Chapter Text
“Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.”
— Joyce Carol Oates
Stiles is late.
It’s already the afternoon and Derek feels antsy, high-strung. He has ever since ten and then eleven o’clock passed with no word from Stiles. He can’t help but check his phone every few minutes, waiting for a text along the lines of oops, slept in, heading over now ;)! But nothing comes up, and each hour makes Derek increasingly anxious.
He’s being ridiculous, he thinks, as he laces up some shoes to go running. He’ll just jog around the Hale property, check things out, he tells himself. After all, Stiles is late. Derek won’t wait around the house for him like a lost puppy.
And if something happened, you’ll know, the dark part of his brain nudges, and Derek scowls to himself for the next ten minutes. He's annoyed at himself, partly because he thinks he might be losing his mind and having clingy tendencies, and partly because he is legitimately worried. Stiles has never once been late to their readings, and if he was Derek would expect there to at least be a phone call or text of some sort.
There’s been nothing.
He jogs down the dirt road, trying to relax and clear his mind. But he’s on high alert, looking through the trees with eyes peeled and his ears listening to the smallest scuffle in the underbrush. His body is tingling, and it’s not from exhaustion or the sweat that’s starting to trickle down his skin. His wolf knows, just knows that something is wrong. He takes a deep breath in.
Maybe it’s because of this that he smells the burnt rubber long before he actually notices the car.
It’s as if his heart stops beating, as if the world zooms in and the only thing that exists is Stiles’ Jeep, turned over onto its side in a nearby ditch. The engine is steaming, slightly, and it looks like the entire passenger’s side has been crushed up like a crumpled piece of paper in a wastebin.
“Oh god,” he hears himself croak. This can’t be happening.
No, not now— no.
Derek’s throat closes up and he can’t find his voice for a moment. Then it echoes out of him in a roar of pure panic, one that shakes the trees nearby and causes birds to fly away screeching, and in a split second he’s by the car.
“Stiles!” he yells, pressing his face against the glass, brain stuttering over the impossible. It’s too covered in mud to see through, and Derek doesn’t bother attempting to brush it off. Instead, he digs his claws into the door and yanks. The metal yields easily under his fingers as he rips it off, tossing it to the side without caring where it lands. For a second he’s paralyzed with fear, thinking that he’s going to see Stiles’ limp, bloody body scattered around the interior. Brains on the steering wheel, intestines on the seat.
Burned, charred skin, just like his family's.
The car is empty.
Derek circles around it a few times, so wound up that he can barely see anything but red. He scents the air, trying to find any traces of cinnamon among the dirt and melted metal. There are too many possibilities for him to even begin understanding what’s happened. He thinks about what happened last time Stiles disappeared, and then about how he promised Stiles (he promised he promised he promised) he wouldn’t let anything like that happen again.
He feels sick.
A noise to his left makes him turn his head and he snarls, loudly. He has no qualms about ripping someone’s throat out, torturing them to find out where the hell his human is.
“Derek, it’s me!” says a voice, and Derek stops short.
“Scott?” he asks, and Scott emerges from the side. He looks disheveled, leaves in his hair and a few twigs clinging to his clothes. He’s covered in dirt and panting. Derek looks him up and down; he must have run here, too. He can smell the dread and alarm on Scott’s skin. It does nothing to ease his already petrified mind.
Derek states what he hopes is the obvious at this point. “Stiles never came to my house.”
“Oh my god,” Scott whispers, eyes wide. “Oh no.”
Derek feels cold. “I thought I would go for a run and check but…. You… How—how did you know—?”
“Lydia called me,” Scott says, rushing forward and peering into the car. “Says she heard Stiles’ jeep in her mind. That the noise wouldn’t stop.” Derek sucks in a rough breath, laying a hand on the car to steady the sudden weakness in his knees. Scott looks just as wrecked; they both know that Lydia hearing anything related to Stiles is far from a good sign.
“He’s in danger,” Derek says, stating the obvious, and Scott nods. Somehow, the words fuel Derek, and his gaze hardens. He snarls, his canines sharp, and straightens up. “We have to find him. Where would he go?”
“He’s only ever with us or you,” Scott replies desperately, sniffing around. “I can’t find his scent. And he didn’t smell like he was possessed this morning.”
“Then something took him,” Derek concludes, stalking down the road and searching for any signs of a struggle, anything at all. There’s nothing.
Scott’s phone buzzes, and Derek turns to look at him so fast that his neck pops. He hisses angrily at the pain as Scott hastily opens the phone. “Lydia?” he asks, and Derek stills. Scott is nodding, his hands clenching; whatever she's saying is lost to Derek as his blood pounds loudly and incessantly in his ears. Derek doesn’t know how Scott isn’t wolfed out. Then again, he thinks, Scott has always been more in control than Derek, ever since he learned how to anchor himself.
“Ok, thanks,” Scott says, and he hangs up. He looks at Derek. “Lydia’s hearing some type of bubbling. Any ideas?”
Derek wracks his brain for anything that bubbles in Beacon Hills. When it hits him, it feels like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water on his head.
“I know a place,” he says, and Scott tilts his head.
When Derek was a pup, his mother used to tell him stories about the moon. It’s a huge force in the supernatural world, for more than just werewolves. She used to tell Derek about how Sasquatches only appear during a half-moon that took place on a Thursday in March to mate, or how during the full moon faeries sometimes dance with the wolves during the hunt. When the moon is empty, fire salamanders come out of the banks to gather all the air they need for the month. Moonlight is poisonous to them, after all.
On days like today, when the moon is half-full and waning, Mermaids’ tails turn into legs.
“Mermaids aren’t exactly Disney material,” Derek tells Scott as they speed up to the hot springs about ten miles from Beacon Hills. “They’re actually carnivores, and are known to be cannibalistic as well. They’ll hunt when they have legs, but when they’re stuck in the water they usually just eat fish or each other.”
Scott is looking pale, but his mouth is set in a determined line. “So this Mermaid—she grabbed Stiles? How fast are they?”
“On legs? Pretty damn fast, and strong. Enough to overpower a human.”
“And turn over a car?” Scott asks, and Derek nods. He’s trying to ground himself by gripping the wheel of the Camaro.
“You can’t judge them by how they look. I’ve heard stories of them taking out entire houses. The freshwater varieties in particular, which is what we would see here. I didn’t know there were any left in Beacon Hills; she must have dove deep under the water to hide. If she’s been hibernating and only now just woke up to show her face, then it’s worse.”
“Because she’ll be hungry,” Scott whispers, and Derek just draws in a sharp breath and jerks the car to the side of the road. He doesn’t want to respond to that, because that makes it real.
"Let’s go,” he says, shoving his door open, and Scott does the same. The wind blows and both of them stiffen. They share a glance.
“Smell that?” Scott asks, and Derek nods.
It’s cinnamon.
They start running.
The rocky ledges leading up to the hot springs are sharp and firm, jutting out from the ground like shards of broken glass in a parking lot. This deep into the forest, the light is dim from the thick canopy of the trees above them. It’s eerily quiet, with no animals for miles from what Derek can tell, and it makes every single noise that he and Scott make too loud. Rather uselessly, Derek tries to step on some moss that’s clinging to the ground to soften the sound of them walking. They’re half-shifted and tense, ready to fight.
The sound of bubbling water and weak breathing hits Derek, and he can see the moment that Scott is able to hear it too. Both of them breathe in and dread settles in Derek’s stomach: he can smell blood. He prays to God, to any entity he knows and with everything he has, that Stiles isn’t dead.
They inch up the edge of the rocks and peek over. The hot spring is surrounded by rocky walls on three sides, the steam creating a layer of dampness in the air. The water is still and deep, the spring having been naturally dug into the rocky foundation of the cliffs over thousands of years. By the edge of the right side, there’s an ancient tree riding high into the sky. At the foot of it, a figure is sitting upright, supported by the scarred trunk.
“Stiles!” Derek and Scott say in unison, and they rush over. Stiles is gagged with leaves and moss, a cut running down the side of his face and his arms crisscrossed with what look like teeth marks. From the way he’s bruised and restrained, he must have put up one hell of a fight. Derek can’t manage to be even a bit surprised, knowing that Stiles fussed and fought enough to be labeled as dangerous and needing confinement. It’s almost a proud moment. But seeing Stiles, unable to move, once more trapped because of his own body, is sickening.
Stiles’ eyes widen when he sees them, and he starts wriggling against the bonds that are looping around his legs and torso. “Take it easy,” Derek murmurs to him, reaching out as Scott starts slicing the thick vines off. Derek can see lacerations from where they have dug into Stiles’ skin, and he can’t stop his eyes from blazing. He cups Stiles’ face with one hand and removes the gags with the other, trying not to choke him further. Stiles doubles over as he gasps for breath, his lungs deprived for god knows how long, tears leaking down his face from the sudden rush of oxygen.
“Don’t talk,” Derek tells him, afraid that his throat might be raw. Stiles just nods and grips Derek’s arm tight, winces as the last vine is removed.
Scott embraces Stiles, a full body hug, and Stiles pats him on the back a few times, wheezing. It’s like a normal teenager being comforted by their friend after a breakup, just with more blood, and Derek would laugh at how messed up their lives are if they weren’t still in danger. He looks around the clearing, still crouching in front of Stiles. He doesn’t want to move, not when Stiles is still holding onto him and bleeding. Scott must be thinking along the same lines, because he stands up but stays close, also looking around.
“Where is she?” he asks, and Derek shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He looks at the water, which is unwavering, no ripples at all.
“There’s more than one,” Stiles rasps, and Derek turns back to look at him.
“Don’t talk,” he says again, trying to be gentle, and Stiles lets out a breathy laugh. Derek doesn’t like him on the ground, all of a sudden, because it’s a vulnerable position to be at during an attack. He slips his arm under Stiles’ arms and helps him get shakily to his feet. “Point to where it hurts,” he instructs, and Stiles laughs again. Derek can see the telltale signs of shock.
“Everywhere,” he says, blatantly ignoring Derek’s order not to speak, and Derek can’t find the energy to be mad –hell, even frustrated—at him. In all honesty, he’s just glad Stiles is alive.
“Did they say what they wanted?” Scott asks, and Stiles nods. A fit of hoarse coughing overcomes him, and Derek has to resist the urge to whine and nuzzle into the human’s neck. Stiles is hurt.
“Something about— feeding young. Or something,” he manages, and Derek can feel Stiles leaning heavily on his firm weight. He smells like pain and exhaustion, but muted from the adrenaline that Derek knows Stiles is currently flooded with. Derek loops his arm in a slightly different way so he can grip Stiles’ waist, hold him up.
“You’re ok,” Derek whispers to him, and Stiles leans into him even more. Derek is practically acting as his legs. A noise to the right has all of them tense, and Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ body. He feels Stiles quiver, just slightly, and growls at the shadows. There’s a soft hiss, and Scott steps in front of Stiles as Derek raises himself to his full height. He keeps the hand around Stiles’ waist clawless, but the other one sure as hell is ready to kill.
The woman that emerges from the trees is beautiful. Her hair is a dark red, so long that it reaches past her hips, and her skin is pale as paper. Stiles tenses and Derek growls again. “That’s just one,” Stiles croaks, and the creature looks at him. Slits on her neck that resemble gills, long and hidden until now, flare. Derek looks around as Scott twitches, searching for the others that Stiles was talking about.
“Give the prey back,” she hisses, and Derek stares at her teeth in horror. He’s never seen a mermaid before, only heard descriptions, but he wasn’t prepared for this. Her teeth are sharp, like a puppy’s, but stained with red and surrounded by green-tinted, enflamed gums. Pretty on the outside, until they open their mouths, Derek remembers Stiles reading to him, and feels disgust deep in his stomach.
“He’s not prey,” Scott growls, and the mermaid steps forward with a hiss. Derek rumbles a warning.
“Watch out!” Stiles suddenly cries, and Derek turns to his left as a quick movement catches his eye. His claws catch the soft skin of a mermaid’s throat on instinct and he snarls, watching as the first mermaid darts at Scott. Derek drags Stiles backwards as the other mermaid straightens up, blood pouring from her skin and her eyes red. Quicker than he can blink, she’s on them. Derek goes tumbling away from Stiles as she hits him with all her force, and there’s a few disorienting moments when the world spins and all he can think is No, no, no.
Then he’s looking up at the forest canopy, trees stretching all around him. A mermaid obscures his view a second later, hissing, mouth open. She’s preparing to rip his throat out, and Derek hears Stiles cry out a few feet away, panicked.
The noise does something to him, to his wolf, and he roars. It shakes the ground around them and the mermaid shrieks, her hands flying up to cover her ears. Everything is muted in the water: sounds, textures, tastes; it makes her ears sensitive. Derek’s not trying to be quiet for her.
“I am not losing this fight,” Derek snarls, and swipes a hand up and into her stomach. There’s a squishing noise as he rips through her small intestine (like she’s made of pudding, he thinks, forces himself not to remember Boyd) and she gasps. A trickle of blood slips out of her mouth, and then she slumps to the side. The light in her eyes goes out.
Derek doesn’t bother to wipe her blood off before he’s darting over to Stiles, who has fallen to the ground as an angry mermaid tries to get to him through Scott. She has her claws out now, razor-sharp and longer than a human arm. Derek knows that those are her true weapons, ones that can turn a human into mincemeat. Probably a werewolf, too. So when she looks at Stiles, helpless with Derek still too many steps away and Scott busy trying to hold her back, horror runs through the werewolf.
The mermaid lunges, and Derek’s heart goes into his throat.
I’m going to see Stiles die, right in front of me. He moves forward, trying to close those last two feet, to put himself in between the mermaid and Stiles, but she’s fast. She’s so very fast.
Scott is ready for the attack. He howls and knocks her to the side; the mermaid only has the chance to slice a small part of Stiles’ skin before Scott is clawing through her. The next second Derek is gripping Stiles, wrapping his arms around his bruised body and dragging him away. Stiles presses into him as Derek frantically runs his hands all over, making sure Stiles wasn’t hurt more during the struggle. His wolf is screaming at him to protect, and Derek gives into it. Stiles grips tightly to him, chest heaving.
“Are you ok, are you ok, are you--” Derek hears himself chanting, and Stiles nods, shoves his face against Derek’s neck as the thump of a mermaid head being severed sounds around them. Derek feels like maybe he’s drowning or burning alive, because he almost just saw Stiles get cut in half. He grips the back of Stiles’ head, panting, afraid to let go. Keeps Stiles' face against the vein in his neck, feels Stiles breathing there. It's like his adrenaline has shot him into an out-of-body experience, where the only thing that matters is knowing Stiles is in his arms, safe. Trembling, but safe. It takes him a few moments to even think again, to come back to his body.
“Scott?” Derek asks, his voice hoarse, and he hears an exhausted sigh in reply.
“She’s dead,” he murmurs, and stumbles back to them. There’s a large cut across his chest, but Derek can already see it stitching back together. Stiles looks over at Scott and breathes a sigh of relief, his fingers digging painfully into Derek’s arms. The werewolf wouldn’t have it any other way. As he trips back, Scott doesn’t seem fazed by the way Derek is possessively wrapping himself around Stiles. He just lays down on his back and sucks in deep breaths, reaching out so his hand rests near Stiles’ foot. They sit there like that for a few moments.
It’s Stiles who breaks the silence.
“You finally won a fight, Derek,” he jokes, and Derek looks down at him in shock, his eyes getting big. Scott laughs, actually goddamn laughs, and Stiles squeezes Derek closer when he rumbles angrily. He can feel Stiles breathing on his neck, soft little puffs of air. Derek dips his head down and lets Stiles’ scent become just a little stronger from the closeness.
“We need to get you out of here,” he says, ignoring the comment, and Scott sits up. His chest has practically healed by now. Stiles, however, is pretty beat up. Together, they manage to get Stiles onto his feet and to the car. Derek takes his keys out and unlocks it, trying not to rip the door off in his haste to get Stiles sitting down. Scott sits in the back, watching Stiles, as Derek attempts to start the engine. It takes him three tries because he’s so wrecked, shaking violently as he realizes just how close they all were to losing each other mere minutes ago. The two feel so much like pack right now that it’s scary.
“They said they had babies,” Stiles murmurs.
“Unfortunately,” Derek growls. There’s some silence, and then Stiles sighs.
“They’ll starve now, won’t they?”
Derek wants to roll his eyes or snarl, he’s not sure which. It is so like Stiles to think of that when he’s in shock. Why can’t Stiles just have a normal human reaction to being kidnapped, for once in his life? Why can’t he be angry that he almost just got eaten? Scott makes a sympathetic noise in his throat and rubs Stiles’ back. Derek’s not feeling much pity for the babies. The goddamn mermaids don’t count as worthy of emotion, not in his book. Not after they tried to eat the one person outside of family that’s he actually cared about in years. He takes a turn too sharply and Scott growls on instinct as Stiles’ unease spikes through the car.
“Sorry,” Derek grunts, and doesn’t look behind him to see their faces. He doesn’t want to think about how pale Stiles is, like when he woke up from his nightmare. He tries to focus on what needs to be done. “We need to call Deaton. The little ones need to be killed.” He feels Scott’s unhappy gaze on the back of his neck and he huffs. “Or relocated. And we need to get Stiles medical attention.”
“Not the hospital,” Stiles says instantly, and Derek nods. There’s no way in hell going there is less risky.
“My house is closest,” he says as they reach the end of the sloped road, puts his blinker on to turn left.
“Even in an emergency, he uses his safe driving skills,” Stiles comments to Scott, quietly, but Derek hears it. He doesn’t growl, because he doesn’t expect either of the teens to understand. He already thought that Stiles died from a car accident today; he’s not going to let that become a reality.
“Let’s go to your house. I’ll call my mom,” Scott says, and Derek nods. They’re back at the house in ten minutes, tops, and Scott gets on his phone as Derek helps Stiles up the porch and onto the couch. As he grabs the first aid kit, Stiles sinks into the cushions. Scott stands outside, talking to Deaton in a hushed tone, and Derek curls himself around Stiles with bandages ready. He can physically smell the shock on him now, the bitter lemon scent that is so characteristic of it, and he manhandles Stiles so that he can examine him more closely.
The sound of Scott walking in makes Derek raise his head. He doesn’t know what he expected, exactly, but Scott just smiles at him and sits down on the edge of the couch.
“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says, slightly slurred as he grins at Scott, and Derek shushes him once more.
“My mom and the Sheriff know what’s going on. The Sheriff is coming to take Stiles home,” Scott tells them, and Derek wants to scream. No, don’t take him away from me. He’s safe here. But he just swallows and nods. Scott continues on, oblivious of Derek’s internal turmoil. “My mom’s gonna meet us there, at the Stilinski house. But only three of us can go. Stiles needs to be laid in the back seat, according to Mom, so John’s car only has room for Stiles and then a passenger.” Scott reeks of guilt.
“Ok. You go with him,” Derek grits out, and Scott shoots him an unhappy look. Derek can tells that he feels bad, but there’s nothing either one of them can do. Stiles needs to be comforted, and Scott is his best friend. Derek is… well, he doesn’t know what he is yet. But Stiles needs Scott, who can keep calm and not wolf out every time Stiles whimpers. Derek knows, deep in his heart, that he’s not going to be much help.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Derek says quickly, because if he doesn’t agree now he’s going to wimp out and come along. Scott nods, seeming to understand, and Stiles twitches. Scott looks at them and stands up.
“I’m going to run and meet the Sheriff. If there are any more mermaids lurking around, I don’t want them interfering. You stay here-- I mean, if that’s ok.” Scott seems hesitant to do anything that might sound like an order. Remarkably, Derek doesn’t mind. He can’t argue with the logic of the plan, and he doesn’t want to leave anyways, so he just nods.
In a flash, Scott is gone. The door shuts behind him and Derek returns his attention to the battered body in his arms. Each cut, each bruise, makes him want to tear his claws through the wall.
Stiles is quieter now, and Derek can’t help but think that it’s like the calm before the storm.
He’s right.
“You and Scott saved me,” Stiles croaks after about five minutes, and Derek shushes him. Stiles ignores it. “I would be dead by now if you didn’t come. God, that’s weird. Dead.”
“Don’t,” Derek says, and his voice breaks. He can’t stand that word.
Stiles hands find his arms. “How did—how did you know?”
“You didn’t show up to read,” Derek replies. His heart is beating fast, being so close like this, and he needs to focus. It’s hard to talk and reign in his wolf. His own hands are quivering as he touches one of Stiles’ cuts with some alcohol cleaner.
Stiles lets out a breath. “You’re shaking,” he observes, and Derek ignores him. He doesn’t need the obvious pointed out. But Stiles grabs his hand, the motion unsteady. “Stop,” he says, and Derek shakes his head.
“You’re hurt, Stiles. You just don’t know it, because you’re in shock. Let me do this.”
“You saved me,” Stiles repeats, as if he’s a record stuck on a single track. The words come as a complete shock, because can’t Stiles see? Stiles is hurt like this because of him. If Stiles hadn’t been coming to the Hale property, he wouldn’t have been taken. Derek’s feeling quite a lot of self-loathing right now, and it would be so much easier if Stiles was angry at him as well. He makes himself breathe, wrap a bandage around the deep bite on Stiles’ wrist. Every single thing that’s happened to Stiles is his fault. Scott turning into a werewolf. Gerard Argent torturing him. The Durach. Not stopping the Nogitsune in time. And now this. He didn’t know that it was possible to feel this much revulsion with himself, not since the fire.
“Whoa, Derek,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek glances up at him. Stiles reaches out, touches his face. It’s only then that Derek realizes he's crying. He can feel the wetness on his lips and he hastily moves to wipe it away, destroy any evidence of his emotions. But Stiles presses their foreheads together, and the motion is so new that it makes Derek jerk to stop. “Derek, listen. It’s ok. I’m ok.”
Derek stares at him and then manages to bark out a laugh. “I should be telling you that,” he says, but Stiles just shakes his head again.
“You already did, back at the spring,” he says, and Derek lets out a watery huff. Stiles cups the back of Derek’s head and pulls his face down, pressing it against the pale skin of his throat. It’s so trusting that it breaks Derek’s heart.
“It’s ok. Just breathe," Stiles soothes. Derek doesn’t want to, is afraid to, and tries to pull back. Stiles resists for a moment before letting out a frustrated noise, too exhausted to put up much of a fight.
Derek looks up at him, his wolf keening angrily as he moves away from Stiles’ skin. “You’re in shock,” he says, and Stiles pauses to think. Then he nods vigorously.
“Um, yeah. Everything is fuzzy as fuck. Almost died, yeah? Eaten by little fresh mermaid genetic units.”
“So you don’t know what you’re saying,” Derek confirms, but Stiles shakes his head. Derek hisses at him. “Stiles, stop moving. You’re hurt.”
“I can’t,” Stiles mimics, and slides his hand up so it’s against Derek’s heart. “Don’t you get it? I can’t. Because you’re hurting, too.” Derek swallows and breathes out through his nose. The way Stiles is looking at him makes him feel lightheaded, and when Stiles holds him tighter and pulls him back, Derek lets him; he doesn’t want to hurt him. “Goddamn it Derek, I’m kind of trying to have a moment here. Cooperate.” He can tell the words are meant to be lighthearted, but they come out just a tad too serious for it to be a joke. Stiles actually is trying to offer him something.
“I... But...” Derek mumbles, and it’s half-hearted. He’s already wanting to taste Stiles’ skin. Guilt is the only thing stopping him now, the only thing repressing the urges that his wolf so badly wants him to act upon. Stiles makes a frustrated noise at the reply.
“Whatever you’re blaming yourself for, stop it. I’m here and I’m alive, OK? Because you were willing to work together with Scott to find me. I don’t want to leave here without… without making that clear. This isn’t your fault. I bet you think it is, somehow. But it’s not. And I’m going to flip shit if you retreat into your little shell again just after I finally managed to be invited into it. So if you—if you want something or—or need anything, then just do it.” There’s nervousness in his voice, as if Stiles feels like maybe he assuming something. The problem is that he’s right. Stiles has opened him up, made him feel exposed, and he’s natural instinct is to close into himself.
Derek tries to think. Stiles collarbone is right against his face, so he does the opposite of what his brain is telling him: he gives in. He sucks in a breath and lets his hands come up to Stiles’ waist, shoving his nose into the unfiltered smell of Stiles. He’s still all cinnamon and moss, wet grass. Stiles' heartbeat is a pitter-patter of unreadable emotions, but Derek drowns himself in it. Stiles murmurs something that Derek can’t really hear, because he’s so focused on the way the blood pounds in Stiles’ body. He wants Stiles to smell more like him, needs it. He’s not really thinking when he starts scent marking, breathing in through his nose and out his mouth so his scent will cover Stiles, but it doesn't take him long to fully invest himself in the action. He takes Stiles' hand and draws it up to his chest, wanting Stiles to feel his heartbeat, to communicate that Derek's life depends on Stiles' continuing. That if Stiles had died, Derek's heart wouldn't have survived it. Stiles' heartbeat stutters, just slightly, before he digs his fingertips into the space that Derek has given him. Derek whines, presses his face further into the pulse point. Stiles grips him tight, running a hand through Derek’s bloody hair.
“Does this mean what I think it does?” he asks, a bit squeaky, and Derek literally can't find any words, can't fathom any way to explain how he's feeling right now. “That you—uh, dig me? Because if it does, shitty timing, but, uh, I don’t mind it. Really want it, actually.” His words are slightly garbled but there’s no lie in his heartbeat. “I know I’m in shock. But that doesn’t change how I’ve felt—feel. Because I’ve been wanting this,” Stiles squeezes the space on Derek's clothed chest, “for months. So, um. That’s not the shock talking. Although I should probably stop talking, because I feel like I have a concussion. Do I have a concussion? Don’t answer that, actually. Just keep—with the scent thing.”
It’s such a Stiles thing to do, to admit his feelings in the aftermath of being nearly killed, that Derek feels his lips twitching up. It’s --strangely-- hard to convince himself that Stiles is lying, that he doesn’t mean it. So hard, in fact, that he can’t.
“Just be quiet,” he says, and Stiles hums in agreement. He rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, sinking into his warmth as Derek nuzzles his neck, liking the way it smells now. It takes a few minutes for him to convince his wolf that he’s done a good job, that Stiles definitely smells like his now.
After that, Derek holds him tight and resumes cleaning his visible cuts, a pang going through him every time Stiles winces. When Stiles shivers under his grip, Derek grabs the soft blanket from under the table, wrapping him tightly in it. Stiles struggles, just slightly. “No, stop, I want you to hold me,” Stiles insists, and Derek shifts so that he’s also wrapped in the blanket. It’s not worth arguing right now. Stiles presses his face against Derek’s chest, and Derek leans down and breathes him in. He closes his eyes, letting his hands travel carefully along Stiles’ body, categorizing his injuries. He can hear the cop car a few minutes away, and hates it.
“Do you need anything, before you go?” he asks, and even he can hear the dread in his own voice. Stiles is quiet for a little while.
“I need you to promise that you’ll visit me,” he says as the car parks outside and hurried footsteps near the porch. Derek wants to look away, but Stiles squeezes his arm. “Derek. I can’t—if after all this you just—I don’t know, disappear, I’m going to lose my mind. More than… more than I already have. If you—if you mean what you said, I need to see you within, like, forty-eight hours. Because if not, I won’t think it’s real. And I—I want to it be real.”
Derek growls in the back of his throat. “It’s real,” he rumbles, and Stiles makes a relieved noise. The Sheriff is on the porch now, Derek can tell, so he rushes the rest of the words. “If you want me to visit, I’ll visit. But if you change your mind—”
“Just shut up, Derek, because you’re being an idiot,” Stiles declares, just as John walks into the room. Derek leaps up from the couch and backs up as the Sheriff takes one look at Stiles and tears up. He walks over to Stiles and hugs him, tight enough that it has to hurt. The Sheriff is sniffing and Stiles groans, covering his face with his hands. “Dad, I’m ok, I’m fine. Don’t cry, come on, Derek and Scott totally saved me. Just shock.”
“And a concussion,” Scott interjects from where he’s standing by the doorway. Stiles tries to glare at him but fails miserably.
“You are so grounded,” the Sheriff says, still teary, and Stiles snorts. “I don’t even know how I’m going to explain a mermaid attack to our insurance.”
“It’s like those commercials, where the guy gets distracted by the hot girl,” Stiles says as his dad helps him to his feet. Derek rushes to help, and John sends him an appraising look, as if he’s trying to figure out exactly how he feels about Derek right now. Stiles’ grip on his arm is grounding. “There was a hot girl running by and I was a hormonal teenager.”
“In the middle of the woods?” John demands, and Scott snorts as Stiles makes an indignant noise.
“That is sexist, who says girls can’t be running around in the woods—”
“Because girls aren’t stupid,” Derek interjects, and Stiles turns his head to look at him as they reach the car door, indignant.
“You’re siding with them?” he demands, and then winces as he puts some pressure on his foot. “Ooh, ok, yeah, I’ll lay down. Feeling the pain now.” Scott clambers around to the passenger side and reaches back to create a makeshift pillow for Stiles with his hoodie as, gritting his teeth, Stiles manages to lower himself onto the back seats.
Derek watches Stiles even after the door has shut, afraid to look away. But when the Sheriff clears his throat, he’s forced to raise his eyes. “I’m sorry,” Derek says, instantly, and the Sheriff gives him a disapproving look.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, and Derek has to blink back shock. “You saved my son today, Derek. Scott was telling me about how you knew about the mermaids and where they store their feed.” The Sheriff laughs lightly. “Wow, never thought I would say that.” The words make Derek flash back to when he and Stiles were first starting to meet at the house; Stiles said that exact same phrase. Like father, like son, he thinks. The Sheriff doesn’t seem to notice Derek’s expression, because he just keeps talking. “I know that if it wasn’t for you, we never would have found him. And while I’m used to Stiles getting into trouble and getting him out of it, there’s some things even the Sheriff, a banshee, and a teenage werewolf can’t do alone. So don’t you dare apologize. Stiles is alive because of you, son. We owe you.”
Derek struggles to find words. “I think I owe Stiles for more than you could imagine,” he says, and the Sheriff regards him thoughtfully. Then he glances back at the car. Derek follows his gaze, the tinted glass stopping him from seeing Stiles at this angle. A wave of concern punches through him and he straightens up.
“We’ll get him patched up,” the Sheriff assures him, and then opens the driver’s door. “I’ll remind him to text you.”
Derek wonders how the Sheriff knows that he and Stiles text sometimes. For some reason, Derek always thought that he was a secret friend, one who Stiles snuck away to see and didn’t mention when he went home. But by the way that Scott and the Sheriff are treating Derek, as if he’s actually important, his assumption must be wrong.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, hastily adds on a, “please. Thanks.” The Sheriff nods to him and climbs into the car.
It’s hard to watch them drive away, knowing that Stiles is in the back and he isn’t.
It takes Derek three circles around Stiles’ neighborhood before he actually gets the guts to stop in front of the Stilinski house. He grips the wheel and takes a few deep breaths, telling himself that he can do this. His stomach has been flip-flopping for the two days that he hasn’t seen Stiles, so much so that he can’t even eat.
Maybe he should just wait another day—
No. He can do this. He’s got this. He wore his cleanest shirt and everything. He’s ready.
Come on Derek, you can face this, he tells himself as he opens the car door, taking a deep breath in. His heart flutters a little when he smells the faint traces of cinnamon across the road. It gives him the courage to cross the street and knock on the door.
When the Sheriff opens it, Derek has to blink a few times to register that it’s not Stiles. Stiles lives with his father. Derek knows that. Has always known that. He doesn’t get why it’s such a shock. Maybe because the Sheriff is just in jeans and a T-shirt, like Derek, and holding a beer. And he’s smiling.
“Derek, come on in,” he says, and Derek steps through the door in a state that is probably akin to shock. “Someone has been expecting you,” the Sheriff adds, walking over to the back door, and Derek looks out of the glass door and feels his throat tighten. Stiles is sitting out there in the twilight, watching something in the air that Derek can’t see yet. His leg is wrapped in a temporary brace, but Derek can tell that some of his cuts have healed. He wants desperately to go to him.
Derek swallows and then looks at the Sheriff. He feels oddly like he’s asking for permission with the motion. In a way, he is. If the Sheriff doesn’t approve, it won’t be a good start. But John smiles. “Make yourself comfortable.”
As Derek starts towards the door, the Sheriff clears his throat. “Although, Derek?”
Derek turns. “Yes, Sir?” he asks, and forces his eyes not to wander back to Stiles.
“If you hurt him, there won’t be a body for the police to identify,” he says, as if it’s the most ordinary statement, and Derek blinks at him. The idea of hurting Stiles is so foreign to him that he can’t even fathom it, not anymore. He tries to find the words to explain that without rambling, and without sounding like he’s looking for a mate for the rest of his life. Which you are, his wolf whispers. But Derek knows it’s too soon. The future is uncertain, and he won’t dictate Stiles’ for him.
“I’ll always fight for him,” he promises, and it’s a promise he knows he can keep. The Sheriff’s mouth twitches up but then he turns and, taking a swig of his beer, walks to the kitchen. Derek takes that as his cue for freedom, and he can’t grab the door handle fast enough.
Derek slides open the screen door and steps into the warm night. Somewhere, maybe in a neighbor’s yard, there are lilacs. The grass is green despite the recent drought, and it doesn’t make a sound as Derek steps on it. Stiles, however, must have heard the door. “Dad, you have to check this out,” he says, and Derek draws in a breath.
“I can get him, if you want,” he offers, and Stiles turns around so quickly that he nearly knocks himself over. His eyes go wide, scent spiked with surprise, and then a wave of pleased sweetness overwhelms it. He starts to clamber up and then trips. Derek is there to catch him before he even tilts a few inches.
They stare at each other for a few moments. Then a smile slides over Stiles’ face. “You came.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and feels himself smiling back. It’s the first genuine one he’s had in a while, he realizes. It seems fitting that Stiles is the one to receive it. “I told you I would.”
Stiles beams at him. “You did. Yeah. I just—I was convinced it was just something my mind made up. Shock, you know? Even though Scott kept telling me it actually happened and complained about my smell all of yesterday.” Derek blushes but can’t help to take a breath in; it’s true. Stiles still smells, very faintly, like him.
“Is that… ok?” Derek asks, and Stiles gapes at him. Then he throws his head back and laughs.
“You’re ridiculous,” he grins, and a warm feeling settles in Derek’s stomach as Stiles pulls him down so they’re sitting on the grass. Derek looks left and right, watching as little blips of light appear and vanish around them. There’s a jar by Stiles’ side, sealed tight, and Derek picks it up.
“Fireflies,” he realizes, and Stiles nods. He’s holding Derek’s hand, their fingers laced together, and it makes Derek feel so good that he wants to howl.
“Easy to forget how beautiful they actually are, yeah?” Stiles murmurs, and Derek swallows. He nods. It’s true. They really are, when he steps back and remembers that they aren’t going to turn into Oni anytime soon. Stiles continues on, watching the way the bugs flicker in and out of brightness. “My therapist says that I need to learn to control my fears. Catching them… it reminds me that I have power over it. I can choose when to release them, and I don’t have to until I’m comfortable.”
“Makes sense.”
A quiet settles over them after that as the twilight gets darker. There’s a few inches of space between their shoulders, a comfortable one, and Derek just breathes in the cinnamon scent next to him and listens to Stiles’ breathing. Derek thinks about how beautiful this place is, how anyone who was on the outside would think that they are just two normal people, living lives that have nothing to do with werewolves or mermaids or demons that possess people. It sends his mind straight into the depths of his sorrows, but it brings up a question that he didn’t even know he had anymore, not since Stiles read him the first page of Harry Potter.
“What were you running from, anyways?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks at him with a puzzled expression. He clarifies: “When you started coming over, to read. What were you so afraid of, enough to hide at my house?”
Stiles goes still, then bites his lip. Chews on it for a few moments. Then, he looks down at his hands. “I don’t think I was running away from anything.” Derek cocks his head, and Stiles looks up. Looks right into his eyes. “I think I was running towards something. Someone.”
Derek’s heart swells and it’s almost painful, but in the best way he can imagine. Pure affection overwhelms him and it makes everything clear. All his feelings, all his jumbled thoughts about Stiles. Because hearing that Stiles has felt the same way, that Derek isn’t just confused or desperate but that they actually have a connection, well—it’s like taking medicine after suffering a head cold for months.
“I’m glad,” Derek says, and Stiles seems to start at the softness in his tone, “that it was me you ran to.”
Stiles’ eyes become tender (so warm and honey-brown, Derek thinks, entranced), and he scoots closer. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches up and places his fingers against Derek’s stubble. “I really want to kiss you,” he says, so gently that Derek feels shivers from it. His heart pounds wildly in his chest at the next words. “Can I kiss you?”
It’s at that moment that Derek realizes something he should have the first time the human showed up on his doorstep: Stiles understands him. So deeply, purely, that he feels he should ask about the simplest gesture. A kiss. Just as kiss. But Stiles is checking, making sure, because he knows. Kate. Jennifer. Every single person who ever made Derek do something he didn’t want to, pushed something upon him that he didn’t know how to stop.
Derek will never forget that for their first kiss, Stiles asked.
“Yes,” he whispers, and Stiles leans in.
The first thing is the taste of cinnamon; a deep, intense flavor that moves into him as the softness of Stiles’ lips press against his own. He reaches forward, cups Stiles’ face, lets their mouths move together as he pours everything he is, and ever has been, and ever will be into the air that is now shared between them. There’s no tongue, no open mouths; just pure, innocent presses of their lips. Promises. Because they have time, they really do, and both of them are only just realizing that.
When they separate, it feels like it’s been forever and also no time at all. Derek is dazed, almost dizzy, and he lets the feeling of Stiles’ fingers on his arms anchor him. He sucks in a breath and Stiles grins at him. Derek is struck with the sudden realization that he can kiss Stiles now, whenever he wants to. So he kisses him again. Stiles laughs against his mouth and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. Derek wants to yip with excitement, howl with the victory thrumming through him, and he wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and stands up, lifts him into the air and just keeps kissing him. It’s like liquid euphoria, to do this.
It only last a few seconds before he sets Stiles down, remembers that Stiles might still be hurt. But Stiles just beams and asks, “Want to watch a movie?”
They do end up watching a movie. It’s The Princess Bride, which Derek can’t help but like even though he’ll deny it to his death, and it’s late when they finally get up off the couch (which, thanks to the watchful eye of Sheriff Stilinski, was not the stage for more kissing and less movie watching). Stiles stretches, limbs unorganized as always, and Derek can’t help but scent him for any pain. He smells slightly sore, but otherwise fine. He’s leaning heavily on the leg that isn’t in a brace, but he can stand on his own. That in itself is good news.
“Well,” Derek says, and shuffles. He knows he should leave. “I guess I’ll get going.”
“We can’t let you drive this late at night!” Stiles protests, and the Sheriff raises his eyebrows at his son. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dad. Come on. I run around with werewolves on a day-to-day basis. Is a sleepover that scary?” At the look on the Sheriff’s face, Derek works quickly to try and repair the situation.
“No, it’s fine,” he tries to insist. “I can drive. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not,” Stiles protests, and the Sheriff sighs.
“Stiles,” he warns, and Stiles pouts.
“Dad, please? I’ll feel better if Derek stays over.” Stiles gets a look on his face that somehow resembles a kicked puppy. The Sheriff looks at him, then at Derek. Derek tries not to look too hopeful, instead settling his face into some type of stoic politeness. He can smell the moment when the Sheriff decides.
“Fine,” he says, sounding defeated, and Derek thanks whatever higher power exists when Stiles doesn’t do a fist pump or anything equally stupid for the situation. The Sheriff turns to Derek, who instantly stiffens. If he had a tail, he would tuck it. “No sex,” he says, and Derek feels himself go bright red as Stiles groans in humiliation. He stutters, trying to find some words, but the Sheriff holds up a hand. “If you have sex with my son when I am in the house, I swear to God I will send you to Guantanamo Bay Prison myself.”
“Yes, sir,” Derek hastens to say, and Stiles gives him a thumbs up behind his dad’s back. Derek wants to roll his eyes, but he bites his tongue instead. The Sheriff is sizing him up, analytical eyes searching for any lie. But what he sees must assure him, somehow, because he just sighs and rubs a hand over his face.
“I’m going to bed,” he says, and trudges up the stairs without looking back. When Derek finally looks away from his retreating form and glances at Stiles, the human rubs a hand through his hair and grins rather awkwardly.
“Could have gone worse,” Stiles says, and Derek snorts. Stiles steps towards him, entwines their hands. Without thinking, Derek leans down and presses their foreheads together. “Is it ok?” Stiles asks, and Derek blinks out of his obsessive categorization of the moles on Stiles’ face so he can listen. Stiles seems shy, suddenly; hesitant. “Do you want to stay over? It’s ok, if you don’t, I get it… I don’t want to make anything too soon.”
“No,” Derek says, shakes his head. Squeezes Stiles’ hands. “I want to stay. Should I… couch?”
It’s Stiles’ turn to snort. “Nice try, Derek. Here, let’s go. You can borrow my toothbrush and everything.”
Derek blushes as Stiles starts pulling him towards the stairs. “I don’t want to push you, either,” he says, automatically shifting a hand so he can help Stiles ascend up each step. Stiles just chuckles, smelling fond.
“I know you won’t.” The words are so confident that it makes Derek believe in them.
He waits in Stiles’ room as he goes to shower quickly, sitting down on the bed. It smells so much like Stiles that he has to physically resist the urge to bury his face in it. Without Stiles in the room with him, it’s a lot easier to convince himself that the kiss and the confessions were all a dream or hallucination. He takes in the walls to distract himself. They are oddly bare for someone who seems to have as many interests as Stiles, everything neat and in a place that is clearly quite specific. He wonders if Stiles was like this before the Nogitsune. Probably not.
He turns when Stiles enters, his hair wet and wearing plaid pajama pants that touch his toes. Derek finds himself smiling, and Stiles beams back at him. “Hey,” he says, settling down next to Derek, and Derek nuzzles his head affectionately. Beads of water slip onto his skin.
“Bed?” Derek asks, because he’s too nervous for much else, and Stiles nods. He half-stands and then seems to realize something.
“Shit,” he says, and suddenly he seems embarrassed. “Your clothes. I don’t—none of my clothes will fit you.”
This is my cousin, Derek remembers, from so long ago with Danny, and it sounds a wave of nostalgia through him. Things were so different then. Then it makes him think of how he and Stiles used to fight, how he once hit Stiles’ head into the steering wheel, and it makes him feel sick.
“It’s fine,” he assures Stiles. He looks away as he asks, “Do you—do you mind if I just sleep in my boxers?” He chances a glance at Stiles, who is blushing and also looking away.
“Course not,” Stiles says, even though his scent suddenly smells somewhere between slightly aroused and incredibly nervous. “Here, I’ll just—I’ll get the light.” Derek stands up and starts stripping down as Stiles turns off the light and finds his way back to the bed. The moonlight is shining onto Derek from the window, and he tries not to think about the fact that Stiles might be watching him. So he does it quickly, efficiently, and slips under the covers just a few moments after Stiles does.
“Will you stay for breakfast?” Stiles asks, and Derek makes a content noise when Stiles grips his hand.
“If you want,” he says, and Stiles shakes his head.
“It’s about what you want.”
Derek pauses, thinks about this. Then he scoots a little closer, letting Stiles’ other hand find his chest. “It’s about what we want,” he corrects, and his werewolf eyes gift him with Stiles’ smile in the dark at the word.
“I like that,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek does too. “So, breakfast then. With bacon and everything.”
“Who’s cooking?” he asks, and Stiles laughs.
“You and my dad. Some quality bonding time.” The moonlight must be on Derek’s face, because his grimace doesn’t go undetected. “Come on. You’re afraid of him? Tough wolf Derek Hale, Mr. I-Punch-Through-Walls Hale, is afraid of my father?” Derek rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother to point out that Stiles’ father is basically the only person who can keep Stiles from Derek, except for Stiles himself, of course. He decides to change the subject.
“Time for bed.”
Stiles huffs, but consents. He shifts a bit on the pillow, squirms, and Derek tries to give him space to get comfortable. Stiles bats at him and Derek finds it completely endearing. “Stop moving away. You have to stay close. Cuddling is kind of in the job description.”
This makes Derek raise an eyebrow. “What, I’m romantically employed now?” Stiles makes a face at him, sneaks into his space for a peck of the lips.
“I’d prefer to keep monetary transactions out of this. I mean, call me a romantic with high expectations, but that seems healthier.” Derek tries to keep in his laugh, just lays his head down on the pillow and watches as Stiles finally seems to get comfy. Their hands find each other again. “Thanks again for staying,” Stiles murmurs, stroking Derek’s thumb.
After all that they’ve been through together, after all the things they’ve confided in each other and even though he knows that Stiles wants him, cares about him, Derek still isn’t good with words. So he just does what he can to show that he wants to be there, next to Stiles. “Mind if I come closer?” he asks, and Stiles flushes slightly.
“Sure,” he croaks, and Derek shifts just a little nearer. His arm hooks under Stiles’ neck, the other on his waist with a feather-light touch, and Stiles snuggles into him. He’s feeling protective, and oddly content, and he manages to gather the courage to let their feet touch. He’s wearing socks, but Stiles isn’t, and he can feel the cold in the human’s toes. It bothers him, and with a few twitches he manages to kick his socks off so he can transfer some heat and hopefully warm Stiles up.
Stiles squirms, snuggling himself further into Derek’s chest, and Derek tries hard not to rumble with pleasure. He watches as Stiles’ eyes flutter closed, a few tiny increments each minute, and lets their feet press together and the weight in his arms become heavy. It’s so beautiful to watch him fall asleep that Derek actually aches from it. The trust and contentment coming from Stiles is enough to make him go limp. As he does, he realizes that he wants this, every single day. Maybe for the rest of his life. He wants Stiles to fall asleep with him, wants to wake up and see his face and be able to intertwine their hands together. He wants Stiles here, with him.
It’s his last thought before he falls asleep.