Chapter Text
Someone is moving around in the other room. It’s Stiles, he thinks. Brushing his teeth, maybe. Derek stares at the ceiling fan. It’s still. He rolls over onto his stomach, burying his head beneath his pillow. The bed smells like Stiles and sex.
Derek indulges himself. He spreads out, rubs his face against that delicious scent. He salivates, his fangs itching to drop and sink into soft, tender flesh. Fur ripples across his shoulders. Too much, too much. He digs his claws into the mattress and focuses on Stiles. Stiles’ voice as he chatters away to himself, his steady heartbeat. Slowly, the wildness seeps out of Derek’s blood.
Anchored, he shuts his eyes again and drifts off.
Someone is touching his neck. He makes a sleepy noise of complaint.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Stiles’ voice is quiet. Almost shy. “I just… you still have the bite mark.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, voice thick with sleep. He clears his throat. “I can control my healing ability. Otherwise I couldn’t get tattoos.”
Stiles doesn’t respond. His fingers are warm against Derek’s neck. It’s not the usual cool touch of a human. Derek shivers.
“My dad will be home soon.” Stiles trails his fingers from Derek’s neck, over his shoulder, and around to the center of his back. Stiles traces the triskelion, fingers moving deftly over the triple spiral. Derek adjusts his hips. He breathes out shakily.
“I can drive you back,” he says. “Unless…?”
Stiles’ heart begins to race.
They start out slowly. Derek lays on his stomach, one leg hitched up, his cock leaking pre-come onto the mattress. Stiles opens him up slowly, his slick fingers pressing insistently around Derek’s rim and inside his hole. Derek breathes through it. It’s not enough. He whines, high in his throat, but subsides when Stiles reaches down to play with his balls.
“Just be patient,” Stiles says as he fucks his fingers into Derek’s ass. They’re up to two now, and Derek is ready, he is, but Stiles clearly doesn’t think so. He shoves another long finger in, this one barely lubed, and it burns in the best fucking way. Derek shifts, moving his leg up higher, opening himself up more.
Stiles takes his fingers out. He lines himself up, one hand planted on the bed for support, and pushes in. Derek arches his back and bears down. Stiles bottoms out, smoothing a hand over Derek’s back, almost reassuringly, as he begins to move.
He keeps his thrusts slow and languid as he rolls his hips. It’s his intent to go slow, gentle, and Derek can’t. He just can’t. He reaches back, grabbing Stiles’ side, and tries to encourage him to go faster. Stiles ignores him, content to just slowly fuck in and out of Derek.
“Stiles,” Derek protests. Stiles stills, waiting. “I can’t - I need -”
He doesn’t know how to explain this. He needs to get out of his head. Just for a bit. When it’s this slow and relaxed his thoughts begin to creep in. He starts thinking about his Alpha responsibilities, what groceries he needs to buy, books he hasn’t read yet, his family, her.
Stiles understands. He pulls out abruptly. Derek hisses, more in surprise than anything else. “On your back,” Stiles says, a little waver in his voice. Derek complies, bending his knees and spreading his legs. Just a little. Stiles looks excited. There’s no trace of fear in his scent. His face and chest are pink, his heart pounding. As Derek watches, he reaches down and squeezes the base of his cock. Trying not to come too soon. He loves that Stiles is that affected by him. It’s reassuring that, if nothing else, Stiles wants to fuck him and always will.
Stiles settles between Derek’s legs, lining himself up, and shoves his dick back in. It’s different immediately. Stiles fucks him, for real this time, his hips pistoning. Derek arches his back, clawing at Stiles’ shoulders, because, yes, this is what he needs. He can just feel. No thoughts. Stiles’ cock isn’t especially thick, but it’s long. It brushes against Derek’s prostate just enough to send jolts of pleasure up his spine.
Above him, Stiles is panting and gasping with every thrust. He has one hand on the headboard, bracing himself, as he fucks into Derek. He’s muttering oh fuck, oh fuck over and over. Derek whines, helpless to stop it, and drags his claws down Stiles’ back. Pre-come is drooling out of his cock and running down his sides. Stiles notices and says, “oh fuck, you’re knotting.”
Derek nods frantically. He can feel it swelling up already. He wants to put it somewhere warm and wet. He reaches down between their bodies and squeezes it. More pre-come spurts out as he pumps it, twisting his wrist on the upstroke.
Stiles swears and fucks into him faster. The sound of his hips slapping against Derek’s is loud, obscene, almost as filthy as the sound of Stiles’ dick moving through the mess he’s made of Derek’s hole. Derek loves it. Stiles knows what he needs, Stiles always knows.
“Oh god, I’m gonna come,” Stiles manages before pressing in as deep as he can go. His hips jerk as he comes, filling Derek. Marking him. Claiming.
It’s this thought that sends Derek over. His eyes roll up as he knots his fist. He comes all over himself, Stiles, the bed. He comes and comes, shaking and panting. Stiles collapses on top of him, gasping for breath like he’s just run a marathon, even as Derek shudders through his orgasm.
"One day,” Stiles says, his face pressed against Derek’s chest, “you are going to come before me.”
Derek rolls them over. Stiles grins up at him lazily. Fucked out. “I like it when you come first,” Derek says. He leans down and Stiles bares his neck without question. He moans when Derek bites down. He lathes his tongue over Stiles neck, tasting the sweat gathered there.
“When are you gonna bite me for real?” Stiles asks, sounding a little petulant. He’s so cute when he pouts. It makes Derek want to fuck him up. “You said you would after the ritual.”
“It’s only been a day, baby.” Derek rubs his face against Stiles’, making sure to cover the boy with his scent. If he could then he would come all over Stiles’ face and rub it in. But he doesn’t think Stiles would like that very much. “Come on, I gotta get you home.”
In the morning light, Stiles still looks the same as he always has. He still has the coltish limbs, big eyes, and pink lips. But there are differences. His face is leaner, as if the ritual stripped him of some of his baby fat. His eyes are lighter, almost brassy now.
No, the differences are bone deep. He’s graceful, comfortable in his body in a way he wasn’t before. Derek watches closely as Stiles delicately crosses the ice encrusted parking lot. He never loses his balance. Never looks back at Derek for help.
Stiles reeks of magic now. It’s threaded throughout his body, wrapped around every bone and tendon. It’s unfocused. Wild. Stiles has the power to do a lot, but not the required training or focus. It’s dangerous for all of them. It would be all too easy for Stiles to burn himself out, or to set half the forest on fire.
Stiles is not inclined towards ritual magic. He can do it, Derek certainly has seen proof of that, but Stiles’ mind is quicksilver. Eventually, he will run out of patience for setting up magical circles and following the guides of a dusty old book. Stiles wants to use magic aggressively and is unwilling to stay on the sidelines. Once he realizes how much power he has, he will want to use it.
What he needs is a focus tattoo. Something small, maybe on his hip, so his dad wouldn’t see. It would allow him to cast bigger spells without having to stop and draw a magic circle. It’ll have to wait though; Derek doesn’t have time to get Stiles a fake ID so they can get him a tattoo. Not yet, anyways.
“What do you know about the fae?” Derek asks. Stiles jumps. He’s been rifling through the glovebox of the truck, nosy little thing that he is.
“Well. They left this reality like a billion years ago,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t correct him on the timeframe. “They’re vindictive, play by their own rules, and are super, mega powerful.”
“And?” Derek prompts. He needs Stiles to catch up.
“Um.” Stiles chews on his thumbnail, eyes distant. “If they’re here it’s targeted. Like, they’re pissed off at us specifically.”
Good. He’s getting it. Derek parks the truck a few streets away from Stiles’ house. “Anything else?”
“The weather and shit is localised,” Stiles says slowly. “So there’s probably an entrance to their world in Beacon Hills, either in town or in the Preserve somewhere.”
He’s so fucking smart. Derek grins, pleased as punch. Stiles ducks his head, face flushed pink, but he’s grinning like a fool. And no wonder; Stiles craves recognition and acknowledgement from him. Even when he did his first piece of magic, creating a circle of mountain ash to trap the Kanima, he looked to Derek for praise.
To Derek this is intoxicating. He is the only one who recognized this talent in Stiles.
They sneak through backwards, jumping over fences and squeezing through hedges. Derek keeps their pace at a light jog, surprised when Stiles keeps up easily. His overnight bag hangs over his shoulder, giving him no trouble. He doesn’t trip or stumble. In fact, he almost outpaces Derek at times.
It makes sense, Derek thinks, considering what animal gave Stiles its power.
Stiles’ back porch is covered with a heavy dusting of snow. There’s no other footprints but their own. The house is silent.
“Is he home?” Stiles asks, panting. His usually fair cheeks are flushed with exertion. Derek can’t help himself.
“Come here,” Derek says, pulling Stiles in. They kiss, and it’s sweet for them, all devouring mouths and playful nips. Stiles’ bag hits the porch with a thump. He threads his fingers through Derek’s hair, pulling lightly, as he’s so fond of doing.
Derek lets his hands wander. He slides them down Stiles’ back, to his tight little ass. Stiles moans, thrusting his hips against Derek’s. Stiles is hard already, but they can’t. They shouldn’t. The sheriff is due back any minute.
“Stop blue balling me,” Stiles complains when Derek backs off. He’s pouting again.
“I never blue ball you,” Derek protests. He runs his thumb over Stiles’ plump bottom lip. “Aside from now.”
“Oh come on, you came into my work to buy condoms. You knew what you were doing.”
“I did do that,” Derek admits. “But I didn’t know you were working there. I just needed to stock up.”
Stiles laughs. “You’re so gross, dude. Oh my god.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” Stiles agrees, eyes bright. “Um. We should -”
“I’ll text you, okay?” Derek gives Stiles one last quick kiss. “I’ll set up the meeting. This will be over soon.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. He kisses Derek’s cheek before darting inside. He’s back immediately, flushed red. “I forgot my bag,” he says sheepishly. He gives Derek a little wave and then retreats to the safety of his house.
Derek would love nothing more than to follow Stiles inside and fuck him on the bed he’s had since he was a kid. He wants to spend time with Stiles, wrapped around him, watching whatever asinine movies they can find on Netflix.
But he’s put this off long enough. They need to meet with the Alpha pack and deal with this.
He heads back into the snow.
✡✡✡
Stiles stands in the middle of his room, stock still, comforted by being at home and in his own space. It’s been almost three days since he’s been here last. He just needs to take it all in. His senses are magnified now, just a bit. Maybe not on werewolf level but certainly better than a human’s. That is how he knows that his room smells absolutely vile.
Sweat, jizz, dirty clothes, half empty soda cans growing new species of mold: these are the things he smells immediately. Beneath this cacophony of horror, he thinks he can catch a whiff of Derek. That makes him want to fling himself off a skyscraper. Because that means Derek could smell all of this.
Well. Clearly it didn’t turn him off. Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that Derek would roll around in roadkill if the mood struck him. Which is gross but, well, he’s a wolf in human skin. At least he’s not chewing on teenagers for fun anymore.
There’s something else though. Stiles scents the air, mimicking what he’s seen Derek do in the past. Someone else was here. Not his dad; the smell is just in his room, nowhere else. A werewolf? Maybe. It just smells wrong. Oily, almost.
Scott? Deaton? Stiles can’t tell. He hasn’t been around either of them since before the emissary ritual. Derek would know, but Stiles is not calling his boyfriend back to sniff around. Derek is busy. Besides, if it is Scott then Derek will go to Defcon 5000. Stiles doesn’t want to deal with that. They agreed that Scott is low on the priority list, and that is a very safe place for Scott to be.
Even if he was in Stiles’ room what does that mean? There’s no sense in riling up Derek if it just means Scott swung by to look for him. Right?
Stiles cleans his room. He hasn’t done it all summer, content to stew in eau de teenage boy. That was fine when the smell of ball sweat wasn’t overwhelming, but now it’s too much for his sensitive nose. Besides, he has a boyfriend now. He should at least vacuum once in a while.
And while he’s cleaning he can search for any nasty surprises his visitor might have left for him.
His dad comes in just in time to see him furiously shoving all of his laundry in a hamper. “Hey Dad,” he says, not bothering to turn around. “You gonna be home for a while?”
"You’re cleaning your room,” his dad says incredulously.
“Sure am,” Stiles says. He strips the bed, keeping an eye out for nightmare hexes or pigeon blood, or anything weird. Nothing. Just questionable smells. When was the last time he changed these? “Are you hungry? I’m thinking tacos for lunch.”
His dad doesn’t answer, apparently thrown by the fact that his teenage son is willingly cleaning. Which is fair. Stiles is not an especially clean person. He hopes Derek knows what he’s getting into.
“Derek complained about the smell, huh?”
“What!” Stiles throws a sweaty pillowcase into the hamper. “First of all, Derek has never been in my room. Except for that one time. Well, maybe two times. But that’s not the point, the point -”
His dad laughs, cutting him off. “Tacos are fine, but delivery only okay? You’re still on house arrest. Another kid was found dead last night.”
Stiles is going to have to install a police scanner in Derek’s truck. He’s tired of playing catch up. “Was it, uh, wild dogs again?”
His dad shakes his head, mouth tight. “That’s what they say, but no one’s seen hide or hair of these supposed dogs. And Animal Control is, of course, absolutely useless.”
Stiles just nods and turns back to his laundry. He can’t say anything else, really.
“Have you seen Scott lately?”
“No,” Stiles snaps. He’s tired of being asked about Scott. “Why do you keep asking?”
“Because his mom reported him missing this morning. Stiles,” his dad says, almost hesitantly. “If you know anything you need to tell me. Do you have anything to tell me?”
His blood runs cold. “Not really,” he says, mind racing ahead. “Scott texted me to tell me that he was going to be in Sacramento and then nothing.” Telling his dad that is a calculated risk. If his dad asks to see the texts then he’ll have no choice but to hand his phone over. Meaning his dad could look and see what he and Derek have talked about.
Thankfully, the sheriff only nods. “Sacramento? That’s interesting. I’ll talk to Melissa about that. Save those texts, Stiles, I may need you to come down to the station to answer some questions.”
“Yeah, sure. Uh, keep me updated? I’m worried about him.”
“Of course, son,” his dad says, his voice cracking a little. This is hard for him, too. Scott and Stiles grew up together. They’re brothers. Always have been and always will be. And even though Stiles knows where Scott is, kind of, he’s still petrified.
Scott’s in trouble. He has to be. There’s no other reason why he’d be ghosting Stiles, avoiding his mom, and living in Deaton’s basement. The way Stiles sees it, Scott is surrounded by danger: Deaton, Derek, the Alphas. And Stiles is the only thing keeping him safe. Isaac cares, of course, but Stiles is the one who got Derek to back off. If Derek says jump Isaac doesn’t ask how high, he just fucking jumps.
The fact of the matter is that Stiles’ is Scott’s last line of defense.
Me, 12:01pm: hypothetically
Me, 12:01pm: is there any kind of magic that could de-wolf someone?
Big Bad, 12:04pm: nothing good
Big Bad, 12:07pm: it’s not something i can do and i dont think you can either
Me, 12:08pm: what about something temporary? can your wolfiness get blocked somehow?
Big Bad, 12:11pm: ive heard of hunters using collars that could do that. removing the collar undoes it
Big Bad, 12:13pm: why
Me, 12:20pm: just thinking ahead!!!
Me, 12:21pm: are you worrying? stop worrying!
Big Bad, 12:30pm: nothing good can come out of magic like that. dont try anything risky for scott
Big Bad, 12:31pm: please
✡✡✡
Stiles is flipping through his books, looking for more information about the fae, when he hears the howling. It’s Derek. He doesn’t recognize it, not really, but he just feels that it’s Derek. More than that, he can get a feel for what Derek is saying. Not in words, not really, but he can read the intent.
It’s a request for parlay. Derek is calling out an invite.
The Alphas respond. He doesn’t recognize them, but he can hear two distinct voices. The Alphas of the Alphas, maybe? Stiles can tell that they have accepted the invite but nothing else. They sounded polite, but not especially friendly.
Well, there’s no unringing this bell. Stiles trusts Derek, he really does, he just isn’t convinced that they aren’t the ones killing people. It certainly doesn’t fit into the fae curse, that is for sure. Maybe they’ve unleashed some random creature as extra punishment for whatever? But then why would it target only brunet men?
It has to be the Alphas. There’s no other explanation. Unless -
No. Stiles isn’t even going there mentally. Not until he gets a chance to talk to Scott.
He flips through his book, resolute in his decision to ignore the fact that there is in fact a third party who has a vested interest in stopping Stiles from becoming an emissary. A third party who appears to have Scott in his back pocket. It’s not possible. It’s just not. So he flips the pages, barely seeing what’s on the pages, and listens to the non-stop howling.
This, Stiles thinks, is dumb. Why can’t they just text or email? Surely all of this howling nonsense is terrifying the town. Plus, how do they communicate the when and wheres of it all? There’s no way there is a wolf howl that translates to “meet us at the Holiday Inn.”
His phone rings. His caller ID declares it to be Derek, and so he answers, saying, “I think Morse Code would be a lot more effective, dude. How do you know where to meet? Plus you’re definitely fueling the fires of the wild dogs story.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then Peter says, “wolfsong is a lot more difficult to translate than Morse Code, Stiles. We have to keep some secrets safe from outsiders, don’t we?”
“Well, I’m hardly an outsider, am I?”
“Not anymore,” Peter agrees. “Derek is busy patrolling the woods so I took it upon myself to call. It’ll be just the three of us tonight: you, me, and Derek.”
“Oh, uh. Why? I thought the point was that Derek would have the entire pack at his side for this?” Stiles does not like the idea of them all wandering in without backup.
Peter hesitates, just the tiniest bit. “The situation has changed. So the three of us are going to meet them near Radford Park around 8pm.”
“What situation? They were here for the fae the whole time, right? That’s what Derek said.”
“Derek,” Peter says, sounding irritated, “let them roam around outside the perimeter for months, getting themselves nice and worked up as the situation in town got worse. Now they’re… concerned.”
Stiles doesn’t like this. Wandering out in the cursed woods with several pissed off Alpha werewolves is not his idea of a good Friday night. “Can’t we just have the betas hide in the bushes somewhere? Just in case?”
“You realize that just makes it look like we are planning on slaughtering them all?” Peter’s tone is dry. “That will just lead us to bloodshed.”
“Fine, fine. Uh, what do I have to do? Like, should I bring anything?”
“Oh relax, Stiles. It’ll just be a nice moonlit chat. Nothing to worry about. However,” Peter adds, his tone teasing. “If you’re feeling mischievous you can always wear the red cloak. I’m sure that would go over well.”
Stiles hangs up. He has four hours to kill.
“Hey kiddo, they’re calling me in.” His dad leans against the doorframe, respecting Stiles’ personal space. He watches Stiles like he’s watching a zoo animal. Stiles doesn’t know why; he’s just staring at his face in a mirror, looking for any changes. He's trying to figure out what Derek meant by sharp.
“Already? You’ve only been home for a few hours.” Stiles tries not to dance for fucking joy. If his dad is gone then he doesn’t need to sneak out. He can just walk right out the front door and drive off.
His dad sighs. He looks tired. Worn around the eyes. “We’re getting reports in about a wild animal prowling around downtown. I’m going in to assist. Stay inside, understand? I promise, if I come home and find Derek here I won’t be mad at you.”
“What? Oh come on, I wouldn’t -”
The sheriff holds up a hand. Stiles quiets down. “Seriously, kid. I don’t care if Derek crawls in your window like he’s done in the past.” Oh fuck. “Yes, I know about that. I’m not an idiot, Stiles, and you two? You’re not as sneaky as you think. Just - just stay in. Please.”
His dad looks pained. It’s clear as day: the sheriff knows that someone is targeting men who resemble Stiles, but he doesn’t want to scare Stiles. So he goes along with the wild dogs theory, just like everyone else in town, and quietly worries.
But really, it is his dad who should stay home. He is in more danger than Stiles will be.
Because Stiles will be with Derek, an Alpha werewolf born to do great things. An Alpha who will kill anyone who touches Stiles. Tonight, Stiles will be safe tonight in Derek’s dreadful shadow. It is everyone else who is in danger.
But Stiles can’t tell his dad any of this. He can’t. Best case scenario, his dad believes him about werewolves and locks Stiles inside the house. And that cannot happen. Stiles is in this. He’s Derek’s emissary, and he’ll be damned if Derek has to face the Alphas alone.
So he pastes on a smile and lies to his dad once again.
✡✡✡
Stiles does not wear the cloak. He wears one of Derek’s hoodies and Derek’s tiny ass boots. He leaves early, knowing that his ADHD makes him timeblind. Being late tonight is not an option. This is his first official duty as emissary: to stand next to Derek and play good cop to Peter’s bad cop.
The Jeep starts with a whining growl sound, but it starts. Stiles sets out. He’s nervous but he thinks about that one quote about fear and bravery and decides that it’s okay to be a little scared. Werewolves are erratic creatures, prone to wild emotional swings. The important thing is that he goes despite being scared.
Beacon Hills is an insect hive of activity. And why not? It’s Friday night. Even the snow cannot keep the barhoppers safely indoors. The people in town have adjusted, as always, to the supernatural. Even if they don’t acknowledge it, they live with it. They get by. Sure, some of their neighbors get turned into puppy chow, but hey. They’re out living their lives.
As he drives down main street, he feels jealous. The town looks like it’s been ripped out of a Hallmark movie. The lights are dazzling, bouncing off the snow, and there’s fliers all around advertising an apple cider fest. On the sidewalks, couples walk hand in hand, drinking hot chocolate and looking cosy.
Stiles thinks that after this Alpha meeting he’ll try to convince Derek to grab dinner. They could go on a real date for once. It’ll be nice, just the two of them walking around looking at lights or whatever it is that couples do in the winter. Snuggle up in front of a fire, maybe. He’s always wanted to have sex on a bearskin rug.
His phone rings. He answers without looking. “Hey Big Bad, how do you feel about dinner? Like, after the meeting, I mean.”
There’s just heavy, creeper breathing on the other end. Stiles drives on, one hand on the wheel, and tries again. “Derek?”
“Stiles.”
It’s Scott.
Stiles veers off the road and onto the shoulder. “Scott?” he screeches. “Where are you? Your mom is looking for you, she reported you missing this morning.”
“Stiles, I’m - I don’t…” Scott’s voice is strained, as if every word hurts on the way out. “I’m in the Preserve, I don’t - I can’t -”
“Where in the Preserve?” Stiles feels like his heart is going to beat out his chest.
“Derek’s,” Scott gasps. It sounds like he’s been shot. Was Scott being tortured? Held prisoner? Maybe Peter was wrong, maybe the Argents had Scott the whole time. “Please, Stiles, I - don’t -”
The call cuts out. Stiles barely registers it. He needs to get to Scott. Now. He pops an illegal U-turn and guns it. He doesn’t care about the snow or the ice. He doesn’t care about the other cars or any pedestrians in his way.
He needs to get to Scott.
He calls Derek. There’s no answer. Fucking typical. He listens to Derek’s surly voicemail and leaves a message.
“Derek, I’m headed to your house. Your old house, you know. The burnt one. Scott called and said he’s there. I’m just gonna corral him and then I’ll - oh fuck, watch out you dumb bitch! Fucker,” Stiles swears, swerving around a car barely doing the speed limit. “Uh yeah, I’m okay. Just - Just wait for me, I’ll be there.”
Stiles hangs up. There’s nothing more to say.
The clearing the Hale house stands in is dark and beyond ominous, bracketed by skeletal trees. Scott is on the ground, illuminated by the headlights, crouched down and huddled in on himself. He’s rocking. Back and forth. Behind him, the Hale house looms like something from a children’s nightmare.
“Scott!” Stiles runs over to him, leaving the keys in the ignition and the door wide open. “Holy shit, man, what happened?”
Scott is filthy. His clothes are ragged and wet from the snow. It looks and smells like he’s worn them for weeks. His hair is shaggy, encrusted with mud and crawling with insects. His big brown eyes are filled with tears. Stiles’ heart breaks. Scott looks broken. Beaten down.
“Come on, man, let’s go.” He tugs on Scott’s arm. It’s tacky, covered with something dark. Blood. Scott’s arms, his hands, his clothes, are stained with blood.
Stiles jerks back. Scott watches, tears rolling down his face. “I don’t know what happened,” he says miserably. “I just woke up here. I think,” his voice cracks. “I think I hurt someone, Stiles.”
Multiple someones, Stiles thinks. Okay. He can deal with this. He just needs to get Scott into the Jeep and get him home. He can call someone. His dad. Melissa. They’ll take care of Scott. They can fix this. Scott will be okay, everything will be okay.
Scott breaks down. He covers his face with his blood covered hands and cries. Like he’s a little kid. Stiles embraces him, blinking back tears of his own. Scott reeks of dead things and misery. Stiles can’t stand to see him like this.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Stiles says, his voice thick. In the distance, he can hear Derek howling. “But we gotta - we gotta go, okay? Come on.”
Scott nods shakily and lets Stiles pull him to his feet. He’s still hunched over, shivering, almost hugging himself. The headlights reflect off of something on his wrist. The bracelet.
“Let me see that.” Stiles takes Scott’s hand gingerly and examines the bracelet. It’s the same one, he thinks. Corded silver, with pearls at the ends. Silver to block the effects of the moon. And pearls to do what? They’re bad luck, Stiles knows. But how do they work with the silver? Are they just bad juju?
Derek would know. But there’s no time to text Derek and ask. So Stiles just acts. He yanks the bracelet off, mindless of how it scrapes over Scott’s knuckles. It’s easier than he thought it would be. It just pops off. There’s no flashing lights, no ominous sounds.
Stiles tosses it. He doesn’t want the thing anywhere near him or Scott.
“Alright, let’s go. Scott?”
Scott doesn’t move. He stares at Stiles absently, looking almost drunk. Slowly, his eyes turn gold. “Stiles,” he says, voice gutterall. Oh no. Stiles backs up slowly, knowing better than to turn tail and run. “You shouldn’t have come here. You should have - Run, please Stiles, run.”
He doesn’t run. He edges back slowly. So slowly. He’s close to the Jeep. And Scott? He’s growling and shaking, clawing at his bare arms and face. Fighting himself. It’s a losing battle; Stiles can see the furry eyebrows and the long, sharp teeth.
“Easy, Scott, easy,” Stiles says in a tone reserved for rabid dogs. “Hold on, buddy, you can do this. You’re in control, okay? You can do this.”
Scott throws his head back and roars. Stiles scrambles inside the Jeep, shutting the door just in time. Scott bounces off it, sending the car sliding several inches through the snow and muck. The door is dented inwards. It won’t hold, not against an angry werewolf.
Stiles clambers over the center console and out of the passenger side door. He lands in the snow and army crawls underneath the Jeep. Scott rips the door off and tosses it. He climbs inside and starts tearing the interior to fucking shreds. The Jeep rocks back and forth above him. Scott snarls, sounding completely fucking feral.
If he sees Stiles, if he senses any movement, then he will tear Stiles to shreds.
Stiles hunkers down, a fawn in the grass, and considers his options. If he runs into the house he will be cornered and viciously torn apart. The woods seem to be the safer option, but there are unknown dangers. Alphas, faeries, life stealing vines. It’s a lot of things to dodge around while also evading Scott.
So he stays put. He listens to Scott tearing apart the interior of his car and waits. His chance will come. He needs to be patient. Derek will come for him.
Just when it seems like Scott is finally tiring of chewing on the steering wheel, there is another growl. Low and dangerous. Familiar, but this growl doesn’t make him feel comforted. No, this one reminds him of Lydia bleeding out on a lacrosse field.
Peter. He’s half-shifted, eyes burning blue, claws extended. He doesn’t wait. He rushes forward and attacks Scott. The Jeep shakes as the werewolves growl and tear into each other. Glass shatters and spills everywhere.
Stiles slithers out from beneath the car in time to see Peter throw Scott out and onto the ground. They dive towards each other, snapping and snarling, a tangled ball of rippling fur and teeth. The snow around them is foul and bloody. Everything in him is screaming at him to run, and he almost does.
Until he sees that Peter has Scott pinned, with one clawed hand raised above his head. A killing stroke.
Stiles can’t let this happen. He can’t.
Before Peter can bring his claws down, before he can rip Scott’s throat out, Stiles tackles him. They hit the ground hard. Peter is winded, briefly, but long enough for Stiles to scream, “run, Scott, go!”
“Stiles, you fucking idiot,” Peter growls. His fangs are long and glistening with blood and saliva. He throws Stiles to the side and jumps to his feet. But it’s too late. Scott is gone, swallowed up by the white forest.
“You goddamn idiot. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I stopped you from killing him,” Stiles says, teeth chattering. His jeans are soaked through, clinging to his legs.
“He is out of control,” Peter says, tightly. His jaw is clenched. “He’s feral, look at what he did!” Peter waves a hand towards the ruined Jeep. It’s not pretty. The door is several yards away. The windshield is completely shattered. Bits of bloody foam and cloth litter the ground from where Scott tore the seats to shreds.
"It’s been through worse,” Stiles says, watching blood drip out of the car and into the snow. He swallows. “I’ll just tell my dad it was a dog or something. It’ll be fine.”
“He would have killed you. And you,” Peter snarls this, “let him go, while Derek is out there.”
Oh no. No.
“He wouldn’t,” Stiles says, frantically. “It’s not - he’s… It was this bracelet, I think, I took it off and it just surprised him. Magical backlash or something. But he’s not, he couldn’t kill Derek.”
There is no way, no possible way, that Scott could hurt Derek. The last two times they fought Derek wiped the floor with Scott. The only reason Scott lived at all is that Derek had no intention of killing him. Stiles had helped Scott keep those claw marks clean. He knows what Derek is capable of. And with Derek’s additional power boost by way of having an emissary? There’s no way Scott could hurt him.
It can’t happen. It can’t.
Peter doesn’t answer. He stares out into the trees, listening to the wind, scenting the air. Stiles staggers to his feet. He can’t hear anything. All he can smell is blood. “Peter?”
A howl splits the night open. Then another. And another. The Alphas.
This time, Stiles can sense their anger. Their rage. He hears Derek respond in kind and despairs. Derek can fend off Scott, but multiple pissed off Alphas? That may be too much, even for him.
“Now you get it,” Peter says, almost disgusted. “Let’s go, little emissary, and pull my nephew out of the fire.”
Peter runs off into the forest and Stiles follows.
The forest has never looked worse. Sickly white trees are being pulled down by inky black tendrils. The air is thick with a miasma of rot and decay. There are no sounds but those of wolves fighting in the distance. There’s a high pitched yelp, and then silence.
Stiles tries not to think about it. He focuses on staying upright. The snow is ankle deep and treacherous. One wrong move and he could break his leg. Peter stays close, jumping over fallen trees and roots alike. He glances back occasionally, as if checking to see if Stiles is still there. As if he thinks Stiles would run.
It’s unfair. Stiles would never abandon them. Not in a million years.
“Stop,” Peter says, skidding to a halt. He pushes Stiles behind him and steps forward. Almost protectively. Stiles isn’t sure why at first until he sees red eyes coming towards them. Judging by the height, it’s not Derek. This is someone new. Peter growls, deep in his chest.
A woman steps forward. She is beautiful, in the way that all predators are beautiful, with brown skin and dark hair. Her red eyes mark her as an Alpha. Stiles notices that she is barefoot in the snow and thinks that she may be off her rocker.
“Where is he?” The Alpha asks. She takes them in, red eyes sweeping over their haggard appearances. “Where is the man who killed Ennis?”
“Who?” Stiles asks, utterly confused. Peter stifles a laugh.
The Alpha does not like this. She stalks forward, stepping elegantly through the snow, and hisses, “you draw us here under false pretenses, and you make jokes? Well. Let’s see how funny you think this is.”
Stiles opens his mouth to quip back or to scream, but he’s interrupted by a roar. There’s loud crashing through the underbrush, and then Stiles sees him.
It’s Derek, of that he has no doubt, but not in any form Stiles has seen before. Derek is no elegant wolf tonight, no, he looks like a movie monster come to life. A twisted chimera of wolf and man. He’s massive, with lanky limbs and a thick, black hide. Clothes hang off of him in tatters. He stands on two feet, hock joint and all, with a bushy tail for balance. He’s easily seven or eight feet tall, towering over the three of them.
Stiles is awestruck. He never knew Derek could do this.
The female Alpha takes a single step back. She looks petrified. Ready to run.
Peter yanks Stiles out of the way. Derek bounds forward, catching the barefoot Alpha as she tries to run. She falls to the ground, and then Derek is on her. Ripping and tearing. She screams in pain, doing her best to crawl away. Derek snarls victoriously and sinks his fangs into her.
Hope blooms in Stiles’ chest. If Derek can do this then what chance do the others have? None. Derek will kill and eat them all, and then -
Then the fae curse will continue to run rampant through the town. There will be no stopping it. If Derek could solve this on his own then he would. He chose to meet with these Alphas for a reason.
“Derek, stop!” Stiles darts forward. Derek listens, turning towards him. Blood drips down from his muzzle. Stiles has no fear; this is Derek, and Derek would never hurt him. He puts a hand on Derek’s furred shoulder. Faintly, he can smell the aftershave Derek uses.
“If you kill her then you all but declare war with Deucalion and Satomi,” Peter says. He looks at the Alpha woman dispassionately. She’s gasping for breath, clinging to life. “We have to salvage this somehow.”
The woman laughs. “Sal - salvage? You killed one of us and you think we’re just going to walk away?” Blood bubbles up out of her mouth. As Stiles watches, her body begins to knit itself back together.
“Who?” Derek growls. Stiles nearly falls over.
“Holy shit, you can talk? You are wasted here, dude, you really need to consider a career change. Think of all the horror movies you could star in!”
“She said the name Ennis,” Peter says, ignoring Stiles. That’s fine. Stiles is used to being ignored. “I think Scott killed her.”
Derek snarls and it’s vicious. It’s a sound that promises death by fang and claw.
“We don’t know that,” Stiles says quickly. “He’s a beta, he couldn’t-”
“Just as Derek was when he killed me,” Peter responds cooly. Stiles gets the feeling that Peter will not forgive him as easily as Derek does.
“Scott was here?” Derek asks, sounding like something that lives under a child’s bed.
“He tried to kill Stiles,” Peter says. “I almost had him, but Stiles stopped me. And now here we are.”
Derek looks at Stiles, right in the eye, and Stiles feels the tiniest hint of fear. Because Derek is pissed . Absolutely furious. Saliva drools out from between his fangs as Derek bares them. Stiles lifts his chin defiantly. He may be Derek’s, but he’s not going to start backing down from a fight.
“Can we talk about this later?” he asks peevishly. “She’s almost healed.”
“No, let’s discuss this now,” a man says. Stiles spins around. This guy snuck up on all of them. He’s wearing a cable knit sweater, sunglasses, and is holding a cane. A blind Alpha? Stiles didn’t know that was possible.
Next to the man is yet another Alpha. This one looks like something fresh off the slab. His muscles bulge almost sickeningly, and his face is divided in half by a thick scar.
“Nice to see you again, Deucalion,” Peter says casually. He shifts his weight to his back foot. “How long’s it been?”
Deucalion smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “Too long. You know, Peter, we came here to help you and your new Alpha restore the balance, and this is how you welcome us? By killing and maiming my people?”
“Not us,” Derek growls out. The female Alpha is almost fully healed, but he still has her pinned down. She struggles against the immense weight on her chest.
“It really wasn’t us,” Stiles says. “It was - This is just a misunderstanding, okay? We can fix this.”
“Can we?” Deucalion’s voice is cold. “I have a better idea,” he snaps his fingers, “kill the emissary.”
Everything happens at once. Derek leaps in front of Stiles, intercepting the scarred Alpha. Peter shoves Stiles out of the way as the female Alpha lunges. Stiles lands on his ass and scurries away from the fighting. There’s snarling, bones breaking, blood flying.
He catches flashes of things. The female Alpha burying her claws in Peter’s chest. Derek chewing through flesh and bone. Deucalion watching, two hands on his cane, a little smile on his face.
Stiles’ gorge rises. He wants to run for safety. He wants to be back in Derek’s bed, huddled under the blankets, safe and sound. But that’s not possible for him, not anymore. He wanted this power for a reason. Sitting back and watching, safe on the sidelines, is not an option.
Peter is struggling, bleeding from a dozen wounds. The Alpha laughs and licks his blood off of her fingers. She’s going to kill him and orphan Derek again. Stiles can’t let that happen.
He wills his magic to come. There’s no time for grounding, for meditation, or magical circles. He needs to cast something, fast and quick. His magic responds like it’s been waiting for him, rushing through him like water from a broken levee.
Stiles rises to his feet. The smell of ozone hangs in the air. The wind howls as if a great storm is upon them. He raises his hand and snarls out a curse. The incantation is in Japanese, a language unfamiliar to him, but he feels the curse take hold of her.
The woman coughs. Her hands fly up to her throat, her fingers clawing at her neck. She coughs and gags before falling to her knees. She wheezes, eyes wide with panic, and topples over. She writhes in the snow as she chokes and gasps for breath. Flower petals spill from her mouth.
“Oh, nicely done, Stiles,” Peter says. He climbs to his feet and dusts himself off as best he can.
Stiles sways. His vision is blurry. He wants to lay down in the snow and sleep for a hundred years. “Thanks,” he gasps. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to try that one out.”
Next to them, Derek buries his fangs in the scarred Alpha’s throat. He jerks his head, shaking the Alpha like a fucking rag doll. There’s a loud crack, and then the Alpha is still. Derek doesn’t stop there. He tugs a little harder, popping the Alpha’s head off entirely.
Part of the spine slides free of the body.
Stiles leans over and pukes. Peter pats him on the back. “There, there,” he says, sounding disgusted by this display of weakness. To Deucalion, he says, “two down, Duke. How many more do you have to lose?”
“Cute, very cute,” Deucalion drawls. There is no sign of fear in him. “But tell me: did you really think we wouldn’t bring an emissary of our own?”
Oh fuck.
Two newcomers approach. Both are women. One is young with flowing brown hair and a cruel smile. The other is an older woman with brilliant red eyes. Stiles pants, clinging to Peter like a lifeline. He has power, for sure, but that one curse has drained him. He’s useless.
Derek whirls around to face them, snarling like a wild animal. He roars, terrible and beautiful, warning them to back off. Stiles feels fondness swell in his chest. Derek is a force of nature.
“Now, Julia,” the older woman says.
Julia raises her hand, her fingers spread wide. Derek rushes her but only makes it a few steps before he falls. A puppet with its strings cut. Julia smirks and bends her fingers as if she’s trying to open a jar, and twists her hand. Derek whines. Blood begins to flow from his nostrils.
Stiles staggers forward. He can’t think to do anything else. He drops to his knees beside Derek, his hands fluttering around Derek’s wolfy face. Blood leaks out of the corners of Derek’s eyes, his pointed ears. Stiles doesn’t know how to fix this. He never learned to heal.
“Derek,” Stiles says helplessly. Julia raises her other hand. Behind him, Peter cries out in pain. Derek struggles to get up, to defend his inner circle. Stiles tries to help, lifting his monstrous boyfriend as much as he can. Derek whines again before leaning over to vomit up black sludge. He slumps over and is still.
“Stop it,” Stiles begs, looking at Julia. “Please, you’re killing him!”
“Satomi?” Julia asks, glancing at the woman next to her.
Satomi says, “Undo the curse you placed on Kali, and we will let you live.”
Kali, the female Alpha, must still be alive. She’s a hard woman to kill. Stiles asks, “what about Derek? And the rest of the pack?”
Satomi raises her eyebrows. “Must I spell things out for you? Fine. Alpha Hale can take his wolves and leave. If,” she stresses this, “you remove the curse from Kali.”
Peter laughs through a mouthful of blood. “Those terms sound good to me.”
Stiles glares at Satomi. “This is Hale territory. You can’t just -”
“Oh, the loyalty you have inspired in this boy is remarkable, Alpha Hale,” Deucalion says. Derek doesn’t speak. He’s a shuddering mess. Slowly, his fur recedes. He curls in on himself, knees to his chest, pale and bleeding. Stiles covers as much of him as he can, practically climbing on top of his body. If they attack, they’ll kill Stiles first.
Derek’s fingers brush against Stiles’ hand. His skin is cold.
“This territory is ours now,” Deucalion says. He seems almost amused by Stiles’ shielding of Derek. “Under your care a Fae Queen has been taken. The town has been cursed. And now, a rogue omega has ascended to Alpha. These are things we cannot forgive.”
Stiles’ head is swimming. A Fae Queen? Like Queen Mab? If that is the case then they are fucked for sure. Nothing they can do can withstand that amount of power.
Behind him, Peter groans and vomits. Stiles is sure it’s the same black goo that’s now flowing from Derek’s mouth.
“Undo the curse, little one,” Satomi says. There is something close to compassion on her face. “Or we will raze this town to the ground. And your Alpha will die.”
It’s not like he has a choice. He mutters the countercurse, freeing Kali from a slow, choking death. Julia holds the spell she has on Derek and Peter for another long moment before releasing them.
Derek’s face is bloody and wracked with pain. Stiles wipes away some of the gore and gunk, using snow to clean him up. He bites his lip, the inside of his nose burning, and tries not to cry.
This is his fault. He should have let Peter kill Scott. He should have told Derek about the bracelet. He shouldn’t have ripped it off without Derek taking a look at it. Never again. He’ll never be this stupid again. Stiles wipes his face, angrily.
Derek stirs. His eyes flutter open. “It’s okay,” he says, voice raspy. It sounds like he’s been coughing up razor blades. “Shh, don’t cry, baby, it’s okay.”
The remains of the Alpha pack watch. “You have three hours,” Kali says, one arm wrapped around Julia’s shoulders. “If we find you here again, Alpha Hale, I’ll kill the emissary myself and make you watch.”
They leave, silent as ghosts. Stiles barely notices. He presses his forehead to Derek’s and cries.
Three hours. Three hours and then Stiles leaves Beacon Hills forever.
✡✡✡
Peter drives him home. Stiles walks inside, almost in a daze. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. His body is weak from the magical exertion. He wanders upstairs to the bathroom, stripping out of his filthy clothes on the way.
He stands in the shower for a long time, just watching the filthy water sluice down the drain. By the time he starts to soap himself up the water is ice cold, and he has a list of things he needs to grab for the trip. His laptop. Clean clothes. His grimoire. Book Four. Cellphone. His mom’s romance novels. He doesn’t need anything else.
Stiles doesn’t think about Scott. He doesn’t think about his dad. He can’t. The pack needs him. Tonight proved it. The magic he used on Kali was an advanced spell, one he didn’t think he would be capable of until he pulled it off. If they’re going to settle in a new territory then Stiles’ skills will be needed.
He’ll call his dad when they’re on the road. He’ll figure out some way to explain.
Stiles gets dressed quickly. He grabs his overnight bag and throws clothes into it, almost randomly. He doesn’t know where they’re going so he just shoves as much as he can in. He’s in the middle of trying to fit both Cernunnos and Book Four in the bag when he hears his window slide open.
Derek.
He stands there, looking a little awkward, with damp hair. He’s not bleeding or choking on black bile, which is good. Stiles is pleased to see that he’s wearing his leather jacket. It’s nostalgic for him. It reminds him of the Derek he used to know and the one he knows now.
“I’m almost ready,” Stiles says, jamming the books inside the bag. “I just need to get my laptop and I’m set.”
“Stiles.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I can’t have my dad read through this, okay? There’s no way he can handle how much of a power bottom Crowley was.”
Derek grabs him and hauls him to his feet. Stiles sways, a little, still feeling out of sorts. He needs food and rest. Derek looks serious, all furrowed brow and clenched jaw. He’s pissed, Stiles thinks, because of Scott. He has every right to be.
Stiles learned his lesson, he really did. Never again. He’ll never keep anything from Derek. He’ll never side with anyone against Derek. His priorities have shifted, and how could they not after seeing Derek in so much pain? Pain that Stiles caused.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, deciding to just say what’s on his mind instead of playing games. “I didn’t know, I didn’t think… The bracelet -”
“You’re not coming.”
He blinks. “What? Of course I am, you need me. I’m part of your pack.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, eyes shining brightly. “You can’t come with me. You’re sixteen. I can’t just - I can’t take you, your dad will start a manhunt.”
No. No, no, no. Stiles shakes his head, slowly at first and then faster as it sinks in. “Don’t say that, we can - I’ll figure something out, okay? You can’t leave me here, you can’t.”
They press their foreheads together. Derek’s hands are on Stiles’ face, big and warm. Stiles squeezes Derek’s shoulders. He whimpers, doing everything he can not to start bawling like a teenage girl. Derek hears and whines, big dumb wolf that he is.
“Please don’t leave me,” Stiles begs. “I’ll tell him that I - that we’re -”
Derek kisses him. To shut him up. Stiles pulls away, because no no, this is not their last kiss. It can’t be. He refuses. “Stiles, think about it for a second. If you leave with me your dad will go to the feds. The Alpha pack was clear: they want me and the rest of the pack gone. You can stay here, they won’t touch you.”
“I don’t care about me!” Stiles shouts. It’s true. He is last on the priority list for sure. He is only thinking of Derek, and of being apart from him. “Where are you going to go?”
“I’ll find somewhere close, I promise. We can see each other on weekends, Stiles, we can make it work.”
“You’ll find someone else,” Stiles says, voice all watery, arms wrapped around himself. “You won’t need me, we’ll last a few weeks before you get tired of waiting for me.”
Derek is there, as he always is, nuzzling Stiles’ face. He brushes away the tears. “How many times do I need to tell you, baby? I’ll wait for you, always. You trust me, right?”
Derek is the only one he trusts wholeheartedly. The only one who has never hurt or betrayed him. “Yes, I trust you.”
“Then don’t worry, okay?” Derek hesitates. His ears turn red. “Do - do you want me to bite you now, baby?”
Despite it all, Stiles’ body warms. He nods desperately, his hands fisted in Derek’s jacket. “Yes, yes, please, Derek.” He pulls Derek towards him, walking backwards towards the bed.
They fall to the bed. Derek is on top of him, between his legs. Stiles wiggles out of his shirt, tossing it to the side. He’s not a fast healer; there will be blood. But he wants it. He wants Derek’s fangs more than anything else at this moment. He needs a physical reminder of their connection. He wants something he can look at in the mirror that proves that Derek wants him.
“Stiles,” Derek breathes out. Stiles shivers, goosebumps rising up on his arms. “This might hurt.”
That’s fine. He’ll take anything Derek has to give him. He tilts his head to the side, baring his neck for his Alpha. He trembles with fear and excitement. He feels like prey, trapped beneath a predator, and in a way he is.
Derek starts slow. He kisses Stiles’ neck, open mouthed, getting it wet with his salvia. Warming him up. Stiles pants, unashamed, his hands on Derek’s shoulders, as Derek licks and nibbles his way down Stiles’ neck.
“Please, Derek,” Stiles begs. “Please, please.”
Derek pulls back, just enough so Stiles can see his face. Derek’s shifted, his brow heavy and ridged, his eyes a brilliant shade of red. His canines are long and lethal looking. Stiles licks his lips. Desire burns through him.
It hurts when Derek bites him. But it’s a good hurt. It’s sharp, almost electric. It arcs through him, down his spine and around his ribs, making him writhe in pleasure. Every time he breathes or moves, Derek’s fangs shift inside his neck. He feels Derek’s tongue against his neck, lapping up the blood spilling out.
Derek is breathing heavily. He’s hard, Stiles can feel it against his own straining erection. Stiles moves his hips, slowly, testing the waters. Derek rolls his hips down, grinding against Stiles. They move in tandem, rubbing against each other, uncaring about anything else. Nothing else exists to them. Only each other.
Derek withdraws his fangs in one smooth motion. He laps at the bite mark, his tongue hot against the wound. Stiles shudders, his eyes rolling back in his head. This is what he wanted for so long. What he craved. The only thing that would have made it better is if Derek had knotted him during it.
That thought makes Stiles groan. He hooks one leg around Derek’s waist. Derek is rutting against him almost mindlessly now. His eyes are red, fangs long. He’s looking at Stiles like he wants to take another bite.
“Bite me again,” Stiles says, frantically. “Come on Derek, please, make me come.”
He doesn’t know if Derek would have or not. Because that is when the sheriff makes his presence known. He grabs Derek by the shoulder and flings him off the bed. Derek hits the floor with an oof , looking stunned. His mouth is as red as his eyes.
“Stiles, get back,” his dad says. Stiles scrambles to his feet. “What the hell is going on here?”
Derek doesn’t respond. He only has eyes for Stiles.
“Dad, stop, he wasn’t hurting me.” Stiles grabs his dad’s arm, trying to keep him from going for his gun. “Dad, stop, just listen!”
It’s too much for the sheriff. He’s not hearing Stiles, he’s focused on keeping Derek away from his son. Derek does not help. He stands up, slowly, red eyes and fangs on display. He’s staring at the sheriff, calm and collected. The sheriff goes for his gun again.
Stiles jumps in front of his dad. “Okay, let’s not do that. You can’t shoot my boyfriend. I can explain, okay?”
“Stiles, move, what are you -”
“A little help, Derek?” Stiles snaps, trying to shield Derek for the second time that night.
“I’ll text you,” Derek says, grinning like a fucking psycho. Stiles can’t help it; he grins back. “See you, Stiles.”
Derek leaves through the window, vanishing into the night. Stiles watches him go. Distantly, he hears a truck start up.
The sheriff stares at Stiles in disbelief, eyes glued to the giant bite wound on his neck. “Son, do you want to tell me why you’re dating a goddamn vampire?”
The Stilinski men sit at the kitchen table, passing a whiskey bottle back and forth. Stiles has a bandage on his neck. He refused to go to the hospital. He doesn’t want stitches or any of that anti-scar bullshit they have. He wants to look in the mirror, every day, and see Derek’s mark on him.
Stiles tells his dad everything. He starts with Peter and Scott, and then the Kanima, and then Derek. Who Derek is, what he’s done, and what happened earlier that night. No more lies. Stiles feels as if his soul has been laid bare.
His dad takes it as well as can be expected. He rubs his temples and reaches for the bottle. They’re both drunk. Stiles is really feeling it, all sliding glass vision and watering mouth. To top it off, he’s woozy from blood loss and magical exertion.
He’s going to be feeling this the next morning. But what does it matter? Derek will be gone. There’s nothing for him to do but lay in bed, hungover and miserable.
“You should have told me,” his dad says, slurring just a bit. “I could have helped. I would have helped. I asked you not to lie to me anymore, and you just kept on lying.”
Stiles nods. He did. He lied and lied, to his dad and to Derek, and look at what that got him. Scott is in the wind. There’s new werewolves in town who hate him. The pack is gone. Beacon Hills is no longer Hale territory and never will be again.
“Are you still human?”
Stiles shrugs. “I’m not, like, gonna go around peeing on fire hydrants when the moon is full. But I’m not normal, not anymore.”
His dad doesn’t know what to say to that. He takes a long drink. “Was he really going to kill Scott?”
Stiles laughs darkly. “Dad, Derek would kill anyone who hurt me. Even if I didn’t want him to.”
His dad nods. This, at least, he understands. He passes the bottle back to Stiles. “He hurt you,” his dad says, eyeing the bandage.
“I asked him to,” Stiles confesses softly. His face is warm. It’s embarrassing. How can he explain this to his dad? The need to be pinned down and bitten? How he’s going to dream about the slick slide of Derek’s tongue against his neck, tasting him. His blood.
“It seems to me that he’s gotten you into a lot of trouble.” Stiles doesn’t say anything. He takes a long swig of Jack Daniels. “I think - I think him getting out of town is a good thing, Stiles. This,” the sheriff waves a hand, “is too much. You’re too young for this, for him. I should have gone with my gut and stopped this. That’s on me, and I’m sorry for that.”
“I think I love him, Dad,” Stiles says, making grabby hands at the bottle. His dad slides it over.
“That will fade with time. This - I think you’ll be better off, son, I really do.”
On his neck, the mark Derek rendered into his flesh burns. Stiles places his hand over it. The bond between them thrums with things Derek will never say. He listens to his dad talk, on and on, about how next year Stiles is going to be on the straight and narrow. No more lying. No sneaking around. No werewolf boyfriends.
He listens and knows, in his heart, that it doesn’t matter what his dad says. He chose Derek. He’ll always choose Derek. No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, Stiles will wait. Even if it takes two years, they will be together again.
And Stiles will never put anyone else above Derek again.