Title: Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)
Author: ANTchan
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Genre: E/Romance/Mystery
Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Summary: Deputy Stiles Stilinski is fascinated with Beacon Hills' serial killer cold case of 2011, to the point of obsession. He's going to solve it if it kills him. It's that last bit that lands him on mandatory health leave. It's his own bad decision-making that puts him in the middle of the woods at night. Going off the path to help a wolf caught in a hunter's snare? That one he's not sure about.

An AU where Scott was never bitten, Derek never followed Laura to Beacon Hills, and Peter was never caught.

This story includes a vague attempt at a murder mystery, human Alpha Stiles Stilinski (which he did not sign up for), full shift werewolves, Pack dynamics, OCs, Derek Hale having a life outside of tragedy, nonbinary Scott McCall, and titles that are way too long.

Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)

Chapter 1: This is the road to ruin (and we're starting at the end)

-1-

Waking up to his father clutching his (latest) dirty little secret in his hands is always the start of a very bad week. After a long, successful teenage career of hiding his porn stash from his father, you'd think Stiles could've prevented this. And yet, Sheriff Stilinski (because there's no calling him Dad when he has the Sheriff expression on) is here, standing in his apartment holding a very specific redwell folder in his hands. It's not his porn stash. At this point, Stiles wishes it's his porn stash.

"Really, kid?"

This… is not how Stiles wants to start his morning. Afternoon. What time is it?

"Uh. Morning, Dad."

His father's expression doesn't even twitch. A bad sign. A huge, neon bad sign. "It's seven."

Stiles lurches clean off the couch that he doesn't remember falling asleep on. Or would have, if he'd managed to get his feet under him. What it turns out to be is a blur of flailing limbs as he slips sideways into the space between the beaten up sofa and the coffee table, sending a shower of incriminating papers and glossy photos with him. He's up in an instant, knocking into the table with a muttered curse as he hurries to gather up the papers – and maybe shove them under the couch, who knows, it might work. He might be able to convince his dad he didn't see anything-

"Stiles."

"Look, Dad, m'sorry I slept in and all, I'll be ready for work in just a sec, I promise-"

"Stiles."

"I just got caught up last night and-"

"It's seven in the evening, Stiles. You completely missed your shift."

Stiles' hands freeze in their mad dash to clean up, his rapidly beating heart dropping into his stomach. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.'" Sheriff Stilinski holds his gaze for a moment, before heaving an all-too-familiar sigh and moving to sit on the couch. It's the same sigh he uses when he catches Stiles doing something he shouldn't. Like poking through the police files or drinking out in the woods or coming out of The Jungle - all before he'd hit the age of 18.

It's the universal sigh of parental disappointment and exasperation.

At 23, after moving away for college and coming out of the police academy and you know, the general independent-living-on-his own thing, Stiles thinks he should be immune to it. That just one sigh wouldn't make his insides shrivel and tie themselves in knots.

"So," Stilinski begins, and there's so much intent loaded into that one word that Stiles wonders how easy it would be fit under the couch and pretend he doesn't exist. "So. The Alpha case." The Sheriff plucks the stack of reports and glossy evidence photos from his son's hands. "Again."

"Dad…"

"You need to let this go, Stiles."

The shame and dread in Stiles' veins gives way to molten irritation. "You- like you haven't ever had a case before that was your baby, Dad."

The photos land on the table with a slap, fanning out in what is probably an unintentionally dramatic motion.

It's all pretty gruesome – a swath of brutal maulings in 2011. In the beginning it was believed that a rabid, large – very large – animal had wandered into Beacon Hills. The first victim, Laura Hale, had been killed out in the Preserve, and the second, Garrison Myers, had been killed in town but still late at night when hypothetical rabid mountain lions (the favorite animal theory at the time) could be prowling. But after the first two killings, things had taken a turn for the weird. The attacks started happening indoors – in places where no wild animal, no matter how feral, would dare to hunt – and in ways that no animal could. In a video rental store. In the basement of the local high school. Victims five and six had been stuffed inside a burning barrel out in the Preserve after being mauled. Adrian Harris had been killed inside his locked office. Jennifer Kisler, long term care nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, had been found in her own trunk two days after her patient, Peter Hale, had gone suddenly - and suspiciously - died of complications. Victims ten through twelve had been killed inside the old Hale house, out in the Preserve again. But the thirteenth and final victim, Kate Argent, had only one wound - a single, very deliberate clawed gash across her throat.

And then it had just stopped. Two months of gore and terror and then nothing. No evidence, no leads. Not even a reliable witness. There were a lot of things about the case that weren't right. It had baffled the BHSD at the time and completely fascinated Stiles.

It's become his baby.

And yeah, so sometimes he gets a little too invested in it. So maybe the first time he'd heard about one of the victims he'd had the bright idea to convince Scott to go out into the Preserve… at night… when there was possibly an incredibly bold predator or a very bloodthirsty human out there… to look for the other half of Laura Hale's body.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. But his dad had found them and they returned home safe and sound. If grounded for the rest of their natural lives.

And his dad is glaring at him. Stiles has drifted off again.

"What-?"

"It's not your 'baby,' kid. A cop's pet case is a delicate balancing act. This? This is your obsession. It has been since it started – when you weren't a cop and shouldn't have been within twenty yards of this case, mind you," he adds as Stiles opens his mouth for the inevitable protest. Stiles still flails his hands in gestures that he hopes come off as offended and defiant as he feels. "I've already almost lost you to this once, Stiles."

And that… damn. What the hell is Stiles supposed to say to that?

"That was… no, look, Dad. It's really not like that this time." At his father's deadpan stare, he raises his hands in protest. "What? It's not!"

"Uh-huh. So you didn't go into a hyperfocus and forget to take care of yourself."

"Daaaaaad, no."

"How long did you go without sleep until you crashed last night, Stiles?"

"Just… not more than 48 hours…" His mild disapproval intensifies into full on parental criticism and Stiles winces.

"And when's the last time you ate something-" Stiles totally has an answer for that, he really does. But before he can even open his mouth (which, damn, his dad is quick on the draw with that), the Sheriff points an accusing finger his way. "-that wasn't Slim Jims or Cheetos?"

"…Um."

"Right. I thought so. So, son, here's what's going to happen." His father leans over, gathering up the case reports and evidence photos in one well-practiced swoop. He taps the pile sharply on his knee to straighten it, the action punctuating the frankly unnerving smile that's working its way onto his face. "This? This is mine now. You, kiddo, are officially banned from the Alpha case."

"What? You can't-!"

"But I can. See, I'm not only your father, I'm your boss. And I can't have one of my deputies working his way into a trip to the emergency room over a cold case. So." The Sheriff stands, tucking the redwell under his arm. "You're off the case. Mandatory leave until next Monday."

"Dad!"

"And," Stilinski speaks over him, "you already have plans. Big plans. Your friends have booked a cabin out in Lassen. Sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun."

Stiles grabs the pillow off the sofa and throws it in sheer frustration as comprehension dawns on him. "You and Scott- was this an intervention?!" He's going to have words with his so-called brother. Many of them. And none of them nice.

"An intervention implies you have a choice, Stiles. This isn't a come-to-the-light talk. This is an order. You're off the case and are going to take a damned break." And with that, the Sheriff turns towards the door with the folder tucked safely under his arm. "Really, kid," he shoots back over his shoulder, "if you couldn't even hide your porn stash from me in high school how did you think you were going to hide this from me?"

Please let the floor open up and swallow him.

"I know where you keep your junk food!" he shouts back, still cringing.

"No, you don't. Nice try." The door shuts with a resounding click, but Stiles can just barely see his father's too-smug grin before it does.

He snatches his phone off the table, fingers tapping too roughly as he messages Scott.

Ur a dirty traitor.

Talk w/ Dad go good then? :) Ur gonna like the cabin! Ill bring curly fries and the brochure.

"Goddamnit, Scott, I'm trying to be pissed at you."

-2-

Derek Hale isn't a stranger to the buzzing itch at the base of his skull. It's been there for years, and has only served to remind him of the tangible loss of his Pack, his distance from Laura, and the absence of his sister after her death. It's the hollow feeling of being Omega. Alone. But recently, the buzz will intensify into an ache, and then a pull, and then a compulsion to return to Beacon Hills. To return to the place that had once been home, and has ended up being the graveyard of everyone Derek Hale has ever cared about.

Derek's returned exactly once since his family home had burnt to the ground: to pick up his Uncle Peter's belongings and make arrangements for Laura's burial. That was six years ago. And the entire time he'd been in that small forest-bound town, his skin had been crawling. There wasn't a single corner of the town that didn't remind him of death – that didn't trick his senses into smelling cooking meat and burning hair and stale, spilled blood.

There are no good memories left in Beacon Hills. Only death and loss. Wanting to go back there isn't something he can rationally explain.

But this time it isn't a simple urge to travel to his hometown. Today it isn't even a pull.

Today it feels like the breath has been sucked from his lungs. Like he's been hit in the chest by a speeding car, and it's hard enough that Derek's knees buckle and he barely manages to keep himself from dropping to the floor. The second wave finishes the job, sending Derek to the floor of his kitchen gasping for air and his mind a frenzy of 'Come back. Come back. Beacon Hills. Come to me.'

He knows what that means. That isn't a simple compulsion formed from loss and grief.

'COME TO ME.'

This is an Alpha asserting their will.

Derek comes to himself again, shaking on the blissfully cool kitchen floor. He doesn't know if it's been seconds or an hour. His body aches, every nerve-ending screaming to obey the siren's call of an Alpha. And that's when the panic sets in. Derek doesn't have an Alpha. Derek doesn't even have a Pack. After Laura's death, Derek made sure of that. He's an Omega and an unknown Alpha shouldn't be able to exert that kind of will over him from across the country. The conclusion that leaves is not a good one. His mind races, searching for another, any other solution. There isn't one.

The only Alpha who could call him from such a distance is Laura. And with Laura dead, that ability falls to… the one who killed her.

The Alpha who murdered the only loved one he had left is calling him to Beacon Hills.

Derek retches into the sink. His body yearns to heed the call, even though his mind repeatedly tries to wrestle control back. There are only two things the Alpha can want him for. Either they want to kill Derek just like they had Laura, and definitively take Beacon Hills from the traditional Hale territory… or they want to force Derek to join their Pack.

It means death, either way. Beacon Hills means death either way. Because he'd rather die than join this Alpha.

But maybe… that's fitting.

The thought stops Derek dead in the middle of his trek to the couch, throat suddenly too tight to breathe.

It would be fitting. He could go back to the place where his most of his Pack met their ends and join them one way or another. He wouldn't be alone anymore. He wouldn't be Omega. He could finally make things even for what he'd done. Maybe it's how things should be…

"No," he croaks. He's worked so hard not to think like that anymore. "No." Derek shakes his head to clear it, grabbing a blanket from the cabinet and lying down on the couch, tucking it around him like a protective shield against the pull still clawing at him. He expects it to only get worse, as powerful as the Alpha's call is. But he has no other choice. He's severed ties with everyone Laura allied them with. And Ceri is gone. They'll be in Chicago for at least a few weeks more. Ric and the others, while well-meaning, don't have the power to save him from this either.

He's alone in this, but that's not really a surprise.

Derek is used to it. He'll handle it alone, like he always has.

That's the last time Derek gets any real sleep. The pain only gets worse over the next day. Derek locks himself in his apartment, barely moving from bed during the worst of it. At the end of the second day he comes to sweating and shaking on the floor by the front door. The day after he finds himself a block from his apartment building. He can't remember how he got there, only knows that his very bones ache from the Alpha's call.

He sprints back to his apartment, and uses wolfsbane-soaked ropes to block all the doors and windows. He doesn't remember what happens after that.

The next time Derek "wakes," his hands are blistered and burned and smell of wolfsbane, and he's driving the Camaro down an unknown highway. He almost crashes the car, and it's only after he stops panicking that he has the chance to take inventory of where he is. There's a duffel bag in the passenger's seat that has a couple changes of clothes and other essentials. He doesn't remember packing. His phone tells him he's an hour from the Pennsylvania-Ohio border on the I-80.

Derek turns the car around.

He makes it all the way into New York City. This time he feels the Alpha's call coming just before he blacks out.

And wakes up in Iowa. At a gas station with a seriously dubious looking hotdog in his hand, which is almost more terrifying than the fucking Alpha. He throws it away, ignoring his growling stomach.

He spends the next few days (or what he thinks is the next few days) in the most futile battle of wills. Several times he tries to turn around and go back to New York, only to lose time again. And again. And each time Derek wakes, he finds that he's a little further westward. No matter how far he doubles back, he loses more and more distance with every blackout.

Until, finally, Derek wakes up in a hotel room.

He doesn't even have to check his phone to know where he is. The window is cracked, letting in the crisp autumn air that is thick with the scent of a very particular forest. His throat closes up at the first hint of it, the smell of fallen leaves and dense vegetation only translating as death and rot and the phantom smell of burning flesh. Grief chokes him, sits hollow in his chest, and hopelessness wells up to fill the void. He's in Beacon Hills. None of his attempts to break free have worked, and there's no way he can make it out before the Alpha asserts his will again.

There's no escape now. There's nothing but death awaiting him here.

Derek sinks into the chair by the window, lowers his face into his hands, and waits. When the next call comes some time later, he doesn't resist.

-3-

"You're not supposed to go behind my back and team up with Dad, dude! You're the Hufflepuff in this friendship. You're not allowed to be sneaky!"

"Hufflepuff- I'm at least a Gryffindor."

"Scotty, you're the perfect combo of kindness and Disney Princess and puppy eyes. Totally a Hufflepuff."

Derek blinks into consciousness, the voices cutting through the haze like a white hot blade. All at once Derek's assaulted with the sounds and smells of the Beacon Hills Preserve, the conditioned scent of rot only offset by the scents of the humans trudging through the leaves nearby. They're not hunters, even though one of them smells faintly like gunpowder underneath a prevailing scent of sweet wood smoke. The other smells softly floral, and under that, sterilizers and herbs and something nameless and sharp.

They aren't likely a danger to him. But even still, Derek's hackles are raised as he rounds the hill towards them. They don't notice he's there at all. The two men seem young – too young. Or just unburdened. Derek isn't sure. The one on left is tall, gangly – limbs looking too long and too thin under his baggy clothes. There's a smattering of marks over one pale cheek, his eyes large and darting and an upturn tilt to his nose. He's gesturing wildly as he talks to the man on the right – who is slightly shorter and stockier than the first. This one's skin is a soft gold, a slight unevenness to the cut of his jaw, and everything about his face is soft and open.

Eventually the first man looks up, jolting violently as they lock eyes and his arm swinging out to smack his friend right in the chest. They both turn to him, making a stupid amount of noise as they disturb the fallen leaves. "What are you doing out here?" Derek growls at them, pacing forwards. "This is private property." The words are out of his mouth before he can even think about them, but it's true, Derek realizes. He can feel that he is safely in Hale territory. It's still strong, even after twelve years. It's chill inducing. It's wrong.

And maybe that's why the Alpha called him here. If they want the territory, killing the last remaining Hale would be the easiest method.

"Uh, sorry man, we didn't know," the taller one is saying. He's rubbing at his hair, making it stick up in absurd little spikes, his other hand tapping at his thigh and just fidgeting uncontrollably.

"Yeah," the shorter adds, shifting from foot to foot. The flowery scent is coming from him, Derek realizes. A perfume, but faint and gentle even to Derek's hypersensitive nose. "We were just passing through. Sorry…"

Derek doesn't grace them with an answer. Just glares at them hard enough that both humans seem to shrink back a bit. And then he turns around and makes his way back through the leaf covered forest floor. He needs to go back to the house, no matter how much the thought of it makes his stomach churn. Even being within a hundred yards of the burnt out husk of his home is too much for Derek. But there's something he needs there. Something that could be his last chance to resist the Alpha's call. At least for a little while longer.

"Dude, that was Derek Hale!" The voice drifts back to him when he's out of view of the human men, and far enough away that their voices are soft to even his ears. Derek stops, tilting his head back to catch the sound. "You don't remember? His family? They all burned to death in that big fire twelve years ago." Derek flinches, the smell of rot all around him swelling in that moment into something that's almost too much to handle. "I used to see him around town with his family sometimes. Man, he grew up pretty. Not that he wasn't pretty when he was a teenager. But that? Wow. Sign me up for that."

That halts the panic of Derek's thoughts. His mouth thins into an irritated frown and eyes drifting towards the sky just as he hears the human's friend echo his own silent response. "Really, dude?"

"What? I can't notice a hot piece of ass- speaking of: did you see that ass?"

He doesn't wait to listen for anything more. Derek rolls his eyes, before starting off at a sprint. He's got far more important things to think about than a gangly human with wandering eyes.

-4-

Derek "too pretty to handle" Hale and his unbelievable ass are long out of sight, which is a shame, but Scott's expression – torn between exasperation and laughter – almost makes up for it. "Seriously, dude," he repeats, making grabby gestures just at ass-height for obscene emphasis. "Did you see it? How could you miss it in those tight jeans, sweet Christ. You think he needs to lube himself up before he gets into-"

Scott finally breaks into laughter. "Alright, alright I get it!"

"No, no, I don't think you do. I don't think you can understand my severe sexual frustration on account of your very happy relationship with the lovely Miss Yukimura. And you know what? I think after being subjected to your frankly disturbing play-by-plays of how perfect she is mid coitus," Stiles throws an extra trill into the word, just to watch Scott blanch, "it's high time I give as good as I get. So would you like to hear exactly what I would do to that ass if given half a chance? Or let him do to my ass? Hmmm?"

"Would it… make you feel better about me and Dad making you go on this trip?"

"No, but it'd be a start." He holds up thumb and forefinger, squeezing them close together. "A teeny, barely there start." He has to look away from Scott's ridiculous puppy eyes. Has to, or else he'll crack.

"Well," Scott pipes up, shuffling through the leaves beside him, "get all your fantasizing out now. That guy? Not a good choice." He's glancing back the way Hale went, and the troubled recognition on his face brings Stiles to a complete halt.

"What? Hey, you said you didn't know him."

"I didn't say that, dude. I didn't know that was Derek Hale. I've seen him before though. In 2011, when you… you know, had your thing." He gestures vaguely, needlessly, even if his false casual tone has the air between them cooling solemnly. "He was there. He called the ambulance."

"He what? He seriously-" Stiles whirls on heel, eyes searching the horizon to see if he can catch even the faintest glimpse of the man now. Holy shit. "A guy that hot saved my life and you never told me? Scott, breach of good brother code here!"

Scott shrugs, and seriously, that is no way to act when dropping this kind of very important information! "He didn't stick around. He got you lying down before you really started getting bad and called an ambulance. He barely even stayed to answer the EMT's questions. Didn't give his name or anything. Just thought he was a good guy until… well, now. Now I'm glad I didn't say anything."

"Glad you didn't-" Stiles parrots back at him, flailing his hands at the indignity of it all. "Scott that man is hot like burning and you never told me? I could have been all up in that years ago! Scottttttt."

"He's Derek Hale," Scott bites the name out with a kind of bitterness Stiles doesn't hear often from him. "If you'd actually met him back then you would've made yourself even worse." The hesitant look Scott fixes him with then sends a chill down his spine. "Still could happen." There's a moment of dead, awkward silence where Stiles valiantly tries to come up with a denial that Scott will believe. But then his best friend smiles. "Maybe it's a good thing he's way out of your league."

And that is something Stiles can handle. Teasing and sarcasm are the universal languages of the McCall-Stilinski Brotherhood of Awesome, after all. "What?" he gasps dramatically. "What about me would he not be interested in?"

"Hmmm. I dunno. All… that, I guess."

"Dude, you just gestured at all of me."

Scott laughs at him as he diverts course, not quite heading back the way they came, but moving definitively out of "Hale territory." (Stiles almost asks him not to, if it'll mean he'll get to encounter the grumpy, unbelievably hot, and now highly intriguing Mister Hale again.)

"No, no but seriously, Scott. Scott! He'd totally go for this."

"Nuh-uh."

"Why not? Enlighten me, oh-wise-one."

Scott's eyes are sparkling as he glances at him over his shoulder. "Because you're attracted to him." He leaves that hanging in the air just long enough for Stiles to take an indignant breath, before continuing. "You like them really pretty, scary-smart, a little bit mean, and way out of your league."

Stiles throws his hands up in the air. "Name one-"

"Lydia."

"Okay, fair. But that's-"

"Danny."

That one didn't exactly count, because Stiles has, in fact, gotten some of that. But the occasional, casual thing that sometimes happens with him and Danny couldn't be called Danny "totally going for him" either. "I'll give you that one on technicality."

"That one girl you met on our first day of college. What was her name again? Marsha…?"

"Marilyn. Marilyn Beattie."

Scott's actually starting to look smug now. "And then there was that guy at the Academy that you tripped all over yourself trying to impress-"

"Alright, enough! I actually don't fail utterly at the whole relationship thing, dude. You can't just pick and choose certain ones!"

"I know. I'm just saying that the people you act like that for? They're not the best people for you. They don't respect you nearly enough to deserve you."

"Aw, man." Leave it to Scott to turn teasing into something earnest and sweet. Stiles doesn't even know how to respond to that, except for with an exasperated, "You're a dork, Scotty."

"Yeah, I guess…" His friend's voice trails off suddenly, uncertain. His steps falter for the briefest second. Frowning, Stiles peers around him, only to see Scott fidgeting with his nails, chipping away at the soft, pale pink nail polish that's been there for a few days now. Picking it off is usually a rite he saves for Stiles in his more jittery moods.

Oh.

"Hey, Scotty, don't worry about it. He probably didn't see. And even if he did, there's nothing wrong with it. Okay?"

"He was kind of a jerk…" Scott mutters.

He reaches over to grab Scott's hands before he can do any more damage. Scott had spent most of their bro night getting it perfect! "Then he's a fucking dickbag. Don't mess up your badass nails."

Scott levels him with a downright huffy stare. "Stiles, they're pink. Not badass."

"Pink is totally badass! Don't let Lydia hear you say it isn't. Come on, you worked really hard on them. They look really nice!"

That seems to get Scott to relent, his face flushing gently. "Okay. Thanks, dude."

"We can head back to your place and you can fix them after lunch!"

"Yeah?" The line of Scott's shoulders relax.

They walk in silence for a few more minutes, until Stiles can't take it anymore.

"But I could totally get him if I tried, right?"

"Totally, dude. He wouldn't be able to resist."

"Hell yeah!"

END CHAPTER 1.