Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/717078.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Kate_Argent/Derek_Hale
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf), Gerard_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Slash, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Fuck_Or_Die, Sex
      Pollen, Trauma, Rape_Recovery, Werewolf!Stiles, Dissociation, Ableism,
      Panic_Attacks, Nightmares
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-11 Completed: 2015-11-10 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 31525
****** Between a Rock and a Landslide ******
by maybemalapert_(laconicisms)
Summary
     The decision to work with Derek comes at a greater price than Scott
     and Stiles thought. And while they all pay for it dearly, it is
     Stiles who bears the brunt of it.
Notes
     Many thanks to mithrel for betaing. <333 Any remaining mistakes are
     mine.
     Part I serves as a fill for the homebrewbingo square "violent and
     dark natures".
     This fic contain sexual assault. If you want to know the details
     before proceeding, please take a look at the end notes.
     As this goes AU after 2.10, I've taken a few liberties in regards to
     the things that happen in canon thereafter, i.e. they're happening
     just a bit differently.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
He's neck-deep in the crapper. Fact is, he's so fucking far under the surface,
there's no way he'll be able to free himself before he's hit the bottom, and if
the bottom looks unattractive from this position, it'll look like hell once
he's there, he's sure.

Stiles is royally screwed.

He's not sure whether Scott being there with him makes things better or worse;
though he's got no such doubts about Derek's presence.

===============================================================================


"I'm human," Stiles says, and repeats it for good measure because these
dumbfucks look, well, dumb as fuck. They don't react, just keep on arranging
overhead lights and cables and cameras. And a box. The box. The one that has
Derek Hale, Derek Hale, their resident I've-been-this-way-from-birth-and-know-s
hit werewolf, breathing in quickly and eyeing it with a pinched look that
screams 'bad news for everyone in this wolfsbane-coated, silver-reinforced
steel cage.'
It's a sad testament to Stiles's life that he now recognises the smell of
wolfsbane without any problem.
"Look, I don't think I should be here. Or Scott, for that matter. Or even Mr.
Growly over there in the corner. Being here is just not a good thing."
One of the men laughs. "Don't worry. You won't be here for long."
That wasn't ominous at all, nope. It also remains the only reaction he gets at
all no matter what he says or does. The men just keep working, and Stiles
finally throws his hands up and settles down next to Scott near the back of the
cage, on the right. He tries not to think about the cameras and the equipment,
and what they might mean. Honestly, he doesn't. But it's not like he can really
stop himself when they're so very obviously there and trained at him and Derek
and Scott from the other side of the bars.
So, cameras. Movie cameras. Lighting. Two werewolves and a human in a partially
barred off room.
Stiles was all but born with a finger on the mouse, and xtube and a host of
other websites, some more hardcore, showing up in his browser history (briefly,
he deletes them meticulously because his dad doesn't need to know what he wanks
to, not that his dad snoops – okay, he snoops. Sometimes.). Anyway, what can he
say, he's curious. Still, there's some stuff that's hot and then there's stuff
that's slightly sick and hot, and then there's stuff that makes him want to
gouge his eyes out and forget he's ever seen it.
Like, say, snuff vids. Some with really weird shit happening like tentacles
fucking some poor girl and choking her till there's no movement. Stiles had
thought that the tentacles, at least, were some very good special effects and
that maybe he hadn't seen what he'd thought he'd seen and the girl was still
alive, but now Stiles knows about werewolves and kanimas and who the hell knew
what else is out there, so why not Cthulu, too.
"Hey, eldritch abominations aren't a real thing, are they? Wait, no, you know
what? If they are, don't tell me. Don't say a word."
Derek doesn't say a word, but Stiles kind of doubts it's because he asked him
not to.
Beside him, Scott shifts restlessly. He'd been weirdly quiet ever since the
sedative had worn off, and Stiles thinks it's probably because they’re being
kept by people who are treating them like freaks at a circus and can’t wait to
see what tricks they'd perform. That is, they'd looked at Scott and Derek that
way; they'd looked at Stiles in a way that was even more creepy. At least,
that's why Stiles is freaking out, only Stiles talks more when he's freaking
out and not less.
Or maybe it’s because Scott probably hadn't expected Gerard Argent – and it had
to be him – to come after him seeing how he had agreed to trade information,
and just...Stiles isn't going to judge, but God, no, actually. He's judging.
Hard.
Water under the bridge, for the moment. He can be angry later.
Stiles climbs back out of his own head when he notices a decrease in activity
outside the cage. The men begin to leave the room, all but the last one of them
ignoring their captives completely. He opens the top of the box before turning
to grin at Stiles in a way that has goosebumps rising on Stiles's skin almost
immediately. Then he's out of the door as well.
Over in the other corner, Derek breathes out slowly. "There's two way this can
go," he says, staring anywhere but at Stiles and Scott. "They'll be happy with
either, and one of them might end with all of us making it out of this alive.
At least for now."
"Awesome," Stiles says. "Let's go with that."
"I'm not a hundred percent certain I want that," Derek replies. His eyes flick
to Scott rather unexpectedly because usually it's Stiles who receives the death
glare of doom. Stiles wonders if he should be jealous before his brain catches
up. Oh. Oh.
Scott is only a second behind. "Why are you looking at me?" He's not doing
'innocent' convincingly. Stiles doesn't have a werewolf nose, but he doesn't
need one to tell how fake the outrage is. The guilty slump to Scott's shoulders
is very authentic, though.
Derek only stares at him. It's the 'you're seriously trying to pull this?' look
in combination with the 'you've seriously disappointed me so much' look that
Stiles's dad has (had to) perfected to an art form. Stiles is happy to notice
that Scott is just as susceptible to it as he is because after only, like, a
second Scott begins to squirm. There's a flush rising to his cheeks, and he's
lowered his eyes.
Classic submissive behavior, a part of Stiles's brain offers up before listing
every other gesture of submission he's ever researched for – reasons. Good
reasons like werewolf behaviour; not bad reasons like having fodder for
masturbation fantasies involving their resident alpha werewolf because that
would be kind of pathetic or something.
Stiles misses Scott's reply, but going by Derek's expression it's another
attempt at denial, and Stiles has to admit, Scott has guts. It's just not a
good time to be having them.
"Dude," Stiles says, "I don't think you're helping with the whole keep-
everyone-alive option, and I gotta say that seeing as how I'm the one most
likely to bite the dust, I don't appreciate that one bit." Scott looks at him,
giving the appearance of a kicked puppy, and Stiles decides to take control of
the conversation. "Look, Derek, he's really sorry, he is. The whole thing with
the meeting was to, you know, tell you." He hopes it was because if Scott
double-crossed him, then he'd freaking help Derek kill him.
Scott lets out a breath that sounds more like a whine than anything else. "I
didn't know they were going to turn up. I really wanted to talk and–"
"You knew about this." Derek is looking at Stiles, making his stomach drop to
the bottom of his shoes; Stiles wants to hit himself for ever feeling vaguely
jealous of not being glared at. It's not a glare exactly, anyways. Stiles is
about 90 percent sure that there's a lot of hurt feelings in there, too. It
makes him feel like shit.
"Afterwards," he blurts. "Scott didn't tell me till yesterday." He's not sure
Derek believes him even though he should be able to smell that Stiles is
telling the truth or whatever. Werewolf senses. It's just that Derek is turning
his head away, not really giving him an answer or any indication about what he
thinks.
After about a minute of silence during which both Stiles and Scott twitch like
mad and Derek seemed to be doing breathing exercises or something, Derek
finally asks, "Was it worth it?"
"He threatened my mom," Scott answers in a small voice, and yeah, that, that
right there is why Stiles couldn't actually be totally angry with him. Stiles
knows about moms and the idea of losing them and, more than that, the reality
of it.
It occurs to him that Derek does, too.
Derek rubs a hand over his face and mumbles something too low for Stiles to
make out, which is really kinda unfair. Stiles wants to know what he said. He
looks at Scott, but Scott refuses to meet his eye or anyone's eye, really, and
a moment later it's a moot point anyway, because Derek's deigned to say
something again and this time it's loud enough for Stiles to hear.
Only, going by the face that Derek's wearing, Stiles probably doesn't want to
hear this; it's a bad face, the kind you show a kid when you tell him his mom
is dead.
"You probably don't know, but alcohol doesn't work on werewolves," Derek says,
and Stiles bites his tongue because actually, yeah, he does know that, but
now's not the time to mention that. Or ever. "Our metabolism's too fast."
Okay, that didn't sound too bad yet. In fact, that sounded totally irrelevant
to anything that's happening at the moment, but Stiles is fine with that.
"But that doesn't mean that there aren't some things," he nods toward The Box,
"that work to lower our inhibitions. Kind of 'bringing your baser instincts to
the fore'." Derek's sorta intoning the last part, like he's quoting something
or someone.
"So you're going to get drunk. That doesn't sound too bad. I mean, the hangover
might be hell, but – wait, baser instincts?" Stiles pauses, running that
through his head. "Like killing and maiming and going rawr?"
Derek, that fucking asshole, nods.
"Dude. I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, yeah, but can't we
talk about this? Like can we all have a group therapy session and work out all
our issues before we share a group hug and a snuggle? Do werewolves have
snuggle instincts? Because I'd so totally approve the shit out of that." Stiles
can get down with snuggling. It fills him with a certain amount of glee to
think that these cameras would film, like, hours of a hardcore werewolf hugfest
instead of his violent and bloody death. That would totally serve those
assholes right.
"There are no 'snuggle instincts'," Derek replies, looking like it physically
pains him to use the word 'snuggle'. "But you're right that we have a better
chance of redirecting our, our desires."
It only takes a second for that to sink in, but Stiles keeps holding off
reacting to it because he cannot have heard that right. He cannot have
understood this right.
"To what?" It's Scott asking, for which Stiles will forever be grateful because
he doesn't think he could have.
Derek eyes flash to red. "What do you think, Scott?" he roars.
Stiles's heart just about jumps up and into his throat, and there's some kind
of rushing sound in his ears and he can't tell if it's because he's never seen
Derek this furious and frightened or if it's because he – they, that that is
their only option. "I, look. Okay, I seriously don't wanna have sex with you.
Either of you. No offense, but dude, like, fuck no." Okay, partial lie, but
also not. Because this right now? So not how he pictured things going. If he'd
thought about things going anywhere for real, which he hadn't, not really,
because this was Derek "I'll-rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth-Stiles" Hale.
"Yeah, that's – isn't there another way?" Scott asks. Derek looks about ready
to either murder them both or bash his head into the wall. He launches into a
monologue about being straight and Allison – a lot of Allison – until Derek
interrupts.
"That’s the other way; unless you can come up with a way to get us out of
here."
Stiles bites back a laugh because if he starts he doesn't think he'll ever stop
and this isn't funny, it's just hysteria. It's fuck or die; fuck or die. Stiles
is caught in the middle of werewolf pon farr. "Am I Kirk or T'Pring?" He kinda
wants to be Kirk; Kirk has to fight but he survives and doesn't have to have
sex with Spock or that other guy, Stenn, Stonn or whatever.
He has a feeling he's probably T'Pring though, and Scott is Kirk. Stiles never
gets to be the hero.
Derek's Spock, of course. There are similarities, like the stony expression.
Stiles starts to laugh.
Scott elbows him in the ribs, hard. It's not helping, so Stiles shoves a fist
into his own mouth and tries to calm himself before he starts sobbing. That
won't change anything and would make him feel embarrassed on top of it, and
Stiles foresees a great amount of embarrassment in his near future anyway; he
doesn't need to add to it by crying just before he loses his virginity in a
porno, oh God.
"Right," he says, when he no longer feels like his brain will fly apart if he
doesn't hold onto it. "Right, so we think sexy thoughts now?" He's never been
less interested in sex. It's not that he doesn't think that Derek is
attractive, you have to be blind not to see that. It's not even that Scott is
his best friend and head over heels for Allison. It's just – he doesn't want to
have sex, like that. In front of cameras, with a bunch of skeevy creepsters
watching him. And he doesn't want to do it because he'd die otherwise. That's a
shitty reason to have sex.
He says it out loud, and Derek sighs and leans back against the wall. His face
kinda does this thing where it goes from being one big frown to just...looking
tired. Tired and unhappy. Stiles can sympathize.
"What do you want me to do, Stiles? Baser instincts mostly come down to eating,
fighting and fucking and the first two won't end well for you. So I ask again:
what do you want me to do?"
Fix it, Stiles thinks. Fix it, so we don't have to do this. Do some funky alpha
werewolf power thing and get us out of here.
But he doesn't say any of these things because they won't help and Stiles
absolutely knows that if Derek could, he would, because he looks about as
wretched as Stiles is feeling. He's probably never even thought about Stiles
that way. And Scott. Oh God, Scott, too. "Okay," Stiles says. "Okay. So, how do
we–?" He waves a hand, trying to mime what he means without actually miming
what he means, or saying it.
Derek's looking at Scott now, though, and doesn't answer. It's only when Scott
says "Yeah, okay. I guess, we gotta," that Stiles understands that Derek has
just asked for Scott's consent, however dubious it is under the circumstances,
and that the option of eating Stiles had still been on the table, at least for
Scott. "I mean," Scott continues, "I don't want to, you know, not really, but I
don't wanna kill Stiles either." He grimaces. Of course, Stiles remembers,
Scott has experience with thinking his wolf got the better of him and he killed
someone.
Derek nods and waits for both of them to look at him before saying seriously.
"I'm the alpha; if there's going to be any chance of this not turning into a
bloodbath, you need to submit to me."
"Woah, woah. Stop, wait." Scott raises his hands. "You're the alpha, and I
joined your pack. Shouldn't this be a given?"
"Is it, Scott?" Derek asks, and he sounds just a little bit snide.
It so blatantly isn't, it's not even funny. Scott flinches a bit and drops his
gaze; his eyes, Stiles notes, have turned wolf yellow, and Derek's never turned
back now that he thinks about it.
"There's not much time left; it's already beginning to work."
Oh, God. Shit, shit, shit.
"Right," Scott says, breathes in deeply, and shifts forward onto all fours.
===============================================================================
Scott's crawling towards Derek, head bent low, and Stiles can't really bear to
look at him. It gives him a kind of weird feeling in his stomach, sort of
somewhere between uncomfortable and involuntarily aroused. Not because of Scott
exactly. More because he knows it's his turn in a moment, and even though this
situation is beyond fucked up, Little Stiles still indicates a faint sense of
interest at that, and Stiles hopes that neither of the werewolves with their
super-noses notices. Fat chance of that.
There's no reaction from either of them, though, and Stiles thanks whatever
being is running his shitshow of a life for small mercies.
Scott is, Scott is sort of hunching down now, and he's whining a little, sounds
like. Stiles can't see his face because he's laid it down on the floor, sort of
turning it to the side, but his nails have formed into claws and Derek's wolfed
out, so there's a fair chance Scott has, too.
Derek's growling and flashing his teeth; he moves onto his hands and knees,
too, and bends over Scott to – sniff him? No, more like hover over him with
teeth at the ready, like saying, 'I could. I could so totally kill you, you
know. You're pwned.' Though he probably wouldn't say pwned.
Scott rolls onto his back, and his legs drop to the side and even though he's
wearing clothes it really looks kind of obscene. And yeah, he is totally wolfed
out. Then Derek moves to kind of straddle Scott, blocking Stiles's sight
A few moments later, Derek's retreated and Scott is rolling onto all fours
again. He moves to the left, giving Stiles room to approach Derek, who's
looking at Stiles with an almost empty expression. No, not empty. Patient. Like
he's got all the time in the world and is totally confident that Stiles will
come and submit, too; like, no doubts. None.
Stiles would like to feel this confident about getting his way once in a while.
"Stiles."
"Yes. Coming." Fuck, mind, don't go there. Stiles shoves the thought back down
and begins his own four-legged crawl forward. He's certain he's just looking
entirely awkward, but he can't help that. The floor underneath his hands is
cool and smooth, but there are a few long and deep scratches here and there and
some rusty-coloured flecks. Stiles's heartbeat picks up speed. He reaches Derek
and is just about to drop down and roll over too, when Derek stops him.
"Lick along my bottom lip."
It's less total submission and dominance than the display that Derek and Scott
put on, which makes sense because Stiles isn't the one who pissed off Derek.
Stiles crawls another inch forward and tilts his head. When his mouth's about a
nanometer from Derek, he sticks out his tongue and draws it along Derek's lip.
It's strange; the stubble is sort of making it stranger, though he thinks that
if Derek's face were covered in fur, that would be even stranger and he'd
probably freak out. Stiles keeps on licking at his lip and chin while Derek
remains unmoving, looking straight ahead, and if Stiles didn't know that this
was normal behavior for the dominant wolf, he'd be freaking out.
Correction, Stiles is freaking out. He's not stopping though.
After a while, Derek moves his head and begins to nuzzle his cheek. "I can feel
the wolf pulling at me. When I lose the ability to speak, do not do anything to
make me angry. Or Scott."
Stiles nods because he doesn't think he can speak right now.
"We'll have to fast forward through the courting behavior," Derek rasps, for
the first time showing that he's been affected by the licking – or maybe by the
airborne drug. So, mating; that looked a little like submission or maybe
greeting, Stiles knew, racking his brain for the differences.
Beside him, Scott approaches, bumping his cheek against Derek's and rubbing.
Derek keeps nuzzling him, sometimes alternating and snuffling at Scott, and
sometimes all their heads bump together. Then Derek draws back slightly, grabs
Stiles's neck, and God, those claws on his skin. He smashes their mouths
together, and they're kissing. Derek is kissing him and there's a rumbling
sound from his chest like he's getting impatient and he keeps pressing forward,
so Stiles opens his mouth and lets him in.
It feels nice. Warm and wet and tender, and as long as Stiles doesn't think
about where they are, and who's watching and about the cameras, he could almost
fool himself into believing he's just making out with Derek fucking Hale
because he wants to.
A weight drops onto his back, and Stiles grunts, tries to move his head.
"Don't," Derek whispers against his lips.
"What's he doing?" Actually, Stiles has a pretty good idea of what Scott’s
doing, so really, stupid thing to ask.
Derek pauses. "He's almost completely gone."
Stiles gasps, and tries to tell himself that this is good. Scott's mentally in
a place where he's thinking 'gotta tap that' and not 'gotta chew on that'.
"He's not good at aiming."
Derek drops his voice. "That's...he's riding up. He hasn't really started."
"Oh," Stiles says, and then freezes as Scott suddenly stops moving.
Derek, very slowly and softly, swears, and, and that just doesn't inspire
confidence.
"What's going on? Derek?"
Derek shakes his head, gaze set on something behind Stiles, probably, likely,
Scott.
"Should I, should I be concerned? Cause that's your oh-shit-face, so I think I
should be."
"Don't move."
"That's not very reassuring."
Derek grits his teeth. "I don't think he's in any way attracted to you. Now
will you–" There's a rumble from behind Stiles.
A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment later, Derek is gone and so is the weight
from Stiles's back. There's a thump from behind him, and several growls and
yelps, and Stiles turns to see Derek and Scott fighting each other like two
dogs, or wolves, a twisting, turning, biting, snarling mess of limbs and teeth.
He freezes before scrabbling away, pressing himself into the corner Derek had
occupied previously and hoping no one flings anyone else through the room.
After a tense minute, it looks like Derek has the upper hand, pinning Scott to
the ground and snarling in his face. Scott snaps his teeth and Derek clamps his
own teeth down on his neck.
It doesn't last long, but it feels like an eternity while Stiles is trying to
figure out if he should intervene – bad, bad idea – and how. He doesn't want
Derek to kill Scott, but he doesn't want either of them to kill him either and
Derek's warning is still fresh in his mind. In the end, though, Derek lets go
and Scott retreats to the opposite corner with a whine and starts licking his
numerous wounds. He doesn't move out of it.
Derek shakes himself and turns his gaze towards Stiles. If Stiles had thought
his eyes were empty before, it's nothing to how vacant they look now. There's
no one home; no one human at least. Stiles tries breathing normally and
innocuously in a please-don't-notice-me kind of way, but he's afraid he sounds
like Darth Vader and his heart is so loud, he thinks it's going to burst out of
his chest any moment.
Derek stalks forward, and Stiles wants to say something like, "Please don't
kill me; oh God, I'm sorry if I ever thought you looked like you wanted to kill
me before because it's nothing to how you look right now, and I think I'm going
to wet myself if you don't say anything; please, please, please, say something.
Snap out of it." The words get stuck in his throat, however, and all he can do
is clamp his arms tighter around his knees, draw them closer, and try not to
embarrass himself.
About an inch from his knees, Derek stops. Stiles stops breathing entirely. His
eyes lock with Derek's even though he knows that that isn't a good idea, that
that's considered a challenge but he can't look away, hoping against hope to
find some tiny sliver of humanity left.
Derek's gaze narrows and his lips begin to draw back. He starts to growl.
Stiles's eyes do some kind of weird flickering and rolling thing, as if he's
lost control over them, but it breaks the staring contest and Derek's growl
subsides again. He leans forward, closing the distance, and begins to sniff at
Stiles and lick his cheek where tears have started to trail down. Cleaning him,
Stiles realizes and finally exhales, starting to breathe shallowly again. The
black spots dancing in front of his eyes recede.
"Derek?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but he can't seem to squeeze more
air past his lungs.
Derek doesn't react, just keeps licking his cheek. Stiles's muscles begin to
unfreeze and he cautiously moves his hand and lays it on the back of Derek's
head. That's apparently taken as a sign of encouragement, which yeah, okay,
sorta, but not, because Derek moves even closer, pressing himself against
Stiles and beginning to lick at his mouth again in a decidedly oh-by-the-way-
I'm-thinking-of-sex-again way.
Stiles has less trouble telling himself that this is better than being killed
this time around.
He's still far from happy, though. Derek's kinda insistently pushing against
him now, which probably means he's getting impatient. Impatient werewolf? Not
good, so Stiles gets back on hands and knees, and Derek immediately moves to –
sniff at Stiles's dick, oh God.
Seriously, oh God.
Stiles crawls away from both Derek and the walls a little, but Derek
immediately follows, pushing his nose against Stiles' jeans-clad ass.
Scott is watching them.
Stiles notices this because his line of sight is clear now; also, he can't miss
the way Scott's eyes just bore into him. There's a low rumble from behind him,
and Scott averts his gaze, going back to licking his arm.
The whole thing just serves to remind him of the fact that they're being
watched, not only by Scott, which alone is pretty weird, but by cameras and the
people filming them, who're probably watching this on some fucking studio
screen right now.
He, he so does not want to have sex in front of these perverts.
Derek, though, has no such compunctions, and Stiles feels really, really
jealous right now because he'd really like to just not notice the cameras and
Scott and, and, and the microphones and everything. Derek's moving on from
sniffing at Stiles's butt to half crawling underneath him and licking at
Stiles's dick and, fuck. That's a tongue, on Stiles's cock, and even if there's
fabric between tongue and cock, that's still someone's tongue on his cock, and
in between all this fucking bullshit, Stiles is getting aroused again because,
because tongue.
A kind of gurgle escapes his throat and his fingers twitch. Derek picks up the
pace, licking harder and Stiles's jeans are getting kinda wet right now, wet
and warm, and his dick's starting to push against Derek's tongue from the other
side. Stiles fixes his eyes on the floor and tries to think happy thoughts.
Like, what if this is Lydia – no, no, doesn't work. Okay, it's Derek, fine,
it's Derek, and they're at the Hale house. No scratch that – doesn't smell like
ashes here. Okay, a warehouse; they're at a warehouse – werehouse – and Derek's
just professed his undying lust for Stiles and now he's trying to show that,
but because he's an antisocial creeperwolf, he doesn't do normal human sex.
Yeah, Stiles can work with that. As a fantasy.
It helps that Derek is attractive, and that Stiles sort of finds him attractive
in a might-have-wanked-to-fantasies-about-him-like-one-or-two...hundred-times
way.
There's a sudden pause from the licking, and Stiles blinks and turns his head –
ignore the bars, ignore the fucking bars – to see Derek retreating a bit and
then – oh fuck.
Derek's weight settles on him from the side, and it's all Stiles can do not to
hit the floor, because, Jesus, that guy is heavy. Derek sniffs at his neck and
ear and humps against Stiles, who just doesn't have the strength to resist,
like, three fucking tons of werewolf. He slides and his elbows hit the floor,
and he thinks his back's about to break because fucking heavy, but then Derek
gives a sort of yip and scrambles off his back.
Stiles gets a second to breathe, like, a second because then Derek is – he's
mounting, no other word for it, mounting Stiles from behind, and if Stiles had
thought that Derek was humping him before, it's nothing to what he's doing now,
going at it like a bulldozer.
Stiles has never been so glad to be wearing clothes; he's also almost crying
with relief because apparently Derek forgot how clothes work or how to take
them off and this is quite possibly the weirdest kind of protection ever, but
it's protecting his ass from being penetrated by an out of control werewolf,
so, fuck yeah, clothes.
He's going to write a love letter to Mr. Levi as soon as he gets out of here.
Derek's rubbing and pushing against his ass, forearms clamped around Stiles's
body like a vice and the pressure on his ribs adds to Stiles's breathing
problems. He swallows, blunt fingernails trying to dig into the concrete floor
while Derek pants and grunts in his ear.
His knees are killing him; fuck, his back is killing him, and his dick is still
hard, pressing against the inside of his jeans and he just knows he's not going
to get off because he can't; no, he won't. Not while someone else is watching.
And there he goes thinking about this again.
Derek starts humping harder and more irregularly, and Stiles can tell that he's
close, and thinks, shit, because, well, Derek is kind of a private person and
this whole thing must be about as horrifying to him as it is to Stiles and
Stiles's faculties are all still pretty intact while Derek and Scott have been
– roofied. No other word for it. Then Derek shudders above him, arms clamping
around him, teeth sinking into his neck above the line of his shirt.
Stiles's jeans are getting damp where his ass is while Derek's dick pulses, but
Stiles can't think of that right now because–
– because Derek bit him.
Shit.
***** Chapter 2 *****
The little red lights on the cameras have stopped blinking. Stiles takes note
of it as someone might take note of a leaf blowing in the wind. It's there, but
it has nothing to do with him.

(Only it does; it does.)

He's stretched out on the floor, Derek on top of him like a snoring, warm
mattress. Not a blanket; a blanket would be lighter, and this feels more like
being smothered. The funny thing is that it's not even a bad feeling. It's
comfortable in an odd way, like Derek's mass is protecting him from the unseen
eyes of the – no longer blinking, no longer filming – cameras, which stand in
for the men, which stand in for all people, the whole world.

Stiles drifts.

The world is made of soft colors. The gray of the floor, the khaki of Scott's
pants, the color of flesh that is Derek's right arm next to his face, black
hairs covering it. Stiles's arm is flesh-colored too, but the hairs on it are
finer, lighter, stand up whenever a fresh wave of cold cascades down his back,
unannounced, independent from what his mind chooses to focus on.

(His body is telling him that something is wrong.)

"Am I attractive to werewolves?" Stiles asks the world, and Scott, but Scott
stares at him unblinking, not comprehending, as if Stiles were speaking in
tongues like a man possessed by demons.

What he wants to ask is this: am I attractive to Derek Hale?

(What his body wants to ask is: is that why he wanted to fuck me? Is that why
he bit me?)

Another rush of ice goes down his spine.

"Only you wanted to kill me, and Derek didn't. I don't blame you, by the way.
It's all good." He thinks he should probably repeat that when Scott's back to
himself.

The door to the room opens. Stiles watches feet, boots, Army boots, come in,
and feels Derek suddenly tense above him.

Hands, picking up the box. "You looked great there on the screen." A laugh;
Stiles doesn't reply, but Derek starts growling, and the boots retreat,
unhurried, to the door and out.

Derek huffs and snuffles at his neck.

(Licking the wound.)

Stiles's mind continues to drift.

===============================================================================


"I'm sorry." Those are the first words Derek speaks when he comes back to
himself. That is, after he rolled off Stiles and scrambled backwards, back to
the corner he was in before.

Stiles's body misses Derek.

Stiles misses his mind.

Stiles's mouth is missing words. It's utterly failing him in terms of running
off and distracting people and talking about anything so he doesn't have to
talk about what just happened.

Stiles rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.


===============================================================================

They're sitting with their backs to the wall, as far from Derek as the cage
will allow, Stiles pressed against the bars of the cage, while Scott's body
forms a barrier between him and Derek. Scott is sort of awkwardly patting his
shoulder and glaring at Derek. Stiles wishes they both would stop, stop
growling at each other, stop fighting, stop existing, just stop. "Stop."

"Stiles?"

"Just stop it, Scott." He rubs a hand over his face, exhales. "We can have this
fight once we're out of here." Stiles can't play referee and nurse to both
their egos while feeling like he's falling apart. He just can't.

"But–"

"Scott."

Scott sighs, stops patting his shoulder. "Right, so, hey. They got what they
wanted. Maybe they'll let us go now? That would be awesome, huh?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, "it would be."

None of them believe it.

===============================================================================


The downside of an 8-by-8 cage– aside from it being a cage – is this: there's
no privacy.

There's not even a bucket.

There is a small grid set in the center of the floor and a drain underneath,
and Stiles is going to relieve his bladder there as soon as he can figure out
how to position his body because he's either facing the cameras – fuck, no,
even if they're not on – or he's facing the back wall and then Derek and Scott
will get an eyeful, or he's facing one of the side walls and then either Scott
or Derek will get an eyeful.

His penis is not on board with that either. His bladder, on the other hand,
keeps telling him that it so does not care and it will soon care even less
about the how and where.

Stiles rises to his feet. He shuffles forward, trying to ignore the feeling of
eyes following his every step. He stops before the grid.

The cameras are still off. There's no reason not to stand like this – if he
closes his eyes – no, bad idea. His aim might be off. Stiles reaches for his
belt with shaky hands, pulls himself out, tries to ignore the voice that's
telling him that he's having a panic attack over peeing and that this is so
fucking pathetic. Pathetic, Stilinski. Because that voice isn't doing any good.
It's not helping; it's harming.

Letting go is a struggle. He feels more exposed than he did while Derek was
humping against his ass, but when he squeezes the first drops out, it's like a
dam breaks.

He shakes off, puts himself back to rights. Would like to wash his hands right
about now, but that's out.

When he turns back around neither Scott nor Derek are looking at him, which –
good. Stiles takes a step towards Scott and hesitates. Scott's staring at the
ceiling. Derek is staring at his own hands, looking like he wants to murder
someone and that someone is himself.

Stiles doesn't want to play nursemaid, because Stiles cannot deal right now and
he can't figure out how to feel right now either because if he starts thinking
about what there is to feel about he'll probably just sit down where he is and
start rocking and gibbering.

He shuffles back towards Scott. Best friends trying to kill him he can and has
dealt with after all.

===============================================================================


Stiles's stomach is growling and so is Scott's. Can't be good, Stiles thinks.
Hungry werewolf can't be good. Hungry werewolf might eat anything in sight once
it's drugged again. If it is.

(Do werewolves eat each other?)

He's thirsty, too.

If they try to – they have probably gotten – they might try to shoot another
scene with – no, no. Think about something else. Like his dad. His dad's good.

Stiles rubs the palm of his hand over his knee, over and over again, thinking.
His dad is the sheriff again. That's good; that's awesome, in fact, and not
just because Stiles didn't manage to screw up his father's life forever.

"I think my dad will be looking for me by now." For him; for Scott, too.
Derek's pack might be looking for Derek right now. Stiles can't figure out if
he wants the pack to find them. These people were well-prepared, hitting hard
and fast, almost like a drive-by shooting, only Scott, Derek, and Stiles were
standing in the warehouse district, which is on the outskirts of Beacon Hills,
and not some ghetto, when the truck came down the street.

Freaking lost, Stiles's ass.

"'Course, he probably won't think to grill our principal."

Scott's head whips around. "What makes you think Gerard Argent is involved in
this?"

Stiles gapes at him. "Jesus, Scott. Really? Who else? He's probably been
keeping tabs on you, and as soon as it looked like you were selling him out?
Bam!" Honestly, Stiles should have been able to see that sooner. Of course,
Gerard Argent has to have been spying on Scott.

Question is how, of course. The cameras in the school couldn't have given him a
clue about where they were going or why they were going there. How could he
have known?

"There wasn't anyone close by when we talked about going to Derek," Stiles
states, only briefly noting that Scott nodded. "And you would have noticed
someone following us."

"Uh, probably?"

"Dude, yes or no?"

"Yes...no. I don't know, okay? I didn't notice anyone."

In the corner, Derek snorts. Scott grits his teeth but doesn't react.

"Okay, fine." Getting that team together would have taken some time anyway. He
has to have known sooner. Stiles leans his head back against the wall, hand
coming up to rub his temple. Or maybe – maybe they were there for Derek, and
Scott and Stiles were just incidental.

If that's the case, they'd probably have grabbed someone else to play chew toy
if Stiles hadn't been there. It should make him feel bad, but Stiles really
wishes they had grabbed someone other than him.

He's a bad person and a shitty human being, but he can't help himself.

God, he's getting a headache.

Scott jerks suddenly, looking towards the door. Stiles follows his gaze in time
to see the door open and two of the men come in. One is carrying a small bag of
– Stiles squints up at him, trying to get a good look at the letters, then
hisses when he recognizes it.

"Thought you might get hungry." The man pushes the bag between the bars,
careful to keep his hand as far from the bars as possible.

The bag of Purina One falls to the floor, landing with a soft thud. "Enjoy."

He's grinning.

"Fuck you." Stiles wants to tear him to pieces. Scott is growling. Only Derek
remains eerily silent.

"I think your lover will do that for you. Again."

Stiles can't remember how he got from sitting on the floor to being pressed
against the bars, hand stretching forward to – to do something to that asshole,
but there he is and there that fucker is laughing at him before turning his
back and just walking out.

Someone's hands land on his shoulder, carefully but firmly pulling him back.
"Don't touch the bars."

Stiles twists around, the hands falling away, to stare at Derek. It's on the
tip of his tongue to ask why, but he swallows it down. Mind skittering away
from the question.

Derek takes a step to the side and bends over, picks up the bag of dog food and
hurls it straight through the bars at one of the cameras. The tripod shudders
and the dry food spills all over the equipment, but that's all the damage it
does.

His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and his cheeks are reddened, and he
refuses to meet Stiles's eyes

"I hate them," Stiles says to Derek's back, ineffectually – or maybe not.
"Them," he repeats, because even if he's confused and feeling slightly sick, he
knows that that, at least is true.

Derek's shoulders stiffen for a moment, then loosen, but don't actually relax.
He shakes himself, and returns to his corner.

Stiles feels like a boxer, pummelled by his opponent until someone rang the
bell and saved him. He sinks to his knees right where he is, finally sitting
cross-legged, back to the bars.

===============================================================================


There's something nagging on his consciousness, something or someone. It creeps
into his mind through his nose and mouth, blocking his airways like a black
film of oil, settling on his synapses, drawing image before his eyes.

He's at the parking lot, standing next to his Jeep, his phone in his hand. He's
staring at it, trying to remember who he wanted to call. He wanted to call
someone. It's important.

But first? But first, he needs to talk...no, he doesn't. He turns around–

He's in school, in the chemistry lab. He's alone, but the loudspeaker up in the
corner is crackling with static, and Stiles needs to get away from it fast. He
twists, runs towards the door, out, through the corridors, into the locker
room, jumping and – landing in the swimming pool. Underwater, he can't breathe.
Needs to get to his phone, but there's something stopping him. He should dive
farther down, dive to the bottom to talk to–

He's in the woods, near the Hale house. There's a body on the floor and Lydia
set it on fire. Scott slashed its throat. Someone touches his shoulder, a hand
dark and oily.

"Do you want it?" Peter Hale asks in his ear. "He can give it to you."

"I don't," Stiles replies, but Peter is talking over him. "I could hear it in
your heartbeat. You wanted it. You just didn't want it from me."

No.

"No!"


===============================================================================

Stiles wakes to the same bright light that's been glaring down at them for the
past ten hours, a pounding headache, and the sound of Scott relieving himself.
He keeps his eyes closed, not exactly pretending to be asleep – can't really do
that with werewolves – but trying to cling to that sense of unreality.

It's no good.

He has to face facts...even his dreams – nightmares – are telling him that.

Stiles has been bitten, by a werewolf. An alpha werewolf. He's a werewolf now.
Werewolf werewolf werewolf.

"Dude."

It's like he doesn't know himself anymore. Werewolf.

"Stiles."

He's, he's always been the human ever since Scott got the bite, and he didn't
want to be in Scott's shoes. Being a werewolf sucks. You're constantly getting
drawn into weird shit even if you just want to live your life and maybe want to
have sex with Allison and subject your best friend to way too many sappy
moments with your new girlfriend.

Your life. Your werewolf life. Werewolf.

"Stiles.."

"Leave him."

"Don't tell me what to do," Scott snarls.

Stiles's eyes snap open. "Stop bitching at each other."

He turns his head upward to see Scott's standing over him, looking kind of
lost, like Stiles just kicked him or something. Stiles sighs, rolling over. He
rises to his hands and knees, wobbling a little as he tries to get to his feet.
Scott's hand clamps down on his elbow, steadying him.

"Thanks."

Fuck, this headache is killing him.

And he's still a werewolf. He tries the word out on his tongue, can't quite
bring himself to attach "I am a" yet. Not out loud.

"Yeah," Scott says, pauses, opens his mouth, closes it again. "Uh, it's not so
bad? I mean..." He flinches, looks to the side. "You were there."

"Yeah," Stiles says dryly. "I was. Am. I'm still here. Why am I still here?
This whole werewolf thing is so bad for my health."

Scott ducks his head and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like, "Thanks,
you're awesome, Stiles." Well, maybe not the last part, but the gratitude was
there. Definitely.

Stiles is a werewolf now. "How much time before...?" He twists his hands to
look like claws and makes a sort of grabbing motion, like he's groping someone,
and crap, bad mental image there.

"The changes are already taking place," Derek replies. "Your senses should
sharpen soon and – it takes about twelve hours before the body's adjusted."

That knowledge's likely gleaned from Erica, Isaac and Boyd, Stiles thinks.
Derek wouldn't need to know that as a born werewolf.

"So." He checks his watch. He's slept maybe three hours, minus the time before
the biting, that's roughly eight hours since infection, and fuck. It's only
been thirteen hours since they got here, how could so much have happened in
such a short amount of time?

"They might be waiting for you to change first."

Stiles blinks at Derek, suddenly derailed from his earlier thoughts. "Uh, why
would I change?"

Scott huffs. "The wolfsbane? On the bars? Dude, remember when you took the
flowers from around the grave and–" Scott bites himself off suddenly, darting a
quick and shamefaced glance at Derek. Stiles can feel an answering lurch of
shame in his own gut.

"When you desecrated my sister's burial place. Yes, go on, Scott."

Stiles doesn't need him to go on. He remembers all too vividly Scott's reaction
before Stiles flung his backpack out of the car, remembers Scott's
disappearance, too, and his own panic. "Crap."

"Yeah," Scott says, rubbing his neck. "I'm surprised you're not feeling
anything yet. My head's been pounding ever since we woke up here, and I've been
this close to wolfing out the whole time since then." He holds up thumb and
index finger and indicates maybe a quarter inch of distance.

Stiles presses the palms of his hands against his aching forehead and groans.
Well, hell.


===============================================================================


Stiles doesn't stare at his watch obsessively only because he's more or less
constantly feeling like someone's shoving a hot poker through his brain. This
is worse than the time he got hung-over after drinking with Scott in the woods,
and he felt pretty much like dying at that time. It doesn't help that
everything is incredibly, glaringly bright and loud. There's Scott's breathing,
Derek's breathing, his own breathing. Scott's heartbeat, Derek's heartbeat, his
own heartbeat. The sounds all of them make when swallowing, the sound of
clothes rasping against the floor. A bug that's flying around the door outside,
the hum of electricity of the cameras which have been turned on again, the hum
of the lights which is slightly different.

Scott licking his lips.

Scott existing. Derek existing.

And then there are the scents. Worst of all, and overlaying everything the
wolfsbane.

It drives him up the wall.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thud.

Rustle. Scent of wolf and sweat.

"Stiles."

"Go away."

Rumbling, laughter. Unhappy laughter. "I wish, yeah." Derek leans into his
personal space, hands clamping around Stiles's wrists, pulling his hands away
from his face. "Look at me."

It's a request, one Stiles doesn't feel like granting. "This is awful," he
grumbles. "How do you stand it? It's like the monster hangover from hell, now
with 100% more jackhammers in the brain."

Derek moves his fingers to gather both Stiles's wrists in one hand, and
Stiles's heart skips a beat. His other hand grabs Stiles's chin, fingers
pressing into his skin, and pushes upwards. "Look. At. Me." The words are
growled this time, and Stiles's eyes snap open to meet Derek's gaze, a rush of
warmth settling somewhere below his stomach, spreading everywhere. It chases
away the reddish film around his vision that has been drawn over his eyes like
crimson-tinted gauze.

"I bit you," Derek grits out. "You're my responsibility – Shut up, Scott – and
I will get you through this." He releases Stiles.

"Not going to tell me this is a gift?" Stiles snaps once he's recovered from
the loss of Derek's hands on him. It should have made him feel threatened, but
he'd felt protected, of all things, and clearheaded (and aroused too), and he
wants that back.

Derek sucks in a breath; he turns his head away, a semi-submissive gesture, and
that is just wrong. Something inside Stiles goes cold, and he's left blinking
and struggling with the urge to duck his head and make this right again. "It
can be a good thing, if you let it."

Stiles's shoulders have drawn up almost of their own accord and his head is
tilted sideways when Derek looks back at him, and this is just so unfair. Derek
shouldn't look like Stiles has just turned his life upside down and bit him.

"It really can be a good thing, Stiles," Scott offers from the sidelines and if
he sounds any more encouraging, Stiles is going to cry.

He's going to blame this on the werewolf thing. His emotions aren't usually
this helter-skelter; okay, they are but. He'll blame the werewolf thing.

"Right," Stiles says. "Werewolf. Awesome. Awesome powers. Awful headaches,
too." The crimson is starting to really get to him, and he's beginning to feel
lightheaded and sort of unreal. His breathing is loud in his ears, drowning out
every other noise.

"It's starting."

"Starting?" Stiles asks, hand groping for something to hold onto while his
vision goes infra-red, and his brain starts to shut down its cells. It feels
pretty close to a panic attack. A really ugly one, and – "Oh God, starting."
The transformation. That's what starting. He's changing now. "Scott?"

Hands on his shoulders, a voice in his ear. "I'm here. Stay calm. I'm here."

This should not be so terrifying. He knows what's happening. This should not be
so fucking terrifying.

But it is.

There's a clack, the thud-thud-thud of booted feet, the thump of – Stiles turns
his head – of a box being deposited on the ground, the sound of it being
opened, the retreat of feet, the closing of a door.

Hands grasp his. "Don't look at it now. We'll deal with it." Skipping
heartbeat. A lie. Derek is afraid, and lying, and – Stiles breathes in – some
other emotion that Stiles can't identify.

"It's taking your control," Stiles whispers. One of them should be in control
and it can't be Stiles because Stiles isn't feeling real. "Derek, you won't
have control."

"I know. I'm sorry." And he sounds so sad, and wrecked, and guilty.

"Why?" Stiles forces past lips that don't feel like lips, and shakes his head
and –

Why is he–

Why–

– red.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     TW for Harris being an asshole.
When Stiles wakes up, the cameras are gone, equipment entirely dismantled.
That's cool, he thinks, though something's nagging at him, a distant worry.

He goes back to sleep.

===============================================================================


When Stiles wakes up again, there are voices and footsteps and clicks, and he's
pressed up against the wall next to Scott, looking at Derek's ass. Derek is
growling, clawed hands making furrows in the floor. There are soft pops and
Derek's growling louder and louder until he stumbles backwards, falling on
Stiles, and Stiles is pressed between the wall and Derek's hard body and it
feels good, safe, and Derek's stopped growling, so things are obviously okay
now.

Something hits his arm, sharp, like a manic mosquito. He raises his hand, turns
his head to look, but there's another sharp little pain, and he's really too
tired for this.

Way too tired.

===============================================================================


When Stiles wakes up the final time, it's because Derek's slapping him hard.
Stiles puts an arm over his face and rolls away, motion halted when he hits
something. He squints, taking in the tree trunk digging into his side and the
dirt beneath his face.

What the hell, he so did not expect that. "Where are we?" His voice is dry and
rasping as if he hasn't spoken for days – or maybe screamed himself raw
beforehand.

"Fuck if I know," Derek grumbles. "But I do know that we're gonna get outta
here and now." At the last word, a foot kicks Stiles's ass.

Stiles struggles to his feet, turning to glare at Derek. "What the hell has
gotten into you?"

Derek stares at him, then turns on his heel and heads off in a seemingly random
direction, like he thinks that Stiles and Scott – because Scott's right over
there, looking just a bit irritated himself – that Scott and Stiles will just
follow him.

Which, yeah.

Okay, fine. They do.

But only because Stiles has no fucking clue where they are and what with not
knowing where the fuck those asswipes went, it's best to stay together.

They don't really trudge after Derek, though the thought is there. He's walking
too fast for anyone to drag their feet, and Scott and Stiles are more or less
jogging to keep up. They make a sorry procession, Stiles thinks, watching Scott
from the corner of his eye.

Derek looks fine, alright, if a bit grumpy, but that's normal for him. Scott,
on the other hand, looks like he had a fight with a blender and lost, and
Stiles…

Stiles, from what his nose is telling him, is covered in come. The front of his
jeans anyway and a little on the back, too. He knew that, but...it's worse now
than it was before. Before.

Stiles stops suddenly, feeling like someone just hit him between the eyes.

They've had sex again. They must have, and it must have been back in that room,
with the cameras, and Stiles can't remember a single thing. Like, nothing.

Roofied, the thought pops up in his mind again. Jesus.

It occurs to Stiles that he hasn't even wondered before about whether or not
Scott and Derek even remember what happened the first time, never mind about
the second. He might be the only one of them who knows and doesn't have to
guess by the state of his pants and the scratches on his arms.

On the other hand, he might be the only one who doesn't remember the second
time. Derek and Scott have been werewolves for longer.

He hears a sort of mewling sound coming from, coming from his own throat and
Stiles can't take this, can't take not knowing, just can't.

Then Derek is suddenly in his face, gripping his shoulder with one hand and
slapping him again, and Stiles sucks in a breath, finally noticing that he
doesn't seem to have been doing that for who knows how long. He blinks, stares
at Derek– Derek, who maybe knows.

Stiles opens his mouth to ask what he remembers, if he remembers anything at
all, or if Stiles is the only one who forgot, but his heart is beating at 300
beats per minute or something, and he can't force the questions out.
Desperately he grasps around for something else to ask.

"What... what do we tell my dad? I mean, he'll have been looking."

Derek opens his mouth, closes it.

"We," he finally replies tightly, "aren't going to tell him anything, because
we will not be found together. No one knows that the pack meets in the old
train station and you will come up with something that doesn't involve me." He
pauses, closing his eyes, hand falling away from Stiles's shoulder to clench at
his side. "Unless you, unless you want to get me arrested for–" He breaks off,
making an odd noise, and Stiles has never seen him look so uncomfortable and,
shit, helpless.

"Dude," Stiles says. "I'm not going to tell dad that you bit me. Fuck, I'm not
telling him about werewolves, period."

Derek stares at him like he can't believe he just heard what came out of
Stiles's mouth, and Stiles is used to that look, so he mentally goes over what
he's said, and no. He doesn't think he said anything weird. There were no Star
Wars references, for one.

"And I don't think people get arrested for turning people into werewolves. The
police would have to know about you guys in the first place. It's more likely
that Dad would shoot you."

A nerve in Derek's jaw twitches and he abruptly turns and stalks off. Stiles
stares after him before remembering that he'd asked a question, a very good
question.

What the hell are they going to tell everyone?

===============================================================================


Stiles is manfully resisting pressing his face against Scott's collarbone. It's
not that he has any feelings of that kind towards Scott and it's not that Scott
smells good – which he doesn't because none of them have had a shower in over
24 hours and they all reek of blood, sweat and – in Derek's and Stiles's case –
sex.

It's that the smell of gasoline is overwhelming and Stiles wonders just why
some kids seem to think it's the height of awesomeness to sniff it to get high.
Because it stinks; boy does it ever, even about fifty yards from the gas
station, where they're staying hidden in the brush.

Concentrating on his hearing is worse, though. There are the trucks and cars
going by on the highway. The sound of people talking and laughing, or talking
and complaining, or screaming even, especially toddlers and small kids, and the
flush of toilets, and in between all that somewhere the voice of Derek trying
to flirt with the cashier at the gas station, so that she'd let him use the
telephone for free.

"So," Stiles says casually, "any idea what we're going to tell my dad?"

Scott blinks at him. "We?"

Oh, gag him with a spoon. "Hello? You were gone, too."

"Oh, oh right."

"Just because your mom knows–"

"Shut up about my mom," Scott snaps, getting a pinched look on his face. Then
he slaps his hands in front of his face and groans, and Stiles is uncomfortably
reminded that Mrs. McCall didn't take so well to the realization that yes,
indeed, werewolves exist and by the way, her son is one.

They stay silent for a while, Stiles thinking about how to explain this and
Scott thinking about who-knows-what. Probably Allison.

The more Stiles thinks, the more convinced he becomes that there's no
alternative. They'll have to do it this way, and this way will likely end with
him getting grounded. At best.

He gets pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps and the rustling
of leaves.

"Isaac will be here in an hour," Derek announces, striding towards them. He's
making noise even though Stiles knows that Derek can be as quiet as a mouse if
he wants to. Like he doesn't want to startle them – or like he doesn't give a
fuck that they know he's coming, which seems more likely considering he's
looking downright belligerent.

Scott - bless him - actually picks up on that and then proceeds to take the
alpha by its horns and confront him. "What's crawled up your ass?"

"You–" Derek starts, face going white from fury. "You’re asking that? If you
hadn't run to the Argents to sell me out we wouldn't even be here."

Scott jumps up from his position on the ground. "First, I didn't run to the
Argents. Second, he put a fucking knife in me. What the hell was I supposed to
do?"

"Oh, I don't know, Scott. How about telling your alpha?"

Scott takes a step forward, almost stepping on Stiles's hand. "You're not–"

"Woah, woah," Stiles interrupts finally, pushing against Scott's kneecaps with
one arm while holding up the other towards Derek. "Let's just calm down here."
That statement is met with dual glares, so Stiles grasps around for some change
in topic. Something to get them off the track they're currently on because this
can only end in tears…and blood, and busted organs. "How did you find out about
that anyway?"

Derek's eyes only briefly flick towards him; he keeps his focus on Scott. After
a moment, however, he finally grits out, "I overheard you in the police
station, talking to Gerard Argent."

"Okay," Stiles says before Scott can open his mouth again, because they're
getting somewhere here. Derek's gone from 'I'm going to maul you violently' to
'I'm going to maul you'. That's progress. "So, the whole thing was stupid and
Scott is sorry – Scott is sorry – and this won't happen again. Ever. Right,
Scott?"

Scott nods reluctantly, and considering they've already gone through this whole
apologizing thing before, that really should come faster or look more like he
means it. Derek doesn't look convinced, natch, but he's settling down a little
more. Stiles thinks back to … to the previous day and concludes that a physical
sign of contrition might make this more real to Derek, but before he can figure
out how to say that to Scott, so that Scott actually will show some sign of –
submission (because 'you're not', that is 'you're not my alpha', isn't really
an indication of anything like that happening willingly on Scott's part) –
Scott drops back down on the ground next to Stiles and crosses his arms over
his chest. He's avoiding looking at either Stiles or Derek, but that's the best
than can be hoped for right now, Stiles thinks.

Derek's eyebrows sort of twitch, before he grunts and turns away, deliberately
turning his back to them. Not a sign of trust; more like a sign of 'look how
superior I am to you', which might be true in Scott's case and is definitely
true for Stiles – at least as far as physical strength is concerned.

Well, maybe. Because Stiles is a werewolf now. Hah.

===============================================================================


Where were you?

Why did you not call?

Don't you know how worried I was?

What were you thinking, Stiles?

Drunk.

Lost my cell.

Scott forgot his at home.

Dad doesn't ask him why he reeks of sex; Stiles answers anyway because the
question is there in his eyes. He cleaned up his pants as best as he could, but
there's no hiding the smell and borrowing pants from Isaac or Derek wouldn't
have helped because they don't fit him, so.

So Stiles had drunken sex with someone. No, it wasn't Scott. Some boy, from
another town; Paul or something, Stiles can't recall.

No, he had not taken any drugs; Jesus, Dad. And his car was parked somewhere
else because he got into Paul's car – no, he can't remember the license plate –
because he shouldn't drive under the influence.

Yes, at least one thing where he acted responsibly.

Yes, he knows, he's still getting grounded – for life. Or for the foreseeable
future, at least.

===============================================================================


A shower has never before in his life felt this good. Stiles stands underneath
the spray for as long as he can, only stopping when the water turns from
pleasantly hot to cold. He dries himself off, then stoops to scoop up his dirty
clothes. They still reek, making his stomach turn unpleasantly with the memory
of the cage.

Aside from being dirty, there's nothing wrong with them, but... he can't quite
stand the thought of ever wearing them again, and that's stupid but.

But ten minutes later he's stuffing them into the garbage can. When he comes
in, his dad raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn't say anything. They eat
together; and it's silent and awkward and Stiles keeps his eyes firmly fixed on
his plate, while his dad purses his lips and talks about baseball.

Then dinner is over and Stiles is doing the dishes before slinking upstairs,
into his room.

===============================================================================


It's unreasonable to believe the video would already be up somewhere.

Stiles checks anyway, and voila. Nada.

He taps his fingers against the surface of the desk, shifts in his seat, throws
his head back. Twirls the chair, around and around until he's dizzy and then
some.

What he needs to do is his homework.

No, what he needs, really needs, to do is figure out what his personal anchor
is. Because he's a werewolf now.

But in order to do that he needs to raise his pulse, get angry or something,
and if he does that he might try to kill his dad.

Ergo, he needs a … a wolfsitter. Only, he's grounded, and his dad took his key
to his Jeep, and he's only getting it for when he needs to drive to school and
back, which - fuck, unfair. So fucking unfair.

It's not like he meant to get kidnapped and bitten by a werewolf.

Of course, his dad doesn't know that or this wouldn't be a problem because he
could say, 'Hey, Dad, I need to go to Scott's or maybe Derek's, if he's not
feeling too homicidal, because I need to learn how to werewolf correctly.'

Stiles is not going to involve his father in the supernatural business, though,
because he kind of likes his dad and anyone who's ever learned about werewolves
has had more crap thrown their way than they can deal with. And it's dangerous,
and he's not going to lose his dad, too; he's not.

Stiles jumps up from his chair and stomps over to his bed to throw himself on
it. Maybe if he ignores the internet for tonight he can get some shit done.

Only, of course, his homework would include an assignment where he has to
research something online. Of course. So, he's getting up again, and stomping
back to his desk, book, pen and notebook in hand. He should really install
LeechBlock one of these days, only he can't bring himself to do it.

And it wouldn't keep him from Googling 'werewolf porn vid' anyway. Unless he
blocked Google and Yahoo and freaking Lycos, which, lol, no. Stiles erases his
search history for the third time this evening and gets back to work.

Sometime around 2 a.m. his dad comes in and tells him to get offline and go to
bed. Stiles says yes only because the internet is evil and he still hasn't done
his math homework, which he's consequently doing in bed afterwards.

Then he's getting out of bed again because if he doesn't pack his bag the night
before, he'll forget half of what he needs the next day.

So, all in all, it's three a.m. when Stiles finally turns off the bedside lamp
and closes his eyes, and that's, of course, when Derek climbs in through his
window.

"No," Stiles says quietly, but clearly. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

"That eager to kill your dad? Rip his throat out? Eat his innards?"

"I need sleep, Derek," Stiles hisses, sitting up. "Can't we do this tomorrow,
oh shit." Right, he's grounded. They'll have to practice when his dad’s not
around or Stiles can sneak out, so he'll lose sleep either way, but – he's
just, just exhausted today. "My dad's got the night shift tomorrow night. He
won't know I'm gone, but he might come into my room tonight." Okay, unlikely,
and Derek's look tells Stiles that he caught onto that.

Stiles groans, and just. "I'm exhausted." And then because it might help:
"Derek, please." He drops his eyes and tilts his head, and shit, there's his
cock twitching again at the worst possible moment. And there is Derek, scenting
the air, and freezing.

Stiles fervently wishes it were possible to die of mortification. He also
wishes he weren't getting harder because of Derek not-staring at his dick. His
eyes are fixed on the top of Stiles's head in a way that Stiles just somehow
knows means he's doing it to avoid looking at Stiles's lap.

"Tomorrow night," Derek finally grits out and positively vaults out the window.
Crap. Stiles exhales noisily and drops back onto the mattress to stare up at
the ceiling. He's wide awake now, and sleep's about as far from his mind as it
can possibly be.

"Why," Stiles asks, definitely not addressing his penis even if he's sort of
looking in the direction, "did you have to do that to me?"

There's no answer. And considering the way Stiles's life has been going
recently, he's really fucking happy about that.

===============================================================================


Two hours of sleep make no one a happy camper. Stiles stumbles down the stairs,
feeling like an extra in The Return of the Living Dead. An extra zombie, that
is. He stops, almost tripping over his own feet, and puts 'Are zombies real?
and if so, how can you kill them?' on his mental research list. Like, he'll ask
Derek if they're real, and if they are – and Stiles so wouldn't be surprised –
he'll try to figure out how to take one out.

Just in case. Because this is his life now.

"Morning," his dad says from around a cup of coffee. Stiles yawns at him and
shuffles towards the kitchen cupboard to get a bowl and some Cocoa Krispies. He
places both on the table and sits down before remembering that he also needs
milk.

And a spoon. Mustn't forget the spoon.

"When did you go to bed?" his dad asks. Ah crap, he's going into uber-dad mode
again.

"As soon as you told me to," Stiles replies entirely truthfully, sitting down
on the chair again.

"Okay, when did you go to sleep?"

"Um, at three?" Stiles mumbles, ducking his head. Well, he tried to go to sleep
at three.

His dad harrumphs. "Go to sleep before midnight today. You need it."

Stiles nods and shoves a spoonful of Krispies into his mouth to avoid actually
lying out loud. The keys to his Jeep clatter down on the table and his dad
stands up to get himself another cup of coffee before pulling out paperwork.

Stiles thinks about stealing a glance, but – better not. Not when he's in
trouble already. Only the thought remains, of course, and has his leg moving up
and down rapidly while he's trying to restrain himself.

It's not like he doesn’t have about three billion problems he has to deal with.
No need to try and cure perpetual boredom by helping his dad solve crimes.
Likely it's about the massacre at the station anywhere, and considering that
Stiles knows exactly what went down there and cannot actually tell his dad,
yeah. Focus on his other problems.

Like, he's pretty sure it must have been Gerard Argent who was involved in that
business with the film crew. Also, he couldn't have known where Scott and
Stiles were going unless he somehow listened in.

Stiles tries to remember when they were talking about this and where they were,
and comes up with lunch and library. Was the library bugged?

Alternatively, was there someone who could have overheard them, could have
guessed what they were talking about, and known enough to tell an Argent?

Crap, he wished he'd been paying attention to who was in the library, but he'd
pulled Scott into the farthest corner and there was no one close enough to
overhear.

So, back to bugs. Or lip reading. Was the resolution on the cameras good enough
for lip reading?

"Stiles."

"Hm?"

"You're late."

Stiles raises his eyes from his bowl and blinks at his dad, then he blinks at
the clock in the kitchen.

And then he's jumping out of his chair, because, fuck, he's really going to be
late if he doesn't hurry now.

"Crap. Bye, dad!"

Dad sighs. "Bye, Stiles.

===============================================================================


It could be the fact that he's tired, but that's not quite it. Not quite the
reason. He keeps looking around at his classmates, expecting things to somehow
be different, which is stupid because nothing has changed for any of them.

And, well, things are different, but only because he can now hear what Diane is
telling Susan at the other end of the floor and because he can now smell
Greenberg's cologne about three rooms down. But all of this is so incredibly
normal. Like, of course, Diane is angsting about Jason, and of course,
Greenberg's cologne still reeks.

That's all normal, but he still feels like he's so different now, that
something so monumental has happened that surely everyone should somehow react
to that.

"Hey."

"Fuck, Scott!" Stiles flails, almost jumping, literally, three feet in the air.
Almost, because Scott grabs him before he does something that ordinary Stiles
can't possibly do.

Ordinary Stiles. Crap. Stiles groans, slapping a hand against his forehead. He
very deliberately doesn't look at the camera strategically placed in the upper
right corner of the hallway. Scott slings an arm over his shoulder and leans
closer. "You looked a little out of it. I know it can be overwhelming, at
first." Then he gently pushes Stiles forward, guiding him to their first class.

It's okay, and not. Stiles is easily distractible to begin with, no denying
that. Add to that lack of sleep and suddenly supernaturally good senses and
well. Keeping his mind on the lesson proves just a tiny bit harder than before.

On the other hand, he also overhears Lydia whispering the answer to her
neighbor when Finstock calls on him and Stiles had naturally not been paying
attention to him at that exact moment, so what with his super-werewolf ears
having picked up the right reply he can at least pretend to be focused on the
lesson.

Scott grins at him. Stiles half-heartedly returns his smile and tells himself
to pay better attention because that? Was pure luck.

If classes and hallways had been bad, it's nothing compared to the cafeteria.
The chatter of the students is loud, clatter of forks is louder, and being
hemmed in on all sides is downright insulting.

"Guys, back off."

No reaction. It's as if he hadn't spoken. Scott keeps stuffing his mouth and
Isaac keeps – also stuffing his mouth, and they're both ignoring the fact that
Stiles totally has enough self-control not to wolf out because Emily Wilson
won't stop scratching the plate with her fork. At most he'll jump over a couple
of tables, rip it out of her hand, bend it into a pretzel and throw it at her
feet.

At most.

"Derek says if you don't show tonight, he's going to pay you a very personal
and painful visit," Isaac tells him underneath his breath and Erica smirks at
him from across the table. Stiles' brain stutters to a halt at the 'personal',
flashing through several scenarios of what 'personal' could mean before limping
forward to comprehend the 'painful' part of the statement.

Isaac's eyebrows climb up into his hairline. "Huh."

"Shut up," Stiles mumbles, flushing, and Erica laughs. The fact that he had
some kind of sexual encounter with Derek, however horrifying and scary it was
once Derek had lost his higher brain functions, has done nothing to turn off
the reaction he gets whenever something sounds vaguely like Derek might get up
close and personal with him. In fact, it might have made it worse because he
now knows intimately what Derek's skin tastes like and how good it feels with
Derek's hands on him, keeping him from doing something stupid like pressing up
against wolfsbane-coated bars.

Scott clears his throat. "I don't see where Derek gets off making demands like
that. Stiles is my best friend. I'll help him." Scott's jaw is set in a
stubborn line and he's glaring at Isaac over Stiles's head. Stiles closes his
eyes. Oh God, no. Please, God, don't let him become the rope in Scott and
Derek's little tug of war.

"Derek is the alpha," Isaac snaps at him.

Derek doesn't even need to be here to turn Stiles into a length of rope.

Scott's eyes flash yellow, and Stiles just about fed up with this. "If either
of you latches onto me and tugs, I'm going to skewer you both." He takes a deep
breath to center himself because this won't be easy. "And I'm going to
Derek's."

"Stiles!" Scott's mouth is hanging open, which would be hilarious and a great
opportunity for merciless teasing any other time, but Stiles isn't in the mood.
He needs to learn control and he doesn't want to hurt Scott doing it. Derek's
an alpha. He can take it.

Now how to get that across diplomatically.

Stiles turns to Scott, catches his eyes. "If you think I'm going to give you
the opportunity to take revenge on me for the car thing–" he pauses. "–and the
lacrosse thing, you've got another think coming." He picks up his nearly empty
plate, nudges Isaac out of the way and leaves both of them sitting where they
are.

===============================================================================


So, he doesn't want to hurt Scott, or his dad. However, there are a handful of
people Stiles wouldn't mind ripping apart. Only not really because Stiles
doesn't do that, even to Harris, who keeps being an absolute ass.

"Have you forgotten how to speak?"

Stiles keeps his eyes firmly on the desk in front of him, counting backwards
from one hundred.

"No," he grits out around 87.

"Am I boring you then? Is that it?"

83. 82. Stiles shakes his head. Below the surface of his desk, he can feel his
nails – claws – digging into the palms of his own hand. His mouth is starting
to feel funny, too.

"Or did you forget to take your happy pills today, Mr. Stilinski?"

"What the hell?" That's Scott, Stiles registers vaguely, but then he's out of
his seat, busting out of the room and into the corridor, and it's all he can do
not to move as fast as he wants to because that would just be stupid. But
wolfing out right before a camera – fucking cameras, why; why – would be too.

Stiles rushes to the nearest bathroom, the girls’ room but he can't care about
that now, and into a stall and just sits down on the floor wedged in between
the toilet and the door. Sits and tries to calm down, but fuck, fuck he can't.

His vision's swimming red again, and he whimpers, drawing his legs to his body
and pressing his head against his knees.

He wants to howl.

He wants to rip Harris apart, sink his teeth into his throat and shake him,
shake him, shake him like somebody is shaking Stiles.

"Stiles.

"Stiles, man; come on. Snap out of it."

Stiles growls.

"You're not helping him."

"I know. What the fuck do I – shit. Grab his shoulders."

"I can't."

"Shit, shit, just. Sorry, Stiles."

Pain explodes in his hand, and Stiles gasps, surging up and away, but there's
nowhere to go and he hits the back of his head against the tiles, and wow, that
hurts about just as much as Scott fucking crushing his hand. "What. Are. You.
Doing?"

"You were wolfing out." Scott is looking at him with a cross between a well-duh
expression and some kind of guilty, please-don't-hate-me face. "Pain brings us
back."

Stiles blinks because, yeah, yeah. He's not flipping out anymore, so point, but
fuck.

Also, fuck. "Did I really just storm out of chemistry?" That was so not good,
not at all. On the other hand, eating Harris would have been worse. Stiles
totally bets he tastes bad.

"Yeah, you did." Isaac says, ever the bringer of good news. "And we all got
detention."

Fan-fucking-tastic.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Keys."

Stiles hands over the keys to his Jeep with a sigh, and trudges up the stairs.
It's a good thing that his dad's opinion of Harris is pretty low and he doesn't
even ask why he kept Stiles late because Stiles so does not want to explain
that he manfully kept himself from committing manslaughter in chemistry class.
That would go over well, especially when he starts in on the part where he was
imagining sinking his teeth into Harris's neck.

No, dad; not a vampire, but hey, you're close.

It's awful, Stiles thinks as he shuffles into his room, throwing his backpack
in one corner and himself onto the bed. No, scratch that. It's beyond awful.
It's... he was ready to kill someone. Really kill them, and he doesn't think he
could have stopped himself if Harris had come after him. If he hadn’t had the
chance to get out.

He can't do this. He needs to find his anchor and then never lose control over
himself ever again. Just stay human all the time, no wolfing out. He should
make a list of what his anchor could be, but before he does that he needs sleep
because his brain is even less useful than normal and shouldn't this have been
fixed?

Then again, Erica's epilepsy didn't really get fixed either, just sort of
pushed down or something.

A snort escapes him, then a yawn almost cracks his jaw. Stiles reaches for his
cell phone, setting the alarm for seven, and prepares to get some shut-eye
before working on his homework.

It takes him completely by surprise that he actually manages, and he starts
when his alarm goes off because he could have sworn he'd only closed his eyes,
like, maybe two minutes ago. There's a funny taste in his mouth, reminding him
that he didn't brush his teeth before lying down.

It's the taste of burning wood and burning flesh. Meaty. Terrible.

Stiles rolls out of bed, rushes towards the bathroom and inside. He sticks his
head under the faucet and turns it on, washes out his mouth, taking in water
and spitting it out, again and again, while fighting down the urge to throw up
or cry or maybe both.

Images swim to the forefront of his mind. A burnt out husk of a house, still
hot and smoking. Body bags lining the driveway.

"Oh God."

He straightens up, throws some water on his face before turning off the faucet.
The face, his face, in the mirror is pale, eyes blown wide, jaw twitching.

Derek, he thinks. Those are Derek's memories, have to be, and he'll never ever
joke about Derek's moodiness again. Ever. Because those images? If that had
been his mom and dad and Scott and fuck, everyone he's ever loved… Stiles would
be moody as fuck. Hell, he'd probably go on a rampage, and Jesus. Jesus.

Peter.

Feeling for Peter Hale was so not on the list of things he ever expected to be
doing.

He wipes his face dry with the hand towel, then throws it on the floor because
it needs to go in the wash. Returns to his room, grabs his backpack, and
settles down at his desk.

Can't really concentrate on homework, but has to try. He needs to read several
texts and the notes he copied from Scott, who is not a great note taker, but
it's better than the shit that is his own notes.

Two hours later and he's made some headway. He sort of understands what was
being talked about today in most of his subjects, and even managed to complete
a couple of assignments. Two left, and one of those isn't due until the day
after tomorrow.

He's feeling good, productive. His list of things he needs to do is slowly but
surely getting smaller and checking stuff off sure feels very satisfying.

Until he comes to the part that says, ww practice. Because it's just a little
after nine now, and he has to eat something, and still finish an assignment,
and his dad's gone by now, so he could go to Derek's place after a quick meal.
Only.

Only he doesn't have his car keys.

And Derek doesn't have a phone, or maybe he does, but Stiles sure doesn't have
the number. He turns on his computer out of habit, thinking. Derek didn't say
when he expected him. For all Stiles knows, he thinks Stiles will show up at
three am. So, that sort of gives him time. And he can find out Erica's number,
maybe. Or Boyd's. He has no illusions about Isaac because Isaac's living
situation has to have changed drastically.

Where does he live now?

No matter, Stiles, focus. Plan. Find out someone's phone number, do your last
assignment, eat something, then call Derek to tell him you don't have your
Jeep.

Stiles opens the browser, firmly intending to search for Erica's number in the
online phone directory, but then he gets sidetracked by six letters:
G.O.O.G.L.E. It stares at him, beckoning, and he types in 'werewolf porn vid'
again before he's even conscious of what his fingers are doing, watches the
site load, changes the setting to 'past 24 hours'.

The screen doesn't exactly load slowly, but by the time Google’s spitting up
results of the past 24 hours, his heart is beating frantically. Stiles leans
closer towards the screen, scrolling past one link after another. None look
promising, most are just discussion threads on a forum or two, and the preview
makes it clear they're talking about some older movies, mostly Ginger Snaps,
even though that's not really a porn vid.

He settles back on his chair, feeling lighter, though his face is prickling as
blood rushes back in.

He doesn't even know why he's looking. It's not like it would change anything.

He just, he just wants to know what he was doing the second time. He wants to
know what happened. He doesn't like the blank space in his memory.

There's a tap-tap-tap from behind him and Stiles starts, heart racing. Derek is
staring at him from the other side of the window, and Stiles remembers that he
locked it. He hits ctrl-F4 to close the tab, jumps up, rushes to the window and
hastily opens it.

"I haven't eaten anything yet, and I'm not done with my homework. Also can't
get at the Jeep because dad has my keys, so it's a good thing you showed up
because I don't know your number and that's really inconvenient, you know." He
pauses, changes tracks. "What are you doing here already?"

"You're grounded. It would be stupid to drive your Jeep through town." He
strides past Stiles to the desk, picking up a pen and scribbling something down
on a post-it note. "Let me know when you have your own cell again."

"Right," says Stiles. "Okay." That might take a while.

Derek nods and walks back to the window. "Hurry up; we have a lot of ground to
cover."

Stiles stares at Derek's ass moving out of the window, stares at his chemistry
assignment, and thinks, fuck it. He grabs a couple of granola bars, stuffs them
into the pockets of his hoodie and follows Derek outside.

===============================================================================

The ride to the old train station is a silent affair on Derek's part. Not so
much on Stiles's because the point when Stiles stops talking is the point when
something is going so seriously wrong that even he can't ignore it, but Derek
is really silent this time. Really, really silent.

Stiles grasps around for something to draw him into a conversation because the
silence has turned from uncomfortable to almost terrifying, and they're still
trapped in this car for at least five more minutes. He finally hits on
something that should be vaguely safe to discuss, and is actually useful, so he
goes with it.

"So, um. About the anchor thing. How do I figure out what it is?" Scott had it
easy. Scott's anchor just walked in through the door one day after he'd been
bitten. How Scott always manages to be so, hah, supernaturally lucky is beyond
Stiles.

Derek keeps staring straight ahead, which yeah, good, because that's the street
there and Stiles would rather not end up in a car accident – though he'd
probably survive that now, come to think of it. Anyway, Derek isn't answering
and Stiles is pretty sure Derek's capable of doing more than one thing at a
time. Mind, it was mostly stuff like 'jump and also growl menacingly', but! Two
things. Moving and makes sounds.

"It has to be something that grounds you."

"Oh, no shit, Sherlock."

Derek looks away from the oncoming traffic and snaps, "I can't help you find
your anchor. It's different for everyone, and personal. Only you can find it."

"Watch the street!" Stiles squeaks in reply, grabbing onto the seat as Derek
swerves to avoid mowing down a bicyclist.

"It could be a parent. Or your girlfriend. Or anyone who means something to
you." Almost killed a guy, now cool as a cucumber. Derek fucking ice cube Hale.
Meanwhile Stiles tries to get his breathing under control.

"Right, so, my dad maybe." Or his mom. Or Lydia. It could be Lydia, Stiles
thinks. Wouldn't that be awesome? He can already feel himself calming down at
the thought – or maybe it's just that Derek is parking the car because they've
finally arrived. He'll stick with the Lydia theory, though.

"Maybe," Derek replies absently. He gets out of the car and Stiles scrambles to
follow. The train station seems deserted at first glance, but looking more
closely he can see signs of habitation, and some of that stuff definitely
doesn't belong to Derek, like several textbooks that Stiles is pretty familiar
with. A second later, Isaac jumps down from the roof of an old train to land
gracefully a few yards before them.

"I'll be going out." He flicks his eyes towards Derek, waiting for him to nod
before brushing past them.

Well, that explains where Isaac lives.

Derek takes off his jacket, throwing it behind him – of course, it lands
perfectly on a rickety old chair that Stiles hadn't noticed before – and turns
towards Stiles. "You know how this goes. Try to get angry."

"Uh, problem. I don't feel angry right now."

"What was it that Harris said to get you all fired up today? Something about,
oh yes. Taking your happy pills. Did you?"

Stiles gapes at him for a moment before feeling the familiar rush of
humiliation and anger. "You, you fucking asshole!"

He glares at Derek, seeing him smirk and – seeing that his eyes don't really
reflect that. They're calculating, patient. Anger drains out of him quickly,
though irritation remains.

Derek makes a frustrated noise. "You have to practice, Stiles."

"Fuck, I know, alright? I just can't get angry now." He can dredge up
hopelessness, anxiety and bitterness, but the kind of homicidal rage that took
him over in school is beyond him at the moment. "Can't you just, just make me
shift?" Peter had made Scott shift. Stiles knows because Scott told him.

It occurs to him that Derek being his alpha means that Derek has a whole lot of
control over what Stiles does while he's all wolfed out, which is...which is
really worrisome actually because Derek sometimes doesn't think like a rational
human being. All the more reason to find his anchor ASAP.

Derek closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can, yes, but you
have to learn to force the shift by yourself."

"Yeah, we can do that second, though. Right? Not killing people is a bit more
important than getting a bit more hairy; not that I'd mind getting more hairy.
Hairy's manly. Only, the werewolf hairy look is actually a bit too hairy, I
think. Okay I'll shut up now."

A growl is beginning to trickle from Derek's mouth, building up like a tidal
wave and crashing over Stiles. He gasps, dropping to his knees. His pulse
starts to race and he's – shifting. He's definitely doing that and he should
feel, think of an anchor.

Thoughts of his dad drift through his mind, then Lydia, and his mom, and then
Scott, but he still feels that pull, that call and it's getting stronger than
ever and he can't concentrate.

Snarling.

He scrabbles forward; movement left. And that pulse, blinking red. Dark shadow.

Pain.

Fucking lot of pain.

Stiles throws up a hand in front of his face, but there are no more fists
flying at him, and he lowers his arm finally, looking up at Derek's face. He
stands up slowly, one hand on the wall behind him. They moved to the other side
of the hall, he notes. He can't remember doing it.

Derek stands in front of him, Scott's next to him. Derek's snarling. Someone
laughs.

The air still in his lungs whooshes out of him. There's a tight feeling around
his chest and – dammit, not another panic attack. No more panic attacks,
please. He doesn't like them.

There's, there's a breathing technique, he knows, he remembers from way back
when. Stiles claps a hand on his stomach, breathes in, counting to five. Holds
for two seconds, breathes out slowly. Repeats the pattern, starts breathing
normally (or as normally as he can).

When it feels like the panic is slowly receding, Stiles opens his eyes again –
he's closed them? He closed them.

Derek's no longer looking at him. He's leaning against an old bus, arms crossed
in front of his chest, face turned away, giving Stiles the illusion of privacy.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, then across his face, wiping off the fine
sheen of sweat.

He has to get a grip on himself, on his mind, on his wolf. If he can just find
a way to not shift, or keep his mind, he won't find himself some place, not
remembering how he got there or what he did.

"Again." It comes out low and breathy, so Stiles repeats himself, in a stronger
voice. "Let's try again."

Derek pushes off from the train, turns his head. His face is blank, but there's
an undercurrent of tension. He nods sharply, and Stiles prepares himself to try
and think of someone, something even, to anchor him to reality. He closes his
eyes, focuses.

"Go."

===============================================================================

It's 3:30 a.m. when Stiles climbs through the window and into his bedroom. He'd
have used the door – his dad isn't home yet – but he forgot his key when Derek
told him to follow earlier that evening. No matter; he can climb through
windows now like every other werewolf. Yeah.

Yeah.

He shuffles over to his desk, stuffs his school things into his bag. Homework
won’t be done tonight. Maybe he can do it during lunch. He'll look for a quiet
place. Or maybe Scott will let him look at his, if he did it, that is. If he
did it right. Scott usually tries, but doesn't really succeed half the time.

Unlike Stiles.

This whole werewolf thing is going to fuck with his grades so much.

He briefly considers taking a shower; he stinks of sweat. In the end he decides
that everyone will just have to live with it. Derek was right. Stiles needs to
sleep, and how hilarious is it that Derek of all people basically told him to
go to bed. Derek generally keeps him out of it. Like Scott.

Stiles takes off his shoes, his clothes, leaves his boxers on and climbs under
the covers. This whole night had been an exercise in futility. Derek making him
change, Stiles failing at controlling himself, Derek bringing him out of the
whole bloodlust mindset either by punching him or using some weird alpha voodoo
crap, crouching over Stiles and snarling in his face, demanding Stiles's
attention. Stiles's. Not Stiles's sudden wolfy instincts that had him blink
back to awareness with his head turned submissively, though those were there,
too. Though Derek only did that once before going back to just using Stiles as
a punching bag.

And Stiles would swear it was because Derek liked causing him pain or maybe he
thought pain was a better motivator, but he'd looked really weirded out that
one time.

Like he remembered something.

Stiles shakes that thought out of his head, turning to other things. He needs
to make a list tomorrow, he thinks. A list with people he could think about,
who could be his anchor. Because he needs to find that anchor and he's no
closer to that than he was back in school when he tried to kill Harris.

At least he can't really muster much anger either. That was a total failure,
too, which is a good thing in a way, though Derek looked disappointed. Stiles
doesn't care though. If he can manage to stay human all the time, that's good.
Works. Until the full moon, but he's not gonna think about that.

===============================================================================

He remembers their voices better than he remembers their physical appearance.
That should bother him somehow because what if he sees mug shots of them?

If he sees mug shots, though, they're not present. He can't catch their scent;
can't hunt them down and rip them apart for what they did. For what they made
him do. For everything.

No police, a voice whispers. No police, Stiles agrees. Not getting Dad involved
in this.

===============================================================================

Scott did his homework - sort of. Stiles stares at the chicken scratches and
tries to tell himself that beggars can't be choosers. It's just..."Did you do
that on your bike or something?"

"Uh," Scott answers, flushing. And Stiles has been joking. Joking. Jesus.

"You did. You so did. I can't believe – how? No, why?"

Scott grins at him self-consciously. "I'd kinda forgotten about it? Like, you
know, you."

Like him, yeah. Stiles stares at Scott's notebook. He's almost completely
certain that nothing in this whole assignment can be right because how can you
think about chemistry and ride your bike and still arrive in one piece? But the
only alternative is hitting up Danny and Danny is a firm believer in 'do your
own homework'.

He doesn't even think about asking anyone else because, well, no one else is
even likely to give him the time of the day. Except maybe Allison, but Allison
has been kind of distant what with her mom.

Well, there's also Greenberg, but...it's Greenberg. No one likes Greenberg.
He's not even sure that Greenberg likes Greenberg.

"Two minutes, Stiles."

Too late to go to someone else. He copies what he can decipher, writing quickly
and almost illegibly, and not really understanding what he's writing either.

Stupid. He should have started with chemistry last night before doing anything
else.

The bell rings and Stiles scribbles down the last couple of words, pushing
Scott's notebook back at him as Harris strides towards the door to close it. He
leans back, trying hard to look like he's fully prepared for whatever may come,
only he never really knows how to look in these situations. Should he look
bored? Eager? Should he look at the pen in his hand, or at his book, or out of
the window – no, no. Bad. Out of the window is bad; he might look like he's
distracted and – holy shit is that Derek?

Stiles twists his face away, looks around to catch Scott's eye – not happening,
he's busy staring at Allison from afar – then finally Isaac's two rows before
him and one seat to the right. Isaac raises an eyebrow. Stiles mouths 'Derek'
at him and Isaac shrugs and then there's Harris standing right in front of
Stiles and in his line of sight.

"Mr. Stilinski, if I could have your attention?" It's not really a question, so
Stiles doesn't answer, which might have been a mistake. Harris lets his index
finger trail over the chicken scratches in Stiles's notebook, and Stiles
wonders if he can read anything at all.

"I trust that – given the fact that you were first mentally and then physically
absent – you thought it wise to catch up on the material we covered last
lesson."

That's a trick question if he ever heard one. He can't say no obviously, but he
can't claim to have caught up because he'd be caught in a lie a moment later
and claiming to not have understood the material... well, Stiles really doesn't
want to go there.

Say you forgot. No

Say you had a headache. Oh God, worse.

What comes out of his mouth is, "Sure!" Stiles could seriously punch himself,
but he holds back with the whole flagellation thing for the moment. Harris is
doing a much better job of it anyway.

It's worse than yesterday. Stiles grips the edge of his seat with one hand as
Harris lets lose one scathing remark after another even as he strides back
towards the front and tells Stiles to follow and show his knowledge. Stiles
rises woodenly from his chair, keeping his eyes down because he can't tell what
color they are at the moment.
 
===============================================================================

Naturally, logically, he can’t show what he knows because he knows shit and
Harris finds new and creative ways of telling him so. Stiles is biting the
inside of his cheek so hard, he can taste blood and looks straight ahead,
towards the window, trying to avoid everyone’s gaze.

Everyone’s but Derek’s, that is, because it is Derek lurking outside the
window.

Stiles tries to focus on him, focus on the way his chest moves as he breathes,
on the way the wind tousles his hair, trying everything in his power to block
out the sound of Harris’ voice.

As such, it takes him a moment before he notices that Harris has finished
laying into him. There are snickers coming from some of his classmates, mostly
Jackson and his friends.

"Sit down, Mr. Stilinski," Harris says, and Stiles walks stiffly back to his
seat.

===============================================================================

Stiles usually doesn't dwell on his dreams. They tend to be on the weird side
when good, and on the downright terrifying and panic-inducing when not. He
doesn't believe in dream interpretation, in looking at symbols (did you walk
through a door? changes will happen!) or any of that stuff. He knows what's
giving him nightmares and doesn't need it spelled out.

When he dreams about ripping out people's throats, that's pretty
straightforward and he doesn't need a book or some webpage to tell him what it
means. That it means something.

It might just be his new more feral instincts. Or it might be something else.
Someone else. He needs to talk to Derek.
 
===============================================================================

Stiles usually sees Derek by day, but lately they've been meeting at night and
that felt right somehow. Stiles sneaking to off to the parking lot during lunch
and finding Derek next to his Camaro should not make him feel weird, except it
sort of does. Like Derek is his older boyfriend and they're meeting for some
clandestine making out, and, really, meeting at night would be better for this.

Stiles doesn't ask why Derek is here. He's pretty sure he knows. As such, he
just leans against the car, next to Derek, looks straight ahead and says,
"Thanks."

Derek grunts.

"No really. I like this shirt, see. Wouldn't have wanted to try and get blood
stains out of it."

"Getting bloody-minded, are we?"

Stiles gives him a look. "Dude, you so do not know me if you think that's a
recent development. I'm totally bloody-minded. And vengeful. Just ask Scott."

Derek just sort of hums low in his throat, like Stiles has just said something
totally amusing and he doesn't believe a word of it. That's fine, 'cause that's
what Stiles was going for.

"Like, see, just last night I dreamed I was going to go and slaughter those
guys who kidnapped us. Vengeful, see. Bloody-minded." Entirely unlike himself.
Stiles wouldn't mind if his dad busted some asses.

Derek freezes for a moment, then licks his lips and visibly puts some effort
into relaxing. The wind's still blowing slightly and it ruffles his hair,
blowing it this way and that, and Stiles has to fight the urge to just reach
over and fix it.

"And if I am?" Derek asks. He lets his eyes flash to red briefly as if he's
losing control over himself, but Stiles knows better now, because Derek doesn't
smell like fury. He smells cold somehow, compressed.

Waiting to explode. Waiting, like he has a plan or he's stalking his prey and,
yeah, Jesus, that's it.

"They're human. Let the human authorities handle it." It's out of his mouth
like a reflex because Stiles believes, trusts, his dad and people like his dad
and if there's nothing supernatural fucking around, this sort of thing is best
left to the authorities. Even if his dream self had a different opinion.

"How many times do you think they've done that?" Derek's in front of him now,
staring him down, even though they're the same height, but it's Derek. The
alpha wolf, and something in Stiles can't help but try to make himself smaller
even if just in his mind. "The wolfsbane, the cage, that kind of equipment. The
scratches in the floor. You must have noticed them."

While you were on all fours getting humped by an out-of-his mind werewolf. As
if hearing what Stiles' mind supplied for the rest of that sentence or maybe
thinking it himself, Derek flinches back from him.

And it hits Stiles then that for all that Derek had suggested they avoid
killing Stiles by having sex, he truly didn't want to have sex with Stiles or
anyone else for that matter and had only suggested it to save Stiles's life.

And Stiles didn't even thank him. Can't remember thanking him for that, and he
doesn't know how to do it now because, because what do you say to someone who
forced themselves to have sex with you in order to save your life? 'Thanks,
babe, was it totally horrible for you too?'

Was it worse actually?

"Stiles?"

Stiles blinks, noting that Derek is standing about as far from him as possible
while still being within normal, human, hearing distance for a conversation.

"I...I think I'm going to be late for my next class." God, he's such a coward.
"Bye." He takes off running, turning his back on Derek and taking the long way
round the cars, so he doesn't have to go past him.

Surprisingly – or maybe not; shit, definitely not – Derek doesn't come after
him or call out to him or anything, and Stiles makes it back to school with
plenty of time to spare.

Coward, the thought echoes through his mind again. Cowardly coward.
Chapter End Notes
     The next chapter might take a bit because April shapes up to be one
     hell of a month work-wise. My apologies for the delay. /o\
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     My apologies for the long way. Real life has been kicking my (and my
     beta's) butt spectacularly and is continuing to do so. Many, many
     thanks to everyone who's left a comment. I'm not ignoring you
     deliberately. /o\
     Speaking of gratitude, I would like to thank evitably, who has taken
     over betaing for this fic. You're amazing. ♥
The guidance counsellor corners him after the classes let out about setting up
an appointment, to talk. Stiles is confused for a moment about how she could
possibly know about what happened with Derek and Scott and everything, before
remembering that one of his classmates is dead.

He tries really hard not to think about how crap just keeps piling up and up
and up.

They set the appointment for the morning of the lacrosse game, and Stiles
writes it down on his arm because he doesn't have a new cell yet and he's
basically lost without a calendar to keep track of things and the remaining
copy is on the harddrive of his computer -- which is at home. Where he should
be because he's grounded.

He says goodbye to Ms. Morrell and heads towards his jeep, settling into the
driver's seat. The parking lot is emptier than usual because he's running late.
Stiles starts looking for Derek's camaro before he knows what he's doing.

It's not there, of course, and neither is Derek, and Stiles can't figure out
how he feels about that. Relief is there, but also guilt, and he's also a bit
sad, he thinks, which is stupid.

Stiles runs a hand over his face. His usually way of dealing with problems is
ignoring them until they go away, but he's also his father's son even if his
dad is currently not really feeling the love -- or maybe feeling too much of it
and hurting all the more for it, for Stiles's lack of...not trust because
Stiles trusts his dad plenty, but for his refusal to really talk about his
problems. Only, of course, it would look like a lack of trust -- and he's
getting distracted.

Although this is still about trust in a way because his dad has raised him not
to be that guy, the one who abuses the trust of girls -- or boys -- who're
passed out drunk on the sofa. And, while Derek was neither passed out nor on
the sofa, he was definitely out of his mind and even if Stiles didn't cause it,
isn't really responsible for it, that doesn't mean Derek might not feel that
Stiles took -- that Stiles...

Stiles didn't want to do that, didn't really give his consent either because
forced consent was as good -- or bad, definitely bad -- as non-consent, but out
of the two of them Derek made the greater sacrifice.

He was wronged more than Stiles and he probably kinda associates Stiles with
that whole thing now, and that is just horrible because Stiles doesn't want him
to and, dammit, he's making this about himself again.

He should...they should clear that up, like Stiles apologizes and offers his
gratitude and just says it out loud, so it's there and Derek can, can react
however he wants to that. Stiles is fine with it. Will be fine with it, with
whatever Derek will do. And then maybe, maybe, this whole tangle of thoughts
can get untangled and he can be, can finally think straight again and not feel
like his head is about to explode because he doesn't even know what to feel
anymore, never mind about thinking.

So, that's what he'll do, once he sees Derek again. Hopefully tonight.
===============================================================================

Erica and Boyd are there this night, and Stiles doesn't get a chance to talk to
Derek alone.

He still sucks as much as ever as a werewolf.
 
===============================================================================

"Do you ever get the feeling," Stiles asks, "like your days just run into each
other, cracking their heads and giving you a concussion?"

"Huh?" Scott's not looking at Stiles naturally. Stiles doesn't try to figure
out what he's looking at because he really doesn't need to look in order to
know.

"Dude, hello? Stiles to Scott, we have a problem. That is, I have a problem,
aaaaand you're not listening at all."

"No, no, I'm listening. Someone's got a concussion?" Scott turns back to him,
trying to look attentive and failing miserably. Stiles flaps his hand.

"Not what I was -- you know what, never mind." Stiles turns back to his plate,
trying to convince himself that the food actually smells good or looks good or
tastes good -- or, hell, just gives off a vague vibe of good.

"Derek's not helping you, is he?"

Stiles looks back up from his plate, lowers the fork he was about to shove into
his mouth. "He's -- helping. I mean, he's trying. It's just--" He stops and
sighs, drops the fork on the plate. It splatters food all over the table. "I
can't figure out what my anchor is. Hell, I can't even figure out how to
transform, how do you do that? And no, I know, anger. But I'm not angry. I'm
cool as a cucumber. I'm downright stoic."

"You were plenty furious in chem."

"Yeah, but that's Harris. He's like that potion that Dr. Jekyll drinks to turn
into Mr. Hyde. I can't really take him with me to practice." Well, maybe tied
up, in the boot of Derek's car. "Look, that's not the important part for now.
The important part is finding my anchor before the next full moon. I've gone
through a list of people I know and who I even vaguely care about -- hell, I
even tried thinking of Jackson; Jackson, dude, and I don't like him at all -
- but nada. Nothing."

Scott pulls a face, possibly at the idea of Jackson as someone's anchor. Stiles
was getting kind of desperate when he hit upon it, so he totally understands.
"Okay, so. Maybe it's not someone you care about?"

"Does that even make sense to you?" Stiles asks. "I mean, they're sort of
supposed to pull you back and calm you, right? I don't get calm thinking of,
say, Coach Finstock."

"Dude, I don't know either. All I know is that Allison is my anchor and I spend
most of my waking hours thinking of her, so. I don't know. Who do you think
about most of the time?"

Stiles just -- just opens his mouth and, but nothing comes out because he's -
- because the person he most thinks about nowadays, well, that's.

That's Derek.

Jesus fuck.

"What? What is it?"

He can't really force any words past his lips right now, and it takes him way
too long to notice that his mouth is hanging open.

It would make sense. Hell, it makes so much sense, only that it doesn't and, oh
god. "Scott," Stiles says slowly, carefully, because it's really fucking
important right now that he doesn't say what's on his mind. "I need you to do
me a favor. After school."

"Sure." And Scott doesn't even ask what it is. Best friends, Stiles thinks.
Scott may be an idiot sometimes and do really stupid things like kiss Lydia,
but they're best friends for a reason.

"Thanks, man."
 
===============================================================================

It's like every adult at the school has decided to conspire against him. Stiles
and Scott are on their way out of the building when Gerard Argent stops them in
the middle of the hallway.

Smiling.

Like he didn't hand over three people to some assholes who wanted to see one of
them get eaten by the other two.

"Scott. Stiles. I may call you Stiles, yes? Only, I feel that I have become
quite familiar with you in recent days." He pauses, waiting for Stiles to make
the connection, which doesn't take long at all since he's been thinking about
it already. Gerard Argent smiles wider when he takes in Stiles's furious -
- humiliated -- expression, and Stiles can feel the wolf pulling at him. He
rams his hands into his pockets and means to lower his eyes, but the wolf won't
have that. It doesn't feel like submitting to that asshole in front of him,
even though Stiles isn't submitting; he just doesn't want to obviously wolf
out.

Gerard is still smiling.

Showing his teeth.

It's a challenge. Stiles's heart beat sky-rockets; reds inches into his vision
and he reminds himself that Gerard will kill him if he changes right now. The
hunter will have absolutely no compunction about it, and he'd probably be right
because there are still a few stragglers walking past them, oblivious to what's
going on, and Stiles might hurt them.

Derek, he thinks, and hopes to god that he's right.

Derek. Derek, Derek, Derek. Derek's scent and the way he growled and Derek's
hands drawing him away from the bars and --

Stiles comes back to himself, feeling shaky and unreal, but human.

Gerard's smile has vanished from his face. He's looking more serious than
Stiles has ever seen him before. "Now, I know that young boys have a temper,
all those hormones, the changes in the body, but I would be ever so upset if
you couldn't keep your temper, Stiles. It would result in quite a lot more
disciplinary action than a simple detention."

He emphasizes 'disciplinary'. Stiles isn't stupid and Scott isn't really all
that dumb either, but apparently dumb enough to start growling lowly. Stiles
rams an elbow into his side. If Stiles manages to keep himself in check, Scott
had better. "I'll try to behave, sir," Stiles grits out. It comes out rougher
and lower than his voice usually sounds.

"See that you do, young man."

He turns his back on them, confident that neither Stiles nor Scott will attack,
and walks back towards the principal's office.

"If he weren't Allison's grandfather--"

"You still wouldn't kill him," Stiles finishes because Scott isn't like that,
and Stiles isn't really like that either -- and if he keeps saying that to
himself often enough, he might start to actually believe it at one point, even
if right now it doesn't feel that way.

Scott looks at him, shoulders slumped, voice quiet as he asks, "You okay?" And
suddenly they're no longer talking about Gerard. Stiles knows Scott isn't
asking him about his little anger problem just now. Yet, he can't talk about
this, not yet. Or ever really.

"Yeah," he says, "I'm fine. I'm like weed, you know. Nothing can keep me down
for long." Scott nods at him, accepting, because that's what best friends do.

Then he grins. "Because you get people high?"

And that, what? "Did you just make a pun? Oh my god, you did." Stiles slings an
arm around Scott's shoulders, hugging him close and he starts to walk to the
double doors. "I'll mark this day in my calendar. Scott McCall has learned to
pun."

"Dude, shut up."

"Never. I wouldn't be me if I did."

Scott snorts and pulls away from him as they exit the building. "Right, so. We
do it at your home?"

Stiles halts, suddenly feeling a little light-headed again. "I, yeah? Or you
know, it's fine, actually. I -- I think I got it."

"Your anchor," Scott breathes. "You were smelling so angry back there and then
your heart rate went down suddenly."

"Uh, yep, Yeah, it did. So, I'm fine. Thank you. Bye!" He almost jumps down the
stairs before remembering himself in time and just racing down -- perhaps a
little too fast for the average human. Scott calls after him, but he ignores it
because he just doesn't want to tell him yet. Telling Scott would mean
acknowledging it, and before he can do that, he has to think this through
first, figure out what it means.

Because it sure means something.
 
===============================================================================

His dad isn't home, so Stiles puts the keys on the kitchen table and makes
himself a sandwich. He notes absently that they're running low on mustard and
writes it down on the sheet of paper they keep next to the fridge. It already
has 'flour' and 'coffee' on it; the first in Stiles's handwriting, the second
in his dad's.

He puts the sandwich on a small plate, grabs a coke from the crate in the aisle
and heads up to his room.

He's not quite as tired as he was the day before and the day before that;
mostly because Derek sent him home earlier and Stiles had been totally fine
with that because getting his ass kicked in front of Boyd and Erica was really
far from his favorite pasttime.

Also Derek was looking even more constipated than he usually did, and he kept
shooting looks at Erica and Boyd, and they kept shooting looks at him, and
there was definitely something going on, but no one would talk. It all was
pretty funny when added to the fact that Stiles had also wanted to talk to
Derek.

Derek was really fucking popular these days.

Stiles sits down at the chair Derek usually sits in if he's sitting in Stiles's
room at all and isn't prowling around like an angry tiger in a cage, and shit.
No, not going there.

Derek doesn't pace in cages. Derek sits in a corner and looks gloomy.

Not going there, Stiles. Not.

Stiles puts the bottle of coke down next to his feet and starts eating his
sandwich, trying for slow because his latest procrastination tactic seems to be
eating before thinking about stuff. Problem with that is, of course, that he
can think and eat at the same time. Hell, he can even talk at the same time.
Might not look pretty, but he can. He's a great multi-tasker.

He puts plate and sandwich on the bed and reaches down for his coke to take a
swig. It's his undoing. The conversation with Scott swims back to the forefront
of his mind and then the run-in with Gerard, and yeah.

Yeah, his anchor is definitely -- unbelievably -- Derek Hale.

It should have been obvious, shouldn't it? If he'd just been thinking because
not getting angry with Derek in the room -- Derek, who's actually pretty good
at pissing people off -- should have tipped him off. Hell, the one time Derek
was leaning over him, probably wasn't some kind of alpha voodoo, but Stiles
taking notice of his anchor.

Which probably means that Derek's figured it out before him.

Which means he didn't tell Stiles and, fucking why? Why?

They're so going to have a talk about this.
 
===============================================================================

Derek doesn't bother climbing in this time. Hell, he doesn't even bother coming
to the window, just stands in the yard and says Stiles's name, like he's
certain that Stiles is awake and waiting for him.

Which Stiles is, of course. He huffs, but creeps over to the window and out.
His dad is already asleep, and Stiles took another nap before attacking his
homework in preparation for tonight's excursion. They have a lot to discuss.

Stiles jumps to the ground, landing as easily as he did the nights before. It
still hasn't stopped to amaze him that he can do crap like this now, and he
actually tries to avoid it whenever possible. Or whenever he's in his right
mind. He doesn't want to get used to it and accidentally do it in front of his
dad, because his dad would notice. He's the sheriff. He notices things out of
the ordinary.

Derek walks off to his car, not bothering with a hello and Stiles follows,
sliding into the passenger seat and waiting for Derek to get in.

Derek starts the car, and this is probably the best moment because Stiles will
lose every last bit of courage if he doesn't get the words out soon, and then
he'll be left with the part of the conversation where he snarls at Derek for
not telling him about the anchor thing and he really shouldn't do that first.

"Derek," he says, which is a good start. A great start. Now if only the rest of
the words would come.

He's apparently been silent for so long that Derek feels the need to speak, and
he should really try this tactic more often. "What."

"Thank you," Stiles blurts out. He's planned to look straight ahead during this
conversation, but nerves and curiosity win out and he steals a glance at
Derek's face -- which mostly shows confusion. "For when you, for when you
didn't kill me."

It's a good thing that Stiles has awesome reflexes now or he'd have hit the
windshield. Safety belts, awesome things. Next time he shouldn't forget them.
Stiles prises his fingers from the dashboard in front of him as the camaro
screeches to a sudden halt because Derek hits the breaks for like no fucking
reason at all and turns to stare at Stiles. And gape. Like, true facts, gape.

"Thank...me? You're thanking me?"

Stiles flushes. "I'm sorry; I know it's a little late. I should have done it
sooner." He ducks his head slightly. Derek continues to imitate a fish, so
Stiles pushes on because now that he's started he may as well get everything
out. "And I, I wanted to apologize, too? Like, I know that... I mean, they put
that shit in the room and Gerard Argent probably sold us and by the way, I have
to tell you about our encounter with him today, don't let me forget, but
anyway. I'm sorry. You probably -- no, you really didn't want to...with me, but
you did anyway, to save my life, so thank you. And sorry."

"Are you...no." Derek's face contorts and he buries it in both his hands.

"Uh, Derek?"

"Just shut up, for one minute, Stiles. Just one." It comes out muffled, but
that doesn't really account for the almost tortured tone of voice. Stiles
didn't think he said anything to upset Derek, but maybe Derek hadn't wanted to
be reminded of that at all? Yeah, Stiles thinks a little guiltily, that's
probably it. He opens his mouth to apologize again, then clamps it shut,
pressing his lips together to keep the waterfall of words in until Derek looks
like he can deal with it.

He's almost vibrating by the time Derek looks at him again. He catches Stiles's
gaze and says slowly and clearly, "It is not your fault."

"Dude, I know that." He does. That isn't the point. The point is, hell, he's
not exactly sure what the point is, only that he can't stand the thought of
Derek feeling violated.

"No, I don't think you do. If anyone takes blame for this, it's me."

"You saved my life!"

"I assaulted you!"

"You had no choice!"

"Neither did you! Stiles, for fuck's sake. I may not have been in control of
what I did, but my wolf was. My wolf is a part of me."

"Your wolf," Stiles grits out, "was drugged out of both your skulls. And so was
I and so was Scott. I'm not blaming him for trying to eat me; I'm not blaming
you for, basically, humping me."

Derek mumbles something under his breath. Stiles catches it only because his
hearing is awesome now, fuck yeah. "You wanted to," he repeats while Derek
looks anywhere but at Stiles.

Derek flinches. "It wouldn't have worked otherwise. You saw it with Scott."

Damn. Just damn. Stiles feels more stupid now than he's ever done before
because he's usually the one to pick up on shit and not miss everything
completely. "You're attracted to me," he says, a little wonderingly maybe,
because that just doesn't happen to him. People he maybe sorta finds attractive
don't usually find him attractive back. It's unheard of.

And Derek still looks like he wants to throw himself off a cliff.

"Derek," Stiles says and reaches for his shoulder when Derek doesn't react. The
muscles under his hand freeze, but Derek turns his head to look at Stiles
finally, and it's Stiles this time who has a hard time holding his gaze. How
can one person feel so much misery? It's so much that even Stiles begins to
feel awful, and -- "Dude, are your emotions rubbing off on me?"

"I'm your alpha," Derek replies, which Stiles translates into 'yes, of course,
you dumbass.' Only maybe without the dumbass part because Derek doesn't look
particularly insulting right now.

"Right," Stiles says, "and the only reason you're my alpha and not the guy who
freaking ate me is because you find me attractive, which is kinda on the mutual
side, by the way, but let's not get distracted by that, though I think you
should be made aware. Anyway. Thank you for saving my life, and don't you dare
feel guilty about that."

Derek's jaw tightens; he gives a jerky nod, and Stiles is one hundred percent
certain that he's still feeling guilty, but he gets the feeling that nothing he
says right now will get through to Derek. He'll have to try again in a few days
once Derek's had some time to brood.

It's not until they're parked at Werewolf Central and Derek is about to get out
of the car that Stiles remembers he actually wanted to talk about a whole lot
of shit with Derek, not least of all how Derek totally failed to inform Stiles
of knowing what his anchor is.

Stiles opens his mouth to bring it up, but closes it again because his tongue
has tied itself into a knot figuratively speaking.

It's...it's Derek being his anchor. Derek who he sorta finds attractive; Derek,
who finds him attractive back, and who very definitely did not reveal that he
thought that Stiles thinks of him as someone so important that he can anchor
Stiles to sanity or whatever constitutes sanity in Stiles's case.

Derek, who blames himself.

Stiles thumps his head against the headrest of the car and closes his eyes. He
hears the sound of a car door opening and closing, of Derek walking towards the
old railway station and inside.

Can't anything be simple?

Stiles removes his seatbelt, gets out. Wonders for a brief moment why Derek
would leave his car unlocked, but he'd probably hear anyone trying to drive off
with it. Stiles knows that dogs can recognize their owner's car by the sound of
the engine. He thinks werewolves probably can, too.

He should test if he can do that too, come to think of it. Might be useful to
have some kind of warning before his dad comes back from work because while he
doesn't want to have to, say, hide a fugitive in his room, he also knows that
these things will keep happening and he'll need to keep things from his dad.

It would be a terribly depressing thought, if he allowed to let himself dwell
on it, which he doesn't.

At all.
===============================================================================

The railway station is empty but for Derek and his gloomy disposition; even
Isaac's backpack is gone, though there's still a stack of his clothing lying
neatly folded in one of the train cars.

Stiles knows this because Derek has decided to start this evening of lessons by
offering him a coke, grabbing another for himself and taking several steps away
from Stiles once his new pack member has cautiously sat down in one of the
seats.

The next part of the lesson seems to involve lots of staring. Not like that's
anything new in general, but given that their last conversation was...not good,
and that Stiles would actually like to practice a bit now that he knows what
his anchor is, and actually, he should really tell Derek about Gerard Argent...

On second thought, it's not like Derek can do anything about him.

And on third thought, there is a lot that Derek could do that would totally
result in a blood bath.

Which leaves Stiles with nothing to talk about unless he starts rambling about
something totally innocuous and okay. Stiles is pretty good at just talking
even if tempers are flying high and tension's at the max, but at the moment, he
just can't find it in himself to pretend that Derek doesn't think he raped
Stiles.

"Um," Stiles says in a desperate attempt to get out of this stalemate.
"Shouldn't we be practicing?"

Derek shakes his head, but not really in negation. He looks down at his coke
and Stiles follows his gaze to see Derek's thumb tracing the neck of his coke
bottle, round and round. It's hypnotic.

"It's not always pleasant," Derek says somewhat out of the blue. Stiles gives
him his best confused face.

"Your anchor might not be pleasant." His eyes flick to the left briefly,
towards the pile of Isaac's clothes and his fingers tighten on the bottleneck.

There's no way Derek can't hear his heart beating at a furious pace; his pulse
is climbing up his throat, going thump-thump-thump out of Stiles's partially
open mouth. "Derek," he stutters. "I -- I don't hate you at all."

Derek's head jerks and he stares -- again with the staring -- at Stiles like he
can't believe what Stiles is saying. And no really, they have to have like
three billion therapy sessions together now or something because Stiles is
really sick of Derek beating himself over the head and he's only known about
that for less than an hour.

"I was talking about your anchor, not -- not me."

"Dude, you're--" Stiles's mouth snaps abruptly shut because, because no
freaking way.

No, seriously, how could he not know?

He almost blurts the question out, but stops himself at the last second. If he
tells Derek, that idiot is just going to think he's Stiles's anchor because
Stiles hates him.

"I'm what?"

"Too late. I think I've figured it out. Today." He remembers how he found out
exactly just in time to omit the details that might end in a massive bloodbath.
Instead he tells some story about getting angry at school (true), and Scott
actually saying something helpful (also true) about how his anchor was someone
he thought about constantly. "So, I got it," Stiles says. "I mean, I'm pretty
sure. Can we practice, and maybe you could just give me a few seconds more to
come around?"

Derek continues to frown at him the same way he's been frowning all through
Stiles's rambling reply.

Probably he's picking up on your tripping heartbeat, doofus.

Not lying outright doesn't mean you don't know you're keeping information from
someone.

"Fine," Derek says at last, putting the bottle on the floor and standing up.
He's trying for casualty, but Stiles is picking up on the tension anyway, which
Derek has to know. Which begs the question why he's doing it. "If it works we
can get started on having you shift deliberately."

Stiles tries not to groan as he follows Derek out of the train compartment. He
really should have thought to ask Scott how he did it with Allison around
because he's not sure how he can do it with Derek around and at one point or
another Derek is going to cotton on. "I'm totally fine with not shifting if I
don't have to, you know."

He should have expected to be flattened against the nearest flat surface. It's
when Derek lets go almost straight away and literally jumps back from him that
Stiles realises that Derek has been trying to respect his personal space for
the past couple of days. Not because he's getting triggered by Stiles, but
because he thinks Stiles might be traumatized.

He's having a day of revelations it seems. Hopefully, the world won't end.

Derek is looking at him guiltily for a moment before arranging his face back to
his usual gloominess. "And what will you do when you're attacked then? Run
away?"

Stiles nods because, hey, that's what people with common sense do.

Derek's smile is disconcerting. Unhappy, bitter. "What if it's Scott who needs
help? Or your father? Will you run then, too?"

Stiles shakes his head mutely, and Derek's expression turns smug, though the
bitter smile remains.

"Try to think of that then. Of someone going after your dad. Hurting him. Don't
you want to rip them apart for what they did?"

Are we still talking about me? Stiles thinks even as the taste of ash settles
on his tongue. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine his dad hurt, burnt. His
mind shies away from the image. Too visceral, too real. He forces himself not
to gag.

He can't focus on that, needs something else. Gerard Argent's creepy smile
jumps to the forefront almost immediately, and Stiles thinks 'to hell with it'
and focusses on that. On the words he said; on the fact that he had probably
watched.

And there it is, the anger.

Stiles growls deeply even before he's aware of wanting to. There's a kind of
pull on his nails and his ears and face feel funny, tingly.

It's the first time he actually notices. Before he's always been distracted by
something else or it went too fast or both.

"Good," Derek murmurs, sounding far-off somehow while still incredibly close.
"Hold onto that thought, that rage. Take it into yourself and make it yours."

"I want him dead," Stiles whispers, and tries to remember why he shouldn't. But
the words are dragged from his mouth nonetheless. "I want them all dead."

Because they hurt him. They hurt Derek and Scott, too, and Derek blames himself
and Stiles just wants all of that to go away. He looks up, and his vision is
red like blood, and there is Derek standing before him, and Stiles can't really
explain how he knows -- it's not smell, it's not facial expression -- but he
can tell Derek is proud (of him) and determined and sad and so, so lonely.

"Pack makes us strong."

Stiles takes a step forward like he's caught in a landslide and pulled along
down, down towards Derek, and Derek stands frozen before him. He's maybe an
inch from Derek's chest and Derek's breath is harsh and rasping and Stiles
doesn't even know what he's going to do, standing at a precipice and things
could go either way, any way, he doesn't know.

"Stiles." It sounds broken, and there's still that crushing sense of loneliness
now overshadowed by guilt, but still there, still tangible.

"Shut up," Stiles growls and latches onto Derek, arms going around him, clawed
hand burying itself in his hair.

As hugs go, this one is on the desperate side even if Derek doesn't move at
first, still as a statue. Stiles presses closer, pushes at Derek's head till it
comes to rest on Stiles's shoulder, and finally, finally, Derek shudders and
untenses against him.

This is not what he wants, but it's what both of them need, and need trumps
want any day.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter comes with a trigger warning for sexual assault. See the
     story_notes (last line) for details.

There's something familiar and comforting about the way Derek reacts to Stiles
telling him about the upcoming lacrosse game.

"You're not playing."

It's like Stiles isn't anything special.

"If I see you there, I'll drag you away by scruff of your neck."

Like maybe Derek's coming around to that way of thinking. That 'we don't blame
ourselves for saving people's life because that would be stupid' way of
thinking.

"Hah, I never play." He starts pulling his legs up onto the seat of the car but
stops when Derek lets out a low growl. "And also, you're getting soft in your
old age. Scott got a death threat."

"Stiles," Derek says calmly. "If you show up at the game, I will rip your heart
out with my bare hand and crush it before your lifeless eyes."

And here it is, werewolf humor. Stiles wonders if he'll ever become that blase
about gruesome deaths. "You're a laugh a minute. Anyway, I'll be sitting on the
bench, though. I want to keep my place and I missed practice this week."

"The place where you don't get to play."

"Oh, rub it in, why don't you." Stiles huffs. He's not actually irritated, but
arguing about lacrosse is a lot safer than arguing about anything else. Once
their hugfest -- and it's a hugfest if Stiles says so -- ended because Derek
started twitching and pulling away, Derek put Stiles through the motions a few
more times before suggesting Stiles attack him. Because new werewolves
apparently need to learn how to use their new strength and speed to crush
possible enemies. Stiles attacking Derek was just a really hilarious
proposition, though.

And Stiles would have totally been up for some quality lesson in humiliation
and pain except oh, hey look at the time. Wow, wasn't it getting late?

Derek looked at his watch, frowned at Stiles, then turned on his heel and
walked out of the old depot. Which Stiles so had not expected, but he wasn't
going to look a gift wolf in the mouth. It was likely to bite his head off.

"You're not playing."

That might be an order, but it also sounds like a concession. Either way,
Stiles's answer remains the same. "Nope, I'm not."

"Fine," Derek says. He turns right and stops the car two streets down from
where Stiles lives. "When is your dad's next shift?"

Stiles has to take a moment to think about this. With all the dead police
officers at the station, his dad has been pulling double shifts all week and
working overtime and -- that's good for Stiles and his little furry problem,
but it's not good for his dad's health, Stiles thinks guiltily.

Stiles starts as Derek calls his name. "Um?"

"I asked when your dad will work next."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles, flushing. "It's been a bit harder to concentrate
lately, and -- crap." Oh, hell. The Adderall. It wouldn't work so well with a
faster metabolism. "Isn't lycanthropy supposed to help with...?" He trails off,
waving his hand to include ADHD and epilepsy and asthma.

"It's not a cure-all. If you're under a great deal of stress, these things can
return briefly."

Like with Erica -- and Stiles had been under a ton of stress lately.

"Stiles. Your dad."

Oh, right. "I think he's, um, working in the afternoon. Till ten pm-ish."

Derek grunts. "Get going then."

===============================================================================

The google search turns something up.

Stiles stares at his screen, heart racing.

It's not a vid, it's just an announcement -- a promise of a teaser later that
week even -- but from the description, it has to be it.

Really how many werewolf porn flicks can there be?

Stiles reaches for his mouse again, flinching as he knocks over the glass of
lemonade he put down next to it. The liquid spills over the table and towards
the edge, dripping down on the floor. It misses his laptop by an inch at most.
Stiles swears and jumps up, grabs a used t-shirt and begins to mop up the mess.

He doesn't bother doing more than that, just drops the shirt in the trash can
at his feet so it can't drip on anything important. His hands are sticky and
kind of gross, but if he has to wait another second to start hunting down more
information about the username he's going to throw up.

Cryptozoologist11's profile looks legit at first glance -- a birthyear, some
kind of rambling about … Jesus, their thing for creature fucking, with a
fucking winking smilie face. 147 comments made, obviously not a bot, and the
avatar is not exactly tasteful, but not NSFW either. Stiles ignores the
birthyear -- it's probably untrue anyway -- and starts digging through the
posts for the other comments. There might be something useful in one of them;
some kind of hint about who these people are and how to find them.

It's slow going since he can only guess which threads might interest
cryptozoologist11. While the next page on the forum loads, Stiles opens another
tab, typing in the username into the google engine and hitting enter.

Then he opens a spreadsheet on google docs and stares at it for about five
minutes before his brain decides to get back online and provide him with more
than just 'oh god, oh shit, I think I'm going to throw up, oh god'.

After two hours of reading ever grosser discussions of creature fucking and
goddamn death matches, holy fucking hell, Stiles has a pretty good idea of what
cryptozologist11 has been up to in the past two years.

There have been five movies put online since he joined the forum. From the
enthusiastic discussions of the plots on the board, Stiles has gathered that
all five ended in the death of at least one person per movie -- he refuses to
use the common jargon of 'creature' -- sometimes more. And that's not even
taking into account what might have happened to the survivors because, because.

Why let them go?

Why did they let Stiles and Scott and Derek go? Why? It doesn't make any sense.
These fuckers obviously don't give a damn about what happens to anyone as long
as they can get their rocks off, so why? Stiles hisses and jumps up from the
chair to pace the room. He neatly sidesteps his backpack even though it's dark
outside and the only light is the one that his computer screen casts on the
room. Werewolf senses, werewolf reflexes.

Werewolf growling, too.

Stiles stops mid-pace and closes his eyes. He thinks of Derek and the way he
smelled as Stiles hugged him, warm and safe and strong despite the misery and
vulnerability coming off him.

The anger leaves him in waves, like the tide retreating, drawing his energy
from him. Stiles flops onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. He watches his
computer switch to the screensaver and thinks that he should really get up and
go turn it off, but he can't be bothered right now. He'll do it...later, clear
the browser history, too. Again.

Later.

===============================================================================

His dreams are a confusing mess.

He's in school, alone, talking to Gerard Argent. Argent is touching him. A hand
on his arm, rubbing softly, gently, while the other drifts down to open the fly
of Stiles's jeans, and all Stiles can do is stand frozen, immobile.

"Don't," he whispers, "please," and he's crying, and Argent echoes him, mocking
him. He leans forward until his breath is ghosting over Stiles's ear, pushes
his hand inside Stiles's underwear and cups Stiles's dick, starts fondling him
until it's hard and pulsing. "Come for me."

Stiles cries out.

Derek cries out.

Kate laughs at them, a happy, wickedly delighted cackle. It's the most awesome
sound Derek's ever heard. Her eyes are gleaming and her head is thrown back as
she rides him through his orgasm.

"You didn't-," Derek groans, and she shakes her head and says, "Tell me to."
And her teeth flash in the dark of her bedroom.

"Come," Derek moans as she wriggles and he moves his hand towards her clit,
thumbs at it. "Come for me."

She shudders above him.

"I came for you."

He doesn't reply, and she pouts at him. It still looks as tantalizing as it
ever did, but he feels no sudden urge to please her, to bare all his secrets
and that of his family. This desire has long since been burnt out of him.

"For you and for all the other filthy animals in that house."

She reaches for his belt buckle and Derek snarls at her, hips jerking back as
far as the metal frame at his back will allow.

She ignores him, of course, pulls his pants down. He's not wearing anything
underneath, never really does. One layer of clothing is usually more than
enough in his opinion, but right now he's wishing he'd be wearing more: ten,
maybe twenty layers. He doesn't want her hands on him ever again. Doesn't want
to feel her eyes focusing on his cock as she licks her lips, drops down to her
knees.

"I've always liked your cock, sweetie. It's the best part of you."

Her mouth closes around him, and Derek --Derek closes his eyes, and turns his
head away, and feels so fucking disgusted with himself for getting hard in the
mouth of the psychopath who killed his family. Disgusted, and dirty. He keeps
hardening as she blows him and it's either his grief or the humiliation or both
that has tears stinging at his eyes as he comes down her throat.

He keeps his head turned away as she pulls his pants back up, tugs his dick
back inside and gives it a light pat.

"Now that was fun, wasn't it?"

"Go away, Kate," Derek replies tiredly, and she laughs that same beautiful,
ringing laugh.

===============================================================================

His alarm goes off and Stiles wakes up, gasping for breath, heart racing. He
feels icky and smells worse, of fear and tears and the snot that partly clogs
up his nose. The scent mixes with that of ashes and burnt flesh, and then he
hears Kate laughing, feels her mouth on his cock, feels Gerard Argent's hand on
his arm, and throws up over the hand he clamps in front of his mouth.

It's not a lot. He didn't eat much last night. Stiles pulls off his shirt,
cleans his face, his hand, his chest as well as he can, and tries not to curse
Derek and his horrific life and his apparent inability to keep his fucking
memories to himself because, fuck, Stiles doesn't want them. There's enough
horror occupying his mind; he doesn't need more, doesn't want more, can't take
more.

They'll need to talk about this. There has to be a way to turn it off.

There's a knock on his door. "Stiles?"

"Dad," Stiles rasps, and it's too late to tell him not to come in because the
door is already opening.

"We've run out of--," his dad begins before he gets a good look at Stiles and
stops mid-sentence. He's at Stiles's bedside a moment later, hand going towards
Stiles's forehead. "Are you ill? What did you eat last night?"

"Sandwich," Stiles replies automatically, then stutters out, "I think it might
have been the mayonnaise." He's not going to explain what made him throw up,
not ever.

It takes Stiles a good five minutes to convince his dad not to take him to the
doctor and by the time his dad is out of his room and Stiles is standing under
the shower, he's back to being exactly as exhausted as he was last night.
Mentally, not physically. His body's telling him he could run a marathon,
twice, if he wanted to. Only Stiles would rather go back to sleep, but if he
does that his dad will drag him to the doctor, he's sure of it.

When Stiles gets downstairs, his dad's sitting at the kitchen table, frowning
into his cup of -- tea, if Stiles's nose isn't lying to him. He almost opens
his mouth to ask before remembering he probably shouldn't be able to smell that
from across the room.

Or maybe he can. Crap. Stiles has never really paid all that much attention to
what a normal human being can and cannot smell because what the fuck for?

"We've run out of coffee, but you shouldn't be drinking that anyway if you feel
sick." His dad is frowning at him. "You should stay home."

That...sounds absolutely awesome. "Right," Stiles replies. "I'll do that." He
turns towards the fridge; then figures that milk would probably be just as bad
as coffee, so cereal's out. He's pretty sure he can eat anything he wants to
without throwing up a second time, but it's no hardship to eat toast instead.
He's just sat down at the table when his dad clears his throat awkwardly,
reaching inside his breast pocket and pulling out the keys to the jeep. He
pushes them towards Stiles wordlessly, then goes back to his tea, pulling a
face as he takes a sip.

Stiles pockets the keys.

"You're still grounded," his dad says gruffly, and Stiles nods.

Just when Stiles thinks his dad isn't going to say anything else and they can
not really enjoy their breakfast - god, tea, seriously - his dad opens his
mouth again. "You were safe, right?" He's staring at his own hand, the one that
is holding the mug with the white and blue stripes on it, and Stiles's mind
needs a moment to catch up.

"Sure. I mean, yeah. Yes." He trips over the words, flushes. Hopes his dad will
put it down to the terribly embarrassing topic of conversation and not think
Stiles is lying his head off because he can't remember what he and Derek did
the second time and none of what happened that day could ever be considered
safe.

But his dad doesn't know that; he thinks Stiles has had a one night stand with
some random guy, and yeah. Staying safe. Anything else would be stupid.

"You used--"

"Oh my god. Yes, dad! We did. All the protection."

His dad nods, still avoiding actually looking at Stiles, and -- and he's
actually slightly red in the face himself.

"Can we talk about something else now?" Stiles squeaks. "Or, you know what? I
think I'll go and...do my homework, yes."

Stiles is up the stairs and almost back in his room by the time he hears his
dad whisper, "Christ."

===============================================================================

In between clearing his browser history, doing his chemistry homework, and
ignoring the smell of lemonade and vomit -- he's thrown his clothes and all his
sheets in the laundry, but the scent lingers -- Stiles is hit by an epiphany.

Argent is baiting them; poking and pushing, so that they'll come after him.
It's the only explanation that makes any sense at all, and Stiles figuratively
pats himself on the shoulder for going with his instincts yesterday and not
telling Derek about his run-in with Creepard Argent.

The question of why remains. It's not like the hunters have any compunction
about, say, shooting up a police station and Gerard Argent seems more the Kate
type than the Chris type: fanatical and totally unconcerned about innocent
people getting caught in the crossfire.

The images from his nightmare swim back up suddenly, and Stiles suppresses a
shiver. Fucking fuck. 'Come for me,' alright. His subconscious is awesome when
it isn't torturing him. Hell, it's awesome and just as smart as Stiles himself
is even when it's torturing him.

So, Argent wants Derek to come after him.

And he doesn't just simply attack Derek because -- fuck. Stiles wracks his
brain trying to come up with an answer, but draws up short. Unless it's to do
with his son and his Code. Is he afraid Chris won't help him if Derek doesn't
strike the first blow?

Would Chris Argent defy his own father over, quote, rabid dogs, unquote?

A sudden beep startles Stiles out of his thoughts and he glances towards his
computer screen to see an incoming Skype call.

"Yeah?" Stiles says after he clicks on the window. "What's up, man?"

"Nothing much," Scott replies. "Just, have you done English yet? I'm...kinda
stuck."

Stiles hasn't yet, as a matter of fact, but he doesn't mind pushing his chem
books aside and fishing his English notes out of his backpack. They go through
the assignment together, though Stiles pays only about half a mind to it. Most
of his thoughts still stuck on the Argents. His distraction must be obvious
enough for even Scott to pick up on because Scott interrupts Stiles's mumblings
about Hamlet and asks, "Are you alright?"

And no, Stiles is not. He opens his mouth to ask Scott about insight into
Gerard Argent's motivations -- because Scott has had the most interactions with
the man prior to the kidnapping -- but what actually tumbles out of his mouth
is, "Do you remember?"

Which is, of course, also something he's wanted to know, but he did think he
needed to kind of lead up to it and not just blurt it out.

"Remember what?"

And Stiles could lie nor, or deflect, or whatever, but the more he thinks about
it, the more he's convinced that Scott is the person to ask -- not Derek -
- and, well, he's already started this line of conversation, so might as well.

Before he loses courage.

"The time when -- with the wolfsbane, you know? Do you remember anything?"

Scott lets out an explosive breath that has the microphone emit a really
uncomfortable thumping sound and Stiles slaps his hands over his ears. "Geez."

"Sorry," Scott mumbles, but it sounds more like a reflex, like he's not even
aware he's saying it. "I'm sorry," he repeats, clearer this time, and Stiles
can tell from the tone of his voice and the way he hunches his shoulders that
he doesn't remember much of all. "It's blurry; just fragments. Smells and
sounds, but … I can't make them make much sense at all beyond -- beyond 'ow'
and 'arousal'." Scott flushes and looks away. Right, well. It was too much to
hope anyway.

The mood that settles over them is tense and awkward, so Stiles lets his mouth
run away with him again. "And 'oooh, yummy human', I hope."

Scott snorts at him. "You hope what?"

"Hey, I'm awesome. I probably even taste awesome. Are you saying I wouldn't?"

"I'm not sure that's something you should be happy about."

"I take comfort in the small victories in life."

"The Tastiest Human Award."

"Yup." Or werewolf now; whatever. "So," Stiles says after a pause while Scott
looks like he's trying to think of what to say or maybe trying not to say
something he wants to say. "You needed something?"

Scott sighs and slumps back into his chair. "Yeah, about that. I--" he trails
off, rubbing the base of his hand over his forehead and squeezing his eyes
shut. "Gerard Argent was here."

"Here," Stiles repeats blankly, feeling his cheeks go numb and tingly as the
blood drains from them.

"In my room, yeah, and the kanima was strangling my mom. He's got control over
it, him, now."

"Oh my god, is she--?"

"She's fine," Scott interrupts. "Well, 'fine'." He does the scare quotes around
fine, and Stiles knows that kind of fine really well. "She says she wants me to
do whatever Gerard wants me to do."

And now they're back to square one. Stiles lets out a short barking laugh and
buries his face in his hands. Fuck, he wouldn't even really blame Scott if
Scott did whatever Gerard wanted from him, like drawing Derek into a trap.

"I'm not going to, though," Scott says, belligerent like he thinks Stiles would
think he would, which Stiles does. "I mean, I am, but not like that."

Yeah, that made total sense. "And now again in English, Scott."

Scott leans forward towards the screen and drops his voice like they're sitting
next to each other, talking in class, and not over the internet. Stiles finds
himself leaning in, too.

"I think, he's sick. He smells of cancer."

"Cancer has a smell?"

"Yeah, it's..." Scott makes a face. "Doesn't really matter. I got my hands on
his pillbox and I swapped the contents out. I meant to tell you - and Derek -
but then the whole, the whole kidnapping thing happened."

"Okay," Stiles says slowly, grappling with the fact that Scott is apparently
trying to kill Gerard Argent.

He tries to find some sense of maybe scruples or horror in himself at the
thought, but there's nothing but a slow burn of satisfaction.

"Okay," he repeats, "but I don't think we can wait that long. And he's going to
fill up his prescription at one point."

"We're not. We'll have to get Derek to go after him now."

"Dude," Stiles hisses. "You know that this is what he fucking wants. He'll be
prepared for him!"

"Yeah, exactly!"

Stiles stares at him for a moment, then pulls off his headphones and
disconnects from Skype. He doesn't know, can't remember, the point when the
thought of Derek getting hurt or dead went from 'that wouldn't be good' to
'cannot even contemplate', but he's in that state of mind now and if he has to
hear Scott talking casually about throwing Derek to the wolves -- hah. Hah! -
- for a second longer he's going to do something. Like maybe start howling
because that little ball of instincts inside him is screeching in fear and
terror at the thought. And Stiles would think that maybe the wolf inside him is
responsible for all of what he's feeling, but it's not. He knows it's not.

“This isn’t some kind of Stockholm thing, is it?” he says out loud. He pokes at
the thought, trying to distract himself and the wolf from the Alpha might be
hurt, do something, danger, do something.

Not that possibly feeling more than simple attraction, more than a simple
crush, for Derek is in any way a soothing thought. The only other non-family
member he’s ever been this worried about is Lydia (and Scott, but Stiles
doesn’t think about Scott because the wolf starts to snarl and rage at the name
now).

Man, Stiles thinks. And, fuck, and then he actually whimpers, a low whine that
doesn’t sound very human at all.

===============================================================================

At about seven p.m. Stiles starts to get a bit jittery. His dad’ll be home in
four hours and if they want to get in some practice, Derek will have to show up
soonish.

At eight p.m., he’s given up on doing anything but reading a webcomic because
he keeps looking at the clock every sixty seconds or so.

At eight thirty, he’s staring at the screen of his phone, trying to convince
himself that Derek is totally fine – fucking thanks, Scott – and just maybe
forgot or something.

At 8:45 he sends a text.

Ten minutes later, Derek replies with “busy. tomorrow”.

Stiles goes to sleep early.
 
===============================================================================
 
On Sunday, Derek cancels on him again.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Okay, so. This is incredibly late (lol, oh god is it ever) and also
     unbeta-ed. I am so sorry.
     Thank you, everyone who commented, bookmarked and kudoed. I can't
     apologize enough for how long I've taken.
     *hides forever*
Stiles leaves Ms. Morrell's office, feeling like that one time where Erica
clobbered him over the head with a piece of his car and he woke up feeling
dizzy and disoriented. Minus the headache.
The session was stupid and less than productive. He couldn’t really talk about
what it is that‘s bothering him because even if he left out the werewolf part,
mentioning that whole thing, the film, would … yeah. Not going there.
So, he talked about Matt, which is what he was actually there for. And he
talked about the panic attacks that have made a return, and about his anxieties
and about the feeling of drowning while all around you everyone is dry and
happy and breathing.
Except for other people like him, like Derek, but he’s currently not thinking
about Derek and he’s certainly not mentioning him to the school counsellor.
So, yeah. Not productive; and there’s no silver lining. There’s just not. He
keeps going and going and going because that’s what he does like a duracell
bunny, because his dad needs him, because Scott – despite being an absolute ass
sometimes – is so far in over his head and Stiles is at least partially to
blame, because whose bright idea was the search for a dead body in the woods?
Yeah, that’s who.
Then there’s Lydia. Then there’s Jackson-the-fucking-kanima. There’s
just…everyone else, and Stiles knows that things wouldn’t be easier for people
if Stiles opened his mouth and let the water rush into his lungs, let it pull
him under and down into the dark. It would be easier for him, though, and he’s
so fucking tired of it all.
“Stiles.”
“If you want a blood bath, keep talking.”
Scott snarls under his breath, jogging up to Stiles and reaching out a hand to
touch his shoulder. Stiles jerks away before he can make contact.
"Don't."
Scott takes another step forward and Stiles back away, back hitting the
lockers. "Stiles, you don't understand--"
Stiles holds up a hand and glares at Scott. Scott stops talking, closing his
mouth with a snap. "Your eyes."
"Bloodbath, remember." Stiles shakes his head and closes his eyes, tries to
control his breathing. They'll have to talk about this, he knows. At the very
least, Stiles has to try and make Scott see that he's making the same mistake
twice. "Tonight, after the game."
"Okay," Scott murmurs. "You good for now?"
"Yeah," Stiles says, focusing on his own, thankfully slower heartbeat. "Yeah,
I'm good."
 
When the power goes out, Stiles isn't on the pitch. He's not even in the stands
because Coach has been sending one person after another in to play -- all of
them except for Scott, even Greenberg and Coach hates Greenberg -- and Stiles
has promised. More importantly, he could feel the wolf stretching within his
limbs, reacting to the excitement that simply comes from watching the game. So,
Stiles is skulking in the nearby woods like a creeper when the light goes out
and the screaming starts. He's on his feet almost instantly, prepared to run
when he hears a soft thwop and feels a sudden sharp pain in his right shoulder.
He freezes, and there's a second thwop and another stab of pain and suddenly
Stiles is crumbling to the ground because his legs stop working and Jesus,
fuck. Not again.
Footsteps approach cautiously before someone kicks him in the side. The pain
drives all air from his lungs, makes his eyes sting.
He doesn't bother trying to move, and doesn't fucking shout for help either
even though -- especially because -- Scott's not far and while he hasn't seen
Derek around, he might be, and there are only two men, but this might just be a
fucking trap. Probably is a trap.
And then someone shoves something hard and round into his mouth and the
decision is taken from him.
They're adding duct tape to it, too, and then a hood and this is just overkill.
Stiles growls lowly in his throat and barely has time to notice the sound of
something rushing through the air before he loses consciousness.
 
Stiles wakes before they get to the warehouse, wakes before the hood is
removed, before the paralysis wears off, before he's strung up, his legs barely
supporting his weight. He's trying though, trying to keep the weight off his
arms because he's pretty sure he's read something about asphyxiation caused by
being hung by the wrists, and he's fairly sure that, werewolf or not, he
wouldn't survive that.
Derek did seem quite worried about drowning that one time.
"Stiles."
Stiles jerks, almost losing his balance, as Gerard Argent speaks up from
behind. He hadn't noticed the man up until now, hasn't even been sure if he was
there.
"Gerard," Stiles replies. He tries to infuse some condescension and mockery
into his voice. He thinks he succeeds, is sure of it when Argent steps around
him and punches him in the stomach.
"Right," he wheezes when he can breathe again. "Hit people who can't defend
themselves. Real brave."
"But you're not entirely defenseless now, are you?" Argent asks before nodding
at someone else behind Stiles. "And we really can't have you making a mess on
the floor."
Movement to Stiles's right and then a thump as something heavy gets set down.
The wolf inside him doesn't want to take its eyes off of Argent; Stiles just
plainly doesn't want to look because he's seen enough action movies where the
good guy is captured. Also, he's already lived through this plot once. He knows
that the heavy thump is ominous, and bad. So, so bad.
He feels someone's hands settle on his wrists, wrapping - wires, fuck, wires -
around them.
"You're going to regret this." He tries for a steady tone of voice, but it
comes out terrified, and Stiles wonders where the fuck all his anger at this
man went.
Gerard ignores him and instead addresses the person behind Stiles. "Lowest
setting. Let's start slow."
For a moment, before - before - the electricity starts running through his
limbs, Stiles considers asking to be let go, swearing not to attack, not to
tell, but he knows it would be futile, and so he doesn't beg.
 
 
At first.
 
At one point, with his head exploding, his blood on fire, and the memory of a
pain-free existence fading underneath the constant state of agony, Gerard
pauses to make a phone call, but Stiles is in no shape to shout a warning, can
barely even understand what is happening.
Thus it comes as a surprise to him when Derek bursts in, freezes as he takes in
Stiles, and lets out an ungodly howl.
There's fighting. Stiles can tell that much even as he struggles against the
pounding in his head and the threatening darkness. He thinks he sees Isaac, is
sure of Scott being there, but the Lydia and Danny are driving his jeep through
the warehouse and Stiles blinks, uncomprehending. When Peter fucking Hale steps
towards him and begins to free him, he decides he's cracked.
"I'm hallucinating," Stiles mumbles around a tongue swollen from that time he
ended up biting himself, teeth clicking together as another high dose of
voltage went through him.
"No, I'm quite real," Peter breathes in his ear as he lowers Stiles to the
ground.
"Then I'm dead," Stiles decides.
"Don't be dramatic." And that's Derek's voice, then Derek's face as he
shoulders Peter aside. Derek's nostrils' flare and his eyebrows -- already on
the 'I'm going to kill something, with my teeth' setting -- lower even more.
Before Stiles can process quite what is happening, Derek's hand settles on his
forehead, and the pounding and burning begins to fade, just a little.
"Handy," Stiles mumbles.
"Don't get used to it," Derek replies, but he doesn't take his hand away. Which
is really nice of him, considering that Derek's been avoiding Stiles for the
last few days. "Why?" Stiles mumbles.
Derek frowns at him. "Why what?"
"You've been avoiding me."
"No," Derek says shortly. For a moment, it looks like that's all he's going to
say, but then he continues. "I had things to do." He flicks his eyes to the
right, and Stiles follows his gaze towards where Peter Hale is standing around,
smirking at everyone.
"Ah," Stiles says, and something loosens inside him. The wolf is happy because
it hasn't been abandoned.
Stiles remains lying on the floor for a few minutes, just breathing and trying
to get his bearings. To his right, Lydia is hugging Jackson, who's wearing no
clothes at all, not that either seems to mind. A small clump settles in
Stiles's stomach as he watches them. Neither spares him a glance, which Stiles
had expected from Jackson -- and had expected from Lydia, too, if he was honest
with himself. Unattainable was Lydia's middle name, at least as far as Stiles
was concerned. He grasps around for something to distract himself, sees Danny,
but Danny's presence isn't really quite as mysterious as that of another
person.
"So, Peter."
Derek grunts helpfully.
"Seems to be pretty lively for a dead guy. What with the walking around and the
talking." And the lowering Stiles to the ground and the breathing at him like a
creeper.
"He resurrected himself."
Stiles pauses, incredulously. "Oh, okay then."
Derek nods like that has settled matters and wasn't, you know, sarcasm. Stiles
knows for a fact that Derek is aware of what sarcasm is.
Which means he just plain doesn't want to talk about it, so Stiles casts about
for something else to say. Again.
Stiles opens his mouth to ask about Danny and Lydia and how they ended up here,
and what has happened to Gerard (god, he hopes that fucker is dead) and why
Jackson is naked (though, he thinks he knows), but what's actually coming out
of his mouth is, "Are you okay?"
Because now that he thinks about it, he remembers that this was a trap and that
Gerard was prepared for Derek and that he wanted Derek there. For something.
Derek throws him a dark look. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Oh, ouch. Stiles lets his eyes rove over Derek's body, but he can't see any
wounds. There's something in Derek's voice, though. Something that hints at
pain or hurt and a desire to return that hurt ten-fold.
His hands are still on Stiles, though; still taking away some of the pain,
which is getting better anyway as his body heals. And Stiles doesn't want that
to stop -- ever.
"So, Danny?"
He's staring at Derek's face, but it's not his alpha's voice that answers.
"Tracked your cellphone," Danny explains as he enters Stiles' field of vision.
"Lydia more or less kidnapped me and...okay, that was a bad choice of words."
Stiles stifles a laugh and waves a hand.
"Well, I guess you know now, about...this."
"About living on a Hellmouth? Sure."
"It's not a Hellmouth," Derek grumbles, and Stiles stares at him.
"You watched Buffy? Wait, you watched Buffy?"
Derek doesn't deign to respond.
"Your dad's looking for you, by the way," Danny interrupts them. "And, well, if
I can track the signal--" He doesn't finish the sentence, but Stiles swears
loudly and finally pushes Derek's hands away. His dad doesn't know Stiles'
password, and neither does Danny for that matter, but, well, it's Danny. And
Stiles' dad is the sheriff.
"I'll drive you," Danny says, and Stiles nods his thanks.
The drive home is not really quiet. Danny has questions, lots of them, and
Stiles explains as well as he can. At one point, Danny interrupts himself,
throwing a guilty glance Stiles' way because, Stiles guesses, he doesn't really
look fine.
He is not fine.
He pretends to be, though, keeps pretending when he gets out of the car, too,
when his dad confronts him and he explains about mouthing off at the other team
(a blatant lie, again).
Stiles is an A+ pretender.
For about as long as it takes his dad to finally leave him alone in his room.
 
One good thing to come out of all of this, Stiles reflects as he drives home
from Danny's house on Friday, is that he could rope Danny into helping him
track down cryptozoologist11 and getting his hands on the movie. Danny had been
working on the former for a few days already, so that when he texted Stiles to
come over, Stiles had thought...well, Stiles had thought wrong. Danny had
bought-slash-downloaded the movie for him -- Stiles knew how to use a proxy and
how to clear his browser history, but he didn't want there to be any chance
that someone figured out he'd downloaded that.
He tells himself it's because he's the son of a police officer and it would
reflect badly on his dad. Truthfully, he'd rather not think about what might be
the real reason for this kind of caution.
The teaser trailer -- posted late Sunday night -- had pretty much confirmed
what Stiles already knew. There was a shot of Scott crawling towards Derek and
then a few seconds of the two of them going at each other, followed by a
closing shot where Derek just looks at Stiles with that empty, animal gaze.
Objectively speaking, it's a good teaser trailer.
Subjectively speaking, it has Stiles squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his
hands over his ears and just trying to breathe.
Consequently, Stiles knows that watching the movie is just a Bad Idea, but that
doesn't mean he isn't going to once he's home.
He's twitchy during the drive home, heart thumping loudly in his throat, so
that by the time he actually makes it to his room and boots up the computer,
his hands are shaking so much he barely manages to insert the flashdrive into
the little slot.
There are flashes in front of his eyes and he starts to wonder if he should
take a leaf out of his dad's book and just have a drink before remembering the
whole 'faster metabolism' thing. The whole bottle maybe? Would that help or
make him lose his grip on the wolf even faster? Why doesn't Derek tell him this
shit.
"Fucking shit," he mumbles before letting out a startled shout and jumping up
from his chair when the window slides open.
"You're in deep shit, yes," Derek growls, clambering in. He's in jeans and
leather jacket; no shirt. No socks either, though he is wearing shoes. Hair wet
and -- Stiles squints at him. Yeah, there's shampoo in his hair.
"Is your shower broken? Wait, do you even have a shower?" Weeks spent at the
railway station and Stiles has no clue about the state of the plumbing. Derek
ignores him completely. He reaches past Stiles and plucks the flashdrive out of
the PC.
"Hey!" He grabs Derek's hand, but Derek twists his arm and gives Stiles a push
with his other hand before taking a step back. He points at the chair. "Sit."
Stiles glowers at him. "Like hell. What are you doing here?"
Faster than Stiles's senses can register Derek's hand is around his throat,
pushing him backwards and down. That's not particularly hard anyway because the
steady growl trailing from Derek's lips has Stiles's knees buckling underneath
him.
"Idiot," Derek snarls, eyes glowing red. "Are you actively trying to fuck
yourself up? Or do you feel like going on a rampage and bringing the Argents
down on us?"
But Stiles can't answer, tongue frozen behind his teeth as the weight of
Derek's emotions settles over him. Unbridled fury, determination.
Worry.
Protectiveness.
And something undefinable, but warm and good.
Overwhelmed, his brain shuts down and his instincts take over. He tilts his
head as much as he can with Derek's grip on him and lowers his gaze. The wolf
in him is happy at this show of submissiveness. The human side is happy in an
entirely different way.
Derek hisses and releases him. He turns to leave, but Stiles finally finds his
voice again. "Wait," he rasps. "Derek, wait." He stumbles up from the chair,
one hand outstretched. Derek turns and catches it before it can settle on his
shoulder, and suddenly they are holding hands and it's probably this that
loosens Stiles tongue to the point where his brain-mouth filter short circuits
entirely and he blurts, "You're not like her and I'm not you." Some tiny alarm
in his head goes off, flashing red and telling him 'abort, abort while Derek is
still confused and you can salvage this somehow', but yeah, short circuited.
"It's not like you're going to use me like Kate used you."
Derek flinches violently, tearing his hand away from Stiles's. "You -- how?"
"I had a dream," Stiles explains because he's jumped into the deep end and now
all he can do is swim for his life.
"Look, that's not important. What's important is that she was a raging
psychopath, and you're not. You're actually worried about me and stuff." He
changes track because this is getting a bit too mushy for him, so it must be
unbearable for the Manliest Werewolf in Town. Stiles takes a deep breath.
"Okay, it's like this. You're attracted to me. And I'm attracted to you. And I
know you think I'm too young, and maybe I am, but I'm not going to be 17
forever." Or 16 for that matter, but his birthday isn't that far away.
"Stiles," Derek groans.
"No, don't say it." Stiles interrupts him. "I've been thinking about this. I've
been thinking about this all week. No, actually, longer than that. It's okay.
you don't have to say anything; hell, we don't have to do anything. I just want
you to consider this:
You're my anchor. And I like you. And, let me repeat, I'm getting older every
second we're speaking."
Derek turns startled eyes on him. "I'm what?"
And oh. Right. Derek hadn't actually known that until now. "You're my anchor,"
Stiles repeats, and then -- because he might as well go all out and because
Derek can be so goddamn dense about other people -- Stiles goes on, "I feel
safe around. Like nothing can happen and it makes me feel calm.
"And I know you think it's counter-intuitive," he hurries on as Derek, looking
chagrined and guilty, opens his mouth, "but it's really not. You're -- you're
pack, and safe." And this seems to have been the right thing to say because
Derek stills, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
Nods once.
"You're not watching this," he says, raising the hand still holding the
flashdrive. "Not here; not alone." He frowns. "We'll watch it together, later.
There's something we'll have to take care of first."
 
Stiles isn't quite sure whether he should be grateful to Danny or not. On the
one hand, Danny calling Derek feels a bit like he's being a snitch -- like
calling your friend's parents when you think they're doing something they
shouldn't be doing. On the other hand, he knows that Danny was probably worried
and that Derek sort of had a point.
Neither of which is something he should be worrying about right now because
they have bigger fish to fry. While Stiles had been driving home, a message
seemed to have gone up on the board about a lucky catch and the shooting of
another movie. Danny, who was a seriously badass hacker and also an A+
dissembler, had not only already hacked cryptozoologist11's account the day
before, but also his email account and was working on trying to trace the GPS
signal of the cell phone number that cryptozoologist11 had left with gmail.
And then he had called Derek, instead of Stiles -- because Stiles would totally
have gone after these lunatics by himself. Yeah, right.
Yeah, okay.
Yeah, no.
No, maybe. Fuck, he doesn't know.
It's moot anyway because here Derek is, with Stiles, in a stolen car, letting
the engine idle while Scott and Isaac and Peter Hale jog out of the woods to
join them.
There's a brief hold-up while everyone but Isaac is insisting they get to ride
shotgun. This is finally resolved because apparently no one trusts Peter to sit
at their back, so he gets to sit in front. Derek bears it all with his usual
grace and patience; that is, he's glaring daggers at everyone.
"So," Stiles says after ten -- okay, five … two -- minutes of uncomfortable and
awkward silence, broken only by the purring of the engine and Peter's off-tune
humming. "What's the game plan?"
He'd really like to know, too; being kept in the dark hadn't really worked out
all that well in terms of his and Scott's friendship. Scott could simply have
told him that he'd talked to Derek about selling him out again (or pretending
to). That, plus the fact that Gerard Argent, Mr. DIE WEREWOLF SCUM, apparently
wanted to fucking become a werewolf, had totally blown him away when he heard
of it.
"Get in and kill everyone, according to my nephew."
"And save the people they've captured," Scott adds. He looks tense, but there's
something hard and cold about him, and Stiles might have thought he'd protest
killing the film crew, but … Scott had suffered, too.
"If they're still alive." Peter's tone is neutral, as if he doesn't care one
way or another -- which he probably didn't. Though Stiles is wondering why he's
going along. Hell, Stiles is just plain wondering a, how Peter could resurrect
himself, b, what he is planning and c, why Derek hasn't thrown him out yet. Or
re-killed him or something. On the other hand, Peter is the only blood related
family Derek has left and he's Derek -- creepy, homicidal, utterly insane -
- uncle.
Derek ignores the by-play. "Peter, I want you and Stiles to go and release the
omega and the human. Watch out for the wolfsbane. If the omega is lost to her
instincts, just try to get the human away from her." Derek pauses. "The two of
you should be able to handle her, but don't take risks."
"Of course," Peter murmurs. Stiles keeps quiet because he can't promise not to
try everything if it means saving someone from being mauled. He's sure Derek is
picking up on some of his thoughts because his mouth tightens and he glances at
his uncle. Peter's lips twitch and he nods slightly.
"Scott and Isaac,you're with me. We don't know for certain, but we have to
assume they have wolfsbane bullets. Take them out as quickly as you can. If
that means they end up dead, that is an option I'll happily live with."
Something tickled at the back of Stiles's mind. "Um."
"Stiles," Derek sighed.
"No, that's not it," Stiles interrupts him because it isn't really, and Stiles
blinks and stops because this is perfectly true. Not even a hint of doubt or
hesitance remains, and he wonders when that happened because while he did want
them dead, so fucking dead, he couldn't quite consider the idea without a hint
of guilt.
Then again he hadn't let himself think about what would happen once they caught
up to the film crew. Not since...since before Stiles had been abducted by
Gerard Argent a second time.
Ah.
"What then?"
"Our fingerprints are going to be all over that crime scene."
Derek growls low in his throat; it's edged with frustration and something
Stiles can't quite figure out.
"So, we set fire to--"
"A stone cell?" Stiles interrupts. "Yeah, I guess." He tries to keep the doubt
out of voice. "There's just the little problem that fire doesn't really destroy
all the evidence. That's a folk tale."
"How likely is it that the place is going to be found, anyway?" Isaac asks,
which is a good point. The coordinates seem to lead them some place that is
nowhere near civilisation. Stiles is surprised that there's a signal at all.
"There's always a chance," Stiles replies.
"So bury them somewhere?" Scott suggests.
"Never a bad idea. Of course, we need shovels for that."
"In the trunk," Isaac tells him.
"Or instead of ripping out their guts, you could simply break their necks."
Peter's tone is off-hand, amused.
On the other hand, claw marks mean the police might not suspect someone human.
But then they couldn't bury the bodies because that would raise suspicion.
Stiles lets out a sigh.
"If it's possible, we will, uncle," Derek replies drily.
 
And that's probably all they can do. Stiles knows that if the film crew is ever
found, and if the police finds the movies, it's only a matter of time before
suspicions fall on him, Derek, and Scott. His stomach twists, fear settling
into his guts, and he tries to will it away.
It occurs to Stiles that in this he and Peter Hale (and everyone else in this
car) are in agreement, and he wonders if this is the first stop to becoming
Peter Hale. The thought doesn't sit well with him.
But it still doesn't change his mind.
 
The signal doesn't actually lead them to the filming location, but there are
tracks and Peter and Derek are quite capable of following them.
They split up as agreed, ghosting through the corridors. There are hardly any
security measures. At least the kind that are directed outward. They'd entered
the small shack without being detected, found the trapdoor leading down
unguarded as well, though it would have been hard to find if they'd been human
and impossible to lift, as well. There's a mechanism on the underside of the
door that does the heavy lifting. The film crew probably has a remote control
to open it from the outside. Stiles can't imagine that one of them always stays
down here to hit the button near the steps.
It's the only obstacle they run into until they hear voices from the closer of
a set of two doors. They're both reinforced, but the one farther down the
corridor lets out a whiff of wolfsbane, as well.
The next few minutes are kind of anticlimatic. If you can call five dead people
anticlimatic. Peter and Stiles are too late to save the human. They aren't too
late for the omega, but then Peter has the brilliant idea to let the crazed
woman out of the cage while Stiles is fumbling to close the box. She rushes
past him, snarling and literally frothing at the mouth. Stiles jumps up to run
after her maybe, he doesn't know, but by the time he's on his feet there's a
nearly inhuman scream from the other room and the sounds of flesh being rent.
Stiles stumbles into the room to see Derek grappling with the omega.
There are four dead men in the room. They all look surprised.
-- Epilogue --
"Love the new decor."
Derek ignores him as usual, and Stiles takes one last look at graffiti left by
the alpha pack before entering the house. Isaac had told him about it. That is,
Isaac had told Scott and Scott had told Stiles before Stiles could see it
himself and wonder. He hadn't been there when the pack came across it.
"What do you want, Stiles?"
"And good day to you to, Grumpy Wolf." Derek directs a glare at him that has
Stiles's inner wolf cowering and offering up his belly and Stiles's
inner...Stiles sitting up and smirking. Derek must notice because his face
morphs into a shit eating grin and he says, "You here for some training?"
Stiles wrinkles his nose. "That is just mean."
"Perks of the job. I get to be as mean as I want to."
"Yeah, about that. Well, no. Actually, not about that at all. About, about us.
You and me."
"Stiles."
Stiles stops picking at a thread on his LaCrosse jersey and stares straight at
Derek. "You never answered my question."
Derek lifts a hand and rubs at his temple. He looks tired and worn. This is
probably not a good time, with the alpha pack coming and everything, but when
is it ever a good time?
He finally lets out a low chuckle. It sounds resigned, but not entirely
unhappy. "After you graduate, we can talk about it then."
This was not a no. Stiles blinks, momentarily stunned into silence, because
this. Was. Not. A no.
Fuck, yeah.
"I never thought I'd see the day," Derek mumbles under his breath.
"Hey, if you miss my dulcet tones, I can--"
"Stiles, get out."
"But--"
"Go to your play date with Scott."
Stiles opens his mouth to protest that it's not a play date for god's sake, but
Derek grabs the back of his shirt and shoves him towards the door and out.
"Love you too, Mr. Grumpy!" he shouts and hurries towards his jeep. Somewhere
behind him Derek growls.
End Notes
     Details on the noncon elements:
     The (first) sexual assault is part of a fuck or die scenario where
     the only choice is to either have Stiles be eaten by werewolves, i.e.
     Derek and Scott, or be mated with once Derek and Scott turn feral.
     Neither Derek nor Stiles think of this as consensual sex and both are
     traumatized and feeling absolutely miserable. (Scott manages to
     partially escape these proceedings.) Add to that cameras being turned
     on them and this makes for a horrific experience all around. Focus is
     put on Stiles's feelings, with a fair amount of hints about Derek
     blaming himself.
     Basically, I'd meant to write a dubcon sex!pollen oneshot and ended
     up with trauma longfic instead.
     The second one is a mix of a nightmare and a memory: Gerard Argent/
     Stiles and Kate/Derek respectively.
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