CHAPTER I: HOW MANY MORE YEARS
In which there is bad cooking and even worse feelings.
Derek has never seen the point of knocking on doors, but he has learnt to do it for other people's sake. Mostly for Stiles, if he's completely honest with himself, because surprise panic attacks suck. But just because he knocks on Stiles' front door that morning doesn't mean that Stiles will actually open it. Derek suspects he only ever does that if he's within a five feet radius of the door or if he really itches to yell at him. But it's alright. Derek's got his own key, so he unlocks the door and steps inside.
The stench hits him like a brick wall. The air burns his mouth and lungs and makes him want to retch. He doesn't. He powers through it like a fucking man.
Stiles is in the kitchen typing on his laptop and keeping one eye on whatever he's cooking on the stove. The early morning light hits him just right, accentuates his sharp profile in a golden aura. As always, Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face when he sees him. All of his instincts scream at him to touch and care for the man. Derek's pretty convinced that his inner wolf, that part that wants to claim Stiles and possibly hump him, is a complete asshole.
Whatever is cooking is the source of the stench, it's a bluish tar-like liquid bubbling slowly. There's wolfsbane in there, Derek can tell from the way his skin and eyes burn, but there's other components he's not familiar with. Yet.
"I thought I told you to knock before you came in, Derek," Stiles drawls, without looking away from the computer. It's a beautiful, peaceful morning, but when Stiles doesn't get up to shoo him out or throw something at him, Derek knows that he's in a lot of pain. He is that some days, when old and new wounds act up. Some days are worse than others.
"I knocked."
"What do you want? You didn't brave Fortress Stilinski for nothing. Spill, before I kick you out." Stiles sounds tired. Derek wonders if it's his bad leg or the back injury that's hurting. Maybe it's both, judging from the deep lines under his eyes and stiff movements.
"What are you working on?" he asks. He doesn't mean to sound as kind and caring as he does, and of course Stiles picks up on it.
"New formula," he says and scratches the back of his neck. "It's a concentrate of the new strains of Aconite I told you about. I threw in some mountain ash for kicks. I'm thinking it will go well in bullets, and maybe even smoke bombs. Do you want a gas mask before you choke to death?"
"No, I'm not going to stay long. I'm going on a hunt tonight, so maybe you could do some research for me?"
"Sure. Is there even a chance that I can persuade you or Scott to let me join?"
"No," Derek says. "No way. And Scott's not coming either. He's got the kids tonight, wouldn't miss that for the world." If it was up to Derek, he'd spend the night with Scott and his kids as well. The two girls aren't around Beacon Hills as much as any of them would like, on account of their mother living in San Francisco. It's important that they connect to whatever pack is left for them to connect to. Also, in Derek's opinion, there is nothing better than four-year-olds in the world.
"Yeah, okay. Split custody is a bitch," Stiles agrees in a low voice. "But if Scott's not coming, I sure am. What are you going to hunt anyway? I thought we had agreed on that no one never ever hunts alone anymore."
"No. We agreed on that you never should do something suicidal again," Derek quips back. Stiles shrugs and smirks, and it's a challenge. Try to stop me, it says. Derek growls at him and takes a step forward. Under the god-awful smell of wolfsbane he can smell Stiles. It's weak, but still there. He smells like he always does, warm and tempting, but today also like he's in pain and there's too much of the oxycodone he depends on. He has been taking too much of it lately.
"I think it's a huldra," Derek continues. "I caught the smell yesterday when we patrolled down by the lake. It shouldn't be too dangerous for me. From what I've head, the hulderfolk only ever go after humans."
"These damned Scandinavian monsters again. Why do they keep coming here all the time? Also, let me correct your use of 'shouldn't be too dangerous'. Those critters are fucking crazy dangerous. Remember the Rivera pack from Carlsbad?" Derek nods. "Yeah, Alpha Rivera was taken down by a huldra last spring. It might even be the same one we've got here. And sure, some of them are intelligent and can be reasoned with, but they will have your head on a stick in no time if they feel like it. No way you're going alone. You need actual brains to take this monster down."
Derek is neither impressed or convinced. He'd growl a bit more at the man, but knowing Stiles, he'd probably just mock him for it. There's no way he's letting him tag along. Another week of sleepless nights at the hospital, another pale scar on Stiles' skin, another round of painkillers, and Derek's heart might just give out on itself. He has found a few more gray hairs by his temples, and he swears it's all Stiles' fault.
"Okay. For a huldra we'll need iron. And some of these puppies." Stiles gives him a fistful of brand new bullets. "They contain what's cooking. If you get hit by one of these, you ain't coming back."
Stiles gets up from his chair and limps over to the stove. He moves slowly and heavily favors his left side, which confirms Derek's theory that today is a bad day pain wise. Stiles turns off the flames and pulls the pots away to cool.
"Call me when you get off from work. I can pick you up."
"That's not going to happen."
"Yes. Yes, it is."
Derek is thrown out through the back door. He holds his breath as he walks by Stiles' toxic garden, full of his very own experimental strains of wolfsbane, lichen, Mountain-ash and rowan bushes, and so on. The flowers are looking good, he thinks, they are very pretty for being so deadly. Derek fingers the bullets in his pocket. He dislikes seeing Stiles like this. He should be happy, or at least he should be okay. As alpha, it's Derek's responsibility to make sure all of his packmembers are safe. Now Stiles is barely whole, and it's all Derek's fault.
Derek has no idea of when he started to harbor these horrible feelings for Stiles, but once he noticed what was happening it was already way too late to do anything about it. At the beginning he had thought falling for Stiles was as bad as it got, but it wasn't. The worst part was that he kept falling. And had done so for at least a decade or more. And it wasn't that he stumbled into it. It was a free-fucking-fall.
And the horrible, terrible L-word complicates everything. If only there was a way for him not to fall for Stiles… And it's not like Stiles is making easier either. If Derek thought he was a piece of work back when he was an annoying teenager who didn't know when to shut up, it's nothing compared to what he is now. He still doesn't know when to shut up, but now Derek feels so idiotically responsible for him. The past twelve years have not been kind to anybody in the pack, but Stiles being human has gotten the worst of it. He has scars all over his body, something that Derek never learned how to look away from.
Still, with the fresh memory of his smell still in his nose, Derek can't help but to feel comforted. So he gets back into his car and drives to the sheriff's office, to work.
(Okay everyone, this is part one of six(?), and the name of this chapter is form the song by Howlin' Wolf. I hope you enjoyed it! Please comment and tell me what you think!)
