Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/529674.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Original_Female_Character, Scott_McCall,
      Allison_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Slash, Kid_Fic, Soulmates, Fluff_and_Angst, Canonical_Character
      Death, Triggers, 5+1_Things, Canon-Typical_Violence, Hurt/Comfort,
      Translation_Available
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-05 Completed: 2012-10-21 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 10653
****** Lest the Fire Consume ******
by the_ragnarok
Summary
     5 times Derek recognized his mate, and the time Stiles recognized him
     in return.
Notes
     This starts out pretty fluffy, but will get fairly angsty soon -
     rating and tags will change with future chapters, please heed (there
     will also be notes in the chapter headers). Also unbeta'd, as a work
     in progress, feel free to point out any errors you see in the fic.
     Title from Tirza Atar's Ballad_for_My_Grown_Boy.
***** Six *****
Derek's mom has left him in the produce section for a minute while she grabs
some milk. He's old enough that he can stay there without her holding his hand.
It's a point of pride. He's loafing by the eggplants, tapping his fingers over
the edge of the counters, and finds himself walking forward without aim.
Sort of without aim, anyway. There is a tiny thumping sound somewhere close,
and Derek wants to know what it is. It matches his tapping.
"Derek!" he hears from a few steps ahead, and looks up. Mrs. Stilinski beams at
him, her brown eyes crinkling at the edges.
Derek smiles back. You can't not like Mrs. Stilinski, because she likes
everyone. Knows everyone, too; she's the children's librarian, and she always
has a kind word and a good book waiting for Derek. And sometimes a cookie, even
if she makes him go outside to eat it and wash his hands after.
It's been a month since Derek visited the library. They were away from town,
visiting relatives, where Derek could run in the woods with Laura and all their
cousins, snapping at rabbits and pretending to hunt deer. Fun as that was, it's
still a relief to be back in his own woods, where he knows all the good corners
to curl up, watching owls hunt mice and reading by moonlight.
Mrs. Stilinski has grown larger since Derek last saw her, her belly all big and
swollen. It's where the thumping is coming from, and without thinking, Derek
reaches for it.
"Derek!" His mom materializes behind him. "We do not touch people without
permission." Her voice is sharp, and Derek cringes. So much for being allowed
on his own in the supermarket. "Rachel, I am so sorry."
But Mrs. Stilinski just laughs. "It's fine. He's more polite about it than the
average adult, actually." She takes Derek's hand and guides it to her stomach.
Derek spreads his fingers, gasping when he feels movement.
Mrs. Stilinski smiles wider. "He kicked! I think he likes you already," she
tells Derek in a confiding tones. "You could be my boy's big friend when he
comes out, couldn't you, Derek?"
Derek nods and ducks his head, grinning. His mother sighs behind him, but it's
a fond sound. She pulls him by the collar, gently because there are humans
watching and they'll think she's hurting Derek if she pulls hard enough for him
to feel it. "You're very kind, Rachel."
"Nope," Mrs. Stilinski says, and winks at Derek. "Just happy to see my friend
again."
Now that Derek knows that thumping for a heartbeat, it's easy to follow, even
as he trails after his mom to get the rest of the groceries.
***** Eleven *****
On Halloween eve, Derek is alone. Laura went out trick-or-treating with
friends, and wrinkled her nose when Mom suggested Derek join them.
That's fine. Derek didn't need to go, anyway. He's a big kid, eleven now, and
he can be by himself. Prefers it, most of the time. And tonight is a good night
to be out alone, the air crisp and clear with autumn. A pleasant chill goes
through Derek when he shifts. He sniffs the air, attempts a hesitant howl that
turns into a yelp mid-sound because he stepped on a hedgehog.
Also, there’s a foreign sound, something that doesn’t belong. Derek’s ears
prick. A heartbeat, and it’s not pack.
But his hackles aren’t rising, which is weird, since normally he’d have to
deliberately force himself to act calm at such an intrusion. It takes him a
moment to place that heartbeat, and the mumbling he hears overlaying it,
hushed.
It’s the Stilinski kid. Stiles. Derek knows him since Stiles has a habit of
prowling the children’s section of the library for people who’ll read to him.
Even though Derek hides in the beanbag chair next to the fire escape door,
Stiles finds him every time, waving some book at Derek and giving him a look.
The kid’s eyes are huge, like something Derek didn’t even believe possible
outside of cartoons. Refusing isn’t an option.
(Although Stiles does have a tendency to pick out the books Derek’s too old for
but still hasn’t stopped loving. Last time, Stiles came by with Where the Wild
Things Are. How was Derek supposed to say no to that?)
Derek is tracking Stiles down before he even thinks about it. There aren’t any
predators around, Derek excluded, but it’s close to deer mating season and the
bucks can get aggressive. Even if almost everything that could hurt him is
asleep, it’s still night, and Stiles is out, alone – Derek listened for other
human heartbeats, and found none – in the woods. Not good survival practice.
As Derek lopes close, he can hear Stiles talking to himself softly, singing
something nonsensical about piles of candies. Derek skids to a halt and comes
out to where Stiles can see him.
Stiles looks up and visibly jerks back, lip trembling. Derek looks down at
himself, realizes he’s still got his fur on, and shifts back. “Stiles?” He
crouches. “Stiles, it’s just me.” Derek attempts a smile.
Stiles’ formerly-trembling lip now sticks out in a pout. “I don’t like your
costume. It’s ugly.”
That hurts, more than it should, but Derek tells himself that Stiles is just a
stupid baby who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Stiles crosses his arms. “I can be where I wanna.”
Can not, Derek doesn’t say, because unlike some people in this conversation he
is not five. Instead he tries, “Where are your parents? Shouldn’t you be trick-
or-treating?”
Stiles scratches his head, looking up. “I was. With my dad. Then someone
started talking to him, and it was boring and I went to the next house. And
they were out of candy, so I thought I’d go to your house.”
Derek wants to ask, How do you even know where my house is? and gives up on it
because Stiles will probably just shrug like he does when Derek asks him how
Stiles found Derek’s most recent library hide-away or what happened to the last
of the cookies Mrs. Stilinski brought. And then start talking about dinosaurs,
probably because when you’re five that counts as a good distraction and Stiles
is a little too sneaky for his own good.
He opens his mouth, but can’t remember what he meant to say because Stiles is
shivering. “Are you cold?” Derek says. “I’ve got a coat, it’s just a little way
over there.”
Stiles trots along behind Derek. “You’re not even wearing a shirt. Aren’t you
cold? My mom tells me she feels cold just looking at me when I go out without a
hat.”
Derek grunts. He’s seen those hats. They have bobbles. He can understand why
Stiles would forgo wearing them.
They get to the clearing where Derek stashed his clothes. He drapes his coat on
Stiles – actually it’s just a hoody, but it appears to do the trick – and puts
his own shirt on, since Stiles argued for it.
Stiles gives him an appraising look, oddly adult. “How did you get your costume
off so fast, before?”
Derek shrugs.
“I wanna know.” Stiles blinks at him once. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. I can do
this forever, just so you know. Tell me, tell me, tell me—“
“It was CGI,” Derek growls, and hopes Stiles doesn’t actually know what that
means.
Miraculously, Stiles accepts that. “It wasn’t really ugly.” He hunches in the
hoody, wrapping himself tight in it. “It was cool. Show me again.”
“I’m not really supposed to—“
Stiles is doing that thing again where his eyes seem to take up most of his
face. Derek gives in and shifts, baring his fangs at Stiles.
The kid grins impossibly wide. His face is now evenly comprised of eyes and
teeth, with a small section devoted to dimples. “Mega-cool.”
Derek tilts his head aside modestly.
Stiles keeps chattering for a little while, but he’s winding down, clearly past
his bed time. Derek sighs and scoops him up, walking homewards. Stiles is light
and impossibly warm, his heart beating close against Derek’s chest. Stiles’
hair has a grassy smell from walking in the woods, and there’s a stray twig
sticking to his shoulder.
It’s probably too late to call the Stilinskis, Derek thinks. Stiles will
probably have to spend the night over. That’s okay. He can sleep in Derek’s
bed, and Derek could sleep on the couch downstairs. Unless Stiles gets cold,
and needs to be kept warm. Then he and Derek can share. Derek’s good at sharing
beds, all his cousins say so, he doesn’t snore or hog the blankets.
But he only takes a few steps before he hears the voices. Strangers, and a lot
of them, in his woods. This time Derek’s hackles do rise.
Stiles puts out a sleepy hand and pets Derek’s cheek. “You’ve gone all fuzzy,”
he notes, sounding quite fuzzy himself.
“Yeah,” Derek grits out. He can hear the strangers calling out Stiles’ actual
name, the one neither of them can pronounce. Serves them right if Derek doesn’t
give him back, they don’t even know what to call the kid.
But then he hears Mrs. Stilinski calling out, “Stiles, Stiles,” in a high voice
that sounds like it could break any minute, and Derek suddenly feels awful. She
must be so worried, with her son out lost where there are dangerous animals and
pits to fall into and werewolves that want to keep your kid for themselves
forever.
He changes direction, only remembering to shift back into his human face at the
last minute. Stiles’ hand is still on his cheek, warm and slightly sticky. The
heat of it remains even when Derek relinquishes Stiles to his mother, now
crying with relief.
She gives Derek a long look, clearly wondering what he’s doing out this late,
but she doesn’t ask, because she’s cool like that. Derek doesn’t mind giving
Stiles back, if it’s to her.
***** Sixteen *****
Chapter Notes
     Contains underage, canon character death, angst, and is potentially
     triggery. Please see end notes for clarification.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Summer is golden and bright. Derek’s dad is watching over the grill, turning
steaks with a considering purse of his lips. Derek lounges a few feet away, out
of the smoke’s reach, and stares at the sky. He can hear a jumble of family
voices, still, and he turns and runs for the woods on a momentary whim.
“Be back for lunch,” his father says. Derek nods, even though he knows it won’t
be seen.
He doesn’t understand when it all started turning so hard. He loves his family,
he does, but there are so many of them and they’re so loud. Derek just wants an
hour where he can hear himself think. That can’t be too much, can it?
He runs away from voices and heartbeats, into the deep woods where the light is
muted and the ground is cool with moss. A vole skitters away and Derek snaps at
it, half-heartedly, not really wanting to ruin his appetite for lunch. Besides,
he likes raw meat fine, but he hates it when the fur gets stuck in his teeth.
In a clearing a few yards away Derek hears another heartbeat, familiar if too
quick for comfort. Derek hesitates, and runs towards it. He wants peace and
quiet, and while Stiles couldn’t give him the latter if his life depended on
it, he brings the former without ever meaning to. Even though he’s just eleven
and Derek is sixteen and it’s really kind of weird if Derek thinks about it too
much.
So he doesn’t. Fuck it. Derek likes Stiles, okay? He just enjoys his company.
That’s all. He’s allowed.
Something’s not right, though. Too-quick heartbeat, as mentioned, and rapid
breaths, and there’s something salt-smelling…. The bottom of Derek’s stomach
drops with apprehension. But he goes in the clearing, anyway.
Stiles is hastily wiping his eyes when Derek walks in. “What,” he says, hoarse.
“A guy can’t sit by himself in the woods these days?”
“I try, but some kid keeps stealing all my spots,” Derek says.
Stiles snorts in appreciation, sprawling back on a smooth rock. His face lands
in a sunbeam, and he jerks away from it, looking at the light as though it’s
personally offended him.
Derek raises an eyebrow.
Stiles purses his lips. “I should stay out of the sun,” he says, soft.
“Melanoma kills one out of fifty Americans every year.”
Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he just sits closer. It wasn’t melanoma that
got Mrs. Stilinski, Derek knows. But Stiles has taken to memorizing all sorts
of cancer statistics in the last few months.
“Do you ever wonder what we’re for?” Stiles is looking up, face turned away
from Derek, but Derek can still smell the salt of unshed tears.
“Who’s we?” Derek stalls for time, because he doesn’t want to say for each
other and he doesn’t know how else to respond to that.
“You. Me. Everyone.” Stiles kicks at the grass. “You know what, I’ll tell you
what we’re for: nothing. One big, fat, stupid, pointless—“
Derek’s heard enough. He moves to kneel over Stiles. “That’s not true.” And he
knows it’s cruel, that he has no right, but he needs to say it. “Your mom made
everyone’s life a little bit better. She made you. Are you calling that
nothing?”
“Has to be.” Stiles’ voice breaks on that. “Because now she’s gone, and there’s
nothing left.”
“You are not nothing,” Derek growls. He pins Stiles down by his shoulders,
looking deep into his eyes.
Stiles’ pupils have blown wide, but he’s still a smartass, because otherwise
the world might have stopped turning. “Double negative. Man, she would’ve hated
that, wouldn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “She’d have hated this existentialist bullshit worse,
though.”
Stiles blinks, a couple tears spilling down his face. He doesn’t seem to notice
though. “Wow. Two-dollar word there, my friend.” His arms snake behind Derek’s
back, and Derek yields to gravity, to Stiles, who is just as inescapable and
incomprehensible.
This is better, this Derek knows how to do: wrap Stiles up, let him shake
everything out in Derek’s arms. Words never work right, but Derek knows how to
hold. Up until Stiles’ scent changes from sorrow to something else, something
Derek is only just starting to be familiar with, and his aimless shaking turns
into a shy almost-thrust of his hips.
Derek recoils like he’s been burnt, heart close to bursting out of his chest,
because his first impulse was to lean closer, to kiss, to bite.
He gets up and runs, cursing himself all the while, because he can still smell
Stiles’ loneliness and bewilderment and embarrassment. He’s just a kid, he
didn’t mean anything, he was only trying to, to distract himself—
Shit. Shit. Derek stops in the deep wood and smothers a howl in his chest. The
last fucking thing he needs is the entire clan coming to check up on him.
He’s had dreams. He can’t remember what happened in any of them, only knows
that he woke up sticky and half-satisfied, half-yearning for something he
couldn’t even describe. But now he knows, it’s all slotting into place and
Derek doesn’t want any of it.
Well. He wants Stiles. Or would, if Stiles weren’t eleven and grieving for his
mother. Wants him anyway. He knows that Stiles is his mate, has known it for
what feels like his entire life, but he never understood what that means.
Right now, it means he needs to stay the fuck away from Stiles.
Chapter End Notes
     Underage for 11-year-old Stiles having undescribed naughty thoughts
     about Derek and slight groping, and 16-year-old Derek realizing that
     he's attracted to Stiles (and freaking out about it). Deals with the
     aftermath of Stiles' mom's death.
***** Twenty-two *****
Chapter Notes
     Some mentions of bb!Derek/Kate. Also Derek being a creeperwolf in
     canonical amounts.
     Deepest thanks to Adelaide, who gave this a look and reassured me it
     isn't terrible.
Derek sits, cross-legged, on the ground beneath Stiles’ window. Up there Stiles
is typing a mile a minute, hopefully looking up the effects of colloidal silver
like Derek asked him rather than trolling ChatRoulette.
Okay, possibly asked is a bit… inaccurate. It might have been more like pinned
to the wall and growled. But there’s no getting anything out of Stiles
otherwise, these days, and this is something that might very well save lives
eventually.
The tapping from upstairs ceases. Derek gives a cursory listen, but judging by
Stiles' heart rate it seems he's neither playing nor browsing porn. Hopefully
he's reading: fine. As a matter of fact, Derek can do some reading himself. He
pulls a small, cloth-bound book from his jacket's inner pocket.
Technically, Derek is researching, too. Admittedly the chances of anything from
the Völsungasaga showing up in Beacon Hills are slim to none, but Derek's not
putting anything past his shitty luck.
He's reading about Brynhildr, locked behind a circle of flames, when something
blocks the overhead light. “If you're going to creep on me,” Stiles says from
his bedroom window, “you might as well do it where it's warm.”
Derek hesitates for a moment before tucking the book back and leaping. Stiles'
room is familiar by now, would be comforting if Derek were still capable of
comfort. At least it's not damp in here. Stiles gestures at the bed and plunks
back at the computer chair. Derek scans the tab titles: argyria, chrysiasis,
something about circus freaks and “the myth of vampires and porphyria”. Huh.
Looks like Stiles did as requested. “Found anything?” Derek asks, because it's
only polite.
"Not much that's helpful.” Stiles folds his legs, crossing them neatly. He's
skinny enough that he can still fit in a desk chair like this. “Lots of blue-
skinned people, which is entertaining, don't get me wrong. Apparently it's
harmless to normal humans, except for the aforementioned case of the blues. So
I figure we want to cross-correlate with something that's poisonous to normal
humans and accumulates in the same places, preferably another heavy metal. So
for the next stop I was thinking radiation poisoning.” Stiles gives a tiny
shudder at that. “Which is why it's possible I'm procrastinating just a tiny
bit.”
Derek gives him a flat look. “Don't.” He pointedly goes back to his book,
ignoring Stiles' displeased noise. The translation is old and not very good,
but Derek loves the story. Mythology is useful sometimes. Other times, though,
it's just the fairy tales he'd loved as a kid by another name.
Harsher and bloodier, yes, but isn't that what growing up is?
Eventually, Stiles huffs and turns to him again. “What do we need it for,
anyway? If anybody got hit by that, we'd know, wouldn't we?” His expression
turns doubtful at the last word.
"We need to be prepared.” The Argents like to tell their captives what to look
forward to. Derek's enforced stay with them was, in some ways, illuminating.
“This isn't something we want to look up last-minute.”
Stiles scrubs at his barely-there hair. “Right. Uh. So I should mention that,
at least as far as effects on humans go, there's no known cure? Apart from
laser treatment to, you know, de-bluify people. Which I doubt would be helpful
in our case. Is there some kind of cure for silver in solid form? Maybe we can
work up from that.” He's turning to tap the keyboard as he talks, frowning.
Derek takes a deep, quiet breath. Stiles is bitter with the pills he's taking,
sour with anger and teenage hormones. Growing up changes scents, your
environment, what you eat –
“Sunflower seeds,” Derek says. Stiles turns back at him, eyebrow raised.
“They're supposed to be good for--” but Stiles snaps his fingers until Derek
goes quiet, swivels back to the computer.
On the screen, Stiles has a list of foods rich in selenium and vitamin E. “I've
seen it mentioned, but it didn't seem... credible. Hah, because credibility,
that's the one constant in my life these days.” He turns to Derek, smirking.
Stiles' eyes are warm, though. And while his scent is different, his heartbeat
has only grown into itself, deeper and slower but ultimately the same. Derek
moves closer, unthinking, and Stiles flinches. It's just the tiniest movement,
controlled quickly enough, but Derek could hardly miss it.
Derek gets the fuck out.
He stops halfway to his house, crouching beside a tree. Shit. He forgot his
book at Stiles'. Never mind. He'll go back and get it later. Sneak into Stiles'
room like Rapunzel's fucking prince. Only that's not the right story, is it.
Once upon a time (Derek tells himself, because he knows what happens to those
who forget their history), there was a kid named Derek. He didn't know what
desire was until it fell on him all at once on a summer's day. He'd hid it
inside until the warmth of it turned to insufferable heat, and then there was
someone waiting.
Derek hadn't wanted Kate but Kate had wanted Derek, and that was good enough,
an outlet for frustration bursting at the seams. He'd been so grateful, he
spilled out everything to her. She made him feel like his skin was on fire.
Apt, that.
That's all gone now; can't burn ashes. There's nothing left of Derek but anger
and this scrabbling will to survive, like something too dumb to realize it's
dead already. Stiles is right to be afraid of him. Derek makes a fairly
compelling cautionary tale.
He reaches the Hale house winded, although he didn't even break a sweat on the
way. Attempts to steady himself on a half-burned-through support column, which
snaps and cracks under his weight. Derek lets himself fall, sprawling on the
floor.
He pushes up, and finds himself face-to-face with a dandelion sprouting amidst
the charred wood.
Oh, look, Derek thinks bleakly. It's a metaphor.
***** Twenty-four *****
Chapter Notes
     Contains graphic violence. See end notes for detailed warnings.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The Martien pack haven't made themselves any friends coming into Beacon Hills.
It didn't help that they made their introductions by setting several buildings
on fire.
The buildings were abandoned, but that didn't make Derek any more positively
inclined toward any of them. Especially not their Alpha. Donna Martien is
taller than him, spears him with her gray eyes while they negotiate.
"Don't call it that,” Donna says, with a wave of her hand. “I prefer to think
of it as coming to terms.”
As in, terms of surrender. Derek bares his teeth, as much as he can without
showing outright disrespect. Donna's in her sixties, and Derek is very
uncomfortably aware that she's probably eaten Alphas more powerful than Derek
for breakfast. Must have, to survive this long.
"They don't have to be bad terms,” she says, leaning against the wall of
Derek's boxcar. “I'm not trying to humiliate you. There would be a place for
you and yours. You've met Kenny.” Donna gestures at her second, who looks
distinctly unimpressed. “You could mate with her if she'd have you. I wouldn't
forbid it.”
Derek doesn't dignify this with an actual answer. “Beacon Hills has been Hale
land for decades.”
"And now it's crawling with hunters.” If Donna doesn't mean to humiliate him,
she's doing a shit job. The pity in her eyes is all too evident. “From what I
hear, hunters were actually the least of your problems in the last year. I've
got the experience and the manpower to bring this territory back to its prime.”
"Wow, yeah,” Stiles says, because apparently some part of shut up and let me
handle this wasn't clear to him. “Like you did with your previous territory,
which is why you're still over there and not bothering us over here. Oh,
wait.”. He snaps his fingers. Derek has no idea why he even brought him, except
that of his pack, Stiles could be relied upon not to get angry and attack any
of their... guests.
"Hale, control your pet.” Donna doesn't even grace Stiles with a glance.
“You've heard what I have to say. I'll give you a week to decide.” She turns
and leaves, at that, not even bothering to make her threats explicit.
"Pet?” Stiles sounds outraged. Derek doesn't sigh, but it's a close thing.
~~
A week after that, there's no attack on any of Derek's hideouts. Donna doesn't
come back to hear Derek's refusal. Everything seems peaceful.
His Betas crack jokes, leaning on each other companionably. Scott has
disappeared, no prizes on guessing where.
In the corner of the boxcar, Stiles purses his lips and checks something on his
phone, thumb-typing obsessively. Derek goes to look over his shoulder. Stiles
is looking at an aerial photo of Beacon Hills, emitting disgusted little
mutters about scrolling on smartphones.
"Got anything?” Derek asks.
Stiles doesn't even move, heartbeat remaining at the same slightly elevated
rhythm as before. “Nope. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.” He lets out a frustrated sigh.
Derek's mouth thins into a sharp line. “We need to fortify here tonight,” he
decides. “They think we're weak. To make their point, they'll attack us at our
weakest.” His hand finds its way to Stiles' shoulder, jerking away when Stiles'
breath catches.
"Go home,” Derek says softly. “Stay in tonight.”
Stiles turns his face up, eyes guarded. For once in his life, he doesn't argue.
~~
Derek and his Betas stay up through the night, to much grumbling. Derek finally
lets them get some sleep, in shifts, when it's ten AM the next morning and
there's no sign of the Martien pack.
By the time they notice Stiles is missing, it's late afternoon.
~~
"Are you sure this is the place?” Scott hangs awkwardly just behind Derek,
whispering like someone who doesn't really get the idea of enhanced hearing.
Derek turns to glare at him, wishing for the hundredth time he'd just left
Scott behind. Allison was actually doing better than him at both keeping up and
staying quiet.
"The map location was on his phone with a big red circle around it marked
Martien headquarters,” Derek says, in an actual whisper. “So, yeah.”
They'd found the phone discarded in the woods not far from the ruins of Hale
house, next to Stiles' parked jeep. When Isaac tried tracking him by scent, he
ended up inhaling wolfsbane powder and passing out.
"They wouldn't hurt a human,” Scott says. “Right?” His voice is full of such
desperate hope that Derek can't even answer.
He doesn't even know why Scott sounds like that. Stiles has been hurt plenty of
times, fighting beside them (and, occasionally, against them). You'd think
they'd be used to it by now.
You'd think Derek would be. Derek growls and kicks open the door to the
abandoned radio station with much more force than necessary. He almost falls
in; he can hear the broken remains of the lock clicking inside the door.
Someone already broke into this place.
"Sounds like the right place,” Derek says quietly. He takes a step inside.
He can smell the blood right away. It's thick on the air, enough to make him
dizzy. Human, without a doubt, and lots of it. Derek breaks into a run.
He has to slow down when he reaches the room, nearly slipping on half-dried
blood. He can hear Scott choking softly behind him, but doesn't have time to
check on him.
There's a body lying on the desk in front of him, head missing and ribcage
forced open. Derek finds himself staring at the guy's shoes. He can't smell
anything through the taste of copper in his mouth and the clothes have been
bloodied beyond recognition, but Derek knows these sneakers.
Scott is howling and Allison is trying to say something, Derek doesn't register
what. Can't react at all.
There's another heartbeat in the room, quick and unfamiliar, young. Derek turns
his head slowly, as though the thickness of the air was physical texture,
halting him. There's a young woman there, handcuffed to piping in the wall. Her
face is streaked with mascara and she's trying to yell through a gag.
Derek hears Scott snarling, the soft ripping-skin sound of his claws coming
out. He jumps at the woman, but doesn't make it. Something pins him to the
wall. An arrow: Allison's.
Derek cannot make sense of anything. He rises (slow, so slow), walks to that
woman. Now that he's closer he can smell Martien all over her, strong enough to
cut through the blood. She's struggling, trying to scream. Derek can barely
hear her at all, her voice muffled by the gag and some choking grayness that
seemed to have settled over him. He can't hear Allison and Scott, either. The
world fades into silence.
And a heartbeat, faint but familiar, coming from a closed door to Derek's
right.
That one is locked. Derek thinks it must have been heavy from the thump it
makes hitting the ground. And there, wrapped in packing tape and gagged, Stiles
stares at Derek with huge eyes.
Derek manages one step before his knees give. He reaches, claws out, to tear
through the tape binding Stiles to the chair.
When Stiles' hand is free he puts it, shaking and clumsy, over Derek's head.
Derek closes his eyes and rests his face over Stiles' knee, wrapping his
fingers around Stiles' calf. Listens to the rush of blood in Stiles' veins, and
the heady beat of his heart.
When Scott and Allison come to them, the young woman is behind them. Derek
hasn't moved, doesn't know if he can just yet.
"So, can somebody please tell me what the fuck this was supposed to be?" Stiles
apparently got the gag off with his right hand, since the left hasn't moved
from Derek's scalp.
It's the woman who answers. "I don't know. I was just here for the real estate
agency when these freaks came in with two unconscious guys." She sounds close
to hyperventilating.
"I found a wallet on the body," Allison says, quiet. "I know him. He works for
my dad, I think. Worked."
Derek feels a shudder go through Stiles body. "Let me guess." Stiles' voice is
hoarse. "The freaks undressed me, put my clothes on the other guy, tied you up
and tore him apart while you watched?"
The woman swallowed. "Then they. They."
"Martien must have rubbed herself all over her," Scott says with barely
disguised rage. "So she'd smell like her pack."
It's not hard to piece together, even in Derek's present state. Kill a hunter,
make him look like a member of Derek's pack, leave an innocent human smelling
like Martien nearby and let Derek and Scott kill her in their rage over the
loss of their pack mate. Force a confrontation with the hunters and attack both
groups while they were otherwise engaged.
But they haven't accounted for Allison, or for Derek to be incapacitated
with... whatever that was. Stronger than grief, which Derek is familiar with,
thanks. It seemed like the entire world might as well have died with Stiles.
Finally Derek finds it in him to stand up. He can only force his eyes away from
Stiles because he can hear him breathing. "We're going to find Martien." His
voice is deadly quiet. "And we're going to drive her pack off our territory."
~~
They get as far as the building's door before running into Martien's second.
She's holding both hands up, a white handkerchief held in one.
Stiles, leaning on Derek since he's still a little woozy, groans. "You expect
us to trust you? Seriously?"
Kenny looks at Derek, expression serious. "We didn't realize he was your mate.
We didn't mean any harm."
Scott snorts incredulously. Stiles says, "Mate?"
Derek just glares at her, incapable of summoning anything like a sufficient
response. His claws are crawling out, his fangs bared at her.
"My second speaks for me," Donna says, materializing out of the shadows before
them. Derek didn't even hear her approach. "We've made a grievous error in
judgment. We would never threaten an Alpha's mate. To apologize, we will
retreat now, and give your pack some time to regroup."
She doesn't look all that repentant to Derek. Especially when she adds, "Not
for long, though. I suggest you get your territory in better shape; if we're
not back here by next year, someone else will be."
Still, Derek lets her go, thrusts his arm out to stop Scott when he moves to
lunge. It might have to do with the way Derek's skin feels newly-formed,
fragile, like a just-healed burn.
Chapter End Notes
     Contains a badly-mauled dead (OC) body, lots of blood, and Derek
     freaking out over thinking Stiles is dead.
     Next part is going to be longer, Stiles-POV, and contain a bunch of
     cuddling and sex. I'm looking for someone to beta for it, and
     potentially future Sterek fics as well - any takers? *hopeful puppy-
     eyes*
***** Eighteen *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter has sex in it! And not even underage sex, since Stiles
     is *points to chapter title*. Also contains cuddling. And ~FEELINGS.
     My deepest thanks to everyone who offered to beta, and most
     especially to christycorr who wound up actually doing it. <3
So: kidnapped, forced to listen to a guy getting gutted, cocooned in tape and
his jeep is still lost out in the forest. Stiles is thoroughly done with today,
alright. He's about to turn in when the sensors he installed outside his window
go off. Stiles sighs and gets up.
It's not the first time Stiles opens the window to behold the common
creeperwolf in his natural habitat. At this point, Stiles just shakes his head
and says, "Come inside.” Derek looks at him like a cat startled in mid-stalk.
“You'll fall and I'll have to scrape wolfy splatter from the sidewalk.”
Derek looks down. “From here? The fall would be nothing.” But he climbs inside
Stiles' window, even so.
"Figure of speech, dude.” Stiles is halfway back to his computer chair when the
adrenaline high finally dies on him, sudden, and he changes track to the bed.
“Mmkay, I'm gonna crash now. You do whatever you like. Play Call of Duty, help
yourself to my porn folder, just mhmm.” The last few words are a mushy mumble
made into the pillow. Whatever. He's sure Derek got the gist.
Derek snorts. “There's nothing I want in your porn folder.”
Stiles turns to his side and mumbles, “That stings, man. I got excellent
taste.”
Derek doesn't dignify that with a reply. Just as well, since then Stiles would
have had to answer and he is so fucking tired he doesn't think his jaw even
works anymore. He's officially too wiped to complain about how wiped he is.
You'd think that being so tired that he can't even speak would mean Stiles
falling asleep right away. Ha.
Stiles' eyelids slide halfway open. “Turn it off,” he moans, waving his hand
ineffectually at the red glare. So he can talk after all; his mouth feels like
a disembodied shell of its former self, but hey, so long as it's still working.
"What.” Derek's voice is dead flat.
Stiles chooses, optimistically, to parse that as a question. "Your eyes. Fuck,
they're worse than a LED display. At least my alarm clock isn't secretly
judging me. I don't think,” he adds, with sudden doubt. His alarm clock may
well, in fact, judge him. God knows Stiles has no compunctions about hitting
the snooze button.
"I can't turn my eyes off.” Red glare notwithstanding, Derek sounds pissed but
only normal-pissed, not grievous-bodily-harm pissed.
Still, Stiles proceeds with caution. "You can close them,” he coaxes. “Sleep,
even.” God, sleep would be good. Stiles has no idea how he's even still talking
right now. Every other muscle in his body has given up the ghost. “Derek.
Sleep.”
Derek's silent for a long moment. Then he mutters, "I'm not going to sleep in
your damned office chair.”
Stiles flips the covers, because that's the sort of giving person he is. The
sort who wants to sleep without Derek giving him the Demonic Alpha Glare of
Doom, anyway, and is willing to sacrifice a bit of bed space for this end. He
does it because he's tired and beyond giving a shit, because it's sort of funny
to his half-comatose brain to suggest Derek Hale share an actual bed with him.
He really doesn't expect Derek to accept.
It takes Stiles a few minutes to parse what is actually happening, a dizzy-
happy minute of hey, no more glare, sleep now?, a moment of confusion at the
sounds of zippers sliding and cloth rustling, and then straight-up what the
fuck as Derek slides in beside him.
It passes, though, and Stiles is really too fucking worn out to say anything
about it. Besides, he did offer.
~~
Derek isn't there in the morning. Which is probably good, Stiles thinks. Last
night... see, the entire previous day was like one long exercise in fucked-up-
ness, so anything unusual may well be discarded as a result of deadly peril and
adrenaline drop.
Right? Stiles mouths at himself in the mirror, then makes a face because he
accidentally swallowed some toothpaste.
Right. Only not.
"So, on a scale of one to apocalypse, how bad would you say yesterday was?”
Stiles says when Scott answers his phone.
"Dude, it's ten AM,” Scott says, and Stiles attempts to convert time into
danger rating for a moment before he understands what Scott actually said.
Though it does help that Scott follows it up with, “Why are you calling me
before noon when we don't have school or monsters to deal with?”
Stiles twists his mouth. “You could count my existential crisis as a monster.
An allegorical monster. Doubts are its claws.”
"What,” Scott says, like Derek all over again, except Scott probably doesn't
know what existential means.
"C'mon, gimme a rating.” Stiles raps on the table. “Was it a five? Or more like
a seven? I was legit mistaken-for-dead back there, that's gotta rate a six at
least.” It was bad enough to get Derek all red-eyed and at Stiles' window for
no clear reason, after all.
"I don't know,” Scott groans. “Six and a half?”
Stiles drums his fingers against the kitchen table. "You didn't even think
about it, you're just making up numbers.”
"Dude, who's the one that woke me up for an apocalypse rating?”
Stiles starts to say how that's totally an appropriate thing to do, they should
quantify their experiences and maybe write a book or at least a blog, names
changed to protect the remaining innocents, but Scott hangs up on him. Rude.
~~
The rest of the day is fairly productive. Stiles buys food and fills out
college applications and posts some inflammatory entries to a not-at-all-about-
werewolves forum. Martien group: he types, out of their depths and up to
irresponsible actions, which may or may not be forum-slang for underhanded
bitches tried to take over our territory. He gets a few sympathetic replies,
which is good news. Nobody likes a trespasser in the werewolf world.
(In spite of everything, Stiles kind of loves that the phrase werewolf world
has unironic relevance to his life. It's the little things that make it all
worthwhile.)
But then it's evening, Stiles has pretty much blown through his to-do list, and
he needs something to keep focus on before he tears down the walls in sheer
frustrated boredom. Scott's not answering his phone. Stiles' dad isn't home.
Stiles is contemplating driving up to Deaton's when Derek climbs in his window.
"Dude,” Stiles says reprovingly.
"Not dude,” Derek counters, then slumps ever-so-slightly. “I thought I'd save
you the trouble of inviting me in.”
"That's not really how inviting works,” Stiles says, “dude.” But he gives in
after that, since Derek kind of looks like hell and Stiles would rather not
have dinner alone. “C'mon downstairs. There's chilli.”
~~
Now that Stiles isn't dead on his feet, though, he's got questions. He waves
his fork at Derek. “So what I want to know is, why did they leave?”
Derek stares at him. Stiles stares right back, letting that awkward silence
really sink into place.
Eventually, Derek sighs and says, “You were right there. You heard what they
had to say.”
Uh, which is Stiles' point. “She called me your mate. What the hell does that
mean?”
Derek arches an eyebrow. And, alright, maybe in all his research on werewolves
Stiles did run into some pertinent points on this subject. Some of which may
have ended up in his porn folder.
So much for Derek not finding anything interesting there, at least.
“Okay, and they came to the conclusion that I was yours... how?”
This time, Derek's silence is the kind that promises information if Stiles is
patient. Stiles stifles a smirk and digs into his chilli, because multitasking
is important.
"They were watching my reactions,” Derek says, eventually. “The Martien second
was probably on look-out, to see that nothing went wrong.”
Which is no kind of answer, really, but Derek's glare isn't forthcoming and
Stiles is feeling generous. He'll get Derek to spill eventually. “Hey,” he
says, “did you ever play Portal?”
Which isn't the smoothest of segues, but between being the town's supernatural
disaster squads and finals, not to mention Stiles' primary gaming partner being
otherwise occupied even when not busy with aforementioned disasters and exams,
it's kind of been a while since Stiles had anyone to game with who wasn't an
anonymous online thirteen-year-old dick.
"I could play,” Derek says, a little too quick for comfort. Like he's happy for
the change of subject. Stiles keeps that carefully in mind.
~~
The two-player mode is awesome, okay. Stiles is totally rubbing that in Scott's
face when they next get to talk. Derek hasn't played either of the Portal
games, but he's a quick study and crazy intuitive about jumping. And aiming the
portal gun. The way he almost cracks a smile when GLaDOS makes a particularly
biting comment might cause Stiles' little android to plummet from a really tall
platform to his virtual death.
Derek's almost-smile turns into an actual smirk at that.
"You do realize this is supposed to be cooperative play, right?” Stiles glances
at Derek and sighs. “You know what, never mind, forgot who I'm talking to.”
The smile vanishes. Stiles maybe regrets that a little, bad as it was for his
composure. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Stiles gulps. Derek's voice has gone all deceptively soft, and Stiles has...
reactions to that. He's a growing boy, okay, highly impressionable, and
Hollywood is very persistent about eroticising the bad boy stereotype.
He wasn't always bad, Stiles thinks without meaning to, and then he has to talk
fast or his mind will take him the rest of the way down memory lane, which
would be bad. Thither be dragons.
“Cooperation,” Stiles says, sing-song and intentionally annoying, “may be
defined as the process of working or acting together, sharing resources and
knowledge to achieve a common goal.”
Derek gives him a skeptic look.
Stiles deflates a little bit. “Okay, yes, I memorized bits of the dictionary.
That sort of thing happens when you have a father that goes on stake-outs with
you asleep in the back seat and nothing else to do.” Derek raises both eyebrows
at that; damn, those things are eloquent. “Shut up, like you're such a shining
example of fine parenting.”
Which... okay, Stiles shouldn't have said that. Stiles knows, now, that there
is such a thing as the smallest, indivisible unit of time, and he's going to
define it as the time between that sentence passing his lips and his brain
catching up on what an absolutely shitty thing that is to say to Derek.
Derek, however, merely blinks. “My parents were fine,” he says after a moment.
“My mom used to be friends with yours.”
Stiles swallows through the instinctive hurt of anyone mentioning his mom.
Says, “Yeah, I remember. Everyone used to be friends with my mom.”
Even Derek. Who nods, like he doesn't remember Stiles' first day at the
library, when his mom led him by the hand to an older, shy-looking boy, and
said, “Won't you look after my Stiles for me, Derek?”
Derek had liked Stiles' mom. Everyone did. Stiles appreciates that Derek hung
around with him for even those short few months after she died. It was a kind
thing to do for the memory of a dead woman.
On the screen, Derek's robot slides into slippery death. Stiles jerks, moving
back to stare at the screen. “Restart?”
Derek nods again, slowly. “Sure.”
~~
They get tired of Portal. Eventually. Stiles' grip of time may be a bit shaky
right now. Near-death experiences do that to him, he's found.
Derek doesn't say anything, so it's Stiles who finally notices that's it's one
AM. He jumps when his eyes catch the clock, racing to his cellphone. Derek's
staring at him, eyebrows bunched up all caterpillar-like, while Stiles
frantically turns his cellphone back on.
He loads his messages, exhales shakily when he gets the one from his dad. “He's
in Fresno overnight,” Stiles says. “Probably has a trial in the morning or
something.”
Derek keeps looking at him. “So you're here all by yourself.”
"Well, not right now,” Stiles says, peeved for no reason he can understand. “I
mean. You're here. And you're actually halfway decent company, it turns out.
Who knew?”
"You shouldn't be alone right now,” Derek says.
Stiles gapes. “Was I on mute or something? I could've sworn I just said that
I'm not alone, because you! Are right here, right now!”
"I wish you had a mute button,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles knows Derek knows
Stiles can hear him, so that's just rude. “You should call Scott or something
when I leave. You really shouldn't be alone.”
"Oh,” Stiles says, and it comes out smaller than he meant. “You're leaving?”
It's just odd, okay, for Derek to suddenly decide to act like a normal human
being who doesn't randomly spend the night in teenagers' rooms. Stiles doesn't
cope well with change, his therapist said that more than once.
Derek doesn't answer. They stare at each other, silent and weird, until the
screen turns itself off.
Stiles sighs. The epic rant he's been carefully composing collapses on itself.
He just says, “If you're going, you should head out now. You shouldn't drive
when you're tired.”
"I'm not tired,” Derek says, like some sort of challenge. “You are, though.”
Stiles opens his mouth, then thinks better of denying it. His throat clicks
when he tries to talk, too dry. “Yeah. Think I'll head to bed.”
"I could stay until McCall gets here.” There's something not right about
Derek's voice. Too soft.
"Or you could. Just stay.” Stiles blinks, then backpaddles as fast as he can.
“Ahahah. I think I really am tired. I might actually be hallucinating. I think
I thought you were. Someone. Whom I could ask to stay. You know, I really think
I should go straight to bed.”
Derek doesn't look angry. Like, at all, which is why it takes Stiles a moment
to understand Derek said, “I could be.”
He's quiet saying that, too, like he forgot Stiles doesn't have werewolf
hearing. Or like he didn't really want Stiles to listen.
Never mind. Stiles has had his share of mortifying conversation for one night.
“I'm going to bed. You can borrow a pair of my sweats to sleep in, if you
want.” He heads up the stairs before he can catch Derek's expression, which is
probably for the best.
~~
It's funny, because Stiles actually is pretty tired. Not drop-dead tired like
the other night, though, which means he's all too aware of the fact that
there's another body in his bed.
To Stiles' slight dismay, he kind of likes it. Derek's big, and warm, and
doesn't growl or even move when Stiles accidentally-on-purpose rests his
shoulder over Derek's chest. Stiles needs to find out whether Derek's chest is
as firm as it looks, okay. For science.
For the record? It totally is. It's better than Stiles' mattress. Stiles is
seriously considering upgrading his bed.
Of course, that just means he starts thinking about sleeping on Derek on a
regular basis, which brings on the thought of sleeping with Derek, which, no.
Stiles has already done the 'little boy creeping out older boy with his
unrequited crush' thing once. A repeat is most definitely not necessary.
So he starts talking. It's that or hump Derek. “So if you're a pack of assbutts
infringing on another pack's territory, and you think some random hyperactive
kid is the Alpha's mate. What would lead you to draw that kind of conclusion?”
Derek growls. “Stiles.”
"Dude,” Stiles says, just to get that extra growl, “did you just say I was the
reason they thought I was your mate? Way to blame the victim.”
Possibly Stiles spontaneously develops were-senses, because he'd swear he can
hear Derek rolling his eyes. “It was your heartbeat, okay?” Derek snaps. “I
could hear it. They didn't expect me to.”
"Huh.” Stiles digests this. He was in the recording studio, after all, which
was supposed to be soundproof. “So, this means you have better hearing than the
average werewolf? That's pretty neat.”
In the ensuing silence, Stiles becomes aware once more that he's lying over
Derek's chest, may have crawled in tiny increments until his torso was flush
with Derek's. He doesn't remember doing that.
He opens his mouth once more in a futile attempt to distract them both when
Derek's heavy hand lands on the back of Stiles' neck, Derek's fingers gently
rubbing at his nape.
"Hmrrr,” Stiles says, or something along those lines. It's late. He's not going
to subject a guy to a third degree because his ears are awesome. Stiles is
totally beyond that.
~~
Stiles is totally a liar. He's at peace with that.
He's not sure Derek is, though, which is one reason he stops at a convenience
store before descending on Derek's current residence with a white-noise
generator and his fully-charged, full-of-noisy-music cellphone.
The other reason is that Stiles needs plausible deniability. Derek has just
moved (again), because hunters found his previous hole-in-the-ground (again).
The pack is trying to keep the location of their current headquarters on the
down-low, and the snort Boyd made when Stiles referred to it as such was
utterly uncalled for.
So Stiles parks next to the 7-11, to keep appearances, and gets a pack of
Cheetos, because he knows the value of a good bribe.
Derek's place is an abandoned (again) water treatment facility. Which means a
functioning bathroom, at least, for all that the place is moldy and drippy like
nobody's business. Stiles has no idea how anyone could sleep there with normal
hearing, never mind werewolf senses, and triple-never-mind Derek's apparent
super-lycan abilities. Stiles walks in slowly, putting his cellphone on
flashlight mode. This place would probably be a deathtrap if the electricity
were actually on.
Predictably, Derek materializes within minutes. Less predictably, his first
words are not “You shouldn't be here.”
Instead he says, “Your dad come back yet?”
"Yeah, this morning.” Stiles is speaking a little slowly, a little weirded out.
“Did you need something from him?”
By cellphone light, Derek's scowl looks really impressive. Dramatic shadows and
everything. “No, but you do. You shouldn't be alone.”
"You keep saying that,” Stiles says, exasperated. “Why do you keep saying that?
Especially when I'm not! Actually! Alone!” He punctuates those words with pokes
to Derek's chest because whatever, Derek totally scritched him to sleep last
night.
"I say it because it's important,” Derek says, his eyes sharp and too green for
Stiles' peace of mind. “Remember how you nearly died the other day?”
"Remember how I didn't, in fact, die?” Stiles counters, getting right up in
Derek's face. “Remember how you keep staying with me because you say someone
should? I'm starting to think you're just making up excuses for yourself.”
A muscle ticks in Derek's jaw. Uh-oh.
"Why are you here?” Derek asks, and huh, that's actually better than Stiles
expected.
"I wanted to see how good your hearing is,” Stiles says, holding up the white
noise generator.
Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “No.”
"Oh, c'mon!” Stiles wheedles. “It's for science!”
Derek glares at him. “Funny, I don't see a control group. Or a hypothesis.”
"Shut up.” Stiles' shoulders slump a little. “Qualitative research is totally a
thing.”
"It is,” Derek agrees easily. “I'm just questioning your academic
qualifications.” He leans against the wall, like he's just going to venture
forth into fucking-with-Stiles territory now.
Oh God. No. Don't think about fucking. Don't.
Stiles swallows. He can't tear his eyes away from the easy cling of Derek's t-
shirt, the muscle definition he can see all too well through thin cotton. “I'm
in high school,” Stiles protests, weakly, realizing he's not exactly helping
himself when Derek smirks.
"Exactly.” Derek taps against the wall.
It's quiet but for the sound of dripping water. “Nearly finished with high
school, that is,” Stiles says to offset it. Derek nods. “Practically an adult.”
Which, admittedly, is kind of a weird thing to say to an older guy whose bones
you want to jump when the two of you are alone in an abandoned building. Where
the older guy is squatting.
Stiles really expected at least a cursory go away by now. He's not getting it,
and that's perhaps the most unnerving part of an already unnerving week. He
takes a step backward, comes up against the wall, and winces when he hears a
crunching sound. Note to self: using your hoody as extra storage space can be a
problem when you forget you stuck a bag of cheesy snacks up your shirt.
Derek's nostrils flare. “Seriously,” he says, because apparently he's allergic
to question marks. The eyebrows go up again. At least Stiles can say he's
getting the full Derek Hale experience.
"I thought some puffed cornmeal might make you more amenable,” Stiles says.
Derek looks like he's considering something. Then he reaches out. Stiles stares
at his hand, uncomprehending.
"Gimme,” Derek says. Stiles squirms and extracts the Cheetos.
~~
They end up eating them in Derek's excuse for a bedroom, which is an old
control room with a blanket nest on the floor, a small generator, and – holy
Hallelujah – a working television. Stiles licks cheesy residue off his fingers.
"I don't have super hearing,” Derek says.
"Technically, you do,” Stiles says. “I mean, being a werewolf and all.” He
squirms surreptitiously, trying to shake all the orange dust from his hoody to
the floor without it ending up on Derek's bed.
Derek doesn't have a single crumb on him, because the universe is unfair.
“Yeah. But it's normal for a werewolf.”
Stiles nods slowly. On the screen, a meerkat looks up, head shifting from side
to side. “Yet you heard me in the room that other werewolves judged
soundproof.”
"That's not—” Derek's eyes flash. He visibly subdues himself before saying,
“You know how sometimes, when there's music you can just barely hear, you catch
little fragments of it?”
Stiles tries to nod and keep still at the same time. It probably just makes him
look twitchy.
"And then, you recognize the song,” Derek continues, “and suddenly it's like
someone turned the volume up, because your brain is making up all the missing
parts.”
"So,” Stiles says, cautious, “you're saying you found me because you know what
I sound like?”
"Your heartbeat,” Derek bites out.
Huh. “Because I'm in your pack,” Stiles tries. “Except Martien knew that, and
she still figured I'm your mate.”
Derek's utterly quiet and still.
Stiles fidgets. “Would all the recent sleepovers maybe have something to do
with that?”
Derek turns on him, sudden, and Stiles' heart skips a beat. For more than one
reason, if he's honest. “You. Almost. Died.”
"Yeah, that's kind of a regular feature of our lives at this point.” Stiles
stares firmly at the screen. There's a lion hunting an antelope, now. “Did you
know that the whole Alpha-Omega thing isn't how real wolf packs work?”
"Really.” Derek's tone is dry, but he sounds just as relieved as Stiles at the
change of subject.
"No. Apparently in actual wolf packs, the Alphas are the parents, and the Betas
are their children. That's why only the Alphas mate, to prevent incest.” Stiles
crunches loudly on a Cheeto. “Not sure what Omegas are supposed to be. The
uncle nobody likes, maybe.”
It takes Stiles a second to get that the small, dry sound he's hearing is
Derek's laugh.
"That's what it's like,” Derek says, after a few more minutes of silence. “What
it should be like. Family, not just a fight that doesn't end.”
He sounds frustrated. Stiles can't really blame him. “Some families are like
that,” he offers.
Derek's mouth is a grim line. “Mine didn't use to be.”
Hearing him say that hurts. Stiles isn't even sure why, it's not like he's not
long familiar with the walking tragedy that is Derek Hale. It ought to have
turned funny, by now.
Okay, sometimes it is. But not when faced so closely with Derek's still-raw
grief. So Stiles does the only thing he can think of and pushes Derek down into
the nest of blankets, crawling awkwardly over him, and curling his fingers
around Derek's shoulders.
"Stiles.” Derek's voice is tight, wary.
"You can call this payback, if you want.” For the last few nights. For saving
Stiles' ass repeatedly over the last few years. For a summer's afternoon in the
woods when Derek held a little boy through his grief.
"Wolves don't really mate for life, either,” Stiles says some time later. He
eyes are closed, face mashed against Derek's chest. “They're serial
monogamists, like humans.”
"Humans do mate for life, sometimes,” Derek says.
Stiles is about to contradict this when he thinks of his dad and deflates.
“Yeah.” Scott and Allison too, probably. “So that's all there is to it? Mates
just means partners?”
Derek lets out a slow breath. “Sometimes.”
Stiles waits. He doesn't even care if more knowledge is forthcoming, really,
he'd just like to stay where he is and not move. Like, ever.
"And sometimes, you just know.” Derek's hand settles on the back of Stiles'
neck again. There's a brief warmth on Stiles' forehead, just at the hairline,
and Stiles realizes that Derek just kissed him. On the face.
"Like love at first sight?” Stiles is just barely not stammering. His hands
clutch Derek's shoulders like a lifeline.
"Like instinct,” Derek says, and guides Stiles into a kiss. A real kiss. On the
mouth, and Stiles is freaking out at so hard about not sucking at this that he
forgets to kiss back.
Derek's hand goes lax, and Stiles pushes back. Derek's eyes are red again, but
he doesn't look angry. Instinct, Stiles thinks.
"Are you telling me that this.” Stiles tries to will his voice into steadiness.
“This has been going on since I was eleven?”
"No,” Derek says. Stiles knows better than to breathe out in relief, so he's
not surprised when Derek adds, “Long before that.”
Stiles' breath is doing funny things. "Okay, for the record? This is kind of
fucked up.”
“Tell me about it.” Derek's hand tightens again, for a brief moment, then lets
go completely.
Stiles is looking at Derek, though, and Derek's shaking. He's flattening his
arms on the mattress, turning away from Stiles like a he's trying to make
himself smaller.
"I knew I had to stay away from you.” Derek's tone is too familiar; it's the
one that invariably marks oh shit, we're screwed.
Stiles gestures wildly at the room around them. "Yeah, I don't think this
qualifies as staying away.”
"You have to go.” Derek sounds frantic now, like they're chased by hunters
rather than safe in his own bed. “I can't let go, so you have to. I thought you
were dead.” The last few words come out with keening sound that neatly cuts
Stiles' heart in two.
Then Derek wrenches himself back, like he's giving Stiles one last chance to
escape and Stiles just – attacks him, there's no other word. It's probably not
sexy at all, the way he mashes their mouths together, but Stiles is hungry,
can't help it, fueled by literally years of fantasies and an ache to somehow
make it up for both of them. To make it better.
Derek – fuck, Derek tastes as good as he smells as good as he looks, and it's
all fantastic. Stiles is rigid and needy, just from this, struggling not to rub
off against Derek's leg like the worst dog/teenager joke in history. Then Derek
fucking growls, hiking Stiles close so that the pressure is perfect, letting
Stiles ride against Derek's hip until he's almost, almost--
Then Derek rears up, flipping them and tearing away from Stiles. Stiles flails
at him. “What now?”
Derek rucks Stiles' shirt up, putting one hand on Stiles' chest while the other
creeps into Stiles' pants. This, Stiles is absolutely fine with. More than
fine. Derek's hand is big and warm against Stiles' dick, fingers curling up
strong and perfect around him. Stiles' neck arches back and he tries not to
shout, mouth wide-open but silent as he comes.
His endurance could probably use a little work. Derek, however, doesn't seem to
be complaining. The hand on Stiles' chest leaves exactly for the amount of time
it takes Derek to flick his own pants open – which is like, microseconds – then
it's back and Derek's jacking himself with his other hand, still slick with
Stiles' come.
Stiles takes a few seconds to wind down, closed-eyed, taking in the desperate
sound of Derek's breath. It starts to speed up and Stiles realizes that Derek
is going to come without Stiles' active participation, which, worlds of no.
He pulls away. Derek's breaths stutter, his hand chasing Stiles' skin. Stiles
catches it, places it back on his neck, grinning when he feels Derek's fingers
settling on his pulse-point. Bingo.
He still feels the need to add caveats. "This isn't permission to choke or
push, got it?”
"Loud and clear.” Apparently, pre-orgasmic gasping makes Derek's voice hoarse
and even hotter, jeez, Stiles did not think this was possible. Derek's hand is
still moving on his cock, which Stiles takes a good long, hard look at. Long
and hard being the operative words; again, jeez.
Stiles doesn't even realize what he's doing until his mouth is on the base of
Derek's cock, placing a sucking kiss where it meets the rest of his body.
Stiles licks up, tasting sweat and his own come, tongue sliding between Derek's
fingers, circling the head of his cock.
He puts his lips around it, just the tip, and sucks without thinking about it.
Then he moans, startled, lips pursing further and moving down; it's hot in his
mouth and living and Derek. Stiles did not expect to want this so much. To
desire Derek's cock in his mouth, perfectly on a creature-comfort level. It
feels right.
Derek's hand tightens around his neck, and Stiles is about to go over his
caveats again when there's come in his mouth. More come, that is. Also, Derek's
cock is twitching and hardening even further, which requires that Stiles grab
said cock for a better feel.
Turns out that feeling another person come is pretty damn cool.
~~
So, yeah, good thing that the place has a functioning bathroom. Even if the
bath part is just an emergency shower and the water is icy cold.
Stiles comes out, shivering. The bed is inviting and full of Derek, sprawled
out lazy and tempting, but Stiles finds his attention diverted by the box
beside the bed.
There's books in it, something cloth-bound and old-looking and a copy of The
Blue Fairy Book, what the ever-living fuck. And beneath them....
Stiles picks up the copy of Where the Wild Things Are. Leafs to the first page,
where the property of Beacon Hills library stamp is crossed out and annual
library sale is written below it. “This used to be my favorite book,” Stiles
says, quiet.
"I remember,” Derek says.
Stiles turns his eyes on him. Really? he thinks, somewhere between pleased and
furious. It was easier to think it was always nothing, that Derek just forgot.
That Stiles simply had a penchant for crushing on people who didn't know he
existed.
Derek's eyes are on him now, though. Seriously on. Like they might consider
taking up residence and maybe buying a couple properties as an investment, too.
It's a compelling look and Stiles is cold. So he slips back under the covers
and flips to the book's first page.
"The night Max wore his wolf suit,” he reads. Derek's head settles on his
shoulder and Derek's arm wraps around his waist, slotting into place like
finally getting that long piece in Tetris. “And made mischief of one kind and
another his mother called him 'WILD THING!'...”
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