Archive of Our Own ^beta

The forest is quiet in the morning, except for the soft singing of birds and the steady beat of Derek’s footsteps as he runs through the trees. He snakes through the preserve along a familiar trail, running the borders of the Hale property as best he can.

It isn’t until he gets into the depths of the woods that he notices the strange smell in the air, like electricity and cigarette smoke, out of place amongst the familiar scents of the forest. He tracks it to the Nemeton, where a figure is leaning against the broad trunk, touching it with loving hands.

Derek makes sure to stay downwind but the person’s head snaps up sharply. In profile, he can see it’s a guy, a boy really, with delicate features. The guy twists his head round, searching the trees like he knows Derek’s there, and his face is striking from head-on.

Something twists in Derek’s gut, attraction and a little bit of fear because nothing good has ever come of strangers creeping around the Nemeton. He slides closer, stealthy, feet silent on the ground, but somehow the boy still knows he’s there.

He starts running and he’s quick, but Derek is a wolf, he was made to be quicker. He chases the boy through the trees, dodging branches and bushes, faster and faster until he feels like he’s flying over the ground. The boy is just as fast though, his feet pounding across the ground as he follows some invisible path through the forest.

Derek puts on a burst of speed. He can see the boy, a blur through the trees, and he throws himself forwards. He’s gaining, coming closer and closer to the boy, who’s starting to falter, to slow as Derek moves up on him.

He’s nearly there, metres away, close enough to reach out and grab him – then the air crackles with energy, static shaking along Derek’ skin, and the boy disappears between one second and the next. Derek skids to a halt in a clearing, but the boy is gone. He tries to track the scent but it’s gone too, completely vanished.

“What the fuck?” he says into the still silence.

The only answer is the faint cooing of the birds.

-

Two days later, Derek comes home to an unfamiliar jeep in the drive and the memorable smell of smoke and electricity, tucked between Laura’s perfume and the cinnamon scent of Deaton’s magic. He follows it to the kitchen, where Laura’s pouring tea. There’s the same guy at the table: young and boyish, unruly hair, amber eyes. He looks up when Derek enters and grins, lopsided and blinding.

“Hi,” the guy says, and raises a hand in a wave. Where his sleeves are pushed up, Derek can see dark tattoos against his pale skin, rippling as the muscles in his forearms shift.

“This is Derek,” Laura says. “Derek, this is Stiles.”

“We’ve met,” Stiles says. Laura frowns at them but Stiles just grins broadly. “You’re a pretty good runner.”

Derek scowls at him. “What are you doing here?”

Laura glares at him; he’s good at reading her expression now and this one is saying be nice. “Stiles is our new emissary,” she tells him.

Derek frowns. “Deaton’s our emissary.”

Deaton smiles across the table. “I’m retiring.”

“You’re not old enough to retire,” Derek says to him.

Deaton laughs at him. Derek’s right, he knows he’s right: Deaton might be old, definitely into his fifties, hair going grey around the temples, but he’s still capable of doing the job. Unlike the child sitting at their kitchen table.

He says as much to Laura, who just rolls her eyes. “I trust Deaton’s judgement,” is all she has to say.

Across the table, Stiles’ expression is somewhere between a smile and a frown, like he’s half amused, half offended. “You want to see my résumé, is that it?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

Deaton levels a long-suffering look at his protégé. “Stiles is more than capable of doing this job,” he says. “I wouldn’t have chosen him if I didn’t think he could.”

Derek opens his mouth to disagree, but Laura glares again; this time it says shut the hell up. “We’ve happy to have you Stiles,” she says, and nudges Derek hard, “Aren’t we?”

“Of course,” Derek says through gritted teeth.

When he looks at Stiles, the kid has a smug grin on his face that says he knows exactly how much Derek doesn’t like him, and he’s clearly enjoying every moment of his pain.

What a little shit.

-

Scott calls on a Wednesday, very early in the morning. He sounds like he’s by the sea, the crashing of waves echoing down the line.

“Dawn patrol, man,” he says when Stiles mentions it. “You should come visit some time. The surf’s great right now.”

Stiles wishes he could. Some of his best memories are of early morning surf sessions with Scott. Sneaking out the house before the sun had even started rising, the two of them cycling to the beach with his board tucked under his arm, paddling out into the cold ocean and riding the curving waves until the sky turned pink and orange and blue.

“I’ll try and come down soon,” he tells Scott as he rolls over to look at the clock. Six a.m., for god’s sake. “I’m kind of up to my eyeballs at the moment.”

“How’s it all going?” Scott asks. Stiles can practically hear the frown in his voice.

“Uh, so far so good,” he says. “Just trying to settle in, I guess. It’s weird being back.”

Scott hums sympathetically. “Are you fitting in okay?”

Stiles laughs at him, flopping onto his back and getting comfortable amongst the pillows. “You sound like my dad,” he says with a grin.

Scott cackles. In the background Stiles can hear birds cawing, and he can just picture Scott chasing them up and down the sand like the overgrown puppy he is. Scott doesn’t say anything though, clearly waiting him out, so in the end Stiles has to answer him.

“I think so? Laura’s cool, for an Alpha.” Scott makes an outraged noise, and Stiles huffs out a laugh. “You know what I mean. She doesn’t care that I’m young, which is more than I could have hoped.”

“And the rest of the pack?”

“They’re nice.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, thinks about the dozen Hales he’s met over the last couple of week. “There’s a load of kids – I didn’t realise how much I’d missed being around children, you know? One of the uncle’s is kind of a creep though.” Peter is so not the first thing he wants to be thinking about in the morning, but from there his mind moves onto Derek, and that’s a better though to wake up to. “And Laura’s brother – oh my god, he is hot. An asshole, but so so hot.”

“Just your type then,” Scott says, and Stiles can tell he’s grinning at the other end. “Attractive and unattainable.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You’re a dick,” he tells him. “Why are we friends again?”

Scott chuckles. “Who else is going to put up with you? Anyway, I just wanted to check in. I’ve got to go get ready for work.”

Stiles looks at the clock again. Well, he is awake, might as well get up. “Yeah, me too. Let’s Skype soon?”

Scott hums a vague affirmative, already distracted by something on a beach at the other end of the state, so Stiles hangs up on him, chucking his phone back onto the bedside table. Outside the sun is casting a yellow glow through the blinds, long fingers of light reaching out across the room.

Stiles considers going back to bed but he’s too awake now. So he goes for a run instead, tracing a familiar path along the edge of the preserve. He can feel where the Nemeton sits in its grove, its weird humming vibration resounding deep in his bones, but seeing as the last time he detoured to see it he got chased through the woods by Derek freaking Hale, he decides to give it a miss today.

Instead he cuts through town, following old routes he could probably run with his eyes closed. In many ways, it’s like Beacon Hills is stuck in a time warp. Even though it’s been ten years since he moved away, it’s exactly as he remembers. The same quaint houses, the same wide streets, the same smiling people. Mrs Ringer is still the librarian and Mr Bartell still sits at the same place at the diner counter.

In the quiet moments, he can’t help wondering where he would fit if they had stayed in Beacon Hills. Would he have been prom king or valedictorian? Would he have gone to college? Would he have discovered his Spark?

It’s easier to not think about it though, because the what ifs always lead back to the ultimate question: what if mom hadn’t died? And that’s something he doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, no way, not a chance in hell.

Without realising, Stiles’ feet take him to the cemetery where she’s buried. He pauses for a moment under the arch of the gates to catch his breath before entering. The graveyard is quiet this early in the morning, and Stiles follows the neat lines of the headstones over the curve of the hill to where his mom lies.

There’s a figure standing over one of the graves, a dark shape that looks surprisingly familiar, broad shoulders under a leather jacket. The person looks up as Stiles walks by and, surprise, surprise, it’s Derek.

“Are you stalking me?” he calls, voice low in the morning air.

Stiles scoffs at him. “I have better things to do,” he tells Derek, who just raises an eyebrow at him.

“And yet, here you are.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and keeps walking, picking his way between the headstones. It isn’t until he gets near his mom’s grave that he realises Derek’s following him, the crunch of gravel beneath his feet giving him away.

Stiles just ignores him, and goes to where the familiar headstone sits at the crest of the hill, tucked beneath the low-hanging bows of the hawthorn tree. He gets to his knees in the damp dirt and presses a hand to the ridges of her name.

Derek’s feet come to a shuffling halt. “Who is that?” he asks from behind Stiles.

“My mom.” Derek makes a confused noise and Stiles restrains himself from sighing. “I used to live here. I moved away after she died.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says softly.

“It was a long time ago.” Stiles pushes himself up and turns to Derek who’s watching him closely. “I’m sorry about your mom too.” At Derek’s surprised look, he shrugs. “Deaton told me.”

Derek’s face clouds over suddenly. “It’s not his place to tell you that,” he says.

“Sorry man, he was just making sure I was up to date with your family.”

“It’s none of your business,” Derek growls.

Stiles steps back a little at the intensity of his glare. “Okay, dude, I said sorry. But you’re my pack, I have to know what’s going on with you all.”

Derek’s face contorts with rage and he snarls, teeth sharp and deadly, swiping wildly at Stiles. Stiles shies away, putting some distance between them.

“Calm down,” he says.

He puts as much of his Spark into his voice as he can, makes it heavy and commanding. It seems to work on Derek because he halts, arms stuttering, before he drops them to his sides. The anger drains from his face immediately and he stumbles back suddenly, eyes wild and scared.

Stiles holds up a hand placatingly. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m going to go now, okay? You should go home, go to Laura.”

Derek twitches, but he backs off enough to let Stiles past him. Even though every instinct is screaming at him to run, Stiles tries his hardest to walk away slowly. Derek doesn’t follow him and when Stiles looks back, Derek is slumped against the headstone, head in his hands.

It looks like he’s crying.

-

What Stiles didn’t realise until he got to Beacon Hills was how huge the Hale pack really is.

Laura is their Alpha, and lives in the family house on the preserve with her husband Richard and their two boys, Sam and Luke. Peter is her second, her uncle, and with him come his wife Lucy and their children. Then there are Laura’s siblings: Derek, grumpy scowling Derek, and Cora, who’s away at college. And beyond them, the extended family, aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews who are spread out all over Beacon Hills and the surrounding area.

It takes Stiles a while to meet them all, but they’re all more than welcoming. The kids use him as a jungle gym, and one of Laura’s great aunts brings him food at least once a week. They treat him like family, like pack, and it’s as good a fit as it was with Scott’s pack.

The only one who doesn’t seem to like him is Derek, and Stiles can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because of what happened at the graveyard, maybe it’s because Stiles isn’t family, but whatever it is, it makes Derek avoid him whenever he’s at the house.

He asks Lucy about it one afternoon while he’s helping her plant flowers in the garden.

Lucy is amazing and sometimes Stiles wonders how she got stuck with a creep like Peter. She’s the one he goes to when he gets stuck with name and faces, who’s related to who in what way, and in return he helps her around the house whenever he can.

Today they’re planting ash saplings along the border of the yard for protection and Stiles is up to his elbows in dirt, enjoying the smell and feel of the earth around him. Lucy is the one who’s putting the sapling into the holes, carefully packing the dirt in around them.

“Derek doesn’t trust outsiders,” she says as she pats down the earth.

Stiles cocks his head at her, confused. “Why not?”

Lucy looks guilty for a second before she says, “It’s not my tale to tell.”

“Well he’s certainly not going to tell me,” Stiles says, and frowns at her when she pats his hand gently. “Seriously, Lucy, I want to know.”

Lucy smiles at him. “Ask Laura,” she says and goes back to her digging.

Stiles corners Laura later. She doesn’t look surprised when he asks, just resigned like she’s been expecting it.

“It’s not something we talk about a lot,” she tells him. “Derek has a lot of guilt about what happened.”

“What did happen?”

“When Derek was in high school, he fell in love. Kate was older than him and he was smitten with her, you know, first love and all that.” Laura smiles like it’s funny, but her eyes are cold and hard. “He brought her over for dinner a lot and she seemed really nice; really funny and friendly. We all liked her.”

“But?” Stiles prompts.

Laura draws a deep breath, obviously steeling herself. “She was using Derek to get information about us. She was a hunter and one night she tried to burn the house down with us all inside it.”

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. “Did anyone get hurt?”

Laura shakes her head. “Deaton got there in time and broke the barriers she’d put up. There were some first-degree burns and smoke inhalation, nothing we couldn’t heal.”

“And Kate?” he asks.

“She disappeared. The police never found her.”

Stiles wonders for a moment if they didn’t find her because Kate is buried somewhere in the preserve, but he knows Laura wouldn’t have that murderous look on her face if she was dead. He reaches out and slots his hand into her, squeezing gently.

Laura smiles grimly at him. “It really screwed him up,” she says.”

Stiles nods in understanding. “He doesn’t trust anyone but family. And I’m not family.”

Laura pulls a face at him. “You’re pack now,” she says. “He has to trust you.”

“You can’t ask that of him,” Stiles tells her. “He went through something traumatic. I’m an outsider so I remind him of her, of Kate. He has every right not to trust me.” Laura looks like she wants to disagree but Stiles barrels past her. “All that matters is that you trust me and eventually Derek will follow.”

The smile that creeps onto Laura’s face is brilliant and beautiful. “I see why Deaton chose you,” she says.

“Deaton didn’t choose me,” Stiles tells her with a grin.

Laura pats his hand. “You know what I mean,” she says. “You’re the best emissary we’ve ever had.”

“I doubt that,” Stiles says. “I don’t exactly follow the rules.”

Laura chuckles. “Don’t sell yourself short, Stiles,” she says with a grin. “You don’t need to follow the rules to be good at your job.”

Stiles can’t help smiling back. There’s something about Laura’s unwavering belief in him that makes his heart swell in his chest.

The look in her eyes feels like home.

-

It’s the end of the August and Stiles seems to be everywhere Derek looks. He runs into him in the grocery store, at the bank, one time at the dentists. And he’s always at the house. Derek comes over to find him chasing Laura’s kids around the backyard, spraying them with a hose.

“Uncle Derek,” Sam yells when he appears on the steps, “Save us!”

Sam barrels into him quickly followed by Luke, and Derek hoists them both up, out of the way of Stiles’ wild spraying.

“That’s not fair,” Stiles calls across the lawn. “You can’t hide behind Derek.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” Luka shouts back, and Derek has a moment to wonder where a seven year old learnt that quote before Stiles’ mouth stretches into a grin.

“Well then,” he says, and turns the hose on Derek.

He doesn’t get out of the way in time, the kids clinging like heavy limpets to his hips as he tries to move. They all end up soaked, dripping, while Stiles cackles manically in the background.

“I’ll hold him down,” Derek whispers to the boys, “You get the hose.”

They slide to the floor and all three of them back a beeline for Stiles, who doesn’t realise what’s happening until too late. Derek trips him and he goes down hard, skidding in the grass, making the fatal mistake of letting go of the hose. Sam and Luke are on it in an instant and wave it at Stiles, who scrabbles uselessly at the ground as he tries to get away. Derek grabs at his wrists, his hands sliding a little on Stiles’ wet skin, and flips him over so that Stiles is sprawled out on his back.

“Now,” he shouts, and the boys turn the hose on Stiles, drenching him from head to foot.

Stiles screams at the cold water, wriggling around in the grass. “Stop,” he cries, “Stop, please, no more!”

Sam and Luke just giggle and keep going, until Peter appears on the porch, arms loaded with towels. “Don’t drown him,” he calls out, “We need him alive.”

The boys lose interest then in favour of getting dry. Derek lets Stiles up and goes to turn off the water at the faucet. When he comes back, the boys have vanished inside the house and Stiles is stripping his shirt off. His skin glistens damply in the sunlight, and Derek can’t tear his eyes from the ink that covers his torso. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Peter leering like the creep he is, but Derek just stares.

Stretching across Stiles’ chest from shoulder to shoulder is a huge black crow, so detailed that it looks like it might take flight at any moment. Down one side are long lines of runes, weird angular shapes that he recognises from Deaton’s book, and on the other side a ring of tiny circles wrapping around the curve of his waist: a bite mark, Derek realises, shaded in blacks and reds. When he turns around, there’s a long strand of text down the centre of his back in what looks like Russian, trailing from the base of his neck down under the waistband of his jeans, and across the planes of a shoulder blade a splash of purple ink in the shape of an aconite flower.

He bends down to pick up the towel Peter has thrown at him; Derek takes a moment to appreciate the way Stiles’ muscles shift under the ink and has to look away quickly when Stiles stands up again. When he turns around, Peter’s staring down at him with a knowing look, probably able to smell the embarrassment and arousal shooting through him.

Derek stomps up the steps to him. “Give me a towel,” he growls.

Peter just smirks at him. “No need to be embarrassed,” he says smugly. “It’s quite a view.”

Derek wants to snarl at him, but Stiles comes up the steps then, scrubbing at his hair violently. The muscles in his arms flex and ripple, and Derek excuses himself quickly before he does something stupid.

He lets the boys distract him for a couple of hours, baking cookies with them in the kitchen until the whole house smells like sugar and spices. He makes them take a plate to Laura and Peter in the office where they’re doing paperwork for their business, and decides to take a break.

When he gets to the den, Stiles is already there, curled up in the armchair reading a book, some monstrosity bound in purple and gold.

“Light reading?” he asks with a smile.

Stiles head comes up in surprise and he laughs, high in the afternoon silence. “Did you just make a joke?”

Derek ducks his head, embarrassed. “Is it something for the pack?” he asks as he takes a seat on the couch, but Stiles just shakes his head.

“For college.” He runs his thumb gently across the pages. “It’s tort law, nothing exciting.”

Derek can’t help feeling surprised. “Law?”

Stiles closes the book with a snap. “Yeah," he says with a sigh. "Dad said I had to pick something useful, otherwise he wouldn’t let me do this stuff. It’s boring though, I’d rather be doing something else.”

“Like what?”

Stiles shrugs at him. “I don’t know – science maybe? I used to love chemistry at school.”

“Why don’t you do that then?” Derek asks. “It’s just as useful as law, in its way.”

“My dad wouldn’t like it,” Stiles says with what sounds like a sigh, “And I try to stay on his good side these days.”

The silence settles between them, and Derek finally works up the courage to say what he’s been waiting to say to Stiles for weeks. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, “About what happened at the graveyard.”

Stiles stares at him in surprise, like he can’t believe Derek’s actually apologising. “It’s okay,” he says. “You were right; Deaton shouldn’t have been the one to tell me about your mom.”

Derek blinks at him, surprised. “Uh, thanks.”

Stiles smiles softly. “I know we didn’t get off to a good start, and I understand why you don’t trust me. I mean, you don’t know me. But I want you to know that you guys are my pack now and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Derek can’t help feeling like the conversation is getting away from him but he just nods back at Stiles. Stiles takes it for what the approval it is and opens his book again, goes back to his reading. Derek watches him for a long moment, wondering not for the first time where Deaton got this kid, before he tilts his head back against the couch and closes his eyes.

The steady beat of Stiles’ heart lulls him gently to sleep.

-

Halloween is Derek’s favourite time of the year, the one night when they don’t have to hide who they are. When they were little he, Laura and Cora would always scare the kids who came to their house by jumping out of bushes at them, wolfed-out and snarling. These days he just chaperones the younger generations around the neighbourhood, making sure they say thank you and don’t take too much candy.

But Halloween is the one night when they’re all relaxed, unprepared, so of course it’s when hunters come after them. Derek’s just heading back to his car after dropping the kids off when he hears Laura’s howl, rising up into the night. He takes off down the track as fast as he can.

When he makes it to the house, there’s a thick ring of mountain ash encircling it and Laura is struggling against the barrier, snarling and sobbing.

“They’re got the boys,” she shouts, then screams: “Look out!”

Derek feels more than sees the shotgun blast that tears into his side. It hurts, like acid burning into his skin. Wolfsbane, he thinks before he collapses to the ground. His vision goes spotty, blurring in and out, Laura’s stricken face dancing in front him until he slides into unconsciousness.

He wakes to complete agony, his body writhing as fire burns across his chest. “Stay still,” someone says above him, and Derek can only lie there and whimper as the pain makes him shake and twitch violently. Eventually it fades and when he opens his eyes again Stiles is staring down at him with a concerned expression.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly.

Derek struggles into a sitting position, looking around. He’s still at the house, but the mountain ash is gone and so is Laura. “Where is everyone?” he asks.

Stiles’ mouth twists unhappily. “They’re tracking the hunters,” he says. “Do you think you can stand?”

Derek nods, lets Stiles help him to his feet. His chest is still tender and raw but whatever Stiles has done is helping it heal, skin knotting back together quickly despite the wolfsbane.

“How long was I out?” he asks.

Stiles looks over from where he’s pulling a baseball bat out of the back of his Jeep. “Maybe ten minutes,” he says, “Why?”

“Just wondering if I can still get their scent.” Derek sniffs the air and finds Laura’s trail easily enough. “This way,” he tells Stiles, who nods grimly.

“Let’s go then,” he says.

He follows Derek’s into the woods, keeping up surprisingly well as they weave through the trees. Laura’s scent leads into the darkest parts of forest and Derek tracks it this way and that, him and Stiles winding their way into the depths of the preserve.

Laura’s scent gets stronger and stronger until suddenly Derek can hear the sounds of fighting through the trees. He takes off, Stiles shouting at him to wait up, and when he breaks through the tree line and into the clearing, sure enough there’s a battle going on, the air thick with the scent of blood and sweat and fear.

There are two dozen of them, armed and vicious and trying their hardest to take them out. On the other hand, the wolves are holding back, not doing as much damage as they clearly want to. Derek hurls himself into the middle of it, knocking down the hunter going for Peter’s throat. He gets a knife in his leg for the trouble, but it’s worth it for the way he gets to throw the man attacking him into a tree as payback.

“Help Stiles,” Laura shouts to him as she sends another hunter flying with a well timed kick.

He gets a glimpse of Stiles across the clearing, moving with an unnatural grace. His bat is like an extension of his body, swirling is wide arcs as Stiles uses it to take out one, two, three hunters in quick succession.

There are more hunters moving in on him though, two women armed to the teeth, so Derek runs for him. He manages to take out one of the women’s legs and wrestles a gun from her grip before the other jumps on his back, arms around his throat. He slams her into a tree, forcing the breath out of her, and hits the first hard enough to knock her out in time to see Stiles being thrown to the ground by a beast of a man.

The man settles himself over Stiles and begins to punch him, slapping away Stiles’ scrabbling arms. The smell of Stiles’ blood is sharp and metallic, and it makes Derek’s stomach churn. He throws himself forward, tackling the man to the ground, and they wrestle in the dirt, kicking up leaves and mud as the hunter tries his hardest to kill him.

There’s a sudden pain in his back and Derek has to roll out of the way quickly when he sees Stiles heft his bat again. This time it hits the hunter with a crack, and the man whimpers in pain. Stiles keeps swinging – once, twice, three times, before Derek puts a hand around his wrist with a soft, “enough.”

The noise of the fight has died down, the forest silent and calm again, and when Derek looks around, the pack has come out victorious. None of them are badly injured, wounds healing quickly, but there are a couple of human bodies that look too mangled to still be alive. The rest of the hunters are on the ground, wolves towering over them.

On the other side of the clearing Laura and Richard have their arms wrapped around the boys, comforting them softly. They’re all crying and Derek has to look away quickly when his eyes start to sting too.

Something nudges his arm and when he looks up, it’s Stiles. His face is a mess: cracked lip, split eyebrow, bloody nose, black eye, but he’s smiling a little, eyes bright. Derek wonders what if he would taste like blood if he kissed him, and he has to pull away from Stiles, surprised by how much he wants to.

Something must show on his face, because Stiles’ expression shutters. Derek doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, because one of the hunters near them tries to make a break for it. He lunges for them, but Stiles catches the man in the knee with his bat.

“Stay down,” he snarls, and the hunter shies back at the force of his tone.

Stiles face is lit up in the moonlight, splattered with blood, hair plastered down to his head with sweat. He looks vicious and dangerous, and Derek’s heart pounds in the face of his ferocity. It matches the ache in his back where there’s probably a bruise blossoming under his shirt.

“I can’t believe you hit me,” he complains.

“I wouldn’t have if you weren’t in the way,” Stiles snipes back.

“I was trying to help,” Derek tells him with a frown.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. “I didn’t need your help,” Stiles growls. “I’m more than capable of defending myself, thank you very much.”

Derek can’t help the disbelieving expression that he knows is sliding across his face. “You just got beaten up,” he says.

Stiles’ face contorts with rage. “Fuck you,” he says. “I could kick your ass with one hand tied behind my back.”

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek points out, “And you’re a human.”

“I’m a Spark,” Stiles snarls, “Not to mention your fucking emissary. So give me a little credit when I say I can take care of myself.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You weren’t doing a very good job of it last time I looked.”

Stiles scent flares with anger and he lashes out, catches Derek with a sudden punch to the face. Derek going to punch back, but Stiles blocks him easily and with no apparent effort slams Derek against the nearest tree. He gets a hand around Derek’s throat and Derek can feel the power there, vibrating against his skin.

The more Derek struggles, the tighter Stiles’ hand gets. His grip is strong and unwavering, and Derek’s hands scrabble against Stiles’ wrist uselessly. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Peter watching them with an amused expression on his face.

“A little help?” Derek chokes out.

“Not a chance, nephew dearest,” Peter says with a smug smile. “I’ll let you deal with this one yourself.”

When he looks back at Stiles, his face is dark and serious. “I’m not Sabrina the Teenage Witch,” Stiles growls at him. “This isn’t some hocus pocus, Harry Potter, wand waving bullshit. It’s a force of nature. It’s in my blood. So you better believe I can damn well look after myself.”

Derek does believe it, if the energy he can feel pulsing against his skin is anything to go by. Stiles must see it on his face because his grip loosens and Derek can finally breathe again.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, but he feels shaky, like Stiles still has his hand around his throat.

When they turn around the pack have tied up the hunters and are ushering them away through the woods, prisoners and their guards. Derek follows their lead, Stiles trailing after him, a familiar presence at his back.

The rest of the pack are the when they get back, the entire family sitting on the steps waiting for them. Peter ushers them all inside as the others set about tying the hunters to the porch where they’ll stay until the morning. Derek helps out and is about to go into the house, when he realises Laura isn’t with them. He turns to find her and Stiles talking by the Jeep; he can vaguely make out the tail end of their conversation.

“I’ll make the call tonight,” Stiles is saying. “They won’t hold you responsible for it.”

Laura shakes her head at him. “There are three bodies out there,” she says quietly. “I don’t think they’re going to let us get away with it.”

Stiles places a hand on her arm. “It was unprovoked,” he says, “If there are any repercussions it’ll be on their family.”

“They didn’t do anything about it the last time someone tried to kill us,” she says with a sigh. “This time won’t be any different.”

Derek has to turn away at that, the memories of last time making a sick feeling rise in his stomach. He goes inside to the den instead, curls up on the couch. The others trail in eventually, Laura settling in next to Richard with Sam on her lap, and Stiles sliding in next to Derek.

Something nudges his hand and when Derek looks down, Stiles is curling his fingers around Derek’s. It feels like an apology, Stiles requesting forgiveness, and Derek takes it, interlocks their hands together and lets the comforting feeling of pack wash over him, the familiar scent and feel of home.

-

It’s the coldest November they’ve had in a long time and Derek spends a lot of time at Laura’s, curled up in front of the fire with the kids.

One day he arrives to the sight of Stiles’ jeep in the driveway and his voice echoing through the house.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying loudly, “He just showed up unannounced, he’s a total idiot, I’m sorry.”

He’s in the kitchen with Laura and a glowering Peter, and he smells weird, not at all like himself, his normal scent layered under the heavy odour of something else. It takes Derek a moment to realise why, but then it clicks.

Stiles smells like another wolf.

The growl that emanates from him is a surprise to himself and everyone else in the room too, because they all look up in unison.

“Derek,” Laura says in warning.

Stiles looks like he’s about to have a panic attack, heart pounding in his chest. Laura puts a comforting hand on his arm and he calms a little, the tension bleeding out of him. Eventually Stiles heaves a sigh and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m really sorry,” he mumbles. “I’ll send him home.”

“It’s okay,” Laura says, and rubs slow up and down his arm. “He’s your friend and he has every right to visit you.”

“Not without permission,” Peter growls, but Laura sends him a pointed look.

“He should have asked,” she agrees, “But he’s not a born wolf. I imagine he doesn’t have a firm grasp on pack politics?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. His head comes up suddenly and the look on his face is confused and worried all at once. “Shit, why didn’t Morrell say anything?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek tells him. “He shouldn’t be here.”

Laura gives Derek a look that says, quite clearly, that he’s acting like a petulant child, but he can’t help it. For all he says he doesn’t like Stiles, the idea of some rogue wolf creeping about in their territory and putting his scent all over their emissary doesn’t sit well with him. From the look on Peter’s face, he feels the same way.

But Laura says, “Stop that,” and Derek isn’t one to disobey his Alpha. “Your friend can stay for tonight,” she tells Stiles, “But tomorrow I want to meet him.”

It makes Stiles smile brightly. “Thank you,” he says, squeezing Laura’s hand, “Thank you.”

-

Laura shows up at lunchtime with Derek in tow. Stiles is pretty sure the apartment reeks of his panic and fear; it’s making Scott pace round and round the kitchen in tight circles. He pauses when Laura and Derek come in, turning to face them.

“So,” Stiles says into the awkward silence, “This is Scott.”

Derek scowls at them both, baring his teeth in a challenge. Scott just laughs, and his eyes flash red.

Laura suddenly looks a lot more interested. “You’re an Alpha?” she asks.

Scott shoots Stiles a loaded look. “Um, yeah?” He rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Look, I’m really sorry about showing up like this. It was totally inappropriate of me and I really didn’t mean to –”

Laura holds up a hand. “It’s fine,” she says. “What do you say we go for lunch?”

Scott perks up at the idea of food, but behind Laura Derek growls, low in his throat. Stiles manoeuvres himself carefully so that if Derek goes for Scott he’s at least slightly protected, and Derek’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snarls. “Who’s your pack here?”

Stiles opens his mouth, but Laura beats him to it. “Enough!” she shouts, and her voice shakes the plates in the cabinets. “Scott and I are going to the diner. Derek, you are staying here with Stiles, and I’ll pick you up when we’re done. Do you understand?”

Derek nods, looking slightly cowed. When Scott disappears to get his coat, Laura turns to her brother and puts gentle hands on his face.

“Stiles vouched for him,” she says softly. “I trust his judgement, okay?”

Derek still looks mutinous but slightly more at ease. It’s only once Laura and Scott have left that his anger comes back. He turns on Stiles, gets up in his face.

“I don’t like him,” he says with a growl.

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “You don’t know him,” he says, pushing Derek out the way.

Derek growls at him. “Why is he here?”

“He wanted to check up on me.” At Derek’s unimpressed look, he continues. “And he just found out his girlfriend is pregnant.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?” he says incredulously. “He caused all this because of girl problems?”

Stiles sighs at him. “She’s a kitsune,” he tells him. “He’s not worried about being a dad – he’ll be great at it. It’s just that there’s no way to know what will happen. It’s not every day a fox and a wolf have a baby!”

Derek actually looks chastised for a second, before his scowl is back. “He couldn’t have had his freak-out on the phone?”

Stiles turns away from him and goes about making some lunch. “Do you want anything?” he asks magnanimously, because Derek doesn’t really deserve any after being such a douche.

Derek nods at him, oblivious to his generosity, and follows Stiles to his tiny kitchenette. “You would have protected him from me,” he says as he leans against the counter.

Stiles can hear the accusation in his voice. “No,” he says, putting bread into the toaster. “I would have protected you from yourself. He’s an Alpha, Derek, he could rip you to shreds.”

Derek looks offended at that. “He’s a pup,” he says, frown firmly back in place.

“Doesn’t mean he still can’t do some serious damage,” Stiles says, as the toast pops up with a ding.

“You’re defending him.” Stiles rolls his eyes but Derek continues: “You are. You’d put him before me.”

Stiles sighs, not looking up from where he’s smearing his lunch with jelly. “Look, you’re my pack and I will go to bat for you every time, but Scott is my family. I know you don’t get that, because your pack is your family, but it means I would defend him as hard as I would defend you.”

When he glances up Derek is still scowling, which Stiles knows means he doesn’t get it. So he finds a way to explain it.

“Imagine if Cora decided she wanted to join a different pack,” he says.

“She wouldn’t.”

Stiles holds his hand up, exasperated. “Just imagine. You’d still feel the same way about her, you’d still protect her, because she’s your family. That’s what Scott is to me, okay?”

Some part of what he’s saying gets through because Derek’s face changes, the frown softening until it’s back to something neutral. He nods slowly and takes the offered plate. Stiles leans against the counter next to him and they eat in silence except for the crunch of toast in the mouths.

“I’m still your emissary,” Stiles says around a mouthful of food. “That’s not going to change.” Derek doesn’t look convinced, so Stiles bumps their shoulder together with a grin. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

-

Stiles does go though, driving back to his hometown with Scott in time for Thanksgiving. The Hale house is buzzing with noise, with the sound of moms and dads, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, but Derek can still feel the space he leaves behind.

“You want to tell me what’s up?” Laura asks him.

They’re in the kitchen cooking – or rather, Laura’s cooking and directing Derek. She’s making filling for a cherry pie, adding spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her mixing bowl. She looks like she’s murdered something, red all over her hands

“I’m fine,” Derek tells her as he rolls out pastry. When he looks up, Laura is wearing her most unimpressed expression. “Stop it,” he says with a scowl, “Nothing’s wrong.”

Laura sighs and puts down the bowl she’s holding. “He’s coming back, you know,” she says gently.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies.

Laura makes a face at him, and Derek is reminded of their mom for a moment. He carefully ignores her, finishing rolling the pastry instead and sliding it into the pie dish. It makes her sigh again. She puts a sticky hand on his face and tilts it towards her. He tries to pull away by her grip is strong, and he would never disobey his Alpha.

“Derek,” she says and her eyes flare red, “He’s not Kate. It’s okay to miss him.”

She doesn’t let him turn away, instead stares him down until he relaxes into her grip. They stay like that for a long time, until Peter comes barrelling into the kitchen with a line of children trailing after him screaming about marshmallows.

Laura finally lets go. “Think about it,” she says, and goes back to stirring her cherry concoction.

Derek does think about it, maybe a little too much. When Stiles comes back a week later, he tries to pretend that his heart doesn’t skip a beat when he sees him, but from the look on Laura’s face says he doesn’t do a very good job.

-

Cora comes home at Christmas. It’s only been a few weeks since he last saw her, but it feels like years to Derek. Unsurprisingly, she and Stiles get on like a house on fire and Derek keeps finding them around the house, curled together watching movies or playing video games or on one memorable occasion baking cupcakes.

“So, about Stiles,” she says over dinner on Christmas Day.

“Try not to break him,” Laura says, because they all know what Cora’s track record with boys is like.

Cora just rolls her eyes. “I’m not his type,” she tells them. Laura raises an eyebrow at her across the table. “He’s gay,” she says, and then cackles at their surprised expressions.

Nothing else is said about it, and Derek tries not to think about it, because that way lies madness. But it keeps coming back to him, especially later that night when he’s curled up in bed, the apartment quiet around him. It’s hard to not think about it when he has a hand on his dick, pumping it slowly, and his mind is providing a steady stream of images: Stiles’ long fingers curling around his wrist, Stiles’ shirt riding up to reveal pale skin, Stiles’ tongue sliding out to wet his lips, Stiles’ dark eyes, Stiles’ mouth, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles – until he’s coming all over himself with a groan.

He comes to the uncomfortable realisation in the morning that maybe he’s a little obsessed with Stiles Stilinski, and it scares him a little. He hasn’t felt like this about anyone since Kate, and that had been a near-disaster.

The rest of the holiday is uneventful until New Years Eve rolls round. Derek is watching TV on Laura’s couch under a pile of kids, wondering vaguely if they’ll manage to stay awake to watch the ball drop, when a hand scritches through his hair. When he looks up, Laura is hovering over him with a small frown.

“Go out,” she says, “have some fun.”

“He doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” Cora says, ever the brat, so Derek tips her off the couch, because that’s his kind of fun. She glares at him from the floor. “For that, I’m coming with you. “

And just like that, he’s being roped into going clubbing with his baby sister. She even chooses his outfit, because apparently he can’t even dress himself now, but Derek draws the line at letting her drive to wherever they’re going. It’s not like he can get drunk anyway.

“Are you even old enough to be here?” he asks when they’re queuing outside some warehouse downtown that Cora says is amazing, Derek, you’ll love it.

“Yes, asshole,” Cora says, and rolls her eyes at the bouncer who just nods sympathetically before letting them pass.

Inside is packed and the bass shakes the floor. Cora looks like she wants to dive straight in, so Derek touches her shoulder. “I’m going to get a drink,” he says, and she nods, then vanishes in seconds.

Derek keeps to his word and heads for the bar, pushing through the crowds of people swaying to the beat. He recognises the bartender, some guy who was in Cora’s year at high school, and they chat for a bit before the guy has to go deal with other customers. Derek settles in, letting the smells and sounds of the club wash over him. The beer the bartender brings him after a minute is cold and sharp, a nice contrast to the heat of the room, and he sips it slowly, savouring the taste.

“Going to add some wolfsbane to that?” a familiar voice asks, and when Derek turns, Stiles is right there.

“I can’t,” Derek tells him, “I’m driving.”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard, and Derek takes a moment to appreciate the long line of his neck. He maybe appreciates it a moment too long, because when he looks up, Stiles is watching him. His pupils are blown and Derek thinks he did that, holy shit Stiles is turned on, before it registers that Stiles smells like chemicals beneath the sweat and beer, and he’s practically vibrating in front of Derek.

“Are you high?” he asks incredulously.

Stiles actually looks embarrassed for a second, before the grin is back on his face. “Yeah man, it’s great. Don’t tell Deaton though,” and he cackles a little, “Although he was a real party animal back in the day.”

The image that conjures in his mind has Derek desperately gulping at his beer to try and put it out of his head. Stiles, the unhelpful little shit, just laughs at him. He pats Derek gently on the hand, and the feel of his skin is electric.

Something must show on his face, just how much Stiles’ proximity is affecting him, because Stiles stares at him with dark eyes. “Come dance with me,” he says with a grin.

Derek opens his mouth to say no, but Stiles just grabs his hand and pulls. They’re halfway through the crowd before Derek realises he’s left his beer on the bar but when he turns to go get it, Stiles spins him with strong hands and plasters himself to Derek’s front like a sweaty octopus.

They settle into a rhythm, a steady bump and grind. Stiles’ presses up against him and Derek tries to ignore the way his body feels, moving with a sinful grace. Derek can feel where Stiles is half-hard against his thigh and puts his hands on the sharp cut of his hips to make some distance between them. His fingers slip under Stiles’ shirt and his skin is burning hot, thrumming with energy.

“I can’t believe you’re high,” he mumbles into Stiles’ hair. “You’re an emissary! You’re supposed to be responsible for making good decisions.”

“It’s my night off,” Stiles says, and rolls his hips against Derek’s hands. “Besides, this was a great decision. I feel amazing and I get to dance with you which, you know, what the hell are you doing at a club?”

Derek tries to ignore the way Stiles’ breath is hot on his ear, and the way he’s grinding up against him. “It was Cora’s idea,” he says, “She likes this place.”

Stiles tilts his head back with a laugh, forehead glistening with sweat under the lights. “Jungle’s great,” he says. “This is where I made most of my friends.”

“Friends?”

Stiles motions to where a group of drag queens are lounging against the wall. Several of them lift their hands in greeting and Stiles waves back. “That’s Crystal,” he says in Derek’s ear, pointing to a lady at the far end. “And Carmen, and Ginger.”

Derek isn’t sure if he finds it weird or weirdly hot that Stiles is friends with a bunch of queens, but considering Stiles’ ability to make friends in any situation, he knows he shouldn’t actually be surprised.

“Jesus,” Stiles says suddenly, “I’m too fucking hot. Come outside with me?”

Derek lets Stiles tug him out into the cool air, and watches the way the evening chill makes goose pimples rise along Stiles’ exposed skin. They tuck themselves into a corner out of the wind, dark and private, and Stiles leans back against the rough brick, digging around in his pockets.

He produces a cigarette and lights it, flame flaring in his cupped flames, his face suddenly lit up in the gloom. Derek can’t tear his eyes away from where his lips are pursed around the filter, but he doesn’t have to when the flame cuts out and the darkness shrouds Stiles again. All Derek can see of him is the outline of his face where he’s backlit by the security lights and the cherry of his cigarette as it floats in the shadows.

Stiles starts to talk in between drags, and Derek is content to listen to the steady rise and fall of his voice. Stiles waxes lyrical about the club, about how it feels to be in the crowd, surrounded by people and moving with them like one giant entity. He talks about the music, the way it pulses through your body, thrumming and vibrating like magic, making your whole body like a live wire. Somewhere along the line he starts shivering, gradually getting more violent, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so Derek reaches out and carefully unties the hoody around Stiles’ waist. Stiles smiles at him, soft and lopsided.

“Thanks,” he says, pulling it on.

“You want to go back in?” Derek asks. He can suffer the heat and crowds if it means Stiles doesn’t look like he’s going to freeze to death.

Stiles just shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, pulling the hoody tight around him. “I’m starting to come down now.”

He looks young, bundled up his oversized jacket, and Derek wants to wrap his arms around him, share his own heat where his blood runs too hot. But his phone is buzzing in his pocket and when he digs it out it’s Cora, saying she’s getting a ride home with one of her friends. He tilts it to show Stiles, who nods.

“You going to head off?” he asks.

Derek nods reluctantly. “Might as well. I only came for her.”

“Think I can bum a ride?” Stiles asks with a hopefully smile.

Derek glances down at his watch. “It’s only eleven thirty. Sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Nah,” Stiles says with a shake of his head. “My friends are probably all fucked anyway, and I’m not in the mood to keep going.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that Derek almost doesn’t hear the way his heart ticks slightly with a lie. He doesn’t call Stiles on it though, just leads him to the car. When they’re both in, Derek cranks the heating up and Stiles shrugs out of his hoody, letting the warm air rush over his skin. He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan, and Derek focuses all his attention on putting the car in gear and getting out of the lot without hitting anyone.

“Which way am I going?” he asks when they’re pulling onto the main road.

“You know those apartments over by McDonalds?” Stiles says, and yeah, Derek knows those apartments. To say that they’re nasty is an understatement.

His disgust must show on his face because Stiles laughs. “Don’t be such a sourwolf,” he says with a grin. “They’re cheap and have cable. It’s all I need really.”

Derek scowls. “You’re going to get robbed,” he tells Stiles and guns it down the quiet streets.

Stiles laughs at him, but eventually settles back into the seat. He’s still petty chatty, even if he says his high has worn off. Derek uses it as an opportunity to ask him questions; while Stiles is an open book, he doesn’t tend to offer up information without being directly asked. Derek cycles through all the easy ones – who were you out with tonight? How’s college going? Do you really live in such a shitty building? – before he gets to the one he really wants to ask.

“Why did you become an emissary?”

Stiles rolls his head to the side to look at him, letting it loll against the seat. “I didn’t mean to,” he says.

Derek frowns at the road. “But you’re a Spark.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh at his incredulous tone. “I didn’t know I was,” he says. “The emissary of Scott’s pack, she kind of took me under her wing, showed me how this stuff works.”

“How old were you?” Derek asks, surprised.

“Like seventeen?” Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know, it was a pretty crazy time for me. I wasn’t in a good place back then.”

He falls silent and when Derek looks over, Stiles has a hand over his face. He takes a deep shuddering breath, rubbing at the insides of his eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Derek says to him.

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, but doesn’t say anything for a while. Derek just waits, lets the silence fill the car for a moment, and eventually Stiles starts talking again without prompting.

“When my mom died, we moved pretty much straight away. And my dad was a wreck; barely went to work, didn’t eat, was always drinking. So I took care of him, and myself.” Stiles sighs deeply, runs a hand through his hair. “Looking back it was kind of messed up. I mean, I was ten, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

He sounds exhausted. Derek reaches out across the console and links his hand with Stiles’ where it’s resting on his leg. Stiles glances down, a surprised look on his face, but he smiles up at Derek, fragile in the orange glow of the streetlights.

“By the time he sorted himself out I was in my teens,” he says softly. “And he couldn’t control me. I had no respect for him, not after everything that happened. I started smoking, and drinking; just kept getting more and more messed up. My dad kicked me out for a while and I just sort of bounced around, got into loads of trouble. I was pretty fucked up.”

Derek squeezes his hand gently. “You were a kid,” he says.

“I know,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “But then Scott got bitten and it gave me a purpose, you know? Helping him. He’s been there for me through everything and it was the least I could do.” He pauses, swipes a hand over his face. “And then Morrell – she’s Deaton’s sister – she just took one look at me and knew. She’s kind of intense, it’s a bit scary actually, but she helped me sort myself out. Helped me fix things with my dad.”

“You’ve been training with her since?” Derek asks.

“Yeah.” Stiles grins suddenly. “Four years, man, it’s crazy.”

Derek is about to reply when Stiles cuts him off: “We’re here,” and he’s right, they are. The apartments loom over them, out of place behind the squat buildings of the warehouses and food chains.

“Which one are you?” Derek asks

Stiles rattles off his address: “7B, Block F,” and points up to where his apartment is, somewhere in the dark. “Thanks for bringing me back.”

“Not a problem,” Derek tells him, “I’ll see you soon?”

Stiles nods at him and starts to get out the car, but he pauses halfway out his seat before turning back.

“Happy New Year,” he says and leans over to press his lips softly to Derek’s cheek, scraping them along the stubble as he pulls back.

With that he’s gone, disappearing into the darkness, leaving Derek bewildered in the car with only the sound of his heart pounding in his ears for company. It takes a long time for him to calm down, for his heart to slow and his hands to stop shaking. He’s about to leave when he glances over and there’s Stiles’ bright red hoody still on the seat.

“Shit,” Derek says into the silence, but in the end he grabs the hoody and gets out the car.

When he gets to the apartments, the main door is unlocked so he goes in and begins to climb the stairs slowly. The seventh floor is a long way up, but the view from the stairwell is quite nice: Beacon Hills, sprawling out before him, lit up by streetlights.

Stiles’ apartment isn’t hard to find. Derek’s about to knock when a noise reaches his ears, a low groan that makes Derek’s heart flutter with panic because it sounds like someone in pain. He presses his ear to the door, listening intently, and that’s when he realises what he’s actually hearing: Stiles, in his apartment, jerking off.

Oh fuck.

Derek knows he should leave, or at the very least stop listening, but it’s so hard when he can hear the way Stiles’ breath is hitching and faintly, below that, the slick slide of skin on skin where he’s probably got his hand wrapped around himself. As if that’s not bad enough, there’s also the smell of arousal in the air mingled with Stiles’ unique scent, heady and intoxicating, and Derek knows that if he opens the door it’ll most likely be ten times stronger.

It’s not difficult to imagine what Stiles probably looks like too, how he’s flushed with colour, cheeks splotchy and blush spreading down his neck and across his chest, rosy pink under the dark tattoos. Derek wonders for a moment what it would be like to lick the ink, if he could taste the sweat and arousal on Stiles’ skin or whether Stiles’ would taste like the soap he uses, before he realises exactly what he’s doing and snaps out of his daze, half-hard and more than a little turned on.

He’s turning to leave but that’s when he hears it, the unmistakable sound of his own name falling from Stiles’ lips with a moan: “fuck, Derek –”

The words seem to echo, hanging in the air, and god, now Derek just wants to break down the door. His wolf is whining, low and desperate, and his dick is starting to throb in his jeans. But Derek forces himself to breathe shallowly through his mouth and somehow, with a lot of effort, makes his legs start moving in the opposite direction, away from Stiles’ door.

He makes it back to the car and once he’s slammed the door, he finally presses his hand to his erection. The hoody is still clenched in his fist, and he presses his nose to it, breathing in the smell of Stiles’ that lingers in the fabric. His hips jerk involuntarily, and Derek manages to unbutton his pants and get a hand around himself. He rubs his face into the hoody and begins to stroke.

It doesn’t take long for him to get close, surrounded as he is by Stiles’ scent. He bites down into the cloth, tasting Stiles’ sweat, and that’s it, he’s coming, sharp and bright and all over his fist.

Derek glances up at the building. High above him, the light in the apartment shines out and his familiar figure moves back and forth past the window. Stiles pauses in the window, and Derek wonders if he can see the Camaro still parked in the lot.

He thinks about driving away, but in the end he just sits in the car and breathes, waiting for the rush to fade.

-

On Monday, Laura calls bright and early.

“Stiles,” she says, and her voice sounds off. “What do you know about fairies?”

Stiles frowns at his laptop where he’s trying to write a paper. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” and now Stiles can pick out the slight worry and anger colouring her voice, “There’s one on my front lawn and I’d really like some advice on how to get rid of it.”

Stiles drives over at breakneck speed and sure enough, there’s a fairy on the front lawn. Several of them in fact, and judging from Laura’s pissed off expression, this is a new development. She’s on the porch with Peter, who looks equally furious, apparently having a staring contest with the fairies.

“Hey,” Stiles calls, and they all turn to look at him, fairies included. To his pleasure, Laura looks relieved to see him.

“Who is this?” one of them asks as he approaches, tilting its head to take him in.

“Our emissary,” Laura says, not taking her eyes from the visitors.

Up close, the fairies are weird. It’s two men and a woman, all with long silver hair and huge green eyes. Their faces are sharp and angular, too pretty to be entirely real, and from the way they’re flickering when he looks at them out of the corner of his eye it’s obviously a glamour. The way they’re all staring at him is unnerving, maybe because they’re not blinking, or maybe just because they look a little bit like aliens.

Stiles goes up the steps and fits himself between her and Peter. Tucked between his Alpha and her second he feels instantly safer, and from the way Laura’s shoulders relax an inch, she feels the same way.

“What do they want?” Stiles asks them, voice low.

“Our territory,” Peter says in his ear. “Apparently the Nemeton called them here.”

Stiles nods. He’s not surprised, not even a little. The Nemeton is at the centre of Beacon Hills’ beacon, the battery that charges the currents crisscrossing the town. It makes the whole town sing with energy, crackling away under the surface, and that power echoes across the state like a siren-song.

The first time Stiles heard the Nemeton’s call, he was still fifty kilometres out and there was a faint droning noise resonating through the car. By the time he was on the city limits it was a buzz, electric and alluring, making his whole body vibrant with its power. Now he’s learned to turn the volume way down, but he can imagine how it feels for creatures with more power than him, how loud is must be, how enticing.

“We wish to hold court,” the fairy woman says. Her voice is like the tinkling of bells, high pitched and joyful, but her eyes are cold. “We mean no harm to you and your pack.”

“Except to push us out,” Peter growls.

The fairy tilts her head and it would be regal if her face wasn’t so unnatural. “Our Queen wishes to speak with you,” she says.

“When?” Laura asks.

“This evening,” the woman says, “You may bring your emissary.”

Laura’s eyebrow ticks upwards. “Damn straight I will.” She glances at Stiles who nods back at her. “Tell your queen we’ll be there.”

The fairies vanish in a swirl of air that makes Peter sneeze loudly. Laura hustles them both inside and makes coffee while Stiles starts his research. He has his own bestiary, comprehensive after years of compiling stories, and his section on fairies is second to none. Peter helps him siphon through it all and by the time they have to leave for the meeting, they’ve got together a fairly solid list of things to keep them safe.

“Don’t touch anything,” Peter tells him and Laura. “Definitely don’t eat anything.”

They’ve got bread and cold iron and springs of holly berries in their pockets, and their meeting is taking place near the stream so they can get to running water if they need to. Stiles even has his shirt on inside-out and he feels like an idiot, but better safe than sorry.

It isn’t until they get to the chosen spot that he even remembers to be nervous. Laura calls out in the manner the bestiary suggested, and the air shimmers before their eyes. When it clears, what Stiles assumes is the whole fairy court is standing before them, dozens of the creatures all around them. They all look similar, the same bizarre facial features, the long silver hair. But one stands out, taller than the rest. She seems to glow, surrounded by an unearthly blue light.

“Our Queen,” the man says, ushering them towards her.

The Queen floats over the ground towards them, and stops inches from Stiles. “What is your name?” she asks, with barely a glance at Laura.

“Stiles,” he says, and inches back when she leans in.

“Your true name!” she demands.

Stiles shoots Laura a look across the clearing. There’s power in names, and his more than most. Laura nods to him, but her eyes are wary.

“Stanislaw,” he tells the Queen.

Her smile is cold and hard, and makes him shiver in its wake. “Excellent,” she purrs, before turning to Laura. “You are the Alpha?”

Laura nods slowly. “Your majesty,” she says respectfully, although there isn’t a hint of reverence in her tone. “You entered our territory without permission and sent your people to my home to demand things which you have no right to ask for. We’re here to negotiate for your departure.”

The Queen inclines her head. “I see. What are your terms?”

Laura draws herself up to her full height and Stiles feels pride shoot through him at how strong she is in the face of this creature. “Our offer is this: we’ll allow access to the Nemeton once a month, but you and your court goes elsewhere. This is our territory and I will not allow you to settle here.”

The Queen nods once before gathering her people around her, and they begin to talk amongst themselves. Stiles can’t hear the words, but it’s obviously an intense discussion. Eventually she turns back to them and the look in her eyes makes Stiles’ nerves kick up a gear.

“We will leave,” she offers finally, “But we want the boy.”

Laura’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “The boy?” she asks sceptically. “You mean Stiles?”

The Queen nods. “He is one of us.”

Stiles’ brain stutters to a halt. “Sorry, what?”

“Your blood is of the fae,” she tells him.

He opens his mouth to tell her that he’s pretty sure it’s not, but Laura cuts him off. “Stiles isn’t going anywhere,” she says, “You’re going to have to leave without him.”

The Queen looks put out but she nods in agreement. There’s the usual handshaking, deal-making, a weird moment when the Queen tries to swap spit with Laura, but eventually they’re done and the court vanishes in a swirl of colour. The two of them follow the curve of the river back to the house, where Peter is waiting on the steps.

“It go okay?” he asks, rising to meet them.

Laura places a calming hand on his arm. “They’re going to leave,” she says. Peter’s shoulders relax, and Laura turns to Stiles. “You okay getting back?” she asks.

“Of course,” he tells her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Laura ushers Peter back into the house and waves as Stiles begins his trek back to the edge of the preserve. He’s nearly there when he feels the prickling at the edge of his sense that tells him he’s not alone.

“I’m really not up for playing hide and seek right now,” he calls out into the darkness.

There’s no movement, no sound to indicate that anyone’s actually there, so Stiles keeps walking, but the feeling doesn’t dissipate. If anything it gets worse, and by the time he’s at the jeep his skin is crawling. He puts his back to the cold metal and stares out into the trees.

“Look,” he shouts, “If you’re coming out, do it now. Otherwise I’m going home.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before the air in front of his shimmers and a figure appears directly in front of him. He gets a glimpse of silver hair and green eyes before a hand touches his forehead and everything goes dark.

-

Stiles wakes to the feeling of ice clawing its way into his veins. When he opens his eyes, the goddamn faerie queen is sitting on his chest. Her glamour is long gone, face unnatural long and angular, and she’s staring down at him with those eerily big eyes. Her hands are talons wrapped around his wrists, and that’s where the cold is emanating from, her magic glowing as she tries to pump it into his veins.

“Stanislaw,” she says, voice like nails on a chalkboard, “You need not run from us.”

Stiles struggles beneath her weight, but she has him pinned. “What the fuck do you want?”

“You are one of us, Stanislaw,” she says into his ear. “You will take your place at my side and help us claim the Nemeton.”

“Hell no,” Stiles says, and bucks violently. The Queen barely moves above him. “Look, you psycho, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but you’re wrong. I’m no fairy. I’m a Spark, an emissary, and my Alpha is going to rip you to shreds when she finds you.”

“You have our blood,” the Queen says. “It is what gives you your power.”

“It really doesn't” Stiles tells her, wriggling as best he can manage. "Look, just let me go and we can forget about this."

The Queen tilts her head at him, big eyes blinking slowly. “You will join us,” she says with finality, “Regardless of what you wish for yourself.”

Stiles tries to wrench his arms away from her, but the cold lances through his chest, sudden and sharp, and he cries out. It feels like ice in his veins, crawling under his skin, worming its way towards his heart. The Queen laughs at his pain, his resistance, and Stiles’ vision blurs at the edges.

He’s close to slipping into darkness when something flickers at the edge of the clearing, a huge dark shape, and Stiles knows in his gut that it’s Laura, it’s his Alpha. Moments later her howl sounds, shaking the trees with its force.

The fairies barely get a warning before the pack crashes through the trees. It’s not just wolves with claws; it’s humans with iron, the entire pack carrying pokers and wrenches. The whole thing devolves quickly, a vicious battle. The fairies can’t stand the iron, screaming when it touches their skin, and whatever weapons they’re waving around aren’t a match for the deadly claws of a dozen angry werewolves.

It’s obvious the fairies are losing, and that’s when the Queen lets go of Stiles wrists, instead sinking her fingers into his chest, tearing through the muscle. The pain is sudden and intense, the most agonising thing he’s ever felt. Faintly, Stiles can hear himself screaming as she rips them out.

Derek turns at the sound, and he’s charging over, face contorted with a snarl. Someone throws him a poker and he swings it once before driving it into the Queen’s flesh. She writhes on it, body contorting as she tries to remove it, and the glamour falls away, leaving something unnatural and terrifying in its place.

Laura appears before them, half-shifted into her Alpha form, huge and hulking as she stands before them. She sets her claws to the Queens throat and lifts her up, away from Stiles, and just like that the fairies stop fighting around them.

“We made an agreement,” Laura snarls in the Queen’s face. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just kill you now.”

“Vendetta,” Stiles croaks out from the ground, hands pressed to the gaping wound in his chest. “Don’t need that kind of problem.”

Laura stares down at him with red eyes before turning her glowing gaze back to the fairy in her grasp. “Our emissary is sparing your life,” she growls as the Queen struggles in her grip. “So when I let go, you and your court will leave immediately. And if you come back I won’t hesitate to tear you to pieces.”

Laura sets her down slowly and Derek wrenches the poker from her chest. The Queen screams as it comes out, but she and her court vanish in seconds. Derek immediately moves to Stiles, picking him up gently, careful not to jostle his wound. Stiles just coughs weakly, chest heaving as he fights the pain.

Laura reaches out to brush Stiles hair back, her expression soft. “Take him home,” she orders, and helps him load Stiles into the car.

The drive is silent and tense. Stiles is in too much pain to speak, and Derek’s anger is palpable in the air, sparking across Stiles’ skin like a live wire. His grip is white-knuckled on the wheel and Stiles wants to reach out, run his fingers gentle over his skin, but he can’t find the strength to do it.

His apartment looms before them, unwelcoming and cold. It takes too long for Derek to get Stiles out the car and into his apartment, half-carrying half-dragging him up the stairs. Stiles manages to regain consciousness long enough to press the key into Derek’s hand, show him how to jiggle it so that the door clicks open.

The wards on the door flare when Derek drags Stiles past them. Derek has a sudden flashback of the last time he was here, Stiles moaning behind the closed door, but there’s no time to think about it because Stiles is bleeding out in his arms.

Stiles guides him to the living room, and Derek can’t help laughing at the mess. Stiles’ clothes are strewn about the place, and Derek nearly trips over the stray sneakers littering the floor. Every surface is cluttered, chaotic, except for the desk which is stacked high with books. The whole space smells like Stiles, comforting and familiar.

Derek lays Stiles down on the couch, and goes to fill a bowl with warm water and find wherever Stiles has stashed the antiseptic. When he comes back, Stiles has wriggled out of his shirt and is lying against the cushions, panting with exertion. He looks like a murder victim, sprawled out and covered in blood.

Derek sets the bowl down and starts to wipe away the smeared red with careful hands. Stiles hisses when the cloth catches on the jagged edges of the cuts, but Derek shushes him gently and moves onto the antiseptic. Eventually he has to thread the needle, and Stiles turns away at the sight.

“It’s going to be okay,” Derek says softly, but Stiles just presses his face into the couch, body tense and unhappy.

It’s slow going, Derek stitching a delicate black line across Stiles’ torso. Every time the needle slides in, Stiles twitches and groans. Once it’s done, Derek wipes across the skin with the antiseptic and Stiles whines at the sting. When Derek’s finally finished, he places a weak hand on his arm.

“Hey sourwolf,” he mumbles, “Maybe you could do that pain thing now?”

He sounds frail and exhausted, so Derek clasps his hand gently, lets the pain seep from Stiles into him. Stiles watches the black moving under his skin and his eyes begin to slip shut. Derek listens to the way his heartbeat slows as sleep pulls him down into its depths.

He stays by Stiles’ side for a long time, watching like the kid might vanish before his eyes. Stiles’ skin is almost ghostly pale, the black of the tattoos stark shapes against it. Derek traces them with his fingers; it’s impossible to tell where the marked skin ends and the unmarked begins.

He takes a moment to wipe the rest of the blood from Stiles’ torso, along the curve of his ribs and down his sides, along the underneath of his arms and from the lines of his palms. Stiles’ chest rises and falls beneath his hands, and eventually Derek forces himself to move away under the pretence of emptying the bowl of swirling pink water.

When he’s done, he explores the apartment. All he’s ever seen is the kitchen, so he investigates every nook and cranny, seeking out the details of Stiles’ life. There are wards etched into every doorframe, protection, concealment, blessing, healing; and above the front door hangs a tiny leather square that looks familiar: a gris-gris, to ward off evil.

The bookcases lining the walls are full of law books and grimoires, the mundane jammed in alongside the magic. On the walls are paintings that Derek recognises, fully realised versions of Stiles’ doodles, arranged between photos of people he assumes are Stiles’ family. He’s leaning in to get a better look at a picture of a younger Stiles when the real one lets out a groan behind him.

On the couch, Stiles is struggling to get upright, panting with the effort. His skin is already starting to knit back together around the stitches, but it’s still red and raw and obviously sore.

“Take it easy,” Derek tells him, helping Stiles into a sitting position.

Stiles smiles at him, but it’s strained. “I’ll give it a go,” he says.

Derek looks at him, at his pale skin and raw wounds, and his heart clenches in his chest a little at the thought of Stiles in pain. He wants to reach out and touch him, feel Stiles’ warmth and strength under his hands, reassure himself that Stiles is alive.

“I think your tattoo might be ruined,” he says instead, fingers brushing where the stitches cut straight through crow across his chest.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, reaching up and trapping Derek’s hand under his own. “Once I’ve got my strength back I can heal the skin, make it as good as new.”

His skin is warm against Derek’s palm, his heartbeat loud in the silence. Derek can’t help but wish the circumstances were different – getting Stiles naked is something he’s been thinking about for a while.

“Thank you for patching me up,” Stiles says into the silence that settles around them.

Derek smiles at him. “Thank you for not dying.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Well I’m trying,” he mumbles, squeezing Derek’s hand.

“Try harder,” Derek tells them, leaning forward to press his forehead to Stiles’. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Stiles beneath the sharp antiseptic smell clinging to his skin. “I can’t lose you.”

When he opens his eyes, Stiles is looking at him with surprise and something that might be wonder. It’s too much for Derek to handle right now, so he just puts his hands on the soft skin of Stiles’ waist and kisses him.

There’s no fireworks, no explosion of light and sound. If anything the apartment is too quiet, the lights too dim. But Stiles’ lips are soft and welcoming, and Derek opens his mouth to give him better access. It’s slow and easy, and Derek loses long minutes to the feel of Stiles’ mouth moving against his, the way his hands press gently to either side of his face.

Eventually Stiles pulls back to catch his breath and his expression is soft and satisfied. Derek listens to the quick pattering of his heartbeat, excited, but Stiles makes no move to kiss him again, apparently content to just breathe into Derek’s mouth.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” he murmurs.

Derek tries to not tense, but from the way Stiles sweeps his thumbs gently over the slope of his cheekbones he’s not very successful.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles against Derek’s lips, “Take your time.”

Derek has to close his eyes to centre himself, focussing on the scent of Stiles before him: cigarettes and electricity, as strong as ever, and beneath that like pack, like home.

“I nearly lost you,” he says quietly, the words slipping out without meaning to.

Derek tries to pull away but he doesn’t get far, not with Stiles’ hands holding his face still. The look in his eyes is soft and gentle, and it makes Derek’s heart swell, makes his wolf whine happily. He can’t put it into words though, not how Stiles wants him to, but Stiles seems to understand that from the way he presses his smile to Derek’s again. They stay that way for a long time, until Stiles breaks the moment with a yawn.

“You should get some sleep,” Derek says, running his hands over Stiles’ skin.

Stiles nods, puts his head down onto Derek’s shoulder. “Will you stay?”

Derek smiles into his hair. “Of course,” he says, and helps Stiles to feet.

Stiles leads him to his bedroom, just as messy as the rest of the apartment, and Derek has to look away when he starts pulling off his jeans. Derek helps him get under the covers, pulls them up and presses a kiss to Stiles’ forehead before standing.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks. He sounds calm, but his heartbeat is fluttering, panicked.

“Just calling Laura,” Derek tells him. Stiles nods and snuggles back down under the blankets.

When Laura picks up, she doesn’t even bother with hello. “How is he?” she asks.

“He’s fine,” Derek says. “Tired, but he’s healing okay now.”

Laura hums down the line. “And how are you?”

“I’m okay too,” he tells her. “How’s everyone over there?”

“They’re fine,” she says. “Everyone’s still standing at least. Give Stiles my love.”

Derek says he will before he hangs up. Back in the bedroom, Stiles is sprawled across the bed, spread-eagled under the blankets. Derek strips too and climbs in, letting Stiles wrap himself around him with an octopus. He slides an arm over Derek’s waist, tucks his head up under Derek’s chin.

There’s so many things unsaid between them but with Stiles curled over him like a comforting blanket, it’s not long before Derek’s eyes grow heavy and sleep pulls him down into its depths.

-

Morning comes, bright and beautiful. Stiles wakes slowly to the feel of skin pressed up against him and Derek’s hair tickling his nose. Derek’s like a furnace, body heat making everything warm and cosy. It reminds Stiles of sleepovers with Scott, bodies pressed against each other, wrapped up tight under the covers.

He stretches slowly. The stitches in his chest pull a little, but there’s almost no pain. When he glances down the skin is nearly healed, puckered and red, the rest and proximity to pack having boosted his power enough to knit his flesh back together.

His morning wood is pressing into Derek’s thigh, and he can’t help rocking forward into the solid expanse of muscle, breath hitching at how good it feels.

He doesn’t even realise Derek’s awake until he rumbles, “You enjoying yourself?” in a raspy voice.

Stiles grins up at him and pushes himself up to kiss Derek, swinging a leg over his thigh. It presses his knee to Derek’s erection and Derek’s breath stutters out in a moan. Stiles grins against his mouth.

“Is this the part where we have sex?” he asks. Derek laughs, but suddenly there’s a tension in his muscles that wasn’t there before. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Derek murmurs, but he won’t meet Stiles’ eyes when Stiles pulls back to look at him.

“Is it about Kate?” he asks gently.

Derek rears back, pushing Stiles away from him. “What do you know about Kate?” he asks.

His voice is shaking, his eyes wild, and Stiles reaches out, but Derek scoots across the bed, putting as much distance between them as he can.

“Derek,” Stiles says softly, “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” Derek says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “Who told you about Kate?”

“Laura did. She told me everything.”

Derek’s eyes flash with panic and he scrambles away, trying to get out the bed. Stiles is faster though, getting his arms around Derek and pulling him back down onto the mattress. Derek struggles in his grip, but Stiles just holds on until he relaxes, body slumping against his.

Stiles manoeuvres him around until Derek is tucked against his side, head pressed into his chest. “I’m not her,” he says softly into Derek’s hair.

“I know,” Derek says. “That’s not –”

He trails off, burying his face in Stiles’ chest. Stiles pets his hair slowly, listening to the stuttering of Derek’s breath, waiting him out. Eventually Derek sighs, rubs his nose against Stiles’ skin like he’s trying to inhale as much of his scent as possible.

“I know you’re not her,” he mumbles. “It’s just – I haven’t done this since.”

Stiles frowns at the top of his head. “Done this? You mean sex?”

“No,” Derek says with a shake of his head. “A relationship.”

“Is that what this is?” Stiles asks him, “A relationship?”

Derek raises his head, catches Stiles’ gaze with his own. “I – I want it to be?”

Stiles smiles brightly, because Derek looks so surprised at his own feeling. But Stiles can feel the truth in the words, how genuine Derek is about what he’s saying. It makes his cheeks flush and his pulse race suddenly.

“Me too,” he says softly, and let’s Derek’s kiss drown out the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

-

Stiles goes away for his dad’s birthday. It’s been a month since what Stiles has dubbed the ‘Asshole Fairy Incident’ and Derek hates having to let Stiles out of his sight for more than a second, let alone five whole days.

“You’re being pathetic,” Peter tells him over dinner one night. “Really, Derek, it’s very unbecoming.”

Derek can tell from the way Peter tenses that Lucy has just elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and he gives her a small smile. She winks at him and goes back to eating her food.

When Stiles finally comes home, Derek’s in his apartment cooking dinner for him.

“Smells good,” Stiles says as he comes into the kitchen, sliding his hands around Derek’s stomach and pressing his nose into Derek’s hair. “You smell good too.”

Derek chuckles and turns in the circle of Stiles arms. “Hello to you too,” he says, nosing along the curve of Stiles jaw, taking in the smell of him after so long apart.

He can feel the way Stiles’ muscles stretch in a slow grin then there are hands on his face, tilting it up so Stiles can kiss him. Derek loses himself in the slick slide of Stiles’ mouth against his, the familiar press of his lips and feels of his hands. Eventually he pulls back, rests his forehead against Stiles, and breathes with him, slow and steady.

“I got something for you,” Stiles mumbles against his mouth.

Derek frowns at him, but Stiles just pulls back and shows Derek his hands. There are white bandages across his knuckles and Derek can smell the rawness of the skin beneath them. Stiles lets him unwrap them slowly, watching him with a wary look on his face. When Derek sees what’s under the bandages he understands why.

Tattooed across Stiles’ knuckles is the word ‘sourwolf’ in big, black letters.

“Do you like it?” Stiles asks softly.

Derek looks up at him and Stiles face is wide open, all his hope and fear and love written across his features. He looks so young and fragile, and Derek’s heart stutters in his chest.

“I love it,” he says and lets Stiles pull him in for another kiss.