Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/484359.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Erica_Reyes, Ensemble
  Additional Tags:
      underage_cos_America_has_weird_laws, not_underage_for_brits, Derek's_POV,
      Fluff, oh_the_fluff, apologies_for_any_briticisms
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-12 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 20461
****** That Secret They All Know ******
by Salomonderiel
Summary
     Somewhere, somehow, along the line, Stiles went from being the human
     sidekick of his stupid beta, to someone he gives lifts to when
     there's torrential rain, to being the one who sleeps beside him on
     the couch.
     And god help him, but, for some reason he REALLY can't figure out -
     he doesn't seem to be doing much to stop this from happening.
     Fluff - 18,000 words of endless, grauitous fluff, with a tiny bit of
     angst and a nice bit of smut to round it all off.
Notes
     I've always been a sucker of developing relationships, and small
     little fluffy scenes. And, though I LOVE writing from Stiles' POV,
     decided to flip it up and write as Derek for a change.
     Beta'd by the luvely LucentPetrichor, bless 'er and her patience. God
     knows how many times she read some parts of this.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Some days, believe it or not, it was nice to just ignore that there were 5
teenagers he was responsible for probably destroying something somewhere,
ignorethere were people who wanted to kill him, and read about people killing
other people instead.
Today was one such day.
The sky was clear, sun shining, forest quiet, and if anyone stopped him
enjoying the day in peace and quiet, and from finishing his book, Derek would
rip their spine out through their chest with compunction and raw grin of sweet
revenge.
He might give them a second to run first.
He only set down the book one time since picking it up at nine that morning,
and that was to piss against a tree and then to grab the freezer bag of pre-
made sandwiches, chips and beer he’d bought from the store the day before.
Essentials. Within five minutes he was back to lying on the grass with the book
in one hand, food substances in the other.
The plan after that had been to read until he finished (and knowing his speed,
that wouldn’t be until late into the evening), but, of course, nothing in his
life had ever really gone as anyone had planned.
When he first heard the footsteps, with around a quarter of the book left, he
ignored them. Far enough away not to trouble him.
As they got louder and undeniably nearer, he decided to hope that whoever it
was, was just passing by. Common enough, after all – people still expected the
place to be uninhabited.
When it was no longer doubtable that the hiker in question was heading straight
for the Hale house, Derek scowled, and closed his eyes, resorting to
desperately hoping that if he didn’t move, they’d just step over him.
Perhaps if it had been someone as stupid as Jackson, or Scott, whose senses
were permanently dulled by the rose-scented haze he always walked around in. He
might even have had a chance if it was Allison, or her family. With the other
three leather-clad cubs, he could just yell ‘go’ and watch them grumble, turn
tail and slouch away.
But it had to be the one stubborn, idiotic person who would, quite literally,
trip over him.
He didn’t even need to look to see who it was; there was the distinct,
unmistakable scent or adderall, if the stumbling footsteps alone weren’t enough
to identify him by.
Stiles had run straight towards the front door, not looking where he was going,
and had managed to catch his foot on Derek’s ankle, sending him stumbling,
flying, flailing, and slamming into the railings of the steps.
Derek kept the idea that if he didn’t move, Stiles wouldn’t see him.
“Shit yaaaaaaaarhooh that’s gonna leave a bruise,” came the steady stream of
moans and curious anecdotes about the fall, and grass being crushed as Stiles
hopped about, leg lifted up so he could prod his calf. Hidden behind the book,
Derek rolled his eyes. “But – dude what the hell are you doing on the floor?”
Plan foiled. Derek resorted to default. He lowered the book and rolled his head
to the side, staring at Stiles blandly. The boy stared back, eyes wide and
hopeful for an answer that really wasn’t coming.
“Okay fine, but really, like, cordon yourself off next time or something, put
up a sign, ‘Warning, Sour-Wolf-Strewn Floor, Tread With Care’, yeah?” The way
he was waving his arms did nothing to make the comment sound at all serious.
Derek pointedly didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, keeping eye contact, he said,
each word carefully enunciated, “What do you want, Stiles.”
Stiles blinked, pursed his lips, shifted his weight, moved his arms before
putting them back exactly as they had been and even looked around before
finally saying, “Um, I was, just looking for Scott?”
Derek wasn’t sure if the way it was phrased as a question made him despair, or
want to smile. “You sure?” he couldn’t stop himself asking.
“Um... yes?”
His lips twitched at the purposeful doubt in Stiles’ tone. He didn’t have the
control to stop it, only enough to return his face to his usual blank
expression immediately after.
“Anyway, he’s not at home, he’s not with Allison, he’s not training, sooooo...
I was thinking he might be here?”
Still with the questions? Derek raised his eyebrows.
“And... I’m going to take an educated, calculated guess that he isn’t. Unless,
y’know, you’ve killed him and buried him somewhere...” Stiles cleared his
throat, clapped his hands together and turned away quickly again. As he was,
delightfully awkwardly, looking in the other direction, Derek let himself grin.
Stiles grinned, still delightfully awkward, and looked back to Derek, who
schooled his expression again. “Heh – you haven’t, have you?”
That didn’t merit an answer. Didn’t need one. He just raised an eyebrow, loving
the reaction Stiles gave.
There was a moment’s silence, whilst Stiles just looked half terrified, half
exasperated, and Derek just drank it in, before Stiles shook himself and said,
more confident and desperate, “Look, do you know where he is?”
“Why would I know where he is, I’m not his babysitter.”
“But he’s like a kitten! A very, very stupid kitten! Or a hamster, one that
chews through the live wire with really freaky accuracy! He needs constant
intelligent-person supervision! We can’t just let him go out into the scary,
scary world alone!” He was almost wailing.
“I’m not his babysitter,” Derek repeated. Perhaps repetition might make it sink
in. And, going by the bitchface Stiles was now giving him, it had. He tried for
an innocent expression, and the glare he was getting just strengthened. Part of
him wanted to smile, laugh, beam with victory. Because – and this was something
he was determinedly not analysing – provoking reactions from Stiles was
honestly one of the joys in his life.
He waited, expecting Stiles to storm off now he’d realised how little help
Derek would be. But he didn’t. Rather, his eyes focused on the book in Derek’s
hands, frowning at them, then widening ridiculously. You’d think Derek was
reading the original Declaration of Independence. Or worse, Twilight. “Wait –
hold on – holy mother, you’re reading a book!”
“Reading? No, I’m practising the evil eye. The paper should erupt into boils
any second now.”
“I didn’t know you read?”
Derek gave him the ‘you’re an idiot’ look that Stiles fully deserved. “Have you
ever seen a TV in there?” he asked, nodding towards the house. “What do you
think I do all day?”
“To be honest?” Stiles shrugged, mouth tilting upside down. “Sat around looking
broody. Practise makes perfect, am I right? That, or looked into the mirror
practising ‘grrr I shall eat you when you least expect it’ faces,” he added,
pulling a face and batting at the air with clawed hands. He straightened up,
and said, completely seriously, “because really, if you’re that good at it
naturally, something is wrong.”
Derek stared at him for a full ten seconds. Stiles stared back, unblinking,
unflinching – even grinning.
When had Stiles gone from looking at him like a stranger to fear, to... well...
like that?
Derek sighed, rolling his head away and said, “Scott went into town to buy
something for Allison, it’s their anniversary next week. Don’t ask me how I
know, that I know is wounding enough. Go.”
“Yep, good, thank you, au revoir, adieu-”
“Go.”
Stiles laughed, starting to walk away from the house. Derek forced his eyes to
fix back onto the page as Stiles came closer. With a huff off breath, Stiles
jumped over Derek’s legs, and jogged off into the forest. “Enjoy your book!” he
yelled.
Derek rolled his eyes, and looked away from the steadily vanishing back of the
teenage and back to his book. As he slipped back into the story, and his
concentration faded, he started to smile.
**
It was pissing it down. If he had any common sense, he’d have pulled over long
ago and waited for it to pass, just wait at the side of the road, like every
other car he’d passed was doing. To drive in this, especially through a
populated town centre, was stupid.
Stupid, if you weren’t an over-confident, quick-healing and remarkably stubborn
werewolf with quick reflexes.
Which Derek was. He was man enough to admit it.
He also had a few gallon of milk in the back, and several crates of eggs, which
he needed to get to the cold cellars beneath his house. Not counting how the
natural temperature everywhere just then couldn’t be above 23 degrees F.
He’d always liked rain. He’d liked the coolness of the water, the protection of
it, the blurring and the shadows. That probably said something about himself,
but he wasn’t really willing to analyse it.
And besides, he told himself, he wasn’t really risking anything anyway. The
streets were almost utterly empty, and the school probably wasn’t even open. He
doubted anyone was even out of bed in this weather, let alone driving.
Yet – apparently – someone was.
Stunned, not quite able to believe anyone was that stupid, Derek stared at the
shadow huddled beneath the bus stop sign, muttering criticisms under his
breath. They weren’t even in a car. They were just standing there, when it was
pouring down, in minus temperatures – whoever it was, was just asking for-
Stiles.
It was Stiles.
With a moan, Derek slammed his head into the back of his seat, before slamming
on the break, skidding to a stop just before the bus stop. A small tidal wave
of water washed over the sidewalk, forcing Stiles, in his fucking thin hoodie
and pumps, to step back. Swearing under his breath, Derek wound down the
window. “Get in!” he yelled, eyes narrowing as freezing water started to spray
inside the car.
Stiles just stared at him.
Sometimes, Derek just had to stop and wonder how any of them were still alive.
Really. How.
“Get. In,” he repeated, pointing at first at Stiles, then the passenger seat.
You could see each and every emotion flash across Stiles’ face as he realised
what Derek was saying. Finally, after a minute’s thinking – a whole minute, for
crying out loud, in which he slowly got closer to getting pneumonia – Stiles
shoved his rucksack higher up his shoulder and ran around the car, flinging the
door open and diving in. He sprawled across the seat, legs knotted, arms
flailing for balance and rucksack trapped beneath him, before he managed to
stay balanced long enough to grab the door handle and tug it shut.
Derek gave him a few minutes to pant, wriggle off his bag and get upright,
before saying, “What the hell were you doing?”
“Getting to school, it’s kinda something us teenagers do, yanno, we can’t all
sit around-”
“I meant,” Derek said, interrupting before Stiles became unstoppable, “What
were you doing out there. In the rain. And the minus temperatures.”
“Um, waiting for the bus,” Stiles said, shaking himself like a dog (and the
irony wasn’t lost on Derek) before turning and giving him a look that made it
clear who Stiles thought the idiot here really was.
Somehow, he didn’t seem to think it was the one who was soaking wet.
Derek matched the stare easily. He’d had practise. “Why.”
A flash of embarrassment covered Stiles’ features for a second, and the stare
was replaced with a grimace. If it had been anyone else, Derek would have felt
a warm pride at that – but he didn’t, not with Stiles, soaking wet and quite
possibly getting ill. “Jeep’s broken,” Stiles admitted, sheepishly.
“Apparently, her chasse didn’t like all the off-terrain driving I’ve been doing
recently.” Chasing after you werewolves. He didn’t say it – it was too obvious,
and made Derek feel a flash of guilt all the same.
“It’s a jeep,” he couldn’t help but say. “Aren’t jeeps meant to be good with
off-terrain?”
“It’s an old jeep,” Stiles corrected, one finger waving, the other trying to
brush water from his head. “Old jeeps aren’t good with anything. It’s amazing I
can get to school in that thing without it deciding to lie down and die.”
Okay, that Derek couldn’t argue with. “Couldn’t your dad give you a lift?”
“Nah, he’s got to get up early at the moment,” Stiles said. He’d given up
trying to dry himself, leaving water droplets covering him, face shining
slightly in the weak car light.
There was one droplet of water that was clinging to Stiles’ lower lip, shining,
resting on the curve at the corner of his mouth. As Stiles grinned, smiled,
pouted, talked, it moved, occasionally sliding across the rough red skin,
leaving it shining. And Derek’s eyes seemed to be fixed on it.
With an internal moan, and thought of for fuck’s sake what are youdoing, Derek
forced himself to look at Stiles’ eyes. And his eyes only.
...that wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be.
“So rather than calling up someone else, say, Scott, you decided you’d try and
catch pneumonia instead?” he asked, mouth moving in self-preservation. Keep the
conversation going. Keep focused on something else. Yeah, that should work.
Stiles opened his mouth. And shut it again. Grinning shamelessly, Derek raised
an eyebrow, expressing amusement at how Stiles was wordless. Stiles pulled a
face back, and Derek couldn’t stop himself laughing, once, short and quiet,
eyes flicking outside quickly.
“It didn’t occur to me, okay?” Stiles said stubbornly. “I have a little problem
with focusing, in case you hadn’t noticed!”
“Oh trust me, I’ve noticed,” Derek said, grin still in place. He looked back at
Stiles, to find the kid watching him still, lips formed into a pout, drop still
clinging; he could just swipe his thumb... or tongue- 
Eyes! Look at the eyes, for crying out loud!
He shoved his gaze up to Stiles’ eyes, and hoped the kid would start wittering,
or take offence, or something. But he wasn’t saying anything. He was... sitting
there, dripping on Derek’s seat, pouting mouth falling limp, eyes wide and, and
stunned, and why was he stunned, he wasn’t the twenty two year old with a
teenager dripping in their car when they could have, should have easily driven
right by...
This train of thought was doing nothing good.
Suddenly, Stiles was blinking, clearing his throat, and looking away, out of
the window. He finally – finally – started talking. “What are you doing out in
the rain, then, if it’s such a stupid thing to be doing?” he said, and though
it was clear he was trying to sounds accusatory, he just sounded like a stroppy
kid.
Able to focus again – kind of – Derek smirked. “First off, I’m in a car. That’s
not being stupid.” Well, it was, he’d thought as much earlier – but Stiles
wasn’t going to know that. “And I needed to do a groceries run.” He shoved a
thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the bag of what was, he realised, now
probably gradually solidifying milk. This kid fucked with everything in Derek’s
life.
Twisting his whole body around, Stiles peered into the back seat. His mouth
fell open at the sight of the brown paper bag – and consequently, the drop of
water finally lost its grip and fell. Derek most determinedly was not
disappointed. “You buy groceries?”
For a second or two, Derek’s brain whirred away blankly, before something
clicked into place. “Ohhh,” he half growled, head rolling to the side, “let me
guess – you thought I ate wild hares and dormice and elk and deer I hunted
myself, cooked over a blazing campfire whilst I howled at the moon and brooded
in the shadows?”
“Kinda, yeah,” Stiles said. He didn’t even sound repentant about it.
Derek sighed out, eyes rising heavenwards. “Why do you all seem to think I’m
some kind of dark, mysterious hobo?” he asked.
Stiles’ light chuckle dragged Derek’s gaze across to him. He was grinning
widely, eyes shining. “Cos, dude, you really kinda are,” he said.
His grin was infectious. Derek could feel it, worming its way onto his face
too, a warm glow in his chest that felt like happiness. That wasn’t on. He
would not grin back.
He briefly wrestled with it, before letting his lips twitch once. After that,
the scowl regained control. And now, time for a change in topic, so he didn’t
have to see that grin.
“School, you said?” Derek asked, hands reaching back for the gearstick and
steering wheel. Driving was a reasonable distraction.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said.
Curtly, all attention currently spent on trying to remember how to get to the
school, Derek nodded and kicked the car into gear, pulling away.
Neither of them really spoke on the journey – it wasn’t all that long anyway,
and Derek needed to focus on not crashing, or losing the road in the monsoon,
and Stiles... Stiles was just being silent. For the life of him, Derek couldn’t
think why. Had he freaked him out? He didn’t think Stiles was still scared of
him. He should still be scared of him, of course, he was dangerous, but –
Shut up, Derek.
It took fifteen minutes to get across the town to the school, with the roads so
clear. The area around the front of the school was slightly busier, buses and
cars pulled up to let the kids out, running with bags over their heads, the
folders of less interesting subjects being used as makeshift umbrellas as they
sprinted to cover. The moment the car stopped, Stiles grabbed his bag and
reached for the door handle, but Derek – and part of him was questioning every
movement he made – grabbed Stiles’ upper arm, holding him in place.
Stiles just sighed, sitting back. “You’ve really got to stop the with
manhandling, it’s a little bit-”
“When’s your car gonna be fixed?” Derek asked sharply. He was on a no-parking
zone; he didn’t have time for Stiles’ mini essays.
“I don’t know, I think Thursday, why?”
“I’ll give you a lift tomorrow, okay?”
“...You will?”
I will? Oh, because this can only end well.
Look. Stiles is – because he’s Scott’s best friend – he’s part of the pack.
Under the alpha’s protection. That means not letting the kid get pneumonia.
Right?
“I will,” Derek said, voice sounding determined in a way that slightly stunned
even him.
Stiles stared at him for a full minute, eyes wide. Derek half wanted to take a
picture of them, to analyse them later, because right then? Fuck knows what
Stiles was thinking. “Okay,” he said eventually, nodding his head sharply.
“Sure. Wait, do you know where – of course you do, you come into my bedro-
right okay! Well see you tomorrow, eight-thirty, thanks!”
And with a half forced grin, and a sudden tug that broke Derek’s grip on his
arm, Stiles flung his bag over his shoulder and dived out of the car, door
slamming shut behind him in the wind.
For what was most probably too long, Derek didn’t move, just watched Stiles
through the window, hood up, barely jogging through the rain towards the
school. Scott appeared, running up to Stiles and Derek didn’t miss how his
beta’s eyes settled on his car.
He couldn’t stop himself. He eavesdropped, shamelessly.
“Dude, what were you doing in Derek’s car?”
“I was wet, he gave me a lift. C’mon, let’s-”
“But Derek!”
“He was just giving me alift, okay? Sheesh! And can wepleaseget out of the rain
now?”
Stiles was grabbing Scott’s elbow, forcibly dragging his friend towards the
warmth of the school. And Derek decided that was his cue to leave.
He almost ran over a domestic cat on the way back, so engrossed in trying to
figure out the cause of every nuance in Stiles’ tone of voice. Swearing at
himself, he forced himself to focus on the road.
Two minutes later, and he was trying to understand Stiles’ smiles.
*
The next day, when he turned up outside the Stilinski’s house, Stiles was
waiting for him on the porch.
Nothing in the world could have stopped Derek smiling then. Stiles grinned
back, before swinging his bag over his shoulder, and sprinting to the Camaro
through the rain.
**
Stiles – being Stiles – had left his sports bag in the back of Derek’s car, on
the third and final day of using the camaro as a taxi.
Derek realised it as soon as he got back to the rubble that, yes, he still
insisted on calling a house. Got out the car, locked it, and somehow still
managed to have enough mental capacity after sitting in a car that stank of
Stiles for half an hour to check there wasn’t anything left in it – and lo,
there it was, sitting innocently on his back seat.
He took it into the house, put it on the couch and sat staring at it.
It meant, he assumed, that either Stiles would come to get it, when his car was
fixed. Whenever that was.
Or, he could, of course, go give it to Stiles now.
But it would be dangerous to go to Stiles’ house. His dad was the sheriff, and
even though Derek had been cleared, he didn’t quite think the dad would be all
that jazzed if he showed up with a bag full of Stiles’ used clothes.
On the other hand... lacrosse was important to Stiles, and he might worry about
having lost his kit... all those pads and things couldn’t be cheap...
With a sudden burst of decision, Derek rose to his feet, grabbed the bag, and
headed straight back to his car.
The journey to the Stilinski house consisted of him swearing at himself,
pulling over, turning around, and then making illegal U-turns to make his way
back into Beacon Hills, to Stiles...
No, wait, to Stiles’ house, not just to Stiles, he wasn’t that...
...yeah, okay, perhaps he was.
By the time he actually arrived, it was almost pitch black, so he deemed it
safe enough to park out the front.
On the other side of the road, of course. He wasn’t stupid.
And he definitely wasn’t stupid enough to ring the front door.
So, naturally, he found himself on the space of the roof exactly above Stiles’
window.
Looping the bag over his shoulder, he grabbed the edge of the roof and swung
himself through the window, just open enough for him to slip through and land
nimbly on the desk. Not open enough for the bag to fit through as well as him.
He didn’t drop it, but as it got caught he did have a moment of thinking it had
wrenched his shoulder from its socket. He muffled his curse, and wincing,
twisted around to push the window open further. His back wasn’t meant to bend
this way, but it was this, or fall backwards through the window.
By the time he managed it, he was really starting to hate the bag. And the
window.
And Stiles, for leaving his fucking stuff in Derek’s car in the first place.
Yeah, he really hated Stiles.
Stiles wasn’t laughing at him, he realised, as he threw the bag onto the floor.
Which could only mean Stiles wasn’t there. There was no way Stiles would pass
up such an easy opportunity to mock him.
He was... yeah, he was disappointed. Even if he was the one being laughed at,
it meant that Stiles was having a good time, thanks to him. He could survive
being laughed at. And then there was always telling Stiles to shut up, Stiles
replying with ridiculous sarcasm, the inventive yet utterly pointless threats,
and they’d part half-scowling, half-laughing, and Derek would already be
planning how to make it happen all over again.
But Stiles wasn’t here, and that wasn’t going to happen...
...unless he waited for him?
That sounded... tempting.
He’d done it before, waited in the corner of the room until Stiles had
appeared. But he’d had a real reason then, life-or-death situation, and... and
he’s Stiles’ friend now, isn’t he? Surely that means he can stay and say a word
or two, rather than drop the bag and run?
He stood there, the middle of the room, waiting, undecided, until he heard
footsteps on the stairs.
With a sudden rush of fear, he threw the bag onto the bed and jumped onto the
desk and out of the window, swinging himself back up onto the roof, where he’d
been lying minutes before.
He lay there, breathless and terrified, waiting to hear Stiles find his bag. He
couldn’t quite explain why, he just felt like he should. To check that he finds
it?
Finds it? Derek had dumped it on the middle of the kid’s bed.
But still, he lay there, on the roof, eyes closed and listening.
He heard the shuffled footsteps and the yawn as Stiles entered the room, and
the click of the door behind him. Something – a book, perhaps – landed on the
desk. He was tired, heart slow, breathing deeply, and Derek could catch the
sharp intake of breath as he turned and saw the bag on his desk. His feet
shuffled on the spot, and there was a pause – he’d guess that Stiles was
looking around the room.
“Wha- how – uhhh...” he was walking now, around the room, pulling open
cupboards like he expected Derek to be hiding in one of them, like fucking Mr
Tumnus. Derek’s lips twitched, and, almost unconsciously, he found himself
shifting, moving his weight, hands behind his head and legs bent, getting
comfortable.
“You... oh, that’s just so fucking typical, I swear you’re just some figment of
my frigging imagination, because this is fucking ridiculous – DEREK I swear to
GOD YOU MUST BE HERE SOMEWHERE-”
Derek rolled inwards just in time, as Stiles flung his window further open and
shoved his head out, looking, of course, straight up first of all. To his
slight surprise, Derek found himself laughing silently, his whole body shaking
on the roof tiles.
Beneath him, he heard Stiles sigh, the wood creaking as he tightened his grip
on the window sill.
“Oh, no, of course not,” he muttered, and he stepped back inside, closing the
window properly. Derek could still him perfectly, now on his side, ear pressed
down. “Forget werewolf, more like ghost, poltergeist, just appear then fuck off
again, if he’s ever here at all or gets the fucking woodland creatures to do it
all for him, because God forbid he ever actually lets himself be seen, oh no
that wouldn’t do it’s all cryptic messages and random appearances and living in
the shadows because sunlight and human contact is poisonous, oh no Ican’t be
normal and not-creepy and not fucking mysterious man because I’m DEREK FUCKING
HALE-”
“STILES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, SOME OF US ACTUALLY WANT TO SLEEP-”
“SORRY DAD! SEE YOU TOMORROW!”
“I’VE GOT TO GET UP EARLY AGAIN, DON’T FORGET, YOU’RE MAKING BREAKFAST FOR ONE
AGAIN!”
“I KNOW! NOW SHUT UP, SOME OF US ACTUALLY WANT TO SLEEP!”
Derek heard the dad chuckle, a few rooms away, and Stiles laugh once, under his
breath, before he started to move again. He wasn’t saying anything now, his
heart rate slowing, breathing getting softer, slower, and material rustling as
he got changed into his pyjamas. Rustle of pages, as he opened a book, and the
creak of bedsprings as Stiles fell backwards onto the bed. Creaking and even
more rustling and even some muttered swearing as he, no doubt, tried to get
under the duvet he’d just landed on.
Then it was silent, just deep breathing, and the occasional page turning.
It was a peaceful sound to listen to.
And, somehow, Derek found himself lying on his back, right above Stiles’ room,
listening to it until the final page turned, the book was set down, and the
click of the light switch sounded.
The click was the first noise that really marked the passing of time since he’d
first lie down. He prised his eyes open to see a thin sliver of moon high above
him. He’d been there far, far too long. Listening to a kid at least five years
younger read. In bed.
Oh god, he was such a stalker...
This wasn’t going to become a thing. No. No. He had limits,dammit!
With a sigh, he pressed the base of his palms into his eyes, rubbed his face,
and pushed himself up. He landed noiselessly on the grass, and walked, half-
asleep, back to his car.
Back in his own bed, at home, when he tried to sleep – the world felt horribly
quiet.
**
It was almost ridiculous how tuned-in to that scent Derek was, that he could
tell that he was in his house, even whilst driving towards his house through
the road through the centre of a herb-filled forest, with garlic bread on the
seat beside him, in a car very recently filled with gasoline.
Okay, perhaps a bit more than ridiculous.
But it meant he wasn’t surprised by the old blue jeep, and could carefully pull
up alongside it rather than swerve and try not to actually crash into it, which
he’d done with Scott’s car once.
Slightly confused – okay, let’s be honest here, a lot confused – Derek looked
across to the clock in the dashboard, frowning at the small LED numbers that
were definitely telling him it was half eleven at night. Half eleven, and he
had Stiles’ car outside his house and Stiles himself inside it.
He didn’t bother trying to come up with a reason as to why. He’d learnt by now
that trying to understand Stiles’ thought processes was more than a bit
ridiculous. He didn’t waste time, just grabbed the bag, shoved the bit of
garlic bread he’d been nibbling on into his mouth, and headed in.
He dropped the bag in the hallway, tools he’d bought clunking as they hit each
other and the floor, and listened, expecting yells of... who knows, something,
or footsteps jumping about to escape from where Stiles was stealing his books,
or... gods knew, actually.
He didn’t hear any of that, anyway. He heard snoring.
Truly frowning now, Derek walked, quietly as he could, into the blackened area
he’d re-christened as the lounge by putting a second hand sofa in it.
Said sofa was now occupied by a snoring Stiles Stilinski.
And apparently he slept like he did everything else – loudly, and taking up as
much space as he could. He was lying on a couch in a way that, if it was anyone
else, would be classed as defying gravity. But somehow, Stiles was managing to
hold on in a strange kind of balance – one leg hanging off the front, an arm
over the back, head resting almost impossibly on the very edge of the arm rest.
The only limb that looked vaguely logical was the hand lying on his chest, half
curled, relaxed, rising and falling as he breathed.
And he was smiling.
It was... yeah, it was kinda cute.
When he snored, his whole face scrunched up, eyes tightening, nose wrinkling,
the corners of his lips twitching upwards. Then, as if someone had clicked
rewind, his face smoothed out, relaxing, looking calmer that Derek had ever
seen him. The distractions and frantic movement that usually defined the boy in
the day weren’t there as he dreamt.
It made Derek smile.
He walked around the side of the couch, and crouched beside him. He reached out
a hand, fingers hovering over Stiles’ face, meaning to rest his hand there
lightly to try and wake him up, before he remembered – he’s not allowed to do
that. The smile fell from his face, momentarily, before he let his hand settle
on the sleeping kid’s shoulder, instead. “Hey, Stiles,” he muttered, gently
nudging his shoulder, “C’mon, wake up...”
“Mmm...”
“C’mon Stiles, up you get...”
He didn’t open his eyes, rather scrunched them tighter. “Der’k?” he managed to
mutter, through lips that barely opened.
Derek smiled. “Yeah, Derek. Mind telling me why you’re sleeping on my couch?”
Stiles rolled outwards, towards the edge, and the hand on the back fell down to
press against his eyes. “I was... I was...” 
He slipped slightly, and Derek put a hand against his side, lightly pushing him
back into the centre of the sofa. Stiles didn’t even respond. “Was looking
for...”
Things started to make sense now. “Scott?” Derek suggested.
Stiles made some low humming noise as he stretched and rolled over to face
Derek, that Derek took as an affirmation. He had to push Stiles back up the
couch again, to stop him falling off. Stiles’ hand moved, lightly resting
against Derek’s wrist where it rested against his hip. “G’t tired...” he
breathed, heart rate slow, and eyes relaxing again. His hand slipped, brushing
along Derek’s forearm.
Derek’s thumb was moving of its own accord, rubbing at Stiles’ side, a soft
circle against the cotton of the top and the hipbone beneath. He stayed
perfectly still, hand in place, thumb brushing, and Stiles’ hand on his arm,
until Stiles snored quietly. Then he carefully pulled his arm back, leaving
Stiles’ hand to fall back against his own chest, as he pushed himself to his
feet and stepped back.
He looked around the empty room, the holes in the walls, and made up his mind.
Over the past few days, he’d started to buy in essentials, logical things, and
fill up the cupboards and shelves with them. What he wanted now, he was sure
he’d put in the small cupboard by the back of the stairs, and he had to push
rifles and soup cans and a deflated air mattress to the side before he finally
found it.
It was thin and worn, from a charity shop, but it’d work well enough.
When he returned to the lounge, Stiles was already half off the couch again,
snoring loudly and smiling widely. A foot was twitching, and goosebumps were
starting to show on his arm. Derek let the blanket fall open, and draped it
across him. Guessing Stiles wouldn’t like to be trapped inside it, he didn’t
tuck it in, just contented himself to lifting the lose leg back onto the couch,
and pushing him right to the back.
Hopefully, he’s stay on now.
He let his hand linger on Stiles’ shoulder again, and muttered, “Sleep well,”
before heading upstairs to his own bed. Well, mattress. He’d tried his bed.
It’d collapsed beneath him. That was something for his next trip to Ikea.
He kept his ears open for a thud throughout the night, just in case. And it
occurred to him, and he slipped into sleep himself, ears intently focused on
the slow breathing of the boy on the floor below, that this was the sound he’d
been missing for the past seven nights.
*
He was up a dawn. Always was, always would be, most likely. He woke up, and let
his plans for the day fill his head before he opened his eyes, and fell off the
thick mattress rather than elegantly rise from it.
Bed. Top of the list.
Full moon tonight, so perhaps check in on the pack. Lydia too, in case? Maybe.
See about getting a generator, before getting a more permanent source of
electricity.
Fridge. Fruit juice and milk and cheese. Microwave. Toaster. Marmalade.
Poptarts.
Perhaps look about getting running hotwater, too.
He was halfway down the stairs, buttoning up his jeans and top hanging over his
arm before he remembered the teenager asleep on his couch. Even then, he only
remembered because he finally heard the thump he’d been up half the night
waiting for.
“Gah- awww, ow, fu-uh-uck.”
Derek grinned, and headed into the kitchen. He grabbed an apple from the box of
fruit he replenished daily, and, after thinking, grabbed a banana. He stuck the
apple in his mouth, and headed to where Stiles was still swearing. He leant on
the doorway, smirking to himself as he watched the kid half-wrestle with the
blanket as he tried to get upright. It took a good few seconds before he was on
his feet and standing tall.
Well, as tall as he could get.
Derek bit loudly into the apple. He grinned between chews as Stiles literally
jumped, and spun around. It was all made ten times better by how he somehow
managed to get his feet tangled up in the blanket and almost fall over again.
That grin stayed firmly in place as he bit into the apple a second time,
enjoying having Stiles staring at him in shock. “Good morning,” he said.
Stiles scowled. “Did no one tell you it’s rude to eat with your mouth full?”
“Not a morning person, then,” Derek mused, before swallowing and taking another
bite. He knew he should probably say something, but, well... it was more fun
letting Stiles’ tongue run off without him.
“Not a morning person? Oh, I’m an amazing morning person! I stun people with my
perfection in mornings! I’m Einstein before the sun rises! But, yanno, falling
off someone else’s couch onto an ashy and splinter-filled floor whilst cocooned
in a blanket tends to put a bit of cramp in waking up. Or is that just me?”
Wordlessly, Derek held out the banana. Stiles’ face lit up, as he stepped
forwards to grab it. “Thanks!” he said cheerfully, splitting the end and
peeling it all the way open. Derek snorted at the now familiar inconsistency to
Stiles’ moods.
A few seconds were just spent chewing in silence, before Stiles swallowed a
huge mouthful noisily (no surprises there) and began, close to awkwardly, “Um,
last night, I was, um-”
“Looking for Scott, you told me,” Derek nodded, spitting apple pips out of his
mouth and biting into the core.
“Oh, dude, seriously the whole thing?” Stiles moaned.
“Waste not, want not,” Derek replied carelessly. He’d been brought up to eat
everything put before him. He wasn’t gonna change that habit soon, not even for
Stiles.
“Why am I really not all that surprised... anyway, um – wait, I told you that?”
“Kinda,” Derek said. “You were almost asleep at the time.”
He watched as Stiles’ eyes drifted across to the sofa, frowning. “Oh, yeah,” he
muttered, and Derek assumed he’d remembered. “Yeah!” he repeated, louder, and
most definitely offensive, as a finger swung in Derek’s direction. He raised an
eyebrow, eyes staring first at the finger, then up at Stiles. The kid didn’t so
much as swallow with fear as he continued, “Where were you last night? I waited
for hours on that couch! Well, okay, perhaps an hour. Half an hour-”
“I was out in the forest, perfecting my creeper brooding skills,” Derek said,
deadpan. Stiles stared at him, silenced.
And then he laughed.
Warmth coursed through Derek, and he smiled back as he watched Stiles have to
lean against the armrest on the couch to stay upright. Strangely content, he
held the apple stalk between his teeth as he pulled on his top, world blacking
out momentarily, save for Stiles’ laughter. When he could see again, he took
the stalk from his mouth and asked, “Why did you think Scott would be here,
anyway?”
Stiles’ laughter drifted into a chuckle before stopping, and he looked at Derek
blankly, smile lingering. “What?” he asked, confused.
“Scott. Here. Why you think so?” Derek rephrased, absently shoving the pips and
stalk into his pocket to be binned later.
He hadn’t expected the question to throw Stiles so off-kilter, but it had. He
was stuttering, eyes darting all over the place as he tried to answer. “Well,
um – it’s the full moon tonight, isn’t it?” he said eventually.
“Correct, now keep going.”
“Well, I thought you might have some kinda, yanno, “pack meeting” or something-
” and yes, he made quotation marks with his hands, which really shouldn’t be
that cute “- to prepare or some shit and give helpful tips on control like, if
you remember, you definitely said you would, though admittedly that was a while
ago now-”
“Pack meetings?” Derek echoed, knowing that if he let Stiles continue, he’d
just keep going. “We don’t have pack meetings.”
Stiles scowled, hands frozen mid-wave from when he’d been talking. “Well you
should. Pack meetings. Get on it.”
“It sounds like a ridiculous idea.”
“It’s not! It’s not, and you know it – you all always say that, and yet, my
ideas always turn out brilliantly. You should all just accept that my ideas are
awesome. Would save time.”
“Mm-hm, right, yes,” Derek said, nodding along with the rant, lips curled,
quite happily watching Stiles go on and on. Stiles nodded too, and kept going,
and, somehow, the two of them caught each other’s eye, and smiles split into
grins.
Stiles broke first, chuckling, stopping the endless nodding and looking away.
“Does – does your dad know you stayed out overnight?” Derek asked, grabbing for
the nearest floating conversation topic.
“No, because Ididn’t know – holy mother of shit, dad!” Stiles all but howled,
clawing at his pocket and then undeniably screeching upon finding it empty. “My
cell, did you see my cell last night?”
Derek shook his head, smiling all over again. In fact, had he even stopped,
yet?
“Ahhhhh oh god oh god he’s gonna murder me – I’ll get Scott as an alibi, yeah,
I’ll do that – Must have left my phone at home, I think-”
“Go,” Derek ordered, tilting his head towards the door, grinning at the frantic
scrabbling Stiles was doing, trying to move fast but not quite getting the limb
co-ordination right. As the teen managed to move past him, moving almost fast,
he shoved the banana skin into Derek’s hand, and vanished with a yell of,
“Thank you!”
“See you soon, Stiles,” Derek called back, and his smiled widened even more(and
seriously, how was that even possible) as Stiles waved back over his shoulder,
swinging himself into the blue jeep.
Derek waited until the blue jeep vanished through the trees before chucking the
banana skin, pips and stalk out into the forest, all the time considering what
he’d said. See you soon...
Because it was starting to sink in that, yeah, perhaps Stiles was becoming a
permanent fixture in his life, along with Scott, Jackson, Isaac, Erica, Boyd –
his strange excuse for a pack. And, if he couldn’t have Stiles in quite the way
he wanted to – he could settle for that friendship, for the hope that came with
it.
Turning back inside, smiling fading to something softer than the grin Stiles
had put there, his eyes drifted to the floor. Ashy and splinter filled? Seemed
like sanding the floor was climbing its way up his list of things to do.
He picked up the bag he’d abandoned last night and carried it to his newly
appointed workshop, and started to organise the news tools he’d bought. He’d go
to the DIY store that afternoon, get a sander.
And, at the back of his mind, ideas for the pack meetings started to form...
**
Derek didn’t tell Stiles about it face-to-face. He knew the smugness would kill
him.
Calling him wasn’t much better.
“Sorry, sorry, just say that again?”
Derek gritted his teeth, and let his claws bite into table he was leaning on.
“Get. Your ass. Over here. On Saturday.”
“No, no, it was the other bit, what was that phrase you used, again...
something about some kind of get-together... just tell me it again.”
He wasn’t getting out of this, he really wasn’t. Rolling his eyes heavenwards,
and desperately trying to remember what he saw in the guy, he growled out,
“Pre-full moon pack meeting.”
There was a victorious click of fingers on the other end of the line. “That was
it! Hm, it sounds so familiar...”
“Stiles,” Derek growled. Wood started to chip away in his grip.
Through the phone, he heard Stiles’ heart rate spike. Fear, he supposed, and he
smiled vindictively. “Okay, okay, fine, sourwolf. I was just joking.”
“And Iwas just planning how best to disembowel you if you’re still carrying on
with the ‘I told you so’ spiel on Saturday,” Derek growled back.
He was having serious problems with talking legibly. His fangs were pushing
against his gums almost painfully, a result of a far too long list of factors
including an impending full moon, chewed-through cables, moths in his only –
and new – wardrobe, a plumber who couldn’t have an IQ above ten, and now,
Stilinski. If it was possible to kill someone through a phone, he’d be doing so
there and then.
Rather than showing more signs of fear, like Derek was hoping for, Stiles
chuckled.
Derek closed his eyes. His hands relaxed on the table, and his mouth stopped
hurting. He breathed out, slowly.
His mouth even twitched into a smile.
“Please, you disembowel me, and Scott – even though he’s the biggest dumbass in
this pack of ours – will hand you over to my dad the sheriff so quick your tail
will fall out your little furry arse,” Stiles chuckled. Distantly, Derek could
hear the squeak of the desk chair as Stiles spun around.
With a final heavenward glance, Derek gave in, and smiled. “A werewolf can
dream,” he protested, lifting up his hand to try and prize out the wood
splinters that had got lodged beneath his nails.
“Sure thing, Fido. You sort out the entertainment, I’ll bring the whiskey and
curly fries!”
“And Scott!” Derek desperately yelled, but it was no use, he could hear Stiles
laughing into the phone, pulling it away from his face. “Make sure Scott
comes!”
“Yeah, yeah, wolfman. See you then!”
And he hung up.
Derek stared at the phone in his hands for a while, thoroughly exasperated. He
had a dreadful feeling this pre-full moon meeting really wasn’t going to go as
he’d planned. Eventually, he slipped it into his pockets, and turned his
attention to his nails. To go from ready-to-kill to calm that quickly... he
hadn’t shown that much control since... before. Before everything.
And that was... good?
Yeah. Let’s go with good.
*
When Stiles showed up, 5 o’clock Saturday night with Scott and two bags filled
purely with alcohol and bags of skittles, Derek will forever maintain he was
completely entitled to grab Stiles by the collar and shove him up against the
wall. Scott’s protests don’t hold up, as Derek’s not even sure he knows what
‘hyperbolic’ means.
“This isn’t a fucking frat house, Stiles!”
“Whoa, hey, I know, man, I mean, you’re fixing the place up very nicely, not
frat house like at all, it’s beautiful, really, I wouldn’t dare-”
“Stiles!”
Scott was laughing behind him, but he wasn’t listening to his idiotic beta. He
was watching Stiles, waiting for the next ridiculous excuse to come pouring
from his mouth, mind planning what he’d yell back – but Stiles wasn’t replying.
He could feel Stiles’ heart thudding, could hear it, the quick, sharp breaths,
the fragile chest rising and falling fast beneath his hands – matching his own.
But Stiles, for the first time in what was likely to be living memory, wasn’t
saying anything.
The longer they stayed there, the longer Derek held him pressed against the
wall, leaning on Stiles’ shoulders, the more Derek started to realise how close
they were. Which was so terribly clichéd and ridiculous, because they’d been
here so many times before – he seemed to end up threatening Stiles or throwing
him against a wall every time they met – but, for some reason, it was only just
striking him that he could feel Stiles’ breath against him, fuck it, he could
count eyelashes, see the patterns in his irises and other poetic shit like
that, and he’s probably been staring into those eyes a bit too long now but
it’s better than staring at his lips for too long, which he knows is his one
other option.
God knows what’d happen then.
Probably something biological that’d be really embarrassing.
Stiles looked up, meeting Derek’s gaze so suddenly that his breath caught in
his throat. The kid was grinning almost manically, a wild look in his eyes that
made Derek’s heart stutter. “What’s the threat going to be this time, Sour
Wolf?” Stiles asked, sounding breathless. “Lose a limb? Concussion against a
steering wheel?”
Forcing himself to breathe, Derek twisted his features from whatever blank – or
heaven help him, hungry – look that he’d been wearing before, back into a
glare. “I’m sure I could come up with something more inventive than that.”
“Really? You haven’t shown much creativity so far-”
“Yeach! Mother fucker!”
 There was just enough time to see a matching panic in Stiles’ eyes before they
snapped their heads to the side, both moving simultaneously towards the sound
of Scott’s cry of pain.
“Jesus, Derek, I thought you were meant to be making this place habitable!”
He was on the steps up to the porch, scowling at his hand and pulling splinters
from it.
There wasn’t any thinking behind the movement – Derek just turned to meet
Stiles’ gaze. Within seconds, both of them were smiling, then grinning, then
laughing. He didn’t know if it was from the snap in tension, or just general
humour at the oblivious thing that was their mutual acquaintance. But to be
honest... he didn’t really care. They were laughing, that was enough.
 As Derek turned to hide his laughter from Scott, he heard Stiles say, “Scott,
sometimes, I seriously question how you’re still alive.”
“It’s not my fault, go teach your boyfriend what habitable means before you
have a go at me!”
If Derek froze at the word ‘boyfriend’, he was going to chalk it up to shock at
hearing Scott say a long word like ‘habitable’.
Apparently, Stiles was as stunned about that as he was, because it was a few
seconds before Stiles replied with, “Just because you’re not man, or wolf
enough to deal with a splinter-”
“All right, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, inside, before I have to call time-out,”
Derek sighed, turning back to face them.
“Did you just make a pop-culture reference?” Stiles gasped, and Derek found
himself pondering the now eternal problem of whether to laugh or punch him.
Again. “You did! You can be human! Scott, Scott, did you hear that-”
“Stiles, get in the house.”
“Is the booze allowed in? I’m not going in unless the booze is allowed in. Or
the DVDs. Especially the DVDs. I mean, I brought Lord of the Rings and Star
Wars and Fight Club and 24 and I’m not leaving them alone, out in the cold-”
“Fine! Yes! They’re allowed!” Derek yelled, finally breaking. “Now go,” he
ordered, putting a hand on the back of Stiles’ shoulders and shoving him
inside. He didn’t go silently, of course, but – Derek was kinda glad he didn’t.
His fingers fell from Stiles’ shoulder once he was out of reach, not a second
before.
“Dude,” Scott chuckled, coming up level with Derek and, unlike him, totally
ignoring Stiles’ endless babbling. “He so has you whipped.”
“...What?”
“What?” Scott echoed, blinking up at him, face slowly going red. “I said
nothing,” he said confidently. “Nothing, okay? Nothing!” he finished the last
word more as a desperate yell than anything else, before almost running into
the house.
Derek stepped forwards, missed the doorway, and slammed his head into the
doorframe. And again. No matter how red Scott had turned at his comment – he
was far too certain that he’d turned redder.
Because god help him – he was starting to realise exactly how true that was.
And it really didn’t help that he could still smell the fading traces of
Stiles’ scent on his finger.
*
Erica and Isaac showed up ten minutes later, and apparently Stiles had
contacted them, too, because they each had their own bag of drinkables. Boyd,
20 minutes after them, was exactly the same. By the time Jackson arrived, there
was so much alcohol in the house that Scott was tipsy by the end of the night,
a snoring, rosy-cheeked bundle of fangs, fur and claws curled up in the corner
of Derek’s living room. Jackson wasn’t much better, sprawled in front of the
fire. And Stiles... Stiles was on Derek’s bed upstairs, locked in as soon as
the moon rose.
It wasn’t what Derek had planned. At all. Yet somehow, it was a routine that
stuck.
Two months later, Stiles showed up alone first in the jeep, meeting Derek where
he was waiting on the porch. Derek couldn’t even remember what they talked
about, later, or how long they were talking for, because the warm contentedness
of that moment was blown from the water when Scott turned up in his own car,
with Alison in tow. He exploded, yelled at Scott for inviting someone who was
human, not pack, and when Scott yelled back that Stiles was human, and
therefore technically not pack too, Derek had no answer.
“Well, then, just, warn me next time,” he half-yelled, before turning and
stomping into the house to unabashedly sulk in the kitchen, until Stiles came
and fetched him.
Instead of let Allison sleep with Stiles in his room, he brought down the
actual mattress and the inflatable mattress, putting them in the living room.
He told himself that the pack was well trained enough now for it to be safe.
He almost managed to convince himself that the green fury on Scott’s face as
the two humans had prepared to sleep together hadn’t matched his own
expression.
 A week before the next full moon, Allison asked to bring Lydia. She said that
Stiles had said that it wouldn’t be a problem.
So of course, Lydia showed, bringing more alcohol and more DVDs to watch.
When Jackson brought Danny, a few months after that, Derek just raised an
eyebrow, and waited for the inevitable, “I checked with Stiles, he said it was
fine.”
There was no longer any ‘pack meeting’ aspect to it, if there ever had been.
Scott, Jackson, Isaac, Erica and Boyd, under the supervising eye of Derek,
stayed entirely docile when the full moon rose, more like dogs than wolves as
they snuggled up to tipsy girlfriends and/or best mates, playing Mario Cart or
spin the bottle with only slightly more fang than usual, or curling up near the
open fire and the small TV as they watched the DVD picked from everyone’s
selections. They’d fall asleep wherever they sat, whenever they got tired;
Scott and Allison stole the air mattress, Danny would be lengthways across the
second-hand, 90s era armchair, Lydia and Jackson would be curled up by corner,
and Erica, Isaac and Boyd would steal the spot by the fire.
And Derek... somehow, Derek would find himself on one end of the couch, Stiles,
more often than not, leaning back against him, or with his feet on Derek’s lap.
In the morning, Derek would be the first awake, and he’d slip from the couch to
make toast. The rest would join him, one at the time, Allison leaving first
with a stolen Poptart in her mouth and an oblivious Scott still spread-eagled
on the mattress. It varied who was the next in the kitchen, either Lydia or
Stiles, the former after coffee before having a shower (which Derek finally had
installed after Lydia’s first stay, and her shriek at ‘go skinny-dip in the
lake’), the latter downing three Adderall and grabbing a banana, before
shimmying onto a stall and talking, just talking. Danny would be next, joining
the group and making something a lot more sophisticated than whatever Derek was
by then wasting time doing. The actually-could-be-werewolves trio would soon
appear to eat up anything that had been cooked within the next half hour,
before vanishing off to Gods knew where, and Jackson or Scott would be the
last, staggering in, usually, at around 10.30am.
They’d all be out the house by midday if it was the weekend, later if it was a
school day, and therefore needing the place to hide out and skive. Either way,
the night would end with Derek having been eaten and drunk out of house and
home, with a considerably higher water bill than usual, a raging headache, and
a slight smile on his face as he watched Stiles drive his Jeep, and a hung-over
Scott, out of his driveway.
“Dude, what’re you doing?”
“Waving. At Derek.”
 “Oh, ofcourse – dude, can you please just-”
“D’you think my I’ll be able to get some more of that red wine stuff before my
dad realises it’s gone, or-”
“-already, the rest of us are getting headaches just-”
“-Because he’ll be furious if I know I drank that, cos he got it from aunt-”
“-if it lasts much longer, I swear, Lydia’s gonna stage an intervention-”
“-and he hates her with a passion to rival the fiery ass of Lucifer, but she’s
like this wine-maestro-”
He’d listen to their bickering until they were out of range, smiling, before
shutting the door and resuming work on whatever aspect of the house was up for
renovating that day.
**
“Derek? Hey, Derek!”
She was snapping her fingers in front of his nose, whilst repeating his name
in, apparently, as many different ways as she could come up with.
Without looking, his fastened his fist over her fingers, and squeezed. He
waited until Erica gasped, before letting go and turning to look. Rather than
ask, he raised his eyebrows.
“Nice tough love there, boss,” she muttered, shaking her hand out and glaring
up at him through the thick eyelashes she still insisted in sporting. “Jeez,
not even like it was my fault.”
“You snapped your fingers in my face, what did you expect to happen?” he asked
blandly. He got on with her well enough, but, sometimes, she could be a bit too
much. She was, god help her, a second, more physically brutal Lydia.
She was a damn good beta.
“I didn’t expect you to doze out on me, for one thing,” Erica tutted, all
disapproving wide, puppy-dog eyes. “What were you looking at-” As she swung
around, gaze falling on the blanket still in a heap by the couch, Derek swung
away, picking up the previously abandoned hammer and bag of nails and heading
back into the kitchen. She was inhaling, smelling the air.
Knowing exactly what she could smell – he’d been breathing it in all yesterday
and this morning – he winced, and breathed in deep, preparing himself for the
inevitable onslaught.
“Oh.” There went any hope she wouldn’t be able to identify whose scent it was.
He firmly ignored her as she all but skipped into the kitchen after him, hoping
that through denial, the problem might just go away.
It didn’t. The problem just leant against the table in the middle of the room
before saying, “You realise, there’s a pool set up”
He decided to maintain the denial, and didn’t reply. Instead, he held one nail
between his teeth, lined another up against the bottom corner of the back of
the shelving unit (he’d long since given up on the Ikea instructions), and
started hammering. Loudly. With what was probably more force than necessary.
But hey.
“Isaac and Jackson both have money on you fucking Stiles by the end of next
month, but I know you’re a blind prude who’s going to take at least to the end
of summer.”
He missed the nail by a good inch and the head of the hammer slammed into his
thumb. “Jesus fuck mother of-” The hammer clattered to the floor, narrowly
missing his feet as he spun around on the spot, dancing out of the way of it
and the cascade of nails falling from between his teeth and fingers as he
shoved his busted hand into his armpit.
He’d hit a hole right through his palm. He had to have. It was the only
explanation for this pain.
And Erica was still smiling.“You okay there, boss?”
Derek tried to growl instead of whimper, clenching his arm to tighten his grip
on his hand. “Fucking hell, I’m – I’m not going to, to fuck Stiles, I mean –
he’s – he’s-” it shouldn’t be this hard to think up a reason not to slam Stiles
against a wall and –“He’s underage, for crying out loud!”
“So... not denying that you want to, then?”
There was a glint of victory in her smirk, and damn it, Derek had to give her
that. He growled, and tentatively pulled his hand and peered at his thumb. As
he watched, the joints in his thumb popped back into place. With a controlled
poker face, he opened and closed his fist – it was working, at least, even if
it was currently still hurting like shit.
“Don’t worry, everyone knows it anyway.”
Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes – he was desperately hoping that by the
time he opened them again she’d be gone, he hissed out, “Scott and Stiles went
out, Stiles got drunk, and, not wanting to take him either back to the sheriff
or his house, Scott brought him here, so I let him crash on the couch. Okay?”
He opened his eyes. Erica hadn’t gone. She was nodding pensively. “Figures,”
she said, and Derek started to hope that she might contribute some sanity.
“After all, Scott’s bet that you’d hit that before the end of this month. Well,
looks like he’s out of pocket.”
Or not.
“Why are you here?” he asked, knowing there had to be a reason she was here, in
his kitchen, that wasn’t to mock him. As he stared down at her, her let his
eyes glow, just for a second, hoping that it’d make her give him the short
answer. One that didn’t involve Stiles.
Remember when he could scare her by just raising an eyebrow? Good, simple
times.
“Brought you this,” she said, one perfectly manicured finger tapping a purple
envelope that was resting on the table, beside her hand. “It’s Boyd’s 18th
birthday on Thursday. We’re taking him to the grill house, just out of town, on
Friday evening and we’re gonna give him cards and stuff then. You’ve got him a
twenty bucks iTunes voucher.” She tapped the envelope once more, before pushing
herself up from the table, spinning on her heels, flicking her hair over her
shoulder and striding towards the door.
Derek stepped towards the table, shaking out his hand and absently considering
how at this rate he’d have to get some kind of events planner.
“Hey, Derek?”
He picked up the envelope before he raised his head to look at her, finger
already running under the lip. She was hanging off the doorframe, frowning,
eyes wide and – as they too rarely were – innocent. Anxious, almost. “Yeah?” he
asked, concern for her starting to settle into his stomach.
“At least consider fucking him?” she said.
For a second, the polite, reasonable, innocent tone of voice had him thinking
she hadn’t said something stupid. Then the final two words sunk in, all concern
was swiftly abolished, replaced with a weary annoyance and he groaned. He half
moaned, half growled, “Erica-”
She raised her hands in surrender, and her lips curled at the corners with
honest humour. “Hey, I just want to know that I’m not losing my high-school
crush to some coward who’s going to do a half-assed job, okay? If Ican’t leave
him panting, I at least want to know that someone is.”
What do you say to that? Sorry? Get out of my house before I de-bone you with
my bare hands? He opened his mouth to stutter out some awkward apology, most
likely, but she was still smiling and shrugging before he even got a chance to
say anything. He figured that covered everything that need to be covered, so he
closed his mouth and tried again.
“Look, it’s-” he stopped, bit his lip, and said, “It’s not my choice to make,
okay?”
And god help him, Erica laughed at that. “Trust me, you’re the only one who
thinks that,” she told him, and there was something in the way she said ‘only’
that made him think she was trying to get a point across.
For the life of him, Derek couldn’t figure out what it was. But like hell he’d
ever ask.
She pushed herself up from the doorframe, but before she’d even fully left the
room she’d spun back around, again. “Oh yeah,” Erica said, trying, and failing,
to sound like she’d just remember this one extra thing. She waved a hand back
at the envelope, and said, “You owe Stiles twenty bucks for that.”
With a beatific grin, she finally left.
Wordlessly, Derek spun to face the wall and started slamming his forehead
against it.
Sometimes, it was hard to tell if Erica was a good beta or just a really,
really annoying imitation of a younger sister.
*
Five o’clock Friday night, his phone buzzed.
DONT FORGET 2nite, grill house, 7:00. I will PICK U UP AND TAKE U THERE MYSELF
if thats what it takes 4 u not to be late
Derek smiled, and typed back.
I know, I remembered. And I’m never late.
Yh yh w/e. See u there, sourwolf
*
When he ended up sitting next to Stiles, and Erica all but wrestled him into
meeting his gaze, Derek couldn’t not blush slightly when she winked at him.
And, god help him, even though he felt at least seventy even thinking it, he
could only describe her smile as ... lewd.
**
He’d found a routine for Mother’s Day, in New York, with Laura. A way to get
through it all, the stores filled with all the cards, all the signs blaring
out, ‘A perfect gift for your mother!’
Put simply, they’d both gone out and got hammered for a fortnight.
But it’s different here. Her grave is a five minute walk away. He’s living in
the house where she died.And to add insult to injury, he’s alone. Laura’s dead.
Perhaps he could have managed well enough, let himself get lost in memory and
silence and so much alcohol in the forest somewhere, if he were truly alone.
But, in what’s probably the most ironic twists of fate yet, he’s not alone.
It’s a full moon, so he’s surrounded, close to drowning in the rabble that’s
his new pack – and it’s just making everything worse.
He lets himself have the afternoon off. But all he does – all he can bring
himself to do – is walk through the forest. He avoids the cemetery, and her
grave. He’s not strong enough for that. But it’s easy to get lost and to forget
in the forest. The sun’s nearly gone by the time he forces himself to turn
around, and head back home.
His first thought, when the house comes into sight, is that perhaps he’s
rebuilt it too well. It’s still lacking the white coat of paint it used to have
– the new wood panelling on the outside is still rough and unsanded – but it’s
there, the framework, the windows, the porch, so familiar that it takes next to
no imagination to image her standing there, hands on hips and eyes glowing
slightly, a rant about responsibility all ready before she drags him inside by
the ear to make him eat some the pie she just cooked.
He won’t paint it, he decides. It looks too painfully similar already.
It doesn’t smell right, though. Predominantly, it smells of teenage boys and
hormones, and food. A lot of crap food. And there’s that faint waft of gasoline
that tells of the cars – the pack has already invaded his house, ready for the
full moon.
Derek stands still for a second, eyes closed, breathing in the scents and
listening to the sounds of the group laughing, Lydia’s loud voice, Scott’s
laughing, Boyd’s low chuckle, all that and more amalgamating so he can remember
he has a new pack now, a new family. He lets it sink in, until he thinks he can
put on the semblance of a smile. He opens his eyes, and heads to the house.
Almost without thinking, he finds himself using the back entrance, by the
kitchen. He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to how he’s late, god knows
Scott would ask where he’d been, no matter how many of the others realised and
elbowed him for it. And besides, he doesn’t think he’s eaten all day. The
door’s not locked – it never is, who would try to steal from an ex-fugitive –
but the room isn’t as empty as Derek had hoped.
It’s Stiles. He’s sat on the floor, with his back leaning against the fridge,
hands holding his head and his eyes watering.
He doesn’t move, and Derek doesn’t know if it’s because Stiles hasn’t heard him
or just doesn’t want to. For a second, he doesn’t move either, uncertain,
before the sight of seeing Stiles so close to tears becomes too much to bear.
He can’t stand and do nothing. He just can’t. And leaving him to it just isn’t
an option.
“Stiles?” he asks, voice as soft as he can make it as he pulls the door to a
close behind him.
At the sound of his name, Stiles jumps, and Derek instantly regrets speaking.
“Oh – uh – hey, Derek,” Stiles mutters, rubbing the water from his eyes with
the base of his palms and trying to push himself off the floor. He can’t seem
to find the strength.
To hell if Derek’s going to let him pretend like that. Not when he doesn’t have
to. No. Never. So he steps forwards, resting a hand on Stiles’ arm, stopping
the frantic motion. “No, hey, it’s okay,” he mutters. Without a second thought,
he slides down beside Stiles, and the shock on Stiles’ face pulls a wry smile
from him. “It’s okay.”
He doesn’t take his hand off Stiles’ arm, but just sits there with him. He
thinks he knows, thinks he understand, but he’s not going to ask. It’s up to
Stiles. It’s always going to be up to Stiles, he knows that now.
Eventually, Stiles stops moving too, stops trying to physically push back the
tears or stand up and run away. He breathes, but it comes out as a gasp, tight
and desperate. His hand finds Derek’s, where it rests on his arm, and his
fingers tighten around it, holding it with so much strength, a strength Derek
knows from his own experience only comes from pain and sheer terror.
And Stiles starts to cry.
It isn’t loud, isn’t frantic. It’s quiet and private, with tight eyes and a
clenched jaw.
Slowly, not wanting to distract him from his mourning, Derek switches his
hands, taking Stiles’ in his right, leaving his left arm free to go round the
back of Stiles’ shoulders and hold him. Just hold him.
Stiles moves with him, curling into Derek the instant he’s in his arms. He
presses his face into Derek’s shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric of his
t-shirt.
Feeling useless, and hating himself for it more than he ever had before, Derek
lets his hand rub Stiles’ back, moving in a slow pattern, and mutters pale
attempts comforts, wordless sounds as he lets his head come to rest against
Stiles’.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles starts to say, between each choked breath. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Derek tells him, the words being breathed into Stiles’ short hair.
“I understand. I understand.”
“Does it – does it get better?”
Derek would never lie, not to him. “No. But it gets... familiar. You learn to
cope. You learn.”
As Stiles shakes in his arms, Derek closes his eyes and breathes in his scent,
taking any comfort from it he can. A tear slips its way down his face for the
first time that day.
It takes a while, but steadily, Stiles’ muscles start to relax. His hands
release from their entanglement in Derek’s top, and his chest returns to a more
normal, steady rhythm of rising and falling. It takes a while, but Stiles gets
there eventually.
Derek holds him until he’s certain he’s fine – not fine. Surviving. Even then,
only when Stiles starts to pull away does Derek remove his arm. He watches,
focused, not taking his eyes from him as Stiles rubs his face, rubbing away the
last of his tears.
“I only came out for another packet of chips,” Stiles says, a smile twitching
back into place.
Derek lets himself smile back. “You don’t have to go back in there,” he says,
after a pause.
But Stiles nods. “Yeah, I do. God knows who’s died in my absence. I swear,
those kids...” he’s trying to smile again, and it works a bit better this time.
Understanding, Derek nods. “Okay,” is all he says, before first pushing himself
to his feet, then offering a hand to Stiles. He’s so light, it takes no energy
to pull him up.
He wraps an arm around Stiles once more, loosely, as much as for his sake as
Stiles’. He can’t quite figure out who’s leading who to the main room. It
occurs to him it could be both.
Their hands slip apart before Stiles opens the door, sending it flying and
jumping across to their couch. As Derek slides in beside him, surrounding by
smiles and greetings, laughter and food, he feels Stiles be his side more than
ever.
And steadily, the more Stiles laughs, Derek starts to think that, perhaps,
things are getting better.
**
His hands were still shaking.
Deaton had told him that was normal, excess adrenaline still in his system, but
it was bullshit. It wasn’t adrenaline. It was fear.
He didn’t have any adrenaline, any energy left. He had to sit down at the
vet’s, whilst the pack stretched and moaned, and stitched each other back up.
Derek didn’t care about them, he let their words wash over him. They could
heal. He barely had the energy to breathe. The only thing that kept his eyes
open was the uncertain future of the boy lying on the vet’s table.
The worst of it was that he shouldn’t have been there, at the house. He
shouldn’t have been anywhere near them.
The moment Allison had passed on Chris’ warning, he should have got him out. It
wasn’t his fight, he wasn’t a werewolf, he should have been home and safe but
Derek had been prideful of his pack, and stubborn, and so goddamn selfish.
It was his fault.
He’d played at being alpha, sending the pack to create a perimeter around the
Hale house, told each of them to howl at the first sight of the Hunters.
He should have known he was out of his depth when three of his betas had howled
out at once. He hadn’t.
In minutes, he’d known. In minutes, he’d finally figured out that he was
losing.
The words ‘too late, too late’, battering at the inside of his head he’d run
until he’d found Isaac, the fasted of them, only to find him bloodied and
limping, holding up Erica with one arm and pulling an arrow out with the other.
Two young hunters were nearby, dead. “Find Deaton,” he’d ordered Isaac, taking
Erica from him, “we need Deaton. Get Deaton.”
He’d had to kill another hunter, just to get Erica to the safety of Boyd’s
side. Each dead body he saw sent a shock of fear through him. He’d meant to
stay with Boyd and Erica, but then Scott had howled. Boyd had nodded once, and
Derek had run.
Jackson was down. Scott was covering his old enemy with his body, eyes glowing
and scanning the trees. “There’s at least two in those trees,” Scott had said,
as soon as he saw Derek. Bloody flaring and claws growing, Derek had made to
attack, but Scott had grabbed his arm and held him still. “The rest left about
a minute ago. They’re heading to the house, Derek. They’ve got guns and
lighters and petrol and they’re heading to the house!”
The weight of what Scott had told him didn’t sink in at a first. At first, all
Derek could see was a blackened shell of a house.
It took the fear, the sheer terror in Scott’s eyes to remind him that the house
wasn’t empty. They’d left Stiles there. They’d left Stiles in the house. They’d
– they’d left Stiles –
Scott and Jackson, they were in trouble –
But, Stiles –
His pack –
I can’t lose Stiles. I can’t.
 “Don’t worry, I’ve got them,” Scott had told him, nodding back over his
shoulder. “Get the house. Derek, run. Please. GO!”
He hadn’t made it to the house.
They’d caught him meters away from it, an arrow to the leg and bullet to the
shoulder, sending him crashing into the roots and dead leaves that covered the
floor. He hadn’t cried out at the pain. He’d moaned at his lost chance. He’d
tried to ignore them, tried to get to his feet and get to the house but a boot
had slammed into his wounded shoulder and forced him onto his back.
There were two. They were holding hunting rifles and crossbows, and kerosene,
and they were smiling.
Perhaps, Derek had thought desperately, lying still, perhaps if they kill me,
they won’t go for the house. Perhaps they’ll think it’s over if they kill the
alpha.His defeat was his last chance.
He’d waited through the taunts and torments and mockery, waiting for them to
place the barrel of the rifle against his forehead.
It came, finally. The hot metal burning a circle into his skin. “Say hey to
Lucifer for us, bitch.”
“Funny, but I was about to say the same to you.”
Confused, the hunter had looked up, the gun swinging away from Derek and around
to the new voice, but before he had time to aim it the baseball bat had slammed
into the side of his head. A sickening splintering, and the man fell sideways.
As the second hunter had to dodge his falling friend, the same bat had hit him
in the stomach, forcing him to double up, breathless, before it was swung up,
landing perfectly beneath his chin and sending his head flying back. His neck
had cracked loudly.
Stiles – because of course it was Stiles, it would always be Stiles that
surprised him, that saved him, that risked everything for this stupid idiot who
was, who had been, who might be the death of him – had stood there panting for
a second, looking at the bodies, at the blood on his bat, with a face so
impassive that Derek was almost scared. But then Stiles had turned to him, had
seen the blood pouring from him and had frowned. “Oh my god, are you okay? Tell
me you’re okay!”
In the rush of relief, Derek felt like he could have said anything. He almost
had. He had almost told Stiles then, how much he meant, how he was everything
Derek had now. He was Derek’s home, his comfort, his safety, his self-
confidence, his reason for smiling, his reason for trying, the reason his pack
worked as well as it did. He almost told Stiles that Derek wouldn’t be half the
alpha, half the man he was without him there, constantly poking at him and
prodding and laughing at him. How – and gods help the both of them – how Derek
loved him.
Now, looking at the blood on Doctor Deaton’s hands, Derek wished he had. He
wished he’d said it. He’d got so far, so close to the boy dying there, and it
was all falling for nothing. All for nothing.
It might have changed, in that one second’s relief. If he’d said it then, in
that one second before Scott had howled in victory, Boyd had roared as he’d
killed the final man before him, without knowing there was one last hunter
waiting in the trees for the perfect shot.
That perfect shot had sliced through Stiles’ side.
Derek knew it was a joke among his betas that he liked to threaten to rip
people’s throats out. But this was the first time he’d actually done it, and
enjoyed it. He didn’t wait to see the hunter die before running back to Stiles.
He didn’t think he’d ever forget the way Stiles had gritted his teeth and
broken the arrow from his skin himself. The way he’d fallen to his knees and
whispered to Derek for help. No matter how hard he’d try, he’d never be able to
forget how Stiles had sobbed quietly as Derek had picked him up, and, ignoring
the burning in his leg and shoulder, had run to the road Deaton should arrive
on, holding Stiles as carefully as he could.
He’d stepped in front of the car to stop it, seen the shock on Deaton’s face as
he’d slammed the brakes. He’d heard Isaac gasp at the sight. He hadn’t cared.
He’d carried Stiles to the car, opening the door to the backseats and lying the
bleeding boy down, before climbing in beside him. “Isaac,” he’d said, “I need
you to find the others, tell them we’ll be at the vet’s. Make sure they’re all
okay.” He heard the door open and close, but he didn’t take his eyes from
Stiles, as the boy bled and writhed and winced each time the arrow point
shifted beneath his skin.
The car ride back had taken too long, wasn’t smooth enough. Derek had to watch
as Stiles cried out each time the tyres hit a pothole. He had eventually slid
his hand into Stiles’, holding it tightly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Shut up,” Stiles had gasped out, glaring at him through the sweat shining on
his face, through the blood on his lip where he’d bitten through the skin. “You
– no reason to be. My choice.”
It wasn’t. Derek had decided that Stiles could stay, after Scott had sent
Allison back to her family.
The pack had already been there by the time the car pulled into the car park,
ready and waiting to help lift Stiles to the surgery room. Jackson hadn’t been
able to help, but he’d limped after them, asking with a weak voice, “Is he
okay? He’s okay, right?”
“I don’t know yet,” Deaton had muttered, rolling up his sleeves and gesturing
at Scott and Derek to set Stiles on the table. He’d started to pick up needles,
bottles of liquid.
“Does this mean I’m a part of the pack, yet?” Stiles had asked, the last thing
he’d said before the anaesthetics had taken him under. “If I’m being treated by
a vet...”
He still hadn’t come around.
The others had all healed. Derek’s leg and shoulder had closed up without a
mark. Jackson was walking round as proudly as ever. Erica was smiling with
Isaac in the corner. Boyd was stretching, testing everything in the other room.
But Scott was still hovering by the head of his best friend, and Derek couldn’t
stop shaking.
Dr Deaton sighed as he slowly, firmly pressed down the last strip of tape
holding the bandage against Stiles’ side. He didn’t say anything, just hung his
head, and Derek wanted to shake him until he told him that Stiles would be
fine, but his muscles weren’t responding to anything. He was as good as
paralysed.
“Well?” Scott asked, as impatient as Derek wanted to be. “How is he? Will he
recover? Is he okay?”
“I believe so,” Deaton replied calmly, wiping his forehead with the back of his
hand, before pulling the bloodstained latex gloves off by the tips of his
fingers. “The damage wasn’t as bad as I originally feared-”
“You couldn’t have told us this earlier?” Scott growled, and when the vet
visible flinched Derek felt a flash of pride for his beta.
“I was trying to save your friend’s life,” Deaton replied eventually, and
there’s no reply to that. Subdued, Scott lowered his eyes, stepping back to his
place at the head of the table, looking down at Stiles. “I am relatively
confident that he’ll be fine. It was a flesh wound – one that bled enough to
scare you, and not in the least painful part of the body – but he should be
fine. I’m confident and, not meaning to boast, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Can we take him home?” Scott asked. “His dad – in the morning, if Stiles’ not
there – I can’t do that to him... for one thing, Stiles’d kill me...”
Derek watched as Deaton considered the question. He didn’t care what the vet
said. He wanted to get Stiles back where he belonged, and definitely off the
table that made him out to be a dying animal. He needed to see Stiles somewhere
safe, somewhere normal.
As soon as Deaton nodded, Derek spoke. “I’ll take him,” he said.
Scott turned to him in shock. But he didn’t argue. And Derek didn’t care what
Deaton thought as he slipped his arms under Stiles’ limp body for the second
time that evening. He ignored the rest of the pack, too, leaving it to Scott to
tell them what was going on. It was probably bad leadership, but right then, he
couldn’t find it in himself to care.
He didn’t use a car, absently deciding it was easier just to carry Stiles. He
held him close as he ran down the streets, trying to let the warmth of the body
convince him that the human was safe, and alive.
But it wasn’t until he set Stiles down on his bed, and he rolled over onto his
side, one hand coming up to rest under his cheek that Derek could finally
believe it.
And that was it. That was all his energy would let him do.
He sank down onto the floor, back against the wall and arms wrapped around his
knees, eyes fixed on the sleeping face. He took note of every twitch, every
wince, every breath, every noise he made, wanting to savour all of it. It was
all he let himself think about. He knew, if he dwelled too long on how he’d
come so losing all this, he’d break.
Eventually, his chest stopped hurting, and he forced himself back onto his
feet. He had his own bed he needed to sleep in, he couldn’t stay here. It
wasn’t his place. He turned from Stiles, to the window.
“No... don’t go...”
Stiles was rolling onto his back, a hand rubbing his eyes, the other stretched
across the mattress towards Derek.
Two steps, and he was crouched by Stiles’ side, taking his hand between his
own. “Hey, hey, you’re awake,” he said, heart thudding as Stiles’ grip
tightened weakly on his. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” Stiles muttered, “Cold. Scared. Stay.”
“I shouldn’t-”
“Don’ care. Space f’r two. Stay.” And Stiles was pulling himself to the left
side of the bed, leaving the right side open for Derek.
It wasn’t exactly a hard choice.
He climbed onto the bed, letting Stiles’ hand pull him on. The bed sunk beneath
him, and he had to press close to Stiles so he didn’t roll off. Stiles rolled
towards him, his free hand twisting into the bottom of his top, and forehead
resting against Derek’s shoulder. Their entwined hands lay in the small gap
between them.
When Stiles’ breathing deepened, Derek let his hand rest on the kid’s hip, and
closed his eyes.
*
He awoke at dawn, as he always did.
At some stage in the night, Stiles had rolled away from him, legs sprawled
across the duvet, one hand hanging off the edge the bed and mouth open. He was
snoring loudly, and Derek couldn’t help but smile. The sight of Stiles sleeping
was a familiar one, from all the full moons, and a nice one.
If a loud one.
He could heat the sheriff shuffling around a few rooms away, and the sound
early-morning traffic coming in through the window.
Time to go.
He unlaced his fingers from between Stiles’, and with one last look towards the
still pristine bandage on his side, made his exit.
**
Derek sipped at his beer, and peered down at the constructed... thingin front
of him. Then back at the instruction sheet. Then back down at the thing.
“Fucking Scandinavians.”
He crunched the paper up in his hands, rolled it into a ball and chucked it
neatly into the bin in the far corner. When it landed in, he definitely did not
mentally yell ‘gooooaaaal!’
Instead, he calmly took another sip, set down the beer and picked up the
screwdriver, and started to remove all the screws he’d spent the last hour
putting in.
The manual labour was... good. It was normal. It was something he could do
(badly translated instruction manuals notwithstanding). It gave him time to
think things over.
He’d have to talk to Chris Argent at some stage. He knew full well that it was
only due to his tip-off about the hunters that the pack had survived. As much
as he hated the man with a passion, he owed him for this. He’d called in on the
others earlier, all save Scott, who he’d texted, and everyone had healed fine.
As for himself, his shoulder and leg were both fine, but his pride had taken a
much worse battering. He’d been overconfident, and almost lost too much. He
couldn’t afford to let himself do that again.
In his hands, two pieces of wood slotted together. He pulled a screw out from
between his teeth, and started to screw them together.
He’d owe Deaton for last night, too. The vet wouldn’t say anything, not
outright, but what he’d done couldn’t go unnoticed. And somehow, Derek didn’t
think a fruit basket would quite cut it.
For saving Stiles? Derek would buy him a fucking pony if he wanted it, and call
it a bargain.
Derek rose to his feet, and lightly pushed the framework of the bed with his
foot. Sturdy enough. He picked up a plank, and started on the centre. It was
awkward, twisting himself to the right angle to screw the boards into place, he
liked the pain of stretching his muscles. This was a pain he could deal with.
When he slipped, almost landing head-first on the floor and stabbed himself
with the screwdriver, he swore, sucked the wound and counted himself lucky he’d
only done so once.
He was still sucking at it, still waiting for the new hole in the palm of his
hand to heal when he heard a car engine. He barely registered it, too busy
looking at the bloodstain seeping into the wood, and wondering whether it’d be
better to wash it out, paint over it, or if the sheets would cover it. He’d
just decided on trying to wash it out – he doubted he’d be able to sleep with
the smell of dried blood right by his nose – when the front door burst open.
He peered over his shoulder, cheerfully lining up threats and preparing a full-
out glare at the intruder for being so intrusive – but he didn’t have time to
say anything.
“I am,” Stiles declared, face red from over-exertion and a hand pressed to his
wounded side, “looking for you!”
Stunned, Derek stared at him, at the quivering finger aimed in his direction,
before his neck started to complain and he made the rest of his body turn
around to face the door too. “Um.” he blinked, and Stiles panted furiously at
him. “You’ve found me?” he tried cautiously.
Apparently, wrong answer. “Jeeesus fucking – oh my god, how can you be-” Stiles
yelled, spinning, hands flying to his head in sheer exasperation as Derek
started to count the exits. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m looking for
you! Not Scott! Not the damned oven! You! I always have! For the same reason I
left my sports bag in your car! The same reason why, every damn full moon, I
‘forget’ about Scott and drive myself here early!”
The words were starting to make sense, now. Stay, he’d said, last night. Derek
had been trying not to think of it – had been purposefully ignoring the problem
until it went away, let’s be honest – but now those words, Stiles’ hands
holding him in place, fingers between his own, were all he could think about.
Something, akin to both fear and hope, started to settle in his stomach, heavy
and softly warm.
“You realise,” Stiles was still saying, still glaring, still waving one hand
manically whilst the other held his side, “that we have slept together –
literally slept, that is – thirteen times, now? And only nine of those were
full moons! The other times were because I was drunk, or because I had just
come back from the brink of death.”
His lips shaped out the ‘th’ perfectly, his tongue sticking out. Derek’s lips
twitched at the sight, and his sight lingered on Stiles’ lips. He was starting
to get the feeling he could.
“We went halves on Boyd’s present. We’ve had a nice little mothers’ day bonding
session, and, I’d just like to point out, you’re the only one who’s seen me cry
over that since her funeral. You know the group already calls me ‘pack mom’?
They ask me favours, rather than you, and make me ask you because, and quote
Boyd, ‘you’re like his kryptonite, he’ll do anything you say’, which isn’t
quite accurate to the canon-”
Derek’s lips twitched again.
“-but I thought you’d have finally figured all this shit out, because, man, if
Scott can see something before you you’re really being dense, and I thought the
whole ‘falling asleep holding my fucking hand’ deal was kinda a sign that you’d
got your ass in gear, so I was like ‘okay, right, it’s working out, I can sleep
happy and maybe get a snog (finally) in the morning’, but you’d done your usual
creeper shit and fucked. Off. Oh. My god. So yeah. This is ridiculous. All of
it. Okay? Good. Right.”
His cheeks were burning with the effort of not grinning. He’d have thought he
was dreaming, if his palm didn’t still hurt.
With a sigh, Derek shoved his hands into his pockets and let his gaze drift
around the room. He could almost feel Stiles’ indignance double. “Oh, fine,” he
said, trying to sound resigned. He let his eyes settle back on Stiles, raised
his eyebrows, tilted his head and said, “Will you go out with me?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Finally!” he said, flinging his hands up into the air.
He winced as his side pulled, and his hand returned to it.
Derek waited, still trying not to smile.
Stiles blinked at him. “.....what?” he asked eventually.
“It’s, well, just a tradition I guess, but people tend to reply to a question
like that...”
Stiles’ mouth formed a perfect ‘o’, and his eyes widened. “Oh! Yes. Of course.
I mean-”
“Yeah, I get it,” Derek replied, and his resistance finally failed, as a grin
spread across his face. “Good.”
“Good,” Stiles echoed. As Derek watched, cheeks seriously hurting and head
just... floating, Stiles started to bob up and down on the balls of his feet,
lips twitching and pursing and eyes looking anywhere but at Derek. “I, uh.
Yanno. Was wondering. If, uh... we could do that...” his hand flapped between
himself and Derek wordlessly for a second or two, “...snogging... thing...”
Derek raised his eyebrows again. “Snogging? Seriously? Who says ‘snogging’
these days?”
“Ido, okay, because I’m a childish teenager who hasn’t had much chance to live
vicariously yet, thank you very much, so I’m going to use whatever damn word-”
Derek laughed, shaking his head and stepping forwards. “Shut up, Stiles,” he
said, taking Stiles’ face in his hands, tilting the boy’s head until Stiles was
looking up at him. At Stiles’ open mouth, and the wide, brown, dark eyes
staring at him, he smiled and shook his head again. “Shut up.”
He pressed his lips against Stiles’. He was aiming for softly, but... there was
a possibility that he wasn’t entirely as in control of himself as he liked to
think.
He ignored it when Stiles froze. He ignored it when he started to make some
kind of frantic noise and flapped his hands. Instead, Derek focused on the feel
of his lips against Stiles’, feeling how soft, how full they were. He moved his
lips, reshaping them to Stiles’, and slipped one hand around the back of
Stiles’ head, feeling the buzz cut rub against his fingers, his palm, tilting
Stiles’ head into place so he could kiss deeper.
When Stiles muttered “Oh my god,” into his mouth, Derek couldn’t help but
smile, mouths still pressed together.
And suddenly, it was Stiles kissing him.
It was hot, it was wet, it was frantic, it was messy, and Stiles was digging
his nails through Derek’s top into his back so hard that Derek was starting to
think that he’d have to try and wash blood out of it – and then he stopped
thinking.
Because Stiles had jumped up and wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist.
Derek quickly shifted his hands to hold Stiles’ thighs, holding him up, holding
their bodies together, fingers pressing into denim as Stiles pressed their
mouths firmly back together. A hand slid into his hair, grabbing a handful,
pulling his head sideways and he gasped as they twisted their mouth together
again, hot breath brushing over damp, bruised lips before they slid back
together, desperately pushing.
When Stiles’ tongue shoved its way between his lips, he sucked it, bit it, and
stroked it with his own. Stiles gasped, and Derek swallowed the noise, humming
back and gripping his thighs tighter, pulling him closer. Stiles’ nails dug
into his scalp, pushing himself up, elbows resting on Derek’s shoulders as his
lips and tongue pressed back down into his mouth.
Desperately searching for ways to press Stiles closer, for Stiles to slide his
fingers beneath his shirt, to be able to grip Stiles’ waist and hold him still
so Derek could suck a mark onto his neck, he kicked the door behind Stiles
shut, and took the steps forwards needed until he could slam him against it,
his chest and hips holding him in place, his hands sliding beneath Stiles’
shirt –
“Ow ow fucking oww,” Stiles muttered, body tensing, hands freezing into place
in Derek’s hair.
Derek’s fingers came into contact with the corner of the bandage, the only
wound left over from the previous night. And he wanted to slam his head against
the door. “Shit. I’m sorry,” he muttered, resting is forehead against Stiles’
shoulder.
“No. Nononono, don’t be sorry. Be happy. Be very – be very happy. That was-”
Derek waited for a second, before grinning, lips pressed against Stiles’ collar
bone, where it protruded from the collar of his top. He liked that he could do
this. That he could have Stiles’ bare skin beneath his lips. “Stilinski, are
you speechless?”
“...possibly?”
Derek laughed, and started to shift his hands so he could lower Stiles down,
gently. “I should look at your cut,” he muttered, keeping Stiles’ top up high
so the bandage was visible.
As his feet touched the floor, Stiles removed one hand from Derek’s hair. The
other continued, if more softly, to brush through it.
Derek didn’t seem to want to tell him to stop.
“Please, Dr. Hale, I know you just want to see me shirtless.”
Derek’s lips twitched. “That too.”
This time, it was Stiles laughing.
“Does it hurt?”
“It always hurts.”
Fear sent his skin shivering, and he looked up to meet Stiles’ eyes. He was
smiling still, eyes warm and fixed on Derek. “I’m fine, Derek,” he said calmly,
and his hand left Derek’s hair to cup the side of his face. His fingers felt
soft against Derek’s cheek, and he couldn’t stop his own hand reaching up, to
brush Stiles’. It felt warm, pleasantly so. He liked it.
“Sorry for being a bigger idiot than Scott,” he said, straightening up, unable
to break eye contact. He looped his fingers between Stiles’, prising it from
his cheek, but refusing to let it go.
Stiles grinned. “Yanno what? I might – might – be able to forgive you.”
Tugging on their joint hands, Stiles lead Derek around the semi-constructed bed
– giving it a weird look, and saying, “Is that supposed to be a cupboard?” for
which Derek slapped the back of his head, causing him to laugh – and
eventually, around to the sofa. Their couch, Derek thought, starting to realise
exactly how dense he’d been. Stiles sat down, patting the space beside himself
and looking up at Derek expectantly.
“What?” Derek asked warily, sliding obediently into place.
“I am only a small weak thing, and the combination of losing a shit-tonne of
blood and that remarkably hot make out session – I liked that, by the way, that
was nice, let’s do it again sometime – has tired me out. You shall now sit with
me as I rest.”
He couldn’t stop himself rolling his eyes, but Derek smiled as he wrapped an
arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him down until they were lying side by
side. When Stiles nuzzled at him, arm curling over his waist, hand resting over
Derek’s heart, Derek closed his eyes. He could hear Stiles breathe, could hear
and feel his heartbeat, steady and consistent. There was a peace, here, that
Derek hadn’t been able to feel in a long time.
“I think you’re actually starting to fix me,” Derek murmured, fingers lightly
tracing circles onto Stiles wherever he could reach.
There was a moment’s silence, before Stiles replied, just as softly, “I’m
glad.” Derek could hear the smile in his voice.
Only three seconds later, Stiles started to laugh.
 “What?” Derek asked again, tilting his head down slightly so he could see
Stiles’ face.
“My dad,” Stiles laughed. “You’ve gotta meet my dad again! As my boyfriend.”
“...You’re evil. You know that? You’re evil, and I hate you.”
“Nah.”
“No? You don’t think I hate you?”
“Nope. I think you love me.”
Derek closed his eyes again. He smiled again, unsure if he would ever stop. “I
guess I do.”
**
His hands were drenched in oil, and the small cloth he was using was doing
nothing but spread it further. He should have washed them, but his vest was
sticking to him in all the uncomfortable places, and the oil that had seeped
through the fabric was starting to make it stick to his chest. So, currently, a
change of clothes and perhaps a shower were a higher priority than washing his
hands.
He kicked his boots off as he stepped inside the house, pushing the door shut
with his foot, and jumped the stairs two at a time. He tugged the hem of his
top up as he walked backwards into the door for his bedroom, using his back to
push the door open.
“She's all that I want and I've waited for so long, baby can't you see that
you're not the girl for me, I've known all along, that I'm in love with Stacy's
mom!”
Derek pulled the top off in time to see Stiles do some kind of spasm dance,
almost dropping the book he was holding over his head as well as nearly falling
off the bed. Which was quite impressive, considering it was a double which
Derek had accidentally made a few feet wider and a few feet shorter by
following his own instructions, having lost his long-lasting battle with Ikea
instructions.
“Do I need to be jealous?” he asked, feeling his lips twisting into the half
smile that always seemed in place when Stiles was being a complete dork. Unless
he was slamming Stiles against things. Then it was usually a scowl. Or
desperate kissing.
Stiles turned his head to look at him, lowering the book so it was resting on
his chest. As soon as he saw him, Stiles let his eyes rake over Derek’s abs,
before meeting his eyes and grinning. “Helloooo there.” He flicking and
earphone out, and asked, “Did ya say something, hot stuff?”
“Should I – oh, never mind,” Derek sighed, shaking his head, and rolling his
vest into a ball before chucking it into the washing bin. He opened the chest
of draws, shoving the multicoloured, branded smaller tops to one side in a
search for a plain, black top that’d fithim.
“How’s the car?”
“Fine – just a problem with the radiator, nothing major.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Derek stepped through into the en suite, grabbing a flannel and trying to wash
away the worst of the grease, oil, and sweat. From the other room, he heard
Stiles yell, “What, you’re gonna get all dirty and then not let me have some
fun with you?”
“Nope,” he called back.
“Sourwolf.”
Derek grinned at his reflection. “The others will be here in about half an
hour,” he pointed out, still carrying the clean top as he returned to the
bedroom. He raised an eyebrow at Stiles when he came back into sight. “Do you
seriously think half and hour’s enough time?”
Stiles sighed. “I guess not.”
“Exactly.” He pulled on the shirt, and chuckled at Stiles’ exaggerated groans.
“Book down, Matilda. We got stuff to do.”
Of course, Stiles didn’tput the book down, and instead launching into a long
rant about how he didn’t have anything to do and how serious shit was about to
go down and he couldn’t possibly abandon the characters now, but Derek had
expected it, and didn’t care. He pulled the book from Stiles’ grasp, using a
finger to mark his place (he learnt from his previous mistakes), and placed it
down on the bedside table. “No. Come on. Downstairs.”
It still took him grabbing Stiles’ hand and pulling him to his feet before he
moved, and even then Stiles kept trying to pull him down onto the bed. But in
the end, Derek won. He usually did.
Usually.
“Noooooo but you know Scott’s gonna be all bitchy because his mum took away his
car privileges – to be fair, he crashed it – and Jackson’s going to be
unbearable because of that scholarship, and let’s not get started on Isaac –
and worst of all, we have no curly fries. No curly fries! Because someone said
we had some, what was it, ‘a freakin’ tonne in the freezer, Stiles, stop
worrying, Jesus’ followed by shutting me up with a kiss, don’t think I don’t
know you don’t use that, oho I know. But no curly fries, man! I need my curly
fries!”
“That’s because we did have curly fries,” Derek sighed, slipping his hand into
Stiles’ jeans back pocket and pulling his boyfriend closer. “Until someone,” he
said, echoing Stiles from earlier, “went and ate them as a midnight snack.”
“That wasn’t midnight snack, that was post-coital munchies,” Stiles argued, arm
looping around Derek’s waist, and fingers tapping impatiently on his hipbone.
“God, Derek, get it right.”
“Right, sorry, I’m sure there’s huge difference between midnight snacks and
whatever the hell it was you just made up. Doesn’t distract from the fact you
ate them.”
“It means I ate them for a good reason, and I didn’t just make it up – Google
it, it’s a thing-”
“I am not typing anything with the word ‘coital’ into Google. Ever.”
“Really? And here I was, almost thinking you were an ordinary teenage boy once-
”
“Anyway,” Derek cut in once they’d reached the last step, spinning Stiles to
face him by pulling his hips around, “Why do you need porn? You’ve got me,” he
breathed, letting his fingers trace circles onto Stiles’ skin, eyes looking
between Stiles’ lips and his widening pupils.
“I – I didn’t say I’d done it recently,” Stiles pointed out, stuttering, and
Derek could hear his heart speeding up, matching Derek’s own heart.
Until the sound of the engine coming up the drive covered them both.
“Scott,” Derek muttered, inhaling the scent to make sure. “Definitely Scott.”
Stiles groaned, head slamming into Derek’s chest as if it was a wall. “Oh my
god, I hate him, can’t he just piss off-”
“He’s brought alcohol and chicken.”
Stiles went silent for a second. “I guess we can forgive him,” he mused
eventually.
Unable, and kinda unwilling to stop himself, Derek snorted. “I guess,” he
echoed. Quickly, he tilted Stiles’ head up and pressed a chaste kiss to his
lips. “Go on, go yell at him. I’ll head to the kitchen, heat up the oven.”
“Why can’t you heat up me,” Stiles whined, rising to his tiptoes to try and
press his lips back against Derek’s. But Derek just laughed again, stepping
back.
“We’ve traumatised Scott once, let’s leave it at that.” He took Stiles’ hand in
his own and squeezed it once, before letting it go and stepping back again. “So
go.”
He watched, still stepping backwards, as Stiles pouted, and muttered, “Yes,
Boss.” And then, because Stiles was, always would be a teenager, he blew Derek
a kiss, winked, and spun on the balls of his feet to go yell at Scott for being
prompt for the first time in his life.
Sometimes, Derek had to stop, and try and figure out how, exactly, this had
become his life.
Smiling wryly, he shook his head, ran a hand through his hair before turning
and heading to the kitchen, the sounds of Scott and Stiles yelling and laughing
just visible through the mended walls of the Hale family house.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Here, have some gratuitous smut. From Stiles POV, cos for some reason
     I'm utterly incapable of writing smut from Derek's POV.
It was a Friday night. There wasn’t really any excuse other than that. It was a
Friday night, Scott had recently bought the latest POTC movie, so the pack had
assembled round Derek’s. They’d all fallen onto previously claimed furniture –
couch, futon, armchairs, puffy cushions, none of which matched each other or
the decor – and shoved the DVD into the player, sat back and enjoyed.
Halfway through, Stiles had brought up the topic of food. It had taken a while,
a few grumbles of shut up and all that, but he eventually got them all to cave,
and come help him cook the stuff they’d all brought.
The big strapping boys, Scott, Jackson, Danny and, of course, big-boss-alpha
were called in when it was all sorted and ready for consumption. At least two
plates in each hand, they carried everything through, nachos, chicken dippers,
salad (that wouldn’t be so much as breathed upon), cheese on sticks, popcorn,
cocktail sausages, ribs, buffalo wings, curly fries – Stiles shamelessly
grabbed a handful and shoved them into his mouth before Danny left, following
the rest. Danny rolled his eyes; Stiles grinned, mouth full. He paused to down
his coke before ambling out of the kitchen.
He didn’t get far.
A few steps into the corridor – now dark, empty – a hand grabbed his shoulder,
shoving his back against the wall – the other covered his mouth.
He swore loudly –or, more accurately, started to. Because lips were attaching
themselves to his neck and teeth were scraping his skin and FUCK this wasn’t
fair.
Derek needed to wear a bell... yeah, a bell on a collar, like a cat... just the
bell-collar... and that thought wasn’t helping, not when all he could feel was
one hand on his chest, the fucking heat just pouring from Derek, milimeters
away, one leg forcing his apart and the thigh pressed into his crotch, pushing
him against the wall even more. Derek’s mouth moved up, slid up, to his ear –
and just as his teeth bit onto his earlobe, he jerked his thigh up, all but
slamming it into Stiles, the bulge in his jeans where his cock fucking hurt.
Honest to god, if it hadn’t been for the hand on his chest or the leg between
his, Stiles would have slid down the wall and melted on the floor. But he was
pinned in place by Derek. As it was, it was all he could do no to moan, not to
let a stream of swearing and blasphemes and whimpers that would have the others
running. He had to bite down on Derek’s hand to keep silent, which in turn
caused Derek to growl, his whole body shaking, and teeth, still clamped down on
Stiles’ ear tugging that bit more.
Stiles was trying desperately to remember how to breathe. But all he inhaled
was Derek’s scent, and just feel the hand pressing against his chest even
harder. Shamelessly, drowning and really not caring, Stiles arched, back
curving away from the wall, rutting desperately.
Derek helped, hand moving from his chest to his hips, lifting Stiles’ smaller
body, pulling him against him hard, tight, and with the warmth of the other
body, sweat on Derek’s hand, and Derek all but panting into his ear, Stiles
moaned.
He had a grand total of one thought then. Too many clothes.
Derek’s tongue flicked out, circling his ear. If the hand hadn’t been over his
mouth, Stiles would have begged, pleaded, bitten and kissed and licked until
they were naked and panting and soaking with the other’s sweat – but he
couldn’t. Derek was in control. Derek had him pinned.
And Derek was breathing, mouth opening to whisper – Stiles’ eyes fluttered, and
closed, pressed tight –
“The fries’ll be going cold.”
And like the bastard he was, Derek stepped back, winked, and headed into the
lounge.
Stiles had never hated anyone so much in his life. Every inch of him shaking,
he slid down the wall, hands going to rub his face. “You fucker – you not-
fucker – god, I hate you...” he muttered, knowing Derek would be able to hear
him. He could go to the bathroom and jack off. But, somehow, that seemed like
cheating...
...when you have a whole meal of finger lickin’ good food in the other room.
A grin slid across Stiles’ face. He had a plan. He wouldn’t go to the bathroom
– he’d go to the lounge.
He rose to his feet – winced – and sat back down again.
He’d go to the lounge in a few minutes. Let a few ... things... subside a bit
first.
When he finally did get to the lounge, he could feel Derek’s eyes on him the
moment he entered. He looked back, once, eyebrows raised innocently, before
collapsing on the beanbag he’d purloined that night, across the room from their
couch where Derek was currently stretched out.
The nearest plate to him was covered in chicken wings. Perfect.
As they ate, Stiles laughed with the rest, chatting and mocking and being
sociable – but he also made sure to lick and suck his way through every food he
could reach, eating more delicately that he’d ever done before, and taking
meticulous care to clean his fingers whenever they became coated in sauces. His
particular favourites were the spare ribs. Once the meat was off, he could put
the bone back into his mouth, and suck it clean, cheeks hollowing around it.
It was so wonderfully cliché, that he did it about five times. The final time,
he couldn’t help but look across at Derek as he pulled in from his lips. The
darkness of his eyes sent shivers down Stiles’ spine, made his heart stutter,
and there was no doubt Derek heard that when he smirked softly. The bone
finally fell from Stiles’ mouth with a soft pop. Stiles watched with pride as
Derek’s own mouth fell ever so slightly open.
He smirked. Derek’s eyes flickered to the door. And it was that simple.
“Dessert? Who wants dessert? I want dessert mmm dessert better get all this
into the kitchen!”
“Wha – hey hey Stiles I was eating them-”
“Not anymore, you fatty puppy you, it’s for your own good! Moment of the lips-”
“Hey, Stiles, d’you want help-”
“NO NOPE, nah I think the Big Boss Alpha and me have it covered thaaaank you!”
He ran from the room. He wasn’t ashamed to say it. Reaching the kitchen, he had
time to put the three trays down and turn around before Derek slammed into him,
hands clenching onto his hips, tongue swiping over his lips, sucking where he’d
been staring seconds before –
One of Stiles’ hands found itself on Derek’s ass by autopilot, the other
entangling itself into his hair, using it to pull Derek’s face down, holding it
in place as Stiles bit down on Derek’s bottom lip, holding it, sucking it hard,
relishing the soft whimper it drew from the older, bigger man, who had him
pressed against the work surface.
Derek didn’t let that pass. The whimper turned into a growl, kiss to a tangle
of tongues, stroking and wrapping and caressing and pulling and biting as he
tugged at Stiles’ shirt, pulling it up, as he pressed one hand into the centre
of Stiles’ back, nails digging into the skin, the other tugging at the back
waistband of Stiles’ jeans.
They were grinning into each other’s lips. It was always this messy fight for
control, for the top.
“You didn’t bring out a plate,” Stiles muttered, pulling Derek’s head to the
side by his hair, a better angle to lick the corner of his lips.
“I think they all knew anyway,” Derek breathed into his mouth, against his
cheek, his jaw, into his ear, “You stink like sex. Like you’re ready for me to
shove you against any surface and you’d spread for me, moaning like the whore
you are.”
“Only for you, baby,” Stiles breathed, lips twitching into a grin, legs falling
open and crotch rising to press against Derek, the stiff bulge, pressing and
rubbing, the hand on Derek’s ass pushing him down-
With a growl, Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ neck, teeth pressing into the
soft skin. That wasn’t what made Stiles buck, made him have to press his mouth
into Derek’s shoulder to stop himself from yelling out. Derek’s fingers had
slipped beneath his jeans, his boxers, one finger pressing without warning into
his hole. The rough friction, the skin without lubricant, and oh fuck the speed
he’d moved at whited out Stiles’ brain.
He couldn’t have untangled his fingers from Derek’s hair if he tried anymore.
They were locked in place, like his eyes were pressed shut, muscles unable to
move. But focusing, somehow, somehow able to use some part of his brain to not
think about the way Derek’s finger was sliding slowly in and out of his ass, he
managed to move one hand, shaking, fumbling, to the button on the front of
Derek’s jeans. Derek crooked the finger – Stiles’ fingers slipped as he jerked,
hand pressing momentarily against Derek’s crotch. He could feel Derek’s whole
body shudder, where it was pressed against him. A deep breath – as deep as he
could – and he hooked his fingers around the button and flicked it open.
Moving quickly, unconsciously to the speed of Derek’s movement, he pushed down
the zip, and unhooked his own jeans. Boxers were shoved down, Derek wriggling
against him, randomly muttering encouragement, blasphemy, desperation, all into
the skin of Stiles’ neck as his finger twisted and rubbed. Finally – goddam
finally – Stiles managed to get them both naked enough to wrap his hands around
them both.
For a good few seconds, they both stopped breathing, Stiles couldn’t even feel
his heart, all his nerves had moved, to the press of Derek’s body, his fingers
inside him, their cocks rubbing –
It was Derek that moved first, pressing his finger upwards, ever so slightly.
It didn’t take long after that. Stiles had been close for a good half an hour,
and it wasn’t long before he lost any control he might have had, heat rising,
seeping through him, his low stomach, building and rising – and he could feel
it in Derek, hear his breath getting more ragged, his hips twitching
erratically, quicker, faster, finger curling, clenching, teeth biting –
Stiles came first, gasping, every muscle in his body clenching, tensing, breath
shaking as his head fell forwards, burying into Derek’s neck. A few more
strokes, fingers pressing, and Derek came, his body shuddering, warm cum mixing
with Stiles’, covering his hands.
They stayed in stillness, recovering.
Derek slipped back his finger, palm moving to rest in the small of Stiles’
back, and lips changing from a desperate clench to a gentle press. Stiles
breathed slower, breathing in Derek’s scent, calming, and realising he was in
slightly more pain than he should be. He pushed upright, carefully slipping
slightly from Derek’s drip, and twisted, peering over his shoulder at the thick
red line, left across his back by the edge of the work surface. “Ah,” he
muttered, watching as Derek ran a finger across it. “That might – that might
bruise a bit...”
He turned back around, meeting Derek’s gaze. His blue eyes were soft, but his
lips were splitting into a grin, then full blown laughter.
Grinning himself, Stiles shook his head and raised his hands. “Stop laughing at
me and get me tissues!” he ordered, trying to sound as bossy as he could.
But Derek was still laughing as he carefully pulled up Stiles’ boxers and
zipped up his jeans, followed by his own. “Sink,” he said eventually, tilting
his head towards the tap that worked as the water supply for the kitchen. He
headed over there himself, washing his own hands in the cool stream. As Stiles
stepped up beside him, he took the smaller hands in his own and deftly cleaned
them.
“Do we actually have any desserts?” Stiles asked.
Derek’s lips twitched. “No.”
Stiles groaned.
He tried to look nonchalant as he re-entered the lounge, Derek right behind
him.
Didn’t work very well. Two people were giving them a round of applause, one
wolf whistle, and from one of the girls, a ‘bowchickawowow’. Scott was staring
at him was a face that spoke of deep psychological trauma.
Through the blush now emblazoned across his face, Stiles grinned, stepping
around Scott to get his beanbag. He sank into it – carefully – and risked a
glance across to Danny, who had the space beside him. The goalie raised both
eyebrows, grinned, and raised a hand, palm out.
Stiles’ eyes flickered across to Derek, who was now back on their couch,
throwing nachos into his mouth, and face as calm as you would – except for a
lingering red tinge covering his cheeks. Derek met his gaze, and winked.
Grin spreading full force across his face, his mates’ laughter ringing around
him, Stiles leant over, and gave Danny his high-five.
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