Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/468406.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall
  Character:
      Sheriff_Stilinski, Jackson_Whittemore, Erica_Reyes, Boyd_(Teen_Wolf),
      Isaac_Lahey, Lydia_Martin, Scott_McCall, Allison_Argent, Derek_Hale,
      Stiles_Stilinski, Bobby_Finstock
  Additional Tags:
      AU_from_2.04_onwards, Stiles_and_Scott_are_BFF, Derek_is_emotionally
      stunted, Stiles_is_snarky, Romance, Lacrosse, Comedy, Derek_is_a_creeper,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Movie_Fusion, This_is_basically_Sabrina, Emotional
      Manipulation, Roughhousing, Dancing, Past_Abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-25 Completed: 2013-01-15 Chapters: 16/16 Words: 55507
****** Let us Stray 'til Break of Day ******
by Loz
Summary
     Derek decides the best way to get Scott to join his pack is to seduce
     Stiles first. Derek makes terrible decisions.
Notes
     Props go to JenNova, who encouraged me a little too strongly to write
     this idea. The title comes from the song Moonlight Serenade. In many
     ways, this fic is essentially Sabrina, although there are a fair few
     plot divergences. I owe my mind automatically slipping into Sabrina
     mode to this wonderful Merlin story --- The_Ugly_Duckling_Syndrome.
***** Chapter 1 *****
It's a plan that will have few casualties except, perhaps, his pride, but he
can't care about the negative consequences when the positive ones beckon to
him. It's simple. He needs Scott in his pack. Scott and Stiles are a packaged
deal. The best way to get Scott is to get Stiles first. He's noticed how
Stiles' heart-rate increases in his presence. It won't take much for him to
seduce Stiles, secure Scott as a permanent member, then orchestrate a Stiles-
lead break-up because it's obvious he's not boyfriend material.
It isn't a noble plan, or a moral one. When Derek gives any time over to
thinking about it, all he can think about are the parallels with Kate.
Conveniently, he doesn't spare much time to thinking about anything at all. In
war, there can be no time wasted.
*
Scott's pretending to attempt to help Stiles train. Actually, he's focused more
on his Allison situation and isn't even deigning Stiles with his usual advice
of, "I don't know how I do it, I just do." But, still, they're sending balls
flying through the air, and Stiles is trying to catch them without tumbling
onto his ass, and it's probably the most 'normal' thing they've done in a long
time, so Stiles isn't complaining. Only a little bit. Couched in humor.
"Do you think I'll ever make first line?" he asks after one spectacular fall.
Scott helps him up. "Of course. I mean, you have already. You're just never
here when you do."
"I'm invariably doing something to save your ass, no need to sound so
accusatory."
"Not accusation. Fact."
"Masquerading as allegation," Stiles says, brandishing his stick like a weapon.
Scott keeps side-eying his phone and it's about breaking Stiles' heart, so he
begins to pack up his kit, only grumbling quietly as he does so.
"You want me to drive you over to Allison's?"
Scott's face lights up like the fourth of July, and now Stiles has Katy Perry
stuck pulsating in his brain. "You don't have to do that."
"I know, but do you want me to anyway?"
"You're the best of all best friends."
"You say that as if you've only just figured it out."
Scott decides he has to freshen up before meeting his lady-love, but Stiles is
barely comfortable baring all when surrounded by the whole team, let alone just
one other guy (and he does not mentally flash back to all those naked paddling
pool days they share, no way in hell, because what on God's Green Earth were
their parents thinking?), so he changes quickly in the locker room and plays
Fruit Ninja.
He doesn't know what it is that makes him look up. Maybe he sees something
black and foreboding in his peripheral vision. Maybe there's a metallic scent
in the air. Either way, he looks up, and there's Derek, the grade-A stalker
that he is, staring at him. Intensely. Stiles can never control the way his
heart skips a beat when he has Derek's whole attention. He's tried, but nope,
nuh-uh, not happening, not even the tiniest amount. His heart? Skipping away.
Like a needle on a record, like a little girl with some delicious cotton candy.
"Scott's in the shower. Which you must already know. So you're probably
waiting. Ugh, the implications."
Derek's face doesn't even twitch. "I came to see you."
Stiles' mouth is frequently open, but rarely so out of his control. He's gaping
and he can't stop. "Huh?"
Derek steps forward, somehow rigid and fluid at the same time. Stiles has an
unfortunate mental picture of silly-putty. Black leather encased silly-putty.
That settles next to Stiles on the bench. Stiles was fairly convinced he'd
gotten over his Derek panic sometime between holding Derek up in a pool for two
hours and, well, now. But apparently not. This is too bizarre and he is wigging
out.
"I have a proposition for you."
"If it involves any virgin sacrifice or ritual mutilation; first of all, how
dare you, and second, I thank you kindly but no."
"I didn't originally plan for either of those things," Derek says, expression
not changing, though he sounds world-weary. "But they can be arranged."
"Is this where I squeak for your edification?" Stiles asks, still slicing and
dicing, because it's helping him release pent-up energy. "Because I'm not going
to do that."
Derek reaches over, fingers trapping Stiles' as he takes his phone. Stiles does
not squeak. It's more of a low-throated groan. Totally not the success he was
hoping for. He cranes his head around, figuring Scott has to be coming out of
the shower soon. It's been four whole minutes. And, yeah, maybe he's painfully
acquainted with Scott's usual twenty-minute suds and scrub, but at school? They
spend way too much time than is healthy in the showers and locker room as it
is. Derek puts his phone on the bench. Stiles cradles his hands together, not
wringing them exactly, more twiddling his thumbs.
"My deal is this: I will train you in lacrosse if you teach me some of your
internet and library research skills."
"What do you know about lacrosse?"
"A helluva lot more than you, judging by your performance today. Look me up in
the yearbook and newspaper archives if you don't believe me."
Stiles licks against the roof of his mouth to try and dampen it. All that
happens is the sensation of sandpaper against his palate. Derek concentrates on
his lips and Stiles can feel heat rising up his chest and neck. He knows he's
probably beginning to blush fire-truck red. "And why would you be suggesting an
exchange instead of simply demanding my assistance?"
Derek's glare gets colder. How can it get colder? It was already icy. "If you
feel like you owe me you'll do a better job of teaching me."
"What happens if I say no?"
Derek tilts his head to the side, his only other concession to displaying any
kind of emotion. This seems like mild irritation mixed with curiosity to
Stiles. It could also be a bad case of indigestion. "What do you think'll
happen?"
"You'll suck my spine out through my nose in ten seconds flat?"
"Colorful. But no. The worst that'll happen is you'll never make first line.
And I will constantly come to you for information, at all hours of the day and
night. And after I've tortured you that way for a year or more, I'll rip your
throat out. By that stage, it'll be a mercy killing."
"Sure making voluntary Derek-time an attractive prospect," Stiles says,
wondering if the roll of his eyes accurately conveys how eye-roll-worthy he
finds Derek's schtick. That's better than wondering if he should take him up on
his offer.
"You have twenty-four hours to decide," Derek says, and then he's strolling
away, hands tucked into his leather jacket. Strolling. If he added more hip
action it'd be a swagger.
Stiles stares at the taut line of his back until it disappears around the
corner; perplexed, bamboozled, topsy-turvy. There aren't enough flailing
gestures and exclamations that could do his confusion justice. Just --- what?
How? Why? Hweugh?
Scott comes out of the shower five minutes later. Stiles has been staring at
the wall, transfixed. He sniffs the air, frowns.
"Why was Derek here?"
"I don't really know," Stiles replies.
He's gotten good at lying to Scott using intensifiers and small omissions. He
doesn't really know why Derek was there, so he can say that easily without
Scott's wolfy senses cluing into him kind of knowing.
"Did he want to see me?"
"He bailed once you'd been in the shower for fifteen minutes, man."
Also not a lie. Stiles should probably feel bad at his lying-to-his-best-friend
skills. They're edging close to his resignedly-accepting-he'll-get-pushed-
aside-for-a-girlfriend skills. And his eating-two-bowls-of-lucky-charms-in-one-
minute skills.
Scott looks put out and has his mouth open to speak more, but then his phone
vibrates and his concentration is wholly absorbed by whatever cutesy message
Allison is leaving him. Stiles heaves a mental sigh of relief. He can't say why
he wants to keep this from Scott. The sensible thing would be to debate the
merits and downfalls of accepting anything from the Tall, Dark and Brooding
one. Except that he's positive Scott will immediately nix the idea and Stiles
is leaning toward maybe possibly saying yeah.
Stiles really, really wants to make first line. And if it also means the
potential to learn more about a werewolf who's been half-wolf his entire life?
And means he gets him out of his buzzcut in years to come because he can Google
things properly for himself? The good of this deal really seems to outweigh the
bad.
He shakes himself out of his meandering thoughts and wraps his arm around
Scott's shoulders. "C'mon lover boy, let's roll."
Scott is a comforting, solid presence against his side, nothing inconsistently
harrowing or remotely worrying. Just good old Scott.
"I had a thought, in the shower," Scott says.
"I totally don't need to hear anymore about your sex fantasies, I'm scarred for
life after the one where you were a literal dickhead. Thanks anyway."
"No, after them. About how we could train you up to make first line. Your main
weakness is coordination, right? I have the perfect solution! Dance lessons.
You should learn how to tango. Then, you'll get, like, nimble, and sure-footed,
and Lydia will notice you."
Stiles stares at Scott for a good three minutes before starting up his Jeep.
Between the samba and Derek, Stiles thinks his decision has been made.
*
He's been waiting for an excuse to do this. It's taken a lot of self-will not
to scour the archives to find anything he could on Derek. Now, he's been given
permission --- hey, invocation. He isn't wasting time. So, he searches. He
searches and completely ignores the swing-beat echoing against his rib-cage.
Derek was some kind of lacrosse God. It shouldn't really be a surprise, but it
is. There are countless mentions of his prowess (actually, he counted, and
there are seventeen in the yearbooks alone.) Derek's record makes Jackson's
look like that of a toddler. Makes all of Scott's achievements pale. He did
things with a stick that professionals wished they could do. It doesn't
guarantee that he can show Stiles how to have even an eighth of his success,
but he clearly knows what he's talking about.
There's a solitary picture in the corner of one page. It's blurry and not only
are his eyes scrunched shut, but Derek's facing off to the side. Stiles is
willing to bet it's the only photograph of him the school ever managed to get.
He's decked out in a white wife-beater and the red shorts Stiles knows so well.
And he's --- scrawny. Like, thinner than Stiles. Negligible arm muscles.
Knobbly knees. Stiles had seen mentions of "a build you wouldn't think would
translate to dominance", but, really? It puts a whole new spin on things.
Stiles wonders if Derek even had any wolfy superpowers when he was scoring all
those goals, which makes him boggle. What if they developed later and it was
all latent talent?
Stiles traces his finger over young-Derek's face. According to the caption he's
just turned sixteen. His eyes are scrunched up because he's laughing so hard;
carefree, full of life. And maybe he was always an asshole --- Jackson-lite --
- arrogant and entitled. But Stiles doesn't think so. He closes the book, taps
his fingers against the cover. He's made up his mind.
*
At first, he was going to ask Erica to do the seducing. She seemed more
appropriate for the task. He was convinced that whatever attraction Stiles held
for him would be overshadowed by a pretty blonde. Then he discovered she'd
always had a crush on Stiles and he realized the risk was too great. He
couldn't let feelings get involved. Erica wouldn't know where to draw the line.
She'd get caught up in the fantasy. He stepped up to the plate.
He convinced himself he didn't have to like it for it to work. He didn't have
to agree every step of the way. And he wasn't planning on breaking Stiles'
heart, because even at his most charming there wasn't any way an intelligent
person like Stiles could fall head over heels for him. He was too damaged. It
would be a fling. A smile and a kiss and a "this won't work out". They'd part
as amicably as they could ever get and Stiles would bounce away from the
experience as resilient as always. Meanwhile, Scott would have seen the
benefits of working with the pack so even though his best friend was no longer
making eyes at his Alpha, he'd stay.
When Stiles appears at the depot, all tentative twitching and large brown doe
eyes, Derek has a moment where all he can think is 'no'. No. Maybe lacrosse and
research are enough. Perhaps he doesn't need to take it any further than a
smile and a "thanks for helping". But then, when Stiles says, "Derek, I'm gonna
take you up on your offer. But you have to promise not to snap me in two", he
remembers the times they've all saved one another's lives and still Scott won't
join him, so maybe there's no other way.
"When do you want to start?" Derek asks, because he learned a long time ago not
to make any promises.
Stiles shrugs. "How about now? A quick drive to the library, a little search
engine one-oh-one."
Derek narrows his eyes. "You'd teach me before I show you a thing?"
There's something careful in Stiles' expression, something guarded, something
he doesn't want Derek to see. "Well, this way you'll owe me."
***** Chapter 2 *****
Derek's been in libraries before. Many times. From the way Stiles is babbling,
it's obvious he's not taking any chances on that, and beyond wondering if
Stiles has a mute button, Derek finds he's not immediately regretting this.
It's not a lie that he could fine-tune his research skills. And Stiles knows
all the short-cuts, doesn't need to ask any librarians for help. He says he's
memorized the Dewey decimal system. Derek thinks it's meant to be a joke, but
that doesn't stop it from being true. They're both living examples that the
best lies are couched in reality.
"So you should probably make yourself at home here, because when it comes to
accessing both the books of your interest and the computers, this is the
optimal cubicle," Stiles says, flourishing grandly.
He sets his bag on the tabletop, affixes a note saying 'occupied'. Derek
doesn't think that's the wisest action, but there are maybe five other people
in the library if he's being generous, so he guesses Stiles has weighed up the
risk involved.
"What if someone's already here?"
"One look at you and they'd run away for any number of reasons," Stiles says.
He's not malicious about it. He's forthright. Derek's had ample opportunity to
notice that even though Stiles is physically attracted to him, he hasn't got an
inflated sense of Derek's worth. He hasn't put him on a pedestal, or made him a
shrine. He mostly seems to think Derek's sex with menaces. That's going to have
to change at least a little, Derek realizes. He's going to have to con Stiles
into thinking he's somewhat likable. Because there's no doubt in his mind that
if he simply made the moves this evening Stiles would shoot him down. He may be
a horny teenager (Derek internally winces at this thought; there's knowing and
then there's knowing), but he's been laboring under a crush on an unattainable
beauty for a long time now. An unattainable beauty that Stiles also called
scarily smart and on the edge of unstable when they were treading water in the
Beacon Hills High pool. Which gives Derek information that in this case is
excellent ammunition.
Stiles would need more than mere physical attraction to make him want anything
from Derek. He'd have to connect with him. Showering him with attention would
help, but it wouldn't be everything. It's a depressing thought, but Derek comes
to the conclusion he'll have to develop some kind of personality in order for
his plan to work. He can hardly remember who he used to be and the idea of
creating a whole new persona from scratch is draining. And Stiles is no fool.
He wouldn't buy a sudden transformation. He's seen them at least once a month
since Scott was bitten. Knows they don't stay forever. So it's going to have to
be a balancing act. He’s going to have to take his time, stretch this out
longer than he’d prefer. He has advantages, but then, so does Stiles.
"Did you want me to show you some particularly useful books first, or how to
access the internet here?" Stiles asks, taking Derek's lack of response in his
stride. He doesn't seem at all perturbed that Derek has taken a few moments to
stare blankly at him.
"Books," Derek replies, unable to come up with a creative response. "They're
solid. Tangible. They have a scent and a texture."
"Old-school," Stiles says. "Figures. Follow me."
Derek follows, but he has to ask. "What do you mean --- figures?"
"That you'd be more likely to ask me to teach you how to dougie than to teach
you how to google if you were technologically minded?"
Derek doesn't know what Stiles is talking about. He thinks this is the point.
They come to a set of tall shelves and Derek's driven to question Stiles again.
"We're not gonna use the catalog?"
"I'll show you that later. For now, we should go straight to the source. Most
of what you'll need is in this section."
Derek scans the shelves. Many of the books look old and weathered, cracked down
their spines if they're not leather-bound. There's golden lettering on many of
the titles, covers fraying at the top and base. At least a couple of the books
look familiar. He remembers the collection his family had had in their library
when he was a kid; hundreds of tomes just like this, recounting histories and
myths, stories and legends. He used to love reading them and most of what he
knows are half-remembered facts from hours trawling through his family's
archives.
Stiles pulls out a large leather book and slaps it into Derek's chest. When he
looks down he sees the title 'The History of Lycanthropy'. Another eight books
follow, many thicker and heavier than the first. When Stiles is finished, he
shoos Derek back toward the cubicle. Most of the books are werewolf related,
although there are a couple that are more general.
Derek sits on the edge of the table when Stiles sprawls on the chair and starts
fanning the books out.
"I don't need books about werewolves, Stiles."
"Really? Because I'm pretty sure you could do with some pointers. But,
regardless, many of these say they're only about werewolves, when actually it's
a whole bunch of myths tangled up together. You can learn a lot by discounting
what you know to be false."
Stiles pulls a notebook and pen out of his bag and looks up at him with a
raised eyebrow. "If I were you, I'd pull up a chair. You're gonna get awfully
uncomfortable after three hours of perching on plywood."
"Three hours? I don't have that time to waste."
"Why not? You got an appointment with your manicurist to paint your nails?"
Derek leans down, deep into Stiles' space and traces his jaw with two of his
nails, reveling in the fluttering of his eyelashes and a muttered, "oh my God."
It's part-seduction and all threat. He taps his nails twice on Stiles' pulse
point, his throat constricting as he senses the rushing of all that warm, wet
blood.
"Were you under the delusion this was going to be a one-session thing, Stiles?
A few hours of leafing through your favorites? I'm expecting so much more. And
I'll give you more in return. You obviously need it."
As predicted, Stiles rears back and graces Derek with a filthy glare. The wrong
kind of filthy. There is nothing like desire in his countenance. Yet there is
in his scent, just under the surface of all the typical Stiles smells; sorrow
and determination and pragmatism. Derek changes tactic, complying with Stiles'
suggestion of getting a chair. It stops him from looming, but does mean he can
press his leg up against Stiles’. There’s a moment where Stiles studies him,
before going back to studying the books.
“Got any burning questions? Maybe even something you know the answer to, so I
can show you how I’d go about researching and verifying.”
“Does anything happen to werewolves during lunar eclipses?”
Stiles raises an eyebrow, looks surprised. “Great question. Okay, so the first
thing I do is go to the index of each book and note down the page numbers
related to the question, if any exist. Then I’ll skim-read each section, to
refine the reading material down further.”
Stiles continues to explain basic research processes; the kind Derek used for
projects and essays in school. He’s painfully detailed in his explanation, once
again obviously assuming that Derek has spent his whole life underneath a rock.
Derek doesn’t know whether to be amused or bemused. He was expecting
brilliance. He’s getting standard information. Stiles has started to launch
into a spiel about the judicious use of a highlighter when he finally cuts him
off.
"You do know I went to school? I got As."
Stiles scoffs. “You got As?”
“And Bs,” Derek concedes, though there were only two. He’s not going to allow
Stiles’ summation of his lack of intellectual prowess rattle him. “One C, from
Harris.”
"I knew he hated everyone!” Stiles says, punching the air with his free hand.
“It couldn’t just be me.” He taps his pen against his lip and glances from
Derek to the books. “If you don't need this why'd you ask?”
"I thought you had a system."
"I do. This is it."
Derek points at the books, then at Stiles. "This would take hours."
"Yes. Yes it does."
Derek narrows his eyes. "How do you have time?"
Stiles gives him a ‘duh’ expression; all open mouth and rolling eyes. He should
really win awards for his abilities to patronize and condescend.
“I make the time. I mean, who needs sleep? Not me. Are there any classes I can
skip? Maybe just this once. And unlike yours, my beauty regimen is seriously
diminished.”
“It shows,” Derek says, because, really, he’s going to have to snark back if he
wants any kind of control over the conversation.
Stiles goes still, then raises his eyebrows, looking almost impressed.
“It’s all suddenly starting to make sense,” Derek continues, warming up to his
theme. “No wonder you never make first line.”
“Do you mean that as a compliment or an insult? You know what, I don’t care.
I’m taking it as a compliment.”
Derek’s lips involuntarily curl up at the corners. He glances at Stiles,
assessing. He wonders what it is that makes him work so hard at a task that has
such little reward, putting that duty before his own desires. How many times
has he put his life on the line? How many sacrifices has he made? And what was
it all for? Loyalty? Or guilt?
“Can you show me how to search the catalog, before I die of boredom?” Derek
asks, in place of all the questions skittering across his mind.
Stiles throws his hands up in the air in mock-anger. Or perhaps it’s real
anger. There are occasions Stiles’ emotions are so loud, it’s hard to tell if
they’re part of an act --- that maybe people should be more worried when he’s
silent and restrained. But there’s an edge of annoyance in the jut of his jaw,
and there’s a lingering scent of frustration, so Derek thinks that maybe the
act can also serve as a double bluff. Stiles actually goes so far as to tug on
Derek’s sleeve to make him follow, commencing another endless stream of how-to
and why. Derek lets the words wash over him, mindless to everything except the
brush of Stiles’ fingers against his wrist.
*
Stiles collapses onto his bed and attempts to sleep the sleep of the
triumphant. Unfortunately, his body and his brain have other ideas. His legs
keep twitching and his thoughts keep racing, thinking about the fact he just
spent his longest time ever with Derek in a non-life-threatening situation.
Hours. Hours of them encountering nothing more evil than Mrs Carroll, and while
he’s got a theory about her being a soul-sucking demon that preys on kids’
misery during finals, she didn’t viciously attack them today.
And it turns out, when they’re not both under the hideous pressure of saving
one another’s lives, spending time with Derek is not horrible. He actually has
a sense of humor --- buried far, far beneath the surface --- but there. He
listens and he seems to be almost appreciative, which is more than can be said
for most people. After all, he insisted that he give Stiles some lacrosse
tuition before Stiles conducted the internet portion of improving his research
skills, necessitating it happening another day. Granted, he was yawning as he
did so. But he didn’t snarl when Stiles gave him homework.
(”Look,” Stiles had said, “I want to be sure you have a right to be as
disparaging and haughty as you’re being. Compile these quotes and I won’t
insist on returning to my five hour workshop on using bibliographies. And if
you get your pack to do this for you, I will know, so don’t.”)
And, okay, so Derek is still absolutely terrifying, but there’s a reality to
him now that there never used to be. Before, when all this began, he was this
hulking figure of doom and distrust, and over the last couple of months he’s
developed into a hulking figure of doom, distrust, and dimension. It used to be
next to impossible imagining him doing anything remotely regular, and now
Stiles knows what he looks like when he’s tired. How he sounds when he’s
fighting back a laugh. (At Stiles’ misfortune; almost getting eviscerated by a
Mrs Carroll-directed glare, but still, a laugh.)
Stiles shifts from his stomach to his back and stares up at his ceiling. He had
thought that it was likely Derek was only using him to spy on Scott, but he
hadn’t asked after Scott once. Then again, he also claimed to know everything
Stiles was teaching him, so Stiles isn’t discounting that it’s part of his
motivation, otherwise there would be no point to the proceedings at all. What
he really needs to decide is whether he’s offended by this or not. It might be
best that he get closer to Derek, to see whether he’s trustworthy enough as an
ally. He knows Scott needs more real training, from someone who has knowledge
that doesn’t all come from theory as opposed to practice. Someone has to be
proactive in this regard, and history dictates it won’t be Scott.
He rubs his fingers over his eyes and wills sleep to come. He’s supposed to be
meeting Derek at the field at the crack of dawn and considering Derek didn’t
even have the patience to learn the difference between searching for keywords
and searching for authors, he doesn’t think he’d be all that forgiving of
tardiness. As he pulls his hands away, one brushes down over his jaw and he
tenses, remembering the drag of Derek’s nails over that very spot. He can’t
stop his full-bodied shiver. So, okay, his own intentions aren’t entirely
above-board and self-sacrificing. He’s allowing his physical fascination to
cloud his judgement. He can’t exactly bring himself to care.
***** Chapter 3 *****
The air is crisp and smells of cut grass. It evokes memories he’d sooner
forget. A time when he had moments of happiness, when he had no other purpose
than to grow up and suffer the trials and tribulations of adolescence. Derek
rolls his head from side to side, noting the stillness of the morning and the
soft orange glow beginning to illuminate the world, until he hears Stiles
trudging across the field. He moves like a herd of elephants, but with none of
the majesty and grace. Stiles has pillow imprints all over his face and his
eyelids are drooping. He looks sleep-worn and crumpled. Derek has the
irritating urge to rattle him awake. At least, that’s why he thinks his hands
rise involuntarily toward Stiles as he makes his way onto the field.
“Oh, God. Now you’re imitating the undead?” Stiles asks, noticing the aborted
movement before Derek can think of a way to cover it up.
“At least I don’t look undead,” Derek replies.
Stiles blinks at him, slowly. “That was a pathetic comeback. You really need to
hone your bantering skills.”
Derek ducks closer at Stiles, menacing, but Stiles is either still three
quarters asleep, or past finding that particular movement intimidating. Derek
scowls, deep, before reminding himself that he’s supposed to be charming.
Derek literally has no idea how to be charming. Not when Stiles is staring
blearily at him, mouth slack, chest rising and falling softly with each indrawn
breath. Stiles is wearing loose sweatpants and a looser shirt, seems to be
under the impression he won’t need his actual lacrosse kit. No padding, no
gloves, no helmet. What exactly does he think Derek’s planning on teaching him?
Derek’s scowl dissipates into a light frown.
“What are you having particular trouble with?” he asks, wanting to bring some
focus to the morning’s proceedings. He can’t get caught up in the details when
there’s a broader picture to take in.
Unlike Stiles’ teaching style of information overload, throw as much as you can
at your student until something sticks, he’s going to narrow things down, work
on a couple of skills at a time. Then, maybe, Stiles will actually improve.
“Passing, catching, and picking up ground balls,” Stiles says. Derek opens his
mouth to speak and then Stiles is continuing. “Running, jumping, shooting,
dodging, managing to stay standing long enough to survey the field…” Stiles
peters out, shrugging hopelessly. He’s surrounded in the stench of
disappointment.
Derek doesn’t believe that Stiles could be that useless. He obviously
exercises, even if it’s against his will. He’s muscular where he needs to be --
- deceptively so --- more than wiry, less than built. He’s robust and he’s fit
and he may not have a natural affinity for the sport, but he must have some
redeeming traits. According to the Little League trophies in his room he once
had decent hand-eye coordination. Plus, he practices, doesn’t he? That’s what
he and Scott were doing here on the weekend. Perhaps it’s a confidence thing.
If he simply reminds Stiles of his strengths he’ll be able to build on them.
“Is there anything you can do?” he asks, doing his best to sound less demanding
and more curious.
“I give awesome rubdowns,” Stiles says, before he baulks, then blushes, right
eye flickering as he stares off into the middle distance. “Pretend I never said
that,” he insists next.
Derek immediately rushes to comply. The last thing he wants is to imagine
Stiles’ surprisingly strong-looking hands easing away tension and fatigue. That
is a mental place he is staying far away from, for ever and a day.
“What have you been practicing with Scott?” he asks next, because he’s got a
feeling Stiles will notice if he never mentions him. Stiles is doing his best
impression of a goldfish, like he thinks Derek’s referring to the rubdowns
again, so he clarifies, “Attack or defense?”
The relief is palpable. “Attack.”
“I guess the first thing I’ll tell you is that as attack you always have to be
on the move. It’s constant. You’re trying to keep your defense’s attention on
you, so that they don’t get into a position to join their team in blocking
whoever has the ball. You act as a distraction and you also put yourself in
place to further the game. When you have the ball, you need to run backwards
and forwards, fake passes, vary your pace. It’s as much a mind game as it is a
physical advantage. Just keep going.”
It’s the most he’s said at one time in the last three years, he’s sure of it.
And it’s such simple advice, but that seems significant somehow. That Stiles is
nodding and paying attention to these words that came far more easily than
others ever do. Though Derek suspects Stiles is utterly oblivious to what’s
going to come next.
“You need to work on improving these aspects of your game,” he announces.
“I can do that,” Stiles replies, but he’s still rubbing at his left eye.
“In order for you to practice your movement, I’m going to imagine you have the
ball and I’m going to chase you,” Derek says, enunciating slowly and clearly to
get the point through to Stiles.
“You’re serious,” Stiles says on a groan. “When are you ever not serious?
Great! Why did I agree to this again?”
“I honestly do not know.” Derek watches Stiles bends down to pick up his stick.
He shakes his head. “Leave your stick alone and run.”
“Why am I not using my stick?”
“It’ll be more of a hindrance than a help for now. Get going.”
There’s a whine and then, “I don’t wanna.” Contrary to what he’s saying, Stiles
has already begun to shuffle off, not picking his feet up enough, but managing
more than a walk.
“Run or I’m eating your liver. I hear it’ll be good with a nice chianti and
fava beans.”
Stiles spins to watch Derek as he travels backwards. “You’re not allowed to be
funny and referential when you’re making me run around at stupid o’clock in the
morning, Derek. Cut that shit out.”
Derek ignores the strange, warm thing that explodes within him at Stiles
calling him funny and gives him a three minute head start. It doesn’t appear to
do much. He’s seen Stiles run faster to the school cafeteria. He maybe
shouldn’t have seen that, but he was keeping an eye on Scott. Stiles doesn’t
seem appropriately driven, given the context Derek has constructed. He also
spends way too much time glancing over his shoulder and not looking where he’s
going. At one point, his feet almost get tangled up together, but he recovers.
A second later, Derek bounds after him.
This is familiar in all the ways that ache. This is how he used to train, but
back then it was in the woods. He’d get Laura and his cousin Gemma to come at
him from two sides, so he’d have to be doubly evasive. Gemma was an ordinary
human, but an extraordinary athlete. She was quick and frequently, in the early
days, had him eating dirt and bark on the forest floor. He was only just coming
into his powers as an adolescent werewolf and any time he wanted to push beyond
regular human endurance he had to shift. He’d been told in no uncertain terms
that in order to play lacrosse he had to keep his speed and strength in check.
His dad had said he’d have him pulled off the team if he saw even a hint he was
transforming. Derek remembers what it was like to be turning fifteen and
developing control; like he had the world in his palm, way too easy to crush.
Lacrosse helped focus him and eventually gave him advantages his werewolf
cousins hadn’t had.
It’s unsettling, doing this with Stiles. Like he’s sharing a part of himself he
locked away years ago and never muses on because it hurts too much. And Derek -
-- he doesn’t know why, but something within him wants to share this. He didn’t
realize it would feel like this again, after so long. He thought it would be
easy. Nothing is easy with Stiles, though, he should remember that. There are
always complications. Because Stiles is so loud, even when he’s quiet, and he’s
also so very human --- the best and the worst of humanity in one neat, compact
package. He’s a constant reminder of what Derek’s lost and can never recapture.
Derek feints right as he runs left, capturing Stiles around the middle,
tumbling them both to the ground. Stiles gives out a wheezed ‘oof’ sound and
grizzles.
“Ow… my everything. No warning?”
Derek looks down at Stiles’ face bracketed by his arms. There’s a line in his
forehead indicating pain, and his eyes are a touch too bright; morning sun
giving the illusion they’re honey more than sherry colored. He’s warm
underneath Derek; warm and solid, and the material of his shirt is thin enough
that it’s like they’re pressed skintight. Derek’s inner voice yells “no” at him
again, just as when Stiles turned up at the warehouse.
He should be wanting this, shouldn’t he? The way Stiles is licking his lips and
glancing at his mouth? He should be celebrating how Stiles unconsciously pushes
up against him, hips canting the barest amount, almost negligible, except that
Derek has heightened senses. He should be congratulating himself on a soon to
be successful plan. He’s really not. He eases off Stiles, ignores the steady
thrum of his pulse as he holds out a hand to pull him back up.
“You think your opponents are gonna warn you? Better yet, wear little bells to
alert you to their presence at all times?”
“That’d be crazily useful.”
Derek resists the temptation to respond again. If he did, they could be here
all day talking. He hates that he isn’t annoyed by the prospect. Stiles may not
be easy, but there are aspects of him that are comfortable.
“This time,” he says, pointedly, “worry less about what I’m doing and more
about what you’re doing to me. You’re attack, remember. Employ psychological
warfare. You also need to speed it up.”
Stiles looks about to retort, then clearly thinks better of it. He dashes off
and this time Derek is pleased to note that he picks up the pace and doesn’t
look back. Derek lets him run for a while to test his endurance and work out.
He watches the lithe arch of Stiles’ body, his lean contours and long legs. He
looks almost elegant, when he weaves to the right. It’s a pity he trips over
his own feet, faceplanting in a wet stretch of grass.
Derek sighs, goes over and hauls him up by his arms, careful to immediately let
go. There’s a flush over Stiles’ cheekbones and he glances at the ground rather
than at Derek’s face. Considering the fact Stiles could win awards for his
ability to stare Derek down, this is disturbing.
“I know, all right. You don’t have to tell me how much I suck,” Stiles says on
a sigh.
“You were doing well,” Derek says, and Stiles eyes snap up to glance,
assessing. “Until you decided you needed more roughage in your diet.”
Stiles rubs his hand over his head, biting his lower lip in a thoroughly
distracting manner. “Scott thinks I should take dance lessons to improve my
coordination,” he says, like it’s a joke.
It makes a lot of sense and is also one of the ways Laura helped him. For years
she also held it over his head as the ultimate in sisterly blackmail, but she
did teach him how to tango, foxtrot and quickstep to help develop an economy of
movement and lightness of step. Before the dance lessons his main failing was
how he ran flat-footed.
“Scott said that?” Derek clarifies.
Stiles grins, broad and wide. “I know. Some days it takes a lot of effort not
to just call him a dumb puppy and chuck him under the chin.”
“It’s a good idea. I agree with Scott. I can teach you some ballroom steps and
it’ll help you with your poise, rhythm and balance.”
Stiles’ face goes deadly, quietly blank. It’s the human equivalent of an old-
school computer blue screen of death. Derek wonders if he has a restart
function. He prods at Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles rocks backwards with the
movement, rigid and yet oh so simple to maneuver.
“Stiles,” Derek says, attempting to cut through the fog of his expression. He
succeeds, but Stiles starts to wince at him, all scrunched up nose and pulled
down lips. No one else on earth could pull the expression he’s pulling.
“I think I misheard you,” Stiles says, continuing to sound shell-shocked.
“You didn’t. Now, if I were you, I’d start running. Right this second.”
Stiles doesn’t run and Derek tackles him to the ground, but in a way that
minimizes the impact. It’s a ploy to shock him into action more than anything
and he doesn’t stay pinning Stiles long, because that way madness lies. Stiles
smells musky and sweet and his heart is beating out a swift, thundering
cadence. Derek wonders if that’s due to their proximity, his shock at the
tackle, or his shock at the idea of dancing. With him. It’s probably all three.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles grumbles when he gets up, this time of his own volition.
“I’m running.”
Almost as if he wants to prove to Derek that ballroom dancing torture is not
necessary, Stiles ups his game. But he still gets snarled up in himself on
three separate occasions, isn’t wholly focused on the task. He’s quicker, sure,
but he doesn’t dodge well enough. When they switch to have Stiles running
toward him, Derek has him on the ground five more times, and each occasion
Stiles is sweat-slick but dry-mouthed, if the smacking of his lips is anything
to go by. Each time Derek presses him into the grass it gets harder to lift up
and away again, but not because his muscles are sore. It’s because he’s been
without touch for so long, has purposely avoided human contact, and
experiencing it all in a rush like this is heady.
Time passes and Derek gives more advice, some of which helps immeasurably and
some of which gets summarily ignored. They take a break from running after an
hour to practice passing. Stiles is not terrible. With a little more practice
every day he could be brilliant. He has decent aim and the ability to catch.
After Stiles has caught his breath, they try several runs holding sticks, and
that causes them both a few injuries, though Derek’s heal immediately.
“You need to bring your kit next time,” he says when he examines a scrape on
Stiles’ forearm. It’s a large abrasion and Stiles flinches when he strokes his
thumb over it.
Derek places his hand on his shoulder and lessens the pain without a second
thought, but Stiles goes wide-eyed and purse-lipped.
“You don’t have to do that. I can take it. I have to learn, right? And it’s --
- you know, I may be breakable, but it’s possible to fix stuff without werewolf
mojo.”
“I just figured you’d be sore enough already without needing that too. Anyway,
it doesn’t last forever,” Derek says with a shrug. He wipes his hand down his
shirt, trying to get the feel of Stiles’ sweat off his palm. He likes it a
little too much.
There’s an awkward pause and then Stiles is leaning forward to shove at his
shoulder. “You really had me going, before, with the whole ‘I’ll teach you how
to dance’ thing. But that was you trying to freak me out, wasn’t it?”
“No, Stiles, like you said earlier, I’m never not serious, even when I’m
joking. I believe Scott has the right idea for once. All of the skills that
come with dancing would benefit you. You are actually fast, you’re learning how
to attack, you have good aim. You fall over because you don’t think hard enough
about what your feet are doing. If I teach you how to tango, that won’t be an
issue anymore.”
If Derek teaches Stiles to tango, he’ll have him in his arms without needing to
violently tackle him first. Which works in favor of his ‘seduce Stiles’
manifesto, but seriously impedes upon his ‘don’t let feelings get in the way’
terms and conditions.
Stiles narrows his eyes. “Just to double check --- this isn’t psychological
warfare?”
“If you want to stay on the bench forever, be my guest. It’s no skin off my
nose if you never improve.”
“I’m not saying that!” Stiles exclaims. “It’s more that we had a deal and this
feels like we’re changing the rules and regulations.”
“It’s a means to an end. I said I’d train you, not that I’d give you one lesson
and then expect you to know everything there is to know. Training involves
time, effort and practice. If that also includes doing something different to
work on aspects of the game in which you’re failing, I don’t see the harm.”
Stiles holds his hands up in surrender. “All right. When are we doing this?”
“After you show me some of your google tricks.”
“I’m busy until Tuesday. Unless you wanna come over tomorrow afternoon for the
intensive study session my dad insists I run, even in his absence. I mean,
Scott will be there, obviously, but it might be a good thing for you both to
have time to talk.”
Derek doesn’t understand why he’s hesitant to agree, considering this is his
endgame. Scott learning to rely upon him is the entire point of his plan so the
more they interact, the better it will be. But he’s reluctant.
He can’t erase his grudging tone when he says, “That sounds like it would
work.” He looks Stiles up and down and notes the weariness around his eyes. “I
think we’re finished for today, don’t you?”
“Oh, thank God. I was worried you were gonna suggest another sprinting session.
Yeah, I’m done. Doneski. Finished.”
Derek walks over to the bleachers and retrieves the papers filled with quotes
that Stiles demanded of him the day before. They had taken an hour to compile
and Derek’s hand had cramped halfway down the second page, but he was damned if
he was going to give Stiles the satisfaction of believing he was incapable of
doing this kind of thing for himself. Stiles looks over them, raising his
eyebrows a few times in surprise where he presumably sees that Derek hadn’t
fallen for some of his tricks.
Derek knows there’s something wrong with how much he craves Stiles’ approval on
this, but he can’t stop himself from asking how he did.
“Is my work to your satisfaction?” he asks with a teasing smirk, because he did
everything required and some.
“I’ll concede that you know your way around a book or several. I also like that
you annotated some of the quotes with ‘this is wrong’ and ‘completely
implausible’.”
“They were,” Derek interjects.
Stiles makes a weird, halting noise, more seal than human. “You know I
deliberately chose them to, like, raise your ire?”
“Yeah, I gathered that. That was how you’d know if I did the work or if I
decided on delegation.”
“I’m actually starting to believe you got As in school.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Stiles smiles, small and soft, and Derek’s throat clenches shut. This is not
good. This is bad.
“I need to get back home. I’m supposed to be having brunch with my dad,” Stiles
says, further confirming the wrongness of this. “Thanks for today. You, uh,
you’re really not the worst teacher in the world. You’re not the best, either.
That was Miss Peterson in fourth grade, who was knock-out gorgeous and thought
that every lesson had a mandate to include glitter. But you’re pretty okay.”
“You’re welcome,” Derek says, the words foreign and thick against his tongue.
He watches Stiles gather up the small amount of gear he brought and stumble
toward his Jeep. When he’s safely out of sight, Derek sits down on the
bleachers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“Fuck.”
***** Chapter 4 *****
Stiles loves Scott like a brother and that means that when he disagrees with
him for any reason, he thinks he’s the stupidest. Despite how often Stiles is
inclined to mock him, Scott’s not stupid, far from it. His grades have slipped
because he hasn’t had the time and concentration to study and he doesn’t know
what he’s doing as a werewolf because he’s stubborn and hormonal and
preoccupied with his girlfriend. Because he has a girlfriend to be preoccupied
with. Unlike Stiles. Scott’s more naïve than he is idiotic. Stiles would call
him too trusting, except that Scott doesn’t always trust when he’s supposed to.
Which swings Stiles around to thinking about how Scott’s the stupidest again,
because he really thinks Scott needs to give Derek another chance.
If he’d been asked a month ago if Scott should give Derek another chance, the
answer would involve a lot of fake-laughter and witticisms and maybe even a
snort or two. But these days it’s closer to, ‘yes.’ He doesn’t necessarily
think Scott should trust Derek with everything in every way, but enough to
listen to him once in a while. Stiles is pretty sure the major reason Scott
hates Derek is because he took away his chance for a cure, and Stiles gets
that, he does, he rejected the bite for so many reasons, but one of them was
seeing how it had messed up Scott’s life. But then Stiles thinks about how
Scott would have gotten cured, and sometimes, when he’s being generous, he
thinks that this was partly why Derek stepped up first. He didn’t want Scott to
become a killer. Having contributed to the killing, Stiles gets that too.
Attempting to reason with Scott on that point is tricky, because as soon as
Derek’s name is mentioned he reacts the same way Stiles always used to; with
barely disguised disgust and rolling eyes. Which is not cool when Stiles is
trying to tell him that Derek’s going to be turning up in approximately twenty
minutes' time. And that it’s as much for Scott’s benefit as it is for anyone
else’s. Stiles went through Derek’s notes on the quotes he got him to look up
to check if there was anything he didn’t know --- if there were so-called
‘facts’ Stiles had been blindly accepting. And there were. There was a lot of
stuff he had no clue about, regarding cycles, anatomy, control. All Derek has
ever wanted was to mentor Scott, which is something he needs, and Scott
continues to refuse him. There are occasions Stiles just wants to shout at him
to be rational for a change.
Which would probably be fine, if Stiles could be rational himself. Because he
knows he’s not, not entirely. His own judgment has been clouded by, well,
Derek. Derek as he is away from monsters, Derek as Stiles suspects he used to
be before the fire. The Derek who spent hours yesterday trying to teach him how
to play lacrosse and did a decent job of it. The Derek that Stiles actually
really likes. That guy, he’d be a valuable ally. Stiles only wishes he could
prove that to Scott.
“So, Scott, you know Derek…?” Stiles starts.
Scott’s already scowling, which is an expression that always looks wrong on his
face. Scott was made to always be happy, Stiles is sure of it. He’s about to
continue, but then there’s a leg coming in through his open window, and, “he’s
here!”
Scott stands up and holds himself tense, shoulders squared. Stiles thinks he
might be growling. He taps with the back of his hand against his chest and
makes soft, reassuring sounds.
“I invited him,” Stiles says, when Derek is standing before them both, looking
both disgruntled and something Stiles can’t place --- worried? Apologetic? It’s
something Stiles has never seen before, a curve in his eyebrows, a tightness of
his jaw.
“Why?” Scott asks, sounding wounded.
“So we can braid our hair and gossip about the cute boys we like,” Derek says
with a roll of his eyes and while it’s not helping, it makes Stiles want to
smile. When they’re not around one another he forgets how much they were cut
from the same sarcasm-laden cloth.
“I offered to teach Derek how to turn on a computer and find his way onto the
internet.”
It isn’t technically a lie, but this time the omission must be loud and clear,
because Scott steps forward, eyes not leaving Derek’s.
“You threatened him. Stay away from my friends,” Scott says, still scowling.
Stiles feels this weird surge of affection mixed with exasperation. He always
makes a point of complaining when Scott goes all protective, but he secretly
revels in it and counts on the fact that Scott will have his back when the time
comes. It’s just --- this isn’t the time for it, there isn’t any need.
Derek now looks amused more than anything, the ghost of a shit-eating grin
surfacing, and, seriously, Stiles thinks he wants to make everything ten times
more fraught. He saunters forward, over to Stiles, places a hand on his
forearm.
“Did I threaten you to invite me over, Stiles?” he asks, all confident and
mock-seductive and the worst.
Stiles, slowly, gently pulls his arm away, because he does not want Scott
thinking what’s edging its way to being true. He doesn’t think Scott could
handle the betrayal.
“He didn’t, Scott,” he says. “I figured if I taught him how to research for
himself there’d be fewer window-sneak creeping incidents. Which, dude, I told
you Dad wouldn’t be home, you couldn’t use the door?” He nudges Derek with his
shoulder, which only serves to remind him how sore he is all over and how
immovable Derek is in every way.
Scott narrows his eyes at them, obviously sensing that part of the story is
missing. Stiles doesn’t exactly know why he doesn’t want to tell the truth, or
why Derek has also kept close-lipped on the subject, but that’s obviously the
way it’s going to be.
“Speaking of research --- I don’t have all day,” Derek grunts out and Stiles
can’t help but glare at him. Seriously? He’s a broken record. Stiles wants to
rage at him that maybe if he took more time with everything, instead of rushing
around like his tail’s on fire, he might not fuck up so much.
“Just for that, you can wait until I go get us all something to eat,” he says,
bounding out the room as quickly as his aching legs will take him.
It is by no means the smartest thing he’s ever done, but maybe it’s what the
werewolves need, the space to duke it out between them. In the kitchen he
listens for the tell-tale sounds of a tussle, but it’s eerily silent as he
loads his arms with all the junk food he’s been stashing away from his dad. He
and Scott can get through two and a half family-sized bags of Nacho Cheese
Doritos in one sitting, so he gathers all four he had hidden and adds a can of
Pringles to the collection. To balance out the salt, he amasses a couple of
packets of chocolate chip cookies and a Twinkie each. By the time he makes it
back upstairs his arms feel like they’re about to fall off.
In his room there is a silent stand-off still going on. Scott’s continuing to
glare at Derek and Derek’s now returning the look. Neither of them has moved.
They look like they’ve had words.
“You know, as totally flattering as it is having two super-strong and sexy
werewolves squabbling over me like this, don’t you think you two should learn
how to get along?” Stiles asks, trying to defuse the tension.
This was not a good move. This was the worst of all moves. Derek jerks back
like he was struck and stares open mouthed at him.
“This was a bad idea,” he mumbles, heading for the window, and aw, hell, Stiles
finds himself skidding into place before him, blocking off his exit.
“No, Derek, stay,” he says, trying to make it sound less like a command given
to a dog and more like an invocation. “Please. I want you to.”
“I’ll go!” Scott yells.
“You can’t go either,” Stiles says, shaking his head so rapidly he thinks it’ll
fall off. “You have another thirty pages to get through, Mister, and don’t even
try to convince me you’ll do it at home, because I’ve known you since
kindergarten, okay? Eat your chips and get back to studying.”
Stiles dumps the mountain of junk food on his bed next to where Scott had been
lying on his front reading his chemistry textbook. He tosses one packet of
Doritos to Scott and another to Derek. Derek looks down into his hands like
he’s never touched cornchips before, and Stiles has a horrified moment to
speculate whether that’s true. There is something so desperately sad about
that, about the thought that Derek has been so sheltered, through his own
volition, that he doesn’t even partake in crunchy, salty massively unhealthy
cardboard-textured excuses for food. Stiles opens his own packet before he can
ask the question and jams five chips into his mouth at once. He signals with
his cheese-flavoring covered hand toward his laptop and watches as Derek sits
down stiffly at his computer chair, clutching onto his Doritos like he doesn’t
know whether to open and devour them or squirrel them away as some kind of
weird hibernation treasure. He makes the same signal at Scott and the bed, then
drags his spare chair forward and settles next to Derek.
Scott stares at him like he’s crazy, as if he thinks there might be a switch he
can flip to make Stiles act the way he’s supposed to, which in this case, is
just as angry and unwelcoming toward Derek as it is possible to be. Stiles
simply gestures again and gives a death-stare until Scott complies.
The air is thick enough Stiles is fairly sure Scott and Derek could cut it with
their claws. It almost feels like it’s pressing in on him so he distracts
himself by turning on his laptop and smirking that his start-up sound is
Admiral Ackbar saying “it’s a trap”. That’s just peachy.
By the time Stiles has confirmed Derek knows what a browser is and how to get
to google --- which involved so much glaring, but at least now Derek’s eating
his Doritos with grudging crunches that he thinks are meant to mask how much
Derek wants to call him out on his assumptions --- Scott’s turned back to his
book. Which is a comfort. Though Stiles is pretty positive Scott’s still using
all his other wolfy superpowers to keep an eye on them. He wonders what his
trepidation smells like and whether it’s overlaid with nervous lust. Because
he’s also pretty positive his awkward fascination with Derek has become more
awkward and more fascinated.
Stiles talks to Derek about specific search terms and Boolean logic, pointing
out that Boolean logic is on its way to disappearing, which he thinks is a
shame. Ten minutes of Stiles delineating why it’s a shame go by. He explains
about the scholar and book sections of google, but also how only using google
as a search engine is limiting, because google ranks according to relevance as
opposed to general content. He rambles on a bit about RSS feeds and the
reliability of Wikipedia. And Derek sits, and listens, and doesn’t complain
like he did in the Library. In fact, he asks Stiles if he has a pen and paper
he can use and starts taking notes. He’s also disturbingly monosyllabic. It’s
full Troglodyte-style communication. It’s hard to believe that this is the same
person who was giving Stiles veritable essays in how to improve his game a mere
day before.
After an hour of almost intense silence save for Stiles trying to teach his
butt off, Derek stands up and tucks his paper into his jacket, which he didn’t
remove, because social niceties are beyond him.
“Thanks,” he says. “This is fine.”
“I have more homework for you,” Stiles returns, chancing a glance at Scott and
seeing that, yeah, that statement did gain his attention.
His head is tilted toward them, though the rest of him hasn’t moved from his
position on Stiles’ bed. Three Twinkie wrappers are lying discarded by his
elbow and Stiles knows he sure as hell didn’t eat his.
Scott mouths “more?” at Stiles and, really, he’s about a second away from
burying his head in his hands, wishing there was some sand around so he could
really do the whole willful ignorance routine properly.
“Here, I wrote it down this time. Also, when are we doing the thing?” Stiles
asks, pulling Derek slightly aside as he presses paper into his hand, even
though he knows it won’t make the smallest bit of difference to Scott’s ability
to listen in. Derek looks at him like he has no idea what Stiles is talking
about, all flat eyebrows and pursed lips. “1, 2, 3, 4, cha cha cha?”
Derek sighs, all world-weary and uptight. “I don’t think we will.”
“No way, you’re not doing that to me. I have accepted my fate and you must
accept yours. You owe me. We’re coming over Tuesday afternoon.”
“We’re?” Derek asks, keeping his stare very firmly fixed on Stiles, though in
his peripheral vision Stiles can see him twitch his hand in Scott’s direction.
“Yeah. I mean, Scott can get his wolf on with Erica, Isaac and Boyd. Can’t you,
buddy?”
Apparently, this is the last thing on Scott’s mind. “Why?”
It’s a good question. One that Stiles has about ten different answers for, many
of which conflict. Things such as, “because I want you to learn how to be an
actual werewolf” rank high alongside, “because I think I may need a chaperone,
have you ever had Derek touching you, because I have, and I want it again and
again and again.”
“You spend way too much time with Allison,” he says instead.
In his moment of inattention, Derek is out the window. Stiles feels a pang of
regret that he didn’t get to say goodbye, which is completely ridiculous,
considering Derek definitely didn’t want to say goodbye to him. He stares for a
while at the empty opening, wondering what this would have been like without
Scott here. He feels like this was probably the safer option.
“What the hell, Stiles?” Scott asks, looking the most murderous he has since
that time he tried to eat him. He sits up and leans, almost menacing.
“I can’t teach you everything you need to know,” Stiles replies. “But maybe he
can. You need to at least try. Again. For me.”
Scott opens his mouth, snaps it shut again. He takes a deep, deep breath then
looks at Stiles as if seeing him for the first time. Stiles stretches, dives
for the only intact packet of chocolate chip cookies. He stuffs two into his
mouth at the same time, wishing he’d brought up some milk.
“Okay,” Scott says, carefully.
“Okay?” Stiles asks around cookie crumbs. “Okay!”
Maybe Scott isn’t the stupidest after all. This is very encouraging.
***** Chapter 5 *****
He hasn’t been avoiding his betas so much as relaxing his training regimen and
cautioning them to attempt to blend into society. The fact that it looks a lot
like him avoiding his betas is coincidental. They’re here, now, though. Came
straight after school. Boyd is lifting weights in the far corner of the depot,
talking to Isaac. Erica has taken residence in the broken down train car
closest to Derek.
It’s harder than he thought it would be, teaching Erica, Isaac and Boyd how to
gain and maintain control. He chose all three of them because they’re survivors
and strong-willed, and he knew he needed that in his pack. He sometimes thinks
they’re all a little too strong-willed. Erica is not above rolling her eyes at
him and telling him he’s being an idiot. In fact, she does it a lot. She has a
nasty habit of making assumptions and acting on them. Isaac has been struggling
with his new-found sense of power. He has mood swings and it can sometimes be
difficult to judge whether he’s going to be talking to the overconfident Isaac
or the meek one. Derek knows he hasn’t dealt with that well. Boyd doesn’t
entirely trust him, though he’s obviously willing to back him up as long as
he’s going to keep learning from him.
He likes them. He cares about them. As more than just a source of power. But he
doesn’t know how to share enough of himself that they’d feel the same way back.
He’s never comfortable with them the way he is with Stiles and he knows that’s
fucked up, that he has more of a connection with a human who used to make it a
mission to hate him than he does with those with which he now shares blood
ties. If there’s a way to change that, he’s ignorant of it.
Then there’s Scott. Scott, who is as unlike Stiles as it is possible to be in
so many ways. Unwilling to listen or learn. Scott, who rejects the very notion
that they’re brothers now. Who doesn’t seem to get that his life would be nine
times easier if he accepted that he’s supposed to be part of the pack. The
worst thing is that Derek can’t even hate him, would go so far as to say he
admires him, because, yes, he may be frustrating as hell, but his level of
control is impressive. Scott could teach the others so much and he refuses
point blank.
“I don’t like you, I don’t trust you, I will never join you,” Scott had said.
And Derek believes him, so he doesn’t know what he’s doing pacing around the
depot waiting for Stiles and Scott to appear. He doesn’t like feeling indebted
to anyone and he owes Stiles more than a dancing lesson. He wishes that was the
only answer.
“You really need to calm down, before you wear a hole in the concrete,” Erica
says, idly swinging her legs off the beaten down bench she’s reclining on.
She’s placed her book on her chest and is gazing at him appreciatively.
“I’m calm,” Derek replies.
“Even if I couldn’t hear the little hop skip of your heart, I’d be able to tell
that’s a lie,” Erica counters with a sly smile.
She’s the only one who knows about his plan regarding Stiles and in retrospect
his biggest mistake was telling her.
That was by no means his biggest mistake, but it’s comforting to think it was.
“Your plan’s working, Derek,” Erica says, a teasing note to her voice that has
shades of danger. “You should be proud of yourself.”
But no, his plan isn’t working, not at all --- and Derek can’t explain that,
doesn’t even want to admit that to himself.
“What plan?” Isaac asks.
Derek heard him coming, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, because he wants
Isaac’s confidence to be founded on knowledge that he has actual skills. Isaac
is very skilled in creeping up on people. Derek likes to think he taught him
well.
“Derek has a way to get Scott to join the fold.”
“I still don’t really understand why we need him.”
“We don’t,” Erica says with a shrug. “We want him.”
Derek tips his head back, stares at the ceiling. He does not want to be here
for this conversation.
“What’s the plan?” Boyd asks, leaning on the opposite side to Isaac.
“That’s the beautiful thing,” Erica says, lowering her tone and volume until it
sounds like she’s being confidential. Not even a warning glare in her direction
can get her to stop. “Derek’s going to get to Scott through Stiles.” She smiles
and Derek’s surprised at how disturbing he finds the sight of all her teeth.
“So, what, threaten Stiles and Scott will do whatever you want to keep him
safe?” Boyd interrogates. He’s carefully neutral and Derek can’t pick up on any
emotion, so it’s possible he’s projecting the judgement.
“No,” Erica cuts in before he can reply. “Not threaten. You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, Derek has successfully extricated himself from his betas
and has decided to look through the ‘homework’ Stiles gave him. It’s similar to
the book quotes assignment, but more like an Easter egg hunt. He smothers a
laugh at, “find the website that uses the words ‘zip, zilch, zero’ to describe
what occurs to werewolves during lunar eclipses.” He wants, again, to prove to
Stiles that he’s more than capable of finding the answers to these questions
and he doesn’t know why that is.
He smells them before he hears them coming, the scent of musky teenaged boy
intermingled with garlic. When he hears them what he mostly hears is Scott
complaining.
“I don’t know why you’re insisting on this, can’t you see it’ll only end badly?
Has he hypnotized you? Brainwashed you? I know he has some kind of weird Alpha
abilities regular werewolves don’t.”
If only.
“We’re doing this because it will be good for you,” Stiles is saying, in a tone
of voice that suggests it’s not the first time. “Anyway, you’re the one who
said I needed to learn how to dance. Derek’s gonna show me a couple of steps,
that’s all.”
“Aren’t you even a little suspicious that he doesn’t have your best interests
at heart?”
“Dude, I know he doesn’t. This isn’t about me,” Stiles says, curt. Derek’s
throat constricts and he wishes he could stop listening, stop hearing the truth
of it all. “This is about two people with different skill sets mutually using
one another to get what they want.”
Scott’s silent at that and so is Derek, his heart-beat going so shallow he
can’t hear it over his own irregular breathing. The harshness of Stiles’ voice
slices through the nerves he refuses to acknowledge and he stands in readiness
for their arrival.
Scott hangs back, but Stiles steps into the depot with alacrity. He’s turned up
with his full lacrosse kit, dumps it on the ground. Derek’s about to step
forward and speak, but then Erica appears.
“Oh, hey guys,” she says, mock-sweet. Derek stares at her but it isn’t any kind
of deterrent. “Good to see you could make it. Stiles, Derek’s been waiting for
you. Scott, we’ve been waiting for you.”
She wraps her arm around Scott’s and pulls him to the side, where Boyd and
Isaac are standing. Boyd’s face is blank, but Isaac looks amused. Scott’s
expression of bewilderment mirrors how Derek feels.
“What are you doing?” Derek asks, because, really --- what is she doing?
“Boyd, Isaac and I decided we were going to go practice the moves you showed
us. A little bit of play-fighting, a little bit of tag. We thought Scott could
come along and see what it’s like. It’ll be fun!”
“I set a couple of traps up in the woods yesterday,” Isaac adds. “We’re going
to test if we can dodge them. It’ll be great to have another pair of claws.”
“I don’t think that’s the greatest idea,” Scott says, reaching forward like
he’s trying to grasp hold of Stiles.
“It could be good for you, buddy,” Stiles says, before Derek can agree with
Scott.
“Okay?” Scott says, though it sounds more like a question. He’s squinting at
Stiles as if looking for something within him.
“Yes!” Erica says, bubblier than she’s been in a while.
He sees what Erica and Stiles are trying to do. Maybe Scott will join the pack
despite him, because he connects with the other betas. While he’s failed to win
him over, will presumably always fail in that regard, other werewolves his age
might not. Already, Scott has tried to save each of his betas in one way or
another. He obviously cares about them on some level, even if it’s just basic
compassion. Spending time with them, especially in training exercises, might
help change his mind. All might not be lost.
Derek watches as Scott grudgingly walks off with the others, leaving Stiles
standing in front of him, stiller than he’s ever been. It’s almost like time
has paused. Having time alone with Stiles will give him the space he needs to
finish this once and for all. It’s wrong that thinking this leaves a bitter
taste in his mouth.
*
Stiles is torn over why he encouraged Scott’s abandonment. On the one hand,
Scott practicing with the betas is exactly what he wanted to happen. On the
other hand, he didn’t particularly relish the thought of four pairs of eyes
watching him as he made a fool of himself. On the third, mutant hand, he’s now
alone with Derek. And Derek’s expression? Crazy impossible to read. He’s, like,
sucking his cheeks in and staring intently, while blinking in a fashion that
looks nervous and worried. Why on Earth would Derek be the nervous and worried
one?
“Explain to me why you brought the padding,” Derek says with his head tilted to
one side.
“I figured you’d teach me the basic steps and after I did them a few times we’d
see if it’s improved my balance,” Stiles says with a shrug.
“That’s not how this works. You really think ten short minutes of slow, slow,
quick, quick, slow is gonna fix everything that’s wrong with your game-play?”
Stiles opens his mouth wide, indignant. He! How dare! The insult. “So, how long
is this gonna take, then?”
“Months. But today? An hour, at least.”
It’s the calm way Derek says it that has Stiles crossing his arms against his
chest and choosing not to argue the point. Okay, so this is what he’s gotten
himself into and he really has no one else to blame. He might as well weather
it and beat himself up later.
Derek tells him and shows him the steps of ballroom tango, models the two most
typical holds. He talks a lot about posture and gait, says that it’s different
here than in Argentine tango, and honestly, Stiles didn’t even know there were
different types of tango, so he’s more interested than he thought he’d be.
Derek is verbose, again, not the caveman from Sunday afternoon. Stiles likes
listening to his voice. It’s softer and higher than he ever thinks it should
be, not quite the Batmanesque growl he sometimes imagines. And in conjunction
with movement --- well.
Derek’s effortlessly graceful and Stiles is not above thinking of him as
beautiful, because he is. He’s all broad shoulders and defined torso and
perfect moving hips. Stiles finds it very hard to believe that anyone could
look at him like this and not find it difficult to contain all their drool. It
still breaks Stiles’ mind that Derek knows this at all, that he has a history
that involves ballroom dancing. It is one of the most incongruous things he’d
associate with Derek, behind, perhaps, Rodeo Clown and Children’s Entertainment
Performer. He wants to ask so many questions about it, but instinct tells him
it’s verboten and he’s been trusting his instincts lately. Possibly more than
he should.
“It’s your turn,” Derek says, casually, like he isn’t reveling in the idea of
Stiles’ utter and immense humiliation. The lying mcliarface.
“You want me to imagine I’m holding someone and move around the room?”
“To practice the steps,” Derek affirms mildly.
It’s one of the most insane things he’s said in a vaguely normal voice; no
alpha growl, no barely concealed fury. A bubble of laughter is threatening to
escape his throat, panic grating up his spine. He shouldn’t be pushing this,
but he knows he’ll look a complete tool if he starts sashaying by himself. He
has none of Derek’s grace and majesty. He already can’t remember the correct
steps.
“I’ve been told it takes two to tango,” he points out. He mockingly extends his
arms. “C’mere, big guy. Teach me how to dance the forbidden dance of love.”
If he makes this a humiliating experience for the both of them, Derek won’t
have material to blackmail and mock him with for years to come. If he makes it
a joke, the truth will be neatly obscured. The hesitation he expects in Derek
does not come, though, as Derek swiftly strides toward him, getting all up in
his space.
“That’s the lambada,” Derek corrects, with one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Okay,
we’ll speed things along to this part.”
“We were always going to end up like this?” He has to ask. He has to know.
“Of course. I can only hope this is going to help with your abysmal posture,”
Derek mutters, forcing Stiles’ legs apart by nudging with his right shoe,
adjusting his stance. Stiles thinks about him doing it for other reasons and
suppresses a shudder.
“Abysmal? Really?” he asks, needing to do something from turning to jelly. “You
totally nailed the vocab section of the SAT, didn’t you? Man, next you’re gonna
be telling me off for being loquacious.”
Derek puts a hand on his back; too warm and too tight. “I would, but I know it
would be an inefficacious endeavor.”
“Oh my God, for someone who hardly ever speaks unless they have to, I am so
impressed by your word porn.”
Stiles quickly realizes two things; one --- that he just said the words ‘porn’
and ‘impressed’ to Derek in the same sentence, and two --- he’s moved closer
and closer as they’ve been talking. To the point where he can feel Derek’s hot
breath against his cheek. This is precisely why he invited Scott along to act
as a shield. A cockblocking shield. Too bad he also told Scott to go running
off in the woods with Derek’s betas.
“I’m gonna apologize for all the garlic they put in the lasagne today. Up close
like this, it must be more like a stench than a barely noticeable odor.”
“I smelled it a mile away. Literally. Luckily for you, I like garlic,” Derek
says, lifting Stiles’ arm up and tapping on the underside of his elbow as if to
tell him to keep it there.
“Trying to distinguish yourself from your blood-sucking brethren I see. Must be
nice that not all supernatural beings suffer from the same allergies.”
Derek clasps hold of his hand. “Real original, a vampire joke.”
“It was either that or referencing how large doses of garlic can be toxic for
dogs, so, I think this is less insulting,” Stiles says, casting his gaze down
to look at how little space there is between their bodies.
His throat and mouth are desert dry, his palms and armpits too damp. He hates
how his body is rebelling against him. He’s still sore from lacrosse practice
on the weekend and the twinges and achiness are making this all the more real.
He can’t pretend this is some kind of fucked up dream when he doubts he’d add
in the detail about his left ribs feeling like someone stomped on them.
“Clearly you’ve never met a vampire. I have and, frankly, the dog joke would’ve
made me feel better about myself,” Derek says, all softly sardonic and sneakily
witty.
Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of Derek like this and feels the need
to point it out, acknowledge that he knows Derek is made of more than glowering
and awkwardly facing-off against Scott.
“Oh wow, that was a joke.”
“I never really joke, we’ve established that. But I am lying for comedic
effect.” Derek shifts and presses his hand harder against Stiles’ back. It does
terrible things to Stiles’ nervous system, makes him want to curl into himself
to protect from arching back into the touch. “Stop rolling your shoulders
forward, you look like a hunchback.”
“Out there, where they all live unaware, what I'd give, what I'd dare, just to
live one day out there!” Stiles sings, grinning widely. Derek’s frown is
horrified and confused and Stiles pushes back at him with the hand at his
shoulder. Derek actually moves with the shove and there’s no doubt in Stiles’
mind that doing so was a conscious choice. “Oh, please, don’t tell me you’ve
never watched that movie; Quasimodo is to you what Max Goof is to me.”
Derek stares at him, way too close, close enough that Stiles can see the
different shades of green in his irises, the gold limning his pupil. He’s
spellbound for a second. “I have no idea what you’re talking about half the
time.”
“That means that half the time you do know what I’m talking about.”
“Unfortunately. You need to stop talking for ten minutes, do you think you can
manage that?”
Stiles is more than capable, but he doesn’t want to, because he thinks he’s
been doing a great job of diverting Derek’s attention from sensing anything
about him. Like how he has butterflies crashing around in his abdomen. And very
inappropriate thoughts sailing around his mind.
“Why?”
“I want you to concentrate on where you’re stepping and on maintaining this
posture and that’s hard to do when you’re yammering on a mile a minute.”
“Dude, I’m the king of multi-tasking. I can conduct this conversation, dance,
and think up new nicknames for you all at the same time. I’m thinking Derek the
Menace doesn’t have the same zing as Dennis the Menace because it rhymes
imperfectly, but if said quickly eno---”
Derek puts a hand over his mouth and glares. Stiles has no clue why his first
thought is to lick his palm, he can’t go anywhere in this state, he is
uncontrollable. When Derek slides his hand again to where it was resting on his
back he’s silent, tongue-tied and a little hysterical. He, just --- this is all
the bad things Stiles both craves and knows he needs to avoid, swaying in
Derek’s arms like some lovelorn damsel. Well. He is in considerable distress.
Stiles keeps telling himself to relax, but, then, Derek is rigid and
uncompromising in front of him. There’s space, there, now, presumably for what
Derek earlier called an open hold. He remembers what Derek said about
maintaining his frame and thinks perhaps he’s supposed to be all stiff and
formal at first too. He adjusts his stance slightly and tries to straighten up
more, while still compressing his knees. Without the slouch he’s even closer to
Derek in height and that’s a weird thought, that they’re almost eye-level, it
kind of doesn’t seem right that he should be so equal in size to an Alpha
werewolf. Then Stiles casts another glance over all of Derek’s muscles and
reminds himself of their disparities.
“That’s it,” Derek murmurs, and it sounds like he’s cooing at him. “For now,
just follow my lead.”
And they’re away, moving to an imaginary beat. A minute passes, more. Stiles
looks down at his feet constantly, watching what Derek’s doing and trying to
ensure he doesn’t step on his toes. It’s slow, slow, quick, quick, slow and
trying to remember to lead with his heel. He’s thinking that if Derek didn’t
have a grip on him he’d have tumbled over by now. He needs to remember that
he’s the follow and therefore should be moving backwards, but he doesn’t always
do it in time and they collide frequently. He knows he’s doing this all wrong,
that he certainly shouldn’t be studying their steps like this, but when he
looks up to wonder why Derek hasn’t told him off for not holding his head
correctly, Derek’s eyes are closed tight and he’s breathing shallowly. His
expression is all smoothed out, like he isn’t thinking, or angry, or concerned,
and Stiles has never seen that before.
“I think I’d find this easier with music,” Stiles says, softly, not really
wanting to break Derek out of his reverie, but this is far too intimate.
Derek’s eyes snap open and if Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d think there
was a blush across his ridiculously sculpted cheekbones. He lets go of Stiles
and nods, briskly.
“Music,” he says, as if it never occurred to him before. But he’s moving toward
a decades' old sound system that Stiles thinks still uses cassettes. Which.
Derek is not that old and really needs to stop pretending he is.
*
Stiles is practically vibrating in his arms and it’s getting increasingly hard
not to respond to that. There’s a metallic and salty scent in the air masking
the garlic that Derek wants to taste. He has to constantly remind himself he
can’t until he’s sure he’ll be in control. Derek isn’t sure of anything.
He wants to know what it is about Stiles that breaks him down like this, twists
him up. He simultaneously wants to get as far away from Stiles as he can.
Instead, he pulls him closer.
The open hold they were maintaining half an hour before has closed. They’re
pressed torso to torso and Derek’s heartbeat is matching Stiles’; rapid and
rhythmic. Stiles has gotten hold of the basic steps, although he’s still clumsy
with them, and will be for weeks, even with continued practice. He still
occasionally lists to the side now that he’s stopped looking at his feet and
Derek has to pull him upright.
When Stiles gets it right is when he’s most dangerous, though. There are
minutes there when he’s sinuous and controlled, frenetic energy thrumming
against Derek’s skin like passion. The tango had never seemed very passionate -
-- he’d been taught by his sister, after all. He knew the reputation, but he
didn’t understand it. Dancing had always been a means to an end and not
something he necessarily loved. Admittedly, he enjoyed it more than he ever let
on. With Stiles in his arms, he’s struggling to see how he could ever think of
it the same again, the heat of Stiles soaking into his skin. It would be easy
to forget that anything else existed. It’s visceral, vivid. When they move in
sync, Derek can’t think straight, because he has never had anything like this
before.
“You can talk now,” he says, needing a distraction.
“What use words when I have hip thrusts?” Stiles asks, surging forward to prove
that he’s actually a demon in disguise.
Derek refuses to tremble just because Stiles pushes all his lean, sinewy weight
against him. There is something very like laughter in Stiles’ tone, but Derek
doesn’t think that’s what the shakiness truly is at all. He can feel his pulse,
his body using it as its metronome, he senses when it impossibly increases
tempo.
“You do realize this isn’t a one-time thing and that you’re going to have to
keep this up? A single lesson won’t give you the poise and balance you need to
improve your lacrosse,” Derek admonishes, trying to grasp onto any scrap of
sanity he has left.
“When you say ‘you’, you really mean ‘we’, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. I’ve done my part. You should be able to remember these steps by
now.”
Stiles turns his head to look into his eyes. “Yeah, but how stupid will I look
dancing with myself?”
“I don’t think it’s possible for you to look any stupider,” Derek says, because
Stiles’ gaze is drawing him in and he needs to escape.
As opposed to seeming insulted, though, Stiles looks amused, and Derek hates
how much he wants to keep that expression on his face. It’s so much better than
the dejected, life-weary Stiles he’s been seeing in recent months. The one he
understands all too well, because it feels like an echo of everything he can’t
let go of, for fear of the world spiraling out of his reach.
Stiles’ lips are glistening, and so, so pink, parted distractingly. Since when
did they get so full? His fingers have tightened against Derek’s, long and
capable. He’s staring and his pupils are wider, almost eclipsing the warm brown
Derek’s used to; mesmerizing. All Derek wants to do is drag a hand through the
too short hair at the back of his head, tilt forward, and give and give and
give.
He can’t. He won’t. Derek pulls away from Stiles, pacing the deep breath he
needs to take. His chest is tight and painful, but not in any way that can
quickly heal. He flourishes toward nothing in particular, realizes the music
has stopped playing --- thinks it may have done so minutes before.
“Just keep everything I told you about tangoing in mind when playing lacrosse,
practice the steps, and you should get better.”
Stiles rocks forward on the balls of his feet, hands tucked into his jean
pockets. Derek has a horrified moment where he thinks the determination in
Stiles’ eyes is going to end with him suddenly being pressed up against the
wall by 150 pounds of gawky but alluring teenager. Thankfully, after narrowing
his eyes, Stiles steps back and picks up his lacrosse stick.
“Let’s see if it’s made any immediate change,” he says, and Derek doesn’t think
he’s imagining the hint of acrimony in his tone. “I’d hate to think I’ve wasted
your precious time, after all.”
***** Chapter 6 *****
Stiles is a mess of emotions, and just like his headphone cables, he’s
impossible to untangle. He concentrates on school instead, giving it more focus
than he’s felt inclined to in weeks. It’s a familiar routine of listen to the
teacher, mentally mock the teacher, eat as much as humanly possible in the
cafeteria, make notes, read boring text books, get vaguely interested by a
passage in The Taming of the Shrew, attempt to ignore Scott’s ever-present
staring.
Scott wants to ‘talk’. Stiles is putting a moratorium on words. He’s not overly
successful, because he and words are in an abusive relationship --- they keep
hurting him, he keeps going back to them because no other bond ever feels the
same --- but he’s doing his level best. He’s shocked by how easy it is not to
discuss, examine, inquire. He manages to go whole hours without saying more
than “yes” or “no” and a memorable “sorry” to Lydia after he steps on her shoe.
She ignores him anyway.
This must be how Derek feels most of the time --- only ever having to deal with
a syllable here or there.
No more thinking about Derek.
It both helps and hinders that he has lacrosse practice after school. Helps,
because then he’s busy getting changed, concentrating on how he’s going to
convince Finstock to let him play. Hinders, because Boyd and Isaac are in the
locker room as well and they are only too happy to talk to Scott about the
previous day.
“You were awesome,” Isaac says, smiling in an easy way he never had before
Derek bit him. Stiles notes that, quickly looks away. No more thinking about
Derek. “How you side-stepped that trip wire and then deliberately triggered it
to get Boyd?”
“I wanna be insulted, but I’m just impressed,” Boyd adds.
Stiles tilts his head down toward his locker door and attempts to make himself
invisible. He shrugs on his uniform, concentrates on attaching his padding. Any
second now, he knows. Any moment. They will turn to him and they will want to
know why they came back to stone cold silence. They’ll subtly twist the
conversation to supposed dance lessons. Scott asked him questions the entire
Jeep ride back to his place, not picking up on Stiles’ utter unwillingness to
share. It’s the most attention he’s given him for months, which is darkly
hilarious.
Stiles can’t share because he hasn’t even sorted it out for himself.
Sure enough, Scott turns to him as if he’s going to prod at him again, but then
Boyd’s drawing Scott away. It’s an easy, unaffected movement; a hand on Scott’s
elbow and a question about his hearing abilities asked in a soft, curious
voice. Stiles stares at them as they walk toward the locker room door and is
rewarded with a tip of Boyd’s head, so it wasn’t accidental. Stiles nods back.
Huh. He’s spent a long time assuming Boyd hates him to teeny, tiny pieces, but
that was the act of a man who knows when someone wants to be left alone. On
second thoughts, yeah, it makes perfect sense that Boyd should realize that,
even if it’s a surprise he could be so compassionate.
Of course, Isaac is still there, staring at him. Stiles hasn’t found it in his
heart to forgive Isaac completely for how he acted immediately after wolfdom,
isn’t positive he’ll ever be able to. But he looks sympathetic at the moment as
opposed to ‘you’d be delicious on rye’, so Stiles waits.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Isaac says. “None of us do. Except maybe Erica,
she seems to know everything. But if you’re trying to help the pack, I support
you.”
Stiles gives what he thinks approximates a smile. It could be a grimace. Stiles
acknowledges Isaac’s words, at any rate. Isaac seems happy enough with the
expression, takes it as a dismissal, because he follows Boyd and Scott out of
the room. Stiles checks and rechecks his shoe laces, the fastenings for his
padding, the mesh of his stick. Nothing appears to be loose.
After that, he wastes no time going and talking to Finstock. The quicker the
less painful it will be, like ripping off a band aid, like pulling out a tooth,
like coming up with another figurative analogy.
“Uh, Coach?” He asks --- too tentative. He knows that won’t get Finstock’s
attention. He’s busy shouting at Jackson. Stiles taps him on the arm. He might
have done that a little too hard. “Coach, I’d really like to play today, not
just watch everyone else practice. I wanna be out there, doing my thang.”
He should not have added the head-wobble. Now he’s just embarrassing himself.
It gains Finstock’s attention, though.
“Sure thing, Stilinski,” he says without a second look. “As long as you do
something for me.”
“Yeah! Anything. Well, not anything. Within reason. There has to be some kind
of moral code in place. I wouldn’t want to do anything illegal.”
Stiles has done enough illegal things in his day. He doesn’t need to add to the
list.
“Never, ever touch me again,” Finstock says, rounding on him. His face contorts
into an exacerbated scowl. “You were always gonna play today. Five members of
the team have come down with food poisoning. No one ever follows the prescribed
diet. Why doesn’t anyone listen to the wisdoms of age? I’m putting you in as an
attacker. Just don’t cause any injuries, okay? We can’t afford to lose anyone
else.”
“I resent that,” Stiles says automatically. And the funny thing is, he really
does. How’s he supposed to have confidence in himself if no one else does?
Still, this is good. This is great. He’s been working on offense and he knows
he’s golden aim-wise, so basically all he has to do now is remember everything
Derek’s taught him regarding movement and not faceplanting.
He really sucks at the ’don’t think about Derek’ game.
He tells himself to concentrate, even uses the term ‘eyes on the prize’. Surely
rhyming will get him through this. Stiles takes several deep breathes, rolls
back his shoulders, gives himself a mental pep talk. He can do this. He can
totally do this. He’s an excellent runner. He’s got speed. He has his own kind
of style, and that has to count for something. He’s learning how to balance,
how to maintain his poise. He thinks about how he needs to stand for the tango
and shifts his weight and stance until he’s set up correctly. Who knows, maybe
he could even use the principles of slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.
Stiles falls over almost the second he gets the ball. He gets the ball, but the
shuffle to the side he intended to do somehow gets turned into some kind of
grapevine stepping thing and he’s over and out. To add further insult to the
humiliation, Jackson’s the one who runs toward him and looms, scooping up the
ball.
“You snooze, you lose,” Jackson says with the kind of smooth mockery only
someone with a PHd in douchebaggery can achieve.
Stiles bashes his helmet again into the grass. Rhyming’s a traitorous bastard.
That’s all it takes for Stiles to give up. He doesn’t see the point. He hasn’t
gotten good enough yet, it’s that simple. No matter how much he wants to speed
things along, to improve overnight, it’s not going to happen. He watches the
rest of the game and isn’t all that upset none of the acting midfielders pass
him the ball. He wouldn’t either, in the same position.
Stiles skilfully avoids Scott by forgoing a shower at school and driving
straight home. He crashes onto his bed for ten minutes, but can’t stay still.
He switches on his laptop, youtubes an appropriate track, stands up and
practices the Goddamned tango. This isn’t the end, he tells himself, this is
only the beginning.
*
He can’t lie to himself anymore. He wants to. He misses that ability. But he
can’t.
He’s as bad as Kate. Stiles has fallen for the person Derek has been pretending
to be and he’s going to get hurt. He’s already been hurt, if the disappointment
Derek vividly remembers is any indication. There isn’t anything he can do to
change that. The best thing he can do now is to leave Stiles alone. Whether or
not Scott joins the pack, it’s irrelevant. Yes, he works well with the others,
yes he would provide much needed power. No, it isn’t worth it in the end.
The look in Stiles’ eyes --- Derek can’t get it out of his head. For a second,
more, he wanted Derek.
He wanted the illusion. It’s better to snatch it away now than let it linger.
Derek goes for a drive to clear his head, tries to think of what he’ll say and
do if Stiles approaches him again. Maybe he’s lucky and Stiles recognized his
rejection. He really doesn’t think the stick ‘accident’ was all that
accidental. Stiles is clumsy occasionally, but he has good control over those
aspects of the game. And he didn’t talk to him, either. That’s a good sign.
Derek actually wishes he had an immediate threat to worry about so he couldn’t
afford to think about this. Something more threatening than the metaphorical
chess game he’s playing against the Argents. There’s something lurking, he can
sense it, a problem around the corner. It’s one of the reasons why he was so
convinced he had to get Scott on his side. But it hasn’t made an appearance yet
and the anticipation is gnawing at him.
He isn’t aware he’s going in any particular direction until he begins to
recognize the thinning out of the woods. He’s doubled back on himself at some
point. Probably after he went to get gas. He figures it’s his subconscious
attempting to punish him further for his transgressions. He’ll always end up
back here.
Derek drives down the overgrown lane, pulls up close to the house. He gets out
and stares at the wrack and ruin caused by his mistakes.
The journey back to the depot is short and easy to concentrate on. The trees
whip by in a kaleidoscope of color and the road’s mesmeric. Plus, the speeding
helps. It’s probably stupid, the last thing he wants is to be pulled over, but
it helps.
When he gets to the depot he discovers he’s not as alone as he’d like to be. It
must be later than he thought. Erica and Boyd are working on some kind of mix
of martial arts. Derek thinks anyone could be forgiven for thinking Boyd would
be the one to win, given the advantage of his sheer size, but Erica is kicking
his ass. She’s swift, well-coordinated. She’s noted Boyd’s weaknesses and she
keeps attacking them. Even when Boyd attempts to pick her up, she wriggles free
and delivers a crisp roundhouse to his face. Isaac is sitting cross-legged on
the floor reading the same book Erica’s been reading in her spare time. When
Derek looks at the title, he recognizes it as one of his family’s old books, a
history of the area that briefly discusses the wolves that once lived there. He
doesn’t know how accurate it is, but he’s read it several times himself. It’s a
painless way he can connect with the past.
“There you are, Papa Wolf,” Erica says, brushing her hands down her clothes in
a movement that Derek suspects is supposed to be more seductive than practical.
“Don’t call me that.”
Erica smiles, sweetly, and nothing good ever comes of that. “Sorry. Would you
prefer it if I called you Daddy instead?”
Derek’s not proud of himself for using his Alpha powers for something so small,
but he does. He half-shifts, glares, doesn’t back down even when Erica
whimpers. It’s cathartic and he needs to release his pent-up aggression.
“I’m going out,” he says. “When I come back, I want you all gone.”
“We can’t, we told Scott we’d meet him here,” Isaac says, wary in how he
approaches Derek.
“Meet him and then take him away with you,” he says, calm as he can manage.
He turns his back on his betas and goes to the library.
*
The week goes by relatively pain free. Scott, bless his little wolfy socks,
decides he’ll respect Stiles’ wishes and ceases in his relentless press for
answers. It’s a relief, because the more he had to think about how to avoid
responding, the more he had to think about why. Scott’s also been hanging out
with Erica, Isaac and Boyd, which is good, Stiles thinks. It sounds like, ego-
wise, they’ve all pretty much returned to normal. Or at the very least, not
psycho. Erica’s been giving Scott some tips about how to focus on hearing and
scent at the same time. Though she has apparently been very handsy when doing
so. In turn, Scott’s been explaining how he maintains control during the full
moon. There’s one coming up, so that’s handy. Scott doesn’t bring up Derek and
Stiles doesn’t ask.
Stiles hasn’t wanted to interfere with the werewolf bonding. That’s what he
gives as his excuse. He’s been too busy working on his dance moves, anyway.
That’s an excuse he keeps to himself. He’s cleared some floor space in his
room, has downloaded several different tango tracks. He’s watched a few
tutorial youtube videos, but they didn’t tell him anything much that he hasn’t
already been told. He feels idiotic dancing around his room by himself, but he
figures that’s better than dancing around solo in front of an audience. His dad
has almost caught him once or twice, but thankfully seemed to take the presence
of Stiles’ drawn blinds and flushed cheeks as him interrupting Stiles’ self-
pleasuring time. That’s never not going to be awkward. For some reason, it’s
still less awkward than him knowing Stiles was actually in the middle of --
- firstly --- checking his posture in a mirror and ---secondly --- trying to do
a turning corte.
On Saturday, Stiles goes to the lacrosse field and runs. He does a couple of
sprints to warm up his body. Then he does a few different things, runs forwards
and backwards, shuffles off to the side like a crab (and if he makes Three
Stooges appropriated Zoidberg sounds when doing so, he’s the only one around to
hear.) He concentrates hard on what his feet are doing, on being careful enough
there’s nothing precarious in his balancing.
It… still doesn’t seem to be working, overly well. He’s doing his best,
honestly he is, but he isn’t fluid, yet. He doesn’t have enough sense memory to
successfully translate his dance practice into his lacrosse practice. He also
thinks --- well, no, he knows --- that he needs to dance more with a partner.
Which means he’s going to have to go search out Derek again.
Stiles sits on the bleachers and lets himself remember being in Derek’s arms.
It’s distracting. He still occasionally gets a tingle down his spine
remembering the heat of Derek’s body against his, the sound of his low, steady
breathing. He thinks about how Derek had looked at him. He wasn’t imagining the
heat in that gaze. No one’s ever looked at him like that before. And maybe
Derek was simply caught up in the intimacy of the dance, that makes sense based
on how he reacted immediately after. But Stiles can’t forget it, or how much
he’d wanted Derek to close the gap between them. He thinks he may have been
unfair in his disappointment, but no one had ever looked at him like that
before, and the promise in it was enticing.
He decides then and there to visit Derek in the afternoon. He’ll ask for the
answers to his homework quiz, he’ll casually slip in an anecdote of his many
failures on this very field, he’ll use his best version of puppy dog eyes to
ask for more lacrosse tuition. It’ll be fine. He’ll approach it on purely
platonic terms. And if he somehow ends the evening wrapped up in Derek’s arms,
that’ll just be a bonus.
***** Chapter 7 *****
He doesn’t apologize, but after a week and a half he does stop pushing his
betas away with growling and glares. It surprises him how much of a relief it
is to have them around the depot again. He thinks he’s gotten used to the noise
and the commotion of co-habitation. For the longest time it was only him and
Laura, so he’d forgotten what it was like listening to other people’s
conversation and not being required to respond. Laura was always trying to get
him to respond. She never gave up. She’d still be trying today, if things were
different.
They talk mostly about completely trivial things; grades and school assignments
and what a dick Harris can be. Nothing he could meaningfully contribute to even
if they asked it of him. But that’s a comfort, because they care about it
again. There was the risk, early on, in the first swell of ego, that they’d
give up on education and he never wanted that. He didn’t get to finish High
School so he’s reluctant to see the same happen to others. Especially these
three, who are intelligent and intuitive in ways many teenagers aren’t.
Erica doesn’t tease him as readily as she was doing so before and it’s strange
to feel a combination of victorious and saddened over that. By the end of the
week he teases her, instead, picks on her the way Laura used to pick on him --
- gentle in his mockery, not quite brave enough to go full tilt into being an
asshole. She could take it, she’d probably find it amusing, but it’s still new
to him --- interacting more than ten minutes a day with someone who didn’t used
to translate his toddler-speak for the adults, read him bedtime stories, go
running with him in the woods. He doesn’t want to fuck it up again, even more
than he’s sure he already has. Eventually, Erica starts to repay him with
shrewd jabs and teasing smirks and he’s temporarily satisfied, until she starts
asking him about Stiles. He doesn’t dignify her with answers to those
questions.
Stiles has been around the depot four times as far as Derek can tell. Twice, he
heard and saw him, from his vantage point in the shadows. Stiles had called out
for him to stop creeping and he’d wondered how he’d known until he’d realized
he must have been guessing, using that line as a gambit every occasion. The
other two times he’s divined Stiles’ presence by smell. Stiles has a very
distinctive scent. At any one time he’s a combination of natural body odor and
emotive projection --- sweetly musky and up to three different, often
contrasting emotions. Frustration and worry linger in his wake. Derek feels
weirdly sorry, but he isn’t going to apologize for this either. It’s… for the
best.
Scott sometimes arrives in Stiles’ Jeep. Derek always ensures he’s hiding when
he hears him, just in case Stiles has come along too. It astonishes Derek that
he hasn’t. It seems weird that he’d let the Jeep go without him. He can’t ask
whether it took much convincing, or if it’s Scott’s choice or Stiles’ that
Scott’s a lone wolf. Scott avoids him as much as possible, anyway, training
with Erica, Isaac and Boyd. Derek watches them sometimes, sitting on the
concrete with his back against the couch, observing Scott’s tactics. Scott’s
particularly good at always facing whoever’s attacking him, even when it’s two
at a time. He adapts moves that work on the lacrosse field to the context of a
fight. He’s smart. Instinctive. The others are beginning to adopt his
techniques and they’re getting better at anticipating where to go and how to do
so, which is what Derek has spent months trying to teach them.
Derek feels a constant thrum of added power when Scott is at the depot. It's a
familiar sensation, something he remembers from large family gatherings, but no
less bizarre for it. And it aches. He wishes it didn’t, he thinks he should be
stronger, but it’s a physical pain inside when Scott forgets to ignore him
enough to glare in his direction. It aches for reasons other than an inevitable
loss of power when Scott leaves. Because he knows the pack works better with
Scott’s mentoring, that his betas are calmer and more in tune with both their
human and wolf sides. He knows that Scott’s learning leadership skills and
gaining confidence --- that he’s getting to experience the good of his new
abilities. He knows that this is what he’s wanted from the beginning and that
it has very little to do with a simple boost of adrenaline.
It’s hard to like someone who hates you, but Derek still likes Scott. That’s
the worst part. He likes him, he knows the pack needs him, and though he keeps
saying he’s given up on having Scott join the pack in a more permanent
capacity, it isn’t true.
Derek wants to fix things but he doesn’t really know where the break is and
Scott’s not pointing it out. Isaac sometimes talks to Scott about him, vouching
for his character, on absolutely no insistence on Derek’s part, but rather his
own sense of loyalty. Derek hears them whispering and isn’t selective enough in
filtering the discussion out. Scott always shoots Isaac down. When Derek
attempts to talk to Scott for any purpose, he walks away. It makes Derek want
to be reckless, makes him want to push. Instead, he retreats further.
*
“Yeah, so, I’m guessing you’re still hiding from me. I don’t know why you’re
hiding, but it’s kind of a dick move on your part,” Stiles yells as he walks
through the depot.
Stiles worries that he does know why Derek’s hiding. That Derek is backtracking
because he let himself be swayed by the readily available heat of the body
close to him, but really, the last thing he wants or needs is Stiles crushing
on him up close. There’s no doubt in his mind that his attraction is obvious.
Scott’s picked up on it, even if he’s refusing to talk about it, Stiles can
tell by the hurried, worried looks he gets. And now, Stiles is going crazy
stalker on Derek’s ass, so. He feels slightly better about that when he
remembers that for a long time there being a creeper was basically Derek’s
raison d'être.
He doesn’t really blame Derek for avoiding him, all things considered.
Except he does, because for the first time he can feel success within his grasp
and he really wants to be able to grab hold and never let go. And if he could
only talk to Derek --- or, like, manfully resist talking about it all in actual
words and somehow communicate this in gestures instead --- he’d like to
explain. That he isn’t expecting anything other than Derek imparting what
Finstock calls “the wisdoms of age.” That he won’t let his attraction cloud his
judgement. That the attraction itself is just a sign of a healthy developing
sexuality. He appreciates Derek for more than his body.
This is the last time he’s going to search Derek out with the purposes of an
individual heart-to-heart, because he learned this lesson with Lydia. When you
push hard enough, people step back quicker. He thinks he’s becoming emotionally
mature with this realization. He thinks he’s the only one who’ll recognize
that. He’s going to wallow in his own self-pride for a while. That’s a
friendlier thought than being hurt over how Derek clearly gives less than a
fuck about him. How he may even warrant negative fucks. Because, you know what?
He and rejection are distant relatives. They see one another in any meaningful
way only once a year, but bug the shit out of each other frequently over
facebook, and this just so happens to be a family reunion.
Stiles doesn’t like to dwell. He does dwell, usually late at night, and with
extreme prejudice. But he does not gain any sick kind of satisfaction from it
like he does a few other negative emotions he harbors. It isn’t oddly
comforting like making fun of his appearance (because there has to be a reason
people don’t like him, right? And God forbid it’s his sparkling personality.)
Or self-flagellating and therefore cathartic like telling himself he’s the
worst son in the world. It’s just draining. Stiles has all the energy ever,
until he doesn’t, anymore. Until everything seems to flatten and go gray around
the edges.
“Okay, then, Derek,” he yells for a final time, walking back out into the
sunshine. “I liked spending time with you, I thought you liked spending time
with me. So I don’t know why we can’t be doing that. Spending time. Together.
But if this is the way you want it to be, I can handle it.”
He can totally handle it. The great thing about having rejection as a third
cousin twice removed is that he’s learned all the best ways to punch it in the
face. Or avoid thinking about it. And while it’ll always be obnoxious as hell,
he’s well acquainted with the obnoxiousness, which doesn’t lessen it so much as
fortify him. So he’ll be fine, in the long run. In time, it could even become
one of the anecdotes he’d tell to unsuspecting passers-by and several of his
hundreds of cats. “There was a day a werewolf taught me to tango.”
*
Derek doesn’t miss Stiles. He doesn’t miss him and he can’t miss him, because
it’s impossible to miss something you never had. He doesn’t seek out any news
he can when Isaac whines about school. He doesn’t play into Erica’s hands when
she mentions how subdued Stiles has seemed lately. He doesn’t replay the hours
they spent together, or the words Stiles said when he last turned up at the
depot, or the way he very nearly stepped out of the shadows and answered him.
Derek doesn’t do any of those things.
He watches and trains his betas, he waits for whatever’s lurking around the
corner to come crashing upon him, he reads, a lot, because it keeps him
occupied. And he keeps going, because this is what Derek does. He doesn’t let a
stupid thing like emotion weigh him down. He doesn’t have any emotions where
Stiles is concerned.
*
“Are you all right?” Scott asks for the fiftieth time that day.
Stiles finishes typing the final six words of his English paper and rolls
around from his position on the floor, bracing himself against Scott’s desk. He
could look over his shoulder, but his back is sore, along with his legs, his
arms, his head and his heart. He’s been running a lot, dancing alone a lot, and
thinking way too much.
“I’ve been concentrating,” he says, pitching his voice slightly lower to
express his exasperation.
“Yeah. Which is why I asked. Because you never concentrate on one thing at a
time, you always do ten things at once and you just wrote a four page paper
from start to finish without even getting up to make a drink.”
Stiles stretches his arms up and yawns. “I really wanted to finish writing
about Katherina being a much more interesting character when she was a
tempestuous firebrand. I may have likened her to a strawberry blonde goddess a
couple of times.”
Scott’s face goes blank and he shuffles awkwardly on his bed, upending his text
books. “Don’t tell me you’re regressing back to your crush on Lydia. You can’t
do that to yourself, man, it’s cruel and unusual punishment.”
“What? No. Of course not. No. That boat has well and truly sailed, that shoe
has definitely dropped. But the comparisons were so obviously to be made, so I
made them. In the spirit of English! Which is like saying ‘For Science!’, only
less punchy, and actually I’m never saying that again.”
Scott looks dubious and Stiles does not know how to convince him otherwise. He
doesn’t particularly care to. It might be easier if Scott believes his less
than sunny mood and mentality is due to continued Lydia withdrawal. The part of
him that is still genuinely hung up on Lydia thinks this is some kind of epic
betrayal. The rest of him is happier to have an excuse he can quantify.
“Okay…” Scott says, and the pause stretches longer than it should. “I’m
supposed to be going running with Boyd soon, do you wanna join us?”
More running does not actually sound like a heart-cheering prospect, but
Stiles’ natural curiosity regarding Scott’s training with the betas wins out,
especially when combined with wanting to escape from his own mind for a while.
He knows it’ll be a punishing pace and he wants that too.
“Yeah, I’ll come, but you have to promise me you’ll defend me from any mockery
Boyd may or may not choose to partake in.”
To be fair to Boyd, he hasn’t made a habit of mocking Stiles. He mostly looks
at him contemplatively. In the five or so weeks Scott’s been hanging out with
Boyd, Isaac and Erica, Stiles has only been involved outside of school twice.
Both times he felt heavily scrutinized, and the kindest eyes were Boyd’s. He
can be unpredictable, though, and Stiles knows he’ll never be able to seriously
compete against wolfy super-speed. The opportunities for mockery are rife.
And it’s obvious even Scott knows it when he responds with, “Boyd wouldn’t mock
you. Much.”
They change into more appropriate running attire. Scott lets him borrow some
sweatpants that are about an inch too short. Scott insists it’s barely
noticeable, but Stiles constantly wants to tug the legs lower. Scott uses his
most winsome smile to convince Stiles to drive him to the meeting spot and
Stiles has an uncharitable moment wondering if that was the only reason Scott
invited him along. Then he remembers that they’ve had a Jeep-sharing agreement
for a while, and Scott always invites him along. He simply usually declines,
for reasons he’s not going to go into with his inner voice again. It’s only
going to be Boyd today, though, so he thinks he’ll be safe.
Which of course means he’s the opposite. Because who should be there, looking
just as blindsided and frustrated as he is, but Derek. Derek, who has either
spent the morning sucking on a lemon, or has suddenly smelled something rank.
Derek, who makes his heart rate spike to ridiculous heights and can obviously
tell as such. Stiles stares, can’t tear his eyes away.
Boyd’s expression remains calm, but when he says, “Hi Scott. Hello Stiles,
didn’t think we’d be seeing you today,” Stiles can hear an undercurrent of
suspense and surprise underneath the words.
“What are you doing here, Derek?” Scott asks, harsh in a way Stiles can’t bring
himself to be.
“I came to run,” Derek says with a shrug. “But I’m happy to go.”
Actually, he looks far from happy. Stiles can’t exactly remember a single
moment when Derek has looked happy except in the one yearbook photograph he
found and while he’s still struggling to contain his visceral reaction to
Derek’s presence, thinking that automatically makes him feel sorry. It’s
stupid, he’s been mentally cursing Derek for weeks now, thinking about him only
in abstract terms of anger and pain and self-pity, but with him standing in
front of him all Stiles can think about is what it would take to make Derek
smile and mean it.
That whole ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ thing appears to be
startlingly true. Maybe it’s all tied into a combination of his innate
obsessive nature and self-esteem issues. He’s never more interested than when
the object of his desire is disinterested. Uninterested? Absolutely without
interest in all things Stiles.
Though, actually, Derek is staring at him, his nostrils flaring. His eyes
haven’t left Stiles’ face. They don’t even when Scott mumbles, “I don’t care
what you do.” It’s unnerving and yet compelling.
Stiles suddenly and almost uncontrollably wants to ask him all the questions he
carefully stopped asking himself, like ‘why did you abandon me?’ and ‘how was
it that easy?’
“Let’s go,” Boyd says, effortlessly calm as always. Stiles wants to know if
it’s an act or if he really cares that little.
About five minutes into the run, Stiles has realized three things. One --- that
Scott has reduced his pace so he can keep alongside Stiles, which is the
sweetest thing ever, but kind of defeats the object of training. Two --- that
Boyd has done the same. And three --- that Derek keeps looking back at them
with a frown that borders on a scowl. Derek is still in sight and so he must
have decelerated too. To be honest, Stiles hasn’t been running as fast as he
can. He figured he’d go slow and steady, not to win the race, but to make sure
he didn’t fall over more than strictly necessary. There are deftly concealed
tree roots and slippery, slimy leaves in his path, he just knows it.
After another ten minutes, Stiles bends over, gasping. It’s mostly a fake-out
and he thinks they’d all know that, if he hadn’t purposely pushed himself in
the last two minutes, just to get his blood pumping quicker through his veins.
His shirt has plastered itself to his back and Scott’s sweats have ridden up so
there are now two inches showing at his ankles. He’s brushed his hand through
his hair enough times he knows it’s spiked up around his head like he’s a pin
cushion. He thinks he probably looks disgusting. Derek’s staring at him like he
is.
“Run on without me,” Stiles says on an exhale. “Better yet, do a couple of
laps. I’ll be here, watching, waiting.”
“If you’re sure?” Scott says, sounding dubious.
“Dude, please. I need to catch my breath,” Stiles replies.
He pushes against the nearest tree and lets himself sink down. He watches the
wolves as they go running off again, and yeah, they’re not even trying to hide
the fact they’re now going super-speed. Scott’s form is about nine times better
than it was last time Stiles trained with him. Which was a couple of months ago
now that he thinks about it. He’s really been lackadaisical in his best friend
duties. Stiles can’t be sure, because he doesn’t have his stopwatch, nor a
stretch of distance, nor any times to compare it to, but Scott seems quicker.
There’s a smoothness to his movements, a raw power that Stiles hasn’t seen
since Scott was first bitten. But there’s more discipline, too. He looks like
he’s been doing this for years, each time he runs past. Looks like he was born
with such skill. Stiles would be envious if he didn’t know it all came with a
price, and actually he’s proud.
He does his best to ignore Derek. It isn’t the easiest thing he’s ever done.
It’s aided by Derek now emphatically ignoring him.
After the fourth lap, Stiles joins in again. The shirt is partially dry and
he’s tired of being a spectator. He’s learned what he wanted to know. It feels
good to have the crunch of earth beneath his sneakers and the burn of air
through his lungs. The wolves overtake him and Stiles watches the taut line of
their backs. Scott only realizes his mistake when he’s five yards ahead.
“Sorry,” he says, jogging to Stiles’ side again, barely huffing. “Didn’t see
that you’d jumped back in.”
“No sweat. Well, actually, tons of sweat. Way too much sweat for one teenager
to handle. Ugh, am I covered in man-funk. But you know what I mean.”
Scott rough-houses him, giving him a world-class noogie, and Stiles grins,
because they haven’t had an opportunity to be this in a while and he sometimes
forgets what it’s like, the easy friendship they used to have, before the
responsibility and the guilt. He tackles Scott back and they end up tumbling to
the ground for a moment, twisting and entangling until Stiles springs up and
holds out his hand for Scott to take. Scott doesn’t need his hand, though, and
also doesn’t look inclined to take it, tipping his head back to stare up at the
sky, a small relaxed grin on his face.
Boyd and Derek arrive beside them, neither one of them looking as exhausted as
Stiles wishes they were.
“Giving up, Scott? How like you,” Derek says, and Stiles can’t help but gape at
him a little.
Scott reacts predictably, the way Stiles absolutely would do too, if he hadn’t
caught a flash of something in Derek’s eyes that makes him wonder what the
motivation behind the comment could be. Because there was deliberate antagonism
there, but Stiles doesn’t think Derek even knew why. He looks just as shocked
he said it as they all are. And yes, that includes Boyd, whose veneer of
composure has cracked just enough to let a confused pout show through.
“Fuck off, Derek. I’d rather give up than become a hollowed out shell of a
person like you,” Scott growls as he jumps up, moving away from Stiles to shove
at Derek’s shoulders. He doesn’t continue the fight, though, mostly because
Derek snarls and then takes off into the woods.
Stiles has the stupidest urge to defend Derek to Scott, to placate and say “he
didn’t mean it.” And that’s the thing. Stiles doesn’t know how he knows, but
he’s pretty sure it’s true.
*
He smells Stiles before he hears him. Stiles’ scent is no longer masked by
Scott’s, despite the sweatpants that Derek quickly realized didn’t belong to
Stiles. No, the scent is now almost entirely natural Stiles-tinged body odor
and emotive projection. The emotion is difficult to discern.
Derek cracks his neck to the side and flexes his fingers, gearing himself up
for an argument. He deserves it, he thinks. Probably more than.
“So, that was rough,” Stiles says.
“Right. Here to rip me further to shreds with your acerbic wit?”
“Here to give you some advice. It isn’t easy to believe you have the most noble
of intentions when you never tell anyone a thing about yourself. I don’t think
you mean Scott harm. I think you had reasons for biting Erica, Isaac and Boyd.
But I have no clue why you don’t or why you did. I don’t get why you want Scott
in your pack so much when he must be frustrating at best, actively hostile at
worst. Hell, I don’t even know how you know how to dance. My knowledge of you
is slim considering how many hours we’ve spent in each other’s company,
oftentimes saving one another’s lives. I think if you opened up on occasion --
- about anything ever --- your life would be smoother.”
Derek keeps his back to Stiles, though the urge to turn around is desperate.
“Scott won’t listen to me.”
“No, you’re probably right. But I will.”
It’s as far from a lie as it’s possible to get. Stiles will listen. He’ll
listen for any number of reasons, but paramount being the fact that’s just what
he does. Stiles listens, and looks, and learns. Stiles always wants to know
more, has to know more. He questions because it’s second nature, an ingrained
part of him, an irrepressible curiosity.
Derek wants to tell him. Just as when they were playing lacrosse, Derek finds
he wants to share this with Stiles. It’s a side of him warring incessantly with
the one telling him to stay the hell away.
“Laura taught me to dance,” Derek says slowly. “Same reason I was teaching you.
And it’s not that I want Scott in the pack. I need him. He belongs. His power
and mine are linked and when we work together we’re stronger.” Derek finally
turns around to see Stiles staring at him wide-eyed. “Will you leave me alone
now?”
He won’t. It’s obvious in the jut of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
“If I try to convince Scott. I mean, I can’t make any promises. But if I use
all of my Stilesian wiles to make him see that he doesn’t have to love you to
ally himself to you --- will you help me more with lacrosse training? Even if
that also includes tangoing? I kinda thought that’s what you said you’d do, but
you’ve been sort of… absent.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to win something. I won’t win Lydia --- she isn’t a prize to be
won. I won’t win in any physical fights, not without some minor miracle. I
frequently don’t win against my ADD, or in not disappointing my dad. But
winning the chance to play lacrosse based on my own merits? That’s within my
reach… if I improve. And for that, I need you.”
He should say no, use the word ‘scram’. Scram is always effective. He doesn’t
do that and he wants to wonder why, but he knows. For all their differences,
for all the distance between them, they see the world the same --- as a
conquest they are unwilling to lose. No matter how bad it gets they’ll keep
fighting, because that’s all they have left. It’s survival at its barest. And
Derek would like to fool himself into thinking the stakes aren’t as high for
Stiles, that his problems are trivial, but he isn’t that easy to fool. Lacrosse
is a stand-in for the myriad accumulating obstacles in his life that Stiles
can’t control.
It’s all about control, in the end, which is why he’ll help and how he’ll be
able to. Above all else, it’s Derek’s greatest strength.
Because maybe he has emotions where Stiles is concerned--- the type he thought
had been burned out of him long ago. And maybe he’s terrified Stiles’
attraction to the person he’ll never be will hurt him irreparably. But he has
to have something. This one victory.
He doesn’t even know what he wants to be the victor of, but when he says,
“okay” and sees a look close to elation on Stiles’ face, he thinks it might be
for a prize that can’t truly be won.
***** Chapter 8 *****
“You’ve been practicing,” Derek says, staring at Stiles with a completely
unreadable expression. Stiles has gotten better at figuring out the nuances of
Derek’s face, but he’s at a loss here. It’s hard to tell what the curve of his
lips means, why his eyebrows are so flat, especially when Stiles can’t examine
it all in concert --- they’re standing so close to one another.
He can’t remember which of them decided on dancing before lacrosse. It might
have been him. It was probably him. They’re here, now, in Stiles’ room. His
dad’s on shift for another six hours and it’s early evening so the light’s
faded enough that it’s dimmer than usual, not dark enough to turn on the light.
Music’s playing softly from his laptop speakers, loud enough Stiles can hear
the beat, but easy to talk over. It feels like they’re totally separate from
the world, but in a cozy way as opposed a cloying one. Stiles can almost
convince himself they’ve been doing this all along.
“Of course I’ve been practicing,” Stiles says. “I think you unfairly doubt my
commitment to sparkle motion.”
“I don’t even---” Derek begins, before clamping his mouth shut. When he speaks
again, he’s changed tack. “Who have you been dancing with?”
“Well, there was nothing to lose, and there was nothing to prove, so I was…”
Stiles says, leaving a blank for Derek to fill in. He knows he’s being a dick,
but teasing Derek about living in the dark ages when it comes to knowledge of
all music, film and tv is a twisted kind of fun.
“Oh, right,” Derek replies. There’s a narrowing of his eyes; something
calculated and crafty. “On the floor of Tokyo, or down in London town?”
So. Huh. A reference he’s finally gotten. Of course it’d be for a Billy Idol
song from before they were both born.
“If I had the chance I’d be asking the world to dance,” Stiles continues,
smirking, because even when Derek gets it, it’s still fun. It might even be
more fun.
Chatting has enabled Stiles to ignore how warm he feels with Derek’s hands on
him, or how his body’s reacting to the situation. He’s making a valiant attempt
at forgetting he has any urges Derek-wise. Consciously, he’s succeeding
admirably. Unconsciously, his lower back’s sticky and his abs are tense. His
heart keeps doing that insanely loudly pounding thing that Stiles thinks Derek
could hear even if he weren’t possessed of special powers. Stiles could lose
himself in Derek’s body so close to his; the firm, solid weight of him, all
that attention focused on how they move together.
“Am I noticeably better, then?” Stiles asks when Derek doesn’t come back with a
rejoinder.
“Yeah.” Derek, the asshole, sounds surprised. “You’re doing okay with the hold,
your footwork is bordering on good. But your posture remains appalling.”
“Look, if you had to haul around a backpack filled with books every day, you’d
walk like Cro-Magnon man too. Especially since you’ve got the brow for it.”
“You’re getting Cro-Magnons mixed up with Neanderthals, and no-one’s brow
changes the way they walk,” Derek says smoothly, gliding Stiles to the side to
avoid his computer desk.
Stiles snorts, unable to stop a smile from sliding across his face. “You do
realize what you just implied?”
“You were implying. I was correcting the implication. You need to be more
careful with your analogies.”
“You know, for someone who clearly does have a brain, you’ve made some of the
worst decisions known to man,” Stiles says before he can turn his brain-to-
mouth filter on.
Derek tilts his head, contemplative, tightens his hand in Stiles’, but not to
the point of pain. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, book smarts don’t always
translate to common sense.”
It’s obvious Derek’s revealed something he didn’t mean to when he doesn’t
respond to Stiles for the next ten minutes beyond short, snappy commands. Move
here, straighten up, don’t think so hard, now think a little more. It’s
exhausting trying to keep up, and that’s just mentally. Physically, his feet
are already aching. But he can tell that he really has improved. He doesn’t
step on Derek once. He doesn’t slip to the side. He follows Derek’s movements
fairly smoothly, certainly doesn’t forget which foot is supposed to go where.
He really never thought he’d be able to do this. He’s always had trouble with
various different sequenced activities. When he was five he still had Velcro
shoes when everyone else had shoelaces, because he could never remember when
the damn bunny went in the hole. It took him two months to learn his cellphone
number. He’ll use a recipe even if he’s made something several times before,
just to be positive he’s doing it right. Playing video games has helped
inestimably with his recall in following multiple part instructions, but with
things like this it never comes easily to him. If there are too many variables
he gets distracted, even with his medication. He feels a measure of self-
satisfaction that he’s managed to get to the point it doesn’t take a great deal
of effort to remember what to do, that it’s now coming automatically.
“You must have been working hard,” Derek says eventually, drawing away from
Stiles. In his eyes there’s a hint of pride and he has a flush over his
cheekbones that Stiles wants to stroke his fingers against. It’s likely from
the heat of the room, but that doesn’t make it any less compelling.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I meant it, about wanting to win this, even though it’s
only a chance and doesn’t mean I’ll be the star of any games or anything.”
“It’s as much about status as it is about conquest.”
There’s something to be said there, about how shocked he is that Derek gets it,
but he isn’t shocked, not really. The more time they spend together, the more
he realizes that this is something they share. Becoming the Alpha? He’d be a
fool not think that the illusion of status was involved there somehow. It’s
increasingly obvious that Derek doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. Stiles
wonders if he even always understands why he does what he does. It’s about the
prospect of power as opposed to the actual thing. Most ambitious people know
the reasons they harbor for attempted domination. They have plans and schemes
and goals. If Derek has any kind of long-term plan, scheme or goal, it’s
skilfully buried. But the pretense of being ruler over your dominion --- a
title lacking in any meaningful responsibility --- most everyone wants a piece
of that. Stiles knows himself well enough that this is what lacrosse means to
him. He questions whether Derek’s that self-aware. He’s starting to think he
might be; more than he’d have credited him with being if asked a couple months
ago.
Stiles drags his hands down his sides, offers Derek his chair. Derek glances at
it for a moment as if thinking it’s going to leap up and attack him, then sits,
awkwardly, knees spread wide.
“Do you want a drink? I could do with a drink. It’s always important to
maintain adequate hydration.”
In the kitchen, Stiles makes judicious use of an ice cube across his forehead
and the back of his neck. He hates his body’s insistent response to Derek. It
isn’t fair on either of them. He had hoped that the erosion of Derek’s mystery
would make him less appealing, but the opposite has occurred. He’s harder to
resist when Stiles is aware of his layers. Stiles has the capacity to ignore
and diminish it, this unwanted attraction. He’s perfectly capable of conversing
normally with both Lydia and Danny, despite long-held crushes. His brotherly
affection for Scott has long-overlain his formative hormone-riddled
appreciation of his looks. Stiles isn’t so influenced by his dick that he’s
incapable of responding to Derek except at a primal, physiological level. But
that doesn’t mean he isn’t still responding to Derek on a primal, physiological
level, because all of his senses conspire against him, every single one.
It occurs to him he didn’t ask what Derek wanted to drink before he ran out of
his room, so he pours a glass each of water and coke, thinking whatever Derek
didn’t want, he could have.
In his room, the window is wide open and Stiles rolls his head back in
frustration and disgust that Derek could simply sneak out and bail on him like
that. But then Derek’s edging through the doorway again, beads of water running
down his neck, flattening his hair against his forehead. He frowns.
“It was getting hot,” he explains. He doesn’t offer anything further. Stiles
could be imagining the sheepishness.
“The water or the coke?”
“Water. Please.”
“So, you’re gonna show me how to transfer my almost satisfactory footwork into
playing lacrosse, aren’t you?” Stiles asks, settling on the edge of his bed as
Derek sits in his seat again. He takes a sip of coke through the straw, places
his glass on the floor, rubs his hands down his thighs. Derek watches him,
carefully.
“I’ll try. Can’t start immediately because I need to be prepared for the full
moon.”
“You need to prepare? What kind of preparation?” This is precisely the kind of
insight he’s always wanted.
“Not for me. For Erica, Isaac and Boyd. I need to be able to restrain them. I
don’t shift during the full moon unless I want to.”
“Scott told me that,” Stiles admits, nodding slowly. “I thought maybe you used
meditation or something.”
“I used to, when I was your age,” Derek says. He rolls his head around,
examines his nails. “It’s unnecessary now.”
“Will Scott ever learn to be as disciplined as you are, or is it a born versus
bite thing?” Stiles asks. He winces when Derek’s expression clouds further.
“It’ll take time, but he’ll get there. I’ve been watching and learning since I
was a child, but Scott’s quick on the uptake. I’d tell him he’s a natural if I
didn’t think it’d make him hate me even more.”
“Scott doesn’t hate you,” Stiles says. He leans forward when Derek’s face does
the haughty incredulous thing it frequently does when he thinks someone’s
wrong. Stiles used to hate that face, but he’s started to find it damn near
endearing. “Really, he doesn’t. He may say he does, but he’s wrong. I don’t
think you truly realize how little Scott wanted all of this. You’ve called it a
gift, Derek, but it hasn’t been for Scott.” Stiles purses his lips, frowns down
at his shoes. He doesn’t say ’I don’t think it really has been for you either.’
“Scott hates me,” Derek reiterates firmly. He squares his shoulders, as if
physically stating, ‘but that’s okay, I’m fine with that.’ Which Stiles knows
is a lie.
“I don’t think either of you has any idea how to empathize with the other,”
Stiles says. “Can you seriously not imagine what it’d be like to be thrust into
a world you didn’t even know existed without any kind of decision-making
occurring on your part?”
“Actually, yes,” Derek says. His whole demeanor has stiffened and it makes him
look larger, dominant. “But since nothing could be done, the imaginary version
of me would get the fuck over it.”
“Something could have been done,” Stiles says, quietly. If he speaks too
loudly, he thinks he’ll shatter the mirage of understanding they’ve created.
“There are lots of reasons as to why I did what I did, and not one of them had
to do with deliberately screwing Scott over.”
“He doesn’t get that.”
“And what about you, Stiles?” Derek asks, deceptively casual. It’s a test. They
both know it.
Stiles shrugs, aiming for the same level of casual, badly. “I understand both
perspectives and share neither.”
Derek snorts breath through his nose and stands. “One more spin around the
room, or am I allowed to go?”
“One more spin,” Stiles insists. He crowds close to Derek and takes hold of his
hand. “And please tell me that soon you’ll let me lead.”
“That was not part of our arrangement.”
“But I am offense.”
“You know I’m gonna use that to state that you’re certainly offensive, right?”
Derek asks, a sassy note to his tone that Stiles is secretly fond of.
When it comes to losing himself with Derek’s body so close to his? He’s pretty
sure there’s nothing left for him to lose. He’s already lost.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Derek thinks about everything Stiles says and decides he’ll act on those
aspects he can. He spends the morning after their dancing session talking to
Erica, Isaac and Boyd about meditation. He doesn’t have high hopes that it’ll
work, but alongside training them in recognizing their anchors and triple
checking his supply of chains and manacles, he doesn’t know what else to do.
Stiles says he has an empathy problem and Derek’s not so arrogant he’s going to
dismiss that claim. He does find it almost impossible to fathom Scott’s
desperation for a ‘cure’ against something that has made him stronger than an
ordinary human in almost every way. But the way Stiles has framed it; as Scott
being thrust into a world he never asked for? He hadn’t thought of it in those
terms, ever. That Scott had never asked for this was something he knew, but
couldn’t comprehend.
Scott’s reaction makes more sense to him now. He thinks it probably indicates
how shallow he is that he couldn’t have come to this conclusion himself.
Narrow-minded. Closed-off. He’s been imprisoned in his own pain for so long he
doesn’t have a clue how to respond to others’. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t
his intention to take the cure away from Scott, that it was about survival,
about Scott not having to have blood on his hands, about needing to avenge
Laura and put Peter out of his misery for good. To Scott, it was betrayal.
Commensurate, if not similar to what Kate did to him. And, yeah, Derek is
beginning to identify with him on that level, even if he still can’t quite wrap
his head around Scott wanting to be asthmatic, fragile and incapable of
defending himself against what’s to come.
And there’s the parallel with Kate again, pressing in on Derek. Thinking about
how much control he has is simple when it’s merely theoretical. Exerting that
control when faced with Stiles is not so simple. If it was purely physical,
he’d manage it, he’s sure. He has years of experience in denying the wants and
needs of his body. He’s always been cautious about how he goes about satisfying
that aspect of life. But it isn’t purely physical. The very fact he’s taking
Stiles’ advice and paying attention to his opinions proves that. So what should
he do? Give in and pull Stiles close, despite how much it makes him want to
yell “no” and “wrong” inside his head? Push him away again? Or do his best to
keep them as they are currently --- working together amicably --- hoping he has
the self-will to keep up the charade?
If only Derek was a more optimistic person. All this hoping might actually mean
something to him.
*
Stiles drags Scott to the depot two days after his dance lesson with Derek,
because Isaac asks him to do so. It’s a covert operation conducted with the
lure of coffee and artfully locked Jeep doors. Scott hasn’t been back there
since his fracas with Derek and Isaac wants to discuss the shift and how Scott
manages to ‘restrain the wolf’. Stiles only makes two jokes about how that’s an
especially saucy euphemism. He could literally make seven more. They’re lined
up in his mind for when he inevitably gets bored watching the others play.
Scott glares mutinously at Stiles for a second before greeting the other wolves
and Stiles knows they’re going to talk about this later.
They’ve gotten into an awesome pattern lately of making sure they have at least
two catch-up sessions a week to play video games or watch tv shows. They’re a
season into Farscape, because Scott made Stiles watch the entirety of Heroes
and Stiles believes in swift vengeance. The first season of Heroes had been
good; great even. After that? Stiles had been vocal in his disapproval.
Unfortunately, his plan’s backfired, because Scott freaking adores Farscape. He
thinks Allison is the Aeryn to his John. Stiles can see that, but wonders what
that makes him, because he really doesn’t think he’s an adequate D’Argo and
there’s no way he’s Rygel. He only wishes he had the moxie to be Chiana.
Anyway, the point is, they’ve been hanging out, and Scott will bring this up,
come hell or high water. Stiles wonders if he can distract him with the
bodyswap episode.
Derek hangs back from everyone, jaw tensed. He doesn’t wave back at Stiles, nor
welcome them in any way. Stiles firmly believes that Derek’s worst enemy is
himself. Seriously. Out of Hunters, his Uncle, other monsters and whatever war
Derek’s clearly been preparing himself for, no one is as consistently awful and
adept at setting him back in all respects than Derek. Stiles saunters over,
ignoring a far more ferocious glare than Scott’s. If eyes could kill, he’d be
drawn and quartered.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says, by way of greeting.
“Derek, you’re far and away the most charming person I’ve ever met, how could I
resist?” Stiles deadpans.
Actually, Derek can be charming. Stiles is charmed by him frequently when
they’re alone together. It’s a strange, uncomfortable thought.
Derek’s expression doesn’t waver. “It’s dangerous,” he points out. “We’re only
a day away from the full moon.”
“Which is why I’m here, because Scott wouldn’t come voluntarily.”
“Then he doesn’t belong here either.”
Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath and turns his own glare on Derek. “He can
help them in ways you can’t. Have you ever heard of peer tutoring? It’s a
proven fact that students learn better from other students. Dude, did you take
your grouchy pill this morning? Was it a suppository?”
“Don’t cry at me when you’re halfway to eaten,” Derek replies, before storming
away.
Stiles rubs at the back of his neck as if it will ease his mental whiplash.
Last they spoke, Derek was positively convivial. Today he’s whatever the hell
that was.
He finds a spot on the floor and listens to the betas’ conversations. Scott
talks about how Stiles helped him figure out his anchor, and Stiles winces when
he thinks about how good it had felt to let out some of his anger in the name
of rendering his assistance. Boyd asks Scott about five variations of the same
question and Scott answers them all patiently. Stiles smiles to himself as he
listens because his little wolfie’s growing up. And other, far less
condescending things.
Erica comes and sits with him when the others start to spar, claiming that
she’s giving the boys an easy ride. The best part about that is that Stiles
believes it. They’ve been talking more at school lately. Stiles has just about
forgiven Erica for that time he found himself waking up in a dumpster. He
thinks that if he’s managed to forgive Derek for bashing his forehead into his
steering wheel, and Isaac for threatening Lydia, he should extend the other
wolves the same courtesy. Really, when he thinks about it, none of them are
blameless. Erica’s gotten to this awesome point where she’s retained her
confidence, but balanced it out with a healthy dose of humor. This doesn’t stop
her from being scary. Stiles always feels like she knows things he doesn’t,
which goes along with what Isaac said once. Stiles doesn’t have the guts to ask
her all her secrets. This doesn’t mean he has no questions.
“How’re you feeling about your third full moon?” Stiles asks, before nodding
unthinkingly, impressed by Scott taking Isaac down with a single kick.
Erica shrugs. “I wish I could say it gets easier with time, but it still freaks
me out.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware it freaked you out in any way,” Stiles returns, looking
at her more closely. As far as he had understood, Erica took to being a
werewolf with heartfelt glee.
Erica twists her mouth up, gives him eye contact. “I didn’t want to admit it,
before. It felt too much like biting the hand that bit me. But, I’m looking
forward to the days I’ll only shift when I want to. The whole ‘uncontrollable,
pained transformation’ thing is a little too familiar.”
There’s no adequate response to that, so Stiles goes for reassurance with,
“Derek was saying the other day that you’ll all get there, eventually. It takes
practice.”
“Oh? Derek was saying that? Where was I?” Erica asks, a teasing glint coming
into her eyes.
“Why do I feel like you know exactly where you were?” Stiles braves, shaking
his head.
“I actually don’t, except, obviously not watching you tango. Which saddens me,
truly it does.”
“It’s to help with lacrosse.”
“Really. That’s the simplest method.”
“Not the simplest, maybe, but the best in helping me improve what’s lacking in
my game,” Stiles says, thinking he sounds like he’s toeing some kind of party
line. The Dancing with Derek party, now with nine hundred times more unrequited
unresolved sexual tension.
Boyd flings Scott into the wall, only for Scott to land on his feet and barrel
into him with speed. It provides a nice distraction for a second or two.
“But you like it, or you wouldn’t have come back for more.”
“It’s a means to an end.”
Erica huffs out a laugh. “Is there some kind of phrasebook all guys get for
when they want to lie? I think there must be.”
“Okay, fine. Yes, I kinda like it. It feels good to know I’m learning a new
skill, for myself and at no one else’s behest.”
Stiles is not going to mention how it was originally Derek’s behest. He can
already sense the danger in sharing this much with Erica.
“There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Go and whip their asses,” Stiles orders, pointing at Boyd, Isaac and Scott,
all breathing heavily as they lean against the depot wall, but as if it’s a
joke and not him pleading to be left alone. “Show them who’s boss.”
“All right, but don’t think I’m going to forget this. We don’t all have
selective amnesia,” Erica says, and it’s a testament to how intimidating she
can be that the sweet smile she flicks Stiles is as menacing as hell.
Stiles feels a prickle down his spine and half-twists to see Derek lurking in
the shadows, watching the betas. He wonders if that’s where he’s been looking
the whole time.
*
The night of the full moon, Stiles tries to convince Scott to visit the depot
again. They’re in the kitchen making sandwiches, having finished up watching
the episode of Farscape involving three Crichtons and Stiles nonchalantly
comments on how he imagines the others could do with some help. He’s deftly
avoided Scott’s wrath regarding his bait and switch from the day before and he
knows he’s pushing it, but he’ll withstand some grumpiness if it’s for the
greater good.
Scott shakes his head. “They’ll be all right. They have Derek.” The last
comment is darkly mocking, and Stiles scrunches up his face in response.
“Maybe they need you both?”
“I don’t get why you keep pushing this,” Scott states loudly, tones diamond-
sharp. “What do you get out of it, Stiles?”
The anger behind the words startles him and he can feel his stomach drop from
Scott’s hostility. Scott usually makes his displeasure known with a pout and
the silent treatment. He doesn’t yell in Stiles’ face. His emotions are always
closer to the surface nearing the full moon, but this is vehement.
“I get the satisfaction of knowing that when everything goes to hell you’ll
have more than me to rely on,” Stiles says, moving until he’s framing Scott’s
arms. “You’ll have a team of people who are as strong, fast and brave as you’ll
need. You’ll have a pack.”
And maybe it’s more complicated than that, and a lot less selfless, but that
doesn’t stop it from being true. He swallows and Scott’s expression clears.
“You’re all the pack I’ve ever needed,” Scott says, pushing forward into a hug.
He steps back after a moment, clutching reassuringly at Stiles’ shoulder, and
God, it hurts.
Scott means it. It cuts Stiles up inside how earnest he is. All the guilt and
self-anger that’s been slowly building within is unleashed with that one
gesture. Stiles shakes his head at Scott, bites at his lower lip. He paces and
finally bursts out with, “I’m the idiot who got you into all of this in the
first place, Scott.”
Scott’s eyes widen. “You are an idiot. I can’t believe you think this is your
fault.”
“If we hadn’t been out in the woods---“
“Did you burn down the Hale house?”
“No, what’re y---“
“Did you rehabilitate Peter Hale and then set him free? Did you pay him to bite
me?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“I don’t blame you for what happened so what the hell are you doing blaming
yourself?”
Stiles can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes and he sucks in a deep,
trembling breath. He’s always known Scott didn’t blame him, they couldn’t have
maintained their friendship if he had. Scott’s a kinder person than he is in a
lot of ways. Stiles? He wishes he didn’t, but he can’t help but see the world
in terms of retribution and reward. There’s always going to be part of him that
thinks he’s owed a debt. But that also means he believes he owes others debts
too. And Scott just doesn’t think like that.
“As your best friend I should have protected you and instead I put you in
danger.”
Scott drops his shoulders down and nods. “Okay, that one I’ll give you. But you
can’t take full responsibility for my safety.”
“I know I can’t. Hence the pack.”
“But it has to be my choice, Stiles. You can’t force it on me just because you
think it’s for my own good.”
“So let’s talk about that --- why isn’t it your choice? I’ve watched you with
the others, man. You have an instinctive bond. When you guys practice your
reflexes are quicker, your aim is awesome. You all seem to fall into a strategy
none of you have talked about. You can’t tell me that you don’t feel more
powerful?”
“Maybe I don’t want to be more powerful? Maybe I wanna be more normal?”
“But you’re not and you can’t be, not anymore,” Stiles reasons, softly.
Scott scowls, and yes, there’s that ever-pervasive sense that the expression is
at odds with his features. “That’s Derek’s fault.”
“He’s no more to blame than I am, so if you don’t think I’m the one who fucked
you over, why are you so ready to believe he is?”
“He took the cure away. Literally killed it, dead. My one shot at getting my
life back to how it’s supposed to be.”
“There was no guarantee it would work. And even if it had, at what price? Can
you tell me you don’t already have nightmares about that night? How normal
would you have felt knowing you’d killed a man?”
“Why are you on his side?”
“I’m not. I’m on yours. But maybe I think it’s a circle. One side. Going round
and round.”
Scott crumples to the ground, slumps against the counter. “Maybe you’re blinded
by lust.”
“Oh my God, you cannot sound so accusatory saying that, you hypocrite.”
“I notice you’re not denying it.”
Stiles settles next to Scott, tips his chin down toward his chest. “There’s no
use, you’d know I was lying even if you couldn’t smell it on me. I understand
why you don’t love or trust Derek. But he’s only a few years older than us,
he’s been through a lot of shit, and you’re usually the most compassionate
person ever to exist, so why can’t that compassion extend to him?”
“It did! I recall a time you thought Derek deserved to die and I refused to let
it happen. But I --- I can’t explain it.”
“It’s not like you to hold a grudge,” Stiles prompts, because it’s true, and
because he can sense that Scott’s holding back.
Scott pouts, sighs. “Sometimes I think it’s because it reminds me of my dad,
you know? All those promises, and then… nothing. Worse than nothing. He’s
actually managed to take something away.”
Stiles doesn’t know the right way to respond to that. Scott spent most nights
over at his when his dad was still living in Beacon Hills, because there was a
joint custody situation going on that no judge had ever thought to ask Scott
about. Scott shut down whenever his dad was mentioned and his smile always
seemed forced. Stiles asked him when they were twelve if he was being beaten,
because he’d never liked Mr McCall, he’d watched a documentary about domestic
abuse, and he knew something was up. But Scott assured him that wasn’t it, it
was usually nothing physical, no blows were needed to make him feel small.
Stiles can’t count the times over the years Scott’s dad had said he’d go watch
him at one of his Little League games, or drop off his inhaler, or make him
something vaguely edible for dinner --- and if he’d been working, it would have
been understandable, but there was a long time there where he didn’t have a
job. And all of that is disregarding the names he’d called Scott and Mrs.
McCall. Stiles feels like the biggest asshole. He can’t believe he never
realized this before.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, knowing it’s wholly inadequate.
“Yeah, me too.” Scott scrubs a hand through his hair, darts a look at Stiles.
“You might be right about the whole pack thing. But I reserve the right to
think Derek’s a jerkwad.”
“Derek really can be a jerkwad,” Stiles assents. “He’s… he’s not your Dad, but,
yeah, Derek’s got issues.”
“I know he’s not my dad,” Scott says. He doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but
there’s frustration there. “I never said he reminded me of him, just the
situation.”
“I know, I know that. I was trying to show my solidarity when it comes to
acknowledging Derek’s asshole side. But also trying to defend him a teensy,
tiny bit. Because, you know, no one else will.”
“Isaac does,” Scott says. “And when it comes to messed up fathers...”
“Right! So, Derek can’t be all bad, can he?”
“Why do you like him again?”
Stiles gives a one-shouldered shrug. It’s a good question, with a complex
answer. “I can also be a jerkwad. Very occasionally. Once in the bluest of
moons. Should we go, then?”
“I should,” Scott sighs. “You should definitely stay here.”
“Yeah, it’d suck if we had this heart to heart and then I was chewed to pieces
by your newly adopted pack.”
“I never said I was going to join the pack,” Scott says, sounding baffled. “I
said you might be right. In theory.”
“But you’re all so cute together,” Stiles wheedles. Upon studying Scott’s
expression, he raises his hands. “Okay, I can see that you need time and space
and less coercion from me.”
“Thank you,” Scott says, not making an effort to stand up.
He picks at the hem of his shirt, leans into Scott’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going
to happen. With me and Derek.”
“No, of course not,” Scott replies with a crinkled brow, as if the very thought
is completely inconceivable. “You’re way too sensible.”
Stiles doesn’t correct Scott’s assumption, though it makes him think. Is he? If
Derek were remotely interested in him, in him, not just another body, would he
be sensible? Or would he take a chance? Because it could be the worst of all
ideas, or it could work. Stiles has always had a reckless streak. It’s been
severely dented since late-night visits to the woods, but it’s still a part of
him.
He’s never seriously considered it, because he’s never thought there’s the
remotest possibility. Even when he was attempting to ignore how dancing had
made him feel, “something happening with Derek” had never really been in his
mental vocabulary. But now the question’s been raised.
Stiles is the kid who dragged his best friend out the night before school
because he wanted to discover half a dead body. Stiles is far from sensible.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Scott arrives at the depot just after 9 pm. He doesn’t talk to Derek, but just
gets to work discussing breathing techniques and maintaining focus with Isaac,
Erica and Boyd. Just him being there is a stabilizing influence that lends
Derek strength. Derek gathers his chains together and helps place them as a
precaution, but as a pack they concentrate more on meditation. It’s
surprisingly difficult to do breathing exercises when someone’s glaring at you
like they wished you were dead. This time, Derek does not return the glare. He
looks away and wonders if Scott will get the hint he’s done fighting. He has
nothing to say about accusing Scott of giving up on everything. The comment was
out of his mouth before he could stop it. He doesn’t even want to admit to
himself that it was an instinctive, irrational jealousy at the familiarity
between best friends, but he does. He has no claim over Stiles. Shouldn’t want
to have one, either. That he feels like he has one is just another wall between
him and Scott.
Scott and Isaac talk about anchors and how they use them to both call the wolf
and tamp it down and from this conversation Derek has gained a lot of insight
into the inner workings of his betas. The anchor discussion doesn’t surprise
him. He’s had this talk with both them on different occasions. Referring to
what they are controlling as ‘the wolf’, though, that gives him pause. He’s
never seriously thought of ‘the wolf’ as a separate entity before. Sometimes
he’s thought of himself as having two sides. But he’s never put more value on
one side over the other, like Isaac and Scott appear to be doing. They talk
about their humanity being in control and while there are aspects of that, it
isn’t the whole truth. When he was growing up he had to shift to access his
full powers, but that wasn’t like adopting something other, it was more like
limbering up his body before exercise, or chanting and reciting a pep talk
before a big game.
The thought of an integral aspect of who he is being like a force laid on top
of him is baffling. But recognizing that as a perspective makes it easier to
relate to the younger werewolves. He thought he’d been clear with Isaac, Erica
and Boyd that what he was going to do would change them from the inside out,
transform them completely into better versions of themselves. But instead
they’re still struggling with identity crises. To them there’s who they are and
then a detached power they can access. The human and the wolf. He needs to
think of ways to disabuse them of this notion. And throwing them around isn’t
going to cut it. He kind of wishes it did. Life was simpler when training
involved tossing his pack in the air. He knows he isn’t being particularly
mature in thinking that.
While Scott and Isaac talk, Erica alternates between mocking Boyd for the
abilities he has yet to develop, and testing her enhanced reflexes. It’s
painfully obvious she’s pulling Boyd’s pigtails when she slides up against him
and asks if he can smell how excited she is. It’s both sexual provocation and a
well-placed jab at Boyd’s difficulty with recognizing scent. He gets her back
by asking her how her self-discovery is going. That’s a joke based on her
sexual provocation and the difficulties she experienced finding an anchor.
She’s been the last to figure out her anchor, and she refuses to share what it
is. This isn’t the wisest decision but when Derek says this, Scott grunts at
him, as if to say ‘like you know anything about wise decisions’. Later that
evening, when Derek is dealing with a Boyd who has injured his wrist trying to
tear through his manacles, he hears Scott ask her about her anchor too. He’s
stupidly pleased when she doesn’t answer --- and it’s obvious that his
irrational jealousy isn’t only Stiles based, which isn’t the comfort it should
be.
In the early morning, Scott leaves without saying goodbye, and while it was
touch and go for a while there, all of the betas have managed to override their
instincts and maintain control. Derek knows that he owes Scott showing up to
Stiles, so he texts to meet him in the morning for a lacrosse session. At this
point, he can’t promise it isn’t as much about indulging a guilty pleasure as
it is feeling like he’s paying off a debt. Even though he knows it’s too
dangerous, he would have appreciated seeing Stiles. He doesn’t question that
too much.
Hours later, the sky is overcast and threatening rain, but they’re out on the
lacrosse pitch regardless. Derek’s boombox is on the bleachers, filled with
batteries that Stiles said he was pretty sure had been discontinued decades
ago. He might be right, but they work. The tango cassette he found in Beacon
Hills’ single second-hand store is playing across the stretch of grass.
The idea is half-dance, half-lacrosse. Warm up, revise, show Stiles how to
carry his poise over into the game. It’s damnably easy to say, but Derek knows
it won’t be easy to do. It took him weeks and that was under constant
supervision --- which he really can’t afford to give. Yet still wants to.
Because he can’t separate himself into two discrete parts of human and wolf, he
knows it isn’t just the wolf inside that itches to drag Stiles close and touch
him all over. It’s more than an animal compulsion. Stiles moves like his limbs
are dead weights and when Derek takes him into a hold he slumps more than
usual. His eyelashes are dark smudges against his cheeks as he blinks against
the gray-tinged but bright light.
“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Derek mutters, knowing he sounds
more concerned than irritated.
Stiles’ gaping mouth firms into a thin line. “Of course,” he rasps, voice
sleep-thick. “I got a good two hours of shut-eye in between update texts, your
summons, and now.”
Derek hauls Stiles up straighter, but does not growl at that comment. The urge
to scold Stiles is frustratingly present, but Stiles is just being Scott’s best
friend. Stiles leans against his chest, rubs his head into his neck, and he’s
seen Stiles exhausted before, knows this is par for the course, but he finds
himself sighing into the movement anyway.
“Do you wanna stop?” he asks.
“No. No! Just gimme a minute,” Stiles mumbles into his shoulder. Derek feels
the heat and dampness of him through his shirt. He swallows against a moan.
“We could do this again later. When you’re fully functional.”
“Dude, unkind. I am programmed in multiple techniques. That one’s Star Trek, by
the way, The Next Generation. To save you from having to google it at the
library. Do you remember anything I taught you? You never did hand in your
homework.”
By the end of his sentence, Stiles has pushed himself off Derek and is staring
at him narrow-eyed. He’s almost positioned for them to start dancing, but not
quite. Derek eases his foot forward, his hips brushing against Stiles’, and
kicks his feet further apart. He’s done this before, but never watched Stiles’
reaction. And it is memorable. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his hand
scrunches shut around Derek’s and his cheekbones start to stain pink. Stiles
licks his lips and Derek steps close into him, pausing and raising his eyebrow
when Stiles doesn’t follow. He steps again, until they’re pressed tight,
watching how Stiles’ gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth.
“You need to move,” he says softly. The skin of Stiles’ palm is warm and smooth
against his, his breath jets against his cheek.
“I really do,” Stiles replies, and then doesn’t move an inch.
Derek pushes up against his shin again, squeezes his hand. He’s far more gentle
than he suspects he should be, trying to force Stiles into stepping back. He
won’t confess to being disappointed when Stiles eventually does as he’s
supposed to and follows his steps.
“Think about what your feet are doing,” Derek says, “about how you’re
maintaining balance.”
“That might be tricky. I’m totally using you to support me right now.”
Derek huffs out a breath and relaxes his hold on Stiles, makes him take more of
his own weight. “If you’re not gonna do this the right way, we’re not gonna do
it at all.”
“Okay, fine,” Stiles says and quits leaning against Derek. Derek moves forward
again, starting the step from the beginning.
They’re out in the open, so this should feel public and exposed. Derek should
continuously be thinking about how anyone could come to the field at any moment
to practice their own game and see them here. To an outsider, this would seem
overwhelmingly inappropriate at worst, a touch suspect at best. Hell, to an
insider, it isn’t much better. But being outside just means that Derek enjoys
the crunch of grass underneath their feet and a soft cool breeze ruffling
against his shirt. There remains a sense of closeness, of being cut off from
the rest of the world. He likes it. The illusion that the only responsibility
he has is to improve Stiles’ feet-body coordination. That the only face he has
to see is a friendly, teasing, oddly attractive one. He’s been spending far too
much time concentrating on the attractiveness of it, on Stiles’ deceptively
defined cheekbones and jawline, the fullness of his lips and the color of his
eyes. His expressions can be rubbery and ridiculous and he’s often too
expressive, in all the ways imaginable. Derek finds he really likes that too.
“Scott didn’t go into much detail in his texts, so tell me, was there much
wailing and gnashing of teeth last night?” Stiles suddenly asks, pulling Derek
out of his reverie.
Derek shrugs within their hold. “Not as much as there has been in the past.”
“That’s good, right? Our devious plot is working.”
Derek frowns at Stiles. “If you’re expecting a thank you for Scott’s
appearance, this is it.”
Stiles chokes out a laugh. “Oh man, you’re so damaged. I wasn’t expecting you
to thank me, but it’s oh so gracious of you to do so. And so early in the
morning, too. Exactly what any sane person would want the morning after a
stress-filled night.”
“I didn’t know you were stupid enough to stay up.”
“I think it’s been established that I would do anything for love b---”
“Stop that reference right now,” Derek snaps, but with no heat. He peers at
Stiles, assesses him. Yes, Stiles is tired, but talking about the full moon
doesn’t rattle him. He knew Scott was a werewolf before Scott did and instead
of being horrified to his core, he stood by him and helped him out. And maybe
that’s down to guilt, but that doesn’t mean he doesn't also display fortitude.
“How’s this been so easy for you?”
“How do you think this has been easy? Did we not have the ‘I’ve only gotten two
hours of sleep in the last twenty-eight hours’ conversation literally twenty
seconds ago?”
“That’s one sleepless night.”
“More than one.”
“All right, but as symptoms go, that’s mild. You’ve adjusted quickly. To gore
and violence. Paralysis, treading water, going up against hunters and
supposedly mythical creatures --- against Peter,” Derek says. Stiles begins to
go stiff, back straightening further, movements shifting from sluggish to
stilted. “Don’t you ever think about the things you’ve done since this all
started? The things you might do? You didn’t want to saw off my arm, but you
were going to. What else could you be convinced of doing, Stiles?”
“I was only going to saw off your arm because you threatened to eat me, Derek.
You’re lucky I’m a forgiving person, because otherwise, this intimacy right
here? Would not be happening,” Stiles bites back, pinching Derek’s shoulder.
“I’ve done and I’ll continue to do what I have to. No less. Maybe more. But
don’t mistake for a second that it’s been easy. The staying up thing? It isn’t
a choice. And you know what, I ask the same questions you do, but I push on,
because someone has to and it might as well be me.”
Derek dips his head down to avoid Stiles’ glowering. “I think you’re under the
assumption I’m insulting you, but for once that isn’t my intention. All I’m
saying is that you’ve shown a lot of strength in standing by Scott under some
really fucking awful circumstances and it surprises me. Not everyone would be
capable.”
“I don’t think that’s true. I think people adapt to whatever fucking awful
circumstance they find themselves in.”
Derek snorts. “Scott hasn’t adapted.”
“Yes he has. Just because he hasn’t done it in a way you’ve sanctioned, doesn’t
mean he hasn’t adapted,” Stiles says. He’s completely awake now, and with that
comes the kind of anger that is eerily reminiscent of passion. “And you know
what, Derek? Maybe I’m not completely put off by gruesomeness and creatures
that go bump in the night, like apparently everyone else would be, but my dad’s
a cop and my mom died as I was lying next to her, so --- we’re shaped by our
life experiences.”
Derek knows he’s crossed a line. The friendly, teasing face he was enjoying
before has been replaced by a scowl. And he honestly can’t blame Stiles. He
hadn’t meant to make it sound like Stiles is callous, but he realizes he did.
He can tell he’s grazed against something raw within Stiles, a place he usually
avoids touching. Stiles reacts like he does when asked personal questions and
the familiarity is jarring. Stiles called him damaged and he is, he can’t deny
that, but it’s increasingly clear that Stiles was speaking from experience.
He steps away, not thinking about the sense of loss, picks up some padding and
a stick.
“You look like you’ve warmed up. Lacrosse?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Lacrosse.”
*
Stiles jumps up and down and whoops for joy when he scores a goal. He thinks
Derek probably let him get away with it, but he’s decided that doesn’t make it
any less of a success. He’s about to set off running again when Derek tackles
him to the ground. Derek actually cradles the back of his head when he brings
him down and the padding he insisted on helps lessen the impact, but it’s still
a shock, so Stiles stares up at the sky for a few moments.
His skin feels tight and uneasy. He wants to rant and rave at Derek about his
hypocrisy and unfairness. But whenever he catches Derek’s eye and there’s an
expression that’s difficult to decipher, yet certainly doesn’t seem to harbor
ill-will, he feels wrong-footed. He thinks maybe it’s true that he’s taken
Derek’s words to heart in a way they weren’t intended and the very fact he’s
thinking that at all leads him to believe he’s irretrievably screwed when it
comes to all things Derek. Because he’s started making excuses for his shitty
behavior left, right and center. Because he wants to forgive him and continue
on with how they started the day. Especially with the snuggling. He should be
ashamed of that, his body’s willful gravitation toward Derek’s, but he isn’t.
Not when it’s happening again right now, his hips pushing up insistently, as if
to buck Derek off, but really to feel his heat. The fact that Derek hasn’t
stopped him is interesting. A dangerous kind of interesting, but enough for
Stiles to ponder it.
“You can’t let your guard down,” Derek reproaches, and Stiles stifles a laugh,
because it’s true on so many levels.
“I’m better though, aren’t I?” Stiles crows, luxuriating in the grass beneath
his back and determinedly not thinking about the fact Derek hasn’t gotten up.
“You let me score, but that was because you saw how I didn’t trip, not even
once!”
“I didn’t let you score,” Derek says, irritably. “I don’t make a habit of
throwing games.”
Stiles does laugh at that. It’s a charming combination of pissy, melodramatic
and sassy. Derek is ludicrous.
“You’re ludicrous. And you’re telling me I legitimately beat you?”
“I was distracted,” Derek grumbles. He levers himself up, his fingers brushing
against Stiles’ scalp as he pulls his hand away, thighs settling closer
momentarily.
“What by?” Stiles asks, realizing a second too late that the tone he’s adopted
sounds a lot like flirtation.
“Cars.”
“Cars?” Stiles parrots, standing up and brushing himself off.
“On the road, nearby. By the sound of scraping metal and the crack of glass,
I’d say there’s been a minor collision.”
Stiles doesn’t believe it for a second and he figures his expression says so
with flashing neon lights, because Derek tosses the ball to him and juts his
chin forward in challenge.
“It won’t happen again,” Derek says.
Stiles wonders if that’s true.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Stiles thinks about what Derek said. He thinks about it a lot. Like, all the
time. Usually, Stiles’ mental meanderings tend to take him all over the place.
He’ll do freeform word association from noon to night, skipping from one topic
to the next. To him, these connections are always logical and rational, but
sometimes others have difficulty getting why Stiles is talking about Kevin
Bacon when they were only just discussing the Mesozoic era. But the things
Derek said and the imagined or real consequences of his words? They occupy his
thought processes constantly.
His thoughts cycle between three main threads of connected thoughts. The first
thread is preoccupied with his immediate reaction of anger to Derek’s words. He
still feels it, a tight ball at the base of his gut; this sense that Derek
discounts any pain that isn’t his own, that he ignores the symptoms and the
signs of a break down if they don’t conform to his narrow view of the world.
Part of him wants to rage and scream and accuse.
But then there’s the second thread of consciousness, wherein he takes it as the
compliment Derek said he meant. He starts to wonder if Derek’s really saying
Stiles has adapted well in relation to him. He may be projecting, but his
instincts say not. Because Derek was once a kid who used to get As and was
taught how to dance by his sister. And Stiles knows Derek wasn’t lying about
the As, because he paid Danny the last of his savings to hack into the school
records, until he discovered they were still all paper and then had to check
while he was ‘volunteering’ at the school’s office. Derek was a teenager who
played lacrosse and according to the newspapers and yearbooks, had friends.
Stiles had asked his dad about the Hales after Derek told him to check up on
his lacrosse credentials, and there was no trouble before the fire, they were
widely regarded as a close-knit, happy family.
And now Derek lives in an abandoned railroad depot, goes through life
intimidating and menacing to get things he could simply ask for, and hangs
around with three teenagers he turned into werewolves for reasons he won’t
share. Stiles has never heard Derek genuinely laugh and the smiles he’s seen
are few and far between. If what Derek had been trying to say was that Stiles
is coping, then it’s true, he is. It’s pretty obvious Derek hasn’t always;
maybe isn’t to this day. Derek has survived, but he isn’t fully intact.
Which all brings Stiles to his third thought-stream, wondering how well he is
managing, and whether he hasn’t let wolfiness consume him. He’s keeping up with
his studies, but everything else has fallen by the wayside. Shouldn’t he be
spending his Friday and Saturday nights tearing up the town? Shouldn’t he be
going to parties and making bad life choices that have nothing to do with the
threat of death and everything to do with a mistimed rendition of the shuffle?
Shouldn’t he be surrounded by friends? If he doesn’t make a concerted effort to
live and act his age now, is he doomed to live vicariously through others in a
few years’ time? To brood constantly as opposed to occasionally?
Okay, granted, he can see why someone else would think his leaps of logic in
this situation are on par with that time he wrote an essay about Tony the Tiger
when he should have been writing about Harry Houdini. (In his defense, that
essay was grrrrreat.) But it makes sense to him that Derek’s suggestion should
lend itself to him finding a solution, even when none was apparently needed. So
he decides to be a dumb teenager in a non-lethal capacity and organize a little
soiree.
*
Stiles invites Scott and Allison first, of course. Scott is cheerfully
enthusiastic at the prospect of going out, even though he also wants to finish
season 2 of Farscape. Allison asks if she can invite Lydia and Stiles joyously
agrees, not thinking there’s a hope in hell she’ll say yes. It’s a shock and a
disappointment when she does and says she’s bringing Jackson. Stiles really
doesn’t want to be the fifth wheel of his own get-together and he also wants to
play with the pack when they’re not throwing each other through the air, so he
asks Erica, Isaac and Boyd along.
And then he spends an entire day debating asking Derek too. Not a minute goes
by when he doesn’t raise the question to himself and then dismiss it. They’ve
gotten to a point when, alone, they can hold a civil conversation. More than
civil. Closely bordering on friendly. Toss anything new into the mix and Derek
becomes a shut-in again, Stiles becomes reactionary. It’s probably the opposite
of healthy and doesn’t automatically engender a sense that they have a stable
and well-adjusted relationship, but it’s true. There’s also the little matter
of Derek most likely not wanting to spend an evening surrounded by teenagers.
If Stiles doesn’t ask him, Derek can’t reject him, right? Finally, there is no
way he wants to ask Derek out with him when the possibilities for
miscommunication and assumptions are so high. There is something there,
something indefinable, and Stiles would be willing to bet that it isn’t
completely one-sided, but he has no money and doesn’t want to take the risk.
In the end, he doesn’t ask. He feels bad about that in the same way he felt bad
when he was seven and accidentally asked everyone in his class to his birthday
party except a kid called Lucas, who hated him forevermore.
The evening becomes tamer than he initially imagined. They go to Beacon Hills’
retro diner, that Scott swears has always been that way and isn’t subscribing
to some kind of theme, but is genuinely stuck in a past decade. Outside, they
have tables and benches under a shelter and because it’s crowded inside, as a
group they make the collective decision to eat in the cool night air. Stiles
orders a gigantic chocolate-flavored milkshake and refuses to share with Scott,
even though he has his own straw and Stiles stole a gulp of his root beer
float. They sit, chatting, eating curly fries and the kinds of cheeseburgers
Stiles usually denies himself, because it doesn’t seem fair that he should eat
the food of the Gods when he makes his dad eat vegetables ninety per cent of
the time.
At first, conversation is stilted and no matter how many starters Stiles
interjects to get the ball rolling, he’s largely ignored and silence reigns. He
isn’t sure he wants to live in a world where people refuse to compare Star Wars
and Star Trek to America and Canada respectively. He and Scott talk it over for
a short while, but they’ve had the discussion before and already know each
other’s points of view. Eventually, Lydia narrows her eyes at Erica, and
instead of starting what would no doubt be a hot and feisty cat-fight that
Stiles would pay his non-existent money to see, asks where she got her boots
and skirt, and somehow that opens the floodgates. Before long, Jackson and Boyd
are talking lacrosse techniques, Isaac and Allison discover a mutual love of a
band Stiles has never heard of, with additional input from Scott, and Stiles
looks around him and thinks about what he has accomplished. It’s good. It could
be better, but it’s nice. So far, all mentions of furry little problems have
been relaxed and joking. Not even Jackson is spoiling the mood with his
predisposition to be a jerk.
Stiles has successfully shoved eight curly fries into his mouth at once when he
spots him, standing at the far end of the street. A shadow falls across more
than half his face, so all Stiles can see of his expression is the tight, thin
line of his mouth. He bites his lower lip, rocks his elbows forward on the
table. Scott notices the movement, leans in.
“You’ve seen him too?”
Stiles nods. He looks at Scott beseechingly. He knows he doesn’t even have to
say the words. Scott nods and Stiles is ready to get up and walk over, hoping
Derek won’t run off, when Scott stands and lays a hand against his upper back.
“I’ve got this.”
Stiles worries this may be one of the rare times Scott has misinterpreted one
of his looks when he watches the stiff gait Scott adopts to make his way over
to Derek. But since no heads go flying off shoulders, he doesn’t stand up and
scream, “Abort, abort!” like he wants to.
He waits.
*
Erica had mentioned where they’d be and suggested he should swing by, but they
all look so happy he decides he’ll turn right around and return to the depot.
This is no place for him. No one needs or wants him here and he wasn’t truly
invited. He refuses to sulk, although he does pause over it for longer than
he’d like. He would have said no, anyway, he thinks, although he’s standing
here now.
He’s taking a step back when Stiles and Scott spot him and he’s stuck in the
kind of uncomfortable moment he usually does his best to avoid; wherein his
first instinct is to be unspeakably rude, but he figures that will only make
everything worse. It isn’t right that he really wants to make everything worse.
Scott walks over, puffing himself up like he’s warding off a predator, and
Christ, Derek thought he was long past caring about his appearance, but that
action alone indicates how this must look.
“Derek,” Scott says, with the smallest hint of accusation in his voice. “Why
don’t you come and join us?”
“Seriously?” Derek asks, waiting for the punchline, for the expected jab.
“Yeah. There’s an hour until Thor and I’m pretty sure Stiles is looking for an
excuse to order another plate of curly fries he can inhale.”
Scott half-turns away, eyes back on his friends. Derek frowns to himself,
crosses his arms against his chest. As olive branches go, this is gnarled and
brittle, but it remains an olive branch.
“What did Stiles say?”
“Just then? We were debating the merits of Star Wars versus Star Trek. It’s an
old argument and we’ll never agree, and for some reason Stiles insists that
that’s because of my love of beavers.”
Derek stares at Scott. There was no way that wasn’t deliberate. “About me,” he
clarifies grudgingly.
“He said you’re an asshole with issues,” Scott says matter-of-factly, and it’s
not a lie, Stiles must have said that. Derek locks away the small flare of pain
he shouldn’t be feeling.
“Then why are you here? Why did you help out the other night?”
“He may also have hinted that we all are, in our own ways. Are you coming, or
not?”
Derek answers with a step. It’s forward as opposed to backwards and surprises
him as much as it does Scott. Outside the diner, the others look up at him with
expressions that range from pleased to concerned. Jackson looks particularly
unhappy to see him, but he sits as far away from him as it’s possible to get,
which just so happens to be on the other side of Stiles, who is one of the
pleased ones, weirdly.
“How’s your day been?” Stiles asks, and Derek raises his eyebrows, because how
is he expected to answer that sensibly.
“Fine,” he says, effortless in his non-commitment.
“Good. Are you hungry? Or thirsty? You look like a French fry eater to me. I’ll
ask them to keep the fries separate from the onion rings if you want? Wouldn’t
want you getting a tummy ache.”
“More dog jokes, Stiles? They’re beneath you. You know, I can get my own food.”
“Ahuh, but I was going back in anyways. I know you prefer water, but do you
want a coke?”
Derek suspects Stiles is trying to escape him, so he nods, once, and sits
listening to the various conversations occurring around the table. He has
nothing to offer to counteract Isaac’s opinions on music, he hasn’t actively
sought out music for any purpose than a distraction in years, and he doesn’t
think Jackson would appreciate a critique of his performance on the lacrosse
field. Scott and Allison are making cutesy eyes at one another as Isaac rants
and Erica and Lydia are talking about people he’s never heard of, but thinks
may be designers. He was right in that he’s unnecessary here.
“You owe me $5.75,” Stiles says as he sets precariously balanced foodstuffs in
front of them. “I took the initiative and bought you a burger too. Extra onion
since you insist on ruining all my stereotyped fun.”
“That was uncommonly kind of you,” Derek says, reaching into his pocket and
bringing his wallet out.
With his wallet comes the folded up answers to Stiles’ homework quiz that he
completed a month ago and Stiles reaches for it before he can stop him, smooths
it out. Derek takes a hasty bite of his burger so he won’t have to answer any
questions. Stiles reads through his answers as he gobbles down curly fries, and
Scott wasn’t lying, it’s full-scale inhalation at breakneck speed. Derek only
sneaks three out before the plate’s gone. Their fingers brush when he’s going
for the second curly fry, and Stiles glances up at him, but doesn’t say
anything or slap his hand away.
The others continue to talk about things he has no idea of or doesn’t care for,
and Derek looks at the table, absorbing the relaxed atmosphere, but feeling
distinctly detached from it all. He notices that Stiles doesn’t contribute much
to the conversation even when he’s finished eating and reading and he wonders
about that, but doesn’t comment on it. Fifteen minutes later, Boyd’s saying
that they need to get walking to the theater or they won’t make it in time.
Derek has no desire to watch Thor, no matter how much his betas protest. He
feels painfully awkward as he lightly puts a hand on Scott’s shoulder and
thanks him. Scott mirrors his emotions with a confused expression, but says
“sure,” like he thinks it may happen again. Derek turns to say goodbye to
Stiles, but instead of easy acceptance, like he expected, he’s tossing his keys
in the air.
“I can drive you back to the depot. I’ve seen it twice already. It was a cam,
but I think I got the gist.”
Derek shakes his head. “I’ll run back.” He remembers his manners a beat too
late. “Thanks for the offer.”
“Of course you can run. It doesn’t mean you should. C’mon, let me drive you.
It’ll be quicker.”
Derek can’t help himself. He raises an eyebrow. “In your Jeep?”
Rather than be offended, as Derek had half-hoped, Stiles gives him the sweetest
smile he’s ever seen. His eyes widen and his lips curve upwards, showing his
teeth white and gleaming. Derek feels his heart stop dead before kick starting
back at twice the pace.
“All right,” he concedes, shoving his hands into his pockets, because he has
the horrible urge to touch Stiles; trace along his jaw and smooth his thumb
against his lower lip.
Stiles lets everyone know that they’re going. Scott glances at him
interestedly, but he doesn’t glare, which is surprising and as close to
gratifying as their situation has ever gotten. Erica gives a knowing smile that
Derek would like to erase from his memory, Boyd looks mildly put out, and no
one else seems to care. In the Jeep, Derek attempts to turn on the radio, to
preempt any need for discussion, but it isn’t working.
“It died three weeks ago,” Stiles mutters by way of explanation. “You don’t
know how to fix car radios, do you? It’s not one of your presumably many hidden
talents?”
“No,” Derek answers abruptly. It’s a brilliant conversation-ender.
They’re half-way to the depot before Stiles speaks again. “I wanted to ask
you.”
Derek takes a leaf out of Scott’s book by being deliberately obtuse. “About
what?”
“To come,” Stiles says, hesitating a fraction between the words. “But I didn’t
want you to get the… well, the wrong idea.”
“I’d be able to tell if it was the wrong idea,” Derek says with a shrug,
because Stiles keeps looking at him and he wants to be as casual as possible.
There’s a low thrum under his skin and his nails are digging into his palms.
And because he can’t leave well enough alone, Stiles asks, “How?”
“I’d smell a spike of arousal, hear the quickened pace of your heart.”
Stiles scoffs. “As if that’d be any different from normal.” He seems to realize
what he’s said two seconds too late. There’s the edge of a comedic flail in the
way he turns his eyes back to the road.
“It’d be more specific,” Derek says, still maintaining an aura of calm that he
really doesn’t feel. “Why did you organize this anyway?”
“You said that I’ve adapted well to the situation and it made me realize that
I’ve been so consumed by all the werewolf shenanigans I haven’t let myself do
regular, average teenaged stuff, and for some reason, my mental picture of what
regular, average teenagers spend time doing is set in the 1950s, so… milkshakes
and a movie with the pack and their associates seemed like a good idea. It was
a way to test pack bonding and being normal at the same time.”
“And yet you bailed on your test subjects.”
“I don’t think I can do normal. I’ve never actually been average. There’s
always been something setting me apart,” Stiles says. His tone is full of
laughter, but there’s a darker undercurrent to his words that Derek thinks
speaks the truth.
“You’re normal to me,” Derek says, and isn’t sure if that’s an insult or a
compliment, or whether Stiles will take it as either of those options.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, sounding considering. “I guess I am.”
“Do you ever wish you could?” Derek asks, knowing he shouldn’t be continuing
the conversation, but wanting to anyway. At Stiles’ confused ‘whu?’, he
continues. “Be a regular teenager?”
Stiles taps his fingers against his steering wheel, and instead of answering,
shoots a question back. “Do you wish you were an ordinary human?”
“No,” Derek says. “Never.”
“Even when it’s caused you pain and suffering and disappointment?”
“Ordinary humans deal with pain and suffering and disappointment every day. I
don’t see how I’d gain anything. Being a werewolf isn’t a condition that’s been
forced on me, Stiles. It isn’t what I am, it’s who I am.”
Stiles nods. “I feel the same. About not being your average bear. Yes, life
would probably be easier if I could focus one hundred per cent on what I’m
supposed to, and they do say ignorance is bliss, but the things that make me
weak help me get stronger too, so I don’t begrudge or regret them. Not
anymore.”
“But you did once,” Derek prompts.
“When my Dad was first left by himself with me, having to take full
responsibility for my medication and my frequent school antics,” Stiles says,
voice lighter than it should be, like it’s a joke, but it isn’t and Derek
doesn’t need heightened senses to be able to see that.
“That’s when I wished I could be like everyone else,” Stiles continues. “The
last year of elementary school was the worst. There was the added stress of my
mom, so homework wasn’t a high priority and my teacher was freaking the fuck
out because he was supposed to be preparing me for Junior High and I was, like,
bouncing off the walls. So my doctor at the time put me on Ritalin, which, if
he’d had half a brain, he wouldn’t’ve done, because it does not mix well with
anxiety and it made me more hyperactive. Instead of seeing that he should
change tack, he upped the dosage and that just made me a zombie. And oh, hey, I
had no idea this was going to turn into The Stiles Hour. Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Derek says. He wants to say that it interests him, but
he thinks that would sound cold, unfeeling, and he isn’t unfeeling, he has no
choice but to accept that. Hearing these stories adds to the admiration he
should be quashing. “This is what I was trying to say the other day. That
you’re strong. Anyone else would give up, or bow down to their disadvantages,
but you don’t. If anything, you excel.”
He doesn’t mean to say it, but then, he does and says a lot of things against
his common sense when it comes to Stiles. Stiles’ non-reaction is notable. He
brushes a hand against the back of his neck, then eases the Jeep into the
parking space he uses for the depot. He doesn’t say anything in direct
response, he doesn’t move, beyond gesturing vaguely. When he takes a quick look
at Derek, it’s with a closed-off guardedness that he hasn’t had around Derek
for months.
“We’re here,” Stiles says, in such a weird, choked tone that Derek worries he’s
said something painfully insulting. He replays his words, can’t think of
anything he might have said that would provoke such an angry reaction. It’s
alarming how much he wants to fix whatever mistake he’s made. Derek reaches out
with all of his senses, but he can’t decipher the many conflicting cues to
Stiles’ emotions that he gets.
“Thanks, for the ride,” he says. “I’ll even concede that it was quicker than if
I’d gone on foot. By about forty whole seconds.”
“Come to mine, on Wednesday?” Stiles says, still strange-voiced, but clearly
not angry, if he’s asking Derek over. “Dad’s working the night shift and
there’s another first line try-out in two weeks.”
“Of course,” Derek replies. “You know, I don’t think I’m jumping the gun by
saying I think you’ll make it this time, but every little counts.”
Stiles’ mouth quirks and he looks and sounds more like himself. “I appreciate
the sentiment, but something you need to know is that Coach Finstock is
crazypants. I don’t mean adorably eccentric, bumbling professor style. I mean
horrible television psych ward clichéville. I would feel bad for how douchey a
statement that is if it weren’t true.”
“Yeah, I know. He was Coach when I played too. He used to call me the apple of
his pie. I didn’t know if he had no clue that wasn’t the saying or if it was
absolutely deliberate, and in the end, I really didn’t want to know the answer,
because I couldn’t decide which was more disturbing.”
“That it was deliberate, dude. Creepiest definitely if it had been deliberate,”
Stiles says incredulously. “With your skills in creeperdom, I would’ve thought
you’d know that.”
“There’s a distinct and profound difference between being a proficient lurker
and being Finstock,” Derek retorts.
Stiles’ answering grin is bright and burning, and Derek has no idea what to do
with himself, none at all. He climbs out the Jeep and gives a curt salute.
“Wednesday,” Stiles calls out his window, driving off with the opposite of a
roar. Derek stands, watching, until the Jeep is long gone.
Wednesday.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Stiles goes home and downloads a cam version of Thor, because Scott is sure to
want to re-enact and quote it and that’s not a lie he especially wants to be
caught out on. Through distraction and faked casualness, he thinks he got away
with it. He doesn’t want to think too much about why he chose to. His
experiment was a success, and among all of the other buzzing beneath his skin,
he’s proud of himself for that. The pack got along in a semblance of normal. It
feels like a step in a positive direction. If they can keep it up they might
actually develop some pack cohesion, weather through the trials and
tribulations of supernatural teenagedom. No, he wasn’t involved in much of the
conversation, but he didn’t have to be. People always think that because he can
talk, loudly and longly, about any number of interesting and outlandish topics,
that he has to. He believed it himself --- but he’s been discovering he really
doesn’t need to. He doesn’t have to fill every silence, doesn’t have to babble
over unspoken words. He’s always been skilled at talking without saying much,
but he thinks he’s changing in that regard too.
He hasn’t spoken about his mom’s death with anyone. Not with his dad, because
it’s too raw for both of them and they’ve been keeping secrets from each other
for years, long before Surprise! Werewolves!; the type that Stiles knows can
twist and dig into the very center of you. Not with Scott, because he was
there, and he got to see what it was like. Not with anyone since. But he opened
up to Derek and it feels strange, like an itch he could never reach.
He doesn’t want to take it back. That’s the weirdest part. He’s shown Derek all
of his soft, fleshy vulnerabilities and he has no compunction to re-clothe
himself in a hard, crusty shell of sarcasm, flippancy and scorn. And Derek
judged him, but he didn’t find him wanting, or pathetic, or weak. He called him
strong, again, and he sounded like he was impressed. It’s a lot to take in.
Most of the time, Stiles doesn’t feel strong. He feels like he survives because
he does what he has to, sometimes at a cost to others. He doesn’t think it’s a
side of him that deserves to be celebrated. It feels too much like it has its
place among the vengeful, cruel side of him.
Stiles stays up until four in the morning waiting for and then watching Thor.
Cam versions are never particularly good and this is no exception. The screen
is dark and it isn’t even a telesync, so half the dialog is garbled. He writes
down several key lines he can actually hear to embed them in his memory, equip
himself for the day. He pulls his pillow over his face to shut up the voices
that keep chattering on. There’s an awareness he doesn’t want to have,
realizations he wants to avoid, and all of them point to his reactions to
Derek. Seems he doesn’t have to speak out loud, but internally it’s a whole
other matter. Of course, the pillow is completely useless. It’s impossible to
drown out an inner monologue.
Stiles knows what a crush feels like. Knows it like a second skin. The nervous
anticipating in the noticing, the elaborate fantasy scenarios constructed over
hours, days, weeks, years, the conversations never had in real life. Finding
out everything possible without actually asking the questions directly. Working
hard to impress for their benefit alone. Remembering that time they said hello,
or laughed at that joke, or spoke to you first. Constantly watching, to wait
for the one moment when they look up and for a second you meet their eyes until
you need to look away or they’ll see every thought you’ve ever had --- every
hope, dream, vision of them caring for you the same way you care for them.
Stiles knows what it’s like to be in love with the ideal of someone rather than
the reality. And there’s no way he’d discount the strength of those feelings,
because they are as real as any other. There’s nothing really stupid about that
kind of crush, even if there is something relatively teenaged, because most
bona fide adults supposedly don’t labor under crushes, do they? They’re
burdened by unrequited love; a slight, but important variation in terminology.
But it doesn’t feel like a crush with Derek, not exactly. Not the crush he had
--- will always have --- on Lydia. He doesn’t dwell on the maybes, ifs, buts
and perhaps. He doesn’t spend all of his time thinking about what could be, one
day far off in the future. Stiles thinks about all of their interactions, sure,
but he doesn’t rewrite them to make them more exciting, more involved. He
doesn’t need to. And yes, he knows that he’s idealized Derek a little, but not
to the point he doesn’t want to know the truth. Because he does. He really
does. He wants to know everything Derek’s willing to share and more besides. He
doesn’t want a Derek constructed out of daydreams and extrapolations and his
fevered imagination. He just wants Derek.
He wants Derek. Fuck.
Scarier than that is the sense he has that if he went for it, he could have
him. Now that the suggestion’s there, it feels way more like a possibility than
Lydia ever has. Which --- it shouldn’t, he knows it shouldn’t, considering the
age difference and the way they met. The Montague and Capuletness of it if
Scott sees it as the betrayal it probably is. But it does. With Lydia it’s
always been a struggle to get her to notice him, and then when she did notice
him, to get her to see him. Stiles is aware enough now to recognize that none
of that is Lydia’s fault, even though he’s complained about it loudly and often
in the past. To get even more truthful with himself in the darkness of the
early morning, it’s always been a struggle for him to truly see Lydia.
But that’s never really been a problem with Derek. Stiles doesn’t think he’s
always been overwhelmed with joy to see Stiles, but he always has seen him
anyway. All Stiles needs to remind himself of that is picture the look Derek
gives him sometimes. That is not a figment of his imagination. Derek watches
him as much as he watches Derek. Perhaps even more.
He manages actual sleep some time past five thirty and is awoken again at ten
by Scott literally jumping on him. Not his bed. Him. The glares do absolutely
nothing to persuade Scott to turn around and run for his life, which is just
rude. Stiles doesn’t mention how he’s two hours late, because he’s frankly glad
he was given the reprieve.
“This mortal form has grown weak. I need sustenance!” Scott says, in perfect
imitation of Chris Hemsworth, and Stiles wants to punch him, but values his
knuckles too much.
“I have pop-tarts around here somewhere,” he mumbles, getting up and shrugging
on a shirt.
Scott looks around. “In your bedroom?”
“Yeah. Dad stopped looking in my drawers after that time he found my lube. It’s
the perfect place to hide any and all junk food from his greasy, grabby little
hands.”
“Ew,” Scott says.
“Oh please, like you don’t have your own stash.”
“Of lube or pop-tarts?”
“Either, or,” Stiles says, rummaging in his bottom desk drawer to pull out
brown sugar cinnamon pop-tarts that are both his and Scott’s favorite. He also
has a packet of cookies and creme, but he’s saving that for a special occasion.
“I’m not sure I want your pop-tarts now that I know where they’ve been.”
“Volstagg, who introduced you to delicacies so succulent you thought you'd died
and gone to Valhalla?” Stiles asks, because he figures if he sneaks in a quote
now, Scott won’t be wondering at the absence of them later.
Scott grins, impossibly wide, and says, “you did.”
Stiles leads the way to the kitchen, concentrating on the excitement in Scott’s
voice as he predictably recounts his favorite scene in the movie. It’s not a
fight scene, and that surprises Stiles for a second, until he thinks about it
more and remembers that he is always the one talking about awesome special
effects and battle sequences, whereas Scott’s always more into the character
moments --- this time, Thor smiling while eating pancakes.
“Are you all right? You seem kind of out of it,” Scott says when Stiles almost
literally cries over spilled milk, mopping at it with over-emphasized
grumbling.
“Yeah, I’m just tired.”
“How come?”
The wariness in Scott’s voice is palpable, and Stiles panics a little,
wondering if he can smell Stiles’ new-found realization of how he feels about
Derek. And while he now knows about Derek’s capabilities in this area, he never
did get a definitive answer on what, exactly, Scott can sense. They’ve joked
about him sensing arousal, but this? This thing that is so much more than
hormonal?
“I may or may not have stayed up way past my bedtime rocking it Duke Nukem
style,” Stiles lies, taking a gigantic gulp of milk from his glass to mask any
obvious increases in his pulse. He’s rooted his lie in truth. He has been
playing Duke Nukem the past week or so, mostly to keep his mind well occupied.
He hopes that’s enough.
Scott bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment. “How did you get an
advanced version of Duke Nukem Forever?”
“I didn’t. You know how I feel about conventional FPS. Think older than that.”
“You don’t even mean 3D, do you?”
“Nope. Duke Nukem II. We’re talking 256-color VGA graphics and midi sound. Soda
cans for health, turkey for food. It was amazing.”
“But now you’re regretting it.”
“Did I ever say that?”
Falling into a bickering match with Scott settles Stiles’ nerves and gives him
energy, and he mostly forgets about his early morning revelations. He doesn’t
like lying to his best friend, but the alternative is worse. Scott thinks he’s
sensible and Stiles has no idea how to tell him the opposite’s true. He’s had
days to think about it and he thinks he’s ready to do something really foolish.
*
When Scott turns up at the depot at eight in the morning, Derek expects it to
be with a warning to stay away from his friends. That Scott was putting on a
friendly show for Stiles and the betas’ benefits alone and that, actually, if
Derek goes near any of them outside of pack business again, Scott will rip out
his throat.
Except, Scott doesn’t come with a threat, he comes asking for advice. He
shuffles into the depot with a hang-dog expression, and Derek mentally curses
Stiles for the echo of laughter he hears in his mind at that phrasing. Scott
sits on the couch and shrugs his shoulders forward and Derek wonders if he
knows that it’s a perfect show of submission, thereby cunning and calculated,
or just how Scott’s feeling.
“You want my advice?” Derek asks again, needing to clarify, to be sure.
“Not especially, but I think I need it,” Scott says, reassuringly recalcitrant.
This puts Derek at a more even keel and he settles next to Scott, pressing his
hands together.
“Is it a physical thing, or a mental thing?” Derek asks, because the first he
doesn’t think he’d have any troubles with, but the second is debatable. If he
can’t take care of his own mental state, he really has no idea how he’s
supposed to help Scott with his.
Scott’s eye twitches. “A bit of both. I keep getting nightmares. Like the ones
I had when… when Peter first started trying to call to me. I haven’t woken up
anywhere but in my bed, but they’re vivid. Realistic. It’s like I can taste
the---” Scott stops, twists his head around in a mockery of the shift, “the
blood.”
Derek frowns, glances sharply at Scott. “How long?”
“Since the full moon.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
Scott wriggles in his spot in a way that makes Derek feel as uncomfortable as
he seems. “No? I wanted your opinion.”
“It could just be part of the growing process.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“You likened the nightmares specifically to the ones you had because of Peter.
Forgive me for being cautious. Are they always violent?”
“Yeah. But sometimes they’re other things too.”
“You’re going to have to go into more detail and I’m going to have to do some
research.”
Scott looks at him with this odd combination of horror and gratitude, and Derek
puts aside all the animosity that’s developed between them and rests a hand on
his shoulder.
“We’ll find the truth. And if it’s as bad as it seems, I’ll back you up. I know
I’ve fucked up, Scott. But I’m willing to work with you, any way you need.” He
quirks a lip up. It’s probably the worst ever time for his sense of humor, but
the dread that’s been building for months brings out his idiotic side. “I won’t
even make you roll over and beg.”
Scott groans and rolls his eyes, but stays next to Derek and they spend the
next hour talking, until he says he has to get going and Derek uses his sudden
departure to head off to the library.
*
Spending days immersed in books and websites means that Wednesday comes around
a lot sooner than Derek thought it would. He texts Scott anything he finds
relevant, which is not much at all. He uses all of the skills Stiles showed
him, pores over manuscripts and journal entries and mythology, but he’s
severely lacking in anything concrete or even closely-related. He has the
unerring sense that Stiles would be able to tell him where to search for
answers next, but if Scott wanted Stiles to know, he would have told him, and
if Stiles knew, he’d have called by now.
Because he’s been concentrating so hard, he doesn’t feel particularly nervous
when he knocks on the door, not even when there’s a crash and hollered “I’m
coming.”
But when Stiles opens said door and happens to be wearing an
uncharacteristically form-fitting shirt and pair of jeans, he almost swallows
his tongue. Stiles has made an effort. And Stiles and his best effort are
surprisingly effective. The russet-colored shirt highlights the muscles Derek
knew he had, but found easy to ignore under loose layers of clothes, the jeans
emphasize the length of his legs. There’s a splash of pink high on Stiles’
cheekbones throwing his eyes into sharp relief, his lips are glistening and
parted.
Derek steps through the door, not waiting for a signal. Stiles moves away from
imminent collision just in time, side-stepping with the kind of grace he only
shows very rarely.
“Let’s get this over with,” Derek says, and if he’s brusque, it’s because he
has to be. The alternative is asking Stiles why he has to be so painfully
tempting. A simple change of clothes shouldn’t counteract his carefully
cultivated control, but it does.
Derek follows the tinny reverberation of music that he knows has its source in
Stiles’ room. Sure enough, Stiles’ laptop is playing a tango version of The
Police’s Roxanne. The blinds are drawn and a single lamp is on, so Derek takes
the wisest course of action and rectifies the lighting situation by reopening
the blinds with a swift pull on the cord. The resulting sound makes an emphatic
point; something akin to ‘hell no’.
Stiles watches from the doorway, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m teaching you new moves today,” Derek says, by way of an explanation he
didn’t need to make. Stiles keeps smiling, adding a quirk to one of his
eyebrows. Derek deliberately refrains from deciphering the look.
Actually, the wisest course of action would be to flee, but he’s not going to
do that. He always has found it difficult to back down from a show of
dominance, even when pack hierarchy dictated he should.
“I didn’t think I’d mastered the basics?”
“You haven’t, but it’s time to move on. We still need to work on your poise.”
Derek stands, arms opened in challenge, purposely does not shiver when Stiles
steps into a close hold. Up until this point, Derek’s been working on ignoring
his own jump in heart rate, so it comes as a shock to have Stiles’ so near,
thundering against everywhere they touch. He can feel Stiles’ heartbeat through
his back, the thrum of his pulse in his palm. It’s faster than it should be,
but steady, constant, firm.
Derek starts stepping as soon as Stiles maintains his hold correctly. It
doesn’t take as long as it has on other occasions, and while Stiles hasn’t
mastered everything he’s been taught so far, he isn’t terrible either. When
he’s relaxed and fluid, he’s almost good. The energy he brings to the dance is
compelling and Derek wants to tell him to keep that up for lacrosse, but can’t
find the right words.
There’s silence between them as they dance across the increased yet still small
floor space of Stiles’ room. The music switches to a tango beat that sounds
electronically engineered and Derek wonders if this is Stiles’ revenge for
decades’ old cassette tapes of old-school tango tracks. It works, strangely,
and the music makes the room feel far more sensual than it has before, even
though the sunlight streaming through the windows is glaring as opposed to
romantic.
The more they dance, the more Derek wants to pull Stiles closer, press against
him until they’re skintight. It’s the worst kind of the compulsion. The kind he
knows he’d have a solid argument against if only he could think straight. It’s
a relief when Stiles starts speaking, even though Derek’s reticent. The
distraction will at least prevent him from wanting to put his hands on Stiles’
ass and grind against him.
“I can’t believe you used to do this with your sister.”
“It wasn’t exactly like this,” Derek admits, glancing momentarily at Stiles to
see the cheekiest grin he has ever witnessed directed his way before. And that
includes any and all of Erica’s expressions.
Stiles smooths his expression out when he notices Derek looking at him. “What
was she like? Laura?”
“Like any other sibling.”
“Okay, but I don’t have any siblings, so I need details,” Stiles says,
mockingly reasonable.
“She was bossy and ego-maniacal, but also generous. She took an almost sick joy
in sharing the things she loved with the people she loved, so my cousins and I
were subject to all her favorite TV shows and films, no matter how much we
protested. She always teased me, even after the fire, when she was scared and
confused and felt like it was her responsibility to take care of us both.”
Derek drifts off, remembering Laura’s taunts before she left to come back to
Beacon Hills. She warned him to feed himself on more than mac and cheese,
claiming she’d know the truth according to the scent in their small
kitchenette. She hadn’t expected to be gone more than three weeks. That’s why
Derek followed her.
“Dude, you can’t leave me hanging. What would she tease you about?”
“Everything. From my voice to my hair to my, and I quote, ‘melodramatic
entrances into rooms’. She thought everything I did was funny. I was her kid
brother, you know?”
“I don’t, but I wish I did,” Stiles says, muted. “You miss her.”
“I miss everyone,” Derek corrects. “Even Peter. Not the monster he became, but
the uncle he was, before.” Derek can’t seem to make his voice go any louder.
Thinking about Laura and Peter makes his chest ache, especially in light of
Scott’s recent revelations. Everything’s far too close for comfort, so he does
what he intended to do before Stiles started speaking. He gives his own display
of dominance. “You seem about ready for dipping,” he says, brightening his
tone.
“What do you mean I’m ready for di--- holy shit, Derek!” The air escapes Stiles
in one swift gust as Derek bends him over, hand tight against his upper back.
The dip’s lower than it technically should be, but he really doesn’t care.
Stiles’ eyes go comically wide and Derek thinks he’d be crushing his hand if
the whole werewolf thing didn’t come into play. He realizes for the first time
just how large and strong Stiles’ hands are, how well they fit against his own.
He swings Stiles back upright with a raise of his eyebrow.
“Cruel,” Stiles says with a wheeze. “A little warning wouldn’t go astray.”
“But what would be the fun in that? Next time, it’ll work better if you lock
your left leg around my right leg.”
“So I can send us both toppling to the ground, right.” Stiles nods viciously,
nearly knocking their heads together.
“You have to know that wouldn’t happen.”
“Wolf’s confident, I see. Overly confident. My lack of balance and coordination
has its ways.”
Derek sets them around the room again, this time giving Stiles a countdown to
the dip. They’re not entirely maintaining a perfect hold, Stiles is looking
directly at him, when he should be looking to the side. But it’s better than
before, so much so that Derek sustains the dip for longer than necessary. Does
so until Stiles surges up and kisses him, shocking him into movement. Derek
rears back, but rather than break the connection, Stiles follows him.
His lips are soft and the right kind of wet --- the kind that Derek wants to
chase. Stiles kisses like he talks, all frenetic energy and vaguely mocking
tone, like he has so much to communicate, but doesn’t trust that Derek will
listen. And he shouldn’t, he absolutely shouldn’t, but he wants to anyway.
Derek moves until he’s crowding Stiles up against the bedroom door, pressing
his fingers against the fine hairs at the back of his neck. There’s a soft moan
when Derek lets his other hand travel down Stiles’ side, finally settling at
his hip. The promise of the muscles that skated beneath his palm makes Derek
give in to a shudder.
Derek deepens the kiss, licking into Stiles’ mouth the way he’s been
fantasizing about for months. It’s so good, something he’s never had before and
he can’t stop himself from changing position, brushing his thumb over Stiles’
cheekbone. He angles him slightly, cradles his jaw. Stiles’ fingers twist into
Derek’s shirt and instead of pushing him away, Derek hitches into it, tilting
his head for a second to catch his breath. This is his chance to step away
again and jump out the window --- the rational decision, though it sounds
anything but.
Derek resumes kissing Stiles, tasting his salt and his sweet, in turn opening
himself up for Stiles’ delectation. And even though it’s by far the worst, it’s
also the best thing Derek’s ever allowed himself to have.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Stiles adjusts position, sighing as Derek’s stubble rasps against his chin.
Derek moves too, continuing to kiss him. It’s so easy to rub his fingers under
Derek’s shirt and revel in the warm skin there, trace along the nubs of his
spine. His brain shuts down for a few minutes, no thoughts running through his
mind except how good it feels to be pressed up against Derek. He doesn’t care
about how uncomfortable the wooden door is behind him, or the way he
accidentally knocks teeth with Derek once or twice in his enthusiasm. Stiles
cares about the moan Derek makes when he nips his lower lip, how his thigh
insinuates itself between his, the way Derek’s blunt nails scratch against his
scalp.
Derek hitches his left leg up, pressing tighter into the trunk of his body. He
easily takes the weight and Stiles discovers he has no desire to stop him. He’s
perfectly okay with hooking his knee above Derek’s hip, digging the heel of his
sneaker into Derek’s lower back. Having Derek want him like this is amazing. He
has all of Derek’s focus and that’s intense under normal circumstances --- but
like this, with Derek’s fingers digging into his thigh just at the point he
continues to notice, with his tongue doing something Stiles hasn’t even dreamed
about --- he’s overwhelmed.
And it’s not like everything’s been leading up to this, because Stiles has
enjoyed his time with Derek for what it’s been, but that doesn’t mean that this
doesn’t feel like a culmination of every time Derek put his arms around him.
The part of him that’s still capable of more than embarrassingly loud moaning
is congratulating himself on reading the signals right, on taking the chance.
Derek wants this, wants him. It’s mutual attraction that has them grappling at
one another, Stiles twisting his fingers in Derek’s shirt and Derek rolling his
hips forward. This isn’t some fairy tale he’s concocted to make himself happier
with his life, an elaborate alternate universe inside his head that he tells to
get to sleep at night. He’s actually here with someone who is all kinds of
things he never even knew to hope for. Derek, in all of his surprisingly witty,
impressively intelligent, broken but good-hearted glory, wants to hold him up
against his door and kiss him in the kind of way it’s obvious he’s not just
doing it for his own gratification. Because Derek’s not taking more than Stiles
can give, not being overly vicious or cruel. He’s not tender, but he isn’t
forcing anything either.
It might be the most idiotic thing he’s ever done, but it feels ridiculously
good.
Stiles grinds up against Derek once, twice, experimentally. What with the
kissing and Derek’s hands and Derek’s body, he’s more than half-hard. He thinks
his enthusiasm must be making up for his lack of experience, because Derek’s
hands tighten and he kisses deeper, longer, filthier. Stiles likes to pride
himself on an active imagination, but he still doesn’t think he’s ever gotten
to this, the full sensory experience of Derek’s confident, certain touches and
swipes of his tongue. Stiles tries to mimic his movements, but he discovers
he’s better off doing whatever he wants, like pull on Derek’s lower lip with
his teeth and press his fingers below the waistband of his jeans. Derek moans
at that, throaty and rough in a way his speaking voice rarely is, and Stiles
wants to hear that noise again.
He presses Derek back with one hand on his shoulder and Derek goes with it
easily, like this was to be expected. When his left foot’s back on the floor
again he realizes how sore he was getting. Derek’s eyes burn through him with a
look that Stiles can’t decode. It could be anger, it could be contrition --
- it’s a mystery.
Derek’s mouth is reddened, but set in a firm line. His lips don’t look as plush
as they felt against his own. His eyebrows are lowered in something that Stiles
might have called a scowl if he wasn’t well acquainted with Derek’s scowls and
therefore knew this had neither the ferocity nor the majesty. Stiles can tell
Derek’s waiting for him to say something, but he’s not going to. He could, he
thinks, he could question Derek, ask him if he’s going to turn around and plead
temporary insanity when Stiles next brings this up. But he really doesn’t want
to do that. He doesn’t want to break into the silence, to fill this gap with
words, because this is one of those times when not knowing is better --- when
his curiosity is tamped deep down inside.
Stiles continues applying pressure to Derek’s chest, steps forward with his
whole body to ply him backwards. Derek raises an eyebrow, but moves with
Stiles, gradually, eyes not leaving his face. The light from the window
highlights the color of those eyes --- a startling combination of gold and
green, and Stiles is a little transfixed. Having all of Derek’s concentration
like this makes his blood rush faster in his ears and it’s hard not to do more
with his hands, not to stretch and flail and tap against anything within range.
And then they’re at his bed. His heart’s thundering in his throat and he
doesn’t think he’s remembered to breathe for the past thirty seconds, but
Stiles pushes Derek down and climbs up on top of him, capturing his lips in
another kiss. Derek grunts, but doesn’t stop him. Derek’s arms wrap around him
once more as he half-crouches. His legs are tight by Derek’s hips, his upper
body craned down. Derek’s solid and warm beneath him and his lips are so soft.
Stiles kisses him all the things he hasn’t yet found the courage to say; all
his gratitude, all his hope. He thinks his brand of earnestness probably comes
across more as him being a horny teenager, but hey, that fits too. He grinds
down with a fluid roll and there’s that sound from Derek’s lips again --- all
kinds of addictive. His breath stutters in his chest when hands move to cradle
his ass, when he’s pushed up with the force of Derek canting his hips.
It’s overly warm now and Stiles is way past the point of having any inhibitions
so he sits up straight and pulls off his shirt. Derek stares at him with such
intensity that Stiles can’t help but shudder, and then flips them suddenly
enough he’s momentarily dizzied and dazed. It really seems to take no time at
all before Derek’s nuzzling into the juncture between his neck and shoulder,
kissing and nipping a path down his torso. It makes Stiles huff out a laugh,
makes him squirm. One of his hands settles on Derek’s head, threading through
his dark hair. He doesn’t push or direct, he simply holds, but that’s good,
that’s great, when Derek licks around his navel. He has something to grip onto.
Stiles wishes he could babble, to distract himself enough from not coming in
his pants, but it appears that Derek brushing over his dick has led to his
idiosyncrasies abandoning him.
When Derek looks back up at him, all Stiles can see is a thin ring of green
around large black pupils. Derek has one hand resting on his thigh, the other
gripping the bedclothes. Stiles watches his hand clench and unclench, the deep
breaths he takes before his rises up over him again and mashes their lips
together with nothing resembling elegance, but everything resembling need.
Stiles thinks this may have been Derek’s attempt to slow things down. It’s an
abject failure. Stiles has started to rut against the strong line of Derek’s
thigh between his, and he really doesn’t want to stop.
So it’s positively cruel when Derek goes still before wrenching his mouth away.
“What? Why stop there?” Stiles asks, bucking up against Derek reflexively.
“Your dad’s home,” Derek whispers, frown lowering until he looks almost
demonic.
“That can’t be right,” Stiles says, frowning himself as Derek levers away. He
goes to the window, and sure enough, the cruiser’s in the driveway. He has no
brain power left for anything but banality. “Wow. My dad’s home.”
He swallows and glances at Derek, who’s standing suspiciously still and pale.
He scratches at the back of his neck as he bends over and picks up his shirt.
Winces as he slips it over his head.
Stiles spreads his hands out apologetically. “I should go say hi.”
“I should just go,” Derek replies.
Stiles wants, desperately, to make this normal, because everything’s awkward
and that’s the opposite of how he’d like things to continue. He steps forward
and rubs a hand down Derek’s arm. He’s beyond happy when Derek doesn’t flinch
away from the touch.
“I’ll swing by the depot with my lacrosse gear tomorrow,” he says, not framing
it like a question because he doesn’t want the rejection.
Derek nods, curtly. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and the last time
Stiles saw that expression on his face he was half-dead from wolfsbane
poisoning. He just about stops himself from leaning forward and kissing Derek
again, goes to his door and doesn’t turn around when he hears his window
sliding open.
Stiles thunders down the stairs and tries to screw his face into an expression
of joy at his dad being home. It’s not his fault he has the worst timing in the
history of ever. How was he to know? He hopes he didn’t know. It’d creep him
out if the truth is his dad’s psychic and could sense his son getting a boner
thanks to wolfy interference. He almost doesn’t put it past him. But Stiles
knows it’s difficult for his dad to even get ten minutes to spare, so he wraps
him up in a hug and asks if he wants a coffee. Doesn’t point out that it’ll be
decaf. When it turns out his dad swapped shifts so he could spend the whole
evening with Stiles, he quashes every last feeling of regret.
Maybe this is for the best anyway. He and Derek have a few hours to figure out
what they’re doing. They’ve been given the space to talk. Stiles wonders if
he’ll be able to when the time comes.
*
He winds up at the house again. Walks through the charred remains, settles next
to where he buried Peter. He tells himself it’s to check up on the ground not
being disturbed, but it’s just one more in a long line of lies. He still
notices that the floorboards are in place, though. That’s a consolation.
There’s a several months’ worth patina of dust all over them, which lends
credence to the idea they haven’t been touched. Or broken through.
He buried Peter beneath his favorite room --- the library. Peter was a keen
student of folklore and legend. He believed in the magic of being a werewolf
far more than Derek had ever gotten the impression his parents did. He’d tell
Derek, Laura, Gemma and anyone else who’d want to listen all about the ancient
rituals and beliefs of Hale generations gone by, frame them as elaborate
stories he made up on the spot. He’d only stop when Gemma’s dad, (Uncle
Sebastian, his mom’s fully human brother), would point out it was bed time and
usually it would be a pause rather than the end. The stories would continue,
unfaltering where they had left off. As Derek grew older he read a lot and he
found the genesis of a lot of the tales in the books that had lined the shelves
here.
If anyone would have the knowledge and ability to come back from the dead, it
would be Peter. He taught Derek about wolfsbane rope and the importance of
spirals, about why hunters either burned, decapitated, or sliced werewolves in
half; not because he thought Derek would ever actually have to know, simply as
a curiosity. The Hales had been a long established pack that had demonstrated
over a hundred years that they were capable of maintaining control during a
shift. No Hales had been directly involved in the death of a human in recorded
memory. Derek’s completely human uncle and aunt and cousins lived with them,
would occasionally run with them. It’s why Derek had become complacent. It had
never occurred to him that anyone would want to harm a family that was
harmless. It wasn’t a mistake he was ever going to make again.
Most of the books that had once been held in this room had burned to ash, but
Derek had discovered a few that had either been in the basement, or had only
charred around the binding. They were at the depot and he’d read them several
times, but had seen nothing about reincarnation or reanimation or splitting the
soul from the body, which is what he presumed Peter must have done if Scott’s
dreams aren’t paranoia.
He doesn’t believe that Scott’s dreams are paranoia. They’re too detailed, for
one. He trusts Scott’s conviction, for another. He hasn’t told him, and
probably never will, but Scott did something remarkable in resisting Peter’s
impulsion. Peter had successfully used some of his tricks on Derek, and though
that was more psychological rather than instinctual and therefore harder to
shake off, Scott’s still impressive for having fought back.
Scott says he sees the moon, claws, blood spilling and floorboards tearing into
shreds. Derek sits in what used to be his family’s library and rests his head
on his knees, trying not to think about what that means. Trying not to think
about all of his mistakes. He told Scott he’d fucked up, and that’s true, but
it isn’t like he’s learned from it. He keeps making similar errors, and even if
the outcome will change, even if different people will get hurt, there will
still be a victim.
*
Derek’s five hours deep into searching for anything related to resurrection
magic, with a hundred pages of print outs from the Beacon Hills library when
Stiles shows up. It might be time to see if there’s any way to get internet
access in the depot.
Stiles is all zig and zag as he plants his lacrosse gear on the ground, nervous
kinetic energy thrumming through him like he’s a wind-up toy ready to be
released. His cheekbones are flushed pink and his lower lip looks puffier than
Derek’s used to, like he’s been chewing on it. Mentally picturing that has
Derek rolling his shoulders, stretching his legs. He puts the print outs away
carefully, before Stiles can come and look at what they’re about. Though,
really, he thinks that Stiles would be helpful in deciding what’s vital
information, what’s extraneous, and what’s pure bullshit.
Boyd’s somewhere in the depot, finishing off his homework, claiming that he’d
do it at home, but it’s too loud with his little sister and her friends
preparing for a sleep-over. He’s listening to music, something with a lot of
percussion, and Derek’s not going to be surprised if he asks to stay the night.
“Hey,” Stiles says, breathy in the same way he was after Derek kissed him
senseless yesterday, eyes bright and questioning.
Against all of his better judgement, Derek steps forward, slides a hand over
Stiles’ jaw and kisses him hello. Stiles tastes literally and figuratively
sweet; artificially flavored milkshake on his lips and promise wrapped around
his tongue. Derek savors it, pulls back only when he’s worried night will fall
before they get going. The smile Stiles gives him in return is small and
pleased and gut-punching.
“We should go to the lacrosse field,” Derek says, leading the way.
“Great idea. I wanna show off my new wrist action.”
Stiles is shameless as he says it, laughter ringing through his tone. Derek’s
far enough ahead he knows Stiles won’t see his amused response.
Stiles really has gotten miles better at lacrosse since they started training
together, more than Derek would have anticipated. He can be shaky occasionally,
but things seem to be clicking better now, he’s using more than one of his
skills at any one time. He combines his speed and agility to dodge an attack,
almost slipping over at one stage, but sliding his feet correctly to prevent
it. He uses his quick thinking and cunning to evade capture. He scores three
goals in succession and Derek’s not going easy on him, he fiercely acts as
goalie, but to no avail, Stiles has clearly been studying strategy. Derek
purposely blocks the next ten goals, but it takes actual concentration to do
so.
“All right,” Stiles crows when it gets dark enough they need to pack up. “If I
can nearly beat a solitary werewolf, I may just have a shot against an entire
lacrosse team.”
Derek smiles again, rolling his eyes. Stiles sees him do it this time and his
face contorts into six different expressions, all of them joyous.
“Don’t forget you’ll have a team of your own. With werewolves in it.”
“Dude, way to harsh my squee. For a second there, I actually thought I was
important.”
“Way to h--- . What does that mean? Stiles, that wasn’t English.”
“I think the meaning’s obvious considering the context.”
“No.”
Derek’s about to explain further, but his words get swallowed up by Stiles’
lips. It’s good having Stiles’ body against his, strong fingers against the
back of his neck, firm thighs bracketing his own. There’s nothing casual in the
way Stiles kisses him, nothing anonymous. He’s already learned what Derek likes
most, has tilted his head perfectly to ensure they don’t mash noses or get too
sloppy. The kiss isn’t demanding, or overly insistent. Stiles kisses him simply
because he wants to, not because he expects anything else.
Since the age of sixteen nothing in his life has come easily. Nothing has
brought him happiness. Nothing has helped him forget for more than a minute
that this is all his fault. Until Stiles. And he knows he’s being selfish, he
knows he’s being unfair, that it’s fraudulent and manipulative and iniquitous.
But he doesn’t think he has the power to turn Stiles away.
*
Derek goes back to his print outs when he’s back at the depot, sprawled out on
one of the mattresses in the far corner. He skims the last page he read before
when Boyd comes and stands at the foot of the makeshift bed, arms crossed.
“What you’re doing is wrong,” Boyd says, enunciating clearly as if he thinks
Derek won’t understand him any other way.
Derek actually doesn’t, in that moment, understand what Boyd’s saying.
“You think you’ll really be building a solid pack if everything’s based on lies
and deception?” Boyd continues, not picking up on Derek’s confusion. “You think
Scott will ever forgive you for screwing over his best friend?”
Derek stands, breath racketing through his chest. Now they’re on the same page.
He wants to tell Boyd he’s misconstrued the situation, that he’s the one who’s
wrong, it’s all a misunderstanding.
But it’s not. Boyd’s right. And Boyd is so much stronger than him. Won’t find
it hard to tell Stiles the truth of the matter. Won’t be swayed by the look in
Stiles’ eyes, or the twitch of his fingers, or the tremor along his spine. He
won’t crack under his own weakness and vanity and self-interest.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Derek asks, injecting as much smug hostility
into his tone that he has the energy to muster.
Boyd’s answering expression is disgust, pure and simple. “I’m going to stop you
before you go too far.”
***** Chapter 14 *****
It’s rare that Stiles eats lunch by himself, but he’s doing that right now,
because he kind of wants to avoid Scott forever. He’s showered three times
since last seeing Derek, but Scott’s gotten scarily good at using all of his
senses. It isn’t that he’s ashamed. It’s just not a conversation he wants right
now. He can already imagine the accusation and horror and --- he just wants a
few days to enjoy this new-found thing --- recrimination and justification can
come later, maybe when there’s something more to justify.
He knows that it would be more about protection for Scott, that he’d think he
was preventing a huge mistake, but Stiles equally knows that he has to have the
freedom to make his own mistakes, if that’s what this is. Stiles loves Scott,
but he never seems to keep in mind that other people wouldn’t want to be held
under the same conditions that he doesn’t want to be held. Scott isn’t the only
person in the world to rail against authority, the only one who’ll point out
that something is his choice.
So Stiles is sitting on the bleachers, eating a packet of chips he picked up at
the gas station on the way to school, idly swinging his legs, because he’s used
to talking during lunch break and needs to burn off excess energy somehow. He’s
thinking about the test he has coming up in Econ and how he’s going to manfully
act like he hasn’t been ignoring Scott all day, while continuing to evade him.
He’s also musing about how strange it is that you can grow to like something
you previously thought you hated. He actually thinks he enjoys tangoing, now.
He’s remembering when he and Derek danced nearby, with the clouds threatening
rain and the grass smelling damp and musky.
There’s another ten minutes of break left and he’s seriously bored, wishing
he’d remembered to charge his cell phone or bring the mp3 player his grandma
bought him a couple of years ago. He’s alone enough at home, he doesn’t really
need to keep it up at school. It’s obvious he’s going to have to confront the
situation sooner rather than later.
He doesn’t see Boyd approach and if anyone asked him, he’d say it was because
stealth was one of Boyd’s major strengths, but truthfully it may also have been
because he was wondering whether or not to drop in at the depot after school.
Boyd sits next to him, but doesn’t look in his direction.
“Is it okay if I talk to you privately?” Boyd asks. Stiles gestures to the open
space around them, but knows that Boyd’s trying to key him into this becoming a
sensitive discussion. Something about his tone has Stiles stopping still,
trying to tamp down the flutter of dread in his stomach.
He nods, even though Boyd’s attention is in the opposite direction to him, back
toward the school.
Boyd must have heard him, because he starts speaking. “Derek’s been playing
you. He wants Scott in his pack and he’s willing to go to any lengths to ensure
that’ll happen. He doesn’t care about you, he just thought getting to you was a
good way to get to Scott.”
That hadn’t been what Stiles had been expecting. He didn’t really know what
he’d been expecting except for something bad, something wolf related. Not this.
He goes over the words again, picks them apart, tries to puzzle through Boyd’s
motivation in coming here. Stiles isn’t simply speechless --- he’s
expressionless, gestureless and thoughtless as well. All forms of
communication, both internal and external, have been shut down for repairs.
“You’re lying,” Stiles says, after a moment.
Boyd turns at that, finally looking at Stiles. His eyes are soft and pitying.
“Why would I lie?”
Stiles sucks in a deep breath, clenches his fists. His words tumble over
themselves. “Maybe you don’t like the idea of your Alpha devoting his time to a
human? Maybe you think it’ll weaken the pack? Maybe you hate me and just don’t
want me around?”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” Boyd says calmly. “Stiles, I knew what I was signing
up for when I agreed to the bite. Derek told me enough that I could make an
informed decision. But he hasn’t been doing that with you. He hasn’t told you
the truth. He asked Erica to seduce you first, but then realized she had
genuine affection for you, so he took on the task instead. You’re nothing but a
pawn.”
Stiles can feel his nails digging into his palm, can’t stop shaking his knee
from side-to-side. “I don’t need to listen to any more of this,” he says,
thinking it’ll come out as a yell, but it’s whisper quiet.
He gets up, grabs his backpack, storms off the field. He doesn’t look back and
Boyd doesn’t follow him. He walks with determination etched in every muscle in
his body, jerking forward stiffly, erratically, far away from the school. He
walks and walks and doesn’t care that his Jeep’s parked out the front of the
school, doesn’t care that he’s going to miss Econ, doesn’t care about anything
other than escape.
*
Stiles lies in his bed with his head buried under his pillow. He’s stripped the
bed bare, flung the sheets and comforter into the laundry basket, because he
does not want to deal with the stench at this moment. With touching something
Derek’s touched. He’s grabbed his sleeping bag and a spare blanket from his
closet and is cocooned in a tight, warm swaddle. It’s not exactly the most
rational thing he’s ever done, but fuck it, it feels safe and that’s what
matters.
He hasn’t been able to stop Boyd’s words reverberating around his head. It’s
gotten dark and still he’s without respite. Sometimes the words slow down,
sometimes they speed up, but, importantly, they seem to get louder with each
repetition. It makes him want to scream, rage, throw everything he has against
the wall, split the world in two and fling himself into the earth’s core. He
can’t do that. It’s depressing how little he can do. He’s been deluding himself
over days and weeks and months, Derek’s been playing him, he’s nothing but a
pawn.
And he still doesn’t believe it.
Stiles keeps thinking about the time he’s spent with Derek, trying to pinpoint
all the artifice. There are a few things that jog and jar in his memory, like
Derek teasing him in the library, and the initial suggestion of tango, but
beyond that… beyond that there’s his foolish teenaged heart attempting to
defend, substantiate and validate every look Derek gave him, every conversation
they had.
He keeps wanting to ask the question that if Derek was attempting to seduce
him, why didn’t he try harder? What was with the month of no contact? When and
where did Derek acquire the skills to pull off an Oscar-worthy performance?
It doesn’t make any sense.
Stiles groans into his mattress again, pathetically glad his dad’s not back
until six in the morning. He texted Scott that he’d gone home with a vomiting
bug so he wouldn’t worry when he didn’t show for Econ and then left his Jeep at
school. The landline’s off the hook, his phone is switched off. Stiles
continues his plan of effortlessly impersonating a bed burrito, head aching,
stomach twisting, eyes scrunched shut. His legs twitch occasionally, of their
own volition, as if they want to get up and take him to the depot, make him go
through this with Derek face to face.
He should have known he wouldn’t make it through the night uninterrupted. He’s
actually managed to drift off to sleep when there’s a loud thump from the
stairs. Stiles peeks up from under his pillow and narrows his eyes. Another
thump. He grabs one of the trophies from his shelf and creeps toward his door,
brandishing it over his shoulder, ready to strike. His sweats are low on his
hips and his t-shirt’s sagging to the side, on his shoulder. It would be just
his luck to get murdered in the middle of the evening. His life does happen to
suck in many and varied ways.
“Stiles?” Scott’s voice calls from outside the door. “I’m coming in, okay?”
Stiles drops his trophy with a clank. Scott opens the door slowly, peering
around the corner and immediately looking toward the bed. He startles when he
sees that Stiles is right in front of him.
“How’d you get in?” Stiles asks, resigned, shifting to settle on the edge of
his bed. It takes a lot of willpower not to curl up and burrow under the
blanket and sleeping bag again.
Scott frowns at him, rubs at his arm. “You know I have a key, just like you do
for my place.”
“You never usually use it.”
Scott shrugs. “I like to adapt in different circumstances.” He sighs, plants
himself in Stiles’ computer chair. He sits forward with his elbows on his
knees, steepling his fingers under his chin. “You wanna talk about what’s going
on?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re going to anyway. You were avoiding me all day. You skipped
school. And even though this is the grossest thing I will ever say; I checked
and you don’t smell like barf.”
Stiles laughs, the stress and anguish compounding until he has to break
somehow, and this is it. His chest hurts and his cheeks are sore. Stiles rubs
his hand all over his face and looks Scott dead in the eye.
“I may have lied to you about the whole Derek thing. About how nothing would
happen,” Stiles says, hunching his shoulders. Scott nods, waits. He has a
quietly determined air about him, like he’s made a decision he’s going to do
whatever he can to minimize Stiles’ damage, even if it goes against his natural
inclination to react with more force. Stiles could hug him, he really could.
“But it turns out, you would’ve been right in warning me away, because Boyd
tells me Derek engineered everything so that I’d do whatever he wanted.”
There’s a dangerous edge to Scott’s voice as he studies Stiles’ face. “Did he
force you into doing something you didn’t want to do?” At Stiles’ ‘no’, he
continues. “How far did it go?”
“Far enough that my pride and ego are wounded but it’s not… you don’t have to
worry about whatever kind of stuff you’re worrying about. I just, I feel like
an idiot, you know? I don’t know how I could have believed he’d ever actually
want me.”
Scott looks disquieted. He wriggles in his seat, his brow furrowed. “You’re not
an idiot for thinking that. The way he looks at you? That’s not fake.” It looks
like it pains him to say it and Stiles figures Scott would prefer to be in
almost any other conversation.
“I know you have my back and you’re trying to boost my self-esteem and all, but
I’m not sure that’s helping.”
“I know it doesn’t, but it’s true.” Scott tips further back into his chair.
“I’m not even slightly surprised that Derek had ulterior motives for what he
did, but when it comes to physical attraction, he’s been putting out a scent
and an aura for months. His heart even speeds up when you’re nearby.”
Stiles processes that, rolls it around in his mind, until it knocks up against
a hundred other thoughts. “I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse,” he
says, haltingly.
Scott goes and sits next to Stiles, wraps his arms around him in a tight
embrace. He rocks Stiles from side-to-side. It’s moments like these that Stiles
is reminded how they’ve always stuck together, how Scott’s the brother he never
had. One of the many reasons today is the worst is the realization that all of
the positives that had been building for Scott have now been compromised. He
won’t want to work with the pack anymore, even though it’s obviously been great
for him.
“You wanna watch shit blow up on your laptop or your TV?”
“Is there a non-shit-blowing-up option?”
“Nope.”
“Laptop, then. You can be the beef in my bed burrito.”
Scott wrinkles his nose. “You’re disgusting.” He winces, corrects himself. “I
mean, you’re a total catch, and adorable as hell. But you’re also revolting.”
“I know,” Stiles says. He scratches his fingers over his scalp and then makes
grabby hands as Scott gets up and hauls over his laptop. “I’m kinda surprised
you’re not off avenging on my behalf. Please understand, I don’t want you to,
because I like you alive, and it’s totally not worth the effort, but I’m
shocked nonetheless.”
“You need me right now,” Scott says, plainly. “And I can commit wholesale
murder at any time, day or night.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Scott knocks into him, hard enough that Stiles thinks he doesn’t know his own
strength. He grabs the blanket and then hogs it, only relinquishing half when
Stiles flicks him in the ear. They watch shit blow up and it’s an awesome
diversion, up until the moment Stiles’ mind begins to wander and he finds
himself dissecting Scott’s words with the same obsessive repetition he did
Boyd’s.
*
Boyd hasn’t spoken to him since arriving from school, but there’s anger there,
seething just under the surface. The only reason Boyd’s at the depot is because
Erica and Isaac refuse to leave. Derek’s been listening in to their
conversations and Boyd has tried to get them to go with him on four separate
occasions. But Erica’s practicing her defensive moves and insists she needs
room to train, Isaac has been spending more time at the depot anyway,
alternating between helping Erica and meditating. None of the betas talk to him
much beyond asking for a word of advice on a move or querying what he wants to
eat. That’s all right, because he thinks he may have found a ritual that will
explain what Peter may have done. He’s glad for having discovered it, but
worried by the suggestion of what’s happened and what he has to do to stop
worse coming to pass. He’s angry that he can’t give the text he’s reading his
full concentration. It’s a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions and none of
them fit well together, they leave him feeling jagged and twitchy.
He wants to know how Boyd’s talk with Stiles went. He wants to have seen the
reaction so that he’s assured Stiles is okay. All the evidence so far is
pointing to that not being the case. He shouldn’t really be surprised. He
remembers the sting of betrayal, the realization that he was foolish enough to
believe Kate. But Stiles --- Stiles isn’t to blame in this situation at all. He
did nothing wrong except trust him.
Thinking of that has Derek stretching where he sits, wanting to go for a run.
There’s a kind of dark comedy to that that he’s going to ignore.
*
It’s early morning that sees the arrival of Scott at the depot. The sun isn’t
up, yet. The air is chill. The betas all crashed the night, curling up on a
couple of old mattresses, in the train car and the corner. Derek hasn’t slept,
just kept reading and trying to find other references to the ritual he’s now
almost positive Peter performed before he died. He should have gone for that
run and not come back. He rises to greet Scott, a sarcastic comment on the tip
of his tongue.
Scott saunters up to him and punches him in the face. Derek doesn’t dodge or
block it, but the pain is minimal.
“That’s for Stiles,” Scott says, face contorted in a scowl. He punches Derek
again, the blow glancing off Derek’s nose. “And that’s for me.”
Derek rolls his eyes, grabs both Scott’s wrists and holds them up. He’s not as
rough with it was he would have been in the past, but that’s because he gets
why Scott’s actually attacking him this time. Scott struggles in his grasp, but
he tightens his grip in such a way all he does is swing closer into Derek’s
body.
“Simmer down,” Derek bites out. “If you had any sense, I wouldn’t have to
resort to these actions to ensure you spend time with the pack. It’s by
insisting you keep yourself separate from the only people who could help you
that shit like Peter coming back from the dead to screw with you happens.”
“You mean your uncle? The lying, manipulative creep?” Scott counters, eyes
going dark. “And by these actions you’re referring to the molestation of my
best friend?” He uses Derek’s grip on him as leverage to raise his legs and
kick Derek in the chest. Derek stumbles, lets go.
“I never---” Derek starts, but can’t continue. It’s an accusation he can’t
actually refute. “Stiles will be fine.”
“He isn’t equipped for your games, Derek. Behind all the sarcasm and deflecting
and insistence he can run with wolves, Stiles is fragile.”
“Stiles is a hell of a lot stronger than you give him credit for,” Derek
snarls, then snaps his mouth shut.
Erica, Isaac and Boyd are all lurking on the outskirts of his periphery,
watching the conversation. Derek’s a little surprised none of them have made a
move to intervene.
Scott’s eyes widen and he blinks a couple of times. He tilts his head, eyes
narrowing as if he’s listening for something far away. “Oh.”
Derek’s on the back-foot. “What does that mean?”
“You know what it means. It’s an exclamation made when someone figures
something out.”
Derek’s not dealing with Scott’s shit today. He prowls closer, flexing his
shoulders. He doesn’t want to swing his first punch, but if he can provoke
Scott enough again, maybe he’ll get to justifiably retaliate. “Hilarious,
Scott. In this particular case, what does it signify?”
“You didn’t do all of this to get me in your pack. That’s how it started, sure,
but that’s not what it’s become.”
Derek snorts. “That’s what you think?”
Scott’s cocky as he stares Derek down. “Weirdly, yeah.” He gives the ghost of a
laugh. “Wow. Hidden depths.”
Derek half-shifts. “Get out of here, now,” he warns, low. “If you wanna be an
omega, go right ahead. But don’t be surprised if you find yourself dead within
the next three months. You have no idea what’s coming.”
Scott, surprisingly, follows his instruction and begins moving toward the door.
“Neither do you,” he says as his parting shot. “You don’t even know what’s
happening in the moment, let alone in the future.”
Derek restrains himself from either chasing Scott out of the building for good
or punching the wall. As he goes back to his print outs, he can hear the betas
whispering, with Erica and Boyd sounding particularly heated. He tunes out
their words, choosing to focus on the description of preventing a resurrection
instead.
*
Stiles is eating lunch alone again on Monday, but it’s accidental as opposed to
deliberate. He was forced to make up his Econ test during his actual lunch
break so he used his charms and wiles on Delores in the cafeteria and begged
her to save him a slice of lasagne for his free period. It’s good lasagne,
probably because it feels illicit. Stiles reads as he eats. For the first time
since starting High School he’s behind in his required reading for English. He
spent most of the weekend helping his dad in the limited capacity his dad would
allow him, and the rest with a careful, attentive and somewhat nervous Scott.
“You know how we all have different strengths and weaknesses? How Scott’s
equally perceptive and oblivious and you’re both crazy smart and a total tool?”
Erica says, sitting down across from him and resting her chin on her forearms.
Stiles closes his book and waits, knowing that Erica’s going somewhere with
this. He’s learning when to listen to Erica and when to discount her words as
idle teasing. He doesn’t think this is mockery, though it’s masked that way.
“Do you know what my main weakness was when I was first turned?” Erica asks,
watching him carefully.
“You had trouble finding your anchor,” Stiles answers, matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I did. When it comes to the bonus extras we got, Boyd’s strong and agile
and a good strategist. What he hasn’t gotten is the automatic ability to
distinguish scent. There are all kinds of things you can learn about a person
by how they smell. What they had for breakfast, approximately how many times
they’ve jacked off in the last 24 hour period, whether or not they’re in love.”
Stiles taps against the table, expels a breath. “What are you saying, Erica?”
“Derek’s my anchor. He keeps me human because he’s the most human person I know
well. And that can be a good thing. But it can also be terrible.” Erica stares
at him like she’s looking through him. “Food for thought.”
She gets up and leaves as quickly as she came. Stiles stares after her. All
he’s had the last few days are thoughts. Ones that could either be self-
destructive or life affirming; he can’t tell. Even before Erica came and spoke
to him he thought he’d figured out what was going on with Derek.
He needs to decide if he’s going to go with his instincts or conclude he’s
falling into a trap of wish fulfillment. At this point, he doesn’t really have
anything left to lose.
*
The chalk keeps flaking between his fingers and he’s snapped four different
sticks already. Derek curses, flattens his hand against the timber flooring to
get more purchase as he etches out the symbol in the book he stole from the
library. It had been in the ‘no loans’ section so he forewent courtesy and
headed straight for theft. He’ll need someone else to complete the symbol,
someone non-werewolf, to sprinkle it with a mixture of mountain ash and
wolfsbane. He’s not sure how he’s going to arrange that just yet. Maybe he can
convince Deaton to do it, but there’s a reason he never went to Deaton in the
first place.
Footfall sounds close to the house and Derek springs up, turns round. He’s
figuring out the scent when Stiles walks through the door. That’s the icing on
the cake, really. All Derek needs is Stiles’ anger and hatred. He is the
luckiest man alive. There’s a muffled yell and then Stiles is stumbling into
the room, mouth wide open in disgust. He must have walked through the spider
webs leading to the back of the house by mistake.
“What are you doing here, Stiles?” Derek asks, resigned. He doesn’t go for
hostile, doesn’t sneer. Stiles looks like he hasn’t had much sleep. His shirt’s
wrinkled and frayed at the bottom as if he’s been worrying it.
“You know why I’m here,” Stiles says.
Derek expected the yelling to come immediately. He’s not sure he wants to
witness Stiles build up to it. He brushes his hands together. Dust plumes into
the air before him. Stiles looks at the floor, glances back up at Derek, but
doesn’t comment on it.
“You’re a gigantic dickhead,” Stiles continues. He points emphatically. “Nice
scheme you had there, buddy. Very 10 Things I Hate About You. I look forward to
the big musical number.”
“I’m not in the mood for your dramatics, okay? If you can’t tell, I’m busy. So
go ahead and punch me, let your anger out quickly, because I have real problems
to deal with and I’m not gonna apologize for doing something I thought could
strengthen my pack.”
“I’m not gonna punch you. I almost broke my hand last time. I’m not an idiot.
Unlike you. You know what's really fucked up? One thing that makes me angry is
the fact you didn't trust me. It wasn't 'appeal to Stiles' logic and reason',
it was 'appeal to the teenager's dick.' Not only immoral, but with 300 times
more diminishing and condescension! You're a douche."
Derek studies the floorboards and takes a deep, hulking breath. Stiles is
right, there’s nothing he can say. He tries to blot out everything except the
blood rushing through his veins, so he doesn’t realize Stiles has stepped
closer until Stiles’ foot scuffs, an arm’s length away.
“But even more sick and twisted, I’m angriest because your plan backfired. What
we have? This thing between us? It’s real. It isn’t simple, but it’s there. And
now you’re trying to run away from it by telling Boyd to reveal the version of
the truth you’re most comfortable with. You think I’ll let you go that easily.”
Derek’s head snaps up. The musty air of the room is thick in his throat as he
stares at Stiles. Stiles, who is looking at him with a combination of anger and
affection and no, that isn’t what was supposed to happen, how is this possible?
Derek fights the urge to flee. How is he ever going to do the honorable thing
in leaving Stiles alone?
“It was all a lie, Stiles. I was acting. Like you said, appealing to the
teenager’s dick. It was easy to manipulate you. All it took was a smile and a
compliment.”
A shadow crosses Stiles’ face and Derek thinks he’s succeeded, but then Stiles
comes back with, “I’ve seen you acting and you suck.”
Derek crosses his arm against his chest, hardens his expression. “Have you
looked at yourself lately? You think that I could ever want you? A scrawny,
maladjusted, hyperactive kid with elastic features and a mouth that won’t
shut?”
“I think if you had a choice, you probably wouldn’t want me, however the heart
is a fickle beast that says ‘screw it’ to reasoning and consequences.”
Derek wants to tell Stiles he’s wrong, that it’s more than that, that Stiles
deserves to believe that someone could want him because he’s brilliant in all
of these complex little ways that are difficult to pinpoint, that he’s far
better than Derek. It would defeat him, but he wants to.
“You’re just that magical? You defy all logic and taste?”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a regular Disney princess. The Belle of the
ball. One look into my soulful eyes, of course you fell for me.”
“I’m not the hero come to rescue you from your mundane life, Sleeping Beauty.”
“True. But you are ridiculous,” Stiles scoffs. His voice rises comically. “You
can’t even get a single movie reference right.” He steps closer still,
haltingly, eyes not leaving Derek’s face. “I don’t think of you as a hero. I
don’t think of you as a villain. And it’s a long, long time since I’ve thought
of you as a monster.”
Derek sucks in a deep breath, tries another tack. “No, you just think I’m good
to look at, fun to touch.”
“Yeah, of course I think you’re hot, look at you. And you cannot tell me you
didn’t have fun touching me back,” Stiles says with a flail. “But if you think
that’s all I like about you, you’re woefully mistaken.”
“Please, Stiles, what else could you possibly like?” Derek asks, and he means
to be cutting, and cruel --- a sad indictment of Stiles’ maturity.
But he can hear it doesn’t sound any of those things. It’s almost plaintive.
Because he wants to believe it. He wants, desperately, for it to be true. That
Stiles likes him, who he really is. He doesn’t deserve it, hasn’t done anything
worth Stiles’ consideration. But he wants it all the same.
Stiles picks up on the tone, grapples for Derek’s hand and lays it over his
heart. Stiles’ heart is pounding, quick, but steady. Derek thinks about pulling
his hand away, but his body is a traitor and his mind is pathetically weak.
“I like your sneaky wit, and the way you can and will out-sass me given the
circumstance. That when we talk, when we actually talk, I understand you and I
know you understand me. I like that we don’t even need words all the time, that
we can communicate through a single look. I enjoy the silences between us and
I’ve always hated silence, always felt like it needs to be filled.
“I like that you stay and you try and you fight against all odds even when
lesser people would have given up and run away months ago. And how you’re a
good person, not even that deep down, just completely incapable of planning
effectively or sharing why you do the things you do.”
Stiles rubs his thumb against the back of Derek’s hand and his eyes soften. “I
like that I can trust you, that I do trust you --- you’ll do the right thing in
the end, I know you will, every time. I like you, Derek, even the things that
infuriate me, because it’s always challenging, and I thrive on that. So tell
me, you heard my heart, was a word of that a lie?”
“No,” Derek says, bitten off, choked. “You think it’s true.”
“I think… oh my God,” Stiles mutters. He pushes forward and wraps his arms
around Derek, holds him tight. Derek remains stationary, refusing to curl his
arms around Stiles and never let go. His voice sounds small when he speaks
next, right into Derek’s ear. “Why won’t you trust me?”
“I can’t trust anyone,” Derek answers after a beat. “Not even myself.”
Stiles drops his arms, steps back, walks to the other side of the room.
“Have it your way. Be tragic and misunderstood in the safety of your own
isolation.” He stops in what used to be a doorway. “Or, you know, you could be
less cowardly and take a chance, but I’m not gonna push you.” He turns, looks
back at Derek again, his eyes filled with an emotion Derek can’t name. “If you
do visit the Wizard and he grants you your wish for courage, come and find me?
I can’t promise forever, but I’ll wait for you.“
Derek watches him leave.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Getting on with life isn’t hard. He’s always had skills in avoidance. His dad
asks him once or twice if he’s okay, and doesn’t look all that convinced with
his answer, but the truth is, he is. He’s done everything he can do and the
rest is up to Derek. He was single before, he can continue to be single. They
have a lot they need to discuss, anyway, and he can understand not wanting to
rush that.
He misses Derek, particularly in those moments when Isaac mentions him
inadvertently, or a perfect tango track comes up on his playlist. He thinks
about the conversations they’ve had and the ones they’ve neglected. Remembers
what it’s like to sway in his arms. He asks Erica about him sometimes and she
tells him he’s become even more withdrawn, which worries him, but he promised
he wouldn’t push and he’s going to keep to that. Whatever demons plague Derek,
they’re his to battle until such time he asks for help.
Scott tells Stiles about dreams he’s been having regarding Peter and one day
they’re all summoned to the Hale house, along with Dr Deaton. That explains the
chalk symbol Derek was drawing. He hadn’t been able to find it online and his
favorite, most useful book at the library had mysteriously disappeared. Derek
doesn’t look at him once the time he’s there, but Dr Deaton asks him to help
perform an anti-resurrection ritual, explaining that he’s the necessary spark.
He doesn’t know what that means, but he does as asked, sprinkling mountain ash
and wolfsbane over the floorboards in carefully timed bursts.
Stiles is pissed that Scott didn’t tell him about Peter and it causes an
argument that lasts for the entirety of two hours, until they hug it out.
“I don’t wanna hurt you, Stiles,” Scott says mid-hug.
“I know. But omitting the truth can still hurt, Scott. What if Peter were
capable of possessing you or something equally as disturbing and I didn’t
know?”
“That’s why I went to Derek.”
“Which, luckily in this case, appears to have worked. I hope. But next time,
please, just tell me? I’m really sick of being left out of the loop.”
Scott must hear something in his voice, because the hug tightens. “Okay,” he
says. “But you have to promise me you won’t deliberately run into dangerous
situations.”
“I promise that the next time I run into a dangerous situation it’ll be
completely accidental,” Stiles says, patting Scott’s back. “You’re an awesome
hugger, but now we need to stop. My automatic boner’s starting to engage.”
Scott nuzzles closer for a second before he steps away, wrinkling his nose.
“You are the literal worst.”
“Not the figurative worst?”
“That too.”
Stiles keeps practicing lacrosse, enlisting help from Scott, Isaac and Boyd.
Danny even offers to act as goalie. Jackson, naturally, jeers from the
sidelines. The sessions they have help build Stiles in all areas of his game.
He uses his increased balance to sidestep deftly, his improved aim to pass and
catch. It’s good in a way it never used to be --- the moves he’s always
imagined actually get translated to his limbs and even though he can’t single-
handedly beat three werewolves and an accomplished lacrosse player, he doesn’t
do badly at all. Even Danny compliments him on his play, and Danny’s a known
perfectionist.
“You still suck, Stilinski,” Jackson calls at the last practice before try-
outs, grinning sunnily.
“You wish, Whittemore,” Stiles returns. “Why don’t we have a friendly little
competition? The winner being whoever scores the most goals within three
minutes?”
“What would be the prize?”
For a second, Stiles can’t think. There’s no way he’s swapping cars with
Jackson, he’d hate to think what the maniac would do to his Jeep. He doesn’t
need him to do any of his homework and he wouldn’t trust him with it anyway. He
doesn’t have the cash to make any kind of monetary wager.
“The winner will have the satisfaction of a job well done, the loser will have
to clean the winner’s lacrosse kit right up until Summer,” Stiles says.
He doesn’t expect Jackson to go for it, because it’s one of the weakest
arrangements he’s concocted, but Jackson has a lot of faith in his superiority,
because he takes Isaac’s stick and faces off against him.
“Prepare to lose,” he says, eyes narrowing.
“You’re so subtle,” Stiles replies. “Totally nuanced. Anyone would think you
have a personality beyond asshole jock. It fills me with never ending wonder.”
“Shut up and play.”
It helps to focus on things like this, to keep up with lifelong held routines
and animosities. Stiles sees it as the ultimate test before the try-out. Even
if he doesn’t win against Jackson, having the confidence to take him on is a
victory in itself.
They hash out the rules. There’s no contact, anyone who causes a diversion
during the other person’s turn is disqualified and has to default to the
loser’s task. Boyd is going to act as a defender. Scott’s in goal and Danny’s
got the timer for Jackson, vice versa for Stiles. Isaac is the adjudicator and
any misconduct will be brought to a court of Lydia, Allison and Erica,
regardless of whether they want it to be or not.
Jackson goes first. This suits Stiles because then he can see how many goals he
has to beat and he’s always best with a set target in place. Jackson’s
impressive, as usual. He’s got a knack for getting around Boyd and while Scott
brings his A game, Jackson scores 7 goals against him in the time allotted.
He’s smug when he finishes, but that’s what will make this so much sweeter.
Stiles readies himself mentally and physically. He thinks of it like a dance.
He needs to have control of his body and his movements, but he also needs
enough freedom for creativity. He has to be light on his feet, swift, but he
can do that, he’s been doing so well. The stick is the perfect weight in his
hand, his feet grip the grass --- when Scott calls for him to start he feigns
right but runs left, dodging Boyd with a one-two rhythm. He goes for the goal,
doesn’t stop to see if he made it, he’s getting back into position. Isaac yells
out ‘one’ at any rate.
He isn’t so successful with the next ball, or the next, but he has a run of
three goals soon after. Sweat’s beading on his forehead and his wrist’s still
getting used to his new way of throwing and catching, but he loves the edge of
a burn in his lungs. Boyd is increasingly able to anticipate his moves so he
changes it up, rolling to the ground. It isn’t against the rules they laid down
and he’s going to use all the tricks in his arsenal.
When Scott calls time he’s scored ten wonderful goals, each as beloved to him
as the other. Danny wraps a sweaty arm around him for a second as
congratulations and Jackson’s scowl is a hilarious exaggeration. Stiles pulls
off his jersey and tosses it in Jackson's face.
“I expect my kit perfectly laundered every week, no exceptions.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
“Jackson, don’t you know how harmful negative self-talk is? You really need to
get out of bad habits.”
It doesn’t surprise anyone but Finstock when Stiles secures a place in first
line for the duration of the season. His dad is insanely proud and goes to
every game, pulling favors left, right and center to ensure he’s available. The
team doesn’t win the first match he plays, but they do win the second, and
Stiles dances around the field for ten minutes, gaining many speculative looks
from students who’ve never talked to him before.
*
Derek gets out of the habit of talking. He was like this after the fire. Laura
was constantly coaxing him to talk about his problems and open up to her, but
he couldn’t do it. Words had been his downfall and they’d betray him further if
Laura ever found out the whole truth. He couldn’t risk that, couldn’t lose the
one person in the world that cared about him. He bottled his emotions up and
left them to compound and fester.
For the most part, the betas leave him alone. Sometimes Isaac asks him to
meditate with him and Derek does, because he hopes it might help. Other times,
Erica tries to bring him out of his shell. He’s surprised when Boyd comes up to
him one day and hands him a card. It’s simple, on thick stock.
“What’s this?”
“My mom went to see him, after she had a miscarriage,” Boyd says, giving Derek
a measured gaze. “A session a week, for as long as she needed. He’s good.
Doesn’t patronize, doesn’t ask questions you can’t answer. You should think
about it.”
Scott’s probably the most surprising, though. Even after the anti-resurrection
ritual is completed, he keeps coming around to the depot. Most of the time,
Derek wishes he wouldn’t, because he smells like Stiles and that causes pain to
lance through him like acid, but he stays out of Derek’s way and goes through
combat and defensive maneuvers with the betas. They enjoy him being there,
they’re calmer than when around Derek alone, and Derek hates it.
On one especially bad day, wherein the sound of Scott’s laughter is too much,
he confronts him, already half-way shifted, hackles raised. “What are you doing
here?”
Scott shrugs. “The pack needs me.”
Derek bares his teeth. “Why don’t you just slit my throat open now? Take what
you want?”
“I’m including you in the pack, dumbass,” Scott says with a roll of his eyes.
“You wanted me, Derek. Here I am.”
“To mock me.”
“Maybe a little,” Scott says, but he’s lying, his heart skips, and he doesn’t
think it’s because Scott’s there to mock him a lot. Derek listens closer,
studies his posture. It’s difficult to figure out his true intentions.
“Does it give you pleasure, seeing me like this? Is this your form of revenge?”
“Dude, you, like, engineered this misery you’re in. It’s only right you should
suffer for a while.”
“A while? Not forever?” Derek bites out.
Scott levels him with a stare. “That depends on you, doesn’t it?”
Erica puts a hand to the small of Derek’s back and leads him away. He lets her
because he’s exhausted and defeated.
Derek thinks about Boyd’s card, brings it out at night and stares at it,
tracing over the numbers and letters. He thinks about the fact he’s been living
with this pain for almost a decade. Thinks about being in love with someone,
yet still feeling incapable of love.
He isn’t equipped to deal with his life as it currently stands. He doesn’t know
how to gather his strength around him. He’s slowly but surely giving up and he
can’t, he can’t, he’s survived this long, he has to keep going. Stiles said he
knew he would do the right thing in the end, but Derek isn’t positive he knows
what the right thing is anymore. Part of him wants to go to Stiles and leech
his power, use him to prop him up and help him ignore the world.
But he’s not going to, because that part of him is the same one that listened
to Peter, that always wants the easy solution and consumes itself in guilt but
never seeks to rectify its mistakes. It’s the part that speaks to him at night
and tells him he’s worthless, then continues to encourage him to perform
worthless acts. It’s the one that carries him to the house and screams, ”Look
what you’ve done.”
*
Stiles is practicing scoring goals when Derek finds him. The final game of the
season is on in the next week. Isaac and Boyd had asked him to go, but he’d
wavered on answering. He hadn’t known what he was going to be doing. Didn’t
know until this morning that he was finally going to talk to Stiles when he
realized that not talking about his problems is what has led to more problems.
Stiles isn’t in his padding, but is in lacrosse shorts. He’s more tanned than
when Derek last saw him, is wearing a tighter shirt than usual, muscles flexing
under the shift of material. He looks healthy, which eases the knot in Derek’s
abdomen that’s been there for months. Derek steps forward without thinking
about it, feet moving before his brain can catch up.
“Derek,” Stiles calls, glancing over his shoulder. “Still attempting to get the
gold medal for creeping, I see.”
“You shouldn’t wait for me,” Derek says in response. He hadn’t meant to, it had
been his intention to talk to Stiles in a calm and rational manner, but the
affection in Stiles’ eyes has him cutting to the chase. “I don’t want you to
wait for me. You’ll be waiting a long time, Stiles, and that isn’t fair.”
Stiles nods toward the bleachers. “Wanna talk?”
Derek nods back. He walks over, sits awkwardly on the bench. His leather creaks
as he puts his hands in his pockets and even though it’s too hot for the
jacket, he wallows in the comfort it provides. Stiles sits next to him, holding
onto his lacrosse stick. He twists it in his hands a couple of times, seems to
be waiting for Derek to speak.
“I can’t be with you the way we both want me to be,” Derek says eventually,
glancing at Stiles, unsure of his reaction. He still can’t be sure what it is.
Stiles is concentrating on his hands, lower lip snagged in his teeth. “I need
time to figure out what the fuck I’m doing. I thought it would be a good
decision to seduce a sixteen year old. It’s kind of obvious I’m a work in
progress.”
Stiles snorts softly, scrubs a hand over his head. “My age isn’t that
important.”
“It is, though. You’re more mature than I was at your age. In some ways you’re
more mature than I am now. But you’re still young. The fact remains, I set out
to deceive you because of your youth, knowing you’d be at a disadvantage. I
didn’t respect you and you deserve respect, Stiles. You’re strong, you’re
smart, you work hard for the benefit of others. I abused that. All of that.”
Stiles considers this, stares at Derek. “It was a dick move,” he says. “In a
long line of dick moves you’ve pulled.”
Derek looks out toward the field again. Stiles’ gaze is a little too
penetrating. “Glad we agree.”
“But do you regret it?”
“You know I do. But just because I regret it, just because I care for you, that
doesn’t mean I’m absolved of the injustice of my actions.”
“No,” Stiles says, carefully. He shrugs a shoulder. It’s obvious he’s
attempting to be casual, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. His fingers work
frenetically at the stick in his hands and there’s a tick in his jaw. That
doesn’t stop him from leaning in, playful. “You could make it up to me.”
“And I intend to, just not how you’re imagining right now.”
“Ugh, werewolves. I hate that you can read my mind.”
Derek tries not to smile at the joke, fails. He clenches his fists tighter in
his pockets and breathes deep. His lungs feel leaden in his chest. Stiles asked
him to trust him and it’s taken a while to realize he already does. He has to
be honest, no matter how painful it is. He needs to explain and justify
himself, even though there’s nothing that will excuse what he did.
“I wanna tell you a story about a boy,” Derek continues. “He was sixteen, fit,
people said he was good looking in a lanky kind of way. He played on the
lacrosse team and he did well in his studies. He didn’t have a lot of close
friends, but that didn’t usually bother him, he was relatively content with his
life. Sometimes he’d get lonely, but everyone gets lonely.
“And then one day an adult in their twenties realized that this boy had
something they wanted. They were determined that they were gonna do whatever it
took to achieve their goal. So they seduced the boy, played with his
affections, got him to trust them. He was young and untested, he thought it was
love. He deserved love, why couldn’t this be it? He gave them their every
desire.
“His house burned down within a week, almost his entire family inside. The only
two who weren’t home were the sixteen year old and his sister, who were running
late due to lacrosse practice and math tutoring. The adult was outside the
house when the siblings arrived, watching the flames flicker, and the boy
realized that she must be the culprit. No one else knew how to get into the
basement where the fire had started. No one else knew the boy came from a
family of werewolves. It didn’t make any sense to him. He thought she loved
him. She laughed in his face when he confronted her, told him how easy he’d
been to manipulate.
“And the boy grew up, hating his idiocy, blaming himself for all that had
occurred. He forgot that most people don’t look at others as something to be
used and nothing more. He forgot that people can be good and do the right
thing. He forgot, and to be honest, he didn’t care, his misery was all that was
important to him.”
“Kate,” Stiles whispers. There’s a clicking sound and then, “Oh my God, I can’t
begin to imagine ---”
Derek scrubs a hand over his face, shrugs his coat tighter. He glances at
Stiles, but Stiles is looking in the opposite direction. His lungs feel lighter
now, his chest not as constricted. He hadn’t even realized he’d felt like he’d
been carrying a physical burden all this time.
“You’re not like her,” Stiles says, slowly.
“I am, though, in all the ways that count.”
Stiles knocks into him. His eyes are red-rimmed and his skin’s pale enough it’s
almost translucent. “You weren’t going to kill anyone, Derek, there’s a
difference.”
“There isn’t a big enough difference. I want there to be. I want to be a better
person. I need to work through my issues, so I’ve been going to a therapist.
Obviously, there are lots of details I can’t discuss, but I find my way around
it most sessions. I can’t keep up this level of destruction. Eventually,
something or someone’s gonna break.”
Stiles pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’re getting braver,” he says.
“I’m sorry, that sounds condescending as fuck. But. I’m proud of you.”
The flush of self-satisfaction Derek feels at that must surely be against his
self-imposed rules. “If anyone should be sorry for anything, it’s me. And I am.
I’m sorry. For everything.”
“I accept your apology,” Stiles says, fiddling with the net of his lacrosse
stick.
They settle into a moment of companionable silence. Derek counts Stiles’
heartbeats. It feels good to be alongside him again, to have everything out in
the open. He wishes he could find the words to tell Stiles how much he means to
him, how grateful he is for his forgiveness. He doesn’t think he deserves it,
but this is a concession he’s going to give himself.
“You understand, don’t you?” Derek asks, hating how fragile he sounds.
“Yeah. You’re right.” Derek can smell the edge of disappointment in Stiles’
scent, but it isn’t cloying and thick like he thought it would be. “We can’t be
together. Not romantically, not sexually. Not yet.”
“What we have right now, it isn’t the basis for a longstanding relationship.
But I’d like that. One day. With you.” Derek chances a glance at Stiles’
profile, at the upturn of his nose, the constellation of his beauty marks. He’s
missed his face. “But like I said before, don’t wait. You deserve someone who
can give you everything you need. Someone who recognizes how brilliant you are
and appreciates it the way it should be appreciated. If we’re supposed to be
together, we will be, after I learn how to be human again.”
“Erica said you’re the most human person she knows.”
Derek considers that, frowns. “Maybe I need to learn to be less human, then.”
“What do you want to happen between us?”
“Well, I like spending time with you and you seem to like spending time with
me, so why don’t we do that occasionally? Spend time. Together. You think we
could be friends?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to at least try.”
Stiles turns to face him, quirks an eyebrow. He offers his closed fist. Derek
looks at it for a second, then pulls his own fist out of his pocket and meets
it, their knuckles brushing gently.
“Friends,” Stiles says, decisively.
“Thank you,” Derek replies, voice soft. “I could use a friend like you. Someone
who pushes me to be patient, consider all the options, revise and improve.”
Stiles grins, brighter than Derek could ever expect after everything they’ve
been through. “You know there’s, like, no way of getting rid of me now, right?”
Derek leans against him for a second. “I’m counting on it.”
***** Epilogue - 4 Years Later *****
Chapter Notes
     Please note the change of rating from Mature to Explicit.
     Thanks so much to everyone who’s followed this story and commented
     and/or clicked kudos, it’s really meant a lot to me. ♥ I’m so sorry
     it took so long to get here, but this is it, this is the end.
Stiles wonders if it’s possible to vibrate out of his skin. He hasn’t been home
in months and this is the first summer in three years he’s going to spend the
whole of his break in Beacon Hills. While he’d loved his internship with
Reuters, and backpacking around Europe, and his awesome short-term exchange
trip to Australia, he’s totally ready for chilling with his family.
He’s more than ready for spending time with Derek. There have been hints in
their chats over the past couple of months that Derek is at a place where he
thinks he could cope with taking the next step in their relationship. His spies
all tell him Derek’s been brooding less and the project of rebuilding the Hale
house has resulted in a lot of cathartic tearing down of barriers to his well
being. These are all encouraging signs. He tries not to get too excited. Mostly
fails.
Derek told him not to wait and in most ways he didn’t. Stiles has had one night
stands, has dated, had a girlfriend for ten months and wasn’t the cause of the
break-up (Catherine went to France when he went to Australia and fell in love
with a local boy. They’re already married with a baby on the way.) He hasn’t
really pined --- at least, not in the same obsessive way he did for Lydia. But
he hasn’t stopped caring for Derek.
Scott used to ask him how he forgave Derek so easily, and Stiles can’t say,
“because you forgave me.” Now that he’s older, he thinks he probably was too
quick to cast aside Derek’s actions in the name of young love, but he’s glad he
did anyway. They’d needed one another when the Alpha pack had rolled into town.
Had spent countless nights together researching and conducting surveillance,
keeping watch over the pack. To this day, Stiles sometimes doesn’t know how
they’re all still alive.
And the cruel, twisted part of him that took delight in taking revenge when
Scott kissed Lydia also likes when Derek defers to him out of guilt. He’s just
--- he’s really not perfect. Sometimes, he listens to Derek’s recounts of his
therapy with a little more than friendly interest. Derek’s said more than once
that Stiles has made him want to be a better person and Stiles has never known
how to say he feels the same about Derek.
Stiles hates flying, especially with this buzzing sensation tingling all over
his body, but he tried to drive his first summer and scenic road trips cross-
country from New York to California are nine thousand times worse than movies
would have you believe, especially if you go part of the way with a former
crush and her boyfriend. He misses his Jeep but she’s in a better place now.
Somewhere off Route 66. He wishes Jackson’s body were somewhere off Route 66
too. In a deep, deep grave. When it comes to dysfunctional relationships that
tread the fine line between high self-regard and self-harm, Lydia is ahead by
miles. Or maybe Jackson is. It’s so hard to tell.
Anyway, he hates flying, but it means he’ll be home soon. It takes a lot of
willpower not to jump about in his seat and if he wasn’t near the window he
knows his claustrophobia would kick in, but he pulls out his copy of the Argent
bestiary entries Lydia recently managed to translate from archaic Latin and
settles in for the journey.
*
The pack gather at the house to welcome everyone back from college for the
summer, even though most of the pack are close enough that they spend weekends
in Beacon Hills. Stiles’ dad has to work, but he drops in early in the
evening’s proceedings, bringing the eternally welcome gift of cake. He and
Derek have gotten into a pattern where they nod at one another if they meet in
the grocery store or at the gas station without any kind of scowling involved.
It’s a big improvement on what they had before. Scott’s mom sits with Boyd’s
parents, drinking wine and being louder than the pack. Jennifer and Benjamin
Boyd only found out about their son being a werewolf in the Winter. They’ve
taken it surprisingly well. Erica’s parents still don’t have any idea, but
Derek wanted to invite them anyway. Erica was the one who vetoed that idea,
with rather more force than anyone thought necessary.
The night is one of merriment and catching up. Stiles always saves some
anecdotes for when he’s actually in Beacon Hills, enjoying his place of
raconteur among the pack. Scott and Allison prepare the food, sickeningly
adorable in the kind of way that has the betting pool livening up regarding
when they’re going to announce their engagement. Derek’s positive they’re
already engaged and have purposely neglected to tell them all. He can’t wait to
see the throw-down when Scott has to decide whether he wants to mortally offend
Stiles or Isaac more when it comes to his choice of best man. He’s offered his
services, as a joke, and was a little disturbed by how seriously Scott seemed
to consider that a suitable alternative. Then again, he’s not sure he’d want to
hear the endless streams of outrage Stiles would engage in were Scott to ask if
it were all right if he had two best men, nor Isaac’s epic sulk if he only went
with Stiles.
After dinner, Derek offers Stiles a tour of the house. The others all got one
earlier in the day and have seen the place in different states of the
construction anyway. The last time Stiles was in Beacon Hills it was a shell
and a few concept pictures, but now it’s close to perfect. It’s bright, airy,
full of color. In the library, Derek’s second-favorite room, there’s a wall
filled with photographs in different sized frames, and a mantel displaying a
collection of items each pack member has contributed to, with objects that
range from cute, such as the wolf cuddly toy Scott bought when they went to a
conservation park as a day trip, to poignant, such as Erica’s grandma’s ring.
They view everything in companionable silence, only exchanging a couple of
comments. Stiles turns to congratulate him once they’re back out on the patio
near the pack, but Derek cuts him off before he can sit again.
“Can I show you my favorite part?” Derek asks, fingers tapping lightly against
Stiles’ forearm. “In the effort of full disclosure I should tell you I have a
secondary ulterior motive in wanting to kiss you when we’re there.”
“I’d like that,” Stiles says, pulse increasing and eyes sparkling. “All of
that. This is me enthusiastically consenting to that and more.”
“We’re going to go check out the garden,” Derek says, not even bothering to
raise his voice. The betas have all been listening in anyway, none of them are
subtle.
Boyd stares at them unimpressed. Derek’s heard more than one, ‘you should have
cut ties completely’-style remark from him over the years, so he’s surprised
when Boyd mutters, “oh my God, finally.”
Derek rubs his head as they walk past because it pisses him off. Derek’s grown
a lot, but this is something fixed, innate. He will always enjoy engaging in a
level of antagonizing others. He’s been told that’s acceptable and judging by
the fact Stiles also rubs Boyd’s head, he’s going to assume it’s at least
normal, whatever the definition of normal might be.
Scott brushes his fingers against Stiles’ as they saunter by him, curling his
arm up and over Allison’s head. He rarely glares at Derek anymore, they’ve
saved one another’s lives too many times, and been researching the rituals
required for Scott to become an Alpha in his own right. They’re not best
friends, but they’ve come far. Scott seems to view Derek as an intensely
annoying older brother most of the time. But there’s the shadow of a warning in
his gaze right now. His message is deafening; ”hurt Stiles and I will end you.”
Derek doesn’t know how to convey, ”trust me, I’ll help.”
They set off on the winding road to the garden. It’s separate from the porch
and entertaining area near the house, a place created mostly for solitude.
Derek enjoys talking about the different features in the garden as they walk
through. There’s an herb patch filled with herbs that have medicinal properties
that Stiles and Scott researched together, a water fountain that produces a
relaxing gurgle that echoes across to the bench nearby. There’s a rocky outcrop
that was going to be an actual rockery, until Erica insisted they leave it as
is so she could climb on top and howl during the full moon. Isaac requested a
stretch of sand, but it’s more of a child’s sandbox than something that belongs
in a zen garden. Boyd’s unique addition is specially laid paving and an over
sized chess set. Stiles teasingly calls it the most stereotyped garden of all
gardens, but it’s peaceful and energizing; the perfect retreat for meditation.
It’s where Derek goes if he can’t be gone from the house long enough for a run.
“It looks incredible in person,” Stiles says. They’d sent something like
seventy-two pictures when they’d finished. Stiles had complained about his
inbox being flooded. “And I was right, wasn’t I? It works having it set away
from the house.”
“You’re always right,” Derek replies. “As you make a point of telling everyone
any chance you get.”
Stiles flops onto the closest bench, making grabby hands toward Derek. Derek
sits next to him, listening to the slight uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat. They’re
pressed close, shoulder to shoulder. He’s missed this.
“You smiled earlier,” Stiles says in a falsely casual tone. “My sources say
you’ve been doing that a lot more lately.”
It’s true. When bad things happen he finds it a lot easier now not to
internalize them and blame himself. He actually hasn’t done anything self-
destructive in a long time. He controls his anger more successfully and it’s no
longer his anchor. His pack is his anchor instead and that works because
there’s always someone’s heartbeat he can tune into, always a moment he can
recall that will give him the strength to access his powers as necessary as
opposed to by default. He always thought he had control before, and maybe he
did, but it was the kind that came with punishment and now it comes with
reward.
“I’ve had more to smile about lately,” Derek counters. “A purpose that doesn’t
involve blood and guts, a place I feel safe, a supportive pack, and the
knowledge that you’d be here soon. It feels good.”
Stiles gives him the sweetest smile in return and Derek leans in, cradles his
jaw, softly starts the kiss he’s been anticipating since he knew Stiles would
be in Beacon Hills over the summer. He licks against the seam of Stiles’ lips,
can’t help but hum when Stiles opens up for him and then licks into his mouth,
nudging and shifting until there’s no space between them. Stiles angles his
head until he can deepen the kiss, sucking Derek’s tongue. It isn’t frantic
like their first kiss was, or their last. It doesn’t feel like a moment
snatched within a second of calm. Stiles drags both of his hands up Derek’s
back and into his hair, holds him tight. He kisses him with indulgent
determination, like there’s nothing else he’d rather do than be with Derek,
here, like this. It makes Derek shudder, has his heart pumping harder against
his ribcage.
When he finally eases away he’s transfixed by Stiles’ expression. It’s a
combination of joyful and needy that he’s only seen once in real life before,
and been haunted by thousands of times in his imagination.
“I know you told me not to, but I’ve totally been waiting four years for that
to happen again.”
“You kissed me last year,” Derek reminds Stiles gently. He doesn’t mention the
extenuating circumstances, because he knows Stiles will.
As if on cue, Stiles says, “yeah, but you didn’t kiss me back. I’d thought you
were dead. The relief had been fucking palpable. I could’ve wrapped my hands
around it and put it on a shelf. I have a mental picture of it sitting
alongside my little league trophies, that’s how strong my relief was.”
“I had been dying,” Derek says with a shrug. He’s been working on being
assertive without being domineering. He isn’t completely successful yet. He
mostly comes across as glib.
Stiles looks suitably chastened for a second, rolling his lips inward before
pouting. “All the more reason you should have kissed me.”
“I wasn’t ready.”
“But you are now.” It isn’t a question, it’s a very leading statement. Stiles
has acquired all of his father’s interrogation skills.
Stiles can’t hear his heartbeat, or sense his aura, or smell deceit, but Stiles
is brilliant at reading him. He picks up on every micro-hesitation, each
evasive maneuver, all of Derek’s deflections. And Derek hates lying to him,
will avoid it at all costs. It always makes a pulse of shame wind up his spine
and settle on his shoulders, making him feel he’s carrying his issues around
for all the world to see.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Derek says, worrying his fingernails. “I don’t know if
I ever will be. But sometimes I think I hide behind my fear and let it dictate
my life because it’s convenient.”
“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Stiles returns, tucking himself under Derek’s arm
with an artful wriggle and clasping his hand over his shoulder. “Look, I know
what I want, and that’s to kiss and touch you to my heart’s content. I would be
fine with that going at a glacial pace, but you should know that it’s on my
list of life goals. It’s not a pipe dream I’ve given up on in the face of
adulthood.”
“Is this you making your intentions toward me clear?”
“Pretty much.” Stiles sighs. He tilts his head to look up at Derek through his
lashes. He’s mesmerizing like this, with the moonlight casting shadows across
his cheeks, lips parted as if in wait. “Whatever you decide, Derek. I’ll
support you.”
Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand softly. “I don’t feel comfortable having that much
power over you. I feel like you shouldn’t always be having to accommodate me.”
“That’s kind of how relationships work. You accommodate me in lots of ways too.
It’s a mutually inclusive arrangement. How many times have you accepted that
I’m gonna go talk to Deaton regardless of repeated instructions not to? How
frequently do I piss you off by butt-dialing you during lectures? You
understand when I need a day or two alone because of my mom. And I know you
detested the clothes I started wearing when I first began College; you’d always
look at them like you wanted to tear them off me, and not in the good way --
- which, there’s nothing wrong with thrift shop purchases, dude, especially
when you have no cash.”
“Mmm,” Derek replies, non-committal.
He really had hated Stiles’ attempt at being a hipster, although he’d liked
that he’d finally let his hair grow out. He’d thought his new found sense of
style had been one more sign that he was drifting away, that he didn’t see
Derek as part of his future. He hadn’t said anything about it, more the
opposite. He’d stopped texting Stiles, avoided pack Skype meetings, until
Stiles had turned up out of the blue one weekend to find out what was up. It
hadn’t taken Stiles long to disabuse him of the notion that he didn’t want
Derek in his life anymore, all he’d needed was space to pace and flail about
and every curse word known in the English language. Derek remembers it well.
“Anyway, it’s not that you have power over me, so much as I let you borrow some
of my power,” Stiles continues as if he hadn’t interjected. “Like a jump start
for a car battery, or an unsecured loan, or some other appropriate and witty
analogy. It’s a conscious choice that I’ve made to stand by you.”
That eases some of the tension Derek’s been holding. He presses his lips to
Stiles’ forehead, whispers into his hair. “I just don’t wanna fuck this up.”
“I know. Me neither. But, okay, so, think of us like this house.”
“This isn’t a film reference, is it?” Derek asks, quickly. He’s gotten used to
noticing when something’s a reference, but isn’t notably better at saying where
they’re from.
“It may be. It could also be from a song.”
“Is it going to be about this house initially having shaky, broken beginnings,
but now it has a strong foundation, and solid walls, and with plenty of time
and affection devoted to it, instead of being merely a house, it’s a home?”
Stiles snorts. “Got it in one. Wow, I’ve trained you well.” He rubs his head
against Derek’s shoulder like he’s settling in for a nap. “I know it’s cliché,
trite, even, but sometimes these kinds of things are worn and used for a
reason. We’re structurally sound, Derek, have been for a while.”
“Can I have this dance?” Derek asks, slipping out from Stiles’ sprawl and
standing. “For old time’s sake.”
He holds out his hand, gives a mock-bow. The last time he and Stiles danced
together had been the party Erica had held in place of the prom that none of
the pack had gotten to go to because of Gerard Argent. They’d performed a
demonstration tango to applause and frankly undignified catcalls. Stiles had
been suspiciously good and admitted that he’d contributed to his
extracurricular activities requirement for College applications by volunteering
at the retirement village. They’d just so happened to have tango classes every
Thursday.
It feels revelatory to have Stiles in his arms again, but this time without an
audience. With increased skill and practice, he’s a sinuous line against Derek,
perfectly fluid and graceful in a way he still isn’t when he walks. Stiles
follows his lead for the first few minutes, outright giggling when Derek dips
him. He rubs their cheeks together when Derek pulls him back up, as if he’s
wanted to do it all evening.
His eyes crinkle as he adopts a nervous tone. “Mr Hale, you’re trying to seduce
me. Aren’t you?”
It’s the kind of casual remark Stiles makes frequently, as if continually
driving home the point he forgives Derek for past transgressions. It’s more
welcome than Stiles will ever know.
“No. I learned my lesson there. But I wouldn’t be averse to you seducing me.”
Stiles gives him a small, mischievous smile, and Derek thinks this may have
been the bravest thing he’s ever said. He isn’t expecting it when Stiles starts
to take the lead in the tango, adjusting their positions with a raise of his
eyebrow, but it works so much better than he could have imagined. He finds
himself muttering “slow, slow, quick, quick, slow” just to distract himself
from how dancing with Stiles again uncoils the little ball of want he’s quashed
for years. Stiles’ palm is firm and warm in the dip of his lower back, his
strides confident and forceful.
And Derek knows he’s in capable hands.
*
Derek makes the most amazing sounds as Stiles bites his earlobe and kisses his
neck, all stuttering and low. His fingers flutter at Stiles’ hips and one of
his legs kicks out. There’s a tremor in Stiles’ hand as he brushes it over
Derek’s naked chest and he wishes breathing were optional. There’s a reason
this has always been his go-to fantasy. He loves having Derek beneath him,
splayed out and pliant, pretending he couldn’t buck Stiles off from straddling
him whensoever he chose.
The jeans are an inconvenience, but Stiles hadn’t actually been planning on
jumping Derek when he came in with his morning coffee. In Stiles’ defensive, he
shouldn’t have been walking around shirtless. The house had air conditioning
after all, a feature that had been paramount in Stiles’ explanation to his dad
as to why he was staying there. (”You’re sure it’s not for the sex?” his dad
had asked. “We’re not up to that,” Stiles had replied. “I have my own room.”)
It’s been three weeks and they’ve both been patient and undemanding, working up
to longer kisses and extended touching in between a routine of Derek building
some chairs and a cabinet and Stiles cross-referencing information from the
Argent bestiary. He really didn’t want to rush Derek, but after he got up and
kissed him senseless Derek lay on the bed and beckoned him over, so, he doesn’t
think he has. He hopes he hasn’t. He’d hate it if Derek’s being so compliant
out of a sense of obligation.
Stiles levers himself up. Derek stares at him with the kind of unyielding
desire Stiles has been craving for far too long. “Do you want me to stop? I ask
because I’m about this far away from stripping us both naked and having my
nasty way with you.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” Derek says, stroking his thumb over Stiles’
hipbone. His mouth quirks up in a half-smile, so hot it’s almost painful. “We
should definitely continue.”
Stiles doesn’t know how appropriate it would be if he cheered at this juncture
--- but when has he ever been appropriate. He climbs off to the side of Derek,
pulls down his boxer briefs in as short a time as possible. Derek flips the
button on his jeans but then lets Stiles work on his zipper; slowly, slowly, he
has a feeling Derek’s going commando.
Stiles loves sex. He loves getting to explore new bodies and figuring out what
turns someone on. He already knows that Derek likes softly tugging on his hair,
has a weakness for licking his collarbones. Derek’s eyes go hyper-focused when
Stiles whispers his name, or writhes a certain way, or licks his lips. Stiles
wonders what else he enjoys, what he can do to have Derek moaning, throaty and
rough.
He tugs Derek’s jeans off his hips, Derek putting all his weight on his
shoulders and heels so he can wriggle them over his ass and down his thighs. He
was right about him going commando and that is just perfect. Derek’s already
half-hard, his cock thick and flushed. Stiles peels the jeans as far down as he
can bother, before Derek’s helping, using his feet to get the last few inches
off. The jeans get flung in the same direction as his underwear and neither of
them care.
“Get back up here?” Derek asks, gesturing with one hand as he reaches out with
the other.
Stiles narrows his eyes, inspecting. “Not yet. My tongue has an appointment
with parts of you I can’t reach if I’m sitting on your legs.”
“Your tongue has an appointment?” Derek echoes, flat.
Stiles bends down and presses his lips tentatively to Derek’s inner thigh
before glaring up at him. “I’ve never learned dirty talk, okay? How would you
phrase it?”
“Not yet, I wanna lick you all over?” Derek offers, his voice catching in the
middle with his amusement. Or maybe it’s not amusement. His fingers are
clutching into the sheet, twisting the material out of place.
And Stiles does lick, just as lingering as he can manage, against Derek’s thigh
muscles, up along the crease where his leg meets the trunk of his body, along
the taut lines of his abdomen. He’s had many vivid dreams about this body and
he’s going to enact them now that he has permission. It’s incredible having
this expanse of sweat-slick skin beneath him, reacting so gratifyingly to his
touches. Derek tenses and releases with a short huff of breath several times,
undulating upwards when Stiles finally wraps his lips around the head of his
cock.
When he takes hold of Derek’s cock and licks along the underside, right up the
tip, he can’t help but rut against the bed himself. Precome beads along the
slit and Stiles captures it, unable to stop a moan that just vibrates between
him and Derek. Derek squeezes his eyes shut, tips his head back. Stiles half
expects to see his teeth gritted, but he’s mistaken, Derek’s mouth is open wide
around a grin. With sunlight streaming through the blinds and casting
everything in a warm glow he looks stunning, superlative. Stiles can’t really
believe that he’s even real.
Stiles sucks him down again, hollowing out his cheeks. It feels amazing having
the weight and thickness of Derek against his tongue. He uses all of the
techniques he enjoys when he’s receiving a blowjob and adds in something he was
taught in senior year, a little twirl against the head of Derek’s cock that has
his thigh muscles tensing.
Stiles can tell by the way Derek’s now scrabbling in the sheets and
involuntarily snapping his hips that he’s edging close and he slides off with a
pop. He rubs at the corner of his lips with his thumb; his mouth is so wet.
“How far do you wanna go?” he asks, voice already raspy.
Derek tilts his head down, looks at him intensely. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’d like to ride you.”
Derek closes his eyes and Stiles thinks he’s gone too far, pushed too soon. He
swallows against his disappointment and starts to draw back, but Derek’s hand
strikes out fast and clasps around his wrist. Derek’s eyelashes flutter and
then he looks at Stiles, determined.
“I want that,” Derek says, unevenly. “If you want to do that, please. That
would be --- good.”
It’s been ages since he’s reduced Derek to monosyllabic sentence construction
and he did it through annoyance before. He can’t help but be a little proud. He
licks at his bottom lip reflexively, watching as Derek actually shivers in
response. And yeah, he’s finding it a little hard to think, his limbs not
seeming to coordinate the way he wants them to. He knows he looks ridiculous as
he clambers over Derek to retrieve the lube and condoms from the bedside table,
and he thumps into Derek’s side when he completes his mission. It’s a miracle
he doesn’t seriously harm either of them when he straddles his thighs.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” Derek says, with a tone that’s either
warning or insecure. Knowing Derek, it’s probably both. “You know what you’re
doing?”
Stiles has a feeling his smirk is likely to be insufferably smug. “You’re safe
with me.”
An expression flashes across Derek’s face that’s either jealousy or arousal,
but Stiles doesn’t concentrate on that so much as he does snicking open the
lube, rising up high on his knees, and toying at his hole. He’s done this
before, lots of times, but rarely with such a captive audience and not for such
a thick looking cock. He works himself open methodically, deeply, Derek’s hands
holding his legs tight.
“I might need some help,” Stiles says, prying at Derek’s hand with his clean
fingers. “Think you could manage that?”
Derek’s verbal response is an affirmative grunt. Stiles pours lube over his
fingers and stares at his face, spellbound, as Derek moves until his fingers
rest next to his own. Derek presses in slowly and carefully, and Stiles just
wants to shock him into pushing harder. He rocks forward and back, sighing.
It’s good but not enough.
He’s relaxed now and more than ready, his own cock achingly hard. He wipes his
hands as best he can against the sheet and rolls and slicks the condom on Derek
with practiced ease. Derek raises up onto his elbows, craning forward as Stiles
positions himself above his cock. His face is so serious, so intent, that
Stiles wants to laugh at it. But the humor is punched out of him by the
sensation of Derek opening him up and all he can manage is a short, choked-off
noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper.
Derek, on the other hand, rumbles when Stiles is fully seated on him. He gazes
at Stiles as if he’s never seen anything like him before and blinks when Stiles
uses all of strength to lift up and then roll down. He adjusts position until
he’s only on one elbow so the other hand can grasp Stiles’ hip. That changes
the angle, and, oh, okay, that was an amazing decision on Derek’s part because
that minor shift makes a huge difference. Now every time Stiles rolls down onto
him, Derek’s cock unerringly strokes against his prostate and he doesn’t need
to look to know that precome is leaking out of him. It smears against his happy
trail and he’d take his hand to his cock, but, fuck, he needs to hold onto his
thighs or he’ll topple over.
Stiles has pictured and imagined this moment with concentration bordering on
the Rashomon effect. Every conceivable angle and perspective has been applied
to how this might go and he’s still never captured this, the slick slide of
their bodies together, the lazy way Derek keeps staring at him, the sound of
their flesh and their breaths and their exclamations. It’s so much better than
his imagination.
He’s full in the best way, clenching around Derek without meaning to. He starts
up a rhythm of ‘slow, slow, quick, quick, slow’, wonders if Derek will notice.
Derek mumbles, “tight” and then “hot”, but Stiles doesn’t think he’s talking to
him, the sound is so muffled. His legs are starting to burn and he can feel
sweat dripping down his forehead and into the dip of his lower back. He knows
he can’t keep this up forever. But it’s the best sensation in the world,
pushing down onto Derek, and he doesn’t think he can ever get enough.
There’s another shift in position, with Derek putting his feet flat against the
bed, his knees now bracketing Stiles’ ass. Stiles collapses forward with a
startled groan, making Derek laugh. He’d complain, but the sound reverberates
between them and words leave him. Seeing Derek so carefree does things to him -
-- inexplicably warm and fuzzy things. It feels perfectly natural to continue
riding Derek in this position, cock sliding against both of their abdomens. And
that. That is spectacular.
“I’m close,” he warns, rubbing his nose against Derek’s neck.
“I’ve been hoping you’d say that,” Derek replies, quiet and breathy. “Come for
me, Stiles, go on.”
Those words send him over the edge. He can’t control it. One second he’s close,
the next he’s gone, whole body tensing and shuddering. His cock spurts messily
all over Derek’s stomach and smears against his own when he can’t hold himself
up. His hole spasms around Derek’s cock and Stiles can hear himself chanting a
litany of “oh my God” and “Derek”, over and over. He can’t stop.
Stiles knows that Derek has wolfy stamina, but he didn’t think he’d solely been
waiting for him, so it’s a surprise when Derek comes with a shocky grunt, whole
body stilling. Stiles automatically thinks, that was me, I did that.. He flops
down again, grazing his teeth against Derek’s shoulder, enjoying the hand that
slides wetly up the nubs of his spine. It’s a comforting gesture, a
companionable one, and it makes Stiles wriggle against Derek before he realizes
he’s far too sensitive.
He slides off to the side and doesn’t say anything when Derek cleans them up.
He doesn’t know what to say other than “thank you” or “good morning” or some
other platitude.
If Derek notices Stiles’ panic, he doesn’t say anything either, just curls into
Stiles’ side and slides his arm under his back. He kisses Stiles’ cheek and
nuzzles into his temple, making Stiles want to tease him for being so cuddly.
“I think you’re the best worst decision I’ve ever made,” Derek says, quietly
enough Stiles could have imagined it.
He twists in Derek’s hold until they’re facing one another, drags his thumb
over Derek’s lower lip. His gaze flicks back up to Derek’s eyes. “I love you
too.”
*
Things aren’t always easy between them, they don’t suddenly stop making
mistakes, but Derek thinks they work well. It’s a relationship that feels hard-
won and Derek can’t help but revel in their combined victory.
The long distance nature of their relationship in their first year together is
an inconvenience, but it leads to some interesting Skype calls and sexting.
Stiles is creative in ways Derek will never be and it’s a large part of his
appeal. Derek continues attending therapy, though he lessens the frequency of
his visits. He occupies himself with making furniture that he sells through
Boyd’s parents’ shop, as well as taking care of pack business, finding that his
days usually feel too short.
When he and Stiles are together during Stiles’ break, they divide their time
equally into hanging out with the pack, sharing various interests (so many
movie nights, but Derek’s gotten his revenge by making Stiles hike), and
mapping one another’s bodies. It’s good in a way Derek never thought he’d have.
He’s happy, and for some reason, his happiness seems to spark Stiles’. They’ve
been told they can be annoyingly cute. Erica remains evil like that.
They don’t rush anything and they never make plans. If there’s one thing Derek
knows with certainty, it’s that plans have a tendency to go awry.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!