He likes to pretend that he doesn't see a thing in Stiles that reminds him of Kate. But that's a filthy lie.
There are little things in Stiles, little good ones (the ones that in the end didn't matter about her, too little, too inconsequential in a sea of blood and bad intentions; but are everything about him) that scream Kate at him. Loud and terrifying.
Not loud enough to be paralyzing, to neutralize the tingling sensation he feels whenever Stiles goes above and beyond the call of duty for the pack, never loud enough to stop him from wanting things he hasn't allowed himself to want for years. But loud enough to make him a mess of self hatred.
Because Stiles is not Kate. He's not. Could never be. He's so fucking transparent that even his less honorable intentions are put on display for everyone to feast upon, to criticize and judge. Those are the rules of his game.
But Derek's mind has a twisted set of rules of its own.
That and countless pavlovian responses towards the attitudes he can recognize from a fictional Kate that never was.
"It freaks me out a little when you do this." Stiles says one evening upon finding him waiting for him on his room, heart racing, palms smelling of cold sweat. It makes every joint on Derek's body ache. He's wet and half naked, recently showered, and the trail of hair coming out of his low hanging shorts leading up to his navel is sticking to his skin and making Derek's brain short circuit.
"It shouldn't," he answers, trying to tear his eyes away from Stiles' lower abdomen, from his hips and his- "you're pack."
"I know." Stiles agrees, throwing his towel on the floor and sitting on his bed. "But you don't do this for the others. Plus that still doesn't excuse B&E"
It's Stiles' own way of saying It's obvious that you're bullshitting me and hiding stuff from me, but I'm not going to touch that right now.
"No." He concedes, walking towards the bed and getting down on his knees between Stiles' parted legs. He stares up at Stiles, whose mouth is hanging open, pretty and pink, the skin around it faintly wet like the rest of him. He feels his eyes bleed red for a second. "I don't."
And that's his way of saying I know that you're well aware of how fucked up I am and this is, but I'm not ready.
At least that's what he means, every time, and what he wishes Stiles gets.
He waits, then, hands resting on his own legs, senses overcome by the way everything Stiles is bracketing him (the smell of him, the sight of him, the heat of his skin- the texture of the body hair on his legs, the rhythm of his heart, the promise of taste). He always does, because that's the one other thing he wishes Stiles gets:
Derek might be fucked up in thousands of ways that he can't explain, and he might be shit at negotiating things he wants and needs, but he's not… Stiles always has a choice. He can always say no to Derek and Derek will back off.
Stiles looks at him with his cheeks flushes and this little crease between his brows, and then he puts a hand on Derek's hair and tugs at it gently.
"Okay, dude."
Derek leans into the hand, thankful that Stiles seems to get this. Then he wets his lips (they are sandpapery dry, they always are when they do this), breathes out: "what do you want me to do?"
Stiles swallows nervously, and it briefly brings Derek back to the first time they did this, when Stiles blurted out "whatever you want to? I'm really not sure what I'm supposed to say here", not fully understanding what Derek wanted from him (to obey, to be of use, to respond to Stiles' everything in this way, because it felt natural to him, and like the one thing he could manage to give without falling apart).
"I… " He clears his throat, flexes the fingers still tangled on Derek's hair. The next time he speaks, his voice is unyielding: "I want you to come into the bed with me, I want you to lie with me and maybe trade a few kisses, maybe help me get you off with my mouth. I like sucking you off, and I like it when you direct me."
Derek groans, dick twitching at Stiles' words, his own hands tightening against his dark jeans. Stiles blushes, but goes on, eyes fixed on his.
"Then I want you to come downstairs with me and help me with dinner."
He nods, and Stiles seems to ponder something, mouth curling a little, eyes moving from his to Stiles' other hand (resting on the bed) and then back. He looks determined enough to make the impossible happen (and he's done it before, so who knows what he could accomplish by force of sheer willpower). He licks his lips, speaks like a challenge:
"And after that, I want you to stay."
(Stiles is not Kate. Derek is not Kate. Nobody's Kate, other than Kate, and she's dead.
Derek holds on to that, when he sees things of her in Stiles, things of the fictional character that screwed him over in this kid that's just an insufferable asshole on his worse days.
He holds on to that when his body thrums with the pavlovian need to obey and be of use, lest Stiles decides he's not worth his time and leaves.
Holds on to it, because slowly, Stiles is starting to make that thrum a safe thrum. A sane thrum. A thrum that instead saysobey and be of use and to place power on his hands to give back to Stiles and because he himself is beginning to enjoy it again, once the fear of being thrown aside -or the fear of being consumed by something he thinks he knows but doesn't- subsides.)
Stiles is looking at him, eyes shiny and flickering between emotions. He's chewing on his lower lip, and he looks worried.
Worried that he's gone too far, that he's screwed up, Derek realizes.
Stiles is not Kate.
He takes one of his hands from its resting place and puts it on Stiles' chin, holds it softly.
"Okay," he croaks out, sliding his thumb over Stiles' bitten lip. "Okay."