This was supposed to be an action filled story about breaking free from cages and getting bloody revenges. Instead this happened. Well, have a tiny little action and a whole lot of feeling. I hope it's enjoyable regardless.
Thank you 35nanou for all your patience when I asked the same questions over and over, for finding loopholes in my plot and always saying the right thing.
Thank you BregoMellonNin for a wonderful week when you visited me and for the inspiration explosion we both experienced. Without it, this fic would never had been completed.
Thank you Karen Ec for pre-reading and Sue273 for betaing. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Since You Saved My Life
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Stiles' fascination with werewolves had started when he was a little boy and his mother took him to the local library to find new books for them to read together at bedtime. Always the curious one, Stiles went wandering off into the grown-up section by himself and came back to her hauling a heavy, worn-out book, his round cheeks red from exhaustion.
He laid the book down in front of her, his little finger trembling with excitement as he pointed to the picture on the cover; a man with a really funny face, pointy teeth, and red eyes.
Stiles' mother put the book away, but took his hand and guided him to the animal section in the children's department. The creature had a name, she told him. Before she died, they had read their way through all the children's books on werewolves the library owned.
Years passed where Stiles put the subject away—it had kind of been his and his mother's thing—but as he came to know that werewolves actually existed in the real world, and not only as what he'd thought of as stories from the children's books, his interest reached new heights, this time with the internet as his main source.
At twenty one, when he was back in Beacon Hills for the summer between his junior and senior year at college, he was pulling out of the grocery store parking lot when he noticed a familiar face on the glossy flyer pinned to a tree. He nearly crashed his jeep in excitement.
A Freak Show was coming to Beacon Hills, to his hometown.
All kinds of strange creatures.
Werewolves!
Stiles ripped the flyer down, his excitement growing as he read on before folding it neatly together and tucking it in his glove compartment. He took his cell from his pocket and texted Scott to inform him about the change of plans. There was no way they were going to play Call of Duty on Saturday evening now; they were going to meet the creatures of the night instead. For real.
.
.
Stiles didn't see much of his father in his day-to-day life. The sheriff buried himself in his work after losing his wife—the choice had probably been either work or the whisky bottle, Stiles figured—and he must have noticed that Stiles usually landed on his feet whatever challenge life threw his way. What his father didn't quite realize was that Scott's mother, Melissa, often came to the boys' rescue before they became smarter. And learned how to use stealth.
The last three years, Stiles and Scott had been attending college a three-hour drive away from Beacon Hills and living together in a small apartment off campus. Though Stiles was home for the summer working as an intern in the police office, he'd merely seen his dad at home a couple of times during the first week.
On Saturday morning, Stiles did his laundry, read a book (The Maze Runner), ate the dinner he prepared by himself—vegetable lasagna—and placed the leftovers in the fridge for his father to find whenever he saw fit to end his shift. Later, Stiles drove over to pick up Scott, and though Scott never was particularly interested in werewolves, he was still a good friend and almost as enthusiastic as Stiles when they parked by a clearing outside of town on the border of the Hale property where the Freak Show had made camp.
Stiles jumped out of his jeep, and dragged Scott after him to stand in line with various visitors waiting to pay for their tickets, shifting his weight from foot to foot eagerly. It was starting to get dark outside when they finally were seated on the plastic chairs in the crowded tent, lighting focused on the drapes every chair was facing. Stiles' leg was bouncing with energy as he sat on the edge of his chair, craning his neck this way and that, trying to get a glimpse of a werewolf.
Scott bumped his shoulder, holding out the large popcorn he'd bought and sipping his soda while offering, "Hey, dude, you want some?" Stiles gave him a quick glance and shook his head before he turned to the drapes again because someone was tapping a mic somewhere; could the werewolf be the first act, he wondered. There was no program anywhere and frankly Stiles did not care whatever the show had to offer except for the werewolves.
Finally, a man appeared in the center of the drapes wearing a top hat and a black suit, and all the talking around them quieted down to an expectant whispering. The man had a few short white hairs on his temples and lots of deepening wrinkles as a well-practiced smile formed on his face. He threw out his palm as he started speaking into his mic in exactly the pompous way Stiles expected from a Freak Show emcee.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Girls and boys! It's my pleasure to welcome you all to our Freak Show." The crowd started clapping and Stiles joined them enthusiastically. Scott was still busy with his eating and tapped his thigh a few times for show.
"I'm the director of this fine establishment of freaks and crew. Which is which is up to you to decide." The crowd laughed at his joke, but Stiles was impatient for him to get to the good stuff. Where were the werewolves?
"Unfortunately, as a result of circumstances beyond my control, I first have to inform you that the main attraction, our werewolf, will not be attending tonight's show in this excellent town of Beacon Hills." The director went on and on about the other fabulous creatures and freaks that actually were performing tonight, but Stiles didn't hear a word of it. He was on his feet before he knew it, knocking Scott's soda over and soaking his sneakers with Coke, but he wouldn't realize it until much later in evening when he fell to the mattress wondering why his sock smelled strangely sweet.
A large hand crammed down on his shoulder. "Please sit, sir." A guard pushed him firmly down in his seat again and Stiles batted his hand away in irritation.
"Get off me!"
Another guard came too, and they both stood looming over Stiles with their huge arms crossed over muscled chests. Stiles did absolutely not want to sit down; he wanted to know the reasons for the show to lure him in with promises of shiny prizes, but leave him with leftover crumbs.
Stiles still glared up at them as the director droned on and on about their freaks and what was so special about them, but it wasn't until Scott pulled Stiles to him, whispering in his ear, that Stiles managed to compose himself. "Stealth, man. Stealth."
Stiles and Scott knew each other as well as a set of identical twins probably would, and they often could utter merely a single word before the other one knew exactly what he meant. Stiles turned to grin at his best friend, who winked back at him, and Stiles saw popcorn pieces stuck between his teeth as he grinned back.
The guards eased off and walked away when Stiles seemingly complied, and Stiles had to hold his right hand hard down in his lap to prevent it from flying up in the air to high five his buddy.
They waited a couple of more minutes for the guards to turn their eyes away from them. When the first creature—or it was probably more accurate to call it a human—came on stage, looking surprisingly dirty and miserable, Stiles and Scott risked sneaking out under the tent cloth and ran behind a carriage without anyone noticing. They had years of experience getting themselves in—and out—of trouble, after all.
Stiles had no idea where the werewolf was held, and they stood behind a carriage for a few seconds looking around.
"What's the matter with the werewolf, you think?" Scott whispered beside him.
"No idea," Stiles whispered back. He tried to think while the possibility of not seeing a werewolf after all made him restless and it was difficult to collect his thoughts. "As far as I know, werewolves don't get sick, so it must be something else."
Scott followed right behind him as they snuck under and around the various carriages and tents. It was obviously not expected to have visitors back here, and they had to hide from several guards, shining their flashlights at what Stiles eventually saw were cages. Most of the cages were stinking of excrements, blood and sweat, and outside of the glossy flyer, the main tent, and the shiny buttons on the crew's uniforms, the whole Freak Show oozed of destruction.
Stiles thought he saw two small, red lights near the forest just as he nearly crashed into a guard crossing the corner of the next carriage. Just in time, Scott pulled him back by his hoodie. Stiles' heart was hammering in his chest as he stared at Scott, whose eyes were watching him back, huge and fearful. Stiles bent down, searching the ground for something, anything, and grabbed a brick that was shoved against the carriage wheel. Before he could do anything, Scott grabbed his arm, pressing his mouth to Stiles' ear, whispering frantically, "You are not going to knock him out."
"No, of course not. I don't want to hurt anyone," Stiles quietly reassured him.
Stiles passed Scott and went to the other side of the carriage where he threw the brick and heard it land with a low thump before he rushed back to his friend. They peeked under the carriage, seeing the guard walk towards where Stiles had thrown the brick. He pulled at Scott's arm and they snuck around the corner for a second time when he saw that the two shining lights were red eyes watching him from the biggest cage so far, half hidden near the forest on the border of the Hale property.
Stiles forgot about guards, the world, and all of the danger they were in as he felt himself sucked towards the creature. He knew immediately he'd found him. The werewolf.
It was a huge, hairy-face, and very much naked male.
Stiles slowed down his steps to full stop when he was five feet from the bars. The werewolf stood as still as Stiles, staring straight at him, his nostrils flaring and posture stiff. The stench coming from the cage and man was even harsher here than what Stiles had smelled from any of the other cages, and to Stiles' surprise the werewolf was wearing a collar, and his body was full of wounds and lacerations. Something was definitely wrong. He told this to Scott, who was finally by his side.
"No shit, Sherlock," Scott muttered. "This whole show stinks, in all the meanings of the word."
"Why's he not self-healing?" Stiles wondered absentmindedly, completely engrossed in what was in the cage, and took a step closer. The werewolf hissed and retreated as far away from him as possible without getting near the bars, Stiles noticed.
"I have no idea," Scott whispered, following Stiles closely. "How are they able to keep him locked up, anyway? Aren't werewolves supposed to be super strong?" The werewolf sneered at Scott who took a startled step away.
"Be careful, Stiles," Scott whispered frenetically, grabbing his arm, though Stiles felt oddly calm by now.
"He wouldn't hurt me," Stiles said, his tone soothing, not really sure if he was talking to Scott or to the werewolf, trying to gauge his reaction. "Hey, I want to help you," he whispered to the werewolf, finally. The creature snorted.
"What? You don't think I can?" he asked affronted, taking the last step to the cage, his eyes taking in everything in there. In the corner at the right, was a heap of hay and, judging by the stench, it was used as the werewolf's latrine. It couldn't have been cleaned out for days.
To the left, was . . . nothing. The cage was empty, but so dirty.
Stiles felt like crying. Since he'd seen the flyer, all he'd been able to think about was that he was finally meeting a werewolf. He'd not considered what kind of conditions the creature was kept in, and the idea of cages existing behind the scenes was incomprehensible. Why was the werewolf not living in a tent? Sleeping in a bed? Why did he wear a collar, like he was someone's dog?
Stiles turned to Scott, who was standing right beside him again. "We've got to get him out of here. This isn't right!"
Scott's body twisted to Stiles', his eyes frantic. "Stiles! We can't take him out of the cage! Are you crazy? We have no idea why he's in there, or what could happen if we set him free." But Stiles had made up his mind and was picking the padlock with the multi-tool he always kept in his pocket. All the crazy stunts they'd played before only felt like rehearsal for this one.
Scott bent, whispering, "Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you are getting us into?" Stiles stopped for a second, giving him a look as his best friend urged him, "This time it's for real, Stiles!"
"I know Scott, and that's exactly why we can't ignore this. Werewolves are not supposed to be treated this way, like they are inferior to humans. They are not so very different from us, you know; we share over 99.9 percent of the same DNA."
"I know that, stupid! Don't you remember I've been listening to your lectures on werewolf biology my whole life?" Stiles continued his lock picking as Scott quickly glanced around, making sure they were not seen.
The door was open.
Stiles and Scott stood stock-still as the hinges screeched in the quiet night. Then they turned their gaze to the werewolf. He stood rock-still, blood oozing down the fur on his right leg from a nasty-looking wound as he stared at the boys. Stiles was sure his own eyes tricked him, because to him, the huge man looked terrified. What did the werewolf have to be frightened about?
Stiles trembled all over, taking a step into the cage, but whether it was from fear, adrenaline, or both, he was going to save this man. Stiles' whole life depended on it. This was the reason he was born into this world. He could feel it.
Tentatively, he reached out to the werewolf, steadily ignoring the shaking of his hand, and seconds passed, though it felt like an eternity before the werewolf moved the uninjured leg. Towards Stiles. It was all the confirmation Stiles needed before he grabbed the werewolf's wrist. "Come with me," he whispered.
The red eyes sent Stiles a cautious last glance before the werewolf went limping after him, out of the cage, and into the woods. Towards safety.
Stiles tossed his car keys to Scott, who snatched them in the air. "Get the car and meet us on the road?"
"Sure."
Stiles went slowly into the trees, the werewolf breathing heavily as he was hobbling behind him until they'd walked in a circle around the camp and saw the streetlights shining on Stiles' jeep. "Come on," Stiles whispered to the werewolf. "I'm taking you to my house."
The creature followed him in his slow pace, but eventually was seated in the back of Stiles' jeep, covered with the blanket Stiles always kept in the back for emergencies, and Stiles urged Scott as he jumped into the passenger seat, "Drive! Drive!"
They sped away as Stiles glanced at his cell. It was nearly midnight.
"I hope my dad's on a nightshift," he told Scott as they drove onto Stiles' street, and the sheriff probably was because their driveway was empty.
They jumped out of the car. "Where will you keep him?" Scott asked as he opened the backdoor and Stiles climbed up to help the werewolf out.
"My room, of course," Stiles told his friend as he jumped down. They both grabbed the arms of the werewolf, who stiffly got down on the ground, falling to Stiles' side and making him stumble before Scott helped him. "Fuck, you're heavy," Stiles groaned to the werewolf. Despite the blanket over the creature's shoulders, the werewolf was shivering.
Stiles fished out his keys from his pocket and they all got inside, the werewolf almost falling to the floor when Stiles turned to lock the front door behind them.
"Whoa, there!" Stiles cried. "If you fall, I don't know if we can get you back up. Please!" he gritted out as Scott and he tried to drag the werewolf up the stairs, the carpet turning rusty with blood. Stiles' bedroom door was thankfully open and they entered, the werewolf's head hanging limply down to his chest.
Stiles eyed his closet door and tilted his head towards it, looking at Scott. "Should we put him in there?"
Sweat was running down Scott's forehead as he agreed, "Yeah."
Stiles opened the door with his foot and they both groaned as they saw the clutter filling the bottom, but there was no time to clean it up now. The werewolf seemed to have collapsed completely at this point. They both crunched down, making the werewolf fall into a heap on the closet floor, curling around himself in a protective fetal position. The boys straightened up, trying to catch their breaths as they observed the pitiful being lying on the floor who was supposed to be powerful and almost invincible.
"What now?" Scott finally asked, drying his dirty hands on his thighs.
Stiles sighed as he slumped down on the floor leaning his back against the bed. "I have no idea," he admitted honestly, combing his fingers through his sweaty hair.
His friend sank down beside him and they both watched the creature quietly. "Do you think we should get some help?" Scott pondered. "I don't know anything about werewolf medicine! I don't think it's even a subject in my vet studies!"
"How about Deaton?" Stiles asked eventually. "Could you call him?"
Scott eyed him warily. "And get him to come here?" He shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. How will you prevent him from telling your dad?" Scott startled beside Stiles, staring frantically at Stiles like something just had occurred to him. "Fuck! The sheriff! Will he send us to prison for this? Oh my God, we've gone too far this time, I just know it!"
Stiles rose up on his knees, shaking his head at his friend's panicking and scrambling over to the closet where the werewolf's breathing was shallow. "Calm down, Scott. We're not getting caught!" Then he paused as he watched the werewolf lying there amongst his old lacrosse gear, comic books and rolled up clothes. "Just . . . look at him. We had to do something."
Scott sighed deeply, but agreed, "Yeah, I know."
"He looks like he's sleeping." Stiles turned to his friend who looked pale and tired. "You go home to get some rest and I'll call you in the morning, all right?"
Scott looked unsure at him, his gaze shifting from Stiles to the sleeping bundle, before he finally came to a conclusion. "Fine. He seems harmless right now." He got up slowly, eyeing Stiles. "But you call me right away if there's any trouble!"
It felt like a warning, and Stiles was grateful for his best friend and smiled reassuringly at him. "Of course I will!"
He sat studying the werewolf for some time after Scott had shown himself out. He couldn't believe he had a real, for now alive, werewolf in his closet—an alpha no less. His claws were long, two were missing and the rest were cracked and just as dirty as the rest of him. The werewolf's whole body seemed too thin from what Stiles could tell, his chin hollow and bloody. The Freak Show had obviously not been a good place for him and Stiles realized he'd been naive to think that all the freaks were there on their own free will and good taken care of. Even though he had thought of himself as a werewolf expert, Stiles was starting to realize how little he knew about the obstacles werewolves might have in their society. He had actually been embarrassingly gullible.
Stiles let himself fall down on his bed, cast a last glance at the werewolf as he whispered to himself, "I did the right thing." The werewolf opened his red eyes, looking straight at Stiles for a second before closing them again. Stiles groaned, letting his head fell onto the pillow, it felt too heavy to carry any longer.
.
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Stiles woke to the sun shining straight on his face, sweat soaking his t-shirt that was clinging to his chest. Groaning in discomfort, he realized he was still in his jeans from last night when he turned over, forcing his stiff limbs to move. Last night . . . The memory of yesterday's rescue came rushing back and Stiles jumped up to check if the werewolf was still there, anxious to see if he was still alive. He was lying in the same position on the floor of Stiles' closet, arms protectively around his legs, red gaze peering at Stiles from under eyelids that seemed too heavy to lift completely.
"Shit," Stiles moaned, turning to place his feet at the floor. Things had to be done today. Evidently, saving a werewolf's life was amongst them. Stiles stifled a yawn as he scratched his chest, studying the man. "If we don't want my father finding you we should get you cleaned up; it smells like someone died in here."
Stiles got up and opened the window. The sill was wet with dew, and a light breeze flooded into the room, made him wake up completely. Stiles went back to the werewolf, studying him further. The creature didn't seem any better than last night; if anything, his now pale and sweaty skin made him look like he might not survive another day.
"Do you think you can get up to take a shower?" Stiles asked doubtfully. The werewolf flexed his hands tentatively and Stiles bent down to grip his upper arm, but as hard as they tried, the werewolf wasn't able to put weight on his right leg. He was just too heavy for Stiles alone, and it felt like Stiles was trying to help a sack of potatoes, not like last night when adrenaline made them all have what seemed like superpowers. Stiles let the man fall down on the mattress when they couldn't make it further than two steps toward the door.
"Shit," Stiles muttered, noticing that his carpet and now sheets were becoming rusty with the blood, dirt, and sweat covering the werewolf from head to toe. "We have to do something," he told the werewolf, who merely managed to cast a glance back at Stiles before his eyelids closed.
"I'll go get a bucket of water." Stiles decided that if the werewolf would not come to the water, the water would come to the werewolf. Stiles locked his bedroom door before he went to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth while the bucket was filling up with hot water under the tub faucet. He grabbed towels and cloths from the cabinet under the sink, and placed it all outside his door. Carefully he went to his father's closed bedroom door and pressed his ear to it. A couple of seconds later, he heard light snoring from inside. His father would probably sleep all day if he'd been on a nightshift.
Stiles opened his own bedroom door again and saw the werewolf lying in the same position as he'd left him squinting at Stiles. He sat down the bucket and placed the towels on the bed before soaking a cloth in the hot soapy water. "Here," he said, handing the fabric to the werewolf who took it between his claws, gripping so loosely that the cloth fell from his hand and onto the mattress right away.
Stiles' gaze fixed on the washcloth, as it lay there soaking up the sheets, and he realized he needed to do it all for the werewolf—he had to get cleaned up. His helplessness called to Stiles, like there was some kind of invisible string flowing out of the werewolf, drawing Stiles to him.
Stiles grabbed the washcloth, dipped it in the bucket once more, and sat down on the bed beside the werewolf's face. "I'll do it for you," he told him gently and the werewolf closed his eyes as Stiles started with his face, cleaning his dry and chapped lips. Stiles supposed the pointed canines had once been white and sharp; from their current condition, it was a long time ago. He needed to find a toothbrush for the werewolf when the cleaning was finished.
It wasn't easy getting the werewolf's hairy face clean, as the grime had almost become a part of the hairs and skin underneath. Stiles laid a towel under the werewolf's head and squeezed the cloth over it, time and again before he couldn't get more off without having the creature in the bathtub, soaking him in hot, soapy water. But that would have to wait for when he was getting better. If he ever would.
Stiles was washing behind the werewolf's ear and down his throat when the werewolf turned his head to the side, bearing his neck to the human. Stiles caught the movement and its meaning immediately, his gasp coming in his surprise. The werewolf's red eyes opened, watching Stiles in a sidelong glance as Stiles scrubbed the cloth gray with grime. "I hope you'll be able to talk to me soon," Stiles mumbled gently, starting on the werewolf's huge chest—it would take forever to clean. "I want to know your name." He stroked the cloth down his abs. "I wonder how your voice sounds."
The werewolf was watching him when Stiles looked up from his stomach to his face. Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as his hands stroked over the werewolf's side, where there was less hair and more skin. He wondered where he'd wash next, and figured it would be best to do the feet. Feet are good. Safe.
Stiles had to change the water twice before the inevitable: he had to wash the private parts of the werewolf. Stiles felt so sad for the poor man and thought about how he'd feel if it was himself in the werewolf's place. The wet cloth was ready in his hand as he lifted the werewolf's leg. How someone so malnourished could have such a heavy limb was beyond him.
Stiles had to be very thorough washing the groin where the grime and smell was hard to get off. It took him a while, but eventually he was not able to get anymore off without doing the soaking the creature really needed.
"There," he said, satisfied with his work before he looked up at the werewolf's face and saw him hide it in the pillow, as if in shame.
"Hey," Stiles uttered softly, placing his hand on the werewolf's arm. "I get this is humiliating for you, but I'm happy to help you. The moment I saw you I wanted to do anything I could for you." As he had said the words out loud, he realized the truth in them, he'd do all in his power to save the man—there was no way he'd let the horrid freak show director win. The werewolf curled up in a fetal position and Stiles pulled his bedspread over him, getting up to put away the things and take a shower himself; he felt dirty and sweaty from all he'd been through since yesterday evening.
Once he was dressed again, Stiles went down to the kitchen to make some breakfast. He called Scott, holding his phone between his shoulder and chin, while whipping eggs in a bowl with some salt and milk. His best friend answered at first ring.
"Stiles" Scott cried breathlessly. "Is everything all right? What's going on?"
Stiles poured the mix in a saucepan where the butter was sizzling. "Yeah, everything's fine, don't worry. I'm just calling to keep you updated."
"What are you doing?" Scott asked, his voice echoing like he was in a small room. Then Stiles heard a flush.
"Are you talking to me while you're on the toilet?" Stiles' hand froze with the spatula in the air.
Scott laughed into the phone. "Yeah, sorry about that, I had my phone with me in case you'd call. I didn't want to miss it."
Stiles pushed the eggs around in the pan. "Oh, all right. Good thinking."
"What are you making?" Scott asked.
"How did you …" Stiles started, but thought the better of it. "Scrambled eggs. There's a certain person in my house that could use some protein, you know." He smiled as he added some pepper.
"How's he doing? Like before?"
Stiles thought for a moment before answering, "He's worse. Yeah, definitely worse."
"Hm, what should we do?"
Stiles poured the food onto a plate and grabbed two glasses and forks, milk and a napkin. Putting the forks in his pocket, he balanced the rest in his arms as he walked slowly upstairs, whispering to Scott as he got to the second floor. Carefully opening his door with his elbow, he stopped talking when he saw him; the werewolf was lying with his spine in a bow, limbs shaking.
"Shit!" Stiles cried, rushing over to the creature, everything else forgotten. The werewolf's eyes were rolled back in his head, only white to see and Stiles wasn't sure he was even breathing as his head started jerking. Stiles grabbed his phone from where it had fallen on the mattress, yelling into the receiver, "Shit, Scott! What do I do?" He couldn't think! What was happening?
"Stiles!" Scott yelled back. "What's going on? Is it the were?"
"Yes! He's having a seizure or something! I don't know! Fuck, Scott, you need to get here right now, I have no idea what to do!"
Gargling sounds came from the werewolf's throat when Stiles bent down to look closer at his face. "I'm on my way!" Scott told him. "Describe him to me."
Stiles was not sure what he even said at this moment, he was panicking. "Fuck, snap out of it man," he muttered to himself.
"What?" he heard Scott ask him.
"No, I was just thinking that he is breathing since his throat makes weird noises, right?"
"All right," Scott told him. "I'm in my car now. You need to lay him in the recovery position."
Stiles slapped his forehead. "Ugh!"
"Stiles, are you with me?"
"Yeah! Yeah, I'm here. Okay, recovery position. I can do that. Sure." He put the phone down on the floor as he pulled the werewolf's arm forward from under his body and bent his bottom leg, so his whole body lay stable on one side before Stiles picked up the phone again.
"Okay, I've done it," he told his friend getting a relieved sigh in return.
"Good. I'm driving down your street now. Let me in, will you?"
"Just use the key under the flower pot like always," Stiles told him shakily as he sank down on his knees on the floor facing the werewolf. He was breathing a little deeper now and his whole body seemed more relaxed.
Stiles stroked his hand over the werewolf's face, feeling the cold and sweaty skin there when Scott came inside the door.
"Hey," Stiles whispered, not taking his eyes from the creature. "I think it's almost over now." Relief flooded through him as he saw the truth in his words in front of him. Scott sat down beside him, looking at the man.
"Yeah, he's breathing," Scott told him low, placing a hand steady on Stiles shoulder. "You did good."
"Fuck, I didn't do anything. I froze in panic." Stiles felt embarrassed of his lack of action.
"Nah, you did the right thing," Scott reassured him.
Stiles scoffed.
"Don't be so hard on yourself." Scott smiled softly at him, and then nodded to Stiles hand. "He's washed up?"
Stiles looked to his hand still stroking over the werewolf's clammy face. "Yeah, I washed him here on the bed. He was so weak he couldn't stand at all on his right leg today." His finger followed the outline of the werewolf's pointy ear. "What just happened to him?"
Scott looked the werewolf over briefly, his forehead wrinkled with worry. "I don't think werewolf medicine is a subject at all, neither in human nor animal studies."
"But if he was human? What'd you think happened to him then?"
Scott groaned. "Stiles, I worry he's developing sepsis."
"What's that?"
"Blood infection."
"Fuck, that doesn't sound good."
Scott shook his head, looking down at the werewolf as he sighed low, "He'll probably die if he doesn't get antibiotics quickly."
Stiles couldn't let the werewolf die—he wouldn't let that happen. It was time to get help. "You have to call Deaton," he told his friend.
Scott sighed, picking up his phone. "I know." He got up and went to the door. "I hope I still have a summer job after this." He stroked his hand over his face, looking pained. "I'll go downstairs to call him. Where's your dad?"
"Sleeping, I hope," Stiles mumbled. He wasn't going to let the werewolf die just to keep him a secret from his father. The sheriff would just have to deal if he woke up now.
He was monitoring the werewolf's shallow breathing while he waited for what felt like forever until Scott walked in with Deaton in tow, and Stiles felt relief flooding through him. "Thank God," he mumbled.
"No, just Deaton, please," Deaton smiled at Stiles as he came inside the room, looking down at the creature lying still with his eyes closed, the sheets under him soaked with cold sweat.
"I see," he said conversationally, bending down to place his doctor's bag beside the bed. "You're not in such a great shape, huh," he told the werewolf softly even though Stiles assumed he could tell the werewolf was unconscious. To Stiles' surprise the werewolf opened his eyes, a glimpse of red showing from under heavy eyelids.
Deaton turned to face Stiles. "Stiles. This was one of the most stupid things you've ever done." Stiles sighed, because yeah, he already knew that, but he was relieved the vet seemed to be satisfied with his reprimand after merely giving Stiles his opinion.
Deaton rummaged through his suitcase and startled Stiles and Scott with the object he pulled out; a huge bolt cutter. The werewolf tried to bare his canines and recoil as the vet placed his hand on his hairy arm.
"Don't you worry. I'm going to cut the collar."
Stiles heard Scott breathe out beside him.
One cut and the were was free of the restraint.
Seconds passed where they were all watching the creature on the bed and eventually he opened his eyes completely, turning himself over onto his back slowly. He raised his claws to feel his neck where it was an angry, red welt after the restraint. Deaton put the cutter back in his bag and sat calmly down on Stiles' desk chair observing the werewolf. Stiles and Scott both stared at the vet until he looked to them. "What?"
"Uhm," Stiles started to ask the vet what he was waiting for, but Deaton stopped him, holding up the broken collar.
"This is made from wolfsbane. I'd think it's to keep him in wolf form and preventing him from healing." Deaton tilted his head toward the werewolf. "Watch him."
The werewolf stretched his limbs probingly and right before their eyes his body started healing itself from the wounds and lacerations. Minutes passed before he tried to sit up on his own, his head hanging down toward his chest. His skin was completely healed, except for the mark on his neck and an area of bright, pink skin on his right leg where the nasty wound had been merely minutes earlier.
The vet handed him a glass of milk that Stiles had forgotten he'd brought up earlier, and the werewolf drank it all in two deep gulps.
"Now." Deaton paused. "Are you able to change?"
The werewolf coughed, the raw sound ringing in the room. From what Stiles could tell, he was now fully healed on the outside. "I think so," the werewolf rasped, voice deep and hoarse, and then suddenly there sat a human male on Stiles' bed.
"Wow," Stiles breathed out, watching as the werewolf studied his healed fingers and felt his face. When a hint of what Stiles thought might be an attempt on a tiny smile appeared on the man's face directed first at Deaton, but then at himself, Stiles swallowed heavily.
Well, damn.
Stiles got up from the floor shakily. The werewolf sat quietly, merely watching as Stiles started opening drawers and throwing clothes around until he found what he was looking for. He gave the wolf a pair of cut off sweatpants with a string that was so worn out that Stiles hadn't used them in forever, but they were the only clothing he could think of that would probably fit the man.
Scott bent down in front of the werewolf, helping him skim his long legs into the shorts and when he tried to rise up, Stiles averted his eyes. Scott stepped up beside the man, grabbing his upper arm to keep him steady.
"Uhm, do you... do you want to shower now?" Stiles offered. He was suddenly feeling lightheaded and didn't trust his own legs just yet, so he slumped down on his bed. Well, it might not have been his most thought through idea ever to free the werewolf, but he could not for the life of him say that he regretted it.
.
.
Scott helped the werewolf in the bathroom. He could finally put weight on both of his legs and even though Stiles knew the man had werewolf healing, he was still surprised at how quickly he got better. Deaton went downstairs and Stiles was changing the wet and dirty sheets on his bed when he jumped, hearing his father yell.
"STILES! What's going on here?"
Stiles was out in the hall before he knew it, taking in the scene in front of him. The bathroom door was open, his red-faced father staring inside. Scott had a towel in his hands and the werewolf stood with one foot in the shower, the other dripping water all over the floor. He had changed to werewolf form again and was baring his canines at the sheriff.
Stiles pushed down the panic that was starting to build in his stomach and told his father firmly, "Calm down! It's only a werewolf!"
His father did not calm down. "I can see that!" he continued yelling. "What I'd like to know is what it's doing in my bathroom!"
The wolf hissed, hanging over Scott's shoulder as Scott tried to bat his long claws away from his flesh.
"Would you calm down? You're scaring him!" Stiles repeated, doing his best to keep his voice steady. "There's a perfectly good explanation for this and I will tell you once you leave him to finish his shower and come sit down with me. Please, Dad."
His father actually rolled his eyes at Stiles before his shoulders sank a bit and sighed deeply, like Stiles had suddenly made him five years older. "Of course you have an explanation."
"Yeah, well, I have. Come on." Stiles waved his father to him, going back into his bedroom where he finished stuffing the pillow into the unwilling pillowcase before sitting down on the freshly made bed. His father sat down at the very front of Stiles' desk chair, ready to jump at any sign of danger, eyes flicking from the door to his son and back.
"Scott and I were at a Freak Show last night," Stiles started, and his father jerked his head to stare at him.
"The one camping by Hale property?" he asked urgently, cutting Stiles off.
Stiles startled. "Well, yeah," he admitted, but continued before the sheriff could interrupt him again. Stiles needed to make him understand to keep the werewolf safe. "You should have seen how they'd treated him! He was living in a cage, Dad, held prisoner like he was a wild and dangerous animal! He had a collar preventing him from healing and was full of wounds and cuts. He was practically living in his own piss. I had to save him."
The sheriff still looked at him sternly, his voice tight, "So you brought him into our home." He paused, before he deliberately lowered his voice. "Did you stop to think of what would happen if he's found in the sheriff's own house?"
Stiles gulped, but stood his ground. "I had to save him."
The sheriff's gaze was heated. "You could have told me, Stiles."
"And what would you have done? There must be a reason the police haven't stopped this show before!"
"I don't know about that, Stiles."
"You know something," Stiles stated.
His father opened his mouth and closed it before sighing deeply. "Stiles. I can't tell you everything at work. You know that."
"Well, then you can't blame me for not having enough faith in the police force to save him either. Not after what I've witnessed."
Deaton knocked on the door frame, holding a tray. Surprised, the sheriff looked up at him. "Deaton? What are you doing here?"
Deaton smiled. "Sheriff." He nodded and walked to Stiles' desk where he placed the tray, containing of a new plate of scrambled eggs and two glasses of orange juice. Stiles had completely forgotten the food he'd made earlier; it was still on the floor from where he'd dropped it earlier. He smiled thankfully at the vet.
"I've made coffee, Sheriff. Let's go downstairs to have a cup together." It sounded like an order to Stiles, and to his surprise his father got up, following the other man. Before he went out the door, the sheriff turned to his son, giving him a look that told him that they would talk more about this later. Stiles sat gaping after the men. He had no idea they knew each other.
When Scott and the werewolf came into the bedroom, the werewolf was back in human form and wearing Stiles' shorts. Stiles got up, staring at his best friend. "Are you all right?"
Scott helped the werewolf lay down on the bed. "Yeah, I'm good. Was a bit worried about the claws for a minute there."
Stiles placed the tray on the mattress beside the werewolf. "Deaton made you breakfast."
The werewolf didn't react; he had shut his eyes and was breathing into Stiles' pillow, looking exhausted. Stiles looked to Scott, who shrugged. "I'm going down to have some coffee and sit down. My legs feel a bit wobbly." He closed the bedroom door on his way out, leaving Stiles alone with the werewolf again.
Stiles sat down on the bed beside the clean man. "You should eat," he told him softly and the werewolf grunted. "I get that you're tired, but don't you think you'll get your strength back quicker if you have some protein?"
The werewolf opened his eyes then, looking up at Stiles but except for that, not moving. Stiles sighed, pulling the tray to himself. "Well, I'm hungry anyway," he said, picking up the fork, and as he opened his mouth to put in the second mouthful, the werewolf's stomach growled. He scowled at Stiles when Stiles grinned, but pushed himself up some, his back against the headboard.
Stiles handed him the fork and the werewolf speared a piece of eggs and started chewing slowly at first then speeding up as he got a taste for it. Merely minutes later the plate was scraped clean, not a crumb left. Stiles smiled approvingly at the alpha as he handed him one of the glasses of juice. He took the other one himself and they both drank them up. Stiles took the glasses and the plate, setting them back to the tray on the floor. The werewolf sank down against the pillow again, curling himself around Stiles' back. Stiles moved to make him room, but the werewolf grabbed his arm, pulling Stiles down to him. The werewolf grunted as Stiles overcame the first shock and relaxed on the mattress his back against the werewolf's naked front.
"Uhm, what're you doing?" Stiles mumbled, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't think it was because he was afraid of the werewolf.
"Sleep," the werewolf hummed into Stiles neck.
"Can't you do that without me here?" Stiles wondered.
"It's better like this."
"What do you mean?"
"I relax and heal faster."
"Oh." Stiles felt his mind race, and then the werewolf started stroking Stiles' stomach, pushing his hand under Stiles' t-shirt, fingers warm against Stiles' tingling skin. "You want me to cuddle you to sleep?"
"Mm hmm," the werewolf breathed contentedly now that Stiles finally got the idea, and Stiles felt himself relax further against the warm body. If he was helping the werewolf by lying beside him, it was something he'd do any day.
He pulled the bedspread up from their legs to cover them both, asking, "At least tell me your name before we sleep together."
"Derek," he heard before the man fell into a healing sleep.
.
.
Stiles lay still in the werewolf's arms, listening to his steady breaths, but eventually heard his best friend say from the door, "Hey, I think you should come downstairs now. Your dad wants to know more about the werewolf taking refuge in his house."
Stiles sat up in a rush, feeling dizzy, grunting a clever, "Huh?"
"You should both come downstairs," Scott repeated.
Stiles turned to the werewolf who was watching him. "Right," he rasped agreeing, and his friend went back downstairs. Stiles swung his legs down at the floor, saw his phone on his desk and got up to check the time. Only an hour had passed, though it felt much longer.
"How do you feel?" he asked the werewolf—Derek—who was stretching his limbs sleepily. Stiles did not notice how beautiful he looked in Stiles' bed, hair and scruff looking like it was the morning after a night of Stiles' kind of fun.
Stiles gulped. He couldn't think thoughts like that about this person needing his help. It wasn't right. "I think we should talk to my dad. I'd like to try to get him on our side," he said.
Derek sat up slowly as if checking his body functions one after the other before getting up. "I'll come with you," he said, voice still raw from lack of use.
"You're sure you're up to it? I can make him come up here," Stiles asked worriedly, but the werewolf was already on his feet, stretching his body and looking gorgeous.
Stiles opened his dresser, frantically rooting t-shirts around. There had to be something of his Derek could cover his upper body with. He'd like to come through the interrogation keeping as much of his dignity as possible, thank you very much.
"Try this on." He handed Derek a gray t-shirt and watched as he tried to fit into the fabric, ripping two seams before giving up. The next one Derek didn't get his second arm inside, but the third one he actually could squeeze into. Stiles did not notice how much tighter it was over the wolf's chest than his own. Nope.
The sheriff and Deaton sat drinking coffee at the kitchen table when Stiles and Derek came down the stairs. Scott jumped down from the counter when he saw them.
"Would you like something more to eat?" Stiles asked the werewolf, who nodded at him. Stiles was starving. "Who else wants food?"
It turned out that everyone wanted some, so Stiles opened the fridge, assessing the contents before grabbing a packet of soya burgers and some vegetables. Scott, familiar in their kitchen as he was, already had the chopping board and knife ready while the sheriff offered the werewolf a chair.
"Now," Deaton started while Stiles and Scott cooked. "The sheriff and I have been talking and we'd like to know more about you. Do you mind sharing your story with us?"
The werewolf was looking down at his hands folded in his lap, opening and closing his mouth when Stiles turned to look at him over the saucepan. Stiles hoped his father wouldn't go too hard on the werewolf, but use his detective skills to put him at ease and open up instead.
"What's your name?" Deaton inquired carefully after a silent pause.
The werewolf opened his mouth and his voice was deep and still rusty when he said, "I'm Derek Hale."
A low gasp came from the sheriff and Derek met Deaton's gaze when he asked, "What happened to you?"
The werewolf grunted when Stiles offered him a glass of water. They all watched him silently, waiting as he drained it. "Rogue hunters burned down my family's house causing them all to die in the fire. Since then I've been held captive as their main attraction in their Freak Show."
Scott groaned, "When was this?" staring horrified at the man, mirroring all of their faces.
The werewolf—Derek—searched the room with his eyes. "What year is it?" Stiles' spatula fell to the floor and he saw Scott gaping at the wolf.
Deaton answered, "It's August 2012."
"Then it's six years and four months since I was forced into the collar, and I was last in human form."
"Oh my God," the sheriff muttered exasperated, shaking his head. "We were sure you died in the fire too." He looked up, eyes searching out Stiles' and holding his son's gaze when he immediately found it. They rarely talked about Stiles' mother and the loss of her, but they were both scarred for life after she died way too early. Stiles gave his father a brief nod in recognition, feeling a tightness in his chest as silence filled the room. Derek's loss was beyond comprehension.
The sheriff cleared his voice finally. "I led the investigation of the fire and I was sure everyone in your family died that night. All the experts I called in affirmed it."
Derek swallowed visibly before gritting his teeth, grief showing clearly on his face as he rasped, "Well, I've endured six years of torture and humiliation at that show, and now I want them to suffer for it all. My family deserves revenge."
The sheriff held up his palms. "Now hold on a minute." He paused, looking closely at the werewolf and making sure he had his full attention. "I have full understanding in your need for justice, but not for you to become a murderer too—and ultimately just as bad as them. No one deserves be killed, no matter offence. What we need, is to get them all to jail."
Stiles thought, not for the first time this morning, that he might not know his own father much at all. The way his dad, perhaps not consciously, included himself in the plan to get revenge should not surprise Stiles as much as it did.
They all jumped as Scott slapped a hand on the table. "I'll do what I can to help Stiles and Derek, sir."
Stiles grinned at his best friend, who already knew Stiles was by the werewolf's side without him having said a word about it. Everyone stared at Scott for a second before Deaton cleared his throat. "I'll look at the chances of getting the Freak Show stopped. They can't treat others like this, having them in cages and torturing them. If I didn't have morals as a human being, I have doctor's ethics after all."
The smell of burned soya slipped into Stiles' awareness and he turned to the saucepan, hurrying to take it off the stove and save their food. Scott found glasses, water and utensils, which he placed in front of everyone's plate.
The sheriff gulped down his first glass of water in one go and placed it hard against the table just as Stiles sat down beside him. "I'll admit there's been rumors going on in the police force about the Freak Show for a long time and there have been whispers of threats, but they're constantly on the move."
Deaton leaned closer, sending the sheriff a conspiring glance. "There must be something we can do, Sheriff?"
"We need a solid plan," his father started, giving Deaton a meaningful look back.
Stiles gaped at his father in disbelief. The sheriff shrugged. "Well, we do! They need to be stopped, but I need concrete proof and I'm worried they'll be out of my jurisdiction before I can stop them. Having Derek's testimony will be of great significance, of course."
Stiles grinned, watching Scott pour ketchup on his burger.
"No," a deep voice said. Everyone turned to face the wolf as he continued. "I don't want you involved. The hunters are a crazy gang with guns and crossbows, nothing ordinary humans can survive."
"Well," the sheriff said, folding his fingers on the table in front of him. "We just have to come up with a good plan, then."
Stiles smiled fondly at his dad and finally started eating. No one said anything more for a few minutes while they all ate quickly.
As he pushed his empty plate away, Deaton asked, "You're heading into work now, Sheriff?" The sheriff nodded curtly as Deaton continued, "You'll take another look at the fire in light of the new information and I'll take a closer look at the Freak Show camp. We'll take off together." The werewolf growled deep in his chest and the vet turned to him, reassuring, "I know what I'm doing."
The werewolf grumbled, "I don't like any of you involved. You'll end up hurt."
The sheriff looked sternly at him. "Let us do our jobs and you focus on yours, and that's to keep yourself in hiding, and do not do anything to get my son in any more trouble than he already is. You might not have much faith in the police force, and that's understandable after all you've been through, but you have to trust me on this—Deaton and I know what we're doing."
"And you-" he pointed to Stiles. "You look after him here. I do not want you sneaking around the Freak Show camp again, you hear me?"
Derek grunted in affirmation, answering over Stiles head, "Stiles is never going near the camp again."
"Hey!" Stiles said, indignant out of old habit. He could admit it to himself that he'd like to be in the action part of the plan, but hell—he had a werewolf in his house. A werewolf! It would take a lot for him to leave his side in the immediate future. And even Stiles could tell that his father's approach would get the best result if it succeeded.
The sheriff got up. "Derek, I'm sure you are a nice werewolf and all, I mean no offence, but I'll admit that I don't feel completely comfortable leaving this house with you and my only son alone together."
"Dad!" Stiles groaned. "That's so rude! Why on earth would he hurt me?"
Stiles turned to the werewolf who had his eyes on the sheriff. "Sir, I can guarantee you I would never hurt Stiles and I'll do anything to keep him safe," Derek said.
Stiles' father's eyebrows shot up and he looked just as surprised as Stiles felt before he went over to the werewolf, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page there, son."
His father turned his gaze to Stiles sternly while putting on his gun belt. "You call me if anything comes up."
Deaton rose, walking over to the door and grabbing his jacket. "I have your number, Sheriff. We'll stay in contact." He turned to the boys. "Scott, you're coming in to work? I need someone to keep shop."
Scott looked at Stiles for confirmation. Stiles nodded at him. "Yes," Scott told Deaton and followed the man to the door.
The sheriff cast a last glance to the table where Stiles and Derek still sat, shook his head, and as the last man out, he locked the door behind him.
Stiles turned to Derek, plucking at the label on the ketchup bottle as he looked up at the werewolf. He still had facial hair, but it was merely scruff now. He sat still meeting Stiles' gaze and Stiles shifted in his seat. Derek's eyes were actually green when not in alpha form.
"I owe you a thank you for getting me out of the Freak Show," Derek said low. His voice sounded normal to Stiles now, the deep, rough sound fitting for the wolf. "You put yourself, your friend and your father at great risk to save a werewolf. Someone you'd never met. Not many humans would do that."
Stiles shifted around on his seat, tearing the label completely off the plastic bottle. "Yeah, well, that's how we roll, Scott and I," he answered jokingly.
Derek made a humming sound, pressing his lips together as if he needed to stop himself from saying anything else before he rose. "I need to get as much rest as I can to get my full strength back." He pointed his thumb to the stairs, looking at Stiles considering. "Can I use your room again?"
"Oh yeah, sure! No problem. Just do whatever you need to heal. And let me know if I can help you with anything." The werewolf nodded stiffly and went upstairs as Stiles sank back down in his chair. "Holy hell," he whispered to himself. Following his impulses had never gotten him in this kind of trouble before, and now it wasn't just him and Scott; it was his father, Deaton, and a werewolf involved too. And not just any werewolf, but a very hot specimen. Stiles felt like his head would explode with all the thoughts racing around in it; his father offering his help, Deaton too, and the werewolf trusting him so easily after all he'd been through. The morning had been full of surprises, and Stiles had a distinct feeling the surprises had not ended yet.
It was no use sitting at the table and pondering. Stiles knew from experience that his mind was working at its best when he was doing something, so he got up and started cleaning up the kitchen. It needed to be done anyway. As of now it was beyond him how he and Scott would get out of this mess with their feet still on the ground.
When he was done an hour later, he went up to his room to fetch his laptop. Opening the door carefully to not wake the wolf, Stiles found him lying on his bed, sprawled out on his stomach, face buried in Stiles pillow. Huh.
Derek's back rose in a steady motion, sleeping deeply and didn't even stir as Stiles sat down on his desk chair, swivelling it around to face his laptop. He had some researching to do.
.
.
Stiles' neck hurt and he couldn't feel his legs when there was a high buzzing nagging him from somewhere. He jumped in his chair confused, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was still in his room and . . . werewolf! Derek. Stiles swung his chair around, but the bed was empty like he'd dreamed the whole thing, and then the doorbell rang, two high buzzing pumps on the clock. Stiles took the steps downstairs two at the time, ripping the door open.
"Stilinski?" A man around his father's age was standing at the porch, scrutinizing him sourly. He was dressed like a construction worker with a heavy belt with flashlight and a walky-talky hanging from it. His boots were covered in mud.
Stiles shut the door closer when the man craned his neck to look inside the hall. "Yes?" His voice was raspy from sleep as he rubbed his eyes. "Is there something wrong?"
The man eyed him. "I'm from the Freak Show and unfortunately one of our creatures went missing last night. He's sick and needs treatment," he said just as another man came around the corner of Stiles' house. He looked like the guard Stiles nearly crashed into when he was looking for Derek's cage, but it had been dark and Stiles never got a good look at him.
Stiles looked back to the man in front of him, making his voice high and anxious. "Is the creature dangerous? Should I take any precautions?"
The man coughed, averting his eyes. "We have reason to believe he might retort to violence under pressure." He looked over to his partner who tilted his head to the street. "Here's our phone number." He handed Stiles a card and started to turn around. "Call us if you see anything unusual."
Stiles had the door nearly closed, when the man added, "You should probably stay out of the woods for a while."
Stiles tried to make his eyes as big and frightened as possible. "All right, I will. And thanks for letting me know. I'll be careful."
The man followed his partner down the street as Stiles closed the door, sagging against it for a second before he went searching for the werewolf. He found him in the kitchen, sitting calmly and eating from a bag of beef jerky Stiles didn't know they had in the house.
"What the hell, Derek!" Stiles scolded, standing in the door. Derek looked up frowning. "Why didn't you wake me?"
Derek continued chewing and when he swallowed, he reached for a new piece of meat before he finally answered, "You'd seem more convincing if you didn't know they were coming."
Stiles snorted, put his hand on his hip. "Ha! I can convince anyone of anything. I'll have you know I'm a master of stealth."
Derek looked at him blankly. "Right..." he dragged out before continuing chewing.
"Well, I got you out of the cage, didn't I?"
"That's because you don't get affected by mountain ash," Derek told him with beef still in his mouth.
"So that's what kept you in. Wow," Stiles sighed, sinking down on a chair, reaching for the bag of dried meat to get a piece himself—it was the last one. "What a nightmare."
Derek gritted his teeth and turned his face away from Stiles before he got up and threw the empty bag in the garbage. Stiles followed as he went up the stairs after drinking two glasses of water. "Is everything all right?" Stiles asked, trying to keep up with the wolf as he took two steps up at the time to Stiles bedroom where he fell down on the bed, face down.
"You need to sleep again?" Stiles asked.
Derek had his face in Stiles pillow again. "Yes," came the muffled answer.
Stiles stood there for a minute, twisting his hands, not sure what to do or how to help.
"C'mere," Derek said, holding out his hand, face now turned to Stiles.
"What?" Stiles shifted his weight from foot to foot.
"C'mere," Derek repeated. "Please. Like before."
"You want me to. . ." Stiles trailed off as Derek lifted his upper body and grabbed Stiles hand, pulling him down on the bed, his back flushed against Derek's front before he knew it.
"Umph," Stiles gasped.
A deep and content sigh came from Derek as he squeezed Stiles even closer, his hand on Stiles' chest.
Seconds passed where Stiles lay stiff, afraid to just breathe as the werewolf hummed in his ear. "Okay. . ." Stiles said cleverly. "So, what is. . . is this one of those scent things werewolves do?"
"Mm hmm," Derek sighed. "This is what I do."
Stiles let out a disbelieving huff. "You need to be close to someone to heal?"
Derek held him tighter and nosing at Stiles neck, breathing in his scent. "Not someone."
"Just me?" Stiles couldn't believe what Derek was saying. And what was he really saying?
"Mm hmm, you smell like family, like home. Something I've missed for six years. This is what I need."
"So lying in my bed and smelling me makes you heal?"
"Yeah," Derek affirmed.
Stiles breathed out. "All right, I suppose I can do that."
"Good," Derek mumbled. "Thanks."
Stiles lay there, flushed against the werewolf's warm body, trying to keep still, to do his best to help him heal, but his thoughts raced, preventing him from stopping the fidgeting.
"Stop moving," Derek mumbled into his neck eventually. Stiles gasped as Derek's breath sent shivers down the side of his body. He couldn't prevent the effect the werewolf had on him no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Derek hummed against him, his hand on Stiles stomach like earlier, pushing under the fabric and feeling around the skin covered in goose-bumps as Stiles lay there, now stock-still. He couldn't help his attraction, what he'd felt from the first moment. He struggled to keep his dignity and prevent sexual feelings from being shown toward a creature in this vulnerable situation.
"Hey," Derek said softly, lifting his head and turning Stiles' cheek towards his with his fingertips. "It's okay." Stiles tried to shake his head, but Derek held him firmly. "I have to tell you something, all right?"
Stiles gulped. Here it came. Rejection. He felt like a horrible person thinking about this while what he really should be doing was outside. Near the Hale property. At the Freak Show camp.
What Derek then said changed that effectively.
"Stiles." Derek's eyes were boring into Stiles', keeping him in place like it was a physical thing. "I knew your mother."
Stiles was staring into the green eyes that flickered between his own, worried and cautious. "She was the school counselor when I was in middle school and . . . let's just say that I did everything I could think of to get sent to her."
"Why?" Stiles asked confused.
Derek's gaze flicked down for a second before it met Stiles' again, now burning into his. "She smelled so good to me. I didn't understand it, but her scent was so appealing to me that I made up all kinds of problems just to sit in her office."
Stiles nodded as best he could, Derek's hand still holding his cheek hindering its full movement.
"I had no idea why until yesterday." Derek paused before he swallowed and opened his mouth again. "Stiles, she smelled like the mother of my mate."
Stiles felt his heart pound in his chest. He was Derek's mate?
Derek continued talking. "I still remember the weird smell she started to have that I never understood until she didn't come back to school; months later I came to know she had leukemia."
Stiles gasped.
"Stiles. This doesn't have to mean anything if you don't feel it, and I'm sorry to spring it upon you. I know you can't have developed any feelings for me yet, and having seen me at my utmost lowest, I can understand it if you don't want anything like I do, but as the situation is, I had to tell you now. I'm sorry if it's too early for you."
Stiles felt his head swimming with the new information, but one thing stood out—clear to him. "I feel it too," he whispered. "Ever since I saw you in the cage, I've been drawn to you, felt compelled to help you, to do anything for you." Derek's tight expression was starting to soften as Stiles spoke.
"I didn't know humans could have mates like werewolves do, feel like I did from the moment I saw you."
Now Derek was smiling, and the way it changed his face, it made everything in the world all right for Stiles. "So this is why you like sleeping in my bed."
Derek was grinning at him now. "Being close to you makes me heal. It's taken me just a few hours from being near death to being physically like myself again."
Stiles hummed. "Yes, physically."
Derek looked down.
"The rest will take some time, but you will heal, Derek. In the future you will always have your loss with you, but it will be easier to bear."
"I know," Derek mumbled and lay his head down on the pillow. Stiles lay his head down too, turning his whole body to face the werewolf.
"I'll help you," Stiles breathed, knowing the truth in his words. "I'll do anything you need, just let me know."
Derek smiled softly at him, lifting his arm to hold around Stiles as he kissed Stiles' forehead lightly.
.
.
The next thing Stiles knew, he woke up in his room and it must have been night. His father was standing in the door, light from the hall filling into the dark room. "Stiles!"
Stiles jerked awake, trying to jump up, but Derek was holding him still and Stiles turned his face up. "Derek, let me go," he told the werewolf softly and Derek lifted his arm begrudgingly.
"I'm going downstairs to talk to my dad and we'll make dinner."
He sat up and looked back at the werewolf who was lying with his eyes closed before Stiles got up and took a bathroom break before walking down to his father.
"Dad, it's not what you think," he began, thinking he could ease his father into the new changes that was about to come, but his father held up his palms stopping him. Deaton and Scott had come back too and they sat at the table as the sheriff opened the fridge. "Son, you're old enough to make that kind of decisions on your own. I'm just concerned for your safety."
"I'd never hurt him," came from the deep voice walking down the stairs. Derek's gaze was on Stiles'. He held it all the way over to their table and, as he sat down beside him, his hand grabbed Stiles', placing them entwined in his lap. Stiles swallowed hard, looking down at his hand being held by Derek's big, warm one.
When he looked up again, he met his father's eyes that were scrutinizing him silently for a second before he nodded. "All right," he said and Stiles felt like his father just had given him and the werewolf his blessing for marriage.
Deaton started talking and they all turned to him. "We have been very fortunate today." Deaton smiled, looking at Derek. "What we could not tell you earlier, is that for three months the sheriff and I have had a hunter with honor, following the codex word for word, working undercover at the Freak Show." It was completely silent in the room, everyone listening intently.
The Sheriff continued the thread where Deaton had stopped. "Starting this afternoon, Mr. Chris Argent is officially Beacon Hills Police Department's partner in werewolf cases. He's moving here with his family and it's thanks to him we this afternoon could arrest the rogue hunters running the Freak Show, abusing and mistreating various people and creatures for years. Ideally, he could have used a bit more time infiltrating the show, but after your escape, Derek, we had to act today."
Stiles gaped at his father. He'd never really thought about the consequences of his father burying himself in his work for many years, that he actually was very good at his job and sort of . . . badass?
And Deaton too!
Stiles rose, walking over to his father where he stood leaning against the kitchen counter, but he straightened up as Stiles came face to face with him. Stiles lifted his arms and pulled his dad to him, holding him tight against his chest and just relaxed against him. The sheriff stood stiff and awkward for the first seconds before Stiles felt him relax too and give in. Stiles couldn't remember the last time they'd hugged each other, perhaps not since his mother's passing years ago.
Minutes passed before a chair scraped against the floor and his dad let him go, turning to the werewolf that was now standing beside them, holding out his hand to the sheriff, which he gripped immediately.
"Thank you, Sheriff," Derek said gruffly, shaking his hand as the sheriff nodded at him in recognition of the gesture. Derek went to Deaton then and thanked him too. "What about all the others held prisoner in the show? Where are they?"
Deaton reassured him, "Scott and I've been helping them tonight, sending the sick ones either to the hospital or making room for them at the clinic. Chris has already bought a house here and he's opened it up to the ones that can take care of themselves, but need a place to stay for a while. As I understand, his daughter Allison is a hunter like him and she's helping out too."
Stiles saw his best friend's face splitting into a goofy grin.
"Now," his father said from the counter. "We need food before we talk more about all of this. Who wants pizza for a late dinner? I think this is a night to celebrate, don't you?"
Derek sat down by the table, letting the sheriff know. "I haven't had pizza in six years."
The sheriff grabbed his phone. "Pizza it is. Something with lots of meat on it, I presume?"
"That'd be good."
.
.
June 2013
.
Stiles' senior year at college had ended a week ago and he was driving back to Beacon Hills to move into an apartment in his hometown. During the whole three-hour drive, Derek was asleep in the backseat, resting his head on the single bag containing all his earthly belongings. He was still snoring lightly as Stiles pulled up in front of his old house and his father opened the door, walked briskly down to the car and hugged Stiles closely in greeting.
"Hey, Dad," Stiles mumbled into his father's neck.
"You look good, son."
"Thanks, Dad." Stiles smiled at his father; he felt good to hold, and the wrinkles around his eyes suited his face. "So do you."
The sheriff bent down to look inside the car where Derek was now waking up in the backseat. "How is he now?"
Stiles looked at his father. "He's even better, I suppose. Still has the usual trouble with sleeping at night and nightmares disturbing him—us. His psychologist says he's still in the early process of healing. He needs time."
His father nodded once, thoughtfully. "How's he taking the move here where there's so many memories?"
"It'll be good—for him and for me. We want to live close to you. He's just got the insurance money from the house last week as I informed you, but he told me last night he's going to sell the property."
His father followed after Stiles to the back of his jeep, where his father studied at the varied boxes. "You're taking anything into the house?"
"Nah," Stiles told him. "I just stopped to say hello. We're going to get the apartment key and start unpacking. You could come with."
The sheriff smiled at him. "Yes, of course! I'll just go get my jacket."
Stiles grinned at his father's back. He'd made the right choice by moving them back to Beacon Hills, staying close to his dad. The job he'd got at Beacon Hills Gazette was better than the other journalist positions he'd applied for in his college town. They'd live close to Scott too when his vet studies eventually finished and he'd be settled with Allison and work with Deaton as planned.
What Derek would be doing with his life was still a bit up in the air. He'd taken to exercising a lot, running ten miles a day and doing some weightlifting. He was also concerned with healthy eating, but so far there was nothing he was really interested in that he could live on. A lot of their spare time they spent online, maintaining their Werewolf Support Group and their blog on Werewolf Rights.
Derek climbed into the passenger seat before Stiles drove the jeep to their new apartment. They got out and started untying the straps keeping his belongings safely in place in the back, Derek looked up smiling at Stiles and was at his side in an instant, covering his back against the side of the jeep, breathing into Stiles neck.
Stiles hummed, craning his neck to the side. "Got your fill yet? Dad's coming around the corner."
Derek sniffed a last time, swatted Stiles' behind and grinned when Stiles yelped. "Never," Derek told him.
The End
A/N: Thank you for reading!