Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/727821.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall, Isaac_Lahey/
      Scott_McCall, Lydia_Martin/Jackson_Whittemore, Danny_Mahealani/Jackson
      Whittemore, Vernon_Boyd/Erica_Reyes
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Allison_Argent, Lydia_Martin, Peter
      Hale, Danny_Mahealani, Jackson_Whittemore, Isaac_Lahey, Vernon_Boyd,
      Erica_Reyes, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Knotting, Scent_Marking, Alpha/Beta/Omega
      Dynamics, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Anal_Sex, Biting, Mating,
      Possessive_Behavior, Angst, Angst_and_Humor
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-19 Updated: 2013-09-11 Chapters: 4/? Words: 6560
****** The Royals ******
by believered
Summary
     “It's not like they're royalty, I don't see why they need to be
     treated like they are.” Stiles gripped his glass a little tighter and
     gulped down the last of his orange juice.
     His dad sat his own full glass back down on the counter-top, turning
     to give Stiles his best 'I'm-really-tired-of-this' look, a look that
     Stiles was getting a lot lately.
     “Well, for one, they could rip our heads off,” okay, that he could
     agree with, “and two, it's the law, and I'm the sheriff, therefore
     it's my job to enforce the law.”
Notes
     So, I really didn't intend for this...thing to happen. I haven't
     written fic in a good six months or so, thanks to some other projects
     I've had, and this is my first ever Teen Wolf fic, but one day I had
     a sudden idea, and BAM there there it was, chapter one.
     Anyway, enough from me - I hope it's not too shabby! Enjoy!
***** Stiles and his Issues with Luck *****
“It's not like they're royalty, I don't see why they need to be treated like
they are.” Stiles gripped his glass a little tighter and gulped down the last
of his orange juice.
His dad sat his own full glass back down on the counter-top, turning to give
Stiles his best 'I'm-really-tired-of-this' look, a look that Stiles was getting
a lot lately.
“Well, for one, they could rip our heads off,” Okay, that he could agree with,
“And two, it's the law, and I'm the sheriff, therefore it's my job to enforce
the law.”
Stiles choked on a laugh, the orange juice burning his throat, “You always say
that,” he threw his dad a smug smile, “You think I don't know how much you hate
it, too.”
His dad sighed, “Stiles, there were many occasions when I was younger that I
wanted to smoke weed, but I didn't, because it's illegal.”
Stiles gazed out the window and jiggled the keys that were hooked to his jeans,
waiting for his dad to finish the lecture he'd heard twenty thousand times in
his sixteen years of existence.
Of course, the second he zoned out his dad slammed an orange bottle of Adderall
in front of him, causing Stiles to jump approximately twelve and a half inches
in the air.
Nice, that was a half inch higher than his previous record! He really might
amount to something in this life after all, if that something involved being
the most painfully awkward person on the face of the planet.
Maybe there was an award for that!
“Stiles! Medicine!” his dad was standing over him, that look on his face again.
Stiles grabbed the bottle and mumbled about having to get up to get water.
His dad was probably still bitter over Stiles forcing him to drink orange juice
instead of that sugar laced coffee he'd gotten addicted to. Hey, someone had to
keep his dad's health in check, he sure as hell didn't do it himself.
Stiles jiggled his keys all the way over to the sink with his glass, much to
his dad's dismay.
“I hope to god you don't get yourself into trouble, your nervous twitches would
be more like massive annoyances to them.” His dad was speaking just loud enough
for Stiles to hear, but he couldn't respond while he was swallowing his pill –
which, of course, was his dad's strategy.
By the time he got it down his dad had plopped down in Stiles' seat and the
pause had dragged on too long for any kind of effective retort.
“What I'm saying is that, whether you like it or not, the law is the law, and
even if it doesn't seem fair,” His dad's eyes flashed like the Sheriff he was,
“you can't break the law.”
Okay, his dad won.
For now.
“I get it, I get it!” Stiles had more interesting things to do, anyway, “I'm
going out, Scott wanted me to help him pick something out for the crowning
speech, and no offense to him, but his sense of color is basically black and
white.”
That was mostly completely honest. Scott really had lost some saturation in his
life in the last few months (something which had been nagging at the back of
Stiles' mind for a while now), and he really was going to help him out...
He was just going to take a detour before-hand. So he left out a small detail,
it's not like he was lying exactly.
“But first, you need to drink this orange juice.” he sat the glass down on the
table next to his dad's hand - Stiles was on a war path. He may have lost one
battle, but that didn't mean he'd lose them all.
His dad knew Stiles wouldn't budge on this one, and after dealing another
‘look‘, he chugged the entire glass down in one go.
Stiles was actually a little impressed, he usually dragged it on as long as
possible, attempting to make his son regret forcing him to make healthier
choices. Stiles guessed it was because he was feeling a little guilty about the
whole royalty thing. His father hated it just as much as Stiles did, but
sometimes his morals as a Sheriff over-rode those of being a dad.
It was simultaneously a fine line and a gaping pit, which Stiles understood.
Probably too well.
“There, now you can go work your fashion magic on Scott,” his dad proclaimed,
knowing damn well that Stiles fashion sense was basically non-existent.
Stiles would be the first to admit: at his most fashionable he might pull off a
sweet flannel shirt plus jacket combo, but that, even, was only on a good day.
No, the only reason his 'fashion assistance' was needed in Scott's case was to
ensure the idiot didn't wear a pink shirt with a green jacket and then throw on
a pair of yellow pants (which, sadly, actually did happen once upon a time).
Stiles made to leave, and then hovered in the doorway of the kitchen, feeling
like he was forgetting something. When his father turned around in confusion, a
light bulb went off in Stiles' head.
“I got you a chicken salad sandwich, it's in the fridge, so don't even try to
use the excuse of having nothing in the fridge just so you can get fast food.”
It wasn't five seconds and Stiles was already out the front door, ignoring the
groan coming from the kitchen.
He felt remarkably accomplish already, and it was only...
Oh shit, it was already ten! He needed to be at Scott's in fifteen minutes, and
he still needed to make that detour! He'd just have to make it quick. Really
quick.
He made record time getting out onto the street in his jeep, buckling up and
turning the steering wheel at the same time, and spent the next five minutes
convincing himself that he'd be on time. It was no problem, he would get what
he needed and be to Scott's in time.
Unfortunately, he'd forgotten the fact that the crowning ceremony always
attracted the majority of the town, which lined up along the street like it was
a freaking parade when the court went by in their million dollar cars at a
break neck speed of five miles per hour.
He cursed under his breath as he approached pine street, quickly realizing
there was no way in hell he was going to get across the street to the jewelry
shop in his jeep. So he pulled over to the side of the road and yanked the keys
out of the ignition, cutting his finger in the process. Whatever, he could
worry about it later.
He ran up to the crowding people, realizing that his dad would be here soon to
help barricade them, meaning he was now in an even bigger hurry. Seriously, it
seemed like no matter where he turned, werewolves were shitting on his life.
He somehow managed to elbow and knee his way through the crowd, his ears
ringing from the squeals and shouts. It really pissed him off how infatuated
these people had become with tyrants. It's not the first time it has happened
in history, sure, but actually living it was a completely different thing.
Stiles could finally see the shop sign swinging in the wind across the street.
Once he reached the road he'd just have to run across and he'd be home safe, so
to speak. He came up behind a huge bald guy.
So this dude was his final obstacle, huh?
Stiles took a second to stare at his broad backed opponent, and then - with
what in his mind was a slick and stealthy maneuver - he squeezed past and into
the street.
Stiles rode with the momentum of squeezing past bald dude, running across the
dark pavement - he was almost there, just a couple yards and he'd be on the
other side.
Or he would have been, if at that very second he hadn't run straight into
something painfully hard and fell back onto his ass. He looked up, head
spinning while he attempted to focus on whatever he'd run into.
Who the hell put a black car there?
Oh shit! Was that a dent? Did he just dent that car?
Stiles was already running through the list of people he'd have to call about
this; first his dad, then the insurance company, and then – wow, whoever drove
the car had nice taste in boots, were those leather?
It wasn't until Stiles looked up and noticed how quiet it'd gotten around him
that he made the connection – he hadn't just dented a sweet black car, he'd
dented a sweet black car that was owned by the royals.
Holy fucking Batman shit on a stick, this was so not his day.
And he just said that out loud, didn't he?
“Yes, you did, and it really isn't your day, is it?” Silky smooth sarcasm with
a voice that made you feel violated no matter how many weapons you had on you.
Fuck.
“Alpha Duke Peter.” Stiles croaked in terrifying realization. He really had
tried to make that sound less shaky – but shit, of all the cars he could have
ran into, it had to be the Psycho wolf's? Really!?
If Stiles weren't so suddenly concerned for his life and at the same time
trying to maintain his dignity as a man, he’d be crying right now. He could
literally see the shop's sign over Psycho Hale's shoulder, it was torture.
Peter was looking down at him patiently, obviously waiting for Stiles to
apologize and kiss his feet.
And if Stiles were a normal person, or even a more controlled person, he might
have. But he was neither, and who could blame him, really?
He was so fucking tired of this shit, these assholes were no better than humans
(other than, you know, the fact that they could change into massive
carnivores), and yet they think they can treat humans like dirt?
He stumbled up off his ass, glaring the whole time,
“Excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be, so if you wouldn't mind getting out
of my way.”
Judging by the collective gasps coming from around him, that might have been a
little more rude than he'd intended it to be. But it was totally worth the
falter in Psycho Hale's creepy ass smile.
It didn't last long, though, all too quickly Stiles found himself pinned to the
car, a pale, clawed hand kneading restlessly around his neck. For a second
Stiles thought he might change skin, but Peter's eyes only flickered,
completely under control.
He looked amused. Which on Peter looked freaking disgusting.
“I think I like your attitude, little boy, how would you like to come home with
me?” He tilted his head, smile cutting across his face when Stiles' heart rate
picked up,
“Fuck. You.” he spat. Okay, he really needed to stop digging himself further
into a hole. Especially if he ever wanted to even see that shop again.
Peter's hand tightened around his neck, and Stiles gasped, his air way feeling
dangerously close to collapse.
“I think someone needs to apologize.”
It was a well known fact that Peter really did not do so well with
disobedience. Now Stiles was experiencing that first hand. But, of course, he
forgot he had survival instincts and spit. On Peter.
The hand around his neck tightened again.
“Why, you little-”
“Stop.” Another voice ordered, and instantly Stiles was on the ground, heaving
for air – beautiful, lovely, wonderful air.
Peter's back was to him, blocking Stiles' view of his savior, whom he planned
to hug many times, and possibly kiss.
“You know it's bad karma to shed blood on Crowning day, Uncle.”
Or, he would have kissed his savior, if it weren't Derek Fucking Hale. Wow,
Stiles really had amazing luck.
***** A Fate Worse Than Death *****
Just a slight change in Peter's stance and Stiles immediately knew the werewolf
was about to say something he wouldn't like.
“That is very true, Prince Derek, but since this creature is obviously out of
hand, I think it's our duty to offer him some discipline.”
Stiles bristled at being called 'creature'. If it weren't him on the receiving
end of this, he'd find the irony pretty funny, however, right now it was so not
funny he was close to screaming.
“We should take him back with us to the palace, he'd make a beautiful addition,
don't you think?”
Wow, that was creepy, no thanks. Not that Stiles had any choice, which sucked,
but he didn't have to pretend to be okay with it.
Derek glanced past Peter, locking eyes with Stiles, who didn't bother looking
down like he was supposed to. Why did it matter anymore? He was already going
to die a painful death, what was another nail in the coffin?
He'd heard the stories of what Peter did to his 'play things', and they hadn't
spit on him, as far as Stiles was aware of.
Of course, Prince Derek wouldn't care what happened to Stiles, he was
practically famous for not caring about much of anyone – as much as Stiles was
famous for being a bookworm.
Derek's only family was Peter, and you'd have to be a psycho to really care
about a psycho.
Speaking of psycho, Stiles felt like he might become one. He was so screwed.
Derek made a noncommittal noise, “I'll take him.”
Wait.
Hold the freak up.
What?
Stiles was suddenly very lost on whether he was going to be tortured and then
brutally murdered by Peter, or saved my Derek only to be brutally murdered by
him. Derek probably took pity on him and would just end his life quickly,
right? Which still sucked, but hey, at least it wasn't Psycho.
Peter's back tensed.
Then he broke out laughing so suddenly, he might have actually spit a little.
Oh shit, spit laughing couldn't be good for Stiles.
“On one condition: you have to take him as your Keep. It's high time you took
one, don't you think?”
Nope, definitely not good for Stiles. He'd rather die than become a keep, thank
you very freaking much.
“Oh my god.” Stiles blurted, leaning back against the car in an attempt to calm
the fuck down.
It didn't help much.
When he tried comforting himself under his breath Peter made a curt shushing
noise like Stiles was a misbehaving puppy.
Which was ironic since Psycho was the one with actual canine DNA.
But Stiles did shut up, for once, focusing on reading Broody Hale's face. He
didn't get too far with that, though.
Stiles had learned from news coverage that Derek's face was, by default,
indifferent. A goat could be licking his legs, and the guy would still look
like he'd just been filing taxes.
Really, Stiles would have better luck reading a Russian book upside down than
figuring out what the hell Derek's face meant.
“Fine.”
Stiles froze.
No no no this wasn't good!
Sure, he'd been beaten up a couple times in his life, but these guys would rip
him limb from limb – and Stiles really liked having his limbs fully intact,
thank you very much.
Peter interrupted Stiles' thoughts - Which, hey, rude!
“Okay then, the decision has been made, we'll just take him with us in the car,
then-”
“No.”
Both Stiles and Peter looked at Derek in question and a low murmur was sweeping
over the crowd around them.
“There was something he needed from that shop. I'll go with him. Then one of
the Vickers will accompany him to his house to make sure he doesn't try to run
while he gathers his belongings. We can pick him up from the house after the
Crowning.”
What?
I mean, that was great and all, but why?
What twisted crap was this guy up to?
Peter seemed confused, too, shifting from foot to foot like he was trying to
find a fault in Derek's plan.
“Alright, then. You have to be quick about it, though, we're already running
late.” No such fault detected, apparently.
Derek strode past Peter and slowed down only to motion for Stiles to follow.
After somehow managing to trip over his own foot, Stiles stood up right and
trudged after the Brooder.
He stared at Derek's back, trying to ignore the looks he was getting from the
crowd. It felt like they were dissecting him with their eyes, it was really
annoying.
Actually, now that he'd gotten to see Derek's full body, Stiles realized that
he was wearing all black, from his shirt all the way down to his boots.
Figures.
“You shouldn't stare, it's rude.” Derek growled over his shoulder.
Woah - Warning! That was definitely an 'I'll-rip-your-throat-out' kind of
growl.
Stiles ended up grinding his teeth and starring at his own feet instead of
Derek's back. It pissed him off, but he didn't want to make any more of a scene
in front of these people than he already had.
The bell clinked when they walked into the shop.
Stiles wasn't used to it sounding so creepy, the bell was usually accompanied
by excited voices and laughter, but now it was met by silence.
It was like the world had suddenly been drained of sound – a reminder of how
much Stiles' life was about to change. The silence before the storm. And wasn't
that just a depressing thought, maybe Stiles should dress in all black, too.
Maybe throw in a little black eyeliner to make it extra depressing.
Stiles followed Derek the few strides up to the counter, stopping next to the
werewolf just as someone came out from the back room.
“Prince Derek!” The old geezer bowed shakily and Derek tensed like he was
afraid the man might fall over.
“Please, don't stand on ceremony, just get him whatever he needed.” Derek
glanced over at Stiles, who was standing a couple feet away.
Stiles smiled at old man, “Did you finish it, old geezer?”
Stiles always called him that.
“I sure did, kiddo.”
And he always called Stiles that. Which he didn't like, but that feeling was
mutual. Despite the name calling, the geezer had always been a freaking great
chatting partner.
The geezer had already disappeared into the back of the store when Stiles
returned from his thoughts.
Derek didn't move at all, and Stiles glanced over at him wearily. He didn't
even realize he was jiggling his keys until Derek glared at him sharply.
“Sorry.” Stiles muttered, and Derek huffed impatiently.
“Here you are, an emerald set in a sterling silver band!” The old geezer handed
the ring to Stiles, who held it in the palm of his hand like it could break
with just a breeze.
After turning it a few times in his hands he carefully slid it onto his finger,
feeling no pain when it brushed over the cut he'd gotten from his keys.
It fit perfectly.
“Thank you.” He looked up at old geezer with a genuine smile. He wasn't a
completely mushy kind of guy, but this was kind of a big deal for him, so he
made an exception.
“Seriously, thank you so much.”
Old geezer grinned a gap toothed smile, “No problem, kiddo.”
Derek cleared his throat and Stiles jumped.
Oh yeah, that’s right, he was about to experience a fate worse than death. How
could he have forgotten?
***** Fair and Just *****
Chapter Notes
     So, I must apologize for that insane hiatus, but I broke my foot. And
     then I had to write an essay and make a video for a scholarship
     (which I won! :D), and then we had finals, so yes. I was extremely
     busy. But now that it's summer I'll have a lot more time to write and
     write and write! :)
     Enjoy chapter three!
They finally made it back out into the daylight. The crowd was restless, a soft
orchestra of mutters and whispers rippling back and forth. Stiles held in a
snort when he realized how many people had their cell phones out. He was pretty
sure he saw the flash of cameras, too.
He used to have dreams about becoming a celebrity, but somehow this wasn't how
he'd imagined it happening.
“Stiles!” A voice erupted over the din of the crowd and he almost tripped over
a rock. It was his dad. Oh shit.
Stiles peered past Derek's back to see his father struggling against two burly
Vickers.
“Dad!” Stiles met his eyes and cringed when he saw the desperation bubbling
there.
“Stiles!” His dad tried to break past the trained guards, “Let me go, that's my
son, you pieces of shit!”
Trained guards who, luckily, were taught to act on orders over impulses. They
didn't react to the insult, but they definitely didn't move, either.
Stiles glanced over at Peter who was leaning against the car, taking in the
spectacle like it was a movie.
Fucking sadistic bastard.
Stiles barely managed to avoid running into Derek's back when he stopped in the
middle of the street. It felt like this was becoming a theme. A theme that
would eventually lead to death by werewolf. He'd bought a one way ticket to a
furry-lined coffin. Hey, maybe he could ask his dad to use the money he'd saved
from work to buy him a really cool coffin. If he was going to be leaving this
world so early he wanted the sweetest ride out he could manage.
“I'm sorry, Sheriff, but the law is the law, I'm sure you know that better than
anyone.” Derek spoke evenly, but his back was stiff. Stiles figured he was just
socially awkward. He didn't seem the type for this kind of confrontation.
Stiles waited for a smart ass retort from his father, but there was none. There
was just silence.
Damn it, what the Hell was going on? Did something change in the last split
second?
Stiles tried to read the expression on his dad’s face, but all he could make
out was a lost sort of frustration. A part of Stiles, the selfish, self
involved part reared up in his mind.
Why did he give up so easily? Does he value the law more than his own son?
No. No, he knew just as much as Stiles did how futile it was to argue with
Werewolf law.
His father looked at him again, “I’ll see you at home.”
Then Stiles watched as his father turned around and walked through the sea of
people. He struggled to swallow the irrational feeling of betrayal that formed
in his throat as he lost sight of his father’s back.
“Even if it doesn’t seem fair, you can’t break the law,” his dad had said
earlier - in fact, he’d always said that while Stiles was growing up, and
that’s exactly what Stiles had done. He broke the law. But still - this was
more than just unfair, it was unjust.
“Nicely played, it was a little boring for my taste, but there’s always next
time.” Alpha Douche Peter really needed to disappear before Stiles threw up
from his creepiness. It was tainting the air.
Derek didn’t bother responding, he just motioned to the two Vickers that had
been holding back Stiles’ father.
“Take him to his house.”Hey, nice flat tone there, robot Derek. Always keeping
things interesting, I see.
But then things actually did get interesting when one of the Vickers picked him
up by his armpits and started to carry him like he was Simba and this was the
Circle of Life.
“Hey, what - what’s with the shuttle service? I have decently functioning legs,
I can walk on my own!” Stiles tried to kick back into the Vicker. Stupid idea.
Now his heel felt like it’d been steam rolled.
“Wow, they weren’t kidding when they said you guys have abs of steel.”
The Vicker kept walking.
- - -
Stiles sat down in front of the TV in the living room, the wet towel from his
shower still covering his head. He wanted to enjoy his last afternoon at home.
Lydia and Jackson had already stopped by. They were arguing again about how
Jackson was crazy, or something. They’d been at each others’ throats even more
lately, but they were pretty subdued when they came over.
Jackson, living up to his jackass stereotype, said something along the lines
of, “Try not to die, not that I care.”
Lydia, at least, was a little more thoughtful. She’d brought him a pile of
books from her parents library about everything from what colors agitate
werewolves to how often they need to go to the bathroom. There was one in there
about mating, too, but the minute he saw something about knotting the book
miraculously flew out the window. Stiles might have helped it a little bit, the
jury was still out on that one.
Basically, from the little he’d read so far, the only way he could possibly
avoid death would be to suck it up and kiss some werewolf ass. Unfortunately,
while Stiles was pretty good at kissing regular ass, kissing werewolf ass would
not come quite as naturally, given that in nature one ‘doth not kiss thy arse
of thy one who planeth to eateth thee’.
Okay, so he kinda made that up, but it totally had to be a thing.
Stiles bit his nails and focused on the flashing screen in front of him. The
crowning ceremony was on - it aired on all of the channels, so it was his only
choice if he wanted to watch TV.
Derek was standing expressionless at the top of the golden stairs in town
square. The man next to him - a priest, judging by his robes - held a golden
crown in his hands.
“In Fenrir’s name I crown you, Derek Volk Hale, Grand Prince.”
Derek dipped his head to receive the crown, and then turned his gaze to the
crowd that was cheering wildly. Stiles ripped the towel off his head and left
the room, ignoring the pain in his shin when it hit the coffee table.
It was about time he confronted his dad, anyway, before he drunk himself into
oblivion.
His dad had been in the kitchen since Stiles got home and he still hadn’t moved
an inch. Stiles watched his father down the last of the liver wrecking liquid
in his glass and clumsily pour himself more.
A mixture of guilt and anger swirled to life in his gut. He pulled out a chair
and sat down. He didn’t really know what to say, or if he should say anything.
His dad would get drunk every once in a while, so this wasn‘t something he‘d
never had to deal with before. Usually it was when he was thinking too much
about Stiles’ mother, but this was much worse than he’d ever seen him.
His dad hadn’t even acknowledged his presence yet and Stiles shifted
uncomfortably.
“Dad, I’m sorry, I-”
“Son, I don’t know how I can…” Stiles was interrupted. His dad gazed at the
table like he could find the right words there, “I don’t think I can handle
losing you too.”
He glanced up from the table. His eyes were red and puffy. He’d been crying.
Shit, Stiles hated it when his dad cried, it made him feel so freaking useless.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything, something to make him laugh a
little, but he was cut off again.
“I can’t handle you dying.” His face was blushed from drinking. Stiles searched
his father’s eyes. Nothing. No hope. None at all.
“So you’re just going to accept it, just like that?” Stiles clenched his fists
under the table when his dad cocked his head in confusion.
Why did this make him so mad?
“You’re saying you think I’m already a dead man? You think I won’t fight this?
My life is in my own hands, dad!”
Fight? He knew he’d end up dead if he fought. Or did he just believe that
because that’s what his dad believed?
“I’ll fight it, I’ll find a way to survive, but if you think you’re helping
anyone at all by admitting defeat before it’s over, you’re not!”
His father looked confused still. “But, the law-”
“Screw the law, dad! There’s a difference between fairness and justness!”
Stiles was standing now, the chair on the floor behind him.
“But maybe you can’t see that because the law is more important to you than
your own son!” And with that he stormed out of the kitchen.
He decided to go to his room and check his cell phone. He didn’t want to think
about what just happened, he already had enough on his plate.
Scott was on his way over with Allison. Those two were practically joined at
the hip. Stiles had never seen something so simultaneously irritating and
sweet. He did kind of miss having more of Scott’s attention, to be honest. Now
it was ten to one and he was definitely getting the short end of the stick.
Stiles almost dropped his phone when there was a knock at his door.
“Stiles, I need to talk to you.”
His dad really wasn’t going to let this go was he?
After a moment of hesitation he dragged himself over to the door and opened it
a crack, staring at his father intently.
His dad looked away awkwardly.
“Son, I’m sorry, you’re right,” he finally, with a bit of a struggle, returned
Stiles’ gaze, “I need to - and I do - believe you can live, but I don’t…”
Stiles blinked, waiting for him to finish.
“I have never put the law before you, and I never will. The last time
werewolves and the law were involved I lost your mom. There was nothing I could
do to stop it, and she couldn’t fight it. But this is different. I trust you,
Stiles, I know you’ll live. So whatever the law may be or say, don’t forget
that I’ll be fighting for you, too. As long as you fight, so will I.”
Stiles felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Manly tears, of course. His
father looked exhausted, and no wonder, they weren’t due for a soul bearing
session for another half a year, but desperate times call for desperate
measures and all that jazz. Now he’d just go back to his room and-
Oh, fuck it all.
Stiles flung himself into his dad, nearly knocking both of them over.
This may be the last time I really get to hug him. The thought haunted his mind
and Stiles squeezed a little tighter.
His dad didn’t say a word, he just wrapped his arms around Stiles’ back. They
stood there for a long time, holding each other together.
***** Pulling Away *****
Chapter Notes
     I literally had the worst brain melt down and all creativity ceased
     to exist in my brain for a while. But it's back, and this story will
     continue forward. Sorry guys!
“They’re just using royal names as titles, they’re like posers - no, they
actually are posers!” Stiles gestured wildly, and Allison nodded in agreement.
Of course she understood, her family had nursed an unbridled hatred for
werewolves for centuries. They were practically a dictionary on all that was
anti-werewolf.
“I’ll be right back, I, uh, I need to use the bathroom,” Scott said with a
tight jaw. His face was sheet white. Stiles and Allison traded a look of
concern, but neither got up to follow him. Sometimes you got the feeling
someone wanted to be alone, and Scott had definitely been giving off that vibe
ever since they’d started talking about werewolves. Actually, ever since he and
Allison had started talking about them while Scott stood there and looked
constipated.
Allison grabbed Stiles’ hand, startling a strange noise of surprise out of him.
“Stiles, I just wanted to let you know that we’re going to try our best to help
you from the outside.” She sounded considerably determined - which when it came
to Allison meant there would definitely be follow through. It was comforting,
to some extent, but it worried him too. How many people were going to get
dragged into this ordeal just because Stiles failed miserably at life?
He almost wished he were a cat so he could slink off into some dark isolated
place to die - without promises or connections or guilt. But for some reason
the thought of giving up felt like a personal betrayal. Not to mention he
wasn’t strong enough to kill himself - to die alone, as selfish as that
sounded.
“Thanks, Allison,” Stiles said when he realized he hadn’t responded, “I knew
there was a reason Scott dated such a badass girl.” He smiled. It was strained,
but the mechanics of it still worked. Allison smiled back and pulled away,
standing up just as Scott re-entered the room.
He didn’t look as pale, but he still looked like something could attack at any
given moment.
“We should probably get going.” Scott glanced at Allison, who nodded in
agreement. Stiles bit his lip. Now was not the time to cry. Really, totally not
the time.
Then Scott did something he hadn’t done in years - since the time Stiles’ mom
had died - he wrapped his arms around Stiles and held him tight. It wasn’t a
bro-hug, which they did all the time, it was holding - tighter, and deeper.
And just like that, it was over, and Stiles fell into a daze as Allison and
Scott left the room. For a while - Stiles wasn’t sure how long - time sped by
around him and he just sat there in his computer chair, not really thinking.
Which was unusual since usually his mind would be moving a mile a minute thanks
to the adderal pumping through his veins. It was when his dad stuck his head
into his room that time came to a screeching halt, Stiles’ insides recoiling
from the impact of catching up with it.
It was time to go.
Time to leave.
He was going to have to fight - or beg - possibly even bargain - for his life.
And wasn’t that just perfect.
What a perfectly ironic ending to my lame existence. He thought bitterly. But
he grabbed his bag anyway and stumbled down the stairs.
Fate was one nasty bitch.
--------
Stiles’ jaw was probably enjoying the nice warm concrete, that’s how wide his
mouth had fallen open.
But come on, there was a freaking neon orange stretch limo in front of his
house (actually, it looked long enough to be a double - no, triple - stretch
limo).
“Can that thing even turn corners?” his Dad asked.
Stiles somehow managed to return his mouth to its original shape, “P-Probably
not.” He honestly couldn’t decided whether to laugh or cry. What kind of nut
jobs drove around in something like this?
Oh yeah, the Hale family.
“My apologies, sirs, this was the only limo available to return to the castle
that wasn’t too long for your town.” Nice, so they have butlers, too? Talk
about living the easy lif- wait, did he say wasn’t too long?
What kind of clown act was this?
The butler took his bag and carried it to the limo. Stiles shared one last look
with his father, whose eyes looked on the verge of tears. He didn’t let them
fall, though, he just smiled and waved like he’d waved Stiles off on the first
day of school - like he was sending a sheep into a den of lions - only in this
case he was sending a human into a den of werewolves, but the metaphor was
still applicable.
When he slid into the limo he realized with a choke that the interior was
furnished with sheep’s wool. He managed to keep his laughter under tabs, but
that was mostly because of Mr. Broody McBroodster who was sitting right next to
him doing what he did best - brooding. He looked even more perturbed than he
had the last time Stiles had seen him, which, wow, this guy - werewolf -
apparently had no lid on how broody he could get. Maybe it was just a werewolf
thing.
“My, it looks like someone’s had an emotional evening.” Stiles jumped and hit
his head on the ceiling. He’d had no idea Peter was in this part of the car. He
looked past Derek, and sure enough there was Peter smiling like Stiles was the
next sheep he planned to sheer and use as an ass warmer.
“Stop antagonizing him, Peter.” Derek growled through gritted teeth. Stiles
shot McBroody a look and Peter chuckled.
“But Derek, my little pup, antagonizing is what we do best.”
Yeah, exactly. They antagonized humans. Okay, so maybe that was a little
narrow-minded, but they generally didn’t give a shit about humans, that much
Stiles was certain of.
“No, it’s what you do best.” Derek gave Peter a steely look, “Now go somewhere
else.”
Peter’s smile dropped at the blatant command, and while Stiles wasn’t exactly
sure what was going on, he knew that Peter had to do what Derek told him and he
didn’t exactly look too happy about it. But he did get up and opened a small
door that seemed to head to the front of the car. When the door shut behind him
Stiles, his curiosity always one step ahead of his nerves, trained his eyes on
Derek.
“Is it okay to leave him like that? I mean, he looked pretty pissed, and he
gets pretty intense when he’s pissed, not that I’m scared or anything, I just-”
He stopped talking when Derek’s eyes flashed red, “He’ll be fine, it’s nothing
for you to worry about.”
Well okay, then.
“Why,” Stiles stopped, actually dithering between whether or not to ask a
question for once, “Why did you do that?”
Derek looked at him, this time with stony hazel eyes and furrowed eyebrows -
which, woah, those eyebrows, though, they really were…majestic.
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you, uh, stop him from antagonizing me?” Stiles fumbled with the
strings on his favorite sweatshirt.
Derek stared at him for a moment - it was interesting, it was like the eyebrows
made his eyes even more intense, it was really…nice. Not that looking nice
meant anything at all, it was a very subjectively obvious thing - like saying a
zebra has stripes, of course an attractive person looks nice. But Stiles wasn’t
attracted to him, of course he wasn’t, because that would be completely
ridiculous. But he was nice to look at.
“Because I didn’t like it.”
Wow, really deep, very well thought out. Okay, he was kind of expecting
something that had maybe over ten words, but apparently he didn’t have the
capacity to use that many words at once. Stiles had to give it to him, though,
he really got to the point.
“Oh, okay.” Stiles decided to look out the window instead of at Derek’s face.
It still didn’t make sense to him. What was Derek’s angle with all this? There
had to be one, and quite frankly, not knowing was probably going to drive him
insane before anyone even got the chance to rip his throat out.
Stiles flinched and nearly peed his pants when a cool hand fell on top of his
on the car seat. His eyes had to look like they were going to pop out of his
skull he was staring so hard. Derek wasn’t looking at him at all, though, his
eyes were fixed straight ahead, and while Stiles was no where near
understanding what the werewolf was thinking, his face looked apologetic, and
he actually looked a little worried. What he was worried about, Stiles had no
way of knowing, but for some reason he couldn’t take his hand away - or what he
really should say is he couldn’t find a strong enough reason in that moment to
pull away. Actually, today, pulling away from anything felt nearly impossible.
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