Hello friends! I know it's been an incredibly long time since I posted anything. Life unfortunately got in the way and then I lost track of my muse and let me tell you, it was a struggle to find that little shit again. But now I'm back with a new story for a new fandom.
Now time for a disclaimer: I've only ever seen one episodr of Teen Wolf. And I'm sure you're all saying, "But how are you writing for a fandom you aren't really part of?" So what happened was I somehow fell into the Sterek fanfiction black hole and I've honestly read hundreds of stories and watched tons of fan videos [side note: if you know any good videos, let me know cause I live for them.] So long story short, all my knowledge is based on fanfiction, so don't judge me too harshly.
This will be two, maybe three chapters long. So leave a review, let me know what you think, I accept all constructive comments. Happy reading!
The door sliding open to his loft was no surprise to Derek. He had gotten used to the teenagers coming and going as they pleased, using his loft as their second home whether he wanted them to or not. Homework, research, pack nights, all of it was done in his loft more often than not. He'd never admit it, but he enjoyed having the rowdy bunch around. No, he wasn't surprised that someone was coming into his loft; he was surprised at who the person was.
He had heard Stiles's jeep puttering down the road for the past mile, heard Stiles's slightly too fast heartbeat as he got closer. Still it was strange for the teenager to come over, especially at this hour. The Nogitsune had only been defeated a week before. Stiles had been hospitalized for two days for sleep deprivation, malnutrition, and a myriad of cuts and bruises; he was released just in time for the funerals. Whether that was a good thing or not, he wasn't sure still. Derek hadn't seen him since then, though he wanted to desperately. But he knew better than anyone that sometimes you needed space to lick your wounds; sometimes even the most gentle touch hurt. So he impatiently waited for some sort of sign from Stiles that he wanted to have company around. Derek did not expect him to show up at 8:30 on a Sunday morning, but he would take what he would get.
"Stiles," Derek greeted him as he walked out of the kitchen, trying not to wince as he looked at him. He knew that a few days wasn't nearly enough time for Stiles to bounce back from being possessed, but he couldn't get over the dramatic difference between the Stiles he had known for the past few years and the Stiles that stood in front of him. The teen was pale as a sheet, his cheeks hollowed, and dark bruises under his eyes. His shoulders were hunched in as he shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway.
"Can I come in?" Stiles murmured uncertainly, unable to meet Derek's eyes for more than a moment.
"Yeah of course," Derek answered easily. He walked over to the door, hauling it open further. "What are you doing here so early?"
Stiles glanced up at him briefly before shuffling into the loft. "I...I need a favor," he muttered desperately as the door slid shut behind him. His arms crossed over his chest tightly, his fingers unconsciously tapping against his sides. "Please."
Derek nodded warily, "Okay, what do you need?"
His eyes jerked up to Derek's face, hazel orbs filled with shock, as if he expected to be rebuked. Some of the tension left his shoulders as he took a deep breath, preparing himself. "I need you to drive me somewhere. About three hours from here there's a tattoo shop; they do tattoos for supernaturals," Stiles explained.
"You want to get a tattoo?" Derek asked skeptically. He could feel his eyebrows inching up his forehead, making a conscious effort to control his expression. Stiles always gave him shit about his expressive eyebrows; he didn't want to give him the wrong impression. "You're terrified of needles."
"I need to get it, Derek," he pleaded frantically, his voice cracking. He fumbled for his bag on his shoulder, tugging it open and pulling out a stack of papers. "I've been doing research," Stiles explained as he flipped through the pages, the loose sheets fluttering to the loft floor. "And I found a symbol, backed by the Beastiary and several magic sources, that works as an anti-possession mark. It basically prevents your body by being possessed by anything. No-nothing can get in. Look," he begged as he held up a paper, the sheet shaking slightly. "Please, I just..."
Derek walked toward him slowly, like one would approach a skittish animal. He wrapped his hand around Stiles's wrist firmly, helping him hold the sheet steady as he focused on the symbol drawn on the page. "And you're sure about this?" Derek asked cautiously.
Stiles nodded jerkily, his eyes wide. "Positive. I even called Deaton and checked it out with him, made sure it's the right thing to get tattooed. He said it was good. Please Derek, I just-I just need someone to go with me. I don't mean to bother you but I can't go alone."
He mulled over the idea for a moment. Part of him wanted to refuse Stiles, to tell him to wait until he was properly rested and healed before he made a decision. But it was clear from the bags under Stiles's eyes and the smell of exhaustion hanging around him that rest was not something that would come easily, not while he was still terrified the Nogitsune would come back. If this is what it took to make Stiles feel safe in his own skin, Derek would do it. In a heartbeat, he would do anything to remove the weight on Stiles's shoulders.
"Okay," Derek finally answered, nodding his agreement. "Yeah I'll take you."
Stiles's arm suddenly dropped to his side, all of the tension melting from him so fast Derek was worried he'd suddenly drop to the floor. "Holy shit, really?" he breathed. "Oh man, Derek, thank you."
Derek smiled gently at him, reaching out to squeeze the back of Stiles's neck lightly. "Lemme just have some breakfast and we can hit the road," he said as he turned back to the kitchen. "Come have something to eat."
"I'm not hungry," Stiles replied as he gathered up his fallen papers before following after Derek.
"Not an option," he retorted as he gestured toward one of the empty seats. "You've gotta have something in your stomach if you're gonna get a tattoo."
Stiles stared down at the counter as he rested his hands on it, tapping lightly. "I can't keep anything down," he said quietly, the scent of guilt and shame filling the room with a bitter smell. "It comes back up."
Derek hummed sympathetically, his expression gentling. He remembered the dark days after the fire, unable to keep anything in his stomach no matter how desperately he wanted to. "I'll make you something easy on your stomach," he assured him as he grabbed a container of oatmeal from the cupboard. "Try to eat some of it at least."
He nodded in agreement, running his hands tiredly over his face. "Yeah, okay," Stiles answered. "What do I have to lose."
"Laura used to make me this when we were in New York," Derek said softly, his eyes focused on the oats in the bowl as he worked. "When we first fled to New York. For weeks after the fire, I barely keep anything down, no matter how hard I tried. The only thing that worked was broths and that's not exactly filling." He pulled open his spice cupboard, grabbing the vanilla and cinnamon. "I was wasting away in front of Laura and I just wanted to be okay for her, or at least be able to fake being okay. I didn't want her to lose the last of her family because I couldn't get my shit together." He paused to take a deep breath, grabbing a saucepan from the cupboard and setting it on the stove. "Then one morning I got up and she was making oatmeal. And it actually smelled kinda good, like the scent didn't make my stomach clench with nausea. So she made me a bowl and it was the first meal I kept down properly in three weeks." He turned toward Stiles as the scent of shame evaporated, a small sad smile on his lips. "I was so relieved I broke down at the kitchen table; Laura had to calm me down so I didn't make myself sick from crying."
Lifting the now finished oatmeal from the stove, he carefully divided the food between two bowls, grabbing them and a pair of spoon from the drawer. "I might not get being possessed," Derek said gently, setting a bowl in front of Stiles, "but I get how hard this part is. It's hard, but it's not impossible to come back from."
Stiles looked up at Derek, his brown eyes a little wet. "Thanks, Der," he answered huskily, sniffling as he turned his attention to his bowl.
Derek stroked the back of Stiles's head lightly before settling into the seat beside him. He tried not to pay too much attention to Stiles eating, not wanting to make him more self-conscious than he probably was already, but he couldn't help glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes every few moments.
It took some time, but eventually both bowls were emptied, all remnants of their breakfast gone. "Okay," Stiles exhaled, staring at the bowl in awe. "That was good. I think I'm good."
Derek smiled slightly as he grabbed the bowls, carrying them to the sink. "No nausea?" he questioned.
Stiles shook his head, "My stomach doesn't feel like I swallowed a brick either. I think this might actually stay down. Hopefully."
"Good," Derek answered, trying to hide his relief. "I'll get changed and then we can head out." He squeezed Stiles's shoulder lightly as he walked past him, heading for the stairs. Swapping his pajama bottoms and under shirt for a pair of jeans and a Henley, Derek walked back into the kitchen as Stiles hung up his phone.
"Dad," Stiles explained tiredly, slumped against the kitchen counter. "He's at work so I left him a message. Hopefully he won't send out a search party when he realizes I'm not home. He's got enough to worry about," he muttered.
Derek nodded in understanding. "Come on," he said, heading to the loft door. "Let's head out."
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