Chapter Text
A sharp cry tore through the night and his eyes snapped open. He tried to move, but it was the attempt at movement that brought him to the realization that he was restrained, arms and legs pinned to the mattress.
“Stiles, I need you to calm down.”
“Hurts,” he found himself whining and some small part of his brain silently pointed out that the scream had been from him.
“Stiles,” Derek instructed and wet, unfocused eyes finally rolled to look at him, meeting shining blue gems. There was sweat clinging to Derek’s brow, dampening his hair, his skin pale and glistening in the city lights that snuck past the small gaps in the curtains, black veins disappearing up his arms.
He cried.
“I might have found something.”
The words had him looking up from his chemistry homework with a confused frown. He had grown so used to silence that the sound of Derek’s voice seemed almost unnaturally loud. Shifting from his spot on the floor, he crawled over the couch, clambering on and sitting next to Derek where he had been pouring over an old book of lore.
“What is it?”
“It’s called an Abada.”
School in New York wasn’t as bad as Beacon Hills, but it didn’t necessarily mean that it was better. Still, though, Stiles looked forward to being able to leave, walk out of the doors of the school and see Derek standing at the street corner, a small smile on his lips. He looked forward to being able to walk over and feel his thoughts fizzle into focus and for the chaos in his mind to stop for just a few blissful moments.
And Derek would let their arms brush as they walked which was always a plus.
“Did you try it?” Derek questioned kindly as they moved and just the sound of his voice settled the restlessness in his nerves and he hesitantly slid his hand into Derek’s, but the man didn’t pull away, gave Stiles’ hand a small squeeze.
The day had been rough. Stiles was definitely not operating at his peak, though when was he?
“I did,” he admitted quietly, his mind sorting through thoughts to pull out the one he needed. “It hurt,” he muttered, hand unconsciously coming up to rub his temples.
Derek hummed and they said no more as they walked, but when Stiles looked down at their hands, he could see the dark lines disappearing under Derek’s sleeve, a sign that he cared.
It made him smile, just a bit.
The nights were loud.
He missed the forest; he knew Derek did, too. They would make constant trips to the park whenever they had free time. It was there that they did most of their research.
The ground was slightly damp under his bare feet, the sky dark, the stars not visible with the bright lights of the city, though the trees provided enough shade that it didn’t matter. He knew Derek was right there, right next to him, providing silent support, but he couldn’t help the mild panic creeping in.
What if he left? Left just like Scott?
It was a constant worry, but the man had come all the way to New York with him and Stiles hadn’t even had to ask. They had a place together; they were constantly in each others’ presence.
“Mate,” Derek had whispered one night, strong arms wrapped around Stiles, nuzzling his face in Stiles’ hair which he had been slowly growing out.
The word had set Stiles’ insides aflame and his heart soaring.
He was pretty sure Derek heard the irregular beat of his heart.
“Don’t think too much,” Derek whispered and his hand was on the small of Stiles’ back, a warm reassuring weight.
The pain in his temples started and he gasped, mouth falling open, fingers scrabbling behind him to find purchase on Derek’s shirt. And Derek was there, a long line of heat pressed against his back and it was like everything melted away and the pain was gone.
Stiles breathed.
“You know, I think it’s because I’m small,” Stiles commented randomly one day from where he was lying sprawled out on their shared bed while Derek worked on making them food in the kitchen.
The man hummed in response, the end tilting high to show his confusion.
“Why everyone picked on me, I mean,” Stiles muttered, rolling onto his side and curling up, tugging his knees closer to his chest. “I was the one of the smallest guys in our grade, the weakest guy on the lacrosse team, aside from Greenberg—not to mention that the Adderall only worked on a good day, so it’s not like I was pleasant to be around.”
Derek walked out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “You’re not small, Stiles,” Derek murmured, setting the towel to the side and pulling the male closer, rearranging them so that Derek was lying on his back, one arm wrapped around Stiles’ shoulder where the male was tucked into his side. “You’re young. There’s a difference.”
They were silent for a while before Derek was drawing in a quiet breath, eyes fluttering shut and Stiles could practically hear how Derek’s heart beat slowed just slightly.
“When I was your age,” Derek began and Stiles understood what the deep breath had been about—Derek hated acknowledging the age difference, hated thinking about how whatever it was they had would be judged by everyone despite it being PG at most, “I was actually shorter than you.”
Stiles snorted and Derek huffed a quiet laugh, a sound that he didn’t hear often enough in all honesty. He loved that Derek talked more with him, though. He liked knowing that Derek could open up with him, that Stiles was providing the male comfort and aid in his own way.
“I’m serious. I was two inches short than you, I think—not as skinny, though, but that’s probably more because of the amount of running I did.” Derek shifted, looking down at Stiles with those bright hazel-green eyes of his that never ceased to take the teen’s breath away. “If you want, we can start going to the gym.”
He grinned.
It was amazing how a simple change of scenery could lift off the enormous weight on his chest even though most things stayed the same.
The months spent in New York City lifted an invisible weight from his shoulders and as the trips to the gym became a regular thing and as their research progressed, Stiles finally felt strong enough to bear the weight of what was left.
And when Derek smiled at him, held him close and let their lips meet for the first time, Stiles felt at peace.
Beacon Hills was the same as how he remembered when he and Derek walked out of the airport, towing their suitcases behind them.
The second his eyes landed on the figure of his father, standing there looking about himself eagerly, he released a squeal and ran forward, dropping his suitcase and launching himself at his father, his arms tight around him as he clung on, tears dripping down his cheeks.
“I missed you.”
His father’s arms were tight around him when he squeezed him back and the familiar smell of the man’s cologne flooded his nostrils, sharper and stronger than he remembered, but still so comforting. It made him melt in a way he typically only did with Derek, made him lean into the touch with an inaudible whine of happiness.
“I thought you were coming for summer,” the Sheriff commented as he pulled back and Stiles shifted, looking down as Derek came up behind him, placing a comforting hand on the back of his hand.
“Stiles got a job to help pay for the loft. His schedule ended up more cramped than he thought and we’re still trying to figure it out,” Derek spoke and Stiles pressed back into the touch, looking at his father nervously.
The man looked sad, but at the same time happy.
“You must be Stiles’ friend. Sheriff John Stilinski,” he introduced himself and Derek shook his hand, his lips twisting up into a small smile that made Stiles’ heart light with joy. He had feared his father wouldn’t be okay with the fact that Derek was very clearly older, though really not by much, and they were pretty obviously comfortable around each other.
“Derek Hale,” the werewolf responded in kind.
The Sheriff smiled.
Stiles relaxed a bit.
Despite the silent encouragement from Derek, Stiles couldn’t bring himself to go to the school when classes were in session. Things weren’t exactly better in New York regarding the school situation, and that did wonders for Stiles’ self esteem—sarcasm heavily implied, but the kids in New York also didn’t victimize him often and he wasn’t completely ostracized from the entire school population.
People were certainly a lot more honest, something Stiles didn’t know whether or not to appreciate. He knew Derek appreciated it, though, knowing exactly who to shoot warning glares at whenever he picked Stiles up.
It warmed his heart in a way very few things did.
“At least go see Finstock,” Derek finally said, looking at him gently as Stiles chewed on his bottom lip nervously, body twitching with the urge to go out, but the fear holding him in place. “I’ll go with you, make sure there’s no one around.”
His eyes widened, looking at Derek in awe and the male chuckled, soft and low, pushing himself up from the bed and tugging Stiles to his feet gently.
“Am I going to be able to do that too?”
“When you get better at controlling it,” Derek responded and Stiles surged up to let their lips brush softly, a light touch full of meaning.
Derek smiled.
Stiles felt light.
Coach Finstock was actually thrilled to see him, something that Stiles had very much not been expecting. He definitely didn’t expect the tight hug or the joyfully pronounced “Stilinski” as he pulled back.
He hadn’t been expecting it, but it made him feel warm none the less, made him smile just a bit.
And they talked.
Coach asked about New York, asked if it was better, what he was doing. It was like having an uncle he hadn’t seen in a while. And when he turned his attention to Derek, he wasn’t hostile or brusque like he typically could be. He was nice, still sarcastic and witty, but kind.
He asked if they were together.
Stiles blushed and Derek ducked his head, though Stiles knew it was more from worry than embarrassment.
“Congratulations,” Finstock stated cheerily and Stiles, despite the flush on his cheeks, couldn’t help but grin.
They went back to New York two days before spring break ended, getting back into the loop of things before classes started up again for Stiles.
They lounged about in bed, Stiles with Derek’s head resting on his chest, his fingers toying with raven locks, twisting the ends absentmindedly.
“Your father is very adapting,” Derek commented, breaking the silence and snapping Stiles out of his thoughts as he twisted his head to look down at Derek. “He accepted everything rather easily.”
The sigh that slipped from him was mildly fond, his head flopping back to rest on the pillows, fingers continuing to stroke Derek’s hair, nails scraping lightly at the man’s scalp, relishing in the soft rumble that left the man, the way he relaxed against him.
He loved that he could do this, had this effect on him.
“I think he just likes you. He trusts you, trusts you to take care of me and to keep me safe,” Stiles murmured.
“He shouldn’t,” Derek mumbled, burrowing closer and Stiles yanked on the hair curled between his fingers slightly.
“I trust you.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you,” he admitted and when Derek surged up to connect their lips in a ferocious kiss, the small droplets of salt splashing onto Stiles’ skin, he clung on.
Summer came and went by quickly.
They managed to somewhat fix Stiles’ schedule, though not by much, so Stiles and Derek only got to go back to Beacon Hills for a few days, just a week, which wasn’t that much, but they treasured it all the same.
The days were spent with Stiles’ father and the nights were spent in the forest, running and laughing amongst the trees. They would roll through the fallen leaves and the dirt and Stiles would drink in every second of Derek’s rich laugh and the bright smile that showed his adorable bunny teeth, would cherish every whispered ‘I love you’ that left those lips, the crinkles at the corners of his glowing blue eyes.
Back in New York, though, they returned to their routine, only Stiles had a lot more free time and when he wasn’t working in the library, he would be accompanying Derek to shoots.
“Stiles, want to be in a few shots?” Derek asked, squinting over at where Stiles was very obediently sitting still in the chair provided, hoping not to break anything. Makeup artists were fluttering about Derek’s form, dabbing away sweat, applying some powder here and there.
“I don’t think I’m allowed,” Stiles tried to reason, but one of the designers was already pulling him out of the chair, making him strip and put on a different outfit, one that matched Derek’s somewhat.
“Come over here,” Derek motioned and Stiles followed the command, shuffling closer awkwardly, making sure his arms stayed by his sides. He definitely did not want to smack someone or smack something expensive and then have to pay for it.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Derek shot him a smile. “Relax; it was originally supposed to be a two person shoot, anyway, but the other model cancelled last minute.”
Stiles looked up at Derek, took in his dreamy hazel-green eyes with the flecks of blue, took in the softness in his gaze and in the small smile that curved his lips.
He took it all in.
And he trusted.
It was November now.
The weather was chillier and Stiles was excited to head back home to visit his father for Thanksgiving. It was the one of the few times where Stiles let his dad pig out on an assortment of food without reprimanding him.
“Stiles, ready to go?” Derek called from where he was standing at the door of the loft, fixing the zipper on his coat, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles’ when the male walked over, practically bouncing in his excitement.
“Yup, I’m all set.”
Derek stared at him long and hard before looking down pointedly. “Where’s your suitcase?”
In a flutter of curses and flailing limbs, Stiles was running back to the bed, shouting out a ‘just a second’ back at Derek and the male couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Okay, now I’m ready to go.” Stiles beamed.
The reunion at the airport was different than the one during spring break and the brief summer trip.
Stiles and Derek had come early, Stiles having done all his schoolwork for the week before Thanksgiving break so that they’d be able to visit earlier and spend more time there.
But when they neared the Sheriff, the man tugged both of them into tight hugs and Stiles could only laugh at Derek’s stunned expression from where he was being pressed against Sheriff Stilinski’s strong shoulder, his eyes wide and mouth slightly gaping.
“How have you boys been?” the man asked as they finally separated, Derek quickly busying himself with dragging their suitcases behind them and Stiles couldn’t help but nudge their shoulders together lightly in an attempt to relax the male.
“Derek made me take part in one of his photo shoots,” Stiles began, jumping into story after story as they piled into the car, the Sheriff meeting Derek’s gaze with an exasperatedly fond expression that they both grinned at.
It felt like home.
“Nope, nope, I am not doing this.”
He couldn’t help but pace the length of his room, muttering under his breath how ridiculous this was, how he definitely wasn’t prepared for it, how he couldn’t imagine doing something like that.
“Stiles, it’s why we came here so early. You already agreed.”
“I can’t do this, Derek! I don’t know what I was thinking—I don’t know what you were thinking letting me agree to it.”
The male sighed softly, leveling Stiles with a patient look, something that the brunette infinitely appreciated at the moment. A lesser man would have already gotten fed up with him and yelled, but Derek was patient, was calm and collected, his supporter through and through.
“Don’t talk yourself out of this, Stiles. It’s just a talk.”
“It’s a speech, Derek—there’s a difference! They want me to talk on why I got driven out of my own home. I can’t do that. I am a coward—I am going to sit here under my blankets and let tomorrow go by and not move until it’s all over.”
Stiles couldn’t help but cross his arms dramatically, his typically quiet thoughts when in the presence of Derek running rampant as he struggled to battle with his anxiety and fear.
“You’re not a coward, Stiles. You’re strong.”
He shook his head vehemently. “Nope, not at all. You see this?” He gestured to himself. “This is one hundred and forty seven pounds of cowardice that’s not moving from this room.”
“How could you talk me into this?”
“You talked yourself into this, Stiles. You’ll be fine.”
Amber eyes looked at him pleadingly, long pale fingers gripping at Derek’s Henley, lips parted in a silent plea, his body trembling. For all his bravado of fake fear, Stiles was genuinely terrified. He was going to have to speak in front of the very people who terrorized him for the entirety of the time he had lived at Beacon Hills about his experience at their hands.
“I can’t do this, Derek. I can’t.”
Large hands grasped his, giving a reassuring squeeze that did nothing to calm Stiles nerves. If anything, they were worse, the simple gesture like the last nail being slammed into the coffin, finalizing that there was no way out of this.
“I’ll be right there in the sidelines, okay? If it’s too much, you just walk off. I’m right here with you; you’re not doing this alone.”
Shakily inhaling, he nodded, head bobbing in a continuous up and down motion that made him mildly sick, but feel better nonetheless. Letting Derek pry his fingers off his shirt one by one, his grip gentle and fingers massaging his clammy palms and tense wrists, up his forearms to his biceps, and finishing at his shoulder, hands warm weights against him.
“You’re okay. Trust me.”
He nodded jerkily, breathing in and letting himself drown in the soothing scent of leather and pine.
He trusted.
He gazed at the screen, his own dead eyes staring back at him, a pale body covered in moles and patches of darkening purple and fading yellows and greens and a myriad of blue and hints of red. It looked like a five year olds art piece and he could only stare, trying to fight back the bile in his throat.
There was silence in the room and he shakily turned his eyes away, eyes flicking to the side, locking with bright glowing blue orbs that soothed his nerves despite being so far.
“I took pictures, always thinking I’d do something about it, that tomorrow I’d take it to the principal, that I’d take it to the board, to the administration, whatever.” His eyes slid back to the image portrayed on the screen helplessly. “I never did,” he found himself admitting quietly, hands shaking just a bit, his insides churning and twisting uncomfortably.
“My best friend knew—at least a bit of it, I mean. I wasn’t the only victim. He was bullied a bit, too, but I guess never as much,” he stated, fingers rubbing the palm of his other hand, the control rolling uselessly between them.
He couldn’t really see the faces of the rest of the student body; the lights making anything further than the end of the stage appear black.
“Maybe if I had gone for help it would have stopped at a safer place instead of escalating as far as it did,” he muttered shakily, pressing the small control in his fingers. He knew if he looked over, he could see the motley of bruises dotting his own back, all the way and disappearing down the band of his boxers and reappearing on his legs.
He knew every picture by heart, had scrutinized them night after night trying to figure out why they were there, what he had done to deserve the aching patches that covered his skin more than his moles.
“I used to think it was my fault, that I had done something to deserve this. I didn’t really think I had, but even as the Sheriff’s son, I wanted to fool myself into thinking that people didn’t do this kind of thing for no reason.”
He knew his dad was somewhere here, maybe by the doors in the back, or maybe on the sidelines like Derek. Maybe he was with the rest of the teachers where they were seated. He didn’t know, but he didn’t want to think about how the man felt listening to this.
“A lot of people don’t really think bullying is a big deal. Mine is an extreme case,” he flicked to another image, one where he had ended up with a broken wrist. He had told his dad he had fallen down the stairs, a believable lie since he had done it before. “Even just words are enough to break someone, though. I believe that people should have a backbone and not storm out of a classroom or something over a comment, but that’s just me because I’ve endured this.”
The next image came up; this one was of large, long bruise covering the entirety of his stomach. There was dirt covering his torso from where he had fallen to the grass after the blow and he had rolled to his stomach in an attempt to scramble up.
“But everyone handles this differently.” He let his finger rest on the remote, looking down at his feet. “It’s not something anyone should have to endure, regardless the extent of it.”
The next image came up, this one of a piece of paper.
“Some of you might have noticed I don’t attend here anymore—I didn’t talk to many of you, but it’s kind of hard to not notice the kid with a tendency to fall over is gone.” He looked at the screen, looked at the words on the paper. “This is a death threat. It came to my house in the mail like any other letter, but these were the contents.”
His eyes burned, but he plowed on, closing his eyes and focusing, taking in a deep breath and letting leather and pine fill his nose.
“This is why I no longer attend here—no longer live here.” His hands were shaking, his death grip on the control he only thing saving it from falling from his fingers. “This is the extent bullying can get to, the extent I let it get to because I was ashamed to admit that something was going on, because I kept thinking I could handle it.”
Bright amber eyes looked at the screen again, lips pursed together tightly. “I didn’t have any friends anymore; my best friend apparently didn’t ever want to be my friend and this was a terrifying experience. My dad was horrified. I had an officer with me wherever I went; we had two officers stationed outside our house. I like to think that whoever sent this didn’t understand the gravity of their actions, but no bully ever does. If they did, they’d stop—probably.”
“I’m not really sure why I was asked to speak here. I know they wanted me to share my experiences, maybe hoping that someone would admit to what they did, maybe hoping for you guys to be informed.” Stiles sighed, setting the control down on the podium, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know. What I do know is that if you’re being bullied, don’t stay quiet—don’t let it get to this.”
“I’m still recovering; I’m still learning what it’s like to be okay again. I have support now, support I didn’t have before and it’s a slow process, but I’m getting there. And for any of you who are suffering bullying right now or have suffered it, then trust me when I say it’ll be okay. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, it will be.”
Derek’s arms were strong and warm around him, wrapping him in a bubble of warmth and comfort that made Stiles insides roll with happiness rather than the churning guilt and anxiety from before.
“You did great, Stiles. You did great. It’s over now; you’re fine, you’re safe.”
His breathing was shaky and he was pretty sure he couldn’t feel his toes, but he felt relieved, soothed in a way. It was like a small bit of weight had been lifted from his chest.
“I’m not ever doing that again, you got me? Never again; I will forever stay under my blankets.”
Derek chuckled, chest vibrating with the sound as he tilted Stiles’ head up slightly to press a soft kiss to his temple. “How about we get you home and start right now?”
“Stiles,” a voice called from behind him and he immediately felt every muscle lock up, every single one tense and pull in the most uncomfortable, yet most familiar way. He knew that voice and his hand flailed for Derek’s, feeling some modicum of safety when the strong hand grasped his own as he slowly turned around to face Scott who stood with Allison beside him.
“Scott, Allison—your two year anniversary just passed, right? Congratulations; glad to see you’re still together. How can I help you?”
He knew Derek was frowning, could feel the sudden anger pouring off of him, knew his lips were pursed tight and his intense eyebrows were pulled towards the center, chin pointed down and eyes narrowed, his shoulders tense in a way that made him seem bigger, more imposing.
The male’s mouth opened and closed like he didn’t know exactly where to start.
“Look, Scott,” Stiles sighed, feeling resignation and sadness claw at him from the inside, knew Derek could probably smell it—he definitely did if he went by the reassuring squeeze that was delivered to his hand and the low threatening growl that was rumbling lowly in the man’s chest.
“I didn’t know you went through that,” Scott mumbled, apparently finding his words and Stiles’ eyes immediately narrowed at the words, eyes brightening in their amber shade.
“You did, though, Scott. You knew most of it—maybe not how sever it was, but you knew enough to know that it was bad.” He took a step forward, the surge of emotion seeming to propel him forward and it was only his desire to stick close to Derek that kept him from going further. “You knew, Scott. You knew most of it. And you were never there.” His glare intensified and he knew he wasn’t as scary or growly as Derek, but he also knew his eyes were flashing so rapidly between the glowing amber and their regular shade that he knew it made for a terrifying sight, making it seem like his eyes were flames with a single black dot in the center.
“But I suppose it doesn’t matter since you never wanted to be my friend anyway.” He could feel Derek’s claws scraping lightly against the skin of his hand, knew the raven was fighting to control his wolf, to control the urge to rip and shred any who had dared hurt his mate.
“Why you chose to talk to me is beyond me. You never wanted to be my friend—I heard you say it—so don’t act like you want to now. Happy Thanksgiving, McCall; I hope you think about what you’re thankful for.”
With that, he was turning and stalking away with Derek who sent one last glare, the growl in his throat growing suddenly to a terrifying rumbling before silencing altogether as he walked after Stiles.
“Oh my god, I sounded like a total teenager just now, didn’t I?”
“A bit; you should stick to sounding like Stiles. I like it when you sound like you.”
“You are a pile of mush, Sourwolf,” Stiles couldn’t help but comment, his cheeks bright red, but a small smile playing on his lips that Derek returned as they walked down the steps to the school and towards the patrol car the Sheriff was leaning against.
“Maybe,” he admitted quietly, nudging Stiles’ shoulder with his own, the tips of his ears tingeing pink, and Stiles positively beamed.
He was pretty damn certain he’d be okay.