A/N: Beware! Claudia does die in this, but off screen, and at the very beginning. This fic was really a chance for me to write emissary!Stiles and to explore the death of his mother at the same time. It's an exploration of responsibility and family and inheritance, and I hope y'all want to come along on the ride with me.
Erm... ya. Titles and inspiration stolen from Sea Wolf's Where the Wind Blows. You should take listen. ;) I'd love to hear what you have to say! Also! For those of you mad at me because I haven't posted in a month- this is why! See, I wasn't being lazy, I just got caught up with something else. :P
The house has never been so quiet, at least, not that Derek can remember.
There'd always been kids' over-enthusiastic yelling, adults' contented murmuring, crashes and creaks and groans. Although the Hale pack is nowhere near where it used to be, their family is still big—cousins and in-laws and friends of friends always strewn across the property. He was accustomed to always being surrounded by others, by their ambient sounds and friendly gaze. Staring out the windows as his limbs move on auto-pilot, working to put a dent in the dozens upon dozens of dirty dishes from earlier, he has to focus his hearing to pick up even the slightest whisper.
Most everyone else is holed up alone, close to that special one or two people, soaking up intimate moments as only those in the wake of death can. Derek doesn't have anyone to get lost in, not really, and so he tries to make himself useful, gathering up the empty cups, discarded utensils, lost handbags, and forgotten programs. He's hung his suit jacket across the back of a kitchen chair, tie tucked into the breast pocket, and rolled up his sleeves, elbow deep in sudsy water as he watches the branches outside dance and sway.
Tonight, tonight they look mournful, as does everything and everyone else. Quiet and resigned and afraid of not doing enough, not doing it right, not knowing what to do. He wishes someone would say something besides apologies, would offer more than condolences, would break them all out of this muddled place. Truth is, he never knew Claudia as well as he should have, as well as he wants to now. He'd always gone to his own mother for advice, after all she was his Alpha, and a damn good one at that. Claudia always seemed to just be in the periphery of his life, hanging about on the edges, but never making that much of an impression.
She talked to Cora the most out of all the Hale children, said she had a son close to the same age, and had a soft spot for the overlooked. At the time, he'd scoffed, thought it was just her trying to quell some of that teenage angst Cora had in spades—always claiming to get lost in the shuffle— but as he'd watched his baby sister lay against the coffin, clutching at it with rugged claws, he'd known that those weren't just words.
Maybe she'd never paid him much mind because he was never the one that needed it most, maybe she'd played a bigger role in his life than he'd ever known, maybe she'd always wanted to talk to him properly and just never got the chance. He'd never be sure, but now he'd always wonder, think about her when he made mistakes, made tough decisions, made to question what she'd advise. Because here and now, surrounded by wave after wave of the aggrieved, he got to see just how many lives she'd touched, how many people felt their lives dim with her loss, and he had to believe that she knew what she was doing, that despite this fracture, she'd known just what and why and how and when.
One of her hand-woven talismans hangs just out the window, dull gems and dried herbs tied into the intricate pattern. A few days ago, the stones glowed and shimmered in the light, the plants never wilted, sprang new shoots by the fistful. Now it droops, disheveled and dreary, clacking against the glass, lacking the weight that once made it resonate with the whistling wind. He stares at it for what feels like hours, fingers gone wrinkled, water gone cold, sun gone down, like it might just give him some of the answers he's been searching for.
Every once in a while, a door down the hall will bang open or click shut, feet will thud along the wooden floor, a whispered conversation will tickle his ear, but he can't tear his gaze away. He keeps waiting for the anchor to snap, for the rope to fray and fall loose, for the wood to splinter and fold, for some kind of sign to tell him it's okay to let go, that she's really and truly gone. Instead it continues to cling to the overhang, brittle and bleached, and yet over-bearing.
Her magic still floats around the house, clings to their shoulders—he can taste it—stale and ashen. It lingers, scratches like sand, and grasps for a spark, for a new life and purpose. No one talks about it, just rolls their shoulders, tries not to breathe out their mouths, keeps a careful eye on the corners of the room. It's her lingering power, the traces of her belief that alert him to the light outside, just inside the line of trees. It's coming from the guest house, her house. The wispy tendrils creep towards it, tap at the glass and pool along its image.
Something ugly boils up in him then, something bitter and hollow and filled with poison. A glass shatters in his grip, and before Derek even registers that he's made the decision, he's halfway across the clearing, eyes flaring bright blue, teeth lengthening, claws shooting out. He can hear music muffled by the walls, can see shadows against the drapes, and he seethes at the idea of some disreputable kids defiling her home, her spirit, her memory so soon.
He rips the door off its hinges, snarls, and expects to find a huddled group of teenage miscreants, sharing a toke, a touch, in stolen privay. Instead, a young man is slumped into the window seat, an old vinyl album cover held gingerly between his fingers, eyes rimmed red, nose rubbed pink, cheeks a sickly, pale white. He's dressed in tattered jeans, a too-small t-shirt, and faded paisley vest, but around his neck hangs a familiar symbol, a pendant that makes Derek freeze in his tracks.
It's rare, magical, familial, and had been carved into Claudia's grave marker. Slowly, slowly the memories filter back to the surface, of a petulant whelp, with too little patience, too much curiosity, too quick a wit and too slow a conscience. He'd had wide, brown eyes, a delicate nose and mouth, gangly limbs and wicked smile. Derek had minded him a time or two, something like a decade back, had shared graham crackers and comic books and snide remarks about stupid rules. He'd always complained it was such a chore, but he was more than happy to ever do it. They were almost something close to friends, growing more familiar and companionable each time, until the boy had come of age and been sent off to distant relatives to study both human matters and the supernatural.
The kid in front of him now is much older, much harder, and resigned like the other one had never been. He can't even bother to get riled up over Derek's outburst, just lies back against the pillows and draws the worn cardboard to his chest and sweeps his eyes across the house, across his mother's possessions, across the life he's just inherited. Derek feels like he should leave, like he's committed sin on hallowed ground, but he can't get his feet to move.
When the boy stares him down with wide eyes, looking like he's trying his hardest not to roll them, he stutters forward, grabs a chair from the dining set, and sits across from the window. The boy continues to look at him, licks his lips a few times, mouth hanging open as though about to speak, but then clamps it shut and curls further in on himself. Thunder rumbles in the distance and seconds later, scattered drops clack against the roof. A cool wind blows in and the boy shudders, rubs his hands up and down his arms.
Derek winces, glances back at the gaping entrance, and shuffles over to the sofa, grabbing the tattered quilt off the back, and tucking it around the boy's shoulders. Though he seems surprised, he murmurs a thanks, and rests a shaking hand along the back of Derek's. Together they sit, and wait till morning.
Breakfast has been, and always will be, a turbulent affair, when it comes to the Hales.
Too many people, not enough food, never an open seat. In the morning most of them don't have the capacity for proper decency, let alone manners, and it's every person for themselves. There's only three options: forego sleep to be the early bird, get a coveted spot and never worry about missing out on a warm, zealous portion of food—get stuck in the rush, jostled, crushed, irritated, and maybe lose a limb—or stay in till the clamor dies down and hope for the best. Derek almost always takes the first, belaying weekends, and instead elects for dicey afternoon naps.
He's taken to noticing, while ferreting a contraband plate of seconds out to the porch, that Stiles is rather an early riser as well—always out and already busy by the time the house starts to rumble with activity. He's got morning rituals, meticulously laid out and lethargically executed, with herbs and incense and prayers muttered under his breath. It's strangely calming, watching their implementation, and without noticing, Derek finds himself enraptured.
He never tries to catalogue the movements or insinuate their meaning, just enjoys the routine—the easy muscle memory of it all. It distracts him from his family's morbid curiosities, stuttered grieving, impatient assumed responsibility. Everyone's taken the death differently, but no one seems to just want the space to breathe. They all occupy themselves with some crusade or another, passionate and determined and fighting.
He knows it's just their nature, his own too, but he wishes they would some other way to revere her memory than politics and power and position. Derek likes to think Stiles might agree—that his beleaguered reluctance to engage the problem—them—is more than just uncertainty or even cowardice. Derek wants to believe that this kid could be half the envoy his mother used to be, that he could mean as much to the pack, that he could accomplish great things, but he hardly knows a thing about the gypsy.
No one does.
There's rumor of an unaligned emissary passing through the city below.
Peter's the first one to bring it up and it makes Derek's hackles raise, his lips curl, and a low growl emanate from his chest. It's not even been two weeks—the smell of overturned earth still fresh on their grounds. Besides, Stiles is here now, staying in his mother's cottage, seeming to set up shop for the next long while. No one's had the talk with him yet. No one's found the matter pressing enough to break his mourning. But they all know it must be had, that he must be made aware of his responsibilities—the work his mother had left.
"She's from a distinct and distinguished family—Basque druids. She's led an Alpha Pack, dealt with a kanima, even has ties to the community—a brother down in Beacon Hills. It would be foolish to ignore such an opportunity." Derek digs his claws into the soft wood of the table, to keep from sinking them into his uncle's flesh. Laura gives him a look out of the corner of her eye, but doesn't offer a single word.
Talia stands serenely at the head of the table, collected and calm as always, brows furrowed, but not objecting. She's been quiet these past weeks, as the thing they'd all dreaded for so long had come to pass, but stolid as ever. "As the dominant pack in this area, it is our duty to make ourselves known, but we can't consider such negotiations, not when we still have—" She pauses, lifts careful fingers to her pursed lips, and shakes her head.
"I think we should do it." Cora's perched on the edge of the counter, eyes glued to the little cottage outside, a steely edge to her gaze. "The Hales have always been a matriarchy, right? You're constantly going on and on about tradition, and so did Claudia. It would be wrong of us to just give her position away to some boy we barely even know. It's practically nepotism."
"Cora, that's her son—a boy that we've known since his birth." Talia keeps her volume gentle, but the tone of her voice demands the end of the conversation.
Cora never was very good at picking up on social queues. "We don't know anything about him and he doesn't know anything about us, about her. Some son—he hasn't visited for years, didn't even show up on time for her funeral."
"Enough!" Derek shudders under the power thrumming through the command—they all do. And though Cora's gaze turns murderous, she clamps her mouth shut and stares into her lap. "We know little of their relationship and even less of their ways. To outsiders, many things we do would seem inhumane and strange, but that's because they do not understand. We cannot presume to think that we understand them either." There's a thread of uncertainty in the words, but no one dares to call it out.
"She's supposed to be here for the next few weeks. I'll not hear a single word more on it today. Tend to your chores for the afternoon, keep close." She rubs at her temples, suddenly seeming so much older. "And Cora? Stay out of his business—I mean it. Unless explicitly invited, you are not to go near that house."
Tears well up in Cora's eyes and her irises flare bright gold. "He's been going through her things, pilfering like a rat."
"Cora!"
"He has no right to—"
"He has every right." This time it's Derek who steps forward, planting himself between his mother and sister, mustering every ounce of authority he can gather. "He is alone now, and that stuff is the only connection he has to his family, to this world." Derek's arms quake with barely contained fury and he knows he's causing a scene, but he doesn't care. "He has nothing, and if we turn our backs on him, no one." He feels his claws draw blood from his palms, feels the hair sprout along his jaw, feels his canines prick painfully against his bottom lip. "You will respect him and his position here."
Cora swallows thickly, eyes wide, and nods, minutely. Without another word she hops from the counter and dashes off into the upper level of the house. Trembling, Derek comes down from his shift, bones cracking as he rolls his neck and breathes deep. He knows Laura, Peter, and his mother are staring, but instead of addressing it, he stomps out on the grounds and over to the cottage.
When he raps softly against the door's windowpane, he can't keep himself from smirking at the shiny new hinges, sticking out like a sore thumb against the worn wood. Once Stiles had fallen asleep that first morning, he'd set about fixing the door, the leaky sink, the stuck shutters that he'd always been putting off before. By the time afternoon had come, he'd been so exhausted he'd passed out on the musty rug across from Stiles, and slept a solid ten hours.
He'd awoken to a softly sung tune—a familiar sort of hymn that he'd never been able to catch the words of, no matter his preternatural hearing. Stiles was sitting at the kitchen table, weaving the cords of a dream catcher, and sipping at a bitter smelling cup of tea. His fingers were nimble and practiced, never hesitating or missing their mark. The process was slow, but Derek laid on his back and watched as row after row filled in, content not to speak.
Once it was done, Stiles caught his stare, a twinkle in his eye that said he knew Derek had been awake all along. The young gypsy had turned the trinket over and over in his hands with a critical eye before pursing his lips, humming an affirmation, and standing to hold it out to Derek. "You were talking in your sleep, twitching and whining too." He shrugs, self-deprecating, and bounces it on its tether. "This should help." He'd had a light accent that was equally harsh and lilting, contradictory, and somehow fitting. He hadn't had it when he was young.
With a grimace that was supposed to be a smile, he'd taken it, flushed with embarrassment and promptly left, not missing the amicable, "Thanks for the door!" that was tossed along behind him. After much internal debate, he'd hung it above Cora's bed, and smiled to himself when she came downstairs the next morning without the bruises beneath her eyes. He still hasn't told her who it actually came from, let her believe it was a parting thought from Claudia.
He's not sure where her hostility has come from, and the rest of his family has kept a wide berth around the boy too, supposedly to give him space, but more likely to save themselves from further discomfort. Derek doesn't know why he feels such obligation towards the boy, but hasn't questioned it when he ends up on this very stoop two or three times a day.
The boy is odd— no argument about it, but Derek gets along with him better than he would have thought. He's restless, never quiet, never content, but it's a welcome break from the angry energy that's swallowed the rest of the family. He's spent his days replacing the dimmed wards, imbuing belief into the weathered wood and chipped brick of the main house. He offers everyone small tokens and trinkets, slowly and quietly trying to resettle the shaken balance.
When he answers the door today, he looks harried—hair sticking in a dozen different directions, shirt buttons crookedly fastened, smudges of what smells like ground sage smeared across his hands and cheek. He's gingerly slung an overstuffed rucksack on his shoulder and has a hand-drawn map of the property crumpled in his fist. "Derek! I'm sorry, I was just heading out. But you can walk with me if you'd like."
Without checking to see if he's even following, Stiles closes the door behind himself and heads straight for the tree line. "Where are you going? The sun's about to set and there's still a lot of foreign packs hanging around…"
Stiles turns, walking backwards, and offering an exaggeratedly fond expression. "Aww, Der! Are you worried for me?" He smiles, all teeth, before backing straight in to the trunk of a pine. "Owww…." He rubs the back of his head, face turning a bright shade of pink, and Derek has to cover his mouth to hide his smirk. "Well that was embarrassing."
He turns back around and hefts the sack higher up on his shoulder. "I'm replacing my mother's charms. There's dozens of them scattered throughout the forest, marking your territory." His voice quivers a little, but he doesn't pause. "I was hoping I could just mend them, strengthen her residual magics by weaving them with my own, but…" He leans against a tree and pulls out the map, fingers reverently smoothing out the wrinkles. "… they wouldn't respond to me."
Derek hangs awkwardly behind for a long moment or two, before sucking it up and placing a careful hand on Stiles' shoulder. With a shuddering breath, Stiles folds up the paper and tucks it away, looking back at Derek with weak smile thinning his lips—they still ring hollow, though he proffers them frequently and without bias. With a short nod they head out again, sticking close.
There's a small pond just on the edge of the property that Derek likes to fish.
It's a bit swampy, out of the way, and unreliable, but that's also kind of the appeal. He likes to sit beneath a willow on its banks, pole dug deep into the ground, and read or nap or eat. The heat reflects off the water and makes him drowsy, warm and small and safe. He's never told anyone about it, but doesn't doubt someone knows it's here.
Still, he likes to pretend he could stay here for days, weeks even, and no one could find him. His own Walden Pond, he imagines building a cabin of his own, a few hundred feet back on more solid ground, getting out from under all the politics and pressure of the main house. It'd be something small and intimate, like the emissary's cabin out in the clearing. Soft, wood floors, blue walls and grey fabrics. He'd have a small bedroom, but a huge bath that looked out on the water. A porch with a rocking chair and crate of paperback books.
He'd still be close to his family, involved in their lives and part of their pack, but he'd escape the expectation, disregard his role as the Alpha's only son. No more attempted matches, abandoned skills—tutors for philosophy and combat and etiquettes. No more disappointment when he turns out to be just Derek and not some princely Hale. No one's ever told him he needs to hold up the family name, that duty to his pack and their endangered way of life should ever circumvent his own wants and needs, but they never had to. The Hales were a dying breed, and if he didn't do everything he could to help them thrive and flourish again, then what kind of man was he?
Even so, sometimes his mind wanders, and so very often it ends up here, and one day while he's cleaning his fish, he thinks Stiles might appreciate that too.
Derek's not aware of anything until the smell of smoke filters through the gaps in the walls and the windows left ajar. It only just stirs him up from sleep- not enough to open his eyes or drag him from that murky limbo, but enough for his senses to kick in, for his ears to catch the sharp snaps and pops of a fire. That's what gets him going, what sets his heart to thundering beneath his chest. He grabs for some clothes and rushes down the stairs with bare feet, following the sounds of the others, pouring out the nearest door.
His mind's too foggy to register anything besides the harsh glow of the pyre and someone's muffled screaming, until Laura places a hand on his shoulder and shakes him, pricking her claws just beneath his skin. The bit of pain throws everything into crystal focus, and he takes in the site of Stiles, covered in dirt and grime, standing beside what used to be his mother's coffin, an inscrutable expression marring his face.
Cora is halfway between the gypsy and the rest of the vacated family, on the verge of shifting fully, tear tracks down her face, teeth gnashing at the air. "You cold-hearted bastard!" She takes a predatory stance and digs her heels into the ground, ready to pounce. "How could you-?!" She chokes on a sob, and before anyone can act, tears forward.
It happens in the space of a second, but plays out slowly, each second stretched to inhabit enough space for conjecture. Stiles turns to her, eyes vacant, mouth set in a grim line. He snaps his fingers, rears back, and waits. The air goes thin, makes a rending noise as it's sucked into a vacuum, and then stills. Cora doesn't sense it, or doesn't care, shakes away her skin, and leaps. She's only maybe two feet away when Stiles throws himself forward, open palms thrusting into the space and all the pent up energy bursting forward.
The gust catches her full in the chest, stops her advance, and then pitches her back, turning end over end. Derek had been fully prepared to jump to Stiles' aid, ready to let his sister rip at his skin again and again to keep the boy safe, but now he hesitates to jump between them on her behalf istead. But Stiles does not advance, only flows back into that same resting position as before, turning his eyes back to the burning body.
No one dares move, speak, in fear of breaking the tension, keeping the brawl at bay. Laura kneels beside Cora, protective hands thrown over her, now human, frame, and the both of them look at the flames in open horror. Peter and Talia stand to the side, at the ready, sharing a look, conversing in that way they do without a single word. Stiles looks them all over, one at a time, slow and appraising.
He clears his throat, wipes at his face, and casts his eyes to the pitch sky. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean to wake you." Cora snarls again, but notably stays where she is. "I had hoped to finish it all while you were sleeping, wipe the traces before morning broke." He rubs anxiously at his hands, popping the joints, and twists his lips. "The burial really was beautiful and I didn't want to offend anybody..."
He runs a shaking hand through his hair, and breathes heavily, but looks back down and locks eyes with the group. "She belonged with the wind, not stagnating in the earth. She belonged to nature, not to you." It comes out angry despite what Derek suspects were his intentions, and the young man shrinks back from them, eyes sticking to Cora. "She was of my people, not yours. She was never meant to stay here, never meant to- to die." He shakes himself, puts up a wall behind his eyes, and straightens out. "She's at peace now, and so should you be." He takes one last, long look at the dwindling pyre before heading back to the cottage and shutting himself inside, not looking back.
The one moment Derek remembers most vividly of her is from when he was only a kid—six or maybe seven.
Cora had just been born and the whole pack was fawning over her, brushing off his nervous need for attention. None of them had had time for him, and when he whined about it to Laura, she'd called him a brat and told him to bug off. Naturally, the only solution was to run away—to find a new family who'd love him his whole life and not just until some stupid new baby came along. He was determined to make them all regret it, and so after he'd packed his back pack, he left a note on his pillow case, thoroughly detailing their transgressions and his unassailable logic.
On his way out, he'd rammed a whole loaf of bread beneath his arm along with a jar of peanut butter, set for a week at least, and headed out into the forest. The self-righteous pride had fueled him enough to keep hiking until the sun started to set and the wind started to chill. Then realization began to creep in on him slowly—he didn't know where he was going, no one had come looking for him yet, where was he going to sleep?
It only served to make him embarrassed and angry, and so he'd done the only thing he could think of. He sat down and cried. In the middle of the forest. Hugging a jar of peanut butter to his chest. He hadn't even noticed that she was there until she put a careful hand beneath his chin and tipped his head up, brows pulling back as she smiled with both humor and concern. Looking back now, she'd probably been following him the whole time, having always somehow known who needed her most and when.
She'd been just like Stiles is now, an almost comical representation of her people, with long dark hair that nearly engulfed her face, floor length multicolored skirts, and an all-knowing glint to her eye. The smell of her herbs made his nose wrinkle and his eyes water, but her voice washed over him, calm and melodious—reassuring hushes whispered into his hair. She'd carried him all the way back to her cottage and made him a huge mug of hot chocolate, humming a tune to herself the whole while.
She'd let him stay up late, helping her with chores, trading scary stories, and even laughing when he called Cora a stinkbrain. It had made him feel important and big and loved in a way he hadn't before and he'd given her the fiercest hug of his life before she ushered him to sleep on the couch. When he woke up the next morning, it was in his own bed. He knew that meant someone had to have come and gotten him the night before, and it terrified him to think of going downstairs and facing them, of having to admit his jealousy and recklessness.
But when he managed to shuffle into the kitchen for breakfast, Uncle Peter was making his favorite—French toast—and no one paid him much attention besides ruffling his hair and asking how he'd slept. Claudia blew in just as everyone was starting to filter out, clutching a cup of tea to her chest and looking, as always, as though she knew something everyone else didn't. When she caught Derek's eye, she'd smiled and winked, and he'd felt so special, he didn't even care that Cora was everyone's new favorite.
Sadly, it was the closest they'd ever get, and he'd always regret it.
They have to tell Stiles, it's only fair.
But after yesterday's confrontation, everyone's a little wary of the young gypsy, even a few of them openly hostile. He hasn't come to the main house since then, just continued quietly and carefully instilling himself around their territory, which has put some of the others on edge. Most of those who aren't blood relatives—bitten, human, or otherwise—and the extended family have already gone back to their individual homes, needing the comforting sense of a den to keep them calm through this time of transition, but Uncle Peter, Aunt JoAnna, and their twins, Isaac and Erica have taken up a more permanent residence in the guest rooms, here for the long haul.
Talia and her brother have always been close, near in age and temperament but opposite in approach and so ideal partners in deliberation. Without the wisdom and knowledge of a deferential emissary, she has been leaning on him more heavily than usual, and it seems as though every time Derek looks, the two are off whispering in some corner, concerned looks on their faces, senses always attuned for trouble.
Derek knows that others might view them as weakened right now, that the loss of such a vital pack member is treated as the loss of a limb in the eyes of their rivals, but he's never believed that they were truly under threat. Even without a trained agent of nature in their ranks, they have numbers, they have old blood, and they have a well-respected leader. He'd said as much a few days after the funeral, and all he'd gotten was silence back, and so he'd let the issue rest, but now that they were actually visiting another candidate, that they had a concrete appointment with the lady Morrell, he had to wonder. His own mother going to such extremes—to break a tie with a long-standing ally and a family in need—she wouldn't do it without ample reason.
He tries not to get worked up about it, after all he barely knows this boy, owes no allegiance to him, personally or societally, and yet—as he watches Stiles drift across the grounds, contemplative and reserved, but never quiet—always mumbling to himself or the trees or even once a flock of quail passing through—he feels a misplaced sense of empathy, and a need to protect. Stiles has had only one visitor since his arrival—an older man from down in the city, his father if rumors were to be believed. He wore the uniform of a man in human law enforcement, and carried himself with a self-confidence and strength that his son did not.
They shared a certain resemblance, but nothing striking, and judging by the length of the visits and the lack of any affectionate body language, Derek guesses that they were quite estranged. He'd heard of cases, many really, of humans falling in love with the supernatural, getting married, having children, but in some way or another, they always seemed to get left behind. It was a lesson they all learned as children, one taught through old songs, historical instructions and embedded subtly in children's literature: though they could live in peace, they were of different worlds, and nature would keep it that way.
He pities the older man, tired-looking and tough, but thinks also that he should have known better, that he should have foreseen such an outcome and either accepted it or exercised better self-control. The lawman is talking with Stiles now, the two of them kept separate by the doorframe and appearing to like it that way. Derek desperately wants to listen in, to see how and of what they speak to each other, to know if he is right, but lets them have their privacy—or a measure of it at least, as he watches from the back porch.
He's supposed to be giving the boy the news and then hurrying along to catch up with his family to assess this new druid, but he's reluctant to rush, enjoying the intimate quiet of the afternoon. For once he tries not to think about anything pressing, anything life-altering and important. Instead he watches the floating pieces of cotton drift along the Spring breeze, catches a dozen different scents and tries to identify them without investigating, wonders where Stiles got the tragically absurd and stereotypical clothes that he wears—the faded bandanas and dull rings and billowy shirts, though he doesn't really mind the way they expose long, pale stretches of his throat and chest, dark hair and colorful ink stark against the delicate skin.
Derek feels appropriately guilty about having thoughts like those at a time like this, but can't stop them and so doesn't try, watching appreciatively when the gypsy bites his lush lips a raw red, or uses his spindly fingers to braid talismans and collect herbs. Even once he'd caught Stiles washing paints off his torso in the river and watched the whole event, enraptured behind a small copse of trees. He wasn't sure what ritual they'd been for, but he'd wished he'd been there to see it, to see Stiles caught up in the moment and his craft, potent and powerful.
He tries his best to keep it under wraps—his fascination with the boy and his body—knowing that no one would understand and that some (Cora, Peter, maybe even Laura) would be quick to judge. Isaac had caught him at it though, earlier in the morning, when he'd taken his breakfast out back to watch Stiles meditate and eat much the same. Derek thought he'd been alone, and when Stiles had limbered into those two dozen poses—all arches and splits—he'd let the heat simmer beneath his skin, arousal so easy to accept in the early mornings when lingering dreams left traces of it already.
Isaac had choked at the smell and narrowed his eyes at him, shaking his head in disbelief, but not moving to tattle or leave. He just scoffed— half stern, half playful—and moved to the other end of the porch, dangling his legs over the edge. It was a relief to know that there was someone else who didn't judge the fledgling emissary so harshly, but being an untested omega, his opinion didn't count for much anyway.
It was all up to Peter and Talia, in the end, and Stiles was nowhere near having them convinced, didn't even really seem to be trying, and sometimes Derek wondered if he had ever wanted the position, wanted this life. Maybe if it hadn't come on so soon, he'd be more ready, more apt to jump in and make a name for himself. Maybe if it was under different circumstances… and maybe, just maybe, he wasn't cut out for it, or didn't want to be. Maybe, for now, he was just playing along, until the Hales cut him loose and he was free to carve a place of his own, however he wanted.
If that was the case, it wasn't a smart decision, and Derek hoped to sway him from the thought—perhaps a little to keep him close, but mostly to keep him safe. An unbound adept, be it priest or druid or shaman or witch, was a target to anyone seeking power, an untapped well of might that could be sucked dry in a manner of days. It was highly dangerous, and wholly uncommon, and bound to occur if the young gypsy didn't decide to step up to plate and show that he was worth keeping. Without a family to bring him back into the fold until he found his own place, he would be unprotected, and he wouldn't last a month.
Derek wasn't going to let that happen.
The meeting with Ms. Morrell goes remarkably well—significantly better than Derek had been wishing it would.
As it seems, she's quite interested in trying to stay close to her brother, having been separated for close to a decade now. It's not hard to see that her presence, here and now, was no simple circumstance—no intervention of fate or nature. She'd heard of Claudia's affliction, timed her approach, and insinuated herself into the situation. Peter calls it ingenuity. Talia doesn't go quite so far, but certainly doesn't hold it against her.
For once Laura and Cora seem to agree with him, put on edge by the calculated nature of her opportunism. They all know it's really just survival, her looking out for herself, much as Talia is doing for the pack, considering a replacement, but still, it's easier to forgive in oneself than others. When it's for the sake of the family, it never feels so drastic, so harsh, but from the outside perspective, it gives Derek the chills. They're all on such a precarious a ledge, and he can't help but wonder how they got here, how great names, great families deteriorated so quickly.
History tells him it's linked directly to the human's advancement, and while there's a clear veil of bias, there's also irrefutable evidence. The two worlds have never known how to coexist and with science and technology advancing the way it is, for now, the scales have been tipped in the humans' favor. The species are all peaceful, for the most part, but it's a fragile ecosystem, and they hurt one another inadvertently, irreparably.
Derek's heard too much about it, been taught the intricacies again and again, in greater and greater detail as he gets older, and though he's not high in his mother's line of succession, he's still meant to play his part. He hates the idea of someday being the ambassador between his family and the inhabitants of Beacon Hills, much like Peter does for Talia now, working relations between the humans and witches and all manner of creatures of the continent, while she focuses on the Were both under her govern and her graces.
He's being groomed for it, for a life of service, and while he feels the obligation, he knows he can't handle the pressure, knows he would lead the name to ruin. Laura was born for rule—passionate and tenacious and strong. Cora's proved much more adept at being her agent, at knowing her strategies and implementing them with precision. They've always been thick as thieves, existed on a certain wavelength that Derek just doesn't. They work in tandem, like his mother and his uncle, always being where the other needed them to be.
Derek— he's just a soldier, a grunt. Don't get him wrong, he's a good one—good at following orders without question, at working within parameters, about understanding an assignments' goals and being able to flex its instructions if need be—and that's an honorable position, for anyone but himself. The Alpha's only son is meant for more—expected, obligated to be more.
But he just isn't. He was born as he is, and he doesn't know how to overcome that or if he even wants to. If he'd been Peter's son instead, no one would care what kind of life he led, if he lacked ambition, if he found himself content. It isn't fair to push that on him, and yet, life isn't fair, and what does he really have to complain over so much? Still, he has dreams of a quiet life, in a small house, with a loving mate—someone that makes him kill the spiders, makes him practice patience, makes him lunches, makes him want, makes him humble, makes him angry, makes him smile.
Without his permission, he still longs to be someone else.
Stiles keeps watch over them the first full moon after.
It's more than any of them expect, more than they would have under better circumstances, and Derek can't help but be impressed. Were are most potent in their shifted state, but also at their most vulnerable, and when the moon forced them to turn, shackled them inside themselves for the longest nights, it was of the utmost importance to have a guiding hand. It was never a duty to be taken lightly—the one time a pack allowed themselves to be shepherded, watched over by someone on the outside—and though there was a great deal of reluctance within the ranks, no one dared to turn the offer away.
The Hales were strong, but one could never predict when the wind might change, might have something wicked perched along its back, and so they learned to also be smart. The stubborn, prideful, strong thing to do would be to tell the whelp to stay inside till morning, that they would handle themselves as they always would. What they knew in their hearts to be smarter, what they all ceded to, was taking his scent, accepting his mark, and following him into the forest.
Just at dusk, as the colors started to mute and grey, they gathered outside, shed their human skin, and took to his side. Derek was first—an example to them all, a demonstration of his trust and willingness. Brown-black fur rippled across his arms and chest, his jaw cracked and elongated, his ears stretched and his eyes glowed, and in a snap of violence, cracking along his spine, his wolf took over. So gone to the pull of the moon, lost in the animal, he forgot the ceremony of the moment, the rigidity and pretense he'd been working so hard to keep up before and trotted to Stiles' side, nosing at his open palm.
With a soft smile—a genuine smile, Stiles presented his wrist, chuckling lightly at the hot whuffs of air that washed over his skin as Derek committed his scent to memory, before running those long fingers through his pelt, pressure harsh as a trail of wards branded into the fur. Derek shamelessly whined at the sensation, curling around Stiles' leg, not caring who was watching—the higher meaning of it all. He just knew, in this moment, that they belonged to each other now, and it felt so right, like the slipping into this second skin, easy and natural.
The others followed slowly at first—a hesitant trickle submitting one by one—but then exponentially faster, as the night descended and they itched to be true to themselves, to give in to the part usually so carefully reined in and kept caged. Giving in to Stiles was only for the night, and in exchange, they got utter freedom from their problems—got to escape into base wants and needs—immediate gratification without consequence. Talia came last, with the greatest gravity, and the greatest grace. Her acceptance meant everything and once it was given, all doors were opened.
They ran.
Through the trees, across rivers, over hills and into burrows —they ran and hunted and howled and for the first time since her passing, just were. There was nothing to hold them back, no guilt or depression or worry or mistrust. It was their gift—the reward for all the suffering managed through the rest of the month, the sheer weight of their restraint. Their shift made them more aware, than any race, of that razor's edge of control, of the immeasurable responsibility of emotion and decision, but in return, it freed them from it, wholly and completely.
And while they were lost to it, while they reveled in the austerity, Stiles watched over them. Always on the periphery, flitting from watch to watch, he kept them to their property, kept them from attack, kept them carefree. He never interacted, never interfered, but always kept in sight and in mind.
Come morning, they woke only five minutes from home—tired and sated and healthy and whole. Stiles was still perched on a craggy overhang above the pack, eyes bruised but alert as he cut at a pear, handing a slice to an idle fox before taking one himself. When Derek caught his eye, he smiled and saluted, swaying as he stood.
The moment was quiet, but undeniably triumphant.
Derek doesn't know quite what to make of the moment when he finds Cora peeling wallpaper in the cottage.
He'd been looking to pawn off his afternoon chores in exchange for an extra turn heading into town to stock up on the essentials. Twice a month, on a detailed and specific rotation, one of the pack was allowed to take the rusted grey truck out back down into the town with a list of food and toiletries and odds and ends to be brought back. It was supposed to be a chore, but having the rarely sanctioned excuse to be down around the humans for the whole day, it turned out to be a highly coveted privilege that most Hales tussled over. It had become a coming of age event even—a privilege the younger cousins jealousy looked forward to, often asking after stories of the people and places below once someone had just returned.
To be honest, Derek never really treasured them the way Cora and Laura did, always eagerly mapping out their time, gossiping about the townspeople, trying their best to make their turns come faster, more frequently. Most everyone who didn't know him well found him abrasive, and he had little patience to prove them otherwise. Typically he spent his trips expanding his library, seeing movies, or visiting the nautical museum and aquarium. He liked the quiet, the calm—not the foreign hustle and bustle that seemed to appeal to his sisters so much.
He was all too happy to give his upcoming excursion in return for a day spent at the lake, but it had taken him over an hour to find her—in the last place he'd ever think to look. The two of them were on opposite sides of the little house, but the silence was amicable as they worked the metal scrapers against the aged wood, occasionally getting to tear a long strip with quiet zeal. They don't notice him for a long minute, working infinitesimally closer as inch after inch of the peach floral print gets thrown to the floor. There's a swatch of pale grey-blue painted on a bare patch of wall by the door, and another of a creamy yellow in the kitchen. Derek notes that it's Cora with the warmer flecks of color on her arms, and Stiles with the steely smear along his cheek.
He's loathe to break the cordial moment, but just can't keep his curiosity to himself. "How'd he rope you into this?" The both of them jump a little—Stiles' scraper clanging to the floor. He blushes and shrugs sheepishly, but just turns back to his work with a smirk, completely unaffected by Cora's shrewd glare.
"He didn't have to trick me." She tries to sound admonishing, but the both of them know it was an easy assumption and the nonchalance falls flat. She uses a cloth on the kitchen island to rub at the old adhesive sticking to her fingers and stares at the floor. "Stiles just caught me after breakfast—said he was doing some renovations and would like my opinion. I think this is more redecorating that renovating, but—" She throws the last bit over her shoulder, actually smiling when Stiles squawks indignantly, before turning back to Derek and shifting her feet uncomfortably.
Derek tries his best not to radiate his pleasure, but is about as successful as she was. Trying not to make a moment of it, he just picks up a spare tool and starts working at an already weathered space. It only takes Cora a few seconds to drift back to her previous position, and the three of them work with the odd teasing jab thrown back and forth until Talia comes looking after them—worried that two of her three biggest eaters missed out on lunch.
She pulls a surprisingly similar routine as Derek upon finding them, but blows the chance at indifference when she pulls Cora into a hug from behind and kisses her hair before leaving. None of them say anything, but Stiles beams like he's just won an award, eating half his sandwich in a single bite as they tuck into the pseudo picnic Talia had just dropped off. Cora growls, without heat, when Derek starts to laugh, and even though she takes the majority of his chips as retribution, it's worth it to see her happy—here.
Later that night, once she's headed up to bed and Derek's once again standing at the sink and watching Stiles' silhouette move around the cottage, his mom slinks up next to him again, drying the plates and utensils as he passes them over. "A year…. He gets one year." He can hear the hesitance in her voice, the wavering doubt, and he doesn't know what to say, so he just keeps his gaze out the window. "Morrell agreed to it, saw that he'd need time to adjust—and grieve. She'll wait, but only for a year."
Derek winces, but manages to swallow around the dryness in his throat and nod haltingly. He can feel Talia trying to catch his eye, but he's been practicing avoiding her harsh gaze since he was little and used to track mud through the whole house, most especially all over freshly washed bedsheets. "I know you feel something for him, some kind of affinity, but if he can't fulfill his duties, if he can't step into her shoes, I have to put the pack before this boy… I won't be dragged down with him." To anyone else it would sound cold, but Derek knows better, knows that his mother has been so successful an Alpha because of her ability to make these hard calls, impartially and fair, with heart, but always with irrefutable logic. "If he has half the talent his mother did, he'll rise to the challenge."