about
wolves, until Scott drew the line after he started having dreams narrated by
David Attenborough. Scott doesn't think he actually learned anything useful
from them but all of them living in a not-really-large town and the need to,
therefore, get along, is pretty much common sense, Scott thinks.
So he hadn't actually known what to expect, and he hadn't thought about it too
much. And then with everything that happened at the house, Scott just wanted to
get out of there, he wasn't thinking of what Derek meant by "Let's hunt."
By the time Scott scrambles back up, Isaac has vanished from his line of sight.
They've all been through here, back and forth, chasing each other; their scents
are all over the ground and trees. Derek might be able to tell which trail is
newer than another, but Scott sure as heck can't. He picks the direction that
looks the most likely.
Even lacrosse… It's technically a game, except it isn't, in the way that high
school sports are never really just games and even if it was, it's a game
against people who can't really keep up against Scott—and Isaac's—abilities,
people who could really get hurt if they weren't really careful, all the time.
Scott hears a scuff in the leaves, off to his left. He drops into a crouch,
moving as low and quietly as he can. In front of him, Isaac breaks cover,
momentarily back-lit by the moon, brilliant silver washes that Scott feels on
his skin like a developing tan. This time, Isaac doesn't sense Scott coming;
when Scott pounces, Isaac goes down with a snarl and an oof.
It's not like Scott spends a lot of time dwelling on it or anything; this is
probably the first time he's thought about it—like, really thought about it—but
as Isaac tries to wriggle away, Scott realizes that he and Stiles don't even
wrestle and roughhouse the way they used to.
Because Scott might hurt him.
He doesn't have to worry about hurting Isaac, about hurting Derek. He's not
even all that worried about Derek hurting him…
Scott totally jinxes himself, because it's right then when Derek's arm snakes
around Scott's chest, hauling him off Isaac and tossing him halfway across the
clearing.
"Not paying attention," Derek chides, shaking a finger at Scott like Dikembe
Mutombo after a blocked shot. It's a toss-up whether his bared teeth are a grin
or menacing. "Tsk, tsk."
It's also weird to see Derek having fun. Or, since Derek's regular range of
facial expressions don't actually show things like happy or fun, it's more
Derek acting like he's having a good time, running around like kids on too much
sugar…if eating too much sugar gave you the ability to jump thirty, forty feet
from a standstill or run three times as fast.
Isaac flips to his feet and takes a place just next to and behind Derek.
There's no way Scott can take both of them, so he does what any sensible young
werewolf would do: he runs.
Derek howls, a noise that still makes the hair on the back of Scott's neck
stand up to attention, even as it's become weirdly familiar, weirdly
comforting: here I am. A second later, Isaac echoes with his own belling call.
The urge to sound back flutters in Scott's chest, tickles against the roof of
his mouth, but if he does that, he'll give away his position and the two of
them will be on him in seconds.
Scott vaults from the forest floor to a reasonably low branch, dancing for
balance in his sneakers, which don't have nearly the gripping power his bare
feet would. Scott barely thinks about it before he toes out of his shoes and
socks. The shoes he ties together by their laces and leaves them hanging over
the branch.
It is a lot easier—and better—without his sneakers. Scott hops branches for a
while before climbing down and rubbing his socks all over the bark of the
nearest trees. Then he finds a couple good sized stones and drops them into the
toes, knotting the cotton around them. The first one, he gives a relatively
gentle toss. The other, he throws as far as his arm will allow. Which is pretty
far, he notes, pleased. He and Stiles should test that out sometime.
Scott climbs back up into the trees.
                                      ☽ ☾
"I'm hungry," Isaac says, near dawn. They're lying in the grass near the
overlook like a bunch of dropped toys. Isaac bumps Scott's hand with his
fingers. "We should go to breakfast."
Scott's stomach growls its opinion, but he shakes his head. "Can't. My mom'll
be getting off work soon. With everything that's happened…" Scott still has
nightmares about Gerard and the kanima and his mom. "I like to go with her and
pick her up, if I can." He shrugs. "It just feels…safer."
Too late, he wonders if it was a jerk move to mention it in front of Isaac and
Derek, both of them orphans and everything, but Isaac just nods, his scent
mellow and steady.
"Besides," he says, wiggling his bare and dirty toes, "who's going to let me in
with no shoes?"
Isaac's smile—almost as shy to come out as Derek's—brightens over his face.
"That thing with the socks, though, that was really smart."
Scott grins back. "You guys ganged up on me. I had to even up the odds
somehow." He lifts his head and glances past Isaac to where Derek's lying with
his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest. Scott jerks his chin toward
Derek. "He sleep?"
"I'm not sleeping," Derek says, with a promptness that shows he's been
listening to their every word and an irritation that, while familiar, says
clearly: the fun is over.
"Think you could give me a ride to the hospital?" Scott sits up. While they
were busy chasing each other, it'd been easy to put aside his complete
humiliation (oh, my God), to forget for a little bit all this stuff that he
didn't know what to do with, anyway. It's harder to forget as Derek pulls back
into his usual 'I don't know why I let you live'.
"Yeah." Derek opens his eyes and sits up, hooking his elbows over his knees.
Scott can't read anything from Derek's face, though he guesses that Derek said
yes is as encouraging as it's going to get. Or maybe he just wants to get rid
of Scott as soon as possible. "We can drop you on our way to breakfast." He
nods in Isaac's direction.
Isaac nods back approvingly. "Breakfast."
They all get up, brushing themselves off to not much effect. It's a good thing
Scott's mom knows about him now, because Scott doesn't know what kind of lie he
could come up with to explain his filthy appearance and his missing shoes and
socks. Though, she's probably going to be pretty pissed about the shoes,
regardless.
They don't say much on the way back to the house or on the ride to the
hospital. Another time, it might feel awkward, but seriously, Scott's just as
glad, watching Beacon Hills slowly come into being around the car while he
makes fists with his toes on the carpet, Die Hard style. People are just
starting to get up, come out, bleary-eyed and clutching their travel mugs and
waxed cups of coffee. In a couple hours, Scott needs to be at school again, a
long drag of time he doesn't even want to think about, let alone how he's going
to get through it.
Though he will get through it, because he promised, and because he's not going
to be That Guy, and it's just a few hours anyway.
Scott didn't think he felt that tired, but then Derek's snapping his fingers in
front of Scott's face and Derek's out on the sidewalk.
"What happened to Isaac?" Scott swipes his thumb and forefingers across his
eyes, coming up with gooey little crusties. Stiles told him it's called gound,
which is just ugly enough a word to be the truth. Stiles also told him what
it's made of, but Scott deliberately forgot that part the moment he could. The
passenger seat is empty; Scott's the only one left in the car.
"He went inside," Derek says. "We're going to eat in the cafeteria."
Scott's eyebrows wrinkle. "The hospital cafeteria?"
"What's wrong with the hospital cafeteria?"
The question is serious. Derek is being completely serious, which, in its own
Derek-like fashion, says so much about Derek. Of course, this is also a guy
that went from living in a burned out shell of his family home to living in a
train depot with no indoor plumbing to speak of, let alone anything like a
kitchen. So sure, the hospital cafeteria probably isn't nearly as horrifying to
Derek—and by extension Isaac—as it is to Scott. "Nothing." Scott fumbles with
the seatbelt for a couple seconds before he manages to unhook himself. "I'm
sure it'll be great."
Derek moves back onto the sidewalk, an expression on his face like he can't
make up his mind if he should be pissed at Scott or not, as Scott climbs out of
the SUV.
Derek must have had a shirt in the car somewhere, no longer half-naked; without
even thinking about what he's doing, Scott reaches out and tweaks the cloth
where it bells loose over Derek's stomach. "You still smell like me."
Derek's jaw gets taut, though he sounds calm when he says, "You still smell
like me."
Scott nods, oddly satisfied with that answer as he lets his hand fall away. He
does. "I should find my mom," he says, looking past Derek at the hospital's
façade and blinking in the new morning brightness. Though it's not near patient
parking, Derek brought him around to the employee lot side, where his mother
will come out.
"Yeah."
Scott inhales and lets it out deeply, tucking both hands in his pockets and
squaring his shoulders. "Look, about earlier…"
Derek huffs and his gaze skates aside so he's no longer looking directly at
Scott. "We don't have to talk about this," he says flatly. He makes a short
throat-cutting gesture with his fingers. "Ever."
It's a relief. Scott can't even lie, it's such a relief. Except it's not, too,
because Derek can say that they don't have to say anything, but good manners
say something else, and that's the voice Scott's got to listen to. "Yeah."
Scott rocks once on his heels. "I just want you to know, though…it was me, not
you."
Derek finally refocuses on Scott again, and it's needle sharp, apex predator
attention, and though it doesn't scare Scott exactly, it does make him get very
still. "Yeah, Scott, I know." There's a beat, and then that pin-you-in-place
attention softens and Scott can think about moving again. "Are we good?"
Are we done? Scott interprets. And again, it's not like he didn't think it was
going to go down exactly like this—he'd cried on the guy, after all—but it
still feels a little like a sucker punch as Scott makes himself say, politely,
"Yeah, okay. Well, thanks for the ride," and, "See you around."
Derek grunts and that, Scott guesses, is the end of it. Dignity and manhood
pretty much stripped, Scott goes to find his mom.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Jesus Christ, Scott, did you get mugged?" Scott's mom grabs him by the
shoulders and the chin, turning his face to look for injuries.
"Mom. I'm okay. Mom." Scott wriggles away, both to keep his mom from grooming
him like a monkey picking nits and because he doesn't need her close enough to
smell Derek's spunk all over him. "I'm okay," he insists again, looking her in
the eyes so she can see he means it. "It was fun. I had a good time. I just
didn't have time to shower."
"Oh." She takes a step back, one hand going to her stomach and one going to her
head as her heartbeat skips a little, then eases down from overdrive. "Oh, God.
Okay. Okay." She breathes out and Scott is reminded all over again that his
werewolf stuff isn't just his and that he's not the only one with scars from
it. "Wow." His mom laughs a little shakily then tilts her head. "Okay, but what
happened to your shoes?"
"Yeah…" Scott scruffs the back of his neck and gives her his most winning,
Bambi-eyed smile. "Can we talk about that on our way to McDonald's drive-thru?
I'm starving."
"Mmm, heh." His mom bares her teeth, looking fairly wolfish herself. "You are
so much your father's son sometimes."
"Is that a no?" It's not a no.
She tosses the keys at him. "You drive, then. I'm beat."
Scott's pretty tired himself but he knows when not to argue.
"I have to admit," his mom says, once they've done their usual battle over
control of the radio (compromise: Scott picks the station, she gets to choose
the volume), "I was a little nervous when you told me you were going out with
Derek and that other boy…what's his name?"
"Isaac."
"Right, Isaac." She nods, chewing thoughtfully on her fingertip. "And where are
his parents?"
"His dad's dead." Scott weighs the pros and cons of telling her it was at
Jackson's—at the kanima's—hands, but the less he reminds her of it, the better,
probably. "I don't know what happened to his mom, but I guess she's gone, too."
He shrugs.
"That's tragic." His mom shakes her head, then brushes at the hairs that came
down with the gesture, tucking them behind her ear. "And…they're living
together, Derek and this…Isaac?" Her eyes narrow. "Are they…? I mean, is
Derek…?"
"Mom!" He completely misses the turn for the McDonald's and has to circle
around the block.
"What?" She makes wide eyes. "It's not an unreasonable question."
"It is," Scott says, successfully making the turn into the McDonald's on the
second try. "It really is."
"So, they're not?"
"No! They're just…Isaac is Derek's pack. That's all." He pulls up to intercom.
"What do you want, your usual?"
"Yeah." She tugs the elastic out of her hair, finger-combing it all together
and winding the elastic around it again. "No. Gimme the Big Breakfast."
Scott dutifully orders her breakfast and steak-and-egg bagels for himself.
"Four? Wow." His mom leans down into the foot well, digging in her purse. "At
this rate, I don't know how much longer we can afford to keep feeding you, kid.
I might have to safe-haven you off at a fire station somewhere."
She's been threatening him with that one since he hit puberty. "I got it, Mom."
Scott lifts up on one hip to grab his wallet.
"Still, it's too bad," his mom says, as they pull out of the drive, munching on
her hash brown patty and her feet propped on the dashboard.
"What?" It's hard to think over his growling stomach. His mom has strict rules
about him not eating while he drives; his recent appeal on account of being a
werewolf, with way better reflexes than before, hasn't moved her.
"Derek and Isaac. Neither one of them seems to have anyone else. If they were
gay, then maybe they could have each other."
"I think they do have each other," Scott says, checking the mirrors so he
doesn't have to look at his mom. "Just not like…that."
"Hmmm." She sounds dissatisfied. She pops the last of the hash browns into her
mouth. "Though, maybe it is for the best. Isaac's your age, right? And
Derek's…what? Almost thirty?"
"I don't know," Scott says, not quite a lie. Fortunately or unfortunately, his
mom doesn't seem to really need his help to keep the conversation going.
"Yeah, that's no good." His mom taps a finger against her upper lip. "What
Derek really needs is some friends his own age. I know he's the alpha wolf or
whatever, but he spends way too much time around you kids."
"Derek—" Scott starts, and then stalls, not sure what he's wants to say. Is he
really going to defend Derek to his mom? Does he even want to? "Derek's okay,"
Scott finishes, feeling obscurely guilty.
"Still." His mom shakes her head. "Can't have been through everything he's been
through and be completely normal. And you just know he's never had therapy."
Scott glances sideways. "You don't even believe in therapy!"
"Mmmm, nuh-uh." She holds up a finger in objection. "I said we didn't need
therapy just because your dad left. And we didn't!" She spreads her hands.
"We're doing okay, aren't we, the whole, 'my son is a werewolf' thing aside?"
Scott snorts. "Yeah, Mom. We're great."
"Damn right!' She nods. "But the kind of stuff you and Stiles have told me
about Derek? That's the kind of thing you need therapy for. That's the sort of
thing why therapy was invented."
"Maybe," Scott says noncommittally, pulling up to the curb. "I gotta rush,
though, if I'm going to shower and make it to school on time." He throws the
car into park and hands off the keys, then grabs the McDonald's bag and plants
a kiss on his mom's cheek. "Love you."
"Love you, too." She yawns and waves, slower to gather herself and get out of
the car than Scott. "Don't wake me when you leave."
                                      ☽ ☾
We need to have a conversation.
Derek snorts and thumbs his phone's screen off. Peter's not the Alpha anymore
but you wouldn't know it, the way he demands Derek's time and attention. Not
that Derek has any intention of obliging him.
The guy at the end of the hallway—Derek's age, green cap, tall and skinny with
one of those bellies that looks like a basketball's shoved up under his
shirt—has been eyeballing Derek since he got out of the shower, though he
hasn't yet worked up the nerve to make his play, the rusty scent of loneliness
and longing sweating from his skin.
"Hey, uh, are you, uh…"
"No." Derek lifts his eyes from his phone to glare. Of all the places in and
around Beacon Hills that they can shower, the Petro truck stop in Corning is
Derek's favorite; it's clean, lots of really hot water, and the food is good
and comes in trucker size portions. Fewer people here assume he and Isaac are
looking to give quick blow jobs for a couple bucks, too.
Fewer people.
"I'm not. And he's not, either," Derek says firmly when Isaac finally comes out
of his cubicle, wet and flushed from the steam and Green Cap turns toward him.
Going anywhere with Isaac is dicey; he was built to be propositioned, by men
and women alike.
Derek takes hold of Isaac by the back of his neck, herding him past the guy,
giving one last fuck off look for good measure.
"You know, you don't have to do that," Isaac says, once they're outside. He
squints in the sunlight, but makes no move to pull out his sunglasses, lashes
fluttering against the brightness.
Derek blinks, looks back toward the truck stop. "Did you want to go with that
guy?" Isaac hasn't shown much interest—sexual interest—in anyone that Derek's
ever seen, even when Erica was flirting hardest with him and Boyd, fishing to
see who'd bite first.
"No." Isaac shakes his head. "I don't…" Isaac looks off toward the pumps, only
the slight acidic shift in his scent to tell Derek it's not accidental. "I've
been hit on by guys before."
Derek snorts. "Color me unsurprised."
Isaac's face turns toward Derek sharply, that naked shock he can't seem to
hide, after everything his father did to him, everything he's been through.
Isaac has no poker face, a fact as astonishing to Derek as it's
incomprehensible.
"I have eyes," Derek says, which makes Isaac turn pink and his pulse stutter.
"I know what you look like," Derek clarifies, wonder-worrying that they're
getting back onto some weird ground that he'd rather avoid. It'd been hard
enough convincing Erica that, no, he really was not going to fuck her. "And I
see how people look at you."
He also sees how Isaac reacts to it, the heavy layers of clothes he no longer
needs to wear—especially in this heat wave—but does. Derek scruffs the jawline
edge of his beard with his nails, the thing that had let him turn that corner
from 'pretty boy' that no one took very seriously to…whatever he is now.
Derek shrugs. "People look at me, too. I've been hit on by guys before. I
remember…" The pool of those memories lies there in front of him, but Derek's
not about to go swimming in it. He shrugs again. "I know what it's like.
Pretty."
Isaac tilts his head, considering, before he looks away again. "Anyway. The
point is," Isaac says, throat working around all the things he's not letting
himself say. "I can take care of myself."
"I know you can," Derek agrees. Isaac was fully capable of taking care of
himself even before Derek gave him the bite. Isaac has been taking care of
himself for years. It's not a question of capability. Derek keys the car open.
"It's not about that."
Though he and Isaac smell considerably better for showering, the interior of
the Toyota does not. The acrid new-car smell is definitely gone but Derek isn't
sure the ghost of Scott's spunk (and his) is actually an improvement. Derek's
freshly washed skin tingles as he climbs in.
"Then what's it about?" Isaac buckles himself in.
Derek starts the SUV. "I'm the Alpha," he says.
                                      ☽ ☾
"I have the sneaking suspicion you're avoiding me."
"I avoid you whenever possible," Derek says, letting Peter hear the absolute
truth in his voice. At the other end of the train car, Isaac looks at Derek;
Derek nods toward the car's door: go away for a while.
Peter makes his dumb, fake, my feelings are hurt face before he runs a finger
down the train car wall like he's doing a white-glove inspection. He shifts his
nail, letting it screech against the metal in a way he knows sets Derek's teeth
on edge. "Hmm," he tuts, holding the collected filth out to Derek like Derek—or
Peter—gives a fuck.
"What do you want?" Derek asks. He puts his gas-station receipt bookmark
between the pages of his book and tosses it aside. It's a library book, the
only reason he doesn't throw it at Peter's head.
"We used to be such close friends," Peter says regretfully, swiping his palm
across the seat opposite Derek before he condescends to sit down. "What
happened to us?"
"You killed Laura." Derek leans his head back against the window. "You tried to
kill me. And I killed you. Be grateful it was just the one time. What do you
want?"
"I thought we should talk." Peter laces his fingers together and then lets them
fall between his knees. "Boyd and Erica are dead."
"They're not dead," Derek insists. "I would know if they were dead." The pack
bonds, his strength, his abilities, they would've changed. He would feel it, he
would know.
Wouldn't he?
"I can think of a dozen reasons of the top of my head why that's not true,"
Peter counters blandly. "But even if we say, for the sake of argument, that it
is true, they're not coming back."
"You don't know that—"
Peter lunges to the edge of the seat, planting his hands on the edge of Derek's
bench. His talons puncture the pleather as his eyes flash blue. "I do know
that!" Peter growls, voice deepening over the words. "If they left on their
own—and we both know by now, they didn't—then they're gone. And if Deucalion
has them, they're dead anyway, whether they're dead now or not."
"Bullshit!" Derek slides forward, too, hackling at Peter—too close, too mouthy,
too defiant, disrespectful. He grabs Peter by the throat, fingers flexing in
the urge to crush or maybe rip.
"What's bullshit, nephew, is your refusal to deal with what's in front of you,"
Peter says, his voice gurgly and his face slowly flushing dark, brick red, but
otherwise unaffected by the fact that Derek's only millimeters from strangling
him. "You're the goddamn Alpha."
Derek roars, shoving Peter away. Peter slams into the opposite wall and slides
down to the bench again, one leg going down to check himself from slipping all
the way to the floor. Peter dips his chin, not quite bowing his head, but
avoiding direct eye contact with Derek, and chafes the fading marks on his
neck. "You wanted to be the Alpha," Peter pants, a little breathless.
"I am the Alpha."
"Then act like it."
"What is it you think I'm not doing?" It doesn't help that Peter sounds just
like the voices already in Derek's head, tallying his fears, his failures, the
endless comparisons to Laura, to his mother. He's not good enough to lick their
muzzles, let alone follow in their footsteps. "You have a brilliant idea about
what to do next, tell me!" Derek throws his hands out. "I'm listening."
"Stop wasting your time on Boyd and Erica." Peter leans forward again, though
he doesn't cross the aisle this time. "You need to think about what's good for
the pack, not just those two."
"And what's that?"
Peter clicks his tongue and looks disappointed but Derek's pretty much immune
to Peter's disappointment at this point; it's such a constant and completely
outweighed by Derek's own. "Expansion."
Derek takes a breath, lets it out. "No."
"If we're going to have any chance at all against Deucalion—"
"No."
The thought of bringing more people into this, exposing more people to the
flaming disaster movie that is his life, giving more people up as hostages to
his shitty bad fortune….
Peter's jaw squares, though his voice stays cool, oily, persuasive, "I've
already got someone, I've been feeling her out, if you offered her the bite…"
"No." Derek puts the power of the Alpha into his voice, since it's all Peter
will respect. The momentary flash of his eyes is like an itch; it's an effort
not to blink and dilute the effect. "We're not abandoning the pack we already
have and we're not bringing anyone else in. If you don't like it—"
Peter opens his mouth, but Derek gets there first. "If you don't like it, go
find another pack…assuming any other pack will have you."
Despite his reservations about keeping Peter around, Derek's never said the
words—never dared say them—but Peter did say one thing Derek can't ignore. He's
the Alpha, he needs to act like it. And that means making sure Peter knows his
place.
He won't leave. He won't. He's got nowhere else to go.
"Or maybe you want to be an omega?" Derek moves to the edge of the bench,
eyebrows arching. "No pack at all, all on your own?" Derek tilts his head, eyes
narrowing. "But…you're still not at your full strength, are you, after your
miraculous resurrection?" Derek strokes his chin thoughtfully. "In fact, you're
still pretty…oh, what's the word? Oh, yeah. Weak."
Peter gets so still that, if Derek wasn't looking right at him, he wouldn't
know Peter was there.
"Don't push me," Derek warns. "Don't go…chasing anyone, to bring them into the
pack. And get the hell out of my sight."
For a moment, Peter holds that statue-immobile pose. Then, with an audible
inhalation and a drop of his shoulders, he gets to his feet, the careless,
charming mask back in place. "Well," Peter says. "That was certainly as Alpha-
ish as anyone could've wanted. Your mom would be…so proud." The lazy smile he
gives Derek goes nowhere near his eyes, cold and bitter as a timber wolf's.
"Just go," Derek says, exhausted again, resuming his lean against the car wall.
"Just so I have it clear," Peter says, when he's standing in the door of the
car, because Peter can't ever let anyone else have the last word, "you mean
'except Scott'."
"What?" Derek snaps, then mentally thwaps himself, guilty of playing into
Peter's hands yet again.
"You said you're not bringing anyone else into the pack." Peter says,
gesturing. "But I assume you mean no one except Scott. I assume, you see,
because his, ah, scent is all over you and that's the only reason I could think
of that a strong Alpha like you would let himself be marked up by a beta like
Scott. That…is the reason, right, Derek?"
Derek shuts his eyes, shuts Peter out, though not before he sees Peter's smile
widen in satisfaction.
Peter's nose is so good, he can smell a secret, his dad used to say, and Derek
remembers the hard flat tone of it, understands now, in a way he didn't then,
that it's not admiring, not a compliment.
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott is sleeping, dreaming, and then, suddenly, he's not.
He sits up in the bed with the sudden awareness that he's not alone in his
bedroom. He's not scared, he's not in danger. Just…not alone.
Familiar.
Friend.
Derek.
His nose gives him a direction to look before his eyes adjust enough to pick
Derek's blacker shape out of the darkness. Derek is sprawled in his desk chair,
gripping the rests like he's worried about gravity reversing on him.
"What…" Scott shakes his head, hoping to rattle some sense in, digs in his
heels and pushes more upright. "What're you doing here?"
Derek leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Is this a one-way street, Scott?"
"What?" Scott looks at the clock. It's late. Or early, depending. Derek's
picking now to play riddle games?
Derek gets up in a creak of plastic and vinyl, coming to the foot of Scott's
bed. He's looming, there's definite looming going on there, but Scott doesn't
find it as scary as it used to be, despite the hollow, fluttery feeling in his
gut.
"Are you the only one who gets to ask for sex?"
Scott's eyes dart to the door in seizing panic, as though the sound of the word
spoken aloud in his bedroom will summon his mom.
"She's at work," Derek says, something Scott would know, if his brain was
working right. Scott nods, dragging his fingers through his hair, trying to get
it together. Derek makes a noise, too short for Scott to identify. "Scott?"
Scott looks back to Derek. His eyes have adjusted and he's more awake, better
able to see and feel the tension in Derek. It reminds him of Jackson, ready to
blow up at any second, into motion, into a rage.
It's been over a week since the full moon; it's both sooner and later than
Scott thought he'd hear from Derek again and none of those thoughts had been
like this, caught off-guard in his bedroom, with Derek doing the asking.
"I don't want to talk about it," Derek says, voice just as taut as the rest of
him. "Just a yes or no."
For a moment, as he'd been waking up, Scott had thought it was Allison in the
room with him, Allison that had climbed through his open window, Allison, back,
again. He can't help the disappointment, that it isn't…but the sourness of it
in the back of his throat doesn't seem to affect the anticipatory, jittery heat
flooding the rest of his skin. He's not wearing anything but his boxers and
Derek's fully clothed. It should make Scott feel vulnerable, nervous, but it
just feels dirty in a good way, an oh, yeah, gonna get laid, way.
"Yeah," Scott says, before he can over-think it. His mouth feels dry even
though it's flooded with spit. Already his cock aches, a deep itchy-good throb
begging for Scott's—or somebody's—hand closed around it. Scott pushes back the
blankets back, leaving his legs and a big swath of the bed bare.
The 'y' is barely out of Scott's mouth before Derek is stripping his shirt over
his head, a whisper of fabric and the strengthening of Derek's scent, and it
hits Scott again: this is really going to happen. It's happening right now.
Derek skins out of his clothes so fast it's like Scott blinks and then cock.
Derek's weight dimples the mattress and Scott tries to decide if he should lie
back or reach for Derek or what. He would think he's done this enough by now
that it should be easier, he should be smoother, but, as Derek crawls to
straddle over Scott's legs, Scott doesn't feel smooth at all.
Derek's hand curves around Scott's waist, urgent but not painful…and then Derek
sits back on his heels and sighs. "You can say no, Scott."
"I don't want to say no." Scott shakes his head. He might feel out of his
depth, he's completely unsure about what's going on with the two of them, but
he does want this. "It's just…" He puts his hands on Derek's thighs, bristling
the hairs with his thumbs. "I haven't done this a lot." Scott shrugs,
swallowing past the awkward tightness of his throat.
Derek pauses and then he makes a short, snorting laugh, putting both hands on
Scott's waist and easing him onto his back. Scott goes with it. "It's just sex,
Scott," he murmurs, nosing at Scott's neck, his jaw line. Derek's tongue
circles Scott's ear, dips inside in a way that makes Scott jerk. Derek's
fingers are hooked into the waist of Scott's shorts.
"Yeah," Scott agrees, lifting up to let Derek tug his underwear down. As soon
as his boxers are gone, Derek's there, his hands pushing Scott's thighs apart,
wide apart.
Scott curls up to see what Derek's going to do, but at the first hot, wet brush
of Derek's tongue behind his nuts, he flops back, a noise wringing out of him
like he's never heard himself make before.
It's humiliating and loud, Jesus, and Scott claps a hand over his mouth. Derek
doesn't even stop what he's doing, licking and scenting and God only knows what
else; he just reaches up without looking and grabs Scott's wrist and pulls his
hand away.
Make noise, or maybe, Scott thinks with a full-body shiver, I want to hear you.
Derek pushes closer, shoulders shoving at the back of Scott's thighs, kilting
him up, and Derek's tongue goes back, way back, in a place that no tongue has
ever been before and Scott is reasonably confident that no tongue is supposed
to go.
"Derek!" Scott's body snaps taut, but Derek just exerts a little more of his
Alpha strength and Scott doesn't actually go anywhere…not that he's trying to,
exactly. Scott's fingers skim over Derek's hair but he's unsure about the
reaction he'd get to actually grabbing, so he snatches at the sheets instead.
"Shhh," Derek says, without moving his face, which adds another type of
sensation to what's already almost overwhelming. Derek's thumbs stroke that
inside curve of Scott's ass cheeks where his tongue just was and it's soft,
almost gentle, like he's trying to soothe Scott in this completely weird way,
and then his thumbs spread Scott open even wider and his tongue is there again.
It doesn't even feel bad. If Scott could just get past the weirdness of Derek's
tongue in his ass, it actually feels really, really, oh, God, really good.
Scott's hands slide on the sheets, wanting to hold onto something, something
more—better—than the cloth, but there just isn't anything, just his fingers
opening and closing helplessly with every flick and flicker of Derek's tongue.
And…okay. Okay. Scott can go with this. He can totally go with this. He's
making noises, all these whimpery, sobbing noises he's afraid will wake his
neighbors, but it's good, it's really good, and God, he's never going to be
able to tell anyone about this.
Then Derek touches him. That is, Scott becomes aware that the circling pressure
on his…on him, is not Derek's tongue, it's his finger.
"Oh, hey, whoa, whoa!" Scott almost sprains something scrambling backward.
Derek sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "I
didn't…" Scott doesn't know what the end of that sentence is. I didn't expect
that. I didn't agree to that. I didn't want that.
Of course, if you'd asked him about a tongue in his ass, he wouldn't have said
yes to that either. Would a finger—up there, in there—be that different? Would
he go even further, let Derek put his dick in him, fuck him? In his ass?
It's too much, too fast.
"I don't…want to do that," Scott says slowly.
Derek coils, like he's going to go leaping off the bed and Scott leans close
enough to grab Derek's wrist. "Is that okay? I'm all right with the other
stuff, pretty much all the other stuff," Scott's cock hasn't even softened, "I
just don't want to do…that."
Derek's tendons flex in Scott's, like he's toying with jerking away, running
away, anyway. Then Derek lets out a tense, shuddering breath. "Yeah. Okay."
He doesn't move, though.
Scott edges nearer, slides his grip up Derek's arm, wrist to elbow, bicep to
shoulder. The muscles are so tight. Scott digs his thumb into them, like he
does for his mom after an especially rough night and…no. Not going to think
about his mom. But Scott massages Derek's arm until it's not so taut, not so
clenched. Then he pulls Derek closer.
No kissing, nope, not with where Derek's mouth's been, but Scott nuzzles at
Derek's jawline, near his ear, smelling himself on Derek's skin, new and musky
and older; not just come, but sweat and tears, their skin mingling. Scott's
noticed a change in his own smell, little but there; Derek is the mirror image
of that, more Derek, less Scott, but different than before.
Derek's fingers touch Scott's sides, streak down his ribs, tentative at first,
but Scott isn't pulling away and after a second, Derek gets surer, thumbing
down Scott's belly until he finally takes hold of Scott's cock, jerking him in
slow, delicious pulses.
Scott sighs his approval against Derek's neck, scratching his teeth over the
ridge of Derek's shoulder. He traces down Derek's body, looking for his dick,
looking to return the favor, but Derek pushes Scott's hand away.
"Wait," Derek says, before Scott can have a feeling about it. "Not like that.
Come here."
Derek stretches out across the bed. It's the first time Scott's really seen
Derek fully naked, though it's too dark in the room to really look. Scott's a
little surprised at how much he wants to look.
Scott stretches over Derek's body to turn the lamp on to its lowest setting, a
hazy golden glow not too harsh to wolf eyes used to the dark.
When Scott moves to draw back, Derek says, "No," and tugs at Scott's leg,
encouraging him to straddle Derek's waist. Which is fine until Scott settles
his weight and realizes that puts Derek's thick, very hard, dick right there,
where he's been licked open and is still really very sensitive.
Scott pops back up on his knees, but Derek grabs his hips, holding him there.
"I won't," Derek promises, his thumbs making circles over the bone. "Not
inside, I won't, I promise."
It's more convincing if you don't listen to the breathlessness of his voice,
the way Scott feels Derek trembling, tiny urgent shaking, against the inside of
his thighs, his calves, but Scott lets Derek ease him down again. When Derek's
dick touches his skin again, Scott's hips jerk and roll like they have a mind
of their own, tingles shooting through his body like stars as he lets Derek
wedge himself there, between his legs.
Scott gets a little lost, rocking on Derek, feeling what it feels like, a cock
right there up against his asshole, but he comes back when Derek takes hold of
his cock, tight-wrapped fingers stroking and squeezing in time to the shift of
Scott's weight.
"Fuck," Scott breathes, bracing himself on Derek's chest, solid and warm under
his palms. With each thing Derek does to him, he thinks it can't get any
better, any more intense, and then another layer peels back and Scott's losing
it again.
Scott closes his eyes, grinding himself down on Derek's dick and then forward
into Derek's fingers, feeling in his hands each shiver and hitch of breath that
Derek makes in response, rolling up into Scott.
"Come on me," Derek says, when Scott starts rocking faster. Derek moves the
hand that was squeezing Scott's thigh to grab Scott's nuts, rolling them
between his fingers in a way that makes everything better, more urgent. "I want
you to."
Scott doesn't just picture it—the hot splatter of his come against the golden
brown of Derek's skin—he feels it, the ball-emptying pleasure of it, the
brutal, electric jolt through his cock. More than that, he wants it: that
feeling, to see Derek covered in his jizz.
Scott opens his eyes and moans jaggedly, his hips jerking hard and pistoning
his cock harder into the circle Derek's made around him. He comes, a long,
breathless fall where even his hearing whites out, and then he's spurting out
on Derek, thick stripes and puddles all over that smooth tan skin.
At the touch of the first droplets touching his skin, Derek's eyes clench shut
and his head snaps back, hands shifting to Scott's hips, using them to hold as
he drives up between Scott's legs over and over.
Each time his dick head or shaft brushes Scott's asshole, it's another
shockwave, tingling all the way through to Scott's dick which has shot itself
completely dry, though it keeps trying.
"Scott—" Derek's voice is strained, choked, a trembling urgency in every line
of his undulating body. Scott doesn't need any of his werewolf senses to
see—know—how badly Derek wants to come. And that he can't.
Scott pushes his fingers into the wet, cooling mess on Derek's chest, smearing
it, rubbing it in, painting all Derek's unmarked skin with it. Derek cries out
and his nails bite sharper into Scott's skin as he pushes up more desperately
between Scott's thighs.
Scott slides his hand up Derek's convulsing throat, fully expecting to be
bitten when he daubs his sticky fingers over Derek's lips, inside, rubbing off
back and forth over Derek's tongue as Derek opens his mouth wider to let Scott
deeper.
Derek comes, Scott's bones creaking with the force of Derek's hands dragging at
him, a hot bloom of wetness between Scott's legs, in his crack. Scott's gut
twists, his spent dick trying to come again.
"Oh, God." Scott breathes out, a long, unsteady exhalation as he braces himself
over Derek. He's never done anything like that before. He's never even thought
about doing anything like that before.
Derek doesn't say anything, panting like he's run a marathon and pretty
literally covered in Scott's spunk.
For a while, that's all there is.
Then, realizing he's in real and actual danger of passing out, right there
where he is on top of Derek, Scott straightens up. The gesture pulls in some
seriously intimate places and Scott further realizes he's in danger of ending
up glued to Derek. Carefully, delicately, he lifts up, lets himself fall
sideways to the mattress. Just stretching his legs out is awesome.
"I have to get up around five to go get my mom from work," Scott says. "If you
want to stay until then…"
"No," Derek says. Almost as soon as Scott's off of him, he sits up, swings his
legs off the bed. "I'm going."
It's a relief, just a little bit; Scott isn't sure he wants Derek to stay,
though of course it's the polite thing to offer. The polite thing to say, "You
don't have to go. Or, or, if you wanted to shower…?"
Derek is already most of the way in his clothes. Scott's skin crawls at the
thought of putting any kind of cloth next to his skin and Derek's in worse
shape than he is. But Derek's also moving with the kind of jerky rapidness like
he's either late for something or he can't wait to get the hell out of there.
"Nah, I'm good," Derek says.
"You got what you came for?" Scott's surprised at how bitter it sounds, coming
out of his mouth. He doesn't feel like he's bitter about it…isn't the whole
point that it's just sex, Scott?
"Something like that," Derek says. "That a problem?"
"Nope," Scott denies. "Not for me."
Derek stares at him for a few seconds, like he's trying to X-Ray Vision
something out of Scott, but mostly, Scott just wants to roll over and go back
to sleep at this point. He can't even bring himself to care about the kind of
clean up he's going to have in the morning, or that he's going to have to wash
the sheets and probably Febreeze the mattress too, without his mom finding out.
"Then I guess I'll see you around," Derek says, shrugging into his tee-shirt
last of all and going to the window.
"Okay." Scott yawns, fumbles without looking for the lamp switch, immersing the
room in solid and soothing darkness. Derek climbs out the window, easing the
screen down after himself.
Scott's mostly asleep before he hears Derek's weight leave the roof, so he's
pretty sure the quiet "Thanks," he sorta, kinda, cloudily remembers later on
was just a dream.
                                      ☽ ☾
"You look tired," Dr. Deaton observes, when they finally slow down enough that
they can take a break. "Summer vacation getting you down?" He tilts his bag of
chips in Scott's direction.
"Not much of a vacation," Scott says, fishing a few Doritos out of the bag.
"Still got school, work…not," he corrects hastily as Deaton raises his
eyebrows, "that I don't love my job. But I've just been busy, trying to fix all
the stuff that got messed up last year…"
"Because of the bite," Deaton finishes, nodding.
"Yeah." Scott tosses his chips in his mouth. "And I just…I want to be better,
you know? This all happened to me and I was freaked out about it for so long—"
"It's a pretty freaky thing to happen to a young man," Deaton says, offering
Scott the bag again. Scott waves him off.
"Yeah, sure," Scott agrees, shrugging. "But this all had to have happened for a
reason, right? I mean…there's no going back, this is what I am now. Gotta
figure out how to…not just deal with it, live with it, but make the most of it.
Be the best at it that I can."
Deaton smiles. "I'm sure you will be, Scott, you're well on your way." He puts
his hand on Scott's shoulder for a second, squeezes. "I just don't want to see
you trying so hard to be good for everyone else that you forget to take care of
yourself. A balance needs to be struck."
"No, I know," Scott agrees. "I'm okay. I'm not…overwhelmed. I just didn't get a
lot of sleep last night," he says, hoping his face doesn't look as hot as it
feels.
"Oh." Deaton's eyebrows arch. "I didn't know you were seeing someone new." He
crumples up the bag and tosses it overhand at the trashcan across the room, two
points, no net.
Scott hadn't planned on telling Deaton about his break-up with Allison, except
that apparently anyone within two feet of him could tell that he and Allison
had broken up, despite Scott's efforts to put a good face on all of it.
"I'm not," Scott denies quickly, running his palms down the outside of his
legs. "Seeing anyone." His basic sense of honesty and Deaton's eyebrows ticking
even higher prompt Scott to clarify, "Not…it's not…dating." Scott clears his
throat, straightens up from his lean against the counter. "I'm not dating
anyone," he says finally, definitively.
Deaton holds up his hands and looks at Scott the same way he looks at Lacey
Milstrom's cat, Snuggles, so ornery, he needs to be heavily sedated before he
can even be examined. Scott will admit he flailed a bit there, but he doesn't
think he earned that look.
"I wasn't trying to pry," Deaton says and now he's talking to Scott like he's
Snuggles, too, that low, soothing, don't bite me murmur. "You've just been
pretty down, this last couple months. It's nice you're moving on." Deaton's
mouth flexes, like his smile got away from him. "Even if it's not…dating."
Oh, God. "I'm not," Scott says again. "Moving on, I mean. Allison…" There's the
familiar squeeze around his heart, just at the sound of her name, at the empty
space where she used to be, and though he feels increasingly pathetic that he
keeps saying these same words, making these same excuses, he has to keep saying
them anyway, like a ball player wearing the same lucky socks all season or
Rafael Nadal, tugging on his face and junk before every serve. He hasn't given
up. It can't sound like he's given up, because he hasn't. Wolves mate for life,
don't they?
Scott takes a breath. "Someday Allison and I will be together again," he says,
and it sounds calm, solid, totally solid. "I just have to wait, and be
patient."
Deaton is looking at him again. Not the Snuggles look this time, but the look
that every adult-type person has given him when he talks about Allison's and
his future, that annoying Oh, honey, you're still too young to know what you
want, look. Scott is so sick of the idea that just being sixteen somehow equals
too stupid to live.
Deaton inhales like he's going to say something and Scott's ready, he's ready
to throw all of it back in Deaton's face, because he knows, he fucking knows
what he wants and it's not going to change. But what Deaton says is: "I just
don't think that planning for your future means you should neglect—or feel
guilty about—the life you have right now." He smudges the neon-orange Dorito
dust on his fingers together before going over to the sink.
"You and Allison didn't work out right now because of the people you are. And
that's okay," Deaton says, glancing at Scott, interrupting the protest Scott
was about to make. He pumps the wall dispenser for soap. "But if the two of you
are going to find each other again, you—both of you—will have to change, change
into the people who can make it work. And you'll never do that by standing
still in the same place."
"But if we're both moving, how do we find each other again?" Scott flinches
from the sound of his own voice, every whining insecurity he's been trying to
bury naked and obvious. And it's just a metaphor, anyway.
Deaton washes his hands briskly then straightens, tugging paper towels from the
dispenser. "If it's really meant to be, Scott, you just will," Deaton says,
drying his hands. "It's like a dance. Or…like lacrosse." He balls up the paper
towels and takes a jump shot at the trash. The little ball wobbles on the can's
rim, but eventually flutters in.
"How so?"
"You can learn the timing, you can learn the plays, but when it comes time to
pass the ball, either the other person is there, where they're supposed to be,
or they aren't. You take care of you, you do your part and trust that, when the
time comes, the other person will be there."
That sounds, to Scott, suspiciously like what his mother did—and look how that
turned out—but Scott nods anyway. "I'm going to take the trash out before the
next appointment," he says, because he needs some air and Deaton, who knows
damn well that Scott never takes the trash out until last thing, as he's
leaving the clinic for the night, just nods.
"Okay, Scott."
                                      ☽ ☾
This is something Derek's never told anyone: he actually really likes doing
laundry.
He liked it when he was a little kid, too small to even reach the tops of the
machines, their controls. Before he knew enough to just jump up, he'd open the
dryer door and use the lip to boost himself. He'd sit on the washer through the
spin cycles and curl up on the dryer and let its heat soak into his bones.
His uncle—not Peter—had taught him how to make laundry detergent, without all
the chemicals and stinkum that went into the stuff sold in the store; he'd
taught Derek how to get grass and blood and grease out of clothes, how to treat
them so they last longer.
Since the fire, he's done his laundry in a series of Laundromats much like this
one. Nose-strippingly awful with the chemical reek of all the detergents and
bleach and softeners but always warm and always with other people around, and
he doesn't have to talk to any of them, which is the best of both worlds. Every
Laundromat is pretty much like every other one, too, so, in a way that goes
with the rest of his fucked-up life, it's the closest thing he's had to
continuity since everything went to shit.
Derek drops the old hotel pillowcases in which he bags his clothes and puts
both hands on the edge of the washer, the detergent-corroded edge digging into
his palms as he breathes harder than necessary.
(Laundromats were—are—also good for panic attacks. Though they don't happen as
often as they used to, as often as right after the fire)
Derek breathes deep, lets the chemicals burn in his nostrils, scour out all
other scents. That's the other thing he likes about doing laundry: the way it
washes away all the old smells, all the stains. The illusion of starting over,
of new beginnings.
Of course, there are no new beginnings and there are always new stains, new
tears and holes until the garment is unwearable, but Derek always manages to
forget that part. Or maybe he's gotten good at forgetting that part and just
remembering the part he wants to, the part that feels good.
Derek picks up the pillowcase and chucks the entire thing in the washer. He'd
been planning to do laundry anyway, but it had shifted from should-do to must-
do when he realized that all his clothes smell like Scott.
His entire body smells like Scott, despite several hours spent swimming laps in
the pool at the Y and then a long, hot shower afterward. Derek isn't sure which
bothers him more: that it doesn't bother him as much as it should or that he's
trying to scrub himself clean just so Peter won't have it to use against him.
He still doesn't even know why he went to Scott's. It'd seemed so important at
the time, the feeling like he was going to come out of his skin and that going
to Scott's—to Scott—would be faster, easier than going through the dance of
trying to hook up with a stranger in the wee hours of the morning. He told
himself that there's no reason Scott should be the only one getting something
out of this.
And all of those reasons have their elements of truth. But if he takes the time
to sniff out the bigger truth, it's that he went because he wanted to. He has
sex with Scott because he wants to. And he asked Scott to come on him because
he wanted that, too.
Derek realizes that, while he's busy daydreaming, he's rubbing up and down
along his belly. He makes a disgusted noise and turns to Isaac's clothes,
bagged in a more traditional striped canvas sack from his father's house.
Isaac, unlike Derek, hates doing laundry and despite his worries about the
Alpha Pack wandering around, Derek's just as glad to have the time to himself,
without the weight of a beta at his side.
Scott might think Derek's a piece of shit, but Derek's got a lot more
experience at that than he does at being Alpha, a skin that fits better, like
his aunt's stories about the first shifters.
Derek sorts Isaac's clothes, cataloguing which ones need some kind of stain
treatment (also DIY) before they go in the wash. As a rule, Isaac's an insanely
clean kid—more byproducts of his father, Derek's sure, and not in a good
way—but he's also living rougher than he used to and it's taking its toll on
both their wardrobes.
Derek's up to his elbows in suds and Isaac's might-be-coffee-might-be-blood
stains when his phone buzzes in his front pocket. Worried it could be Isaac,
that there could be trouble, Derek shakes his hands out then fishes it out.
Text message from Scott. Derek snorts and almost puts his cell away again.
Instead, he thumbs the message open.
Come by tonite?
Derek's breath puffs out of him as though it was a sucker punch, rather than
some words on a screen.
All his life, he's been around people who either knew or just didn't know.
Those who knew, the pack, they all knew, and nothing ever had to be explained
to them and those who didn't know, everyone else, they were never supposed to
know and only silence—his silence—was required.
Until Paige, it was never a problem for him; Derek had no desire to throw open
the doors between those worlds. And after Paige, for a long time, at least, he
had even less.
And then Peter brought Scott crashing into Derek's world, somewhat literally.
And like the disastrous comet that he is, Scott brought all these others in on
his tail. And none of them know. Not even the ones that most need to. Like
Boyd, like Erica. Like Isaac. And Scott.
When Stiles had cornered him, he'd told Stiles the truth: that things are
different—sex is different—because Scott is also a werewolf. The thing is,
Scott himself doesn't have enough sexual experience period, and definitely not
enough sexual experience with other wolves to know the differences, himself. To
know why Derek shouldn't ask for Scott to come on him, why he shouldn't want
it, to be marked and by a lesser wolf.
Hell, Scott probably just thinks Derek's fucking kinky.
It makes Derek laugh, the thought, a choking little gasp of a laugh. Yeah.
Derek is kinky, all right.
Though maybe that's why this is; why he's fucking around with Scott in the
first place. If Scott doesn't know, then Derek's free to ask for—and
get—whatever he wants. And even if Scott does know, if he found out or figured
it out, the fact that Derek is a shitty Alpha is no news to him.
Yeah, ok, Derek types back, like it's no big deal, like he can't still feel
each hot pulse from Scott's dick on his skin, Scott's fingers pushing into his
mouth. He's glad all over again that Isaac's not with him; he probably smells
like an animal in heat. He's actually considering going into the laundry
bathroom and jerking off…couldn't make it smell any worse than it does already.
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott's known Stiles for most of his life. He is Scott's best friend, his main
dude, his brother from another mother. He is the smartest, most creative, most
interesting, most loyal, best person that Scott has ever known.
…and sometimes he just gets on Scott's every last nerve.
It's not really Stiles' fault this time around. He showed up at the clinic
after Scott got off, big grin, and the first two Transformer movies in hand in
preparation for Dark of the Moon coming out this weekend.
And if Scott didn't already feel like crap, it would've been fine. Or even if
Scott hadn't texted Derek because he feels like crap, then it would've been
fine, because Stiles probably would've dragged Scott out of his bad mood,
because that's what Stiles does. In the words of Stiles himself, there is no
resisting The Stiles.
In fact, by the time he sneaks into the kitchen—under the excuse of microwaving
more popcorn and refilling his drink—to text Derek and tell him not to come
until later, he's feeling well enough that he's thinking maybe he should just
tell Derek not to come at all.
That's the sane thing, right? To hang out with his best friend. To watch stupid
action movies (actually, Scott has a secret soft spot for the Transformer
movies and Stiles totally knows that) and eat junk food and…be normal. This is
his chance to be normal. Maybe only for a little while, before the next crisis
comes along, but that's all the more reason to enjoy it now, while he can.
The microwave beeps, startling Scott out of his head. He leaves his phone on
the counter and grabs the popcorn bowl, tipping the burnt and unpopped kernels
and crumby fragments into the trash.
On the other hand, he thinks, hauling out the new bag and pulling the sides
apart to release the fragrant steam, isn't having as much sex as he possibly
can, while he can, exactly what normal sixteen-year olds do?
He wants Derek to come over. He managed to avoid thinking about Derek most of
the day, but after texting Derek, he can't get it out of his mind. He gets a
semi every time he thinks about it. He wants Derek to come.
Just not while Stiles is here.
"What is taking so long?" Stiles walks up and reaches past Scott to fish a
handful of kernels out of the bag. "You just missed the Autobots wrecking Sam's
house. If you miss Hoover Dam, too, I…" Stiles manages to shrug and throw his
hands in the air at the same time. "I will have to seriously reconsider the
terms of our friendship, because you're not the man I knew."
"I'm coming," Scott says, a small smile curving across his lips. "I just
got…sidetracked."
Stiles makes a face, taking the bag from Scott's loose grip and upending it
over the bowl. "You've been sidetracked all night."
Scott shrugs. "I'm just tired." He opens the fridge door and stares, seeing
nothing there he wants. He hadn't specified a time and Derek hadn't asked.
Realistically, he could show up any time. If Stiles is still here, will Derek
come in anyway or will he decide Scott's blowing him off and leave? And of
those two, which is the worst option?
He imagines the three of them mashed together uncomfortably on the couch
together, watching Revenge of the Fallen, imagines the pissy look on Derek's
face—and Stiles'—and has to choke back a laugh.
"I was thinking about maybe hitting the sack early," Scott says, grabbing a
bottle of water. He lets the fridge door close and puts his back to it,
cracking the cap open.
"What? No!" Stiles had thrown a piece of popcorn into the air to catch; when
his head jerks upright, it bounces off his forehead. "We can't watch
Transformers and not watch Revenge of the Fallen. It's like jerking off and not
taking the money shot!"
Scott splutters water; all over the bottle, all down his front. "Dammit,
Stiles!"
"Speaking of money shots…" Stiles giggles and has to put the popcorn bowl down
on the counter, next to Scott's phone.
Stiles' nosiness is as much a part of him as the moles on his face; Scott can
tell the moment Stiles glances at Scott's phone and sees the half composed
message to Derek, the lines of his body lengthening, stiffening, his scent
going metallic and stale at the same time.
"Yeah, you're right," Scott says, grabbing his phone. He finishes the message
with til after 1230, werewolf quick, and hits SEND before shoving the cell back
in his pocket. "It's not the same if we don't watch both."
Scott moves toward the couch, but Stiles doesn't move with him, still standing
by the island, both hands planted knuckle down on the countertop like he's
thinking about punching it.
Scott sighs. "Stiles—"
"No, wait," Stiles says, holding up a hand without looking at Scott.
"Just…wait." He pushes the air toward Scott. "Let me just say this."
Stiles breathes out noisily, frustrated, a sigh, and then looks up at Scott,
brown eyes boring deep. "I get that you're still messed up about Allison. I get
that you're in the dark place right now. And…that's okay. You can be screwed up
and in the dark place. For a while. And if…" Stiles mouth twists. "If banging
Derek Hale for a while is what you need to do, to feel better, or feel worse or
whatever it is he's making you feel…" Stiles pushes off the counter and raises
his hands in surrender. "Fine. I think it's gross, and terminally stupid…"
Scott makes a noise of protest, but Stiles holds up his hand again.
"But it beats taking up cutting, or listening to sad, emo music in the dark, so
okay." Stiles shrugs and he stops looking like he's trying to drill a hole
through Scott with just his eyes.
"Okay?" Scott repeats.
"Yeah, okay." Stiles shrugs again, his scent more metallic, hotter. "Nothing I
say seems to make any difference…"
"Hey," Scott protests inadequately.
"…it's something you clearly need to get out of your system, so…" Stiles
spreads his hands, "do what you need to do."
Scott wants to say something. He knows the things he's supposed to say, the
things you're supposed to say when you're in a situation like this, but when he
tries to put them on his tongue, they taste bad, wrong, like that time his mom
hadn't realized that the hamburger had just gone bad and made spaghetti with
it.
"You know, you could've just said, that you had plans," Stiles says quietly,
turning the popcorn bowl around and around on the counter.
"Yeah, but…" Scott gestures, "Transformers. Besides, no one can resist The
Stiles."
He can tell Stiles doesn't want to smile, but it washes across his face anyway,
his fingers combing idly through the popcorn in the bowl. "Anyway," he says,
"I'll just grab my movies and go. I don't want to interrupt your booty call or
anything."
"No, don't." Scott jerks his head in the direction of the family room,
resolutely ignoring how hot his face and neck get. "We haven't seen Hoover Dam
yet. And then you can't watch Transformers without watching Revenge of the
Fallen."
Stiles points a finger at him. "This is true."
                                      ☽ ☾
The lights are off all over Scott's house when Derek gets there, except for the
dim glow from the kitchen, where they always leave the hood light on overnight.
Even the porch light is off, not that Derek expected anything different.
Scott's second message said not to come until after twelve-thirty because
Stiles was there but, by the time Derek rolls up—after parking in the lot of a
24-hour Walmart a half-mile away, because he doesn't know how nosy Scott's
neighbors are, and walking the rest—it's actually much closer to one forty-
five.
When Derek edges across the roof to just outside Scott's window, he can hear
Scott's heartbeat and steady breath. He can tell that Scott's not sleeping.
Still—and with the awareness that super-hearing goes both ways and Scott can
undoubtedly hear Derek crouched on his roof tiles—Derek hesitates, hand half
lifted without knocking on the glass. What the hell is he doing?
He doesn't get much time to freak out about it, though, because Scott opens the
window from the inside. "You came this far," Scott says. His expression doesn't
look like anything at all, not happy to see Derek, not pissed. His vocal tone's
the same, bland as paper. "You going to hang out out here, or are you coming
in?"
Derek breathes out and slithers through the window. He wants to be here. He
just doesn't think he should want to.
"You know, I wasn't sure you were going to actually show up." Scott retreats to
sit on the edge of his bed, his fingers gripping the mattress.
"I said I would."
"Yeah, hours ago."
"I wasn't the one that changed the time."
"I…" Scott sighs and scrapes his hair back. "…don't want to fight about this."
"What if I want to fight?"
Scott pauses and Derek reaches out with his senses, trying to feel which way
it'll go, but Scott just tilts his head. "Do you want to fight?"
Derek's hands snap shut, blunt, unshifted nails biting into the skin, his
throat tight and hot.
"Derek…"
"Right." Derek toes out of his shoes, grabs the back of his shirt to tug it
over his head. "That's fine. We can just get to it."
"I…wait." Scott slaps his hand over Derek's as Derek goes for the button on his
jeans. "I didn't mean it like that."
Derek bites back hard on the ugly surge of rage, though he has to jerk his
fingers out from under Scott's and take a step back to do it, so his heels bark
into the wall and the screen bows and screeches a little at impact with his
ass.
Scott puts his elbows on his knees and stares at Derek. Derek gropes for some
clue, sensory or visual, to tell him what that stare means, what lies behind
it, but Scott isn't giving him enough to work with, more like Peter in this
respect than Isaac, who wears his every feeling out where people can see it.
Even his scent is even-keeled, more the products on his skin and hair than the
guy under them.
Then Scott sighs. "Fine. We can do it your way." He crosses his arms and shucks
his shirt over his head, letting it slide from his arms and droop to the floor.
Derek is aware that he's failed yet another test of understanding, of
communication, of intent, but knowing he screwed up isn't the same as knowing
why. It's just a feeling, all over the surface of his skin like static
electricity, crackly and itchy at the same time as they strip out of their
clothes, leaving them in piles.
It lasts until Scott swings his legs up onto the bed and Derek climbs onto the
mattress next to him. Derek puts his hand on Scott's thigh, warm and knotty
with hidden muscle, slides up to Scott's waist and then he's pulling Scott in.
Scott scoots across easily, willingly, touching Derek back and no tension in
his body other than the want that seeps from his skin, that makes his cock
harden against Derek's.
It's a shock, even as he lets Scott coax his mouth open; Scott isn't angry,
Derek can't feel any coiled punishment waiting for him in Scott's limbs,
there's nothing in his scent but want, clean and uncomplicated by cross-
currents of anything else, anything darker. Scott puts his leg over Derek's
hip, flexing his calf to bring Derek closer and…that's all. Just Scott's leg
holding Derek there and Scott rutting his hips slowly, cock sliding between
their kissing bellies. Scott's arm is around him and touching the triskele on
his back, tracing and exploring each of its arms by skin difference alone, and
it's gentle, almost tickling, his nails boy-jagged, but unshifted.
"What?" Scott pulls back a little and Derek realizes he's let his mouth go
slack, passive, dropping out of the kiss in every way except presence. Scott
glances down at the join of them, cocks and stomachs, meshing legs, and then
back at Derek. "I do something wrong?"
Derek doesn't know how to answer that, how to explain that what's wrong is him,
unable to cope or even grasp the idea that Scott isn't pissed at him after all
that, that this isn't the set up for something else, something punitive.
"No," Derek says, mainly to get past it, though it's also the truth. He works
his hand between them to grab Scott's dick, squeezing down at the base. Scott's
mouth opens on a short, hurt noise and his eyes drift shut, hips jerking toward
Derek.
Not every person he's ever fucked has hurt him or messed with his head in the
course of sex. That would be breaking the odds, even for him. But the ones that
were around long enough to stick out, Kate and Nichos and even Valentina, in
her tearful, wounded way….yeah. And Derek knows. You can't have Kate Argent on
that list and not know, on some level, how screwed up it all is. How screwed up
he is.
It's a different kind of knowing, realizing how deep that expectation of pain,
of punishment, goes, so deep that he feels confused and adrift without it.
"Okay, stop." Scott's fingers close over Derek's and Derek realizes he's lost
down a dark road again. Scott's eyebrows hook down toward his nose and his
expression hovers somewhere between confused and irritated.
Oh, Derek thinks, here it comes.
"Do you even want to be doing this?" Scott asks. "I mean…to quote your own
words back at you, you can say 'no', Derek."
Derek thought laughing is the last thing he feels like doing, but it skitters
out of him anyway, surprising him with its easiness. And, as if the act of it
ejects something from inside him, the awkwardness and uneasiness melt back,
leaving just the warmth of being here, naked, with Scott.
"I want this," Derek says, taking Scott's fingers and curling them around his
own dick. He's only semi-hard, but when Scott touches him, when his grip
tightens, he twitches and starts to get stiff.
But even as Scott's fingers play with him, Scott's not entirely appeased. "Is
it…? Is this because I wouldn't let you…" Scott takes a breath and visibly
steels himself. "Is it because I didn't let you fuck me in the ass?"
"No." Now Derek pulls back, levering up on his elbow. "That's not it at all."
Maybe this is the punishment. But if so, is it Scott doing it or is Derek
inflicting this on himself?
"Okay, but then, what?" Scott isn't stroking him anymore, but his thumb moves
back and forth across the exposed ridge, dragging on Derek's foreskin. Derek
isn't sure Scott knows he's doing it. Derek's finding it hard to think about
anything else.
Which may turn out to be a blessing, because, without the distraction of Scott
caressing him, Derek doesn't know if he'd ever work himself up to say, "Would
you ever think about doing it the other way?"
He can't keep looking at Scott looking at him and their scents are all mixed up
in each other, so when the silence falls, Derek feels it like a weight, like a
hand on the back of his neck, on the top of his head, pressing down.
"You mean… Like…me, in your ass?" Scott sounds like he's tasting the words out,
like a food he's never had before and isn't sure he likes.
"Yeah, Scott," Derek makes himself say, "that's what I mean."
Derek wonders if this is something Scott will know after all, by instinct, or
something Peter told him, that Alphas, real Alphas, don't take it up the
ass...not from a lower wolf, preferably not by anyone at all.
He remembers Nichos: "You'll never be an Alpha, Derek. Never. You don't have
the strength, the power. You let yourself be mounted and fucked, which is bad
enough. But I can tell you like it."
Scott's thumb wanders down the shaft, an oddly thoughtful gesture, like tapping
his fingers on a table. "Is…that something you…want?"
Derek's throat is dry, so dry and hollow. Too much to be able to snap, why do
you think I asked?, so Derek just grits out an arid, "Yeah."
And all the time, Scott just keeps up that slow, teasing back and forth with
his thumb along Derek's shaft.
"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it." Derek tries to make it sound
mocking, careless, but he's pretty sure he fails at that as badly as he's
screwed up everything else today.
Scott laughs, though. And not a Derek, you stupid fuck laugh, but startled,
maybe even a little shaky. "I really haven't," he says and yeah, Derek can hear
the vibration in Scott's voice now. "I haven't thought about any of this."
Suddenly, Derek's a little shaky himself. Despite his words to Stiles, he
forgets sometimes, how humanly young Scott is, still so tangled up in human
life, human concerns, human insecurity.
"Forget it," Derek says. He pulls Scott's hand off his dick, starts sliding
himself out from under Scott.
"Wait…I didn't say no!" Scott sits up, grabs Derek's arms, midway between wrist
and elbow. "I didn't say no," Scott insists. "Why does everything have to be so
damn black and white with you? I mean…" He huffs. "Could I have two freaking
seconds to decide if I'm cool with yet another sex act I've never done?"
"I shouldn't have asked." Derek shakes his head.
Scott sighs, fingers tightening over Derek's skin. "I don't mind you asked. I
mind that, because I didn't immediately say 'yeah, okay!' that the entire thing
is suddenly over. Don't I get a say, too? I mean…" Scott's skin darkens,
pouring through his face and neck, down his shoulders and chest. His scent goes
spicy and musky at the same time. "I was really looking forward to…sucking you
again." He lets go of Derek long enough to slap a hand over his blushing face.
"Oh, God, that sounds dumb."
It doesn't sound dumb, but Derek isn't sure how to express that to Scott
without sounding like an idiot himself, so he waits it out.
Finally, Scott lets his hand fall, shoulders slumping, too. "I just want to
think about it. Okay? Not no, just…later. Like a raincheck."
Derek snorts, he can't help it. Scott is just so fucking…earnest. Derek doesn't
ever remember being like this, even before.
It seems to be growing on him, though.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Isn't that Derek?"
Scott manages to somehow both trip over the shopping cart and drive it into an
aisle display, knocking cookware loudly all over the concrete floor. "Yes,"
Scott calls over his shoulder, chasing a rolling lid into the candy and gum
aisle.
It pinwheels under one of the pallets of merchandise and by the time Scott
manages to (literally) claw it out from underneath, Derek and Isaac are helping
his mom put the rest of the display back together.
"Thanks," Scott says. His breathlessness is totally due to chasing the pot lid.
Totally. "Hey."
It has nothing at all to do with the hours he just spent on the internet
looking up gay porn.
"Hey." Isaac nods at Scott and Scott isn't sure if the awkwardness of his smile
is for Scott himself or because his mom is standing right there with her best
isn't this lovely grin on her face.
Derek, of course, doesn't say anything. He looks about as awkward as Scott
feels, but that's also pretty much his normal face.
"What are you doing here?"
"Shopping."
The duh tone of Derek's voice, the lift of his eyebrow as he glances down at
his cart and then back at Scott is familiar, but it's weird too, because this
used to be their everyday kind of interaction, their only kind of interaction,
and now there's this whole subterranean otherness to it. Of knowing what Derek
looks like naked. What he looks like, coming. What he tastes like.
He looks at Derek and thinks, He wants me to fuck him.
Before his mom had corralled him for the monthly Costco trip, Scott had managed
to score a couple hours where he hadn't had to be anywhere or do anything—aided
in part by the fact that Stiles had apparently been up all night and was
currently sleeping the day away. He'd spent that time doing…research. All the
research that X-tube and Tumblr had to offer.
Research that is now exploding in his head, in living color and THX sound, now
that the reason for it is standing in front of him.
"You must be Isaac," Scott's mom says into the silence, holding out her hand.
"I'm Scott's mom, Melissa."
Scott snaps out of his X-rated mental paralysis. "Oh, right, sorry. Mom, this
is Isaac, and you know Derek…"
"I don't think we've ever officially met," his mom says, a sharpness to her
voice and smile that makes Scott cringe a little as she extends her hand to
Derek. "I'm Melissa McCall. Scott's mom."
"Mom. He knows that," Scott sighs, as Derek shakes his mom's hand with all the
enthusiasm of a wolf sticking his paw in a trap. Which…yeah.
"You know, it's funny," his mom says, tugging at a trailing curl of hair,
winding it around her finger, "you find out that there are such things as
werewolves, and they're right here in Beacon Hills!" She laughs brightly. "And
then you run into them at the Costco and you realize how much stranger your
life can get!"
"Mom!" How is this his life? Why is this his life? He makes a pained I'm sorry,
face at Isaac and Derek.
"Though, I guess it makes sense," his mom goes on, "I know how much it takes to
keep Scott fed these days, I guess with the two of you, it's probably even more
expensive." She looks down into Derek's cart. "Oh. Except it doesn't seem like
you're doing much food shopping at all."
"We don't have a lot of room for food storage at our place," Derek explains
with a smoothness that leaves Scott a little open-mouthed in shock. "And we
don't cook much."
"Huh, neither do we," his mom admits, with a brief laugh. "But I do a damn good
spaghetti, which stretches pretty far. You boys should come over for dinner
some night."
Scott chokes a little but no one looks at or consults him, which is pretty
normal for how these things go. "Mom," he says forcefully, into the expectant
silence, "we should hurry, if we're going to get back in time for you to go to
work."
"Oh, we've got plenty of time," his mother says, waving her hand at him like
she's shooing a fly.
"It's a very nice offer…" Derek says.
"Oh, no," his mom says, crossing her arms and legs and squinting up at Derek in
a way Scott knows all too well. She shakes her head at Derek. "Don't do that,
don't just blow it off. Look, we're in each other's lives now. And with all the
terrible stuff…" She sighs.
"Well. If we can band together for all the horrible things that happen, it
won't hurt us to do something nice together. Share a meal." She spreads her
hands, face softening. "You're Scott's friends. I'd like the chance to know
you, as Scott's friends, and not just…these people who show up sometimes, when
I'm scared out of my gourd and things are terrible. Okay?"
"Okay."
Scott grabs onto the cart because he needs something to hold him up when Derek
agrees. Agrees quietly and without a growl or glare. Scott and Isaac trade what
are probably identical glances before carefully looking in opposite directions.
"Great!" His mom smiles hugely and bounces forward on her toes, reaching as if
she's going to grab Derek's shoulder in her excitement. Sees, too, the moment
she thinks better of it, rocking back onto her heels and letting her arm fall
back to her side. After everything else, it barely pings Scott's embarrassment
meter. "That's great! How's tomorrow night? I know that's soon," she rolls her
eyes, "really soon, but I'm a nurse and that's my night off and I won't have
another one again, for…" She counts up on her fingers. "Well. A while."
Derek shakes his head. How is he the calmest one? "Tomorrow night's fine."
"Great! With my schedule, we tend to eat pretty late. Is nine too late?"
"It's fine."
Scott is sure that part of it is having his mother standing right next to him,
but he can't connect the guy in front of him with those gifs and clips of
moaning, gasping men getting deep-dicked on the internet. It's not just that he
can't imagine pushing his cock into Derek, he can't imagine Derek actually
wanting it, asking for it. He can't connect it with the red-eyed guy who'd
stood over the corpse of his uncle and growled, "I'm the Alpha now."
Does Derek really want this from him, or is this just another mindfuck? Another
time that Scott thinks they're actually getting somewhere, only for Derek to
turn on him? It's a squirmier and even less pleasant prospect than ever, a
thick, sour knot in the bottom of his stomach.
"Okay." His mom nods at Derek and Isaac. Then the moment breaks, like a bubble,
the rest of the Costco coming back into focus around them. Scott starts to
breathe again.
"We really do need to finish up our shopping, though," his mom says
apologetically, and Scott quickly wheels the cart around to point in the right
direction. "I guess we'll see you later!"
"Later," Derek says. His gaze flicks to Scott when he says it, growl and
promise, and holy shit, it's like a punch low in his gut, the way Scott's
vision shifts and his entire body remembers what it was like, having Derek's
cock in his mouth just this morning.
"L-later," Scott stammers, with every cell in his body willing himself not to
blush. He wheels around and pushes the cart up the aisle.
"What are you doing?" Scott hears Isaac mutter, as they go in their differing
directions.
"You were awful quiet with your friends," Scott's mom observes, shouldering him
aside and taking over pushing the cart when he's apparently not moving fast
enough for her.
"Getting along," Derek says back, his shrug as obvious in his voice as if Scott
was looking at him. Scott almost trips over his feet a second time today, only
werewolf reflexes keeping him from taking a header.
"Usually, you and Stiles, I can't shut the two of you up," his mom continues,
picking up a net bag of avocados and giving each of them a brief squeeze to
test ripeness.
"I think you did the talking for both of us, Mom," Scott says wryly.
She glances up at him. "You're not mad that I asked them over, are you?"
"No." Scott glances back over his shoulder, but Derek and Isaac have moved out
of the central aisle, out of sight. He's aware, though, that Derek could hear
him, if he was listening. He's aware Derek might be listening. Though, it
doesn't make change his answer, if Derek is. "A head's up would've been nice,"
he elbows her in the side and she oofs theatrically, "but I'm glad you did."
"You know you don't have to wait for me to extend an invite, right?" She puts
the avocados back on the pile regretfully and picks up a ten pound bag of
potatoes instead, heaving it into the cart. "Your friends are welcome at the
house whenever."
It's weird, to hear her call Derek and Isaac his friends, to put them in that
same category that's mainly only ever been occupied by Stiles…but he guesses
that's what they are now. "I know, Mom." He leans in and kisses her temple.
"Thanks."
                                      ☽ ☾
Hey, sorry I wasn't around today.
NBD. Had to go to Costco w/my mom anyway.
Exciting!
More than you'd think. Isaac & Derek were there.
…. Srsly?
IKR?
Is he there now?
Who? Derek? No. Why?
But Scott knows why, even before he expands his senses to hear the brisk rasp
of Stiles' Jeep pulling up to the curb. Scott quickly closes about a dozen tabs
on his browser, erases and shreds his entire internet history and clears his
cache and cookies before slamming the lid shut and bounding out of the room and
down the stairs to be at the front door by the time Stiles climbs out of the
car.
"Hey," Scott says, like his heart isn't leaping a million miles a minute in his
chest and he hadn't been thinking about rubbing one out just a couple minutes
ago.
"Hey." Coming up the sidewalk, Stiles makes a little salute with three fingers
and grins. "So…he's basically a homeless person…but he's got a Costco
membership? How does that work?"
Scott grins back. "Yeah, I don't know. But get this—my mom invited him and
Isaac to dinner."
"Shut the front door!" Stiles stops dead at the foot of the stairs.
"Seriously?"
Scott nods. "Yeah. Tomorrow night."
"Oh. My. God, I so need to be here for that!" Stiles flings himself to his
knees in front of Scott, hands clasped in front of his chin and working the
Bambi eyes for all they're worth. "Please, please, please tell me that I'm
invited to dinner."
"You're not…but why do I think that doesn't make a difference?" Scott leans
against the door frame, crossing his arms.
"Because you know I have a key?" Stiles asks, scrambling back to his feet and
dusting off his jeans. "And the mind of a criminal genius?"
"A criminal, anyway."
"Hey, I resemble that remark!"
As amusing—and sort of comfortable—as it is to think of having Stiles there,
Scott gets why it would be horrifying, too, especially with what Stiles knows
about Scott and Derek. He won't be able to help himself; it's just Stiles'
nature.
He'll hint and allude (another new word in Scott's vocabulary, though not from
the Word of the Day program) and crack really inappropriate jokes and Isaac
will be there and Scott's mom, and it'll be bad, really bad.
Just when things are going sort of good.
"Look," Scott says, once they've gotten inside and Stiles is rummaging through
the fridge. "Don't take this the wrong way, but…"
"No," Stiles says, leaning back to look at Scott from around the refrigerator
door. "No," he groans, letting the door fall shut. "Aw, c'mon, Scott, you've
gotta let me come."
"I just don't think it's a good idea." Scott runs his finger over an old knife
scar in the countertop.
"What if I promise I'll be on my best behavior?"
Scott looks up from the scratch, staring Stiles down.
"Okay, fine," Stiles says, shoulders slumping as he sighs deeply, "but I'd
try."
"Yeah," Scott says, drawing the word out, "no."
"I don't think you get how terminally boring this summer has been so far, or
you'd take pity on me."
"I can't believe you'd say that. I thought 'boring' was supposed to be the
whole point behind this summer. I thought you'd had enough exciting."
Stiles scoffs, waving a hand at Scott. "Okay, but I was talking about the
people getting turned into lizard-monsters and coming back from the dead and
getting killed kind of excitement." Both Stiles' hands make an X in front of
him. "I am totally done with that kind of exciting. But watching Derek try and
fail to act like a semi-normal human being in front of your mom? So, so
different." Stiles smooches his fingers.
"…and that is exactly why you can't be there." This past year, it's the most
he's ever said no to Stiles, after years and years of following Stiles' lead
wherever it's taken them. Stiles has always been the smarter one, more
creative, more inventive. The one who comes up with the best games, the best
adventures. Stiles is still all those things, but, thanks to the bite, a part
of Scott exists in a different world than Stiles and that means walking his own
way more often than he ever has.
Doesn't make it any easier, though, or make Scott like it any better.
"I mean it." Scott makes himself meet Stiles gaze, ignoring the tightness in
his chest. "I mean, yeah, it's probably going to be awkward as hell and I'll
give you all the dirt, later on, but…it's important. Me and Derek and Isaac,
even the stuff with my mom. You know how…" Scott waves his hands, "she's been.
I'm trying real hard to make it all work."
"No, yeah, I know." Stiles' voice is calm, but his body language isn't, his
scent is harsh in Scott's nose, like the burning dust smell when the furnace
first kicks on in winter.
"It's just…you and Derek…"
"No, yeah, of course…"
"…I mean, it's not like you guys hate each other, but…"
"…yeah, but it's still…I mean, I still don't trust him, but I don't hate him…"
"…yeah, so, you know, I just don't want it to be a thing. I need it to not be a
thing…"
"I totally get that! And yeah, fine, okay, I know I set him off…"
"…and my mom is going to be there, dude! Like, I just…and you know you'd say
something…"
"No, I get it, I totally get it. It sucks! But I get it."
"Yeah, so…" Scott looks down and notices that, while he wasn't paying
attention, his nail shifted and what was a little scratch in the counter is now
a gouge. Great. "Are we…?"
Stiles sighs, but it's the deep exaggerated one. "Yeah, we're good."
Scott breathes, a little lightheaded as the bands across his chest spang loose.
"Okay, good. Good."
Stiles turns back to the refrigerator. "Why do you guys never have anything
good to drink? What is this, even?" He pulls a pitcher out and eyeballs it
skeptically. "It looks like jizz."
"It's horchata," Scott sighs, rolling his eyes. "Which is the same thing I tell
you every time you ask. Which is a lot, by the way."
"Because you always have something in your fridge that looks like jizz." Stiles
looks down at it and his grin widens. "Bet you've been drinking a lot of this
lately, huh?"
Scott facepalms. "Oh, my God, shut up. You're sick."
"So…does this mean you and Derek are, like, dating now?" Stiles puts the
horchata down on the counter and gets a glass from the cupboard. "Is this
something serious?"
"What?" Scott scrunches up his face. "No! I don't…where did that even come
from?"
Stiles shrugs, pouring himself a glass of horchata. "Dinner with the family.
Seems like the kind of thing you do when you're getting serious, right?"
"I…no. I mean, yes, that's a thing you do, but no, that's not…it's not. We're
not." Scott shakes his head, as if he can rattle the thought out his ear like
water. "Why do you keep doing that?"
"What?"
"You keep making it sound like I'm falling in love with Derek, or that I'm
going to fall in love with Derek and…" Scott shrugs. "It's just really
annoying, okay? Knock it off."
Stiles opens his mouth and Scott's not sure what he's going to say, a denial or
a defense or something else totally, but he can tell the moment where Stiles
changes his mind. "Yeah, okay, fine," Stiles says, then tosses his head back
and drains the glass of horchata in three big gulps. "Hey, that's not half
bad," he says, before letting out an enormous belch. "Doesn't taste like jizz
at all."
Scott laughs. "I'm not even gonna ask."
Stiles gives him a look, one eyebrow arched. "Don't front; you know you've
tasted your own spunk."
                                      ☽ ☾
As expected, Stiles stays over, but he falls asleep on the downstairs couch,
meaning Scott has his room to himself and, now, some time to think about all
the porn he looked at today.
The thing is, Scott doesn't really like porn all that much. He's looked at it,
watched it, jerked off to it—especially when he first hit puberty, man, he
jerked off a lot—but so much of it is just so…ugly. And fake. And kind of
gross.
It probably says something about equality that gay porn doesn't seem to be any
different; a lot of really fugly dudes, grunting and moaning with unnatural,
metronome regularity while jamming their cocks at each other, casually brutal
and so…impersonal. Like none of these people met each other before they were
fucking each other and even then, they don't like each other very much. No
connection. No spark.
If there's one thing you can say about him and Derek, nothing is impersonal;
nothing is ever impersonal.
Derek's not ugly, either, though Scott's coming to appreciate that much
differently—more intimately—than before.
He's also quiet. Derek's quiet all the time—all the time he's not yelling,
anyway—but it's even more noticeable when Scott's doing something to him that
feels good; stifled and bitten off, like Derek's afraid of being overheard
(something Scott relates to all too well) or maybe even like Derek's ashamed to
admit that something happening to him actually does feel good.
Which…oh. That's sparked some interest south of the border. Scott spreads his
fingers over his cock, just touching it, feeling it get harder but not holding
it or rubbing. He wonders what kind of noise Derek would make if Scott said
yes, if he pushed his cock into Derek; he wonders what it would feel like, if
would feel anything like it did with Allison or if it would be different in a
way he can't even imagine.
Not all the porn had been completely horrible. Some of the stuff from Sean
Cody, Corbin Fischer, those guys had looked like they were friends, like they
were having fun, like having some guy's cock up your ass is a pretty awesome
thing to do, like it's something they just do, from time to time, in between
everything else.
He knows what Stiles didn't say to him downstairs; that he thinks Scott is too
romantic, that he gets too attached. Stiles thinks Scott's going to fall in
love.
But Scott's already in love. It hasn't changed because Allison's gone, because
she's not with him right now. In his heart of hearts, he knows: it's never
going to change. And to hell with what anyone thinks.
But him and Derek… He doesn't want to love Derek. He just wants to like him a
little more, wants Derek to like him a little more…and maybe keep having sex
for a while, because that's turned out to be pretty good, pretty nice, and it
stops him from hurting so much all the time.
His senses pulled in—and mostly focused on his dick—Scott only feels it a
couple seconds before Derek's weight lands on the roof; he's at the window
before Scott rolls out of bed and goes to lift the sash.
"Hey," Scott starts to say, concerned and surprised and surprisingly pleased
that Derek's here. He starts to say is everything okay? but it all gets
swallowed up in Derek's hands on his face and Derek's mouth crashing down on
his, like he's trying to eat Scott's face and suck his soul out through his
mouth all at the same time.
"You don't have to fuck me," Derek says, the words twisting over one another so
it takes a mental replay for Scott to makes sense of them. Derek eels in
through the window, still holding Scott's face between his hands as he does,
pushing Scott backward. There's nothing quiet about him now, restless energy
pouring off his skin like heat as he kisses Scott again, hard and biting. "I
just want…I just want to fuck. Can we…?" His hand goes between Scott's legs so
easy, familiar, slipping under the waistband to take hold of Scott's dick,
already half-hard and making a run for rock-hard as he licks blood from his
bottom lip. "I just want to fuck."
"Stiles," Scott says, more because he feels he has to than because it's a
serious protest.
"Sleeping," Derek counters against Scott's throat. The hot blurt of Derek's
breath on his jaw, his neck, makes Scott shiver. "I won't wake him if you
don't." Derek bites down.
Aw, fuck.
They don't even try to move to the bed, kneeling on the floor. Scott strips out
of his boxers, the only thing he's got on, but Derek just peels his jeans and
underwear down his thighs, pushing their cocks together with a soft, satisfied
noise as he sucks short-lived bruises into Scott's skin.
The continuous pulse, between hurting and healing over and over again, is a
thrum in Scott's blood; he puts an arm around Derek's neck and one around his
waist, holding him close at those two points of contact: Don't stop.
Derek's greedy, frantic, his mouth and free hand all over Scott, his other
clutched in tight friction around their dicks, not gentle, slick with mingled
precome. God, so slick. Scott was all ready to get off on his own; Derek's
fast, brutal rub on his cock pushes Scott in no time to feel just as hungry, as
desperate, scenting and tasting across Derek's skin how much he wants this, how
close Derek is to coming already, just from this.
When Scott's fingers slip down to cup both cheeks of Derek's ass, hold and
squeeze, it's not planned, it's not intentional. Scott just wants them closer,
as close as they can get, skin to skin, bone on bone, but he feels/smells/
senses the shift when Scott's hands close and drag; a microsecond of Derek
stiffening and then, without actually changing anything or moving a muscle,
Derek becomes still in Scott's arms, a weirdly perfect tension of singing
tension and an equal softness. Pliant, that's the word.
Waiting, Scott realizes, the thought struggling to surface through the pleasure
of Derek's thumb grinding into the nerves just under the head of Scott's cock.
Derek's waiting. Waiting for Scott.
"Derek—"
"You don't have to," Derek says quickly, like he was waiting for that, too.
"No, I know," Scott says, calmer than he thought he'd feel now that they're at
this moment. Other than the tense ache of his cock, tightening his balls. He
flexes his fingers again, such taut muscle, but so much give to it. He brushes
along the crease and Derek makes another of his quiet, choked noises against
Scott's throat, panting hotly, shivering.
"Scott—"
"Shhh. Just…shut up, okay?" He squeezes Derek again, getting soft noise and an
answering flex of Derek's fingers on their cocks. "Let me…" Scott doesn't know
how to end that sentence, all his brain on a different channel than the one
with the words, all his focus on the slow, stroking movement of his fingers
into that hot cleft. "Let me."
Derek shudders again, harder than before, but he doesn't say anything, burying
his face deeper into Scott's shoulder. Letting Scott.
The power of that, that Derek Hale is giving him this, letting Scott play and
explore with his body—Derek Hale—is almost as good as the rub of Derek's cock
on his. No, not almost; it is as good, in a way Scott can't quite grasp right
now, can't put his finger on.
Scott's breath hitches, his whole chest hitches, when he thinks about where his
fingers are, pulling Derek wide with one hand so he can find and touch and
trace around that tight-furled pucker. Derek's asshole. His hole.
Derek presses his mouth all over Scott's jaw and neck and shoulder, kisses and
bites and sucks, or sometimes just muffling himself, when Scott rubs in a way
that makes Derek jolt and his dick twitch and blurt more precome.
The more Scott touches him, the more he rubs, he feels Derek's hole start to
gape, to open under the pressure of his fingers. Derek's shaking all over,
continuously, and Scott starts to think about it, about the possibility of in.
Already rocking to the same steady, easy rhythm as Derek, the thought of it—of
shoving his finger deep in, in feeling what there is to feel and how it feels,
seeing if it'll feel as good to Derek as to all those guys in those pictures
and videos—makes Scott crash hard into Derek, ravenous and drowning in it.
"I want…" Scott circles that loosening gap. He wants to know what noise Derek
will make then, whether it'll be loud or low, growling or moaning. Wonders if
all of the above is a valid possibility. "Can I…?" He dips in without even
waiting for permission, heat and plush, lush give, hard muscled softness.
"Yes." It's almost too soft for even Scott to hear, just a wet hiss against his
collarbone and Derek's hips shifting back, trying to take Scott further. "F-
fuck. Yes. Yes."
Oh, God. Scott's blood rushes loudly through his ears…but not so loudly he
can't hear the sound Derek makes when Scott drives his finger deeper into him,
a groan that Scott can feel all the way to his bones, a groan that makes him
think of—and worry about—Stiles, still asleep downstairs.
But it's only a fleeting thought, barely a thought at all, because what he's
really thinking about is what it's going to feel like, when it's more than his
finger. When it's…
A thousand pinpoint prickles break out across Scott's skin, the opposite of
goosebumps and hot instead of cold, sweeping him like a sickness as his heart
kicks into overdrive.
"I'm gonna…" Scott swallows against the sudden dryness of his throat, the deep,
bone-deep ache. He ducks his face to rub along Derek's cheek, the bristle of
Derek's beard along his jaw reminding him this is real, grounding him. "Next
time." He noses along Derek's jaw, voice failing as his throat closes around
the words. Against Derek's ear, he whispers, "I want to put my dick in you.
Next time…"
Derek grunts, harsh, punched out, and his whole body seizes up taut. Come
splatters against Scott's chest, stomach, all on his pubes, hot on his skin,
bitter in his nostrils. And familiar, so familiar now. Scott's nuts feel half-
crushed with how much he wants to be there with Derek, how much he needs to
come.
He pushes Derek back, to the floor, and Derek just goes, letting himself fall,
letting Scott pin him there with one hand. Derek looks up at Scott, his eyes
dark but not guarded, not walled up. He should look ridiculous, clothes only
half-off, splashed in his own come. All Scott can think is how he wants to
strip Derek naked and rub himself all over Derek's body, cover Derek with him,
sweat and spunk and stink.
Scott's cock is soaked with their combined fluid, slick, silky slide through
his fingers. Fingers that were just in Derek. Inside him. He jerks himself
roughly, breath rasping so hard in his lungs it sounds like he's growling.
Derek stares up at him, expressionless other than those raw-naked eyes, and
then his body goes soft under Scott, pliant, arching his head so the long part
of his neck is open, bare. Go ahead; do whatever.
Scott whines deep in his throat, soclose. "I'm going to fuck you," he says,
gasping, almost choking on the words. He fucks into his hand harder, the wood
creaking under his knees. "I'm gonna, oh, God, I'm going to…to fuck you…"
The first spurt from Scott's cock jets all the way to Derek's jaw, thick and
ropy. Scott aims lower, pushes his cock up against Derek's softening dick,
smearing and wringing himself out on the shaft, pubes, Derek's balls and lower.
Derek bites his bottom lip, hips bucking up, cock giving one last hard twitch.
Scott lets go of his cock to thumb the cooling spunk from Derek's cheek; like
they rehearsed it, Derek turns his face to meet Scott, mouth already opening to
take Scott's fingers in.
Scott lets Derek lick and suck his hand clean, collapsing sideways to the floor
without ever taking his gaze away from Derek's lips, the pink of his tongue,
the bob of his throat with each swallow. Derek's eyes are closed and he looks
so relaxed, almost blissful, as he works. Scott thinks, I did that.
It feels good, knowing that, a warm, sweet flush like when booze was something
he could feel. I did that, he thinks again. And: Derek let me do that.
But when his fingers are clean and the spit and spooge are cold on his skin,
Scott realizes he doesn't know what comes next.
He'd like to jump in the shower, but he's not sure that Derek wouldn't
disappear in the meantime and Scott isn't quite at the place where he's ready
for that vaguely bored, "See ya," and see the disinterested shutters to go back
down over Derek's eyes. Not after his first real peek at what's behind it.
"I thought you hated me," Scott says, sliding his hands over Derek's chest and
abs where his shirt's ridden up, under the pretext of wiping the last of
Derek's saliva away. Though he pitches his voice low, too low for a non-
werewolf, it still sounds loud after the silence. "For a long time, I thought
you hated me."
"I don't hate you, Scott." Derek's eyes slit open and he turns his head to look
at Scott. If he's less raw than he was five minutes ago, he's also still not
ratcheted back up to the defensiveness of Defcon 1. Derek sits up, but it's
just to slide his jeans and underwear down to his ankles where he can kick them
off. Derek peels his shirt over his head, dropping it on top and then lies
back, tucking his arm under his head.
"Yeah, I know," Scott says, scraping up a smile because that admission cut
surprisingly close to the tender bone. "You let a guy put his…hand…in your…in,"
Scott waves his hand vaguely at Derek's now-naked body, hot all over again but
for a different reason. "If you hated me…" Scott breathes a laugh, "I wouldn't
still have a hand."
Derek snorts and then smirks, though it feels like a different smirk than
usual, not a weapon Derek's bludgeoning him with. Derek's leg sweeps sideways,
kicking Scott in the knee without any force behind it. Scott curls his fingers
around Derek's ankle, just holding it.
"You know I've never done this before," Scott asks quickly, before he can
chicken out. "Not with a guy. Not…"
"I know," Derek says, flexing his leg in Scott's grip without pulling away,
like he's testing how tightly Scott's holding him. "You don't… I'm not
expecting you to follow through on something you said while fucking." His hand
lifts from the floor and flops back.
"No, I want to!" Scott says and yeah, could he sound more eager-beaver about
it? But he does. Even spent, the thought of fucking Derek fills him with a
tingling, butterfly-ish anticipation. If Stiles wasn't downstairs, if he didn't
have to pick his mom up in just a few hours…
And that's hard enough to get past, without having to go all MTV-confessional
at the same time, but he knows he'll never have the balls to ask for it, if
Derek backs out now. Rubbing his thumb over the rough circle of Derek's ankle
and watching every move like he's defusing a bomb, Scott repeats. "I want to.
I… I've been thinking about it all day and I wasn't sure, but then when we
were… I just knew. I want to, I really want to." He peeks a look at Derek from
under his lashes. "Unless you, you don't want…"
"No, I still want you to," Derek says quietly. He's not looking at Scott
either, looking down the length of his own body, so his eyes seem mostly shut.
"I want…" He sighs and arches his head back on his neck, closing his eyes for
real. "I really want that," Derek says, flat, like it hurts him to say it.
Scott inhales deeply, sharply. So that's it, then. They're really going to do
it. It's going to happen.
Derek rolls his head toward Scott and opens his eyes. "You're not going to go
and get a bunch of Glade candles and some soft R&B and try and create a 'mood',
are you?"
Scott laughs and the fizzing, butterfly feeling settles, making him feel less
like he's going to throw up. "Nah. You look more like a power ballad guy,
anyway."
Derek snorts, his lips still soft, smiling; a smile that goes all the way to
his eyes as he rolls them toward the ceiling. "I don't…I don't want some big
romantic thing, is all I mean. This. This isn't romantic."
"No," Scott agrees, stroking against the lie of Derek's leg hair, making it
bristle. They are not a romance. "But we are friends." He draws a line on
Derek's skin with his thumbnail, one side of his mouth pulling up in a half-
grin. "Maybe a little better than friends."
Derek's smile widens. Only a little, but Scott sees it.
"I'm scared I'm going to hurt you," Scott says, letting the words fall out of
his mouth like stones. "Or myself. Or…I don't know. I don't know what I'm
doing. I just thought maybe you want someone who knows what they're doing."
"It's just sex, Scott."
Scott huff-laughs, squeezing Derek's leg. "You keep saying that."
"It keeps being true. I've done this before. I've… I know what I'm doing."
Derek shrugs. "It's just not that hard."
"Well, not yet," Scott says, waggling his eyebrows, "but give it another couple
minutes."
The smile blooms into a full-out grin.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Are we still looking for Boyd and Erica?"
The Beacon Hills River Walk is a misnomer. The concrete canal cut through the
north end of downtown Beacon Hills doesn't tap into or spring from any of the
area's natural waterways. It was built by the City Council and an assortment of
businesses the year before the fire and, because it is an artificial construct
made just to look pretty and picturesque, it lacks the tidal scour necessary to
keep it free of algae or whining clouds of mosquitoes, thus guaranteeing the
employment of the double handful of city workers whose job is to keep it pretty
and picturesque. For one brief summer, Derek had been one of them, which has
given him a kind of cock-eyed fondness for the thing and, in the early morning,
the mosquitoes aren't so bad.
It's as good a place as any to have this conversation, Derek guesses.
Though he hadn't meant to, Derek had fallen asleep on the floor at Scott's.
More surprisingly, Scott had let him sleep and let him shower the next morning.
With Stiles still knocked out on the couch, Derek had repaid the favor by
driving Scott to the hospital to pick up his mom.
Isaac had been waiting for him at the hospital. Derek hadn't asked him to, but
it wasn't unexpected. Isaac's not stupid and there's only one place Derek's
been sneaking off to at night.
That realization and Isaac's question makes Derek's stomach knot and churn
worse than the smell of the coffee Isaac can't/won't give up drinking, even
though the caffeine is as ineffective as booze on their metabolism.
"Derek?"
Derek's fingers crinkle his own water bottle between his fingers and he glances
sideways at Isaac. "Yes. We're still looking."
Isaac doesn't say anything, one finger moving back and forth over the rough-
edged open mouth of his coffee cup lid atonally while he watches two women
jogging on the other side of the canal. When they go under one of the pedway
bridges and are sufficiently out of sight, he looks back at Derek. "Where?"
Isaac asks, spreading his hands a little. In the brutal early morning light, he
looks washed out and tired; Derek wonders if Isaac's been having nightmares
again. Isaac hasn't mentioned it and Derek hasn't been there enough lately to
know.
Derek's hands close to fists and what's left of his water geysers out of the
top and all over his knees and legs and shoes.
Isaac's gaze turns dark and wary, but there's no vinegar stink of fear, and he
presses, "We've looked everywhere. Everywhere I know to look, pretty sure
everywhere you and Peter know to look, and nothing."
So at least they've come that far.
"They're not in Beacon Hills," Isaac says reasonably, like this isn't anything
Derek's thought about before, as though Peter hasn't been hissing this same
thing in Derek's ear all this time. "If they were here, we would've found them
by now."
"Or, they're being held somewhere, somewhere we can't sense them." Derek swings
out a little, chucks his bottle at the nearby trashcan. At the last second
before it drops, a gust of wind catches the plastic and it drifts sideways,
crumples to the pavement. Derek hops off the bench back to scoop it up, throw
it away properly.
"Or," Isaac says, when Derek swings back onto the bench, "they're dead."
"Don't say that!" Though he has enough control not to shift, the bench's
pressed wood creaks under Derek's grip. "They're not dead. I'd know if they
were dead. We'd both know."
Isaac shakes his head, looking down at his hands. "I don't feel them anymore."
His voice is quiet, but the lines of his body, the sharpening of his scent,
telegraphs how much Isaac hates making the admission. "I don't… I don't feel
like they're gone." He glances sideways at Derek then down again. "I just don't
feel…anything."
Me either. But that's not something Derek can say to Isaac, to anyone. He'd
always known there were things his mom didn't tell him, didn't tell the pack.
Later, it was the same with Laura and he'd always just thought it was right,
the way things are supposed to be. He never thought about what it cost them, to
hold on their silence. He never thought about if they'd ever wanted to say more
than they had.
"I ran into Boyd's mom." Isaac slips down from the bench, goes over to the
trash can to toss what's left of his coffee before tugging his sleeves down,
wrapping the cuffs around his hands. "She's putting up flyers, missing person
flyers, her and Erica's mom, at Deaton's, other places around town. I…told her
I'd help." Isaac tucks his swathed hands into his armpits, hipshot, teetering
between defiant and defensive.
Derek spreads his hands. "Okay?"
Clearly not the reaction Isaac is expecting, as his posture smoothes out again,
hands falling to his sides. "I didn't know what else to tell her."
"Don't tell her anything." It comes out barking, hard, flat, and Derek tries to
soften it, his jaws working around the words like there's leaves or cotton in
his mouth: "There's nothing to tell her. We don't know anything more than she
does: that Boyd and Erica are missing."
Another jogger, this time male and on their side of the canal; he whooshes past
them, the cleanness of his sweat barely overpowering the stink of detergent and
cologne and deodorant, and Isaac's gaze follows, almost helplessly, a strange
hunger in his pale eyes that Derek doesn't know how to interpret, unsure if he
wants to be the guy, fuck him, rip his throat out or something else entirely.
"Did you know Boyd had a sister?" When he looks back at Derek, Isaac's foot
scuffs the pavement, like a restless bull. Derek doesn't think his expression
changes, but Isaac nods briefly as though Derek said something and looks away
again. "Yeah, me either."
Isaac doesn't climb back up on the bench, his toe digging at the concrete like
he's trying to erase something from its surface. Personally, Derek's ready to
move on, get the hell out of here before the weekend ant-trails of people start
to really thicken, but whatever Isaac's got up his nose, Derek can tell it's
not all out yet, that there's more. So he presses his hands together and waits.
"She disappeared, too," Isaac says finally, hoarsely, like the words hurt to
say. "Boyd's sister. His mom told me. Nine years ago. They still don't know
what happened to her or if she's dead." Isaac's jaw gets hard, eyes too,
leaning toward gray.
And now Boyd. Isaac doesn't have to say it; the weight of it falls on Derek
like a boulder from above, straight into his gut, where it sits, huge and
sickening. He remembers Scott telling Boyd he could do better than Derek. Even
as good as things are with Scott right now, it still galls him: that Scott said
it, believes it, that Scott isn't wrong.
If he was a better man, a better Alpha, he'd make Scott take Isaac, make Isaac
part of his stupid, rag-tag, not-even-a-pack pack.
But even as he thinks it, Derek knows he doesn't believe it, not really. Scott
would be a kinder, gentler Alpha, which might be good for the scarred-over
skittish parts of Isaac, but kind and gentle aren't any better for Isaac's
longevity than Derek's awkward and inadequate care.
Isaac shakes his head, and for a strange, panicky moment, Derek thinks Isaac
somehow overheard his thoughts. Then Isaac says: "It can't go down like this.
This can't be the end of the story, that they disappear and no one knows what
happened to them. Even if they're dead…" Isaac pauses, as if on the edge of a
cliff, then steadies himself, the quick-surge of anger, of determination,
breathing off his skin and calling to Derek's. "Even if they're dead, we have
to find them. Even if it's just to bury them."
Derek nods, scruffing his beard against the grain and then back. He's let this
thing with Scott take over and it was easy, easy to do so, because it feels
good and that's Derek all over, gravitating to what feels good without thinking
too much—not enough—about whether it's also the smart thing.
Or the responsible thing.
"Yeah," he agrees, because Isaac is still human enough that he needs Derek to
say these things out loud. "We'll find them."
He has no idea how, but… He thinks about Boyd's mother, the agony of just days
of not knowing where Laura was, what or if something had happened to her. The
Hales are all mostly dead, but at least he has the grim satisfaction of knowing
they're dead, no question mark hanging over it all.
Derek gets up from the bench and nudges Isaac, marking his beta and writing
Isaac's scent into his own. Isaac breathes out and presses back, leaning his
forehead on Derek's shoulder.
"We will find them," Derek promises. "Alive or dead, I won't just leave them
out there."
Isaac nods, still giving off low-level anxiety and anger in about equal
measure, like a slow bleed.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Why are we doing this?" Isaac asks, as Derek pulls up to the curb outside
Scott's house.
I don't know. Derek wipes his palms down his thighs, less because they're damp
than it's always been calming, touching himself when there's no one else—no one
else pack—to give that to him. "We told Scott's mother we'd come."
"You told her," Isaac corrects, though there's teasing under the sharpness.
Or is it sharpness under the teasing? Despite Derek's reassurance, Isaac's only
gotten more prickly about Scott and Derek's let it go. Like he's let so many
other things slide. Derek sits back in his chair. "Are we going to have a
problem?"
"What?" Isaac's head whips around, eyes wide and real surprise puffs off his
skin like bitter lime. "No."
Derek just keeps looking at him.
"No," Isaac insists. "I know…how to behave." Derek continues to stare and,
after a few seconds, Isaac huffs, gritting out, "I'll be on my best behavior."
He bares his teeth in something that just toes the line of being a smile.
"Satisfied?"
"Barely," Derek allows.
He reaches over, ignoring Isaac's reflexive flinch, and grabs Isaac by the back
of the neck, only hard enough for Isaac to feel it, to know that he's being
held by his Alpha and that Derek could hurt him if he needed to…but that he
doesn't feel he needs to.
With contact, Derek can feel the thrumming tension of Isaac's body like it's
his own, muscles tightening in sympathy; Derek stops it, makes his body go
loose and pushes that looseness back at Isaac, making Isaac mirror him, rather
than the other way around. Pulling Isaac in so their foreheads touch, so they
can breathe each other in, Derek says, "You're still my wolf. Nothing with
Scott is..." Easy. Simple. Clean. "…about replacing you."
Isaac nods and a shudder goes through him, like he's settling back into his
skin. "I know."
"I'll keep telling you until you believe it."
Isaac nods again, and this time the shiver is smaller, though undeniably there.
"Okay."
Derek pulls back on his side of the car almost reluctantly. He's
realizing—really, stupidly belatedly—how much he's pulled into himself, since
it became just him and Laura, since it became just him.
He gave the bite to Isaac and Erica and Boyd, he made them, made a new
pack…except they haven't been, really. He's been too busy trying to keep
everyone alive and out of the Argents' hands and deal with the messes he made
with Peter and then Jackson. And he's been too used to being closed down,
closed in, of having the only people that touched him or that he touched do it
in some kind of transaction, a skin trade. And Isaac had been afraid, at least
at first, and Erica would've just thought it meant he wanted to fuck her and
Boyd…
Of all his betas, Derek had seen—sees—the most of himself in Boyd. But it's
been instinctual, he hasn't really known why and asking just isn't his style,
as much as telling wasn't—isn't—Boyd's. But knowing what he knows now—about
Boyd's mom, about Boyd's sister, the father that left and never looked back—he
recognizes the nature of that kinship, that aversion to touch, both punishment
and bandage.
But while Derek's busy punishing himself, he's punishing his pack—Isaac—too.
Derek sighs and adds it to the tally of his fuck-ups and failures, the long
list of things he needs to do better, be better at.
Once they're out of the car and on the sidewalk, Derek says, "You know…you can
still be friends with Scott, too."
Isaac blinks, and again, that spurt of surprise in his scent, the faint skip-
beat of his pulse. "What?"
"It's not an either-or. Scott or me." He bumps Isaac in the shoulder as he
moves up the walk. "That's why we're doing this."
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott still isn't used to the sound of Derek's new SUV over the swaggery rumble
of the Camaro, but having been listening out, he hears a car pull up to the
curb outside the house, can identify at this distance the little clues of
breath and heartbeat and movement that telegraph Isaac and Derek.
"They're here," he calls to his mom, who's still fussing with the giant enamel
pot of sauce on the stove. He brushes the last piece of bread with garlic
butter and puts it with the others on the baking sheet.
"Is this going to be enough?" she says aloud, as she's been wondering to
herself since she started cooking. "I could put in another jar of sauce. Or
more mushrooms. Or we still have some carrots in the bottom drawer, I could add
those to the sauce, can you look in the bottom drawer, no, the other bottom
drawer, oh, my God, Scott, how do you not know what the word 'bottom' means?"
"Mom. Calm down. It's just Derek and Isaac, not the Obamas." Scott pauses. "Um.
I don't think these are carrots anymore, Mom," Scott says, fighting the urge to
sneeze, reeling his senses back in as far as he can, as he holds up the bag of
semi-liquefied vegetables.
"Oh, damn." His mom grimaces, though it can't smell nearly as bad to her as it
does to him. She puts the hand not holding a spoon on her hip. "Well, I guess
with three werewolves in the house, you ought to put that outside."
Coming clean with his mom had more benefits than the obvious, now that Scott
can actually show there is a reason behind his newfound pickiness about soaps
and deodorants and food other than teenage chain-yanking.
The plastic Glade air fresheners have disappeared from the house, replaced by
herby mason jars his mom made from instructions she found on the internet, and
they'd both gotten better about cleaning out the fridge more often and she's a
little worryingly excited about some other 'natural' recipes she's gotten from
Pinterest and About.com, but Scott hadn't realized how badly, how sick, the
conflicting and crisscrossing smells had been bothering him until he'd told his
mom, until they'd started doing something about it.
"The sauce is fine, Mom," Scott calls, on his way outside.
To his knowledge, neither of them have ever used the compost that they
dutifully keep making in the old and battered plastic bin; the lines where
Grandma Rodriguez's vegetable garden and flower beds used to be are still
obvious, but they're soft, not clear and it's been several years since his
mom's even tried, finally acknowledging her hopeless black thumb.
When he gets back inside, the kitchen is empty and he can smell Derek and
Isaac, in the house. Scott doesn't exactly rush to the front door, but he
doesn't waste any time, either.
When he sees the three of them standing awkwardly in the hallway, in his house,
Isaac and Derek so large and looming next to his mom, tiny and human, the
surge—of anger, of fear, of intense protectiveness, to grab his mom by the back
of her shirt and jerk her away, mine, the urge to let his claws and fangs
drop—takes Scott by surprise, by more than surprise, shocking in its intensity.
He snaps to a halt, suddenly afraid to come close and absolutely incapable of
retreat, hands tightening to fists at his sides.
Derek senses it before Isaac does; he looks up at Scott and Scott looks
helplessly back. He's aware on one level that these are his friends, that they
don't mean any harm, that they're here by invitation, but at a deeper, more
base (animal) level, wanting to rip both their throats out for having the
nerve, the fucking nerve to come into his house, his home…
Looking over the head of Scott's mom and Isaac, Derek releases his usual tight
control on his scent, a scent that's at least partially Scott's scent, too.
Because Scott's been all over him, all over Derek's body. Because Scott's come
all over Derek and Derek let him, Derek had asked him to do it.
At the same time he looses his leash on his scent, Derek wads his hand into
Isaac's sleeve, drawing him back toward the door, away from Scott's mom. Isaac
glances, curious and a little wary, from Derek to Scott and back, but he
follows Derek's lead.
The enraged knot paralyzing Scott releases like a zit popping, a wet internal
explosion that turns into deep relief. Scott inhales as if it's the first
breath ever.
"Oh, Scott," his mom says, oblivious to the crosscurrents in the room, but
becoming aware of his presence when both Derek and Isaac look his way. She has
a fat package wrapped in waxed brown paper in her hands; the scent of bloody
meat, even dampened by the package, makes Scott swallow back a flood of saliva.
"Look what they brought. Isn't this nice?" Her voice wobbles a little with
uncertain, manic cheeriness. "It's a venison loin."
The sides of Derek's mouth flex in an almost smile, clearly hearing Scott's
mom's panic as well as Scott does. "It's a traditional host gift," he explains,
unobtrusively releasing Isaac's arm, though he doesn't move away from the
threshold. "Feeding us, feeding a pack…it's a strain on your resources. We give
meat to alleviate some of that strain." The smile fades and Derek's scent
flattens out. "It should be meat we hunted ourselves, really, but…" He shrugs
and Scott thinks of the burned out hulk of the Hale's house, the train depot,
which is pretty much the opposite of a home. "We got this from a specialty
butcher."
"Well, it's lovely," Scott's mom says firmly, patting the paper. "Thank you."
She looks pointedly at Scott.
"Thank you," Scott echoes, just glad he can say the words, rather than
snarling.
"Dinner isn't quite ready yet," his mom apologizes, backing toward the rear of
the house. "I'm afraid you'll have to entertain yourselves, while I finish up
and Scott sets the table. I'd like to say I'm not usually this disorganized,
but hey!" She throws up the hand not cradling the venison loin and laughs. "I
totally am!"
"Isaac can help you set the table," Derek volunteers, clearly without
consulting Isaac, who whips around, giving Derek a look that's half pissed,
half pleading. Derek gives him a push toward Scott's mom.
"I…can help," Isaac agrees, nodding.
"Sure," his mom says after a pause. Scott feels her gaze on him like a spot of
sunlight through a magnifying glass. "C'mon, Isaac, I'll show you where
everything is."
Scott flinches when Isaac steps away from the door, but it's fine, Scott
doesn't feel anything about it, let alone the all-encompassing rage of a few
moments ago. Scott moves out of the way to let Isaac past; when his mother goes
through the doorway to the back, he sinks down on the stairs.
"What the hell was that?" he asks, looking up at Derek. That gets a rumble from
the back of his spine; he doesn't like having to look up at Derek.
Derek crouches down, maybe sensing Scott's discomfort. "Territorial instinct,"
he says, gaze flickering searchingly over Scott's face. Scott doesn't know
exactly what Derek's looking for. Scott can still smell himself on Derek,
familiar and oddly comforting, but the rest of Derek is opaque to him. "It's…
You've been bitten for, what about six months now?"
Scott nods. "About that, yeah."
Derek drags a hand down his face and if Scott can't read into Derek's scent, he
recognizes Derek's anywhere but here expression just fine. "Your body is still
changing…"
Scott tilts his head and wrinkles his nose. "Is this the werewolf version of
the birds and bees?"
Derek sighs deeply, painfully, pinching his nose. "Your body is still adapting
to the bite," he grits out. "It doesn't all kick in at once, it doesn't… Your
whole body changed. It's not just being stronger, or healing faster, the bite
remakes you. Completely." He looks up and Scott can feel the strength of him
again, the power of an Alpha, even though Derek isn't trying to do anything
with it, isn't trying to force anything on Scott. "And some things take longer
than others to…translate."
"How do you know all this? You didn't go through this." Scott asks the question
before he can think about it, but just as fast, and before Derek's eyes can do
more than flicker darkly, he knows the answer: "…but members of your family
did." Scott slaps his forehead with the heel of his hand, inadequate penance
for grinding salt in that particular wound. "Sorry, that was dumb. Sorry."
Derek doesn't say anything, though the tightness of his jaw does the talking
for him. "Anyway," Derek says finally, extending back up to his full height and
rubbing his hands down his legs, "we shouldn't have come in, without you here
to greet us, to let us in. I didn't think, because…"
He trails off, but for once, Scott thinks he actually knows the end of that
sentence: because it's been okay before. Which raises the specter of all the
times Derek's been in the house before, good and bad, and Scott just doesn't
have the brain power right now to think about all that and all this and the
dinner, too.
Scott shakes his head, shooing the thoughts back to the respective corners.
"No, it's cool." He shrugs, unsure about how cool any of this really is.
Werewolf growing pains and another set of instincts to worry about, what the
hell?
A thought occurs to him. "It's not going to be like this all the time, is it?"
Scott bounces up off the step with a new burst, this one panic. "Because,
Stiles, he's got a key…"
"Dinner's ready!" Scott's mom calls from the kitchen.
Scott thinks he might puke. He hasn't said anything to Stiles about it, but he
knows that, since Gerard, Stiles gets spooked, being by himself in the long
nights while his dad's at work, knows that's why Stiles has been over on so
many nights.
Derek grabs Scott's shoulder, fingers digging in hard. "No," he says firmly.
"Isaac and I, we're not pack, we're not your pack and that's what you responded
to, two wolves of another pack in your space, your home. Stiles… Stiles is
human, and even if he wasn't…" Derek suddenly looks at his hand as if it's gone
Evil Dead on him, he lets Scott go.
Stiles is part of my pack. Scott doesn't need Derek to fill that in for him,
either. So it's no more likely than usual that he's going to end up
accidentally killing Stiles some night that Stiles gets too bored or lonely (or
anxious) at home.
And now he feels like puking in relief.
Pulling himself together, another thought sparks bright in the chaotic darkness
of Scott's mind. "Is it like that, every time I come see you?" he asks,
squinting as he tries to imagine it.
It's actually not that hard to picture, given Derek's default state of
irritated grumpiness. But if Derek's been fighting a pull that strong, every
time Scott's gone into his space, then Derek's self-control is a lot better
than Scott's ever given him credit for.
Derek doesn't move, but Scott feels it, recoil under the skin like a flinch.
"No," Derek says shortly.
"Um," Isaac interrupts from the other side of the stair railing. "Your mother
asked me to come and get you two."
Scott doesn't glance at Isaac, trying to figure out what he said wrong, to get
that reaction from Derek, but Derek's not giving anything away. Situation
normal. "Yeah," Scott says finally, wrenching his gaze away from Derek to
Isaac. "Here I come."
                                      ☽ ☾
This dinner is going a lot better than Derek even thought possible.
They're close to an hour in and Melissa hasn't asked him about his family or
the fire. She hasn't asked Isaac about his dad. There haven't been any odd,
intrusive questions about werewolf physiology or biology or culture. The
possibility for all these things, or some other disaster he can't contemplate,
is still there, but he doesn't sense that Melissa's waiting for the right
moment to pounce and corner him.
"…and so she throws herself at the casket. And the guy with the hat grabs for
her, but they're both too heavy for the tarp…"
In fact, there hasn't been any pressure for him to talk at all. Melissa
chatters enough that Derek wonders if Scott and Stiles were somehow traded at
birth and, after the initial stilted preliminaries of complimenting and talking
about the food—which is better than promised, meat-rich and in portions plenty
big enough for even three werewolves—they'd somehow morphed into the worst and
most disgusting things any of them have ever eaten, which had given way to
Melissa's war stories about life in the ER.
To Derek's complete astonishment, Isaac's now telling stories from when he
worked in the graveyard.
"…so they're trying to pull her out and she's going, 'no, no, just leave me
here', and the edge is starting to cave in…"
It's probably the most he's ever heard Isaac say at one time, Derek muses,
picking up another round of garlic bread and tearing it in half to drag it
through the puddles of sauce left on his plate.
Whatever stick Isaac had up his ass when they pulled up to his house, his time
helping Melissa in the kitchen seems to have effected its removal; he's almost
as animated as Melissa, flushed and bright-eyed, the lines of his shoulders and
back soft, other than excited tension as he gestures. Everyone's scent is
mellow, relaxed and Derek is relaxing, too, a slow melt.
"Oh, my God, that's just like, do you remember? When Greenberg…?" Scott chimes
in.
"Oh, man," Isaac laughs and facepalms, "yeah! The Coach, his face!" He does
something with his fingers in front of his face that Derek doesn't understand
at all, but that makes Scott bend over the table with red-faced and breathless
giggles.
Melissa looks from Isaac to Scott, laughing mostly because the boys are. "Care
to translate for the rest of the table?" she asks. She glances across the table
at Derek, her crinkle-eyed grin inviting Derek to laugh with them.
He can tell she doesn't mean anything by it, he's pretty sure, anyway, it seems
to be just the kind of woman she is, but for a moment, all Derek can see is
that same expression on Kate's face, and the memories—and everything that comes
with them—smash into him with all the force of a speeding car to the chest.
Derek doesn't mean to broadcast it, but he never tightened up his control again
after Scott's freak-out at the door. He can't smell himself, exactly, but Isaac
and Scott stop hooting at the same time. Isaac throws himself out of his chair
and to his knees next to Derek, hands moving like he's searching for a wound.
Scott's reaction isn't as strong—he's not Derek's pack, Derek's beta—but he
still reaches for Derek's hand, slack on the table, squeezing Derek's fingers.
"Derek?" Scott asks.
"What's going on?" Melissa looks at each of them, poised on the edge of her
seat and gripping the table's edge.
"I'm fine," Derek says to Scott, pulling his arm out from under Scott's.
Finding no injury, Isaac's folded himself against Derek's side; Derek brushes
his palm across Isaac's cheek, feeling transformed bone and the bristle of
extra hair. When he turns Isaac's face out and up to the light, amber wolf-eyes
blink, confused. "I'm fine," Derek says again, giving Isaac's jaw one last
brush of his thumb before he pushes Isaac gently back. To Melissa:
"Everything's fine."
He gets up from the table and walks out.
"What the hell just happened?" he hears Melissa demand. Then, when Scott's
chair scrapes back from the table, she says, quieter, "No…sit down. I'll go."
Derek hits the open air outside and inhales. He's locked down again, but he
still feels his heart going triple-time in his chest. He gallops down the
stairs and is halfway down the walk when Melissa calls out behind him: "We
haven't had dessert yet!"
Of all the things she could've said—that he was afraid she'd say—it's probably
the one thing that could stop him, all his mother's words and all the rituals
of hosting and guesting like ghosts that ride on his shoulders. Derek skids to
a stop. Turns around, pain tugging in his nail beds, in his lower back,
demanding a crouch instead of standing so vulnerably tall.
Melissa is standing at the top of the steps, alternately wringing and squeezing
her hands more a nervous tic than actual nervousness. "Scott," she says,
rocking her weight from sneakered foot to foot, "since…" she glances around,
showing that Scott's utter lack of discretion is either his own or inherited
from his father. "Well, since everything with him, he's been pretty lactose
intolerant. I don't know if that has to do with all the changes or not…"
"It does."
Melissa nods and Derek can see her filing the info away, avid for it, greedy,
though she hasn't asked for it. Or for anything else.
"I don't bake," Melissa says suddenly, a non-sequitur. "My grandmother, my
mother, my aunt Sara, they were the great bakers in the family. Me," she
touches above her breast with both hands, smiling but wreathed in faint
sadness, "I don't bake. And since ice cream didn't seem to be an option, I
sliced up peaches and strawberries…do you ever get to the River Walk farmer's
market on Saturdays? Probably not, huh?"
Derek shakes his head, somewhere between dumbfounded and flat out confused.
"Yeah, I expected not. You and Isaac should go. The peaches this year have been
to die for." She sighs dreamily, tucking back a curling tendril of her hair.
"And you don't have to have a lot of storage for fresh fruit, because you eat
it up so fast."
Melissa shrugs and again she gives him that conspiratorial look, though this
time it doesn't remind him of Kate at all. Just Scott's mom, overly busy and
careworn and absurdly kind. Kinder than he deserves.
"Anyway, I sprinkled sugar over it all and by now," she glances at her watch,
"it should've melted down to a delicious syrup. And you should come back in and
have some." She holds a hand out to him, asking, but in a matter of fact way
that makes it seem like a done deal. "Because we haven't had dessert yet and
it's not really a meal without something sweet to finish it off, don't you
think?"
"Yeah," Derek agrees. His mouth, his throat, feels dry, though the word sounds
easy enough when it comes out. It's much harder to cross the few yards back to
the house and to do it on his feet. He stops at the foot of the stairs, and
looks up at her, even his vision unable to make out the details of her face
clearly when she's backlit by the brassy porch light, all the inky blue and
deepening darkness behind him. That makes it a little easier.
"They were responding to my scent," Derek says, because she didn't ask, because
it's what he has to—can—give, after her kindness. "It was a…a bad memory and it
surprised me and they could smell it on me. That's all. That's all it was."
"Oh."
It takes a moment for her to think it through but Derek sees the moment she
understands, her shoulders slumping as a knot she probably doesn't even know is
there cuts loose. Her next breath is deeper, bigger; soft, floral relief rising
above the antiseptic scent of the harsh soaps and disinfectants of her job.
"Oh." Her hand flutters to her stomach, pressing in and Derek thinks, here it
comes, the flood of questions, the inquisitive, snoopy prying, the endless need
to pry into his body, his mind.
All she says, though, is: "Okay. Then let's see about that dessert."
                                      ☽ ☾
Later, after dessert, Melissa sends Scott and Isaac off upstairs like
recalcitrant puppies and drafts Derek into helping her clear the table and wash
the dishes. He hands off the empty fruit bowls, still wet and fragrant with
juice and sugar and she says, "We should do this again."
She glances sideways at him, eyebrows arched, but as when she'd lured him back
into the house, it's not really a question and nothing about her suggests that
it's just politeness. Just the opposite; Derek sees Scott's quiet but
persistent stubbornness, sees that no isn't an answer Melissa's going to
accept.
"Why?" Derek starts to lean against the counter, but he can't be still and
watch her work. There's a dishtowel hanging from a drawer; Derek tugs it free
and starts drying.
The dip and slur of the rag into the soapy water pauses. Melissa turns away
from the sink toward him, tucking one hand on her hip. She sighs. "Scott would
kill me for saying this," she says, "but he doesn't have a lot of friends."
Derek frowns. It seems delusional that Melissa would say that; Scott is
completely swamped with people. Even Derek's own betas can't stay away from
him.
"And now that he is what he is…" Melissa's voice trembles a little with the
skitter of her heartbeat, though she recovers quickly, "it's going to be harder
for him. He's going to have to…" Her head tilts sideways and she regards Derek
in a way that makes him want to either growl or hide behind the dishtowel like
a terrified virgin in a movie.
"…keep secrets," she concludes. "He's going to have to hide himself, from
everyone he comes into contact with. And lie to people. And look at everyone he
meets with suspicion, as a threat." Melissa looks down, the hand still holding
the dishrag rocking with restless pensiveness on the sink's edge. "And
that…sounds really lonely," Melissa says finally, a burr to it, like the words
are sticking in the back of her throat.
Derek keeps drying the dishes.
Melissa clears her throat, turns back to the sink and goes back to soaping the
flatware. "Anyway. You and Isaac are already Scott's friends. You already know
about him. And, more importantly, you know what it's like. Scott's going to
need friends like that." She rinses a big handful of the flatware at one time,
like a particularly spiky bouquet. "And…I'll hope you forgive me for saying so,
but…" She reaches out and Derek knows she's going to touch him, but he lets it
happen, her cool little hand on his wrist, barely contact at all, and easy to
pull away from. "You and Isaac, now it's just the two of you…" She takes her
hand back and shrugs. "Well. I'm his mother and I know I'm biased, but I think
Scott's a pretty great friend to have."
Derek wonders if she'd feel the same, if she'd be so tenderly kind to him if
she knew the things he's done to Scott, the things they did just last night.
The impulse to tell her, to throw it—and the reality of him—into her face,
pulses hotly strong as the urge to shift on a full moon.
At the same time, he remembers Isaac at dinner, excited and talkative. Clearly,
the Isaac Derek knows isn't Isaac in his natural state, it's just who Isaac is
around Derek. And equally clearly, Isaac wants more.
Derek braces his hands on the counter, clenching the dish towel tightly enough
that water squeezes from the cloth and runs down the cabinet front.
"Oh, buck up, kid." Melissa rubs his back briskly, then pats his shoulder.
"It's a lot of home cooking, for free."
                                      ☽ ☾
"Yeah, sorry," Scott apologizes to Isaac, after the extremely brief tour of his
bedroom, "there's not much to do up here."
Isaac shrugs, starts to sit on the bed, but stops before his butt makes contact
with the mattress. Scott cringes a little as Isaac moves to take the desk chair
instead.
He washed the sheets twice and put one of his mom's homemade air fresheners
over a tea light until pretty much all the water inside boiled away and the
whole room stank of cinnamon, but against werewolf senses, he can't hide that
the whole room reeks like he and Derek have been fucking all over it.
Especially the mattress. And the Febreeze he used on it just made him sneeze a
lot without really doing anything.
"Sorry," Scott says again, meaning something else, as Isaac settles gingerly in
the chair, nostrils flaring with unobtrusive scenting. He would never've
brought Isaac up here in the first place if his mom hadn't insisted.
Isaac shrugs.
Still, it drags Derek back in—to Scott's mind, into the conversation—not that
Scott's been able to get very far away from thinking about Derek. "So." Scott
tries to think of a graceful, less obvious way to say it but can't come up with
one, so he just plunges ahead. "Does that happen with Derek a lot?"
Scott isn't even sure what happened; let alone how to describe it. One moment,
they were sitting and enjoying dinner together and the next, his entire body
was reacting like he'd touched a live wire.
Except instead of electricity, it was pumping him full of…of anger—rage—and
shame and terrible, deep sadness, all of it cranked up to eleven, bigger and
deeper than anything Scott's ever felt before. And all of it written over with
Derek as surely as if he'd signed his name in piss and sweat.
Isaac swings the chair around to face Scott, tilting his head and widening his
eyes. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"
"Why wou…" Understanding comes too late for Scott to not jam his foot way, way
in his mouth. "Oh."
It's not that he didn't know he and Derek were spending a lot more time
together. Hell, Derek had conked out on his floor just last night. And of
course, Isaac can't help but notice it. It's literally all over them.
It seems to Scott that becoming a werewolf is the sort of thing that should've
made his life less humiliating, but it hasn't been his experience so far and
he's not holding out a whole lot of hope for the future.
"I never felt anything like that before," Scott offers finally, because he
really does want to talk about it. "Not just with Derek, I've never felt
anything like that, period."
It'd been like a riptide, the pull of it. He hadn't gone to his knees, the way
Isaac had…but a part of him had wanted to, wanted to strip Derek naked and go
over each inch of his skin, looking for whatever part of him is so badly hurt.
"Derek usually buttons himself up pretty tight," Isaac says, turning in toward
the desk. He sorts through and restacks the books Scott's been reading this
summer.
"Yeah, but…" Scott trails off, trying to filter the things in his head down to
words. "You're his beta. And…you felt it stronger than I did, right?" Isaac had
come out of the chair like Derek had jerked on a rope tied between them. "I
mean… I know me and Derek have been…"
"Hooking up?" Isaac asks, looking up from flipping through Scott's copy of
White Fang. The coolness of his gaze conflicts with the habanero heat lingering
at the edge of his scent.
"I…was going to say hanging out," Scott says, feeling the blush spreading from
his hairline down, searing the skin of his neck, his chest.
"But it's not," Isaac cuts in, pushing himself around so he's fully facing
Scott again. "It's not just 'hanging out'. You're…" Red creeps into Isaac's
pale skin, too, though there is no way on earth that Isaac can be more
embarrassed than Scott about this, no way. "I don't even know what you're
doing. I don't want to know. But I can smell it."
It's Scott's turn to look away, fingers locking and unlocking between his
knees. Another thing not in the Welcome to Lycanthropy Handbook: Privacy, And
How You'll Never Have It Again.
"What about Allison?" Though Isaac still smells pissed, the question sounds
genuinely curious and Scott doesn't know which cue to respond to, which sense
to trust. "I thought… All the time, you were acting like she was your big, one
true love. Or was that just bullshit?"
"No!" Scott knows Isaac's angry about something, but how the hell could he even
ask that question in any kind of seriousness?
"But now you're into Derek?"
"Allison… Allison's everything." Scott flounders. How do you explain something
that huge, something that goes down to the core of who you are, in just words?
"She's just…" Gone.
It hits Scott all over again, the huge climbing swell, an echo of what he felt
from Derek, and it's hard not to double over with it, how much it hurts, how
much it still hurts, like it will never stop.
"Hey," Isaac says, sounding and smelling alarmed, because of course, he gets
the feedback from Scott's scent the same way Scott is getting and interpreting
his. "I didn't mean to…"
"I don't want to talk about Allison," Scott says, making the effort to
enunciate every word crisply, because it feels like his lips are numb. He
unclenches his fingers from the bedspread, smoothing it to look for holes in
the cloth, unsure if his nails shifted while he wasn't paying attention.
"Yeah, okay," Isaac agrees, too fast. The cloth is whole.
"Derek…" Scott shakes his head. "I don't know what you think or what he told
you…."
Isaac raises one eyebrow, staring steadily back at Scott.
Scott's chest hitches with an almost-laugh. "Yeah, okay, fine, he hasn't told
you anything. But we don't talk, Derek and me." The blush, which had been
slowly fading, flares into a second, phoenix-like life across his face.
"That…what happened downstairs, is the closest he's ever come to sharing his
feelings with me."
Isaac makes a noise like he's blowing a raspberry, but a second later, when his
eyes squinch shut and his shoulders shake as he leans forward in the chair,
Scott realizes Isaac's laughing. It only takes a second of mental replay for
Scott to join in, because, yeah. Derek.
When they finally stop giggling, the air in the room—metaphorically, at
least—feels clearer, less tense. Enough so that Scott ventures: "Me and Stiles
were going to the midnight showing of Transformers, Tuesday night. Or, I guess,
early Wednesday morning. Whichever. You wanna go?"
Isaac looks surprised and Scott realizes it has been a while since the three of
them have hung out. "Yeah," Isaac agrees. Then, his expression cools a little.
"If I can," he amends.
"Why 'if you can'?" Isaac doesn't say anything. "Derek isn't…" A shift: in the
way Isaac's sitting, on his face, in his scent. Scott pauses. "Is Derek going
to mind if you hang out with us?" He considers again. Since he and Derek have
started…doing whatever it is they're doing, the only time he's even really seen
Isaac was the night of the full moon, when they were all together. "Does Derek
not want you hanging out with me?"
Isaac rolls his eyes, which Scott finds perversely reassuring. "I just might be
busy," Isaac says. "My whole life doesn't revolve around waiting for you and
Stiles to invite me to go places."
Scott rears back a little. "I didn't think it did. That's why it was a
question."
Isaac huffs. "I'll let you know tomorrow."
"Okay," Scott agrees. The ability to ferret out scent and heartbeat and
emotional state is no help at all in figuring out what's going on in someone's
head. The way Isaac's running hot and cold—and has been for a while, Scott
realizes—he's got no clue. "Sure."
It has to be something to do with Derek, though, right? Who else would care
about what Isaac's doing at midnight? Does he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend?
"If it's…" Isaac looks at Scott and Scott falters. "If you want to bring
someone…"
"Who?" Isaac shrugs. "Practically everyone I know is in this house."
Not a girlfriend/boyfriend, then. Unless Derek is…
Scott feels like all the hair on his body stands up on end, goosebumps
spreading across his skin. He'd told his mom that Isaac and Derek weren't, but
could they be?
"Yeah, I just thought, you know, if…" Scott shrugs weakly.
But if Derek was fucking Isaac, Scott would be able to smell it on him, the
same way Isaac smells it on Scott, right? Except that Derek and Isaac always
kind of smell like each other, because they're pack and they spend most of
their time together, especially now that it's summer.
"Oh, if." Isaac nods and then shakes his head, rolling his eyes at the ceiling,
but with a faint smile. "Jerk."
Scott smiles back. "Not on purpose."
"Isaac!" Derek doesn't have to shout, especially from the foot of the stairs,
but he does anyway. "C'mon. Leaving."
Isaac gets up. "Gotta go."
"Hey!" Scott says, before Isaac can go. He feels like they didn't talk about
anything that he wanted to talk about and he's got more questions now than he
started with.
Isaac spreads his hands, widening his eyes. "What?"
The words jam up in Scott's throat. Finally, he manages to grit out, "Is Derek
okay?"
Isaac looks back at Scott like he wants to say something, as if he's going to
say something…but then his face closes up and Isaac shrugs. "Define 'okay'."
Isaac walks out of the bedroom.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Are you okay?"
"What?" Derek hates the stoplight on El Dorado. It's slow and he always has the
sneaking suspicion that it's slow just for him. He glances sideways at Isaac in
the passenger seat.
"Nothing," Isaac says, staring out the window. "Never mind."
Derek taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, staring at the signal and willing
it to change with the power of his mind. Which…has never worked so far, but it
never stops him from trying.
"Scott asked me," Isaac says. "Before we left. If you're okay."
Derek grunts, looking at Isaac again. "What did you tell him?"
Isaac turns his head, gazing back. "I didn't tell him anything."
"Okay. Good." Derek nods and goes back to looking at the traffic signal, which
is still stubbornly red. Derek flexes his foot on the brake restlessly.
"Because there's nothing to tell," he adds belatedly, aware of the sour thread
of Isaac's worry, spreading through the car.
Isaac nods. "Okay."
Derek thinks about turning on the radio, but he doesn't think he can stand the
noise right now, the nerves at the back of his neck tight and jangling.
"Are you…"
This light is never going to change. They are never going to move from this
spot, a Purgatory of motionlessness and Isaac wanting to talk about feelings.
"What?"
"Going out tonight?"
"No." It hadn't even occurred to him, actually, which Derek guesses is progress
from the nights when he hasn't been able to think about anything else. Still,
Scott—sex with Scott—seems almost like something from another lifetime, or that
he saw in a movie, right now.
Derek glances at Isaac just in time to watch Isaac's shoulders relax, which in
turn makes Derek aware of his own shoulders, knotted up around his ears. Derek
straightens his back, makes his scapula round down. He pats Isaac's knee.
Isaac puts his hand over Derek's, holding it there.
The fucking light finally turns green.
"Isaac—"
"On the roof…" Isaac starts. "You said I didn't want to. What if I did want
to?"
There's no one behind them, but they can't just sit at the intersection. Derek
lets up off the brake, lets the weight of the car roll them out before he
presses gingerly down on the gas. They slink along like one of those half-blind
septuagenarians who can't see past the speedometer but can't give up driving,
either.
"Do you want to?" Derek asks. He still can't sense a hint of arousal from
Isaac. Just the fact of his hand's immobility makes him want to move it.
Isaac pauses, long enough that Derek thinks maybe Isaac's rethinking the whole
thing. Then, low and uncertain, Isaac says, "I don't know." He moves his
fingers, releasing Derek. Derek twitches, but he doesn't take his hand back,
doesn't move away, though it abruptly gets easier to drive.
It's a few silent miles later before Isaac speaks up again.
"I want—" he begins, falters again. Impatience presses against the inside of
Derek's skin like an itch but he makes himself wait it out, wait Isaac out.
"When you touch me… I want it, when you touch me." Isaac sighs, throwing his
head back against the seat rest like he's frustrated. Derek's not sure if it's
with himself or with Derek.
"Sometimes it feels like an itch, this horrible itch, all over and I can't
scratch it, I can't do anything about it, and then you'll just…" His shoulders
flex. "Something stupid. Bump my shoulder or just accidentally brush against me
and it stops. No…it more than stops. It feels better. It feels good." Isaac
turns his face toward Derek. "Isn't that love? Isn't that me being in love with
you?"
Derek sighs and pulls off to the side of the road. He has to take his hand from
Isaac's leg to put the car in park but he puts it right back once they're
parked. "It is…"
"I hate that you're fucking Scott," Isaac interrupts, his voice dull and sharp
at the same time. "I know you want me to be nice to him, get along with him,
and I'm trying…" Isaac fists his hands on his thighs and the heat of him, skin
and scent and raging heartbeat, fills the car. "I don't… You're not his."
Derek bonks the back of his head against the seat, breathing out. So this is
what it is. "It's not love. What you feel, it's not love," he says finally.
"Or…it's not love like you're thinking. It's not being in love."
"I don't like being touched," Isaac says thinly, pressing his fists into his
thighs. "Even before the stuff with my dad, I was not a cuddly kid." Isaac
shakes his head, the hard angles of his jaw even sharper. "And now…"
"But you don't want me to fuck you," Derek insists. Scent may not tell the
whole story, but it doesn't lie. "It's pack love you feel, not some kind of
crush on me. That closeness, that need, to be together, for, for contact…" He
squeezes Isaac's knee. "It's instinct. The way you feel about Scott right now,
it's instinct. It's the same instinct and it's why I need you to be friends
with Scott. Because he's not pack, but he's a friend. And you need to spend
enough time around him to overcome your instinct, for your body to know that
he's a friend. So you don't hate him.
"If Scott was another pack that we were trying to ally with, they'd send you to
live with him, with his pack, and they'd send someone to live with us, an
exchange, so your bodies can know, as well as your mind, that this is a friend,
this is someone we trust."
"And you trust Scott?" Isaac asks, eyebrows arching high.
Derek pulls up short against those conflicting thoughts, the part of him that
thinks better than I trust myself versus the part that is angry and sickened
and appalled at Scott's naiveté, his galling soft-handed idealism, his
desperate lack of knowledge about everything, everything supernatural,
everything that makes Derek's life what it is.
Derek had killed Peter for lots of reasons, but probably none of them stronger
than the fear—terror—of putting himself in Scott's very young hands, of being
under the control of all that inexperience and cock-eyed optimism.
"I trust Scott to be there if we need him," Derek says finally, a truth as
unshakable as his uncertainty about everything else. "We don't have a lot of
people I can say that about. Stiles, Scott…they're irritating as hell," Isaac's
smile is sudden, surprising them both and Derek flashes one back briefly, "but
they're loyal. And they're brave. If you're in trouble, if you can't find me,
if I can't get to you… You call Scott."
Isaac nods, looking down again. "And this…" Isaac waves at Derek's hand still
braced over Isaac's knee. "…it doesn't mean I'm gay?"
"I don't know if you're gay," Derek says, shrugging. "That's a question you
gotta answer yourself. But you're not gay for me. And that it's not 'gay' to
want contact from the pack, to want me to touch you, as your packmate, as your
Alpha. To want to touch back," he adds, as Isaac's fingers creep, testing, over
the backs of Derek's. All at once, Derek puts his arm around Isaac, pulling him
as far in as their respective seatbelts will allow, digging his knuckles
playfully into Isaac's side. "So I guess you're very cuddly, now."
Isaac growls, displeased…but he doesn't pull away.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Did you buy out the entire concession stand?" Scott asks, when Stiles and
Isaac finally make their appearance and he can stop trying to straddle the
three prime seats, center screen just behind the dividing rail.
"It was crowded," Stiles says from behind a giant defensive wall of popcorn,
soda and at least four different kind of candy. "And…I'm hungry, okay? I have a
very fast metabolism. Here, take these." He dips his knees for Scott to take
the two sodas, a brief rain of popcorn falling from the bags. "Actually, take
the rest of this, too. I gotta piss. I don't want to miss anything."
"C'mon Stillinski!" a familiar voice jeers from several rows up. "Down in
front!"
Stiles shoots upright, both middle fingers already popped. "Fuck you,
Greenberg! It's not even time for previews yet, you defective monkey!" Stiles
shouts back, to general laughs and catcalls and a new shower of popcorn from
above. The crowd is really restless and Scott feels restless with them, twitchy
and distracted.
"Scoot over," Isaac says, ushering Scott into the middle seat with his leg. "If
I have to sit next to Stiles for the whole movie, I will shove this entire
bottle down his throat." Isaac flops in the seat to Scott's right and slams his
bottle of Dasani into the cup holder.
"He's going to talk through the movie, too," Scott warns and Isaac groans. "I'm
sorry, there's just no way around it."
"Whatever." Isaac huffs and resettles himself in the seat, kicking his feet up
on the rail's lowest bar.
"How's Derek?" Scott asks. He feels like an idiot and a tool for asking, for
asking like he cares, which… Of course he cares, if there's one thing Scott
prides himself on, it's being a guy who cares about other people, but there's a
difference between normal caring and caring like he cares because he and Derek
mess around and he knows which side of that line he's on, but he's not sure
that Isaac knows.
But he hasn't heard from Derek since the dinner on Saturday, when Derek seemed
very not-okay and, totally aside from some background level horniness, history
has shown that when Derek is not-okay, Scott should probably worry about it.
"He's fine," Isaac says, taking one of the bags of popcorn from Scott's arms
and picking fussily through the contents. He sounds unconcerned and Scott's not
sure if he'd know if Isaac's scent was saying anything different, his senses
hammered by the thick fug of popcorn and chocolate and a couple hundred
people—mainly teenagers—wedged together. "Why?"
Scott shrugs. "I don't know. Things were weird on Saturday and tonight, he just
dropped you off and…" Scott stops, smiles sheepishly. "Yeah, that just sounds
pathetic. I don't know."
Isaac, mercifully, just grins, tossing a handful of popcorn in the air and
catching them neatly in his mouth.
"Hey, I can do that!" Stiles says, hopping the rail and dropping into the seat
on Scott's other side.
"No, you can't," Scott says, Isaac echoing the words only a millisecond behind.
"Everyone's a critic." Stiles grabs the bag of popcorn that's soaked in the
artificial butter that neither Scott nor Isaac can stomach anymore. He rips the
top off a box of Raisinettes and dumps them on top of the popcorn, pinching the
bag's top closed and shaking it all together. Scott's the one that actually
taught Stiles that trick.
The thing is, Scott knows he probably wouldn't still be brooding about
this—Derek—except that he's cut off from all the stuff he'd normally do to stop
brooding. People think of Stiles as the talker—and comparatively, he is—but
Stiles talking is mostly just a 'now loading' screen while the real work goes
on, lightning-fast, in his head. Scott can't do that. Scott isn't like Stiles;
it's harder for him to just figure things out in his head. His thoughts scatter
and refuse to solidify. He needs to talk them out, put words around them like
little corral fences they use with the puppies and kittens at the clinic, to
keep them all in one place and not zinging everywhere. That's exactly what
Scott's thoughts are like.
But he can't talk to Stiles, or his mom, about this, about Derek.
His mom isn't even a consideration. Dead stop, no-go, not gonna happen. And
Stiles… Scott knows with exhausted clarity how that conversation will go.
Stiles will look at his worry and take it as a sign that Scott's getting
attached and they'll spend all their time wading through that instead of the
real problem, which is what's going on with Derek. And whether it's a sign of a
bigger problem.
Isaac nudges Scott's shoulder. "Want some?" He holds out his bag of popcorn.
He, at least, seems to have gotten over whatever was up his butt at dinner.
He's been friendlier all night.
"So," Stiles crowds in on Scott's other side, "I was reading Capone's review
again, from back in May…"
"Do not," Scott says, "even think about spoiling me. We're right here. In the
theater."
"Okay, but…"
"Stiles, I will tie you to this chair and gag you, seriously."
"And if he doesn't," Isaac adds, "I will. Shut up."
The theater's lights start to dim. Stiles makes a disgusted noise and withdraws
to his own seat, fingers tapping staccato against the empty cup holder between
him and Scott. Firmly, Scott puts his hand over Stiles', until Stiles switches
to the more acceptable jittering of his leg.
Scott's thoughts keep running on spin cycle through the previews (Captain
America looks like it's going to be freaking epic), but it all whites out, the
way it always does, when the movie comes on, like falling through a hole in the
screen.
When they talk about it, him and Stiles, they mostly talk about the explosions
and Megan Fox and the cars and all that stuff but there was a time—that one
time—that they talked about the other stuff, too, the big stuff about…not
heroism so much as being the guy who's there in that moment, the one who can do
something, and the importance of things bigger than yourself, and just being in
the wrong place at the right time.
And now more than ever: ordinary, nerdy Sam Witwicky, whose whole life gets
changed—transformed—by accident and coincidence.
Yeah, Scott can't relate to that at all.
The afterglow doesn't last very long, though. The three of them careen out of
the theater and into the hallway, talking a million miles a minute above the
tidal roar of several hundred people all doing the same thing, when the nerves
at the back of Scott's neck twang and he picks up the faint hint of another
wolf—not Isaac, not Derek—mingled in with all the Axe body-spray and incomplete
hygiene.
Isaac must smell it, too, because the two of them stagger to a halt—much to the
loud and vocal displeasure of everyone crowding along behind them. Stiles goes
another few steps without them before he realizes he's walking alone and turns
around.
"You smell that?" Scott murmurs, too low for anyone but Isaac to hear and Isaac
nods.
"Is this the type of thing where we stand and fight, or run away screaming?"
Stiles asks, pushing back against the crowd's riptide to get back to them. "Did
Peter do something especially heinous again?"
"Peter?" Scott asks, rocking against the steady push of people. "What…?" Scott
doesn't know how to describe it, but he feels Isaac on the verge of shifting,
right here.
"I thought I saw him while we were at the concession stand," Stiles says,
oblivious to Isaac's tension, "but I wasn't sure and it didn't seem urgent."
Stiles shrugs.
"Don't," Scott says in an urgent undertone, grabbing Isaac's wrist and
squeezing.
"I mean, even psychotic murders take a night off to go to the show, right?
Right?" Stiles looks from Scott to Isaac, eyes watchful above the rubber-clown
softness of his grin.
Now that he's looking for him, Scott spies Peter, edging unobtrusively but
casually along the inside wall, a half-eaten bag of popcorn tucked in his arm.
As if he senses Scott's eyes on him, Peter turns his head and smiles, an
expression that would be warm from anyone not a zombie, lycanthrope, head-
fucking, murderer.
"Scott!" Isaac hisses. When Isaac's fingers clamp down on Scott's wrist in
turn, Scott hears and feels the growl building in his throat, he realizes how
close he is to shifting himself, to attacking.
"Scott, let's go," Stiles agrees, pressing in on Scott's other side. Peter
changes direction to come toward them. Stiles tugs at Scott's elbow. "C'mon."
"Yeah," Scott says, his voice thick and deeper than normal. "I don't want to
talk to him."
"Me either," Stiles agrees, echoed by Isaac's, "Ugh, no."
They duck back into the theater, much emptied by now, which makes it easier to
thread through to the emergency exit at the front, near the screen.
A part of Scott worries—is always worried—that Peter will be able to call him
back, will be able to control him, even now. As they escape into the concrete
staff tunnels that will let them out into the parking lot, Scott waits for that
low, dirty jerk in his gut.
But it doesn't come. Scott pushes through the double doors at the end of the
hall, walks another half dozen steps, then folds in half, palms braced on his
knees, wondering if he's going to puke and panting way harder than justified.
"Hey, you okay?" Stiles puts a hand on Scott's back and leans down into Scott's
face, too close. Scott bites back on a snarl.
"Fine," Scott grits, pushing Stiles back as gently as he can manage.
Straightening up, he gropes for control and it comes easier than he expects,
the memories flooding him: the ache and weight of Derek's cock in his mouth,
the stab and tingle as Derek sucks bruises into Scott's skin that heal nearly
as fast as they form.
Peter's gone. Peter has no power over him.
"Fine," Scott says, more definitely. He looks at Isaac. "We were heading back
to Stiles'. You coming or you need a ride home?"
Isaac hesitates for longer than the question seems to deserve, hands tucked
into his armpits as if he's cold. "I should get back," he says finally, gaze
floating around the rousing parking lot and emptying sidewalk.
"What, is Derek going to be sitting up waiting for you on the couch?" Stiles
scoffs, jingling the change in pocket restlessly. Like Scott and like Isaac,
his eyes keep jumping to each new source of movement. "I've seen your place;
you guys don't even have a couch. And I know you don't have a curfew. C'mon.
It's summer."
Scott feels like Isaac wants to say yes, but he can't tell if it's something
his senses are actually telling him or just imagined and Isaac shakes his head.
"Nah, I told Derek I'd be back tonight," Isaac says, and Scott can taste the
lie in the words, even if he doesn't know the why behind them. "I can go
myself, you don't have to drive me."
"No, it's fine," Scott says. Enough of the standing still; he starts walking
toward where Stiles' parked his Jeep and the other two move with him.
"Hey! Don't you think you should ask the guy who actually owns and will be
driving the car?" Stiles objects, before saying to Isaac, "It's fine, by the
way. It's totally the other side of town, but it's fine." Dropping his voice to
a conspiratorial whisper, Stiles says, "I hear Beacon Hills can be pretty
dangerous at night."
They all laugh.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Derek!"
Derek startles out of a half-drowse he wasn't aware he'd fallen into when
Isaac's voice echoes sharply off the concrete walls outside the train car. He's
on his feet before he's awake enough to know what he's doing, and the book he
was supposed to be reading falls to the floor with a dry splat. "Isaac?" The
name tastes odd in his mouth, as if years have passed since he last said it,
instead of hours.
"Derek!" Isaac comes leaping down the stairs. "I saw them! The Alphas!"
That snaps Derek the rest of the way awake. He charges out of the train car,
meeting Isaac halfway across the room, grabbing Isaac by the forearm. "Where?"
"At the movie." Isaac's scent is metallic, electrical, with faint overlays of
Stiles and Scott, the nasty fug of movie theater. "It was just two of them, I
think. I only saw the two." He laughs, short and edgy. "I think they were there
to see Transformers, too." Isaac laughs again, harder, "We've been jumping at
ghosts for months, and they're going to the movies!"
"Calm down," Derek says, infusing the words with a bit of his pull as Alpha,
and though he feels anything but calm himself. He's got years of practice at
faking his way through fear. He puts his hands on Isaac's shoulders,
reinforcing and grounding through the touch. It also lets his scent rise and
enfold Isaac, something he saw his mom do hundreds of times but didn't grasp at
more than an instinctive level until Peter pointed it out to him.
Nothing could cut that connection—mother and Alpha—and he'd craved after her
touch as helplessly as Isaac craves after his…but it had always felt just a
little less special after that, a little manipulative.
He wonders if Isaac feels that, about him.
In any case, Isaac both breathes out and straightens to his full height, the
muddy roil of too many feelings clearing from his eyes, grayish in this light.
"Tell me from the beginning."
Isaac nods. "We were coming out of the theater. Scott and I smelled it at about
the same time…"
Derek's fingers tighten, though he manages to control himself enough at the
last second that he doesn't break bone or crush the flesh. "You were still with
Stiles and Scott? Did they see them, too?" It'd been easy to put aside his
doubts about whether to tell Scott while the Alpha Pack was just a ghost
threat, but if it's real enough for Isaac to have seen them, identified them…
It changes everything.
But Isaac shakes his head, teeth picking at his lower lip. "I don't think so.
At first it was just a scent, strange wolf, and then we saw Peter there…"
"Peter was there?" Again, it's an effort not to clench his hands so tight that
he hurts Isaac; Derek drops his arms, crosses them over his chest.
Isaac laughs a third time, as ugly as the first two. "Yeah, guess it was Movie
Night for all local lycanthropes. You should've come. The popcorn's shitty but
who doesn't love Raisinettes?"
Derek struggles to make sense of it all, to arrange the pieces in some way that
makes sense, that will tell him what to do next. "So, you didn't follow them."
It's a statement not a question; there's no way Isaac could've trailed the
Alphas with Scott and Stiles right there. "Did they follow you?"
"I don't think so." Isaac tucks both hands in his jeans pockets, shoulders
folding in like origami. "Stiles drove me back—they insisted—and I kept
looking, but I didn't see—sense—anything."
"Did they see you? Did they know you were there?" Isaac knew to look out, knew
to be careful, but Scott, Stiles, they don't know anything. And if the Alphas
decide to go after them first…
"I don't know," Isaac says. "If we smelled them, they must have smelled us,
right? But they didn't stop or anything, they didn't…" Isaac's face tightens as
he searches for what he wants to say. "They didn't react," he says finally.
"Not like Scott and I did, not like Peter did, when he spotted us. So, I don't
know. I just don't know."
"What did they look like?" It's been years since he's seen Deucalion or Ennis
and Kali and he was a kid at the time, with all the disdain of a teenager for
the grown-ups around him; Derek doesn't trust that he'll know Deucalion or any
of the others by face if he sees them again, though he thinks—hopes—his scent-
memory will be stronger. Ennis, for sure.
Isaac shrugs. "They were around our age, I think. Young, anyway. Twins." His
eyes close and his face screws up, trying to fix the memory. "Kinda like if
Matt Damon had two little brothers." He opens his eyes and shrugs again.
The description doesn't mean anything, other than it's not Deucalion, Ennis or
Kali. It does remind him, however, that he has no real idea how big Deucalion's
grown his abomination of a pack and that he can't count on them being able to
see a threat coming at them before it's too late.
"If we go back to the theater…maybe they'll be enough a scent trail that we can
track them," Isaac proposes, hovering somewhere between hopeful and blood-
thirsty.
Derek shakes his head. "Any scent that wasn't obliterated by all the other
people—and all their cars—would just lead us to a car. Or, a parking spot where
a car used to be." He looks sharply at Isaac. "I don't want you anywhere near
them."
"I was already near them," Isaac points out.
"I don't want you anywhere near them again," Derek says, baring his teeth for
emphasis. "Isaac…this is my problem. You have to let me…"
"It's our problem," Isaac insists, grabbing Derek's sleeve at the shoulder as
if he's afraid Derek will physically shove him away. "I could help, if you'd
just let me…"
"I don't need your help!" Derek roars.
The silence falls deep between them. Isaac doesn't retreat, but he shifts,
mouth snapping tight and angling his body sideways. He's done it before and
Derek doesn't need Peter's smarts to know why he does it: to present a smaller
target.
Derek drags both hands down his cheeks, exhaling noisily. "We will talk about
this later. Right now, I need you to stay here…"
"You're leaving?" Isaac's defensive posture drops, his anxiety and anger
beating at Derek's nose like a too-strong perfume.
"I need to find out what Scott knows. And make sure that none of you were
followed."
"I can go with you—"
"No." There's nothing close enough to punch so he pounds his fist into his own
thigh, a satisfying explosion of violence and pain at the same time. It gives
him the clarity to inhale and repeat, calmer, "No." Another deep, scalding
breath. "You're safer here. Stay here."
Derek brushes past Isaac. He's at the top of the stairs when he hears Isaac
say, sullen and what only constitutes under his breath for non-werewolves: "I'm
safer with you."
The bruise from his fist is already mostly healed, but Derek grinds his
knuckles into its remnant anyway, secondary pain-rush. It's almost enough to
blot out the voice that tells him: That's not true. It's never been true.
                                      ☽ ☾
"Did you hear that?" Scott jerks out of a pretty deep sleep, the words mumbling
off his lips before he's even sure if he's describing a dream or something
real.
"Huh?" Though he was deep in it the second before, Stiles pauses his game
immediately, cocking his head in a way that reminds Scott of a dog. "I don't
hear anything."
"I don't either," Scott says, shaking his head. 'Anything' is, of course, a
relative term these days, especially as he pushes his awareness of sound up and
out until he can hear the sighing of wind through the leaves and the wind of
crickets in the grass, the scratch of branches against the siding…
"Maybe you were dreaming?" Stiles says, though he doesn't unpause the game and
his shoulders look like there are wire-hangers under the skin.
"Maybe," Scott says, blinking and raking his nails across his scalp in an
attempt to boot his brain up to full capacity. He feels like he's missing
something, some important detail, too fuzzy to pin it down. "Yeah, I guess."
Wait. No.
Just a couple days ago, Stiles was bitching about his dad waking him up with
the noise, trimming down the trees specifically because the branches were
starting to skim the siding. So, if not branches…?
At the same moment that fear scrapes a chilly nail down Scott's spine, his
spread out senses take in a new scent in the house, hot and feral…but familiar.
Derek.
"Scott?" Stiles may not be a werewolf, but his sense of danger is still as
finely tuned as anyone Scott's ever known.
Scott relaxes like someone cut a knot holding him tight. "It's nothing," he
says, shaking his head.
Stiles looks at him, somewhere between skeptical and really? For no logical
reason, it makes Scott grin.
"No, really." Scott tries to infuse the words with all his own relief that it
really is nothing, though when Derek, The Great American Werewolf Stalker
became of no concern isn't anything Scott's ready to look at too deeply.
Instead, he hops up from the couch, to Stiles' raised eyebrows. Scott gestures
toward the stairs. "I'm just gonna…"
Stiles nods knowingly, thinking—as Scott means him to—that he's going to use
the upstairs bathroom. Scott doesn't want to look too hard at the reasons for
that, either. "Turn on the fan," Stiles says, wrinkling his nose before he
unpauses and goes back to his game. "I'd say use the air freshener, but since
you almost went into anaphylactic shock last time…"
"Yeah, Stiles, okay," Scott says as he climbs the stair. He really doesn't want
to get into an inventory of his bathroom habits, with or without Derek as an
eavesdropper. "We know way too much about each other's bowel movements," Scott
mutters to himself, hopefully too low to be overheard, even by werewolf
hearing.
His foot barely touches the last step before Derek's hands are on him, jerking
him up those last inches, spinning him around and, even expecting it, Scott
only manages to keep his feet under him as Derek swings him into the wall with
an oof.
"You weren't at home," Derek growls and he sounds so unbelievably pissed about
it that Scott racks his brain as to whether they had some plans he managed to
forget.
"I…no," Scott agrees, confused, looking from Derek's hard-set face to his hands
clenched in Scott's shirt. "I'm…I'm here…"
Derek snarls and then he's pressing Scott into the wall with his entire body,
his lips prying Scott's apart and his tongue shoving in, less a kiss than as if
Derek's trying to imprint all the anger and frustration coiled so tight in him
into Scott.
It should bug him, the manhandling—and it does—but not so much, apparently,
that he's going to push Derek away. In fact, certain parts of Scott seem to
have an entirely different idea about what to do in this scenario, because he
opens up and lets Derek maul their mouths and tongues together, fisting his
hands in Derek's shirt at the waist to pull him in closer.
By the time they pull apart to breathe, Scott's cock is a solid, aching line
down the leg of his jeans. He whimpers when Derek touches it, soft slide of his
fingertips, followed by the hard drag of the heel.
"Derek…" It's not a whisper, it's barely a breath.
Derek thumbs the button of Scott's jeans open, holding Scott's gaze like he's
daring Scott to say something, stop him. When Derek starts dragging the zipper
down, Scott wrenches his eyes away. They're right at the top of the stairs. In
Stiles' house.
"I can't…" Derek's fingers slip into Scott's shorts and wrap around his cock
and Scott struggles not to let his voice wobble, not to let it slip into a
range where Stiles might be able to hear. "I'm not going to fuck you in Stiles'
house!" he hisses. Is that seriously what Derek came here for?
"No," Derek agrees in that same soundless murmur, stroking slow and steady
along the length of Scott's cock. He leans in, nuzzling and nipping Scott's
collarbone, his throat. The first suck, sharp, no lead-up, makes Scott thrust
hard into Derek's hand, mouth opening soundlessly and his chest locking around
the moan he can't give voice to. Derek's next words are unintelligible, slurred
out into Scott's skin.
"Wha—what?"
"I want," the heat of Derek's breath over his throat makes Scott shudder and
writhe, "Suck you, let me suck you." He squeezes Scott's shaft hard, down at
the base.
All of Scott's blood spills south so fast, he thinks he might faint. Then,
dragging at the last little bit of sanity as Derek starts to go to his knees,
Scott catches the neck and shoulder of Derek's shirt. "Wait. Not here!" He tugs
Derek toward the bathroom.
He's barely got the door shut behind them before Derek's pushing him up against
it and dragging Scott's clothes down to his knees. Scott flails out with his
right, slapping the light switch and the exhaust at the same time. The fan's
old, loud and wheezing, hopefully enough to cover whatever noises he makes as
Derek licks and bites his way up Scott's thighs.
Derek's clearly not interested in a lot of foreplay, though; after a brief suck
on Scott's nuts that threatens to unhinge Scott's legs entirely, Derek opens
his mouth and takes Scott in, wet and hot, so hot.
The back of Scott's head thunks into the door and he can't hear anything over
the drums of his heart, beating in his ears as Derek goes down on him, so far
down, almost to the root, and then a slow, toe-curling draw back.
Scott's hands flutter uselessly: at his sides, a brief skim over the bristle of
Derek's hair, and then the sharper prickle of his hollowed cheek. Finally,
Scott just stuffs one fist between his teeth. Which really doesn't do much to
disguise the choked moans coming from his throat, but it's better than the
noises he wants to make as Derek makes a circle of his fingers at the base of
Scott's cock, mouth and arm working Scott in tandem.
His other hand's a problem, but gingerly, Scott lets it fall onto Derek's taut
shoulder, feeling the flex and roll of muscle as Derek rocks on his knees. Heat
pours off Derek through his shirt and Scott lets his thumb stroke down the big
pulsing vein of Derek's throat, traces the hard contour of his Adam's apple,
feeling that warmth without barriers, feeling Derek swallowing around him.
Scott sort of expects Derek to growl or bat him away, but Derek's eyes open,
the reddish hazel at their center brighter, almost Alpha red, and he hums, an
encouraging vibration that shudders through Scott's dick and draws his balls
up, tight and ready. Derek tips back, both angling his head into Scott's hand
and letting Scott's cock slip that little bit deeper, into the clutching heat
of Derek's throat.
"Oh," Scott whispers, pretty much the only warning he can wring out as he tips
over that edge between almost there and there, "oh, uh, oh …" Through the
killing, breathless sweetness of coming, Scott's aware of his fingers
tightening around Derek's throat, that he can fucking feel Derek swallowing
each spurt as it bursts out of him. Scott groans, nuts giving another pulse, an
orgasm that seems like it'll never end.
When it finally fades into the soft and tingly aftermath, Scott slumps against
the door, feeling like a bunch of loose rubber bands in a boy-shaped skin and
loosens his grip on Derek's throat.
"No." Derek's voice is thrashed, hoarse and sticky. He covers Scott's fingers
with his, pressing them into his neck while still looking at Scott, steady,
expectant.
Scott inhales, deep and sharp, until it crackles at the bottom of his lungs,
but he leaves his hand where it is when Derek slides his fingers away to
unbutton and unzip his jeans. Oh God.
He wants to look at Derek's cock, fat, thick and hard, watch the head emerge
red and wet from the foreskin, watch it slide through Derek's fist, but Scott
can't look away from Derek's eyes, Derek's face. The way Derek keeps staring
back, so familiar and a complete stranger at the same time.
Is this what Derek came for? What Derek wants from him? And what the hell is
'this'? What are they?
Scott flexes his fingers, tightens his palm, experimentally, and Derek grunts,
the hand he's not jerking himself with coming up to slap—grip—Scott's thigh,
his thumb rubbing in the sweaty and spit-slick crease of Scott's leg. Derek's
other hand moves faster and there's enough pre-come for Scott to hear it, silky
and wet. He's nowhere near able to come again, but knowing it, what that sound
is, what it means, goes through Scott in an aftershock anyway. He bites the
inside of his lip.
Derek's close. Scott can see it, in the slow flush, spreading through Derek's
skin, the stuttering, harsh blurt of his breath, out his nostrils, through his
half-open mouth, also darker, pinker. Derek's shaking, the little tremors
before the big one, and he can't hold the same steady eye-contact, slow blinks
that keep getting slower, longer. Finally, they slip shut.
A growl rips out of Scott's chest and he jams the vee of his hand against the
jut of Derek's jaw, tipping it back. Derek's eyes pop open and he grunts again,
louder than before, loud enough that Scott puts his other hand over Derek's
mouth, as warm come splashes his foot, between his toes.
Scott doesn't know what the hell came over him, but still, he holds Derek like
that—and Derek lets him—until the last spasm. When Scott finally loosens his
fingers and starts to pull back, Derek licks him, fast darts of his tongue,
oddly puppyish, even more oddly hot. Instead of wiping it off on his jeans,
Scott closes his fingers around it, dragging his thumb through the wetness,
pressing it into his skin.
A yawn comes up out of nowhere and hits Scott like a freight train, his jaw
cracking. "I think," Scott says, dragging at the tangle of jeans and underwear
around his knees, "I'd like to fall down now."
"Yeah." To Scott's surprise, Derek helps steady him as he slides down the door
to the floor. Derek turns, sits next to him, a warm pressure and presence
against Scott's left side.
For a while, they just breathe like that.
Then: "Oh, fuck. Stiles."
Derek lifts his head, eyes going distant. "Still playing his game."
Scott shakes his head. "No, I mean…yes, but Stiles. This is Stiles' house. I
can't do this here."
Derek snorts, actually smiles. "I think it's already done."
"You know what I mean. This has got to violate some kind of bro code."
Derek shrugs, as loose and loopy as Scott's ever seen him. It's not a terrible
look on him. "You weren't home."
"And you were just so horny that you had to come and find me?" Scott laughs, he
can't help it.
The soft smile turns to a smirk. "Maybe I was."
Scott scoffs and rolls his eyes, looking away.
"Maybe I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
Scott's neck twinges as he whips his head back to look at Derek again. Derek
stares back. Finally, slowly: "Isaac told you about Peter."
Derek shrugs again.
"He didn't do anything." Scott looks down. There's a spot of come on the leg of
his jeans, drying, starting to flake. Whether it's his or Derek's is anyone's
guess. "He was just…there."
Derek sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair. "Sometimes that's all it takes."
Scott glances sideways. "Should I be worried? Is he up to something?"
A third shrug. "Peter's always up to something. Nothing you need to worry
about, though." He heaves to his feet, tucking his soft dick away, zipping up.
That seems so much more athletic than anything Scott is capable of right now.
And he's got school tomorrow. Still, he summons up the energy to roll his head
back and look up at Derek. "But you'd tell me if there was something, right?"
Derek doesn't say anything right away and Scott clarifies, "To worry about?"
Derek snorts and skates his eyes heavenward. "Yeah, Scott. I'd tell you."
                                      ☽ ☾
"Scott?"
He's dreaming about the rings again. He's really close, he can feel it; to
knowing what they are, understanding what they mean.
"Scott?"
But already, the dream is starting to thin around him. The voice, floating
down, looking for him, is only accelerating the dream's destruction. In a
moment, he'll be awake…
"C'mon, Scott, time to wake up…"
…and it'll all be gone again, a mystery still unsolved, crying out for his
attention. He tries to resist the pull toward consciousness, but now someone's
shaking him and the dream shreds, like an old silk scarf, and Scott rises
through the pieces of it, unable to grasp anything.
Scott uncrusts bleary eyes to find Stiles' dad looking back at him, tugging at
his shoulder. "C'mon, Scott, wake up…"
Scott lets his eyelids slip down again and moans, "Don't wanna." He was so
close to it, to understanding the rings…
"Yeah, well, I don't want to take a pi—" Stiles' dad gives a short cough then
amends, "go to the bathroom with my son's best friend passed out behind me.
C'mon Scott, it's morning time, get up."
This is a confusing enough collection of words that Scott stops trying to chase
the riddle of his dream and opens his eyes again. This time, the world beyond
Mr. Stillinski's face swims into vague focus and he realizes—oh God—that he
fell asleep in the Stillinski's bathroom. After… After.
Scott shoots up into a sitting position, forcing Stiles' dad to awkwardly fall
back, almost tipping over onto his butt from his crouch next to Scott. "Oh,
God!" Scott says aloud, taking inventory as his mouth runs on, "I'm so sorry,
Mr. Stillinski…"
His pants are mostly up and his dick's safely and decently covered by his
shorts. Even if his jeans are still unzipped and gaping open, there's nothing
to tell Stiles' dad what Scott was doing up here. Or who he was doing it with.
"I don't know what happened, I was just so tired…"
If Stiles disapproves of Scott hooking up with Derek, Scott can't even think
about Mr.—Sheriff—Stillinski's reaction to it, even before he'd arrested Derek
on suspicion of murder. If he knew Derek and Scott were messing around, Stiles'
dad would put Derek under the freaking jail.
That entire train of thought turns to a knot so big and heavy Scott thinks he's
going to puke when Sheriff Stillinski fixes him with a look and asks, "Do we
need to talk about this, Scott?"
"I. Uh…"
"I mean, you don't smell like booze…but you did pass out in the bathroom, son."
All that terror sort of half-melts as it penetrates: Stiles' dad doesn't know
what happened. He thinks Scott was drinking. "No!" he says quickly. Then, when
Mr. Stillinski's brows furrow in over his nose, Scott amends, "No, we don't
need to talk about it and no, I wasn't drinking." Then: "Neither of us was
drinking," he adds. Because if he gets Stiles in hot water for some non-
existent wrong, Stiles will kill him.
Sheriff—because he's definitely the sheriff right now—Stillinski's eyes narrow.
It's a look meant to ferret out the truth, but the real truth isn't something
Scott's going to tell anyone and the truth Stiles' dad is looking for is no
truth at all.
Of course, if he rules out drinking, Scott still needs another reason—a
plausible reason—to have passed out in the Stillinski's bathroom.
Scott gets his feet under him, slowly stands up, clutching his pants. "I
shouldn't have had that hot dog at the movie theater."
Mr. Stillinski's face folds into more usual lines of tiredness and exasperation
and he rolls his eyes, getting to his feet as well. "Aw, Scott, those things
are like little sponges of bacteria."
"Yeah, I know." It's not hard for Scott to look embarrassed, not right now.
"They just smelled so good…"
Mr. Stillinski sighs, but they're back on more familiar ground, and Scott can
breathe again. The last several months have given him plenty of practice lying;
he's getting better at it.
He's not sure how he feels about that, but he doesn't have a lot of time to
worry about it either, when he realizes what the presence of Stiles' dad in the
house means. "Oh, God! What time is it?"
"It's a little after six…"
Except if Stiles' dad is here, he knows: it's late. "I gotta go!" He brushes
past Mr. Stillinski, leaping down the stairs and trying to remember where he
left his cell phone.
"…thirty."
Stiles is knocked out on the sofa, the controller still clutched in his
outstretched hand. The PS3 is still humming and making little disk-checking
noises, though the TV's been turned off, probably by Mr. Stillinski. Scott sees
his phone mixed in with the collection of remotes on the coffee table. He
vaults the couch, scoops it up and looks around for his shoes while dialing his
mom.
"Mom," he says, when she picks up, "I'm so sorry, I overslept, I'm on my way…"
"Scott, Scott, slow down," his mom says. She sounds like she's chewing
something.
"I'm on my way right now." His shoes, weirdly enough, are right next to the
front door. That never happens. Scott jams his feet into them and tears the
door open, before remembering that his bike is around back. Dammit. He ducks
back into the house, the door slipping from his fingers to slam loudly.
Stiles' head pops up over the back of the sofa, glazed and half-asleep, but the
readiness to flee bleeds off his skin like the bender fumes Mr. Stillinski had
been sniffing for on Scott.
Scott sighs. "It's just me," he says to Stiles, waving across his field of
vision to make sure Stiles takes him in. "Your dad's home, everything's cool."
He's not actually sure how much of that Stiles' registered, but it was enough
that he gives Scott a sleepy-dopy nod and grin, sinking back out of sight.
Scott resumes his beeline for the back door. His mom is saying something: "…to
school and I'll see you later."
"What?"
"Oh, honey, stop," his mom says, not unkindly. "Listen. I know you are trying
to win the award for Best Son Ever, but you really don't have to pick me up
every morning from work."
"I don't mind." Scott wrestles with his bike lock, one-handed, which really
isn't working at all.
His mom sighs. "I know you don't. That's not the issue. And I know that you
worry about me. You don't know how much that means to me, kiddo. But I'm the
mom here. And I don't want you running yourself into the ground when I'm
perfectly capable of driving myself home. I'm okay."
Scott sighs, tossing down his keys and pressing his forehead into his upraised
knee. "Mom—"
"Focus on school, Scott. Go to work. Hang out with your friends. Go get…crazy
with Derek and Isaac. Hey, maintain your lane, asshole!" Scott holds the phone
away from his ear as his mom shouts at some other driver. "Sorry," she says
when her attention returns to Scott. "Dipstick thinks he owns both lanes.
Anyway. The point is, the whole point of this summer was for you to have a
chance to focus on your schoolwork and your lacrosse game and work and your
friends. And I don't want to get in the way of that."
"You're not!" Now that he's not moving, tiredness presses on Scott like a
weight from above; he thinks it wouldn't be too hard to doze off right here,
and wouldn't that make Stiles' dad freak out? "Mom—"
"Scott. It's okay, honey, really. As much as I've enjoyed our time in the
morning, I don't need you to pick me up. Really." Through the tinny pick-up of
the phone, he hears the quiet groan of the car's brakes and the thump of her
putting the car into park. "See, I'm home already, no problems. And now I'm
going to bed and you're going to school."
Scott sighs. "Okay, Mom."
"Oh! While I have you, though. Misty Ryan switched shifts with me—her oldest
daughter moved the wedding again, now they're all going to go to Vegas and do
it there—and so I'm actually going to get this weekend off. You want to go
downtown for the fireworks?"
"Yeah, sure." Money being what it is, his mom ends up volunteering for a lot of
holidays. He can't remember the last time they saw the fireworks together.
"What about Stiles?" Stiles' dad works most of the same holidays—especially the
Fourth— so they usually hang out. As nervy as Stiles' has been, Scott doesn't
want to leave him alone while explosions go off in the sky.
His mom scoffs. "Honey, you know I don't mind Stiles…though, don't tell him
that I said that. Actually, I was thinking that since I'd have off, we could
invite Derek and Isaac for dinner again, so maybe we all could go? That would
be nice, wouldn't it?"
"Uh…" Scott tries to picture Derek and Isaac in among all the families—all the
kids--and he can't tell if it's funny or horrifying. Maybe both. Horrifunny.
"Yeah, sounds great."
"I'm not stupid, Scott. I know what that tone of voice means," his mom says,
getting out of the car in a jingle of keys. "But do me a favor and ask them
anyway?"
"Okay, Mom."
"Great! Hey…do you happen to know what kinds of books Derek likes? Is he into
sci-fi or fantasy at all?"
Scott pulls the phone away from his face to give it a side-eye that he wishes
his mother could see through the line. "Why would I know that?" he demands.
"No, scratch that, why would I care? Why do you care?"
His mother sighs. "It was just a question, Scott. Don't make too much out of
it. It's not important, anyway." She sighs again, which turns into a yawn.
"I'll talk to you later. Have a good day at school."
She hangs up on him and Scott's left to stare at his phone and bike, too tired
to even make sense of the things racing through his head. Finally, he gets up
and goes to the back door, taking care to knock this time.
Mr. Stillinski must have been in the kitchen, because it takes him no time to
come to the door, a mug of coffee in his free hand. The milky-bitter aroma
catches at Scott's stomach, making it snarl with hunger at the same time it
pinches with queasiness. "Hey, Scott," Mr. Stillinski says, making it a
question as he steps aside to let Scott in.
"Could I take a shower here?" Scott asks, not stepping over the threshold. "My
mom, she's home already and I…"
Mr. Stillinski rolls his eyes and slings his arm around Scott's shoulders. "Get
in here."
***** July/August *****
"You know, this isn't why I came," Scott says.
"No, you came because of my mouth on your dick," Derek says, flopping on his
back next to Scott on the floor.
Scott wrinkles his nose, but he can't help but laughing, too, relaxed and oddly
comfortable in the nest of blankets and pillows on the train car floor. It
smells like Derek here. Isaac, too, and even more faintly of Boyd and Erica,
but mostly Derek.
It's true what he said: sex with Derek hadn't been on his mind when he'd come
to the depot, but it'd only been a handful of minutes before he couldn't think
about anything else, finding Derek alone, half-naked and sweaty from
exercising. Derek definitely hadn't been at all unwilling.
So. This is a thing that they do, now.
"My mom wants you and Isaac to come to dinner on Saturday," Scott says finally,
less bothered by the idea of it all—sex with Derek, joking with him, actually
enjoying his company—than he thought he'd be, even though he's been the one
trying to chase peace between them. "Maybe come to the fireworks with us,
after." He bumps Derek's outstretched knuckles with his own.
"I don't like fireworks," Derek says. All the warmth that was in his voice
freezes over. It takes Scott all of two seconds to figure out why, slapping his
palm into his forehead.
"Sorry," Scott says. Which is really inadequate to express how crappy he feels
about it, but he knows he'll also be lucky to get Derek to accept that much.
Derek makes a small noise, denial, dismissal, staring up at the car's ceiling.
"The fireworks aren't mandatory or anything," Scott offers, turning on his
side, pillowing his head on his arm. "Just come to dinner. I'll square it with
my mom, she won't bug you about it."
Derek makes another sound, less identifiable than the first.
Everything about Derek is different than with Allison—which is exactly what
Scott wants and needs—but the sharpness of it, the difference, hits Scott hard
all of a sudden.
If it was Allison lying next to him right now, he'd put out his hand to touch
her. For her comfort, for his, some combination of the two. Just to touch her.
With Derek…Scott thinks he'd like to touch him, but outside the very narrow
confines of when they're actually having sex, he doesn't know if he can. If he
has permission for that. It's a weird feeling, that a guy could pretty much put
his tongue up your ass, but just petting him might get your arm broken.
"Come to dinner," Scott says again, gathering up his nerve and reaching out,
spreading his fingers over Derek's side and feeling the soft bellow of his
breathing, the dull pulse of Derek's heart. He pushes up, across Derek's belly,
and tries not to let his shock show, when Derek momentarily tenses—and Scott
tenses with him—and then goes limp, letting Scott.
"Yeah, okay," Derek says, completing Scott's descent into madness.
"Really?"
"I said so, didn't I?" Derek growls the words, but—and it might just be Scott's
imagination and post-sex endorphins—it feels like fake anger, like when dogs
snarl in play, tails still up and wagging.
"Yeah," Scott agrees, mostly to say something. He circles the shallow divot of
Derek's navel, traces the sparse trail feathering down from it. "Okay, good.
Good."
"Your mom's a good cook," Derek says, still in that same wanna make something
of it? voice.
"She is." Scott contemplates Derek's dick. He's touched it before, held it, put
it in his mouth, but always as a means to an end, chasing pleasure or returning
it. Lying soft against Derek's thigh, outside the hastily parted V of Derek's
jeans, it's a different enough creature that Scott's unsure of the limits
again, what's allowed. "Can I… Is this okay?"
Derek shrugs, eyes closed. "It's fine."
"I noticed the other day that one of my scars is gone." Scott thumbs the fat,
branching vein on the top of Derek's cock. "My dad was trying to teach me how
to ride a bike and he let go and I wasn't ready…slammed right into the curb and
went over the handlebars. My mom was pissed but she stitched me up herself.
Three stitches." The memory itself isn't a great one, but Scott had been so
proud of those stitches, remembers showing them off to Stiles, his great war
wound.
"When I looked, I noticed a couple other scars are gone too. They're healing,
aren't they?"
"Yeah," Derek says, soft-voiced, like he's half-asleep. "Probably."
It makes sense. Given what Peter came back from—and no matter what he looks
like now, Peter's half-burned face is always going to fill Scott's
nightmares—Scott's few scars are small potatoes.
"Is my foreskin gonna grow back, too?" Scott scoots closer, lifts Derek's dick
and wraps his hand around it.
"I don't know." Derek shrugs unhelpfully. "Maybe?" His eyes open a crack,
glancing sideways at Scott. "You're weirdly interested in foreskins."
Heat blooms through Scott's face and he starts to let Derek go, but Derek puts
his hand over Scott's. They stare at each other for a couple seconds and then,
slowly, Derek lets his hand fall away. Scott leaves his where it is, Derek's
cock warm and thick against his palm.
Derek sighs. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't actually know
everything there is to know about werewolves, Scott."
Scott snorts. "You definitely act like you do."
Derek rolls his head toward Scott, the corners of his mouth pricking upward.
"How the hell else am I supposed to get you to listen to me?"
"I listen!" Scott protests. "I just don't always…"
"Obey?" Derek's eyebrows arch.
Scott laughs. "Okay, I am definitely not very good at the obeying, this is
true. I am not an obey-er, ask my mom."
Derek's eyes crinkle, though he doesn't laugh out loud. "I guess I will. Hang
on a sec." He chafes Scott's hand off of him and then lifts up enough to get
his pants out from under his ass, sitting up long enough to slide them down his
legs, toe off his shoes, and then kick his clothes away. He lies back with a
pleased sigh, wriggling deep into the blankets, then waves at his naked form.
"You may resume."
Scott snort-laughs, but he does go back to touching Derek, this time homing in
on Derek's thigh, so heavily-muscled for all its relative thinness, sheathed in
a heavier coating of hair than anywhere else on his body.
"You should get an apartment." Scott traces the long muscle of Derek's thigh
and tries to remember what it's called. He can see the picture pretty well, but
he can't remember any of the parts' names.
Derek opens just one eye this time. "Oh, yeah?"
Scott shrugs. "You're not going back to the house. And this…it's okay, but you
and Isaac can't live here forever. And you just got the RAV…you're building
something. You're building your new life. And, like, something for the pack."
"Not much of a pack," Derek says and then his jaw squares and gets tight,
molded right to the bone.
"Well, that's why I said an apartment," Scott offers, skipping around the giant
DMZ of Derek expanding his pack. It's the last thing he wants to think about,
honestly, and Derek hasn't given any indication he's planning on it even with
the Missing Person posters for Boyd and Erica all over town. "You and Isaac
don't need a lot of space, um. Yet. Just someplace that's yours and to hang
out. Someplace you have a right to."
Even as soon as last year, he and Stiles would've loved the warehouse as
someplace cool and secret to hang out. But the thought of actually trying to
live here is a lot less appealing and there's enough ways in and out that Scott
worries what'll happen if hunters ever track Derek or Isaac back here.
Not just because Derek is his main source for anything supernatural; and not
just because Scott, in general, disapproves of killing other living things. Not
anymore.
"Besides," he says breezily, taking Derek's cock into his hand again, "this
would be a lot easier on a bed, in a bedroom."
The look Derek gives him is almost pure wide-eyed shock, but it melts fast into
a grin, bigger and brighter than Scott's ever seen from Derek. It's weird to
realize that, to feel like it's an occasion, just because Derek's grinning at
him, but Scott can't lie to himself: that's exactly what it feels like, a prize
he's won, or like finding money on the street.
He should probably get home; if his mom's not up already, she will be soon and
wondering where he is, and he's got homework, so much homework. But it's like,
as long as he doesn't get up, doesn't move, none of that other stuff exists. Or
if it exists, it exists outside of this bubble. This warm, safe bubble, full of
orgasms.
"So, you've done it before?" Scott asks, letting the ball of his thumb work the
soft yield of Derek's piss slit. It opens and closes like a mouth, an
observation he's made about his own dick before, but that seems different when
it's someone else's. "Like, with guys?"
The look Derek slants at him tells Scott that his unbelievably dopy phrasing
didn't go unnoticed. "Yeah. I've done 'it'. With guys." Derek tucks both hands
behind his head and goes back to staring at the ceiling.
Okay, so Derek's mocking him. But, he's also answering the question, so maybe
Scott can put up with some teasing. Not like it's a new thing for them. "Have
you done it a lot?"
Derek shrugs. "What's a lot?"
"I don't know." Now Scott shrugs. "And you really like it? I mean…it's that
good?"
Derek turns his head and looks at Scott, a deep look, a searching one, nostrils
flaring as he sucks up Scott's scent too. Scott doesn't know what Derek's
looking for, exactly, but he waits it out and finally, Derek says, "Not
always."
Scott tries mightily, but he can't help the little sliver of smile that creeps
across his face at Derek's unspoken implication, that he thinks it'll be good
with Scott. Derek snorts and puts his palm over Scott's face, pushing him away.
Scott falls onto his back, but he leaves his fingers in a circle around the
thick base of Derek's cock, squeeze and release, squeeze and release, thinking
about it.
"Allison—" he starts, and then he has to stop, waiting for the stab, right
through his heart. It's always sharp and leaves him breathless, and this time
is no exception. Then he goes on. "She's the first person I ever…you know. But
I did have… There was this other girl she kinda ran with me and Stiles for a
while. And I knew she liked me." Scott stops again, considers, a little
surprised at how much this memory hurts, even now. "I mean…she was my friend. I
wasn't faking that." Scott sighs. "I don't know. I tried to like her like she
liked me, I just didn't. But I was a jerk. I wanted…"
Experience. The thrill of being seen by someone, liked by someone, finally.
Getting to touch someone. Sexually, sure; the day Scott first got to see and
touch boobs is etched permanently into deeply fond memory, but also the little
stuff: getting to hold hands with someone, when she'd curl into his shoulder,
like a couple from the movies. Kissing.
Scott shrugs. "She would've done it with me. Sex." They'd been right on the
verge, stripped down to just their underwear. Scott sighs, scratching his free
hand through his hair. "And I just…I knew I didn't want to. Not with her. Not
for my first time and not with someone that I didn't really care about."
He'd sort of wished he'd gone through with it, sometimes. Not because he
regrets the decision—to wait, to save it until it would actually mean something
to him—but because then he maybe would've had the experience to be less
fumbling with Allison, less new. But that thinking just makes him feel worse
about the whole thing, because it's a pretty selfish and jerky thought on top
of some pretty selfish and jerky behavior. And sex with Allison… It had been
worth the wait.
"My first time was with Kate," Derek says and he says it so dully, so flatly,
that at first Scott doesn't get the gist of it, what Derek's saying. Then, when
it hits him, when all the scattered pieces come together at that one
point—Kate, Kate Argent—Scott can't really react, because he can't freaking
move.
Ho-ly shit, Kate Argent. Kate freaking Argent. And Derek. Oh, man, it makes
such sick, terrible sense, but wow. Wow.
Wow.
Scott scrambles for something to say, something that doesn't sound as tacky as
the THX surround sound of wow going through his brain, but apparently silence
is the right thing, because while Scott's still trying to figure it out, Derek
goes on:
"After that…there wasn't anybody for a while. We were moving a lot but…" Derek
shrugs and even as slow on the pick up as he can be, Scott can fill in the
blanks on that. His whole family had just died and Kate was the one who'd
engineered and executed the whole thing.
"But there's been others since then," Scott points out. "Not all of them
could've been…psycho killers."
The smile Derek gives him is flat and humorless, pretty much the exact look
Scott gets in his head when he reads the word 'wolfish' (which comes up more
than you'd think). "No," he agrees, "not all of them."
"Well, that sounds ominous." He wonders what Derek would do if Scott moved
between his legs, if they're still in place where it's okay. His mouth is
simultaneously dry and wet with the desire to taste.
When Scott pushes up onto his knees, Derek's gaze turns opaque and sharp, but
Scott also sees the way Derek quietly relaxes when Scott shoves at Derek's
knee, for Derek to make room for him between his legs.
Derek shrugs. "I was basically having sex with people for two reasons; because
they would or because we needed something from them."
"What do you mean?" Scott closes his eyes and breathes in the thick, heavy
scent on Derek's thighs, the hot creases of his groin.
"I mean a two-person pack is only barely a pack at all. A two-person pack
without a territory is even less than that. We had…nothing. And when you have
nothing, you have to bargain for everything. Nothing comes for free."
Though Derek's voice is both steady and even, there's a jaggedness underneath
that distracts Scott from his exploration. Bracing himself on one of Derek's
thighs, he glances up. Derek looks back, like he's daring Scott to ask.
"You didn't," Scott says, because he can't believe it, not really.
"And you know that?" Derek's eyebrows flex, the only part of his face that
moves at all.
And…no. Scott doesn't know that, not for sure. "But Laura…" She was his sister,
his last living relative. Surely, she wouldn't have…
It's the wrong thing to say; Derek just walls up tighter behind his face.
"Laura did what she had to do." Derek slides away from Scott, rolls up into
sitting. Slowly, Scott sits up, too. "We both did."
Scott doesn't know what to say to that, can't imagine the circumstances under
which he'd let someone fuck him for…for what? Shelter? Protection? Money? He
can imagine even less the circumstances under which he'd let Stiles or his mom
do it, take that hit for the two of them.
As if he senses what Scott's thinking, Derek says, "Not all of us get the
option of fucking our One True Love." He gives Scott that hard, wolfish smile
again.
Scott knows Derek's trying to rile him up. He knows that. But he doesn't know
why and frankly, he doesn't feel like spending the brain power to figure it
out. The fun-and-sex part of the afternoon is clearly over and—other than
delivering his mom's invitation—that's the part of this he was in for.
"See, this," Scott sighs, pushing up to his knees and scrabbling for his
clothes, "is why people think you're a jerk."
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Because you're a jerk," Scott says easily, evenly, as he shrugs into his
shirt. Then, so Derek doesn't think that being an ass gives him an out—because
he and Stiles have played this game before—Scott adds, "I'll see you at
dinner."
                                      ☽ ☾
"I'm so hungry," Isaac moans, when they pull up to the McCall's. "I hope the
food's ready."
Derek's stomach growls its agreement. Beacon Hills takes July 4th weekend very
seriously; the entire town is wrapped in a maddening perfume of grilling meat,
impossible to escape, and Derek feels like he's been sucking back drool since
he woke up that morning. "Yeah."
Man, he hopes dinner is ready.
"Did you know Stiles was coming?" Isaac jerks his chin at the Jeep, parked less
than a foot in front of them.
"No." Derek had noticed it, of course. He parked right behind the damn thing.
It just didn't seem like there was a whole lot to say about it, and even less
that he wanted to say to Isaac. Considering how he and Scott left things, it's
not surprising.
The dinner, it's Melissa's thing. She's doing it for Scott but it's not Scott's
party, it's just thrown in his honor. And Stiles is Scott's best friend. That
he drives Derek nuts is probably just an added bonus.
Given Melissa's reaction to the venison, Derek had gone with a more human host
gift this time, in the form of two pies from what had been their favorite
bakery, one apple and—Derek's secret favorite—one with sweet summer
strawberries. While he's getting them carefully out of the back seat, an old,
red Honda CRV pulls up behind the RAV.
All at once people come boiling out of the McCall front door, Scott in the
lead, as he avoids the front steps, leaping straight to the sidewalk. Melissa
follows more sedately behind, the big smile on her face a lot more welcoming
than whatever the expression brewing on Scott's.
Scott races up to the RAV, hands slamming on the hood to check his headlong
rush. Derek growls. "I had nothing to do with this," Scott says, in a garbled
and breathless undertone. "Okay? Nothing."
"What's 'this'?" Isaac asks for both of them, as Melissa waves—not to Derek and
Isaac, but to the woman getting out of the CRV.
"Alex, hi! So glad you could make it!"
Derek has a horrible feeling about all of this.
"Hi," the new arrival—Alex—says. She's tall and solidly built, with streaks of
dark purple and indigo that blend nearly invisibly with her short black hair.
Light brown skin could be any number of nationalities and he can't see her
eyes, hidden behind rock-star sunglasses. She's mainly wreathed in the same
ingrained hospital scents as Melissa—illness, disinfectant, soap and
bleach—under a newer, fresher coat of body wash, "unscented" deodorant and
lotion. "I'm not late, am I? I didn't notice I didn't have enough mayonnaise
until I was halfway through making the potato salad and then the store was jam
packed."
"No," Melissa avers, "you're right on time. See? Derek and Isaac just got
here." She gestures toward them and Derek finds himself freezing, pies in hand,
under that collective regard. "Oh," she says, looking at the bakery boxes in
Derek's hands, "what's that?"
"Pie…?" Derek says uncertainly, trying to parse the terrifyingly bright
cheerfulness on the surface of Melissa's voice versus the mellower and more
genuine pleasure he hears beneath it.
"How thoughtful!" Melissa's already wide smile elongates. "You're always such a
thoughtful guest, isn't he, Scott?"
"Uh…" Scott looks as shell-shocked as Derek feels. "Yeah!"
Not that it's any consolation at all. Why does being 'civilized' and making
friends have to come with so much stupidness attached?
Melissa glances at him for a second, before making a motherly tutting noise.
"This won't do. Scott, could you go and check on the grill, make sure the meat
isn't burning? And take Stiles with you. Isaac, you take the pies inside. You
can unbox them in the kitchen and then put the pies on the sideboard in the
dining room, thanks!"
I'm sorry, Scott mouths at Derek, before peeling away, back toward the house.
Isaac strips Derek of the pie boxes and follows promptly on Scott's heels.
Derek gives a moment to reflect on how thoroughly he'd let Melissa snow him at
that first dinner. She'd been so kind and unobtrusive and he'd let himself get
lulled. But now, as she marshals the three boys and cuts him out of the group
with an easy, brutality worthy of any apex predator, Derek sees the real
Melissa McCall, far more wolfish than her son.
Derek would probably admire her for it, if he wasn't so busy hating her,
instead.
"Alex, this is Derek, he's, um," Melissa's nose wrinkles slightly. "He's been
mentoring Scott, helping him get his life better organized, now that he's got
so much going on."
Alex nods at Derek, tipping her sunglasses off her face and replacing them with
a boxy pair of black-framed glasses. "Hi, nice to meet you." She reaches out a
hand to Derek, her crooked grin and the slight cinnamon puff of embarrassment
drifting from her skin showing she feels as awkward about this as he does.
Derek closes the car door and then takes the few steps to take her hand. Strong
grip, solid shake. Though her facial expression doesn't change, her pulse/
heartbeat does, and the cinnamon scent deepens, intensifies into your basic
wow, he's hot.
They can't help it, he knows that. Because they don't smell as keenly as he
does, humans just don't know how much of their emotions they wear on their skin
and even if it wasn't rude beyond belief to mention it, that's not a subject
Derek ever wants to bring up.
He wonders if things with Scott have been so easy to fall into because Scott
never looks at him like that, has never given off that dry and impersonal
spicing of lust, of acquisition.
"Derek, you can help Alex with her potato salad, can't you?" Melissa asks, with
sitcom innocence-brightness, smiling at them both. Alex makes a brief,
protesting noise, but Melissa rides ruthlessly right over her, "It can go right
on the dining room table, no hurry, I've just got a couple of things I need to
check inside."
Melissa moves quickly when she wants to.
"Wow." Alex hip checks the driver's door shut. "That was singularly the most
horrifying set-up I've ever been subjected to. And that includes the time my
grandmother called to tell me she was arranging a marriage for me back in
Korea." Her mouth flexes. "I'm so sorry about that. I didn't know, when Melissa
invited me over."
Derek shrugs. "It happens."
His family had been like this, poking their paws in every aspect of his life
and each other's. Even when it had just been him and Laura, she'd had her input
and opinion on every decision he'd made and every action he'd taken.
He doesn't love that Melissa is the same way, but it's at least familiar. On
the other hand, it gnaws in the back of his mind: does Melissa know something,
that she's throwing Alex in front of him like bait? A distraction from younger,
more vulnerable, prey?
For the first time since he woke up that morning, Derek's stomach shrinks and
sours.
Alex sighs, raking her fingers through her hair in a way that shows its
spikiness doesn't come from product. "Yeah, but it happens to me too much," she
says. "It's enough to give a girl a complex, that everyone I know seems to
think I need some guy to complete my life." She shifts stance, crossing her
arms over her chest. "If I was a dude, would people be so interested in my love
life?"
Derek raises his eyebrows.
"Heh." Alex's grin is sheepish, but in a way that lights up her face. "Okay,
yeah. Fine." She holds out a hand. "Okay, though, but this is what I'm saying:
you're doing fine, right? I mean, I imagine if you wanted a relationship, you'd
have no problem getting someone, right? I mean…look at you." She gestures up
and down at him. "So if you're not in a relationship, then you must not want to
be in one. And there's nothing wrong with that!" Her arms spread wide. "I mean,
why is it so terrible to not want to be in a relationship? I get laid! I like
getting laid! And the rest of it…"
Alex breaks off, slow blooming horror on her face and in her scent. "….and, I
just met you," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose and squinching up her
face. "Wow. Okay. So. Inside? We should probably get inside, right?"
Derek assumes the big green glass bowl in the front seat of the CRV is the
potato salad in question. Clear, unequivocal tasks. He goes around to the
passenger side of the car and grabs it off the seat.
And they go inside.
                                      ☽ ☾
When Derek thinks he can face all the people hanging out in the McCall's back
yard again, he opens the bathroom door, to find Scott standing just on the
other side.
"No," Derek says immediately, crossing his arms. "Absolutely not. Not with your
mom right outside."
"What…?" Scott's face scrunches with confusion, giving Derek enough time to
feel like an idiot about his assumption. Scott's brows go high over widening
eyes, nose wrinkling when he gets it. "Augh. No. My mom's right outside."
No, of course not. It's the kind of thing Kate would do—would get off on—not
Scott. Scott who, despite the recent Humpty Dumpty of his life, is a better son
than Derek ever managed to be, even before the fire.
"So you just like listening to me piss?" Truth be told, he wasn't using the
bathroom, he just needed to get away from the chattering crowd for a couple
minutes of quiet, but he's not going to tell Scott that.
"I wasn't listening," Scott denies, the crinkle of his nose deepening. "I
wanted to talk to you, before you came back out."
Derek leans his shoulder against the doorjamb. "Okay, talk."
"I'm surprised you're still here, actually," Scott says, his tone seeming to
imply he didn't mean to say the words aloud. "I thought I'd come back here and
find you'd taken off."
He'd thought about it.
"This is what you wanted to talk about?" Derek flexes his still-crossed arms,
glances to make sure no one else is there, even though the rest of his senses
tell him very clearly there isn't.
"I…no." Scott hunches his shoulders, tucks his hands deep in his pockets. "I
just… I'm sorry about Alex. I didn't know that's what my mom had in mind. I
would've stopped her, if I knew. She didn't…Alex doesn't know about us, my mom
didn't tell her."
Derek had assumed that, mainly because he didn't think Melissa would put Scott
in that kind of danger. He'd been more worried that she knew about him and
Scott, but five minutes into it, Derek had known that couldn't be the case.
There's a fierce bitch wolf under Melissa's skin and if she knew—if she even
thought—Derek's…doing what he's doing with her son… No. Even if she could hide
it, she wouldn't. Not that. She'd tear him apart, not set him up on a date.
"You said that already," Derek points out.
"No, yeah, I know, I just…"
It would probably not amuse Scott to know how much fun it is to watch him
fumble for words, but Derek is also curious. Sneaky sex in the bathroom, Derek
gets that. Scott's motives, on the other hand, tend to be a lot more opaque.
"I wanted you to know it wasn't me, that I didn't set you up or get my mom to
set you up. It wasn't me." Scott shrugs carelessly, but his face is earnest,
big brown puppy eyes asking Derek to believe him.
"Okay." Derek lets the word trail off into a semi-question, not sure why it
matters so much. Yeah, it was weird and annoying to start with, but after her
initial, slightly surreal hard sell, Melissa throttled back on her Cupid act
and he gets the impression Alex might want to throw a fuck his way, but she's
definitely not pursuing it in any way that he can tell and he's generally got a
lot of experience at being chased. He shrugs. "It's fine." he says.
"Oh." Scott says it like a glob of phlegm he's hocking up from the back of his
throat. "I thought you'd be pissed."
"Do you want me to be pissed?"
"No." Scott shakes his head vigorously and Derek is stuck on puppy metaphors,
thinking he looks like he's shaking water off after an unwanted bath. "No, of
course not."
"Okay, well then, what?"
"So you like Alex, then?" Scott takes his hands out of his pockets, can't
decide what to do with them, and rams them back in, the denim bulging in the
shapes of his fingers.
"She's okay." It's an odd, nonsensical question. Then, realizing this time he's
the one being slow on the uptake: "Are you jealous?"
It doesn't come out drawling and disinterested the way it should, the way he
wants it to; instead, it's blurting and shocked, because yeah, okay, he and
Scott have been having sex, but—and this is the part that's really
embarrassing—he doesn't think of Scott like that.
"What? No."
Not wanting to give Scott the time to evade, Derek moves fast, snatching a
handful of Scott's hair and snapping his head back so Derek can take a deep,
long whiff from Scott's collar bone to his ear. "You smell jealous," Derek
murmurs against the soft skin behind the lobe.
Scott pushes Derek away, not hard but not before Derek feels him shiver. "I do
not!"
Derek smirks.
"It's just weird, don't you think?" Scott frowns. "She works with my mom, she's
my mom's friend." The frown deepens as he looks like he's searching for more
words, but in the end, Scott grimaces and shrugs, saying, "It's just weird."
"We're not dating," Derek reminds Scott. "You're not my boyfriend. You don't
get a vote in what I do with my dick."
"I know that!" Scott says hotly, doing his own spot-check to make sure they're
still alone, still uninterrupted. "I know you're going to do what you want. I
just…"
"You don't want me to sleep with her," Derek says, slow and a little numb. It
doesn't feel like a shock, exactly, but he doesn't have a better word for what
it does feel like, the axis on which everything him-and-Scott related rests
turning, reversing gravity from under his feet.
Scott shoulders slump and instead of meeting Derek's eyes, his gaze hovers
somewhere in the vicinity of Derek's Adam's apple. "No," he agrees. "I don't."
Derek feels like he needs to do a lot more thinking about things than he has
time to do with Scott looking at him and half of Beacon Hills waiting for the
two of them in the back yard. Derek doesn't even know where to start, anyway.
He settles for the truth. "I wasn't going to," he offers. It feels clumsy,
achy, like a muscle he doesn't use.
Scott swallows, loud enough that Derek would be able to hear it without a
wolf's ears. "I know this is just temporary," Scott says, stiltedly, "I just…
The idea of it…"
"I'm not going to fuck her," Derek repeats, not nearly as angry as his voice
comes out. "I'm not…" He pinwheels on the edge of admission, horrified, unsure
of what lies at the bottom of the abyss. His self-destructive tendencies go
deep, though. "There isn't anyone else right now."
Consistent with the contrariness of his nature, Scott doesn't go for Derek's
exposed jugular, eyes brightening with such a naked relief that Derek cringes
just for witnessing it. "Oh. Uh, yeah. Um. Me, either."
Derek looks at Scott. "Yeah, Scott, I know."
Scott's gaze dips lower, around diaphragm level as he nods, flushing. "Yeah. I
just… That whole you're having sex with someone, you're having sex with
everyone they've had sex with…"
"Yeah, Scott, I get it," Derek interrupts, because they do not need to open the
door to another discussion of his screwed up sexual history, he gets it
already, thanks.
Scott nods again. The silence draws out long enough that Derek starts to wonder
whether Scott's rethinking that whole sex in the bathroom thing. Then: "It's
not just that."
He says it quietly enough that Derek only 'hears' it on replay.
Derek sighs. "Spit it out."
Scott sighs deeply, but his eyes square up with Derek's again, head on. "Look,
don't laugh, okay? And don't get pissed. I know I don't get a say in what you
do, it's just...maybe you can do it, maybe you know how to, but I can't…juggle
like that…"
Juggle? But, like his hearing, understanding comes belatedly, based more on
what he knows about Scott than the words themselves. Scott, the romantic, the
idealist; Scott with his one Great, True Love that he's hanging onto, tooth and
nail. Of course monogamy is an issue for him.
And really, of Scott's many annoying traits, it's one that Derek can't make fun
of. It's not part of his biological nature to mate for life any more than it is
a real wolf's, (or a human, for that matter) but he remembers how badly his
teenaged self longed after the idea of it: mate. And he may have given up on it
being something that's ever going to happen to him, but contrary to what Scott
seems to think, he doesn't like 'juggling' any more than Scott does. It feels
too much like sharing his body out like scraps.
"I'm not…" Derek starts, but the place that sentence ends feels too close to
the bone, a bloody, pulpy place he doesn't want Scott poking at. "I'm the Alpha
of a new pack," he says instead, "I don't have time…" He folds his shoulders,
not quite a shrug. "There isn't anyone else. I'm not looking for that right
now."
Scott relaxes and Derek wants to push his face back against Scott's throat,
sniff and lap up that sweetness for himself. At the same time, all of this is
starting to feel a little too sweet, cloying. So he adds, "If that situation
changes, I'll let you know."
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott has one thousand, one hundred and eighteen pictures of Allison—alone or
with other people—not including the ones that disappeared from his Snapchat
account. He's been through them all already and he's midway through a second
run, even though his head is pounding and tiredness drags at his bones like
weighted chains.
This one's from the winter formal. You can't see Allison's dress in the
picture, but Scott remembers its tissue fineness, the way the silver captured
the light, drawing him in like the full moon.
Slow fade.
This one was taken in the cafeteria. Allison's tired of him taking pictures,
tired in general, and it shows, her eyes and mouth unsmiling as she props up
her head with one fist, the cascade of her hair almost hiding her popped middle
finger.
Scott taps the mouse pad, advancing the slideshow himself.
This one is from one of the street fairs downtown. Allison isn't even looking
at him, or the camera; he forgets now who she was looking at. Lydia, or maybe
Stiles. Stiles seems like a good candidate, because she's laughing. There's
sunlight in her hair, bringing out all the different colors, and Scott's heart
feels like it could shatter if he breathes wrong.
Scott hits pause, holding the picture there, keeping the slideshow from moving
on. She's so beautiful. It doesn't even seem like she should be able to exist,
period, let alone exist in the same world as him.
Of course, that world's a lot bigger now that she's on the other side of it
from him.
Scott sighs, unpauses the slideshow. He doesn't have school tomorrow, but he
should get some sleep anyway. On the other hand, as the street fair picture
trades out for a picture of Allison studying, a thick tendril of hair wound
around her forefinger, gouging himself with all his memories and longing for
Allison is still a billion times more preferable than thinking about what the
hell just happened with him and Derek.
He doesn’t feel like his feelings for Derek have changed. Or, since they
obviously have, even before you bring their dicks into the picture, he doesn’t
feel like he wants to date Derek any more than he ever has. This little wallow
proves that: he wants Allison.
But he can’t deny the steaming hot rush of…something, at the thought of Derek
maybe being interested in Alex, as much as he’d like to pretend he’d felt no
such thing. He can still feel it, a little pulsing beacon, deep in the muscle
of his chest. And no amount of staring at pictures of Allison is making it go
away.
Scott sighs and closes the laptop’s lid and sets it aside on the floor. He’s
clearly just too tired to think rationally about this.
Crawling into bed is awesome. So awesome he doesn’t know why he didn’t do this
hours ago.
The point is, Scott thinks, already starting to drift as he snuggles his face
deeper into the pillow, is that it’s not about Derek. Derek could be anyone,
anyone Scott’s having sex with…
…great sex, amazing sex, really freaking awesome sex…
…it’s just that sex is a thing that happens between two people and it should
stay between two people, as far as Scott’s concerned. Adding more people… It
just becomes more complicated. Less special.
Even with someone that isn’t The someone…it should be special, it should mean
something, not just meat.
And that’s the heart of it, Scott thinks, the realization flushing through him,
warm and rosy and afterglow sweet. It’s not that his feelings for Derek are
different, so much as Scott can’t treat anyone he’s dealing with as disposable,
as unimportant. Derek isn’t Allison, but he is someone. It isn’t in Scott to
treat him like no one.
With that resolved satisfactorily to his niggling brain, Scott looses his last
fingertip grip on wakefulness and lets himself fall all the way down.
It feels like he’s only just closed his eyes when the presence of another
person—another scent—in the room makes him open them again.
Daylight streams through the windows golden and thick as syrup, showing his
eyes were shut a lot longer than he thought, and Derek is leaning against the
wall next to his window.
Scott groans and tugs the pillow over his head. "No," he slurs, barely
understandable, even to himself. "It’s my one day to sleep in…"
"It’s after ten," Derek says, dragging the pillow out of Scott’s vainly
clutching fingers and tossing it across the room. Scott whimpers, refusing to
open his eyes. "You already slept in. Get up."
"Why?" If it was an actual emergency, Derek wouldn’t have waited for Scott to
wake up on his own and he probably would’ve already also dragged Scott out of
bed like he did with the blameless pillow. So, if it’s not a crisis, Scott
feels entirely justified in making this as difficult as possible. "I don’t want
sex, I just wanna sleep."
"I’m not—" Derek huffs, scaling down into a growl as his body impacts the wall.
Unwillingly, Scott cracks one dry eye open. Derek’s standing with his arms
crossed. Frowning, of course, but without the violent intent Scott’s grown to
expect and more like Scott’s a math problem he’s trying to solve. Finally: "I
want your help."
That’s unexpected enough to pop both Scott’s eyes open, and to get him to sit
up. A non-emergency and Derek’s asking for his help. Must be end of freaking
days. "You need my help?"
"I didn’t say need," Derek says quickly, frown deepening, eyebrows beetling
lower. "I said want."
Scott decides he doesn’t want to split that hair, especially when his brain
hasn’t booted up for the day yet. He scrubs at his face, scratches loosely at
his chest. "Yeah, okay. What do you want?"
"Get dressed," Derek says, stooping to toss yesterday’s jeans at Scott. Even
with wolf reflexes, Scott barely catches them before they hit his face. "I’ll
tell you on the way."
"Seriously?" Scott shakes his pants out and looks at them. "No time for a
shower?"
Only the determination to show Derek he’s not still afraid of him holds Scott
still as Derek pushes off the wall to come closer. You would think it would get
old, when Derek puts his hand under Scott’s chin and shoves his head back, so
he—Derek—can get a long, deep whiff along Scott’s throat, but Scott’s got about
a million goosebumps popping up on his skin and a semi in his shorts that will
testify otherwise.
"You smell fine to me," Derek says, pulling back far enough that Scott can see
the brief starburst of Alpha red that blots out the hazel and then recedes.
Nope, not old at all.
"You suck," Scott says, without any bite at all, and then he starts getting
dressed.
There are donuts in the car—chocolate iced—which makes things slightly less
horrible.
"Don’t get frosting on my seats," Derek says, as grumpily as if the donuts were
Scott’s idea. Scott resists the impulse to ‘accidentally’ lose hold of his
donut and let it fall chocolate side down on the carpet. "Where are we going?"
he asks instead, indistinct through a mouthful of sugary-sweet goodness.
"Got an appointment," Derek says, pulling out fast enough to flatten Scott
against the seat back. "Already late."
"Oh, my God!" Scott exclaims, "I didn’t even know we were going anywhere!"
Derek harrumphs.
They don’t talk the rest of the drive. Finally, they pull up in front of a
storefront on the Old Beacon Hills side of downtown, Apartment Friends
stenciled in white on the window over a line drawing of a house.
"Apartment?" Scott asks, looking from the plate glass to Derek. "Seriously?"
Derek manages to look annoyed and embarrassed at the same time as he shrugs.
"You said I should get one. I’m listening to your advice."
"Yeah, no, I get that," Scott says, blinking. "I’m just kind of amazed."
"Shut up," Derek says, twisting the key out of the ignition and sliding out of
the RAV.
Inside, a receptionist sets Derek up with a clipboard of paperwork. Scott
prowls the narrow waiting area, still unsure what he’s doing here. Isaac’s the
one who’s actually going to live with Derek; Scott would think he’d be the one
Derek would want with him, the one whose opinion would matter for something,
however flattered Scott feels that Derek would ask.
"You do know that I’ve only lived in the one house my entire life, right?"
Scott asks, on his third circuit.
Derek looks up from the clipboard with a silent glare so classically Derek that
Scott actually relaxes a little, even as his nuts shrink up tight to the
protection of his body.
"Yeah, okay," Scott mumbles, finally throwing himself into one of the chairs
and pawing through the collection of magazines on the coffee table. The
receptionist goes on ignoring them, though the dry spice of her amusement
mingles floats with her perfume on the recirculated air.
It’s not entirely true, he realizes, flipping blindly and idly through an—he
turns the pages down to peek at the cover—HGTV magazine. He’d forgotten about
it, but there were those few months he’d lived with his dad, after his dad had
moved out and when it seemed like they were going to sell the house. But Scott
sure didn’t count that period of time for anything—nothing real—and there was
no reason Derek should, either. Certainly Scott’s dad had never consulted with
him when he rented the ugly concrete box and left.
"Hi, I’m Connie….oh, Scott!"
Scott fumbles the magazine and it flaps to the carpet in a noisy rustle of
pages. He bends for it and looks up at the tall dark-haired woman standing in
the center of the reception space.
"Uh, hi, Ms. Ruiz," Scott’s hands have stopped working, his supposed superhuman
reflexes have deserted him as he fails and fails and fails to get a good grip
on the magazine, crinkling and smearing pages until finally he just chucks the
thing at the coffee table. Where it hits the slick of other magazines and sails
right off the other side.
"It’s actually Brooks, now. I got married last year." Connie Ruiz—now
Brooks—says, the temperature of her warm smile steady as she stoops to pick up
the magazine. She drops it to the table where, of course, it stays put. She
wrinkles her nose a little, shifting her stance. "But you…you’re not old enough
to need an apartment of your own yet, are you?"
"What? No," Scott stammers. Ms. Ruiz—Brooks—had been one of their neighbors and
a friend of his mom’s, though they’d lost touch sometime after Ms. Brooks
moved. She’d even babysat him a few times, a recollection that makes his face
flush hot and his tongue twist up in an even tighter knot.
"Actually, the apartment’s for me," Derek finally chimes in, standing up. Scott
glances at him and Derek looks…weird.
He’s smiling. And not in an I-want-to-eat-you-for-breakfast way. It actually
looks…friendly. Normal. Derek spends so much time looking like he either wants
to maim someone—usually Scott—or like he’s at the end of a three-state spree of
robberies that it’s actually disorienting to see Derek looking so…ordinary.
"Oh." She takes Derek’s extended hand, but the smile is jarred a little. Scott
sees her looking from Derek to him and trying to draw the lines, make a picture
that fits. "I’m Connie Brooks, nice to meet you. You are…?" She puts a lilt on
the question, trying to make it light, friendly, but it doesn’t quite get
there.
Derek blinks and Scott knows he hears it, too. Scott can hear Ms. Brooks on the
phone with his mom (Hi, Mel? It’s Connie… Mira, I hate to ask this, but…is
Scott gay?).
"Derek’s, like…" Scott flips through the possibilities like he’d gone through
the magazine pages, wishes he was better at thinking fast. "My brother."
Ms. Brooks and Derek both look at him and he explains hastily, "Not like my
brother-brother. My Big Brother. Like the program, the mentoring program.
He’s…" Derek’s eyebrows are up and Ms. Brooks’ mouth is open, they’re both just
staring at him
and Scott swallows and just blurts: "My parents split up."
They’re the magic words: Ms. Brooks’ face softens and Scott hates that look,
freaking hates it, but it’s better than having her call up his mom and tell her
that her little boy is getting molested by big, bad Derek Hale.
"Oh, Scott, honey," she says, and cups his cheek. "I didn’t know."
No, of course not. She’d moved before the split and Scott knew that. He feels a
little queasy at his willingness to pimp his parents’ break-up out as a cover
story while another part, hot, swollen and resentful, thinks this could be the
only good or useful thing to come out of that whole mess.
"Anyway," he says, drawing away, trying not to seem a jerk about it, while Ms.
Brooks looks at him with those wet, sorry eyes, "it’s like…a learning thing.
Life skills. For when I’m older."
"Oh," she says a third time, but this time knowingly, and with the warmth back.
When she glances at Derek again, that warmth jets up even higher, as admiring
as if Scott’s a cute baby or a puppy that Derek’s toting around.
It’s not aggressive—she is married, still a newlywed, her happiness a low-level
and constant cloud underneath her other scents—and more importantly, it’s what
Scott wanted, to distract her from thinking about him and Derek as anything.
His plan worked, so he doesn’t know why he doesn’t feel more pleased about it,
that same sharp, hot pilot light burning blue and steady right in the center of
his breastbone.
"Well, in that case, let’s finish getting your paperwork filled out and talk
about what you’re looking for, Derek, and then I’ll take you boys to see some
apartments." She gestures toward the back of the office space. "Come on back."
                                      ☽ ☾
"So, that two bedroom on Chestnut," Scott suggests, shoving the page of rental
details across the table to Derek. "That was nice."
Derek shakes his head. "Nothing on the ground floor. Besides, it stank of
termites."
"Is that what that was?" Scott lays off licking at his ice cream cone long
enough to look at Derek, surprise and a kind of nerdy pleasure chasing
themselves across his face. "I thought it was just the new paint. No wonder it
was so cheap."
Derek shrugs. Getting an apartment had seemed like a good plan when Scott first
suggested it. A place where they’re not just squatting, a place that Isaac, at
least, can call home, a place from which to build something.
And, selfishly, decadently, though his body can handle the aches and pains of
sleeping cramped up in the train car, the idea of a bed, a real bed, is an
attractive one.
(a bed to fuck Scott in, to be fucked)
But the realities of it, finding a place—the right place—the gauntlet of
permissions needed and the information he has to give away, the question of how
to pay for it all, unemployed and rootless…it’s all so much more complicated
than he’d envisioned, in his stupid and naïve daydreams of a safe place and a
big, warm bed.
"What about this one?" Scott hands over another printout, this one for the
walk-up on Fennec. "It was a little scruffy looking, but hey, so are you!"
He grins, his mouth milky with ice cream and flushed red from cold. It’s the
kind of sweet little-boy grin that Scott is so good at, and Derek has to bite
the inside of his lip to keep from smiling back at the little shit.
Derek looks at the info sheet. "It’s over a bar."
"So?"
Derek sighs. "You have super hearing…think it through."
"Oh." Scott’s nose scrunches. "Yeah, okay, that one’s out." His tongue swirls
with thoughtless obscenity around the outside edge of his melting treat as he
frowns at the handful of other printouts fanned on the table in front of him.
"Is your mom home?" he asks, balling up the sheet for the Chestnut Street
apartment and chucking it at the trash, five feet away. The crumple sinks into
the center of the dark void, no net, because that, at least, he can do.
"What?" Scott looks up from another of the rental sheets, absentmindedly
tonguing pearly ice cream spills from the corner of his mouth and Derek’s gut
tightens up another notch. "I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. Why?"
Derek, already hunched over the table with his hands underneath, reaches over
and touches Scott’s bony-sharp knee, caressing where the denim is thinning and
about to shred. Scott jerks and flinches in a new freshet of minty surprise,
his eyes going wide. "Oh."
"Yeah," Derek agrees mildly, extending a nail until he can cut through the soft
spot in Scott’s jeans and work his finger into the hole. "Oh."
"Um." Derek likes the way that even that little skin-on-skin contact, in a
decidedly not-erogenous zone, can make Scott go almost cross-eyed with broken
concentration, red creeping into his cheeks like sunburn. "I just…" Scott
squirms a little in his chair. "I thought we were going to pick an apartment
for you. You told Ms. Brooks you’d call back today."
"Plenty of today left," Derek says. The skin of Scott’s knee is rough and warm,
slightly bristly with hair.
Scott’s breath catches, only slightly louder than the quickening wicker of his
heart pulse. He opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a dry
rattle. Scott coughs, face getting redder, then tries again. "She is probably
home though. Uh, my mom, I mean."
Isaac is off with some guy he knows from lacrosse, but Derek doesn’t want to
take Scott back to the depot or back up to the house, someplace where they
might be interrupted, walked in on.
"What do you think about a motel?"
"Seriously?" Scott’s eyes get big and the cone droops in his hand as if he’s
going to drop it.
Derek shrugs. "Yeah."
Scott frowns a little. "What, like…like The Love-In?"
"No." The unfortunately named Love’s Inn—usually bastardized to The Love-In—is
one of Beacon Hill’s two hot sheet motels. It’s also where he’d meet Kate.
And…no. Just no.
Even if he was willing to summon up those ghosts, he doesn’t want to take Scott
there, doesn’t want to draw a line, however ephemeral, between them. "No,
somewhere else."
"I…yeah, okay," Scott says finally, his voice warring between sounding
completely lost and eagerness. His ice cream is a lost cause, melted in streaks
over his hand. Scott chucks the drippy cone at the garbage, clanging off the
rim and licks the drying sweetness from his fingers.
                                      ☽ ☾
Though Derek had vetoed The Love-In, Scott thought they’d end up someplace like
it; The King’s Roost, maybe, or even the creepy, old Fontainebleau, where all
the guys on parole end up, but instead, they go to a Hampton Inn and get a
really nice room with a kitchenette and full size fridge and big flat-screen
and a king bed that Scott wants to burrow into, despite the strong smell of
bleach on the sheets.
"This is awesome!" Scott throws himself onto the mattress, rolling from one
side to the other before jumping off and going to the windows. "Even the view
is nice!"
"It’s Beacon Hills," Derek points out, though Scott has a sneaking suspicion
Derek’s laughing at him under the bitchface.
"Yeah, but it looks really pretty from up here." On the glass, Scott traces the
cloud-like outlines of the trees, so brightly, vividly green against the hard
turquoise of the sky, the earth tones of the buildings, the confetti splatter
of people and cars and flowers. "How can you…?"
He turns around and Derek’s sprawled out bare on the bed, legs spread, working
his cock lazily with one hand. The searing heat that scalds to the surface of
his skin is at least partially for the sight of Derek, naked, hard, waiting for
him, but it’s mostly because he forgot.
Forgot this is why they’re here.
"Oh, right," Scott says lamely, running his suddenly sweaty hands down his
thighs. Fucking. They're going to fuck. He's going to fuck Derek.
Belatedly, clumsily, he grabs at the hem of his shirt. "I guess I should…" He
bucks it over his head.
He’d been aware of the blissful cool of the air conditioning from the moment
they walked into the room, but without his shirt, Scott is more conscious of
it, like a cold hand outspread between his shoulder blades, scratching down his
back.
He’s also conscious of Derek watching him as he undresses; the soft, dry slur
of Derek’s fingers moving over his dick turns wetter, silken. The scent of him
starts to overpower the more industrial, hotel smells, strong, thick, known.
Scott chases that taste-scent, breathing it in, rolling it over his tongue,
pulling it deep into his sinuses as he undresses, a life-line in all this
unfamiliarity.
When Scott straightens up, Derek’s stopped jerking himself, though he’s still
got his hand wrapped around his cock. Scott kind of freezes under Derek’s
regard, or at least actively stops, hands falling to his sides.
"Do you still want to do this?"
Scott hadn’t been totally sure but, weirdly enough, once Derek asks the
question aloud, his sudden shyness shatters like brittle glass and what’s
behind it is sudden rushing warmth, like Derek snuck up on him in the dark and,
when Scott whips around, finds a friend instead of a threat.
"Yeah, I’m good," Scott says, giddy relief curling his lips into a grin that
feels like it takes up his whole face. He climbs onto the mattress and grabs
Derek’s ankles, pulling Derek’s legs together just enough that he can knee walk
up a little. Derek’s blank non-expression breaks to let a flicker of willing
amusement through, a hint of a smile, though he doesn’t move, letting Scott
do…whatever it is Scott’s going to do.
He puts his hands on either side of Derek’s hips and leans in, following that
male-Derek-aroused scent up one thigh so closely that the hairs tickle his
nose. Scott’s lungs expand, his mouth opens a little, trying to pull all of it
in, smell it and taste it, absorb it and tear it apart into its component
pieces.
They're going to fuck. He is going to fuck Derek.
The muscle jumps and Derek’s quiet inhale is as loud to Scott’s ears as paper
tearing; Scott shifts to hold Derek there, keep him from moving.
When Scott reaches the loose cage of Derek’s hand around his stiff dick, Scott
licks around fingers and dick both, the salt of skin mingling and clashing with
the bitterer salt of cloudy pre-come.
Being up on his knees feels like he’s too far away, even though he knows it’s
not, really. But closer…closer would be better. Derek lets Scott put his
shoulders under the backs of his thighs and shifts easily with the urging of
Scott's hands, legs splayed out wide, displayed.
It strikes Scott suddenly, pressing a bite into the inside of Derek's thigh,
how much Derek lets him do whatever it is he wants, how patient he is while
Scott fumbles and explores and gets lost in his unexpected, new interest in
cock.
Patient isn’t a word he would ever apply to Derek, even if he's trying to be
polite (lying his ass off) but he's clearly going to have to revise that. Scott
lifts his head and regards Derek's softened, relaxed face, wonders if it’s
easier for Derek when it’s just bodies, no talking involved.
Of course, the second Derek notices Scott looking at him, his expression closes
up again, faintly suspicious, vaguely angry, as he demands roughly: "What?"
Scott shakes his head, mouth curling up. "Nothing." He keeps his hands moving
on Derek, partly because he wants to, but also as an experiment, to see if he
can get Derek back to that relaxed place, just by touch. "I like this," Scott
says, which is the flat-out truth, and who could've ever seen that coming? "I
didn't expect it when I asked you to help me."
Derek's eyebrows scrunch, like they're trying to meet in the middle. "What'd
you expect?"
Scott snorts. "More yelling and screaming. Maybe some fighting. A lot less
naked in sweet hotel rooms."
The armor over Derek's expression cracks and dissolves and he gives one of his
rare grins and a low huffing laugh, curling up to reach for Scott. "C'mere."
Scott knows his mouth has to be sour but Derek kisses him anyway, hard and
deep, stubble burning against Scott's lips and chin and oh, hello there.
Scott kisses back and the two of them tangle on the mattress; Scott's hand
scratching lines down Derek's back, Derek's leg a solid weight over Scott's
hip, the slow, flexing undulation as they grind.
It's good. This is the part of him and Derek that works, and the skittishness
melts from Scott's body and bones, leaving only the sweet craving of touch and
being touched, warmth and friction on his dick and the taste of another person
filling his senses, like a kind of drunkenness, overtaking the whole world,
blotting it out.
Scott can’t entirely lose the awareness, though, that this lazy rub-off isn't
their endgame, that there's more to come. And, now that the first fear is gone,
anticipation is creeping up in its place; a hunger that surprises him with its
bite, the strength of it, the sharpness. He's not even always sure how much he
likes Derek all the time, but the thought of fucking him, of feeling Derek come
on his dick, knowing that he did that, made Derek feel that…
Yes. God, yes.
Scott's education in regard to the butt has been simple: don't. An edict handed
down by his mother when he was still mainly in diapers and stuck to with a
diligence that he mostly hasn't questioned. But, as his hand works down Derek's
back toward Derek's ass with nervous and roundabout intent, don't doesn't seem
to cut it.
Scott's fingers caress from the deep dip of Derek's waist to the hard-muscled
swell of his ass, conscious of a desire to play. Scott palms it, little
experimental, squeezing circles to test the resilience, the give.
Derek breaks the kiss, his forehead and nose pressed to Scott's, breath panting
and frantic, puffing from his half-opened mouth to Scott's spit-wet lips. Derek
isn't looking at Scott, eyes fixed downward so the lids are nearly shut, and he
doesn't move, but the promise of it is there, somehow, like he's vibrating so
deeply under the skin that it's more guessed-at than felt. His want fills the
space between them, a scent and a taste and something Scott just knows, all at
the same time, same as he knows what a peach smells and tastes like. Derek
wants this, so much he's literally stiff with it, and Scott wants to roll in
that knowledge, aglow with it.
"Do it," Derek says, rough as if both words were ground from stone. Behind his
lids, his eyes move; they're so close, Scott feels the heat blushing from
Derek's face, his throat. The please floats between them, unspoken but not
unheard.
Scott traces the crease of Derek's ass, exploring it without dipping in—yet—but
Derek shudders anyway, pushing deeper into Scott's grasp, mouth and breath
shaping the word yeah without any sound coming out.
Scott rolls onto his back a bit, brings Derek with him so he can get both arms
around him, get both hands on him, kneading the flesh, squeezing, and then
pulling Derek's cheeks apart, letting the musk of him mingle with the other
scents in the room.
They both make a noise, satisfied and startled at the same time, when Scott
dips in, lets his fingers touch the tight knurl of Derek's hole, and Derek
lurches against Scott, close crush of dicks and balls that goes back and forth
between pleasurable and too much.
"I need…" Scott starts, a sentence with too many possibilities and a lack of
brain power to untangle them from each other. He needs to be there, that
carefully hidden place, needs to put his dick there, in there, inside
there—inside Derek—as badly as he's ever wanted or needed anything. "You have
to show me," he says instead, circling it with his fingertip, feeling it push
and pulse back at him, like recognition, like welcome. Scott licks Derek's
mouth and tastes blood where Derek's teeth have cut the flesh. "Show me what to
do."
Now Derek's eyes open so Scott can see them, dark, clear-cut borders, soft,
pale green and the heart-wood brown at the center, surrounding the darkness of
the pupil. "Yeah," Derek agrees, voice still grating and weak. He lifts his
head and looks toward around the room. "What…the lube. I have to…"
He must spot the plastic bag from the CVS, because Derek unsnarls himself from
Scott, rising not entirely steadily on his hands and knees to stretch for it.
Scott growls a little, grabbing at the scant meat of Derek's hip to keep him
from moving too far, taking Derek's cock with his other hand, thick and hot,
wet at the tip where it peeks redly from the foreskin. Scott spreads the liquid
with his thumb and cranes up to nip at Derek's belly, arched over his head.
Derek wavers out a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, skin twitching
like he doesn't know whether he wants to escape or get closer…and then he's
back, in Scott's lap with the tube of KY in hand.
Scott sits up and licks at Derek's throat, letting Derek's blood pulse against
his tongue. "How hard would I have to bite you for it to last?" Scott asks,
mumbling into the skin, baring his teeth to press into it. "To mark you?"
"You couldn't," Derek says, sounding either breathless or unsure.
"If I was an alpha, I could," Scott persists.
"Yeah," Derek agrees, angling up higher on his knees and arching his back.
Scott growls again, deeper, clutching Derek close. "If you were m—an alpha, you
could." He grunts and Scott tilts his head so he can see what Derek's doing.
Derek's got one arm twisted behind himself. Scott's 'research' was graphic
enough that he can picture what's happening; he definitely doesn't have to move
his hand to discover—feel—for himself, but he does, following the hard, corded
tendons of Derek's forearm and wrist, the bony armature of the fingers, into
that hot space between, touching where Derek's pushed—is moving—two fingers in
and the taut strain of his hole around them.
Derek groans, hips jerking and his cock sliding against Scott's chest, when
Scott explores the join, fingers the tight rim.
"No," Scott says, looking up at Derek's red, tense face. He grabs Derek's wrist
but doesn't tug.
Derek tries to give his usual smirk, but he can't hold it, his feelings like a
kaleidoscope across the surface of his face. "It's not going to fit up there
without a little help," Derek says, holding Scott's shoulder for balance as he
rides his hand.
"No…I know," Scott says, closing harder on Derek's wrist to show he means it.
"But I want… You're going to show me. Show me everything. I want to."
Derek stops, gets still and blank-faced in that way that means Scott's
surprised him. Like please, the unsaid Really? fills the silence, Derek's
erratic exhales making ghost kisses on Scott's skin.
"You…" Derek doesn't seem to know how to finish that sentence. His arm twists
in a way that Scott lets him go and he pulls his fingers free. Immediately,
Scott's there, feeling the slight gape, already closing, and the slickness of
the lube. Derek's breath skips and his hand tightens on Scott's shoulder 'til
the bone creaks.
Scott wets his lips and his heart rabbits in his chest but he doesn't look away
and he doesn't stutter when he says, "I want to do it all. I want to touch you,
stretch you." He pushes his finger into Derek—just a little, not wanting to
hurt—and shivers, a little dizzy, a little drunk. "Just show me what to do, so
I don't hurt you."
                                      ☽ ☾
For as long as Derek's known what prep was, he's done his own. Even with the
guys that would've done it for him…there's just something about having fingers
in you that's intimate in a way that the blunt drive of a cock isn't. Besides,
he knows what he can take. Easier to jam his own fingers up there, make some
space and then get on with what he's there to do.
He doesn't even know why he's letting Scott do this. The feel of Scott is
different than his own hand. It's weird, uncomfortable, the fullness, the
pressure, the angle. Derek's cock likes it well enough; Scott can go deeper and
he's clearly in no rush, touching every place in Derek that's crying out for
it, that wants to be filled and Derek has nothing to do but let it happen, feel
it happen.
"You don't have to," Derek starts and then Scott finds his prostate, rolling
the pad of his finger back and forth over it like it's a magic button and Derek
can't think or breathe, just clinging, like one more wave and he'll wash away
in the riptide.
When he can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he tries again, "You
can just…" The rest of that sentence escapes him and Derek sighs, a sound that
comes out as much a moan. "You're not going to hurt me," he says finally,
wriggling meaningfully and willing Scott to fucking take the hint for once.
But no.
Scott leans back so he can see Derek's face—which is another thing about this
Derek doesn't like very much, because he knows he doesn't look nearly as
disinterested as he'd like to, he can feel his own need bleeding up through his
skin and out, where Scott can't help but sense it, smell it, taste it, every
time his tongue laps over Derek's feverish skin.
Scott looks stricken. His thumb feathers around Derek's rim, too
soft—ticklish—and too gentle; Derek clenches his teeth and jaw, throat working
around the heated lump that makes it so hard to breathe. "Is it… Is this not
okay? Do you want me to stop?"
"No," Derek says. Why did he say no?
Scott's expression eases, he stops looking so tragically young and the movement
of his fingers inside Derek feels everything except uncertain, liquid pleasure
that cascades, seemingly, from Derek's eyeballs to his toes before pooling in
his balls, the aching length of his cock.
"Can we…?" Scott asks, "On your back?" He thumbs Derek again, but this time in
time with the rocking thrust of his fingers. "I want to see."
Derek doesn't say anything, but he moves when Scott moves, gets on his back and
opens his legs to let Scott between them, shuddering when Scott rubs his empty,
opened hole, biting back sounds when Scott's fingers slip into him again,
screwing deep.
How long has it been? Derek gropes for the memory but can't find it, can't pull
it up from the mess of redacted files and outright deletions. He can only fish
up the feeling, the rightness of being mounted and fucked, hot breath or teeth
on his neck; being filled so completely there's nowhere left to run or hide.
Scott has a really nice cock, big and thicker than you'd think to look at him.
Derek can't bring himself to think about how long he's been thinking about
Scott—and Scott's cock—in exactly this way but with the dick in question only
minutes and inches from being inside him, Derek can let himself wallow in the
throb of want and the heavy weight of anticipation, pinning him to the bed.
"Scott," he croaks, shaking, cramping with it, as Scott takes him apart with
fingers alone, "It's enough. It's enough, c'mon…"
Scott's short laugh is a puff of heat against Derek's taint, followed by the
tender brush of his lips against the inside of his thigh. His fingers linger a
moment without moving and then withdraw and Derek bites back a groan at the
emptiness, fights not to roll his hips questing, begging. "Sorry," Scott says.
"Allison…" He stops, except for the brush of his thumbs on the inner curves of
Derek's ass. "It was always so fast—rushed. She never…"
"I'm not Allison," Derek says flatly. He lifts his head enough to see it when
Scott smiles and kisses Derek's thigh again.
"I know," Scott says, kneeling up, running the flat of his hand the length of
Derek's dick, amazing, a tease. "I don't actually forget that," he says,
watching Derek's face as he does it again, and then again. "I always know…this
is you."
Derek makes a strangled noise and lets his head fall back to the mattress, even
as he writhes up to each caress.
"Hey," Scott says, "we didn't get any condoms. Do we…"
"Don't need 'em."
"Good." The satisfaction in Scott's voice, the way it deepens over the word is
like a dirty fondle all its own, Derek's legs spreading wider as the thick,
heavy head of Scott's cock slips along his cleft, catching on his open rim and
then settling just that little, teasing bit in. Derek's breath catches.
Scott flexes, pushes in, bigger and less flexible than fingers but so much
better, breaching Derek, forcing him open, and Derek knows he can take it, his
body can take anything that anyone does to it, but for a second, it doesn't
feel true, panicky uncertainty and the inevitability of Scott, thrusting in.
There's only one thing Derek can do.
Derek lets go, letting Scott in, letting Scott have him, surrendering, head
arching back to bare his throat.
For all he despairs of Scott in other ways, that's apparently an invite the
other werewolf can't turn down. Scott surges over Derek's body, sinking deep as
his mouth searches out Derek's neck, sucking hard and then biting—blunt human
teeth but sharp enough for the bloom of pain Derek wants/needs, echoing the
burn in his thighs, in his ass, the kindling fire in his belly and balls.
"Got you," Scott snarls against Derek's skin, somehow promise and threat both.
His hands are tight on Derek's wrists and he curls like a wave, the last inches
of him sliding in until they're nestled together and Scott grinds like he wants
to get deeper still.
Yes.
"Got you," Scott says again, fiercer, rougher, sucking bruises into Derek's
skin that hurt nearly as much to heal as they do going in. "I got you, I
fucking got you…"
When Scott was working him open, it felt like he was using the entire tube of
KY, but when he starts to move, short driving thrusts, like Scott can't stand
to be separated from Derek for the half-second of withdrawal, Derek swears he
feels every ridge, swell and vein rubbing within, deep friction that spreads
like a slow, sweet poison through his every cell. Replicating, multiplying,
taking over until it's all he can think about or feel, toes curling, hands
spasming in empty air for something to cling to.
But.
Scott's right here and as Derek thinks it, Scott lets go of Derek's wrists to
push his fingers through the spaces between Derek's, linking them tight, his
weight pressing his hips and belly into Derek's on each—now smoother, now
slower—thrust.
"…taste you…" He noses at Derek's jaw, the back of Derek's ear, whispering soft
sibilants and slurry-drunk consonants between soft kisses, wet, sloppy licks
and enough nipping scratches of his teeth to keep Derek there, present and
feeling. "…smell how much you want this, like this, feel like I could die, you
feel so good and I want to make you feel that too, want to make you feel good,
so good, Derek, God, you're so beautiful when you're being fucked, I didn't
know, didn't know it'd be like this, didn't know I could want this so much…and
I do. I do want this, God, it's…it's so different, but it's good, fuck, so good
and I want, I want…"
"Yes," Derek says, first without sound, unable to wring noise from his throat,
his mouth after swallowing it all back for so long, "Yes." Because if Scott
wants it, then Derek wants to give it to him, would give him anything for Scott
to keep touching him like this, fucking him like this, holding him like this.
Scott, who works so hard to protect what's his.
…I could be yours…
Scott's mouth covers his, clumsy and erratic, each plunge into Derek pulling
them half apart. Derek lets Scott kiss and lick each moan from him, each
grunting plea for more, each ecstatic yes when Scott gives it to him and more
besides.
"I want you to come," Scott says, his eyes drugged and hot as he disentangles
their fingers and guides Derek to hold his own cock. "I can't… Help me. Help me
make you come."
Derek feels like he's been on the verge of it since Scott put his dick in,
floating on this ocean of his own need; at the touch of their joined hands, it
pulls in and focuses, sharpens to urgency, hot heavy balls and his cock like
stone in his palm. Derek screws into his hand, moving to Scott's rhythm,
Scott's encouragement, and lets his orgasm rise up through him. It feels
big—huge—big enough to break him, to shatter him into a thousand bleeding
pieces, but it doesn't frighten Derek, not like it should, like it usually
does.
"C'mon," Scott urges, "I'm right here. I've got you."
Scott does. He does.
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott expects Derek to protest being curled up as the little spoon—at being
involved in cuddling, period—but he doesn't, and Scott feels like he needs it
enough to take Derek's silence and the sleepy contentment radiating from his
skin as permission. Scott fits tightly against Derek's broad back, his hand
spread wide over Derek's chest so that he can feel as well as hear the dull,
steady hammer of Derek's heart.
Scott misses this the most. Not that he and Allison ever had a lot of time,
especially to just lie like this, lazy and naked, and Allison would get self-
conscious about him looking at her, after a little while… But just being able
to touch someone—and be touched in return—to hold them…sometimes it feels like
he's starving, a gnaw in his chest and gut that he can't do anything about.
This, with Derek, now, it's like the opposite of that.
Scott smiles against Derek's spine and quietly, not sounding sleepy at all,
Derek asks, "What?"
Scott laughs shortly. "I was just thinking about when we met. You said we were
brothers, and I was thinking how glad I am that's not really true."
Derek shakes and though he doesn't make a sound, Scott can tell he's laughing,
too.
"Thank you," Scott says, when Derek's still again. "I mean…I know you didn't do
this for me, but….thanks. I think…" Scott pauses, arms tightening around Derek.
"I wanted this, but I think maybe I needed it, too."
They're too close for Scott to think that Derek's asleep, but Derek's quiet so
long, that Scott thinks this is how it'll go, that Derek'll play possum rather
than acknowledge what Scott said—which is fine, it's more important to Scott
that he did say it—but then, just when Scott's stopped really listening for a
response: "Yeah." And, even quieter, "Me too."
Something about the admission, from Derek and aloud, without having to fight
him for it… Scott's hips undulate, pushing his soft and still sensitive dick
deeper into the warm crack of Derek's ass. Derek pushes back, which is another
huge shocker, and for a while, they just move like that, slow and without
intention, but still good. Sweet.
"I think I'm going to rent the loft," Derek says out of nowhere. "The one on
Market." He turns his head, though of course, he can't crane far enough to
actually see Scott without turning into the girl from the Exorcist. "You liked
that one, right?"
"I…yeah," Scott says. He hadn't thought Derek was paying that much attention to
what Scott did or didn't like.
"Think Isaac will?"
The sleek industrial loft is about as different from the Lahey's stuck-in-the-
70's tract house as Scott can imagine. "Yeah," Scott says, pressing his lips
between Derek's shoulder blades, inhaling the mingle of his scent and Derek's,
and trying to blot out the memory of the basement freezer, the scratch marks on
the lid and lining. "I think he'll love it."
Derek nods. "Good." He folds his arm over Scott's to hold it tighter to his
belly. "Good."
                                      ☽ ☾
"So…" His mom says, in that expectant tone that puts Scott's hackles up, even
before he had, you know, actual hackles to put up, "you and Derek. You guys
spent the whole day together…"
Scott inhales the piece of carrot he just bit off and tries to gag it up
quietly and unobtrusively, before he chokes to death. Though, depending on
where and how this conversation goes, death might be preferable.
"…did he say anything about Alex?"
Scott manages to expel the hunk of carrot from his throat and immediately
starts coughing. His mom puts down the knife she was using to cut up the onions
and bell peppers and carrots and whacks him completely unhelpfully on his back.
"I'm fine," Scott croaks out between coughs, moving away. The flat of her hand
is like being hit with a wooden spoon, and he speaks from experience on that.
"I'm fine," he says again, stronger, as the irritation in the back of his
throat cools and fades. He goes to the fridge and grabs a bottle of water
anyway.
"So is that a yes, Derek said something about Alex cough, or a no, he was his
usual uncommunicative self, cough?" His mom asks, leaning on the counter with
one hand and putting the other on her hip.
"It was an 'I will pay you really huge sums of money if we could just never
discuss Derek's love life ever again' cough," Scott says, licking the last
drops of water off his lips and chucking the empty bottle at the recycling bin.
"Pffft!" His mom rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. "Where would you get huge
sums of money?" Her indifference lasts exactly zero point no seconds, though
until she sags back against the counter again. "C'mon, honey, I've been dying
to ask you all day. Did he like her? If I invited her again, do you think he'd
ask her out?"
Scott covers his face with both hands. "Mom. Stop. Seriously." He lets his arms
drop. "I told you when you told me about Alex that it was a bad idea."
"Oh." His mom frowns. "So he did say something about Alex." She shakes her head
and turns back to the vegetables, picking up the big butcher's knife she uses.
She cuts one rib off a pepper before she sets the knife down again and looks at
Scott. "He really didn't like Alex? How could he not like Alex? She's
wonderful! And cute as a button. And man, her tits, I wish I had tits like
that…well, I did, before you came along and sucked all the life out of…"
"Mom!" Scott's eyes squinch shut and he waves his hands in a frantic X. "Not
okay! Not. Okay!"
"Oh, honey." His mom smiles at him, taking up the knife yet again. "You're such
a little prude. It's adorable."
Scott wonders if she'd say that if she had any inkling about the kind of stuff
he's been up to lately. Hell, the stuff he'd been doing just a couple hours
ago. With Derek.
"Derek didn't say anything about Alex," Scott begins. "We were busy looking at
apartments…"
"So he might actually like her," his mom leaps in, her smile and face
brightening. "I think they'd be so cute together, don't you think? I mean, she
doesn't know about the…" His mother hooks her fingers into claws and makes a
completely embarrassing grrr sound, "but she's very open-minded, she's always
reading those Urban Fantasy books—not the Twilight ones, but more like the
Buffy knockoff ones—and if they did ever get to that point, I really think
she'd be okay with it… I should invite her to the next dinner!"
Scott sighs. "Mom. Please don't. Seriously. Derek doesn't want… I don't think
he's…" Scott struggles for what to say, what he can say, especially without
giving away his part in this.
"Don't think he's what?" She waves a hand at the refrigerator. "Can you get the
chicken out, start it brining?"
"Yeah." Scott gets one of the mixing bowls down and the round container of
Morton's salt. "I don't think he's interested," Scott says finally, splashing
salt into the bottom of the bowl.
"But you don't know that. You said yourself that Derek didn't say anything
about Alex one way or the other."
"Mom, you're not listening to me," Scott says, an edge climbing into his voice.
"Well, is he seeing someone already? Because if that's the case, you could've
just said that."
"Not…'seeing', exactly." Scott's chest is tight as he runs water into the bowl,
head down so he doesn't have to look at his mom. He thinks about them, curled
up together in the hotel bed. It barely seems real to him, but at the same
time, he can remember everything about how Derek felt, warm and easy, and how
it smelled, him and Derek and sex and the sweetness of mutual satisfaction,
mutual contentment. "I mean…not like a relationship or anything…"
Is it?
"If it's not a relationship, then he's free to see other people," his mom
points out, in a way that would seem sensible if they were talking about anyone
else. "What's she like?"
"It's not a she." Scott turns his head to see his mom's reaction to that.
Down goes the knife. His mom looks over at him. "I thought you said he isn't
gay."
Scott rolls his eyes. "I said he's not fu—having sex with Isaac," he corrects.
"That's not the same thing."
"Nice save," she says with a look, showing that his almost-profanity didn't go
unnoticed. His mom's lips purse. "Hmmm. Well, that does put a kink in things."
Scott puts the bowl on the counter and swings around to face her, the knot in
his chest rolling heavily down into his gut where it sits like a rock. "Mom,"
he tries again. "Please don't… Please just don't. The dinners…they're awesome.
Really awesome. But you suck at matchmaking."
His mom gapes at him, wounded. "I do not! What about Mandy and Butch," she
asks, naming two nurses at the hospital.
"Hooked up once and then Butch started going out with that stripper," Scott
says, crossing his arms and leaning his butt against the sink.
"Ugh, I forgot about that." His mom wrinkles her nose. "How do you even know
about that?"
"I sit around and wait for you and people forget that I'm there." Scott shrugs.
"Okay, but what about Jana Ortiz and that guy, what was his name…? The mail
guy…"
"Nigel," Scott supplies. "And on their first date, he took Jana to his church
and tried to have her baptized. I don't know exactly what Jana did or said, but
he got his route changed right after that. That's why he's not our mailman
anymore."
"Really? Huh." His mom tilts her head, considering. "I wonder how I missed
that."
"The point is," Scott says, nobly not following up on that, "things with Derek
are pretty good right now. I don't want to mess that up. So could you
just…could you just not?"
His mom sighs. "Fine," she says grudgingly. "God forbid I offend your secret
boyfriend."
Scott shakes his head. "I know you think that's really funny, but it's not.
It's totally not."
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott tries lying on his back, but something about it feels wrong, and after
shifting restlessly and uncomfortably on the sheets for what feels like
forever—even though the clock tells him it's been less than five minutes—he
finally rolls onto his side and fits around Derek's tucked curl.
Derek doesn't say anything, but he makes room for Scott's arm to sling over his
waist and lifts his ankle so Scott can shove his leg into the space between.
And that. That feels better.
Of course, Scott's bed isn't huge and there's nothing inherently weird about
wanting to touch another person, especially another person that you just had
sex with. In fact, if you don't want to touch someone you just had sex with,
you should probably do some serious thinking about what you're doing with your
dick, because that's gross and skeevy. And pretty damn mean, while you're at
it.
Scott is not a mean guy.
And he is a little lonely, truth be told. Stiles is, of course, his best friend
and an awesome best friend at that, and if Scott called him—and Stiles' dad
didn't need him for something—Stiles would be there in a heartbeat…but Scott
has discovered that there's a second, different kind of loneliness that Stiles
doesn't know anything about and couldn't fix if he did.
Derek, though… Derek gets it.
"Is this okay?" Scott asks, raising his head to look at Derek's profile.
Derek makes a sleepy hum of agreement and scoots back a little, snugging his
ass closer to Scott's spent cock.
Scott had invited Derek over because… Well, the sex and the possible lying
around together after the sex (cuddling, just call it cuddling, dork) had been
an integral part of the plan, but Scott's main goal had been to test himself,
test his feelings for Derek. Make sure he's not falling into the exact hole
that Stiles said Scott would.
Make sure that Derek, isn't, either.
But now the sex is over, and…
And what?
It doesn't feel any different than any of the other times he's had sex with
Derek. Which is starting to be a frighteningly big number of times, while Scott
is busy giving himself stuff to freak out about.
Scott lets his breath out and rests his head against the knob at the top of
Derek's spine, rubbing at the smooth-taut skin with his forehead, his nose, his
cheek.
"Laura used to do that," Derek sighs, soft and thick. Immediately after saying
it, Derek tenses, the scent of him suddenly thicker, stronger.
"Not like this, I hope." Scott tries to make it quiet, joking, keeps scritching
his fingers gently over Derek's belly, though his skin erupts in goosebumps,
because he really hopes it wasn't like this.
Derek snorts and Scott breathes again. "Not everything is about sex, jackass."
Derek shifts and rolls onto his back, though he holds Scott's hand where it is
on his stomach, fingertips playing over Scott's knuckles. "We touch a lot. We
need to."
You don't Scott thinks, but even as he thinks it, he knows it's not true, not
anymore, and even when it was true, Scott would have to be an idiot not to get
the reasons why.
"Is that why I want to touch you all the time?"
Derek smirks, guiding Scott's fingers down. "I don't know, Scott. Is that why?"
Scott leans down and nips Derek's shoulder, grinning. "Jerk." Scott drags his
teeth over the skin, wishing vaguely again that it was possible for him leave a
mark, something that would last longer than two seconds. He lifts his head.
"Seriously, though. What are we doing?"
Derek's eyebrows twitch briefly before his face goes blank and still, except
for his eyes, which are always a wolf's eyes, even when his face is at its most
human. Scott tugs at the inside of his cheek with teeth, biting it, and wishing
he could call the words back. He hadn't meant to ask and he hadn't meant to ask
nearly that bluntly except it was still bugging him, the conversation with
Stiles, the conversation with his mom.
"Do we have to be doing anything?" Derek asks slowly, a frown tugging out
slowly from the blankness.
"I don't know." Scott shrugs one shoulder. "I just thought… I know I asked you
not to…with anyone else, with Alex. I didn't want…" Another shrug, less sure
than the first.
Derek keeps looking at Scott, steady and without giving Scott any idea what's
going on in his head. Then, finally: "The reason that Laura used to rub herself
on me was because she didn't like the smell of other people on my skin. Even
before she was my Alpha, I was her wolf."
Scott blinks, trying to make all the pieces of what Derek's saying fit into
place in his brain. "Okay, but…I'm not your Alpha and you're not… I mean… You
don't belong to me."
Derek's teeth flash. "Oh, there's finally something in Beacon Hills you don't
claim as belonging to you?"
"You know what I mean." Scott shoves Derek, trying not to smile.
"You're still thinking of it in terms of romance, sex," Derek says, rolling his
eyes, "instead of something that's just in your nature. Werewolves are
territorial. We like to piss on things, mark them as ours." He glances down to
where Scott's fingers are making circles on the exact spot Scott wanted to
bite, when he was wishing he could mark Derek.
Heat spreads through Scott's face like an instant sunburn and he starts to
snatch his hand away, but Derek's faster, pinning Scott's fingers flat to his
chest. "It's fine as long as you don't start thinking you can actually pee on
me," Derek says, smirk firmly back in place. "I like a lot of things, but I'm
not into watersports."
"Oh, God, you are disgusting," Scott says, rolling his eyes and still blushing
at the same time. Still, when Derek tugs, Scott lets himself be pulled into a
kiss, mouth and cock more than willing to go a second round while they have the
time.
                                      ☽ ☾
"This is ours?" Isaac cranes to look up the iron spiral staircase in the corner
before straightening to glance at Derek again, a slow and hesitant smile
creeping across his face, mint and spice from his skin perfuming the otherwise
stale air.
Derek shrugs, tucking his hand in his pockets. "Yep."
"Like, really? Ours? To live in?" Isaac rubs his hand down the nearest pillar,
looks at his fingers, makes a face, and rubs whatever it is on the back of his
jeans.
"Yeah."
The realtor, Brooks, had called yesterday saying the landlord had approved the
application—with Derek paying twice the security deposit, given his current
jobless state—and that he could come sign the lease and get the keys that day,
if he wanted.
He'd wanted.
Isaac laughs and crosses the space between them faster than Derek was
expecting, to throw his arms around Derek and lift him up in a bear hug.
Derek arches his eyebrows and Isaac sets him down hastily, but the grin keeps
breaking through his contrite expression. "This is awesome!"
When they'd been making the rounds with Connie Brooks, Derek had mostly been
thinking about the defensibility of the apartments, their proximity to
potentially nosy or obnoxious neighbors. Despite Scott's advice, he hadn't
really been thinking about them living here, about this being their home and on
his second view of the loft, he thinks it shows: the exposed pipes, the dull
concrete of the walls and floor and pillars, the muddy glass of the skylight.
The big gaping hole in the wall to the elevator, like a wrecking ball came
through the place.
When Derek thinks of home, it doesn't look anything like this.
Isaac doesn't seem disappointed in Derek's choice, though. Just the opposite,
whooping and jumping up to smack the shade of one of the overhead lights.
"Don't break anything before we've even moved in." It comes out barking, sharp,
and Derek wipes his hand over his mouth, choking back his words. He wants Isaac
to like this place. Why does it bug him so much that Isaac does?
"Sorry." Isaac bites his lip, but the faint peppery-ness of embarrassment is
almost completely drowned beneath the rolling waves of his excitement. "Just…
I'm excited.
Derek reaches for Isaac, ignoring Isaac's tiny reflexive flinch, to pull Isaac
in against his side. "It's pretty exciting, right?"
Isaac recovers quickly, settling against Derek with an inaudible but obvious
sigh, rubbing his cheek briefly over Derek's shoulder. "Yeah," Isaac agrees, a
growling, heartfelt note in his voice that makes Derek curse himself for not
seeing it sooner, how much Isaac's needed this.
Derek tugs Isaac's head down, scruffs his face in Isaac's hair, inhaling
Isaac's scent, absorbing it into his own. "It's going to be pretty tight for a
while," Derek says, the space around his lungs opening up, his tight shoulders
dropping from up around his ears as he breathes in: pack. "Between the car and
the rent…and we're going to have to get furniture, I guess…"
"I can help," Isaac says, lifting his head. "I've got the money from my dad's
life insurance—it's not a lot, but—and I've been helping out at Deaton's some…I
can get another job, if I need to…"
Derek shakes his head. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to," Isaac insists, straightening, pulling out of Derek's grip without
moving any further away. "If this…if it's for us, then it's mine, too." He
looks around at the apartment and Derek can almost hear Isaac's determination
clicking into place like a lock's tumblers. "I want to help. For the pack." He
glances back to Derek again, the combination of wary uneasiness and
stubbornness leaching his blue eyes to a nearly steely gray. Still, it's more a
plea than anything when Isaac says, softer, "Let me help."
"Not the money from your father," Derek says, raising one finger warningly.
"That's yours. For college or…whatever." It occurs to him he doesn't even know
if Isaac wants to go to college, or what he'd study if he did.
Isaac's smile blazes back to full brilliance and he hugs Derek again, quicker
than the first one, before he's wandering off toward the doorway that leads
into the tiny kitchenette and the bathroom.
Derek leans against the nearest pillar and lets Isaac explore. He doesn't like
the idea of taking money from Isaac—and not only because doesn't really have
any—but it is the right thing to do, the way the pack operates: everyone
contributes.
Laura hadn't liked taking money from him, either, but she had, from his series
of odd jobs, or the times that the guys he fucked gave it to him, mistaking his
willingness for a transaction. Derek never bothered to correct them and he
never talked to Laura about where the money came from, though of course she'd
always smell them on him. That, at least, is something Isaac is never going to
have to worry about.
"Can we sleep here tonight?" Even in another room, the naked eagerness in
Isaac's voice makes Derek cringe, but it wakes a twin spark in his chest; this
place is theirs, paid-for and safe and, except for Scott, no one knows about
it.
"Yeah," Derek agrees, casting around the cavernous room again with an eye to
what they'll need. It won't take any time at all to pack up their meager
possessions and they could probably even strap a cheap mattress set to the top
of the RAV, if they don't dawdle and get there before the stores close.
"There's not a lot of privacy, though," Isaac says, when he emerges from his
investigation of the kitchenette.
Derek shrugs. "No less than at the depot. I'm not planning on dancing with my
dick out, if that's what you're worried about."
Isaac chokes on a laugh, half hiding it behind his hand. "No. I was just
thinking about you and Scott. Are we going to have some kind of…like a sock on
the doorknob or something?"
"This is your h—place, too," Derek says. He doesn't know why he's avoiding
using the 'H' word. He's been thinking it enough. But saying it out loud feels
different, like asking for trouble. "I'm not going to just kick you out."
"Yeah, but I don't want to be here for that,' Isaac says, wrinkling his nose.
"Scott's not my boyfriend." Derek can tell it comes out harder than he means it
to by the way Isaac's pupils dilate and he hunches subtly smaller and sideways.
Derek puffs out, dragging his fingers down his face. "This is just a short term
thing. You don't need to worry about it. Let me handle my sex life."
Isaac shrugs. "Sure. It's just you and Scott have been…" Isaac rolls his hands
vaguely, "together a lot lately and I just… Look, I don't care if you and Scott
want to… I mean, I like Scott. He's a good guy. So if you and he want to…"
Again that completely unhelpful swirl of fingers, "it's cool with me. Not that
you need my permission!" Isaac adds hastily when Derek raises his eyebrows.
"Just… You know. You and Scott as boyfriends wouldn't be the worst thing ever.
If that's what you wanted."
Derek sighs. "I'm not even thinking about that right now, okay? Scott…he's in
love with Allison and I've got you." Isaac's scent shifts before the
constipated expression starts to cross his face and Derek rolls his eyes. "The
pack, Isaac."
"Oh. Heh. Right." Isaac's smile is weaker than before but there. Then, looking
around the loft again, "What about Erica and Boyd? It's going to be really
tight with four of us." He looks suspiciously at Derek. "Unless you're giving
up…?"
"No." Derek crosses to Isaac and wraps his hand around the nape of Isaac's
neck, squeezing. "Nobody's giving up on anyone. Erica and Boyd, they still have
parents." Isaac flinches and Derek kicks himself yet again for being a tactless
asshole. "When we find them, they're probably be going home," he amends, "at
least for a while. And if they need a place to stay…" He shrugs. "We'll manage.
Plenty of packs live right on top of each other."
To look at it, Derek's old house is plenty big but none of them—except maybe
Stiles, who's probably seen the police reports—get how many of them were living
there. It's not just that they can, it was that they wanted to, a closeness
Derek's bitten relatives had found weird and then slowly, gradually, came to
embrace.
Derek thinks of the four of them here, in the loft's limited space, and his
heart quickens with an emotion he doesn't want to put a name to, shoving it
promptly and violently out of his mind.
Isaac looks doubtful, glancing around like he's measuring the apartment for an
over-long couch, but he nods.
"It's just a six month lease," Derek says, as much for his own benefit as
Isaac's. "After that, we can think about what we want to do, what we need."
Or if there's anyone left alive to live here.
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott flicks the ball up and at the goal. Stiles manages to get his crosse
between the ball and the goal, but the force rips the stick out of his hands.
Stiles hops up and down, cursing and blowing on his fingers.
"Goddammit, Scott, that's the third time!" Stiles abandons the goal and stomps
over to the bench, throwing himself down on it and glaring daggers at Scott. "I
thought we agreed that you weren't going to—" They're alone on the field and
Scott can't hear anyone around them for further than even Stiles' voice can
carry, but Stiles looks around warily and then lowers his tone. "…That you were
going to take it easy with those fast passes?" He waggles his eyebrows and mugs
furiously, like Scott doesn't already know what Stiles is talking about.
Scott sighs and goes over to the bench too. "Sorry," he says, dropping his
stick to the grass and grabbing his bottle of water. "I wasn't paying
attention. I just forgot."
"Yeah, three fucking times." Stiles snatches the bottle away from Scott and
jets a stream of lukewarm water into his mouth. He swishes it around for a
couple seconds before spitting it into the grass. "So you want to keep
pretending that we're practicing—in which case I'm taking attacker, and you can
goal for a while, or do you want to tell me what the hell is wrong?" He squirts
more water in his mouth and, this time, swallows it.
Scott scuffs at the ground. "I don't know," he says, dully. "Nothing."
Even without a werewolf's nose, Scott can sense Stiles' disbelief, feels
Stiles' eyes boring into his face like lasers.
Scott sighs. "I went by Allison's house today. Somebody bought it. There's a
big, old "SOLD" sign on the lawn." He lifts his hands, lets them drop limply
back to his lap.
Stiles is both honest enough and an awesome enough friend not to pretend that
he doesn't understand. "Dude, that sucks. Why didn't you say something before?"
Scott's shoulders flex. "Felt stupid. And I didn't know if you'd care."
He probably deserves it when Stiles thwaps him on the back of the head. "Don't
be a dumbass. Be upset all you want, but don't be dumb. Of course I freaking
care."
"Yeah, I know." Scott scruffs the back of his neck, embarrassed now that he
said it out loud. "Just…" Again that helpless lift and drop of his hands. "What
if this is it? What if she never comes back, for real? All I've got is a bunch
of pictures and this number on my phone that I promised I wouldn't call. And
how long before that's gone, too? Some Star Trek computer voice telling me 'The
number you have reached is no longer in service' and 'If you think you have
reached this message in error, please try your call again.'"
"I don't know whether to be terrified or impressed that you have that
memorized," Stiles comments. "Also, good job on the voice, by the way. Very
soulless, sounded just like her."
Against his will, one side of Scott's mouth curls up in an almost smile. It
only lasts a second, though, the sludgy coldness of missing Allison creeping
back like a slime. "I mean…I could handle it, I think, if she never wanted to
get back together, you know? If she was with someone else." He glances sideways
at Stiles, looking for something, some confirmation that what he's saying is
the truth and not just wishful bullshit. "But I don't know… What if I never
even see her again?" He hates the plaintive whininess of his voice, hates this
bleeding raw feeling, too much, too naked, even for as good a friend—a
brother—as Stiles.
"Well, you said, you still have those pictures…" Stiles tries to joke, but he
fades out when Scott looks at him. This must be what Derek's eyes feel like
from the inside, Scott thinks, cold wolf eyes, even without the shift.
Stiles sighs. "I don't know, man. You just… You go on with your life. I know
it's a sucky answer, it's not the answer you want to hear, but…if she's really
gone, she's really gone. And if it is some…" Stiles waves his hands, "star-
crossed love for the ages or whatever, then you'll find her again. You'll find
each other."
"You don't believe that," Scott scoffs.
"No," Stiles admits without a shred of shame about it. "But you do, and it's
your freaking love story. What the hell do I know? Lydia barely knows I'm alive
and I probably couldn't get laid at an orgy."
"That's not true," Scott objects, before half-turning and putting his hand on
Stiles' shoulder in pretend concern. "Wait…is this an orgy with or without
drugs?"
Stiles blows air out his lips and shoves Scott one-handed. Stiles isn't
actually strong enough to push Scott, if Scott doesn't want to be moved, but he
rolls with it, pretending to catch himself at the last second, before he can
fall off the bench totally.
"Besides," Stiles says, "you've always got your fuck buddy Derek, right? He'll
never leave Beacon Hills. You can fuck him 'til your dick falls off."
"Don't—" Scott starts, before he means to and way harsher than he imagined.
Stiles manages to look surprised and not-surprised at the same time, which
seems like a pretty good trick. "Touchy," he says, the same sarcasm and
smokiness of his feelings about Derek bleeding from his voice and skin.
"Thought you were supposed to be more relaxed when you're getting fucked on a
regular basis."
"It's not that," Scott says, shaking his head. "I'm not… It's just, Derek…he's
a friend now."
"Since when are we not allowed to make fun of our friends?" Stiles asks,
eyebrows arching just about as high as they can go. "Because as far as I'm
concerned, that's the main reason for having them."
"Okay, but, when it's Derek, you're not really making fun. You're jabbing at
him and covering it up with humor."
"Well, yeah," Stiles agrees, spreading his hands. "Kinda what I do."
"Only with people you don't like."
"I'll admit it: I don't like him." Stiles lifts up and turns so he's facing
Scott, one leg sideways on the bench. "Scott, have you forgotten all the stuff
he did, all the stuff he did to you, to me…how he was going to kill Jackson?"
Stiles considers. "Which, okay, I've thought about it plenty of time myself,
but you know what the difference is? I would've only thought about it. I
wouldn't have actually, you know, killed Jackson."
"He wasn't going to kill Jackson."
Stiles bounces on the bench, dragging both hands through his hair. "Oh, my,
God! Like…are you in love with him? Is that what this is? Are you turning into
one of those people that lets their abusive jackass boyfriend get away with
murder—literal murder!—because they just love him so much?"
"Look, it's the past!" Scott says. "I get that Derek's done bad things. I'm not
excusing his bad things. They were real, they happened. But it's different now.
We're all on the same side. And I need you to get on board with that, because
you're my best friend, man, you're my brother, and I need you, okay?" Scott's
voice breaks. Just a little, but he hears it and he knows Stiles hears it, too.
"I can't do this without you. I need you to be on my side." He bumps Stiles'
knee with his knuckles. "Even if being on my side also means being on a side
with Derek."
"I am on your side," Stiles says after a minute. "I'm on your side. And I don't
agree that I don't get to make fun of him. If he's going to be part of the
team, he doesn't get special treatment. I get to treat him just like everyone
else."
Scott tilts his head.
"Okay, anyone else who could break my neck with their pinkie," Stiles concedes.
But this is my point: my razor wit is pretty much all I have!"
Scott snorts. "Okay, fine. No special treatment. Just…try to be less of a jerk
to him, please?"
"I'll try," Stiles says doubtfully. "But I can't promise or anything."
                                      ☽ ☾
"So this is the new place?" Peter strolls to the middle of the room and poses,
legs spread and arms crossed, tapping his forefinger thoughtfully against his
pursed lips. "Hmm. Kind of dark and depressing, if you ask me—"
"No one did," Derek mutters, still trying to get the screw through the leg and
body of the table. Whoever drilled these holes was fucking drunk.
"—though I guess that's to be expected, mmm?" Peter continues as if he didn't
hear, which Derek knows damn well he did. "Must remind you of home."
Derek slams the screwdriver into the floor and looks up at Peter, who's
smirking. "What do you want?"
"Am I not allowed to express interest in my Alpha, and my only living nephew?"
Peter asks.
"Would it matter if my answer was 'no'?" Derek gives up on the table leg for
the moment and climbs to his feet, unwilling to be on his knees while Peter
stands over him.
Peter's smile broadens. "Mmm, no, probably not."
The elevator finishes clanking laboriously up and Isaac rakes back the gate,
dragging out the dusty blue velvet sofa-bed he picked for himself. "What's he
doing here?"
"Nothing," Derek says tiredly, going to help, because although Isaac can handle
the weight of the sofa easily, it's still unwieldy.
Peter prowls around the apartment, tsking over everything, while Isaac and
Derek put the couch on the opposite side of the room from Derek's bed and where
Isaac will have a good view of the elevator and the stairs in the same way he'd
sleep in the train car where he could see all the doors.
"That's everything," Isaac says, when he's got the couch positioned to his
satisfaction. He pitches his voice low—which Derek could've told him not to
bother, Peter can hear a mouse's whisker fall—but Derek appreciates the effort.
"I need to get the cart back." He brushes fussily at a smudge of dirt from the
trailer-cart that he'd borrowed from who-knows-where to transport their
Salvation Army haul and glances warily at Peter, who is pretending to stare out
the window. "You… Should I wait?"
Derek shakes his head. "Go ahead."
The night that Isaac had run into Peter and the Alpha Pack twins at the movie,
Derek had wanted to confront Peter—at least after he'd made sure that Scott and
Stiles hadn't been followed home—but at the same time, the thought of it had
made him tired, the entire, inconclusive and frustrating conversation playing
out in his head and Scott's scent—Scott's come—all over him.
Looks like he's run out of time on avoiding Peter.
Isaac glances from Peter back to Derek, eyebrows asking a question. Derek
shoves him gently in the direction of the elevator. "I'm the Alpha," he reminds
Isaac.
Isaac nods, a quick, awkward duck of his head, and goes. Once the elevator
sinks out of sight, Peter turns away from the window and they listen to it
rattle down to the ground floor. When the last sounds of Isaac have left the
building, Peter swings around toward Derek.
"Are you, though?" Peter asks, tapping his collarbone with his fingertips as he
regards Derek narrowly. "Are you really?"
Derek spreads his stance, crosses his arms. "You spend too long on the wind-
up," he says. "Get to the damned pitch."
Peter's face scrunches slightly in displeasure. The way he likes to play with
his prey, you'd think he was a housecat, not a wolf. "It's nothing," Peter says
with a shrug. "Nothing. I just wonder what the family would think—what Laura
would think—about your behavior as Alpha."
"Well, as they're all dead, I don't imagine they think much at all," Derek
says, because it's a weapon that cuts both ways. He sees it strike home in the
way the skin around Peter's eyes tightens. It's not as satisfying as it should
be, though. Like before, he just feels exhausted, done with it. "Say what you
mean to say."
Peter spreads his hands. "I knew you were going to try and bring Scott into the
fold," he says. "You're not so dumb you can't see the value in that. I just
didn't know you were going to do it with your ass."
"What bothers you more, that I let Scott fuck me or that I like letting Scott
fuck me?" Derek asks tightly, slowly walking across the room. "That your nephew
is a faggot or that your Alpha is?" Standing right in Peter's space, Derek lets
his eyes flash, blood red. "Or is it that I take it up the ass and I still
managed to take the Alpha powers away from you?"
Peter's face tenses like he's going to snap at Derek but less than a second
later, it drains, leaving just the smarmy-pleasant face he's always wearing.
"Frankly, I'm amazed—I'm hurt—that you think that's how I feel," Peter says
quietly.
Derek can't read Peter's scent like he can with Scott or Isaac, not since Peter
came back, and though he can't bring himself to fully believe anything that
comes out of Peter's mouth, the uncertainty comes creeping back, about what's
true and what's a lie.
"Personally, I don't care who you have sex with. Or how," Peter adds, glancing
down, between their bodies.
Disgusted—and not totally sure who with—Derek turns away, goes back to the
couch, throwing himself down on the rump-sprung velvet.
"No, my concern is about bad tactics. The wisdom of trying to entangle a
sixteen-year old—a very sentimental sixteen-year old through something as
ephemeral as sex." Peter goes to slouch against the window like the Byronic
hero he no doubt thinks of himself as. "Especially when he's still so deeply
attached to the Argent girl."
"Allison's gone," Derek says, because he's an idiot who is apparently always
going to be the Charlie Brown to Peter's Lucy.
Peter's eyes widen, even as his faint smile lengthens. "But they're coming
back. You…you hadn't heard?"
"No," Derek says, because there's no point in lying about it. His lips feel
numb, just shaping that one word.
"Just in time for the new school year," Peter says, running his thumb along the
edge of his nails before glancing over at Derek. "Guess she couldn't stand to
stay away. Who can blame her? That Scott, he's quite the catch."
Derek shrugs, though it, too, feels distant and strange, a puppet being
controlled by someone unseen, rather than a conscious gesture. "Maybe she's
coming to finish what she started, and kill us all."
"She might, at that, if she hears what you've been doing with her boyfriend,"
Peter says, one side of his mouth hooking up.
"Scott's not her boyfriend and he makes his own decisions," Derek says, tipping
his head back and given vent to a huge yawn. "If you're expecting to torture me
with this information, you're going to have to try harder. Not only do I not
care what Allison Argent does or doesn't do, I'm even less interested in the
soap opera of her relationship with Scott. If he wants her, he's welcome to
her."
"Mmm, such noble maturity!" Peter shakes his head briefly, before tilting it to
the side and fixing Derek with a sharp look. "Or sickening martyrdom, I'm not
sure which, though I have my suspicions."
"I don't need Scott to get laid," Derek bristles.
"No, of course not. Isaac's still young enough, naïve enough, to worship you.
That could work out really well for you! Or was that your plan the whole time,
and that's why there's only one bed."
Derek growls, he can't help it, the sound grinding out from the depths of his
gut.
"…And that's my cue to leave," Peter says, moving with carefully measured speed
away from the windows. When he's standing across from Derek, though, he stops,
an expression on his face and in his eyes that Derek doesn't know how to
interpret. "You know, starting your own pack is probably the most selfish thing
you've ever done in your whole life," Peter sighs, shaking his head
regretfully.
Derek stares back, unsure where the trap is, where Peter's going with this.
"And you don't even know how sad that is." Peter's voice changes, softer,
rougher. He sounds tired. He sounds like the uncle Derek thought he knew, and
though Derek doesn't want it to, it aches, the same as when he scrolls past
Laura's name in his phone or looks for her next to him. In every way that
counts, the Peter Derek knew died in the fire, same as everyone else.
"On the other hand, look how it's turned out." He glances around at the
apartment one last time then whistles his way to the stairs, a ghost Derek
can't seem to exorcise.
"Enjoy the new digs!"
                                      ☽ ☾
It's the first time in Derek's new bed. Scott's finger is in him and it's good
and it's uncomfortable and Scott's watching, dilated eyes drifting from the
slow pump of his finger to Derek's face and Derek wants it, wants to get lost
in sensation and stop thinking so goddamn much, but he can't, he can't.
And finally, Scott sits back on his knees, pulling out, and says, "I can't…
You're so tight, I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you."
"You can't hurt me, Scott," Derek scoffs. He pulls his legs up to his chest, a
position that Nichos always liked. "C'mon, let's just go. It'll be fine."
Scott does look suitably impressed/hypnotized by the move, the finger that was
just in Derek circling his rim and glancing across his hole with a gentle
intentness that makes Derek shiver and his skin break out in gooseflesh. But
when he looks back to Derek's face, Scott says, "Actually, I was thinking maybe
going another way?"
"And what's that?" Derek lets his legs back down to splay on either side of
Scott.
"I was thinking. I," Scott's tongue swipes his bottom lip, a gesture that looks
both nervous and hungry at the same time, and Derek feels a corresponding tug
in his gut. "Maybe I could try, what you did to me. With your mouth."
Derek frowns. "In English?"
Scott sighs so hard his shoulders drop, his face slowly coloring a deep, beet
red. "I want to rim you."
"To rim me," Derek repeats, because he can't have heard that right.
It's Scott's turn to scowl. "That's the right word, yeah?" The flush spreads to
his neck, his shoulders, the Red-Hots cinnamon smell of him overpowering the
bitter smell of the pearl of pre-come nestled so perfectly in his slit. "If I
want to, if I was going to…?" He gestures at Derek, spread out in front of him.
"A rim job?"
Derek fights not to smile, because there's no way that Scott won't take it the
wrong way. "Yeah," he says, husky with the struggle. "That's the right word."
He doesn't think Scott will take it any better if he asks, Really?, or Are you
sure? though that's there, in the back of his throat, too.
Maybe Scott senses it anyway, though, because he skims his thumb over Derek's
hole again, his face and voice a little dreamy as he says, "It's just… You
smell…" Scott closes his eyes and inhales deeply, like Derek's a perfume or one
of Melissa's meals. "I don't know." Scott shakes his head without opening his
eyes. "I just want to…"
Scott makes a little noise in his throat and leans down without any more
preamble, mouthing at the base of Derek's cock, soft, careful sucks at Derek's
nuts that, even so, make Derek's toes curl and his abs tense up tight with the
intensity. Scott pushes Derek's thigh out, spreading Derek wider for his mouth
as he travels downward, wet, sloppy, making greedy little noises.
Derek's head slams back to the mattress, suddenly so hard he thinks he might
blow a load just like this, with nothing on his dick but Scott's absent and
unmoving hand, holding it out of his way as he licks and suckles Derek's taint.
Derek's been rimmed before, but only a couple times. Other werewolves, none of
them would've stooped so low and most of the humans find it dirty,
disgusting…though they all like it well enough when it's Derek doing the doing.
Derek hadn't minded; he likes doing it, he doesn't need the favor returned.
At the first hot slither of Scott's tongue across his hole, Derek grunts and
then cries out, shrill and oddly bird-like, grabbing onto the sheet hard enough
he hears the cloth rip. Scott hums, incredible, buzzing vibration, like he's
pleased and rubs his thumbs on either side of his tongue, urging Derek to open
for him, his mouth.
Thinking is no longer a problem; it's not something Derek's even capable of,
helpless and writhing as Scott devours him, soft, silky laps and the teasing,
sensitizing scratch of teeth alternating with the muscular push in, in, in,
force and persuasion both. Scott's hands hold Derek down, hold him stead, even
when it's too much and Derek tries to escape it, shattering under the
relentlessness of Scott's invasion, of how deep into him Scott goes, deeper
than anyone, ever.
"Shh," Scott says, blowing into Derek, warm but shocking. "Shh, it's okay…"
All at once, Derek hears his own voice, too, realizes he's been
talking—begging—a hoarse, cracking, "Please…please, please…" that terrifies
Derek because he knows that voice, the voice of his inmost self, the one he
never lets anyone—anyone--hear, no matter how often it echoes in his own ears.
"Just fuck me," Derek says instead, trying—hoping—to override that scared,
wanting voice, hoping Scott won't be able to tell the difference. "Scott,
please…just fuck me. Breed me, fuck me."
Scott groans and the bed jerks, but he doesn't try to fence things around with
words, he just kneels up, between Derek's legs and then guides himself in,
spearing deep, his face red and amber flickering in and out of his irises. He
looks like a man, full-grown and strong, and Derek accepts him as such, tipping
his hips up to let Scott sink home, taking him.
"Oh, God," Scott breathes, planting his right hand on the mattress next to
Derek's head and cinching tight to Derek's hip with the left. He slams into
Derek and Derek snaps up to meet him, tightening around Scott's cock, thick,
unyielding, and hungry, so hungry.
Derek lets Scott's hunger wash through him, rides it same as he rides the dick
inside him, molded by it, reshaped.
Scott snarls, then shoves his right arm under Derek's back, hooking onto his
shoulder for better closeness, better leverage, weight pressing Derek deeper
into the bed. Derek wraps his arms around Scott and leans up, nuzzling at
Scott's messy lips, licking like a pup, and tasting himself.
"D—" Scott starts, starting to turn his face away, but when Derek doesn't reel
back in disgust, when Derek's hands urge him on, Scott lunges, tongue stabbing
deep into Derek's mouth, his teeth pressed to Derek's skin. They kiss until
even Derek is lightheaded, and then Scott pulls back just enough to rasp, "You…
Fuck… Fuck, you…" His mouth covers Derek's again, the heavy slap of his body
into Derek's as steady and no louder than the throb of Derek's pulse in his
ears.
Derek comes like freefall, like drowning, weightless and torn out of his skin,
beautiful and perfect for this one moment of time.
Sad reality comes back all too soon as Scott jerks roughly out of him. Derek
lies there limply, ready for whatever Scott does next.
Or so he thinks, but he doesn't expect it when Scott fists his cock in a hard,
brutal blur, his cry and his come ejecting from him at the same time. Thick
jets of white stripe Derek's body, covering the glisten where their bellies
smeared Derek's jizz between them.
Scott sways on his knees, panting, satisfaction scrawled on his face and oozing
sweaty from his skin until Derek wants to preen, stretching his body, offering
it up.
Scott drags his spread fingers through the mess, Derek arching up in an
unspoken yes. He's ready for it when Scott's fingers push between his lips, the
explosion of taste of the both of them. He holds Scott's wrist and laves it
clean, every millimeter of skin, the ridges of the knuckles, the prophetic
furrows of the palm.
Scott goes willingly onto his back when Derek guides him, though he makes a
strangled noise and flings his arm over his eyes when Derek starts in on his
chest, the tight puckers of his nipples and then the widespread smudge of
Derek's spunk. He tongues it from Scott's belly and then follows the damp hair
trail down…
"Derek." Scott's fingers close on Derek's shoulder, his head lifted out from
the blindfold of his arm so he can meet Derek's eyes.
"I want to," Derek says simply and waits, looking back, letting Scott see the
truth of it in his face.
Scott's eyebrows tug in over his nose, but his fingers slip from Derek's
shoulder to knuckle lightly over Derek's cheek. Derek tilts his face into the
touch, nuzzling his cheek into Scott's hand.
"Okay," Scott says finally, hoarsely. His thumb marks out the line of Derek's
bottom lip before he lets himself fall back to the mattress. "Okay."
Scott shivers when Derek first touches him with his tongue, not fully soft yet
and likely very sensitive. Derek's gentle as he cleans Scott's cock, but
thorough, gathering every combination of the flavor of him and Scott, unable to
stop the low, satisfied noises he makes with each new taste.
When he reaches Scott's balls, Scott lunges up again, this time grabbing a
fistful of Derek's hair. "Enough," he grits. Almost immediately, Scott's
contrite, tender, touching Derek's face again. "It's enough," he says.
"C'mere."
He stretches Derek out next to him, leaning his face on Derek's shoulder and
his hand spanning Derek's stomach, rubbing in the last of their mingled come
like a lotion. The quiet in Derek's head, the stillness inside his body, it's
glorious, and Derek closes his eyes, relishing it as Scott pets him.
"Every time I think it can't get more crazy," Scott murmurs. "And then…" Before
Derek can pull himself fully back into his skin, before he can tense up at
Scott's words, Scott adds, "That was amazing."
Derek smiles without opening his eyes, a liquid warmth just under his surface.
Scott presses a dry kiss into Derek's chest. "Thank you."
Derek hums, in lieu of a response.
Amazing.
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott jolts out of sleep and blinks in owlish confusion at the strangeness. The
bluish aquarium quality of the light, the overpowering dust and rust stench in
the air…nothing's familiar except the scent of the body lying slack in his
arms. Scott puts his face close and inhales. Derek. It's Derek, and when he can
remember that, he remembers where he is: the loft. Derek's new bed in Derek's
new loft.
Scott lifts his head. The loft itself is plunged in blackness, the only light
comes from outside, streetlight and city glow mottled and muted by the dirt
encrusted on the ceiling high bank of windows. Of course Derek wouldn't have
anything as mundane as an alarm clock or cable box or anything that might tell
Scott what time it is and Scott doesn't remember where he left his phone…or his
jeans, for that matter. He can tell that it's late, though, a weight and a
taste to the evening that tells Scott he ought to be thinking about getting
home. He'd come by Derek's to show off his new dirt bike and things had ended
up…
Well. Where had they ended up?
Scott lets his head fall back to the pillow and strokes his fingers down
Derek's flank, marveling at it, marveling at everything that goes along with
it. He'd wanted peace with Derek, but what he's gotten has become so much
bigger, so much more.
So much more complicated.
Scott sighs and Derek stirs, stretching luxuriously against Scott and then
tensing. "It's me," Scott says.
Derek slides away far enough he can roll on his back and look Scott in the
face. "I know," he says, voice still a little thick with sleep. "I just wasn't
sure you'd still be here." He lifts his head. "Where's Isaac?"
Scott shakes his head. There's old traces of Isaac in the apartment, but
nothing more recent than their fuck, no sound of anyone else in the loft. "I
don't know. Not here."
Derek drops back with a sharp exhale, staring up at the ceiling.
"Is everything okay?"
Derek shrugs. "Yeah. Fine." He glances at Scott. "It's late. I can give you a
ride, if you want to get home."
Scott shrugs. "I'm not in a hurry. Unless…you want me to go?" It is the second
time Derek's mentioned it.
"No." Derek shakes his head, the corners of his mouth curling like smiling is
an expression he's trying out for size.
And maybe he is. The sex…it'd felt good, right, and Scott could tell—sense—that
it'd been the same with Derek. It felt like he'd been able to
feel—know—everything Derek was feeling and Scott doesn't know whether it's
because they're both werewolves, with more than the usual access to their
senses, or because it is—it's becoming—something more.
"Good," Scott says, meaning it. "I had fun tonight."
Immediately, Scott wants to roll his eyes. Fun is such a terrible, stupid word
to use, a kid's word for something definitely not kid-like.
But Derek just lets his smile broaden. "Yeah, me too."
Scott puts his hand on Derek's belly. He can't still feel his—their—come, but
he knows it's there, a knowledge that pulses hotly under his skin and he rubs
the soft skin, fighting back the urge to bend his head and bite. "So…this is
okay? This is still what you want?"
Derek snorts. "Your ass is safe, McCall."
Scott hitches a laugh and shakes his head. "Not what I mean." Though, to be
truthful, he isn't totally sure what he means, a roil of something below his
surface calm that he's a little afraid to fully look at.
…you don't sell your house if you're planning on coming back, you don't leave
if people really mean to you what you say they do, I bet Derek wouldn't just
leave someone that he loved, really loved…
Scott shrugs. "Just…you're okay with not having sex with anyone else? You're
not…I don't know. Chafing?"
What is he even doing?? Is he asking Derek—Derek Hale—to…what? Go steady, like
this is one of his mom's movies? Is he deficient, or just a glutton for
punishment?
Derek's nose scrunches a little, the still-lingering smile falters, but he
says, "Have to see how it feels when I get up and try to walk—" Scott
splutters, hiding his face in Derek's shoulder as he giggles, "—but yeah, I'm
good." He touches Scott's shoulder and Scott glances back up again. "This is
good."
And is Derek agreeing? Or is he just being nice? Which…Scott can't quite make
Derek and nice work in the same sentence, but the whole world seems to have
been turned topsy-turvy anyway, so why not that?
Scott nods jerkily, because he can't think of anything that's not incredibly
dumb to say and he sprawls back as close to being on his back as he can get
without taking his hand off Derek's stomach.
He wonders what his mom would say if he came clean with her, that the person
Derek is seeing—is having sex with—is him. She wouldn't be happy, for sure; for
all she's softened on Derek, he's still a lot older than Scott and kind of a
mess.
Except that's not really true, either, is it? The car, the apartment, even
coming to Scott's mom's dinners…Derek started out a train wreck, sure, but he's
trying to put something together, a life. A life for him and Isaac.
And if Scott could present it to his mom like that, if she gets how hard
Derek's trying, then maybe she won't completely blow a gasket.
…or maybe Scott doesn't really have to tell her at all. Maybe there's nothing
to tell. Sure, Derek wants him when it's sex, but who wouldn't want
good—great—sex. It doesn't mean he wants anything else from Scott.
And it doesn't mean Scott's ready or willing to give up on Allison.
Even thinking about it feels like bad juju, like he's asking for trouble,
asking for those last thin avenues of hope to be cut off. If Allison is it, his
one and only, his mate, why is he even thinking about trying to make a go of it
with someone else? With Derek?
Allison hates Derek. If she ever found out that he was the one Scott turned to,
that Scott has feelings for Derek, after Derek bit her mom…
…not that it's Derek's fault, he came for me, he saved me, nobody made Mrs.
Argent kill herself…
Derek puts his hand over Scott's, not holding hands exactly, but not not-
holding hands, either. When Scott turns his head, Derek asks, "What?"
"The Argents sold their house," Scott says, a sentence that vomits out of him,
that feels like vomit, sour and bile-bitter, coming from his mouth. "Not just
for-sale, it's sold."
Derek's face goes back to its familiar blank and Scott gets it, he does, but he
doesn't want to have to look at it, so he pulls his hand away and sits up,
looping his arms over his knees.
Derek scoffs, legs crossing and a whump of pillows as he settles his upper
body, but Scott doesn't bother to look. "In case you forgot, the
Argents—including your girlfriend—have all tried to kill me, more than once,"
Derek says.
"She's not my girlfriend," Scott says, automatically, and then stumbles to a
halt, wondering for the first time if that's not more true than he's always
meant.
Derek is silent for a long, awkward moment too, before he finally finishes,
"Just don't expect me to cry about anything that takes the Argents out of
Beacon Hills."
"I don't." Scott shakes his head, looking out into the cavernous darkness of
the loft. "And it's not that."
"No?"
Scott glances sidelong at Derek, unbends enough to put his hand on Derek's hip,
stroking the soft, smooth skin with his thumb. "I just… I need to figure out
what's going on with the rest of my life, if she's really not coming back. I
thought…" Scott makes a gesture somewhere between a headshake and a shrug, not
wanting to go into his stupid teenage fantasies with Derek, for more reasons
than being afraid Derek will mock him. "How long do you hang onto a dream?"
Scott sighs and then taps his fingers on Derek's hipbone, making himself smile.
"Anyway," I really should be getting home. I don't want my mom to get home and
wonder where I am."
He wonders if his thoughts—of making things more real with Derek, of telling
his mom—are just fantasies of a different kind, as ridiculous and ultimately
unrealistic as the idea that he and Allison are meant for each other.
Derek crawls off the mattress at the same time as Scott. "Let me get dressed,"
Derek says, "I'll drive you."
"Nah." Scott feels stupidly close to crying and although that's a dangerous way
to go driving around the city, it's better than having Derek see him do it. "I
got my bike." Once he finds his clothes, Scott dresses in record time, shoving
his foot in his sneaks and straightening up to find Derek watching him. "I'll
be okay. Thanks."
Derek's hand lifts halfway, like he's going to protest, but he drops it and
says, "Okay."
The elevator is an ancient, clanking thing that makes Scott feel
claustrophobic, so he gives Derek a brief wave and goes toward the stairs. He's
most of the way there when Derek calls out, "Scott!"
"Yeah?" He hears Derek moving and still, it's a surprise when Derek crashes
into him when he's only turned halfway. Derek wrenches Scott's face around and
kisses him, a hard, deep ravaging that legit makes Scott's knees go weak. He
clings to Derek's shoulders, unable to think past that—just holding on—until
Derek pulls back, just far enough that he can look Scott in the eyes.
"The answer is: as long as you need to," Derek says, and Scott has no idea what
he's talking about. The answer to what? "You hang onto a dream as long as you
need to."
Derek gives Scott a push away and, for a second, Scott's not totally sure he's
going to stay on his feet, still oxygen-starved and stuck on what the hell just
happened? as Derek stalks to the other end of the loft and throws himself down,
out of sight, on his bed.
"Okay," Scott says, uncertainly. "Well. See you later!"
Though he feels a little drunk and wobbly as he starts down the stairs, it's a
long way to the bottom. So by the time he hits the lobby, Scott feels steadier
and—beneficially, yesterday's Word of the Day--much less like crying, though
still terminally confused about…well, everything.
Derek's building is still more than two-thirds empty and undergoing renovation,
one of the reasons Derek chose it. Scott had pulled his little dirt bike into
the lobby and chained it to a defunct radiator, rather than chance leaving it
outside.
He's on his knees, unwinding the chain from around the heavy steel curves of
the radiator when the purr of Peter Hale's voice—"Scott McCall. I should've
expected to see you here…"—has him leaping to his feet and away, putting his
back against the solid stone wall, his eyes itching as they flash.
Peter regards Scott with blank amazement. Or is it amusement? "Such an extreme
reaction," Peter murmurs. "I don't know whether to feel flattered or laugh. I'm
no threat to you, Scott."
"No?" Scott snarls, fingers flexing as he fights not to shift, right here,
where anyone could see him. "Lurking in dark corners in the middle of the night
is a crappy way to convince somebody of that!"
Peter spreads his hands, what? "I'm just here to see my nephew."
"In the middle of the night?" Scott repeats, skeptical.
"Wolf's hours." Peter shrugs carelessly. Then: "Though, as you point out, if it
is so terribly late, what are you doing here?" Before Scott can even figure out
a response, Peter holds up one hand. "Oh, right. I forgot. Derek's 'big plan'."
Even though he's one-hundred percent sure he's walking into a trap, Scott can't
help but ask, "What big plan?"
Peter widens his eyes at Scott. "The same plan he's had all along, of course:
get you to join his pack. Just this time he decided to use the carrot instead
of the stick. Oh. Wait." Peter holds up his hand again. "From what I hear, it's
you giving him the carrot, isn't it?" Peter's gaze dips south to Scott's dick
and Scott clenches his fingers to keep from covering himself like a scared
virgin.
"That's disgusting," Scott spits.
"I thought so, too," Peter says, nodding. "He is so much older than you. And an
Alpha. But hey, whatever works!" Peter smiles, bright and friendly, if you
don't know what a monster he is. "From everything I hear from the packs out
East, my nephew is very good at trading on his good looks for what he needs.
I'm surprised he didn't try this first."
"Shut up!" The snarling depth of Scott's voice surprises even him as he rushes
Peter, shoves him into the opposite wall, his claws ripping holes in Peter's
shirt. "You shut up about him!"
"I see I touched a nerve," Peter observes, not resisting, looking down at
Scott's hands and the tears in his shirt as if it's an especially interesting
TV show. "Maybe it wasn't such a stupid plan as I said, after all." He looks
back up at Scott, blue eyes clear, guileless. "It's all completely true, you
know. One of the pack leaders, Nichos, kept Derek like his pet for more than a
year." Peter tilts his head. "You don't seem like the pet type, though."
Scott pushes Peter away, hard. Still not fighting back, Peter crashes into the
tile and then slides back into the darkness. As much as Scott wants to commit
some horrible act of violence on Peter, he can't bring himself to do it cold,
when Peter refuses to resist, to fight back with anything except his poisonous
words.
Sticks and stones may break my bones…
Growling, Scott grabs his bike and jerks the last length of chain loose,
shoving the door to the outside open with his front tire.
As Scott's mounting up, Peter comes to stand in the doorway, thumbing a trickle
of blood from his nose and holding it up for inspection. "I hope I didn't hurt
your feelings!" he calls, over the high, rattling gun of the bike's engine. "As
the one who bit you, I still feel very fond of you. I just thought you'd want
to know!"
Scott spits a curse under his breath and wheels away as fast as his bike's
engine can take him.
                                      ☽ ☾
Derek hears it all.
Listening for Scott to make it safely out of the building, for the buzz of his
little dirt bike fading into the distance, Derek hears the entire conversation,
hears Peter tangling outright lies with strategically pruned truth—truth Derek
didn't want anyone, but especially Scott, knowing—hears Peter systematically
shattering the spun-sugar thing Derek hadn't even had the courage to name hope,
until it was pissing away down the drain.
Of course, Derek might have tossed it all away himself, with that bullshit
about hanging onto your dreams. He knows what Scott's dreams are: Allison's
soft, human curves, a marriage, kids…probably in the same house he and Melissa
are living in now.
They're good dreams. Well…Allison Argent wouldn't be Derek's choice for Scott,
but the dream itself: a good life, a happy life, a normal life…it's what Derek
should want for Scott, what he does want for Scott.
…except he doesn't, he doesn't want that at all, he wants to tangle Scott in
his life, snare him in it, he wants Scott to pull him up and he wants to drag
Scott down, he wants to fuck Scott up, so that no one else will want him, no
one else can have him, because that's the only way he's even got a shot in
hell…
Scott didn't ask for any of this. He doesn't want it. He deserves to be happy.
Scott doesn't come upstairs. Not for answers or accusations. When his bike
drones away, Derek keeps listening, but Peter doesn't come up either. A part of
Derek wants to tear Peter into little pieces and then burn the remains on a
pyre of wolfsbane and mountain ash, but he doesn't move.
Because what's the point, really?
This is how it was always going to go down, the brilliant illustration of how
he and Scott are never going to meet in the same place, never going to be
running on the same track. Hell, Peter probably did Derek a favor. At least
this way, Derek doesn't have to deal with Scott's sad, puppy eyes as he
apologizes for something they both know is inevitable. He can just get back to
Scott hating him, pitying him, a clean break.
It's what he needs, just a clean break.
Scott's scent is on the sheets and pillows and quilt, still on his skin. Derek
doesn't know how long he lies there, not sleeping, not thinking, not feeling.
Playing statue, Laura used to call it, usually with annoyance. She'd throw
things at him, trying to jar him out of it, starting small—maybe the wrapper
from a straw, a wadded up paper napkin—but gradually escalating as she got
angrier. Once, she'd gotten pissed enough to throw a flowerpot at his head, a
little sprig of basil he'd been nursing up with the idea that they could use it
to cook with.
The bleeding gash had lasted a lot less time than Laura's contrition and Derek
tried to be better, but he's never stopped, not completely.
He doesn't know how long it is, but the darkness of the sky is pearly when
Derek finally makes himself get up, clawing the linen from the bed, wadding it
all down the garbage chute. He's been sleeping in a train depot and the burned
out wreck of his family home. He doesn't need sheets or blankets or pillows.
Next stop is the coffin-like shower, using up the entire bar of soap, scrubbing
himself clean. It's a transparent ploy, pathetic, but Derek's clearly not above
pathos.
Can't deny that he feels less like puking his guts when he gets out, though.
The pound of the water against the shower's metal sides and the thick pungency
of the soap and steam dulled Derek's senses. When he comes back into the main
room of the loft, Isaac's standing there.
"What happened to your bed?" Isaac asks, at the same time Derek snarls, "Where
the hell have you been?"
The silence splats between them like an uncooked egg, a mess no one wants to
clean up.
"I told you I was going out," Isaac says finally.
Derek roars—a relatively soft one, considering the churning fire in his
chest—and his eyes flash a red reflection of that burn. "Don't," Derek warns.
"Don't treat me as if I'm stupid. I'm your Alpha, not your father."
It strikes home. Isaac's eyes get wider at the same time his jaw turns mulish.
"Where were you?" Derek asks again, a shivering, dark promise in the softness
of his voice.
Derek doesn't know what he expects the answer to be. A girl, a boy,
shoplifting, joyriding, Fight Club…
Isaac shifts his stance, breaks eye contact and looks off toward the windows as
he mutters, "I was looking for the Alpha Pack."
"Are you mental?" Derek isn't trying to hurt Isaac, really he isn't, but he
finds himself pinning Isaac to the nearest pillar with his hands, pressing him
there, as if by doing so, he can somehow keep Isaac (alive) out of trouble.
"Are you fucking dumb?" He's in Isaac's face, he's shouting, little flecks of
his spit glistening on Isaac's skin. "Have I not been sufficiently graphic
about how completely dangerous these people are?"
"I know that!" Isaac says, his eyes darting everywhere except Derek's face.
"I've been being careful."
Derek pushes away from Isaac, choking on the desire to laugh. "Tell me how you
were careful," he says, crossing his arms. "Tell me about your amazing ninja
skills of invisibility, Isaac, I really want to know."
Isaac stares at Derek. "Why are you so mad?" he asks, instead of answering the
question. "I didn't find them, so what does it matter?"
Derek ignores it when Isaac flinches, though he tries to keep his hands gentle
when he clamps on Isaac's shoulders again. "This isn't like you trying to keep
an eye on Scott, or the stuff with the kanima, Isaac. This is real. This is
serious. The Alphas…they have destroyed whole packs. They leave nothing in
their wake but bodies and destruction." He bores his gaze into Isaac's, willing
Isaac to listen to him, to understand.
"But I saw them," Isaac says, "I scented them. If I could find them again, if I
could figure out where they're hiding…"
"No." Derek shakes his head. "Absolutely not. I don't want you anywhere near
them."
"But I can do this!" Isaac insists. "I don't… You say we're a pack, that I'm
part of this, part of the pack, but you keep…" His face works, fair skin
flushing pink.
"Protecting you?" Derek asks.
Isaac huffs, flexing his shoulders in mute request to be let go, and Derek
does, taking a couple steps back to give Isaac some breathing room.
"What do you think Alpha means?" Derek asks. "You think it means I just order
you around for my own amusement? Do you think this is fun for me?"
"No!" Isaac gives Derek a look, wry and old beyond his years. At least he
doesn't look afraid anymore. "No, I know it's not." He crosses his arms, more
like he's hugging himself than defensiveness. "But that's the whole point. I
can do this. You've been…b-busy," Isaac stumbles and Derek can hear just fine
what Isaac's not saying: you've been busy fucking Scott, "and…I need to do
something. I need to feel like I'm not just sitting on my hands while Boyd and
Erica…while my friends are in trouble."
Isaac might not have wanted Erica, but he'd been hurt, a little, when she and
Boyd had hooked up; he'd chosen to stay, when Boyd and Erica had decided to
leave—Derek, the pack, Beacon Hills—so friends feels like a bit of a stretch,
but Derek can't fault Isaac when his own reaction has been much the same.
"You don't know what you're facing," Derek says instead. "It's too dangerous."
Isaac's face starts to fall and Derek throws the only rope he has to offer.
"The pack should do this together."
"What pack?" Isaac mumbles, still looking down.
"Hey." Derek grabs Isaac's sleeve and he means for it to be casual, but Isaac
seems to take it as a come here, moving in against Derek's side. Derek curls
his arm around Isaac's shoulders.
"I'm not going to stop," Isaac insists doggedly. "You can yell at me, hit
me—beat me—or chain me up, if that's what you're going to do, but I won't stop.
I'll find a way."
"I'm not going to do any… Okay, I might yell at you," Derek concedes, because
let's be real. "But only if you're being dumb, taking stupid risks, like
looking for the Alpha Pack without fucking telling me. What if they'd captured
you, too?" He makes Isaac look up, look at him. "You're all the pack I have
left."
"You have Peter," Isaac says, though he sounds as doubtful about it as Derek
feels. "You have Scott."
Even sort of expecting it, it's like a gut-punch. "Scott isn't pack," Derek
says firmly, the words coming out surprisingly easy around the giant rock in
his chest. "Scott and I…that was always temporary. It's nothing. It's done."
Isaac slants a clearly skeptical glance at Derek but he at least has the wisdom
not to ask.
"I don't protect you because I think you're weak," Derek goes on. "I protect
you because you're family. We're all we have left. We're the only hope Boyd and
Erica have. We've got to work together."
"Just let me help," Isaac says. "Don't leave me out, don't leave me at home.
It's my fight, too."
If it comes to a choice, Derek knows which one of them is going down, but
there's no reason he has to say that to Isaac who, like Scott, deserves his
chance at happiness.
"Yeah," Derek says. "Okay. We'll fight them together."
                                      ☽ ☾
It's another three days before Derek sees Scott, which is sooner than he
expects…and maybe sooner than he's ready for, given the way his gut fists up at
the first scent of Scott, the sight of the dirt bike chained up in the lobby
like time has suddenly reversed.
Isaac glances at Derek, nostrils flaring. "Should I go?"
There's a part of Derek that wants to say no, to say that it doesn't matter if
Scott's here, that there's nothing that they have to say that Isaac can't
overhear…but the truth is that he doesn't want Isaac privy to this part of him.
He doesn't know which Derek is going to present himself for scrutiny, doesn't
know what Scott is going to be waiting for him in the loft.
Isaac needs him strong.
"Yeah," Derek says briefly, with a short nod. "Just, like…an hour or so, and
then check in with me."
Isaac nods and claps Derek's shoulder, squeezing for a long, heartfelt moment
before he elbows the lobby door open and heads back out into the blazing
sunshine.
Derek contemplates the elevator and then the long, ill-lit spiral of the
stairs. He takes the stairs.
He expects Scott to be in the apartment itself—an expectation that doesn't make
a whole lot of sense, in retrospect, given that he'd closed and locked the big
sliding door—but of course, Scott's not, waiting instead on the top step with
his arms looped loosely over his knees.
He must have heard and smelled Derek coming, so there's no surprise on his face
when Derek rounds the final curve, but he waits to get to his feet until
Derek's just a half-dozen steps down, his face remote and serious: all
business.
It's better than the blazing anger that Derek had been expecting, but it's also
an answer to a question Derek's heart insisted on asking…and not the answer
he'd hoped for, despite everything.
It feels like there's bile coating the back of his throat and every word that
comes for it as he offers, "You don't have to say it." He comes within a couple
stairs of Scott, unable to resist getting at least that close, and putting
them, more or less, on a level. "I know what Peter told you. It was true,
everything he said. It was true."
If anything, that just makes Scott look more pissed, but what he says is: "Do
we have to do this in the hallway?"
Derek shrugs and steps past Scott, fumbling with the unfamiliar weight of keys,
multiple. He gets the loft door open and rolled back, gesturing for Scott to
precede him. Scott goes all the way to the windows, to where Derek finally got
the stupid table put together, hoisting himself up on its surface and kicking
his heels restlessly. It feels more like Stiles than Scott, who's generally
very respectful of furniture, and Derek rubs the spot between his eyebrows
where he gets phantom pains, wondering if this is some kind of hallucination or
if he's maybe dreaming.
"So everything Peter said was true?" Scott demands, as if Derek hadn't already
copped to it, as much as it turned his stomach to do so. "Everything?"
Derek shrugs, spreading his hands and then letting them flop. "Yeah."
"Bullshit." Scott doesn't curse a whole lot, either—mostly during sex, when
anyone would be forgiven—so it's kind of shock when he spits the word at Derek,
his hands white-knuckled on the table's edge.
Hey, I just bought that table… Derek thinks, but if Scott wants to destroy it,
if he needs to, it's no less than he deserves.
"You're not even going to defend yourself, are you?" Scott asks, leaning
forward, his eyes human-normal, but with all the force of his wolf behind them.
"You'd let me walk out of here, thinking all that was true. And why? Do you
even know why?"
This is the thing about fighting with Scott; he keeps changing the ground and
forcing Derek to always chase after him until he can ambush from blind corners,
using Derek against himself.
"What do you want?" Derek asks. "You know everything there is to know…why are
you even here?"
Scott buries his face in his hands then, slowly, scrapes them back, up and over
the bristle of his hair. "I came to tell you that this is over," Scott says
finally. "We're over."
There. Now it's real, now it's said.
It feels like there should be so much more to it, but there never really is.
The entire world can burn in mere seconds. Derek tosses his hands up again.
"Message received."
"Okay, but not for the reasons you think!" Scott says. "Yeah, I believed
Peter…for about thirty seconds. But only for thirty seconds. I know you better
than that, man. You're not…" He holds out a hand toward Derek. "Look, you're
not a planner, okay? You're not going to…to seduce somebody to get what you
want."
"You know that, do you?"
"Yeah," Scott says, that rock-solid conviction of his underpinning his every
word and the otherwise confusing tangle of his scent. "I do. Not when physical
violence would do."
The smile that pushes at Derek's mouth almost hurts.
"Peter…he's the seducer, the one that charms and lies, wrapping it up in half-
truths…I do know that. If one of you was going to try to, to charm me into the
pack, it would be Peter."
For a moment, they share a look of mutual horror at the thought. Then Scott
grins and Derek finds himself smiling back, some thin-ice brittleness inside
cracking and thawing. He lifts himself onto the table next to Scott.
"I wanted…" Scott starts, and then stops, looking down at the floor. The
fluctuation of his smell makes it hard for Derek to pin an emotion to it but he
can't help an ember of warmth at the idea that this might actually be hard for
Scott in some way.
Scott takes a deep breath and then lifts his head, angling it to look at Derek
full-on. "If…if I'd said to you, that last night, that I wanted to try, that I
wanted…" His fingers make a shape, in the empty space between them, "for it not
to be just about sex, that I wanted something real…what would you have said?"
"No," Derek says, shaking his head. "You've already made up your mind. You came
here to end it. You don't get to play what if games in my head when it's
already done."
"But what would you have said?" Scott presses.
Yes. I would've said yes. Derek puts his hands together between his knees,
squeezing until the bones ache in protest. "I don't know."
Scott nods, seeming to accept this answer. "Yeah," he says. "Me either."
The bitter tang of the lie burns Derek's nostrils; when his teeth gnaw his
bottom lip, he thinks he can taste it, too. It's horrible, it's delicious.
"The thing is," Scott says, "I don't know… What we are. It's not what we were.
But when Peter said it, when he lied…" Scott shakes his head, picking at his
jeans. "I only believed him for thirty seconds, but for thirty seconds, I
believed him. I believed you would do that to me."
Derek nods, still looking at his hands, big, meaty, killer's hands. Scott has
every reason to think the worst of him, it shouldn't surprise him when Scott
does.
Scott's fingers on Derek's knee is like a shock, bigger than a static charge.
Derek's head swings sideways and Scott's eyes snare him. "Not because of now,"
Scott clarifies. "But we can't erase all the other stuff, the stuff from our
past.
"I don't know yet if Allison's my past," Scott continues, "I know I'm not ready
to put her there. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but definitely not yet."
Derek nods again. Nothing to say to that, no surprise there.
It is a surprise when Scott's hand moves from Derek's knee to his wrist,
tugging until Derek's fingers come apart and Scott can lace his through
instead.
"I think you do want somebody," Scott says, scooting closer on the table until
they're shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. It would be easy for Derek to
turn his head and rest on Scott's broadening shoulder, to inhale the
intoxicating perfume that is Scott-and-Derek on Scott's skin. It will fade
soon; it already is.
"I think you want something real, a person, a relationship."
Derek chuffs and rolls his eyes.
Scott bumps Derek with his arm, fingers clasping their hand together more
tightly. "More than that…I think you deserve that."
Derek's head jerks up and Scott smiles. It's weird; warm and familiar and
comfortable but also stripping Derek naked, letting him know that he's seen,
really seen.
"Everybody deserves to be loved. Even you, asshole."
Derek growls, but it's a puppy growl, no menace in it, barely even a promise.
"I want to love you," Scott says, just like that, the blunt matter-of-factness
that never fails to leave Derek flat-footed. "I want to…I think I could,
if….if. But I can't right now, not while I'm still in love with someone else.
And you…you'd wait for me. You'd let us go on like this forever and not care
that it's not enough or that you deserve better." Scott looks faintly angry
again, hot pepper and hotter eyes. "That's not fair. In fact…it's just shitty."
Scott bites his lip and just that easy, he's sixteen again, a kid, albeit one
working harder than most to be not just grown-up, but a man. "I try really hard
not to be shitty," he says. "I'm not always good at it, but…"
Derek leans in, kisses him.
It's not…he's not trying to change Scott's mind. Scott has all the
definitiveness that Derek lacks; if he's made his decision, there's nothing
Derek can say or do to change it. And what the hell can Derek offer as a
counter-argument, anyway? In another month, he might be dead at the Alpha
Pack's hands. Better to do it this way, for Scott to think this is his choice.
But if this is all he's going to have, he wants everything he can have.
Scott's mouth opens under his, soft sigh of breath, and then he pours into
Derek.
"You know this isn't 'the end', the end," Scott says, his thumbs stroking on
either side of Derek's jaw as they come apart, "right? There's still dinner at
my mom's…."
Derek shakes his head and draws back, far enough that his every breath doesn't
taste of Scott. "Invite Isaac," he says, and if his voice is a little rough,
he's got every reason for it. "I think he's kind of lonely, just here with me."
And Isaac will need someone—a pack, someone to look after him—if (when) Derek
goes down. Scott will do that. Scott will be good for Isaac.
"But I think I shouldn't come by for a while," Derek continues. "I have things
to do. Get my life together."
Scott nods and, thankfully, doesn't push any further though his face says he
wants to. "Okay." He hops off the table and Derek lets himself look because
he'll see Scott again, but it's the last time he'll see him like this, the last
time they'll ever be this version of themselves. They next time they see each
other, they'll already be well on their way into their new selves, the ones
that never did this, had this.
A few years ago, Derek read some book about parallel universes. He didn't get
it all, and the book itself seemed a little unclear about whether it did or did
not support the idea, but sometimes—not often—he likes to think about all those
other Dereks, the lives they must be living. He likes to imagine that for every
shitty thing that happens to him, there's another Derek who got to go the other
way.
"Okay," Scott says again, uncertainly, like he doesn't know what to say now
that it's all said and done. "I guess I'll catch you later, man."
"Yeah," Derek says lightly. "It's been fun."
                                      ☽ ☾
Scott's resolve lasts all of two days; they fuck on the night of the full moon.
It's not what Scott intends to happen, obviously. His plan is to spend the
night of the full moon alone—by choice, because when they find out he isn't
going out with Isaac and Derek, Stiles offers to stay with him, his mom even
volunteers to take off work.
Scott thinks he's got it under control. Scott thinks: I'm fine. I can do this.
The truth is: in the end, it's not the wolf inside him or the siren pull of the
moon that Scott can't resist.
It's the loneliness.
For all his years as a social reject, Scott's never felt that lonely. How could
he, when he's always had Stiles? But, and though he still has Stiles, it gnaws
at him now, an emptiness without bottom that drives him up to his roof, that
vomits from his gut and his chest and his mouth, a wolf's howl, for everything
he's lost, everything he's still missing.
…and from the direction of the Preserve, Derek's call answers back.
Scott doesn't think all of the chains in Stiles' backpack could keep him out of
the woods. He goes—runs—and finds Derek waiting for him, teeth bared in
something that could be a grin or could be a challenge.
What happens could be like any of the knock-down drag-out fights that they've
had before, snarling, brawling…right up until the end. They fuck—rut—like that,
shifted, and then start over again before either of them can even get fully
soft.
They fuck again, in the brightening swell of dawn, when the animal has run out
and it's just them again.
"Don't get yourself all twisted up," Derek says afterward, shrugging back into
his clothes. "It's just sex."
Scott wants to, but he doesn't argue. Because this is the phase that they've
moved into now: lies to their selves and each other.
He is twisted up, though. Not because it happened; it was a mistake, but not
one he can bring himself to regret. He can't regret getting to be with Derek
one last time.
It's selfish, though.
He says he wants Derek to be happy—and he does—but he knew Derek would still
have sex with him and he used that knowledge. It's not the act of the guy Scott
likes to think of himself as, the guy he tries to be. That it may be the action
of the guy he is (like father, like son)is horrifying in a way he hasn't felt
since Peter tried to force him to murder all his friends.
Remember the part where you said you were going to be 'better', Scott?
"I need you to help me stay away from Derek," Scott says, going to Stiles,
because where else is he going to go? "Not…forever," he adds, ignoring the
lurch of his heart. "Just…until my head's straight again."
Stiles looks like he's going to spit blood from chewing on his tongue, but
Scott must look as bad as he feels, because Stiles takes the cell Scott holds
out him and doesn't say anything other than a reflexive, "Oh, when has your
head ever been straight?" which actually breaks through enough for Scott to
smile.
Summer school is out, so Scott doesn't even have that to distract him. He glues
himself to Stiles' side, practically living at the Stillinski's, playing video
games and watching movies until he's too exhausted to think, let alone go
anywhere. When Stiles' dad kicks them out, saying they'll turn into mushrooms
if they don't get some sunlight, they round up Isaac and go play lacrosse or
basketball.
Sometimes it's okay. Mostly it's not.
They don't go back to the big Cineplex by mutual agreement, but they haunt the
dollar theater, not especially picky about what they watch.
Scott works his way through the school's recommended summer reading list. He
works out. He works at Deaton's. He rides his new dirt bike, though never past
the Argent's old house or downtown. He hangs out.
It's normal, it's all very normal, as July fades meltingly into August.
It's all so normal, that Scott almost forgets to feel anything, when he and his
mom run into Isaac and Derek at the Costco again.
"It's been a long time!" Scott's mom says, and Derek smiles, honest to God
smiles and Scott can't tell if it's anything but genuine.
"A little while," Derek agrees. "You know how it is."
"What happened?" Scott's mom asks, once they've finished up and are loading
everything into the car. "That guy he was dating…did it get serious or
something? Is that why he just disappeared?"
"I don't know," Scott says. "I'm not the authority on all things Derek Hale!"
"Ouch," Scott's mom says without heat. "Testy."
Just make it through the summer, Scott thinks to himself, as he thinks a dozen
times a day, a hundred, a thousand. Just get through the rest of the summer. He
rubs his arm, where he's promised himself that the tattoo will go. One for
Allison, one for Derek.
It's a week later and Scott's sitting on the sideline bench watching Stiles try
to get shots past Isaac's werewolf reflexes when Derek steps over and sits down
next to him, bumping Scott's shoulder.
"Hey," Derek says, calm and entirely casual, and Scott realizes, this is how
it's going to be from now on.
"Hey," Scott says, nudging back.
Derek's not the pining type. There won't be any longing looks. He's not going
to make backhand references to it. He's not going to bring it up at all. They
can go on from here—will go on—but not like they were.
It'll be like it never happened.
"So…what's your mom doing for dinner this week?"
Almost.
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