"This is ridiculous," Derek snapped as he shoved clothes into the duffle bag on his bed. "I don't need to go to a conference about working with werewolves. Maybe it's somehow escaped your notice over the last five years, but I actually am a werewolf."
"I know, Derek," Lydia soothed from the screen of his laptop, sitting comfortably in their California office. "It's just company policy, everyone has to go. We sent Isaac."
"Did you send him to Europe?" Derek turned, raising an eyebrow. "Can't we just…" he gestured at the computer, "Skype me in or something?"
Lydia rolled her eyes. "No. And you're going to the conference in Greenland because it's closer to Qikiqtarjuaq than the one in Vancouver."
Lydia's pronunciation of the small Nunavut community's name was flawless. Derek still tripped over it more often than not, despite having spent the last six months working there. He scowled at her. "Look, it's our company. We make the company policy. Can't you exempt me?"
"It would set a poor example for the rest of our employees, let alone the impression it would send to our shareholders and community stakeholders if word got around. You know that." Lydia fluttered her fingers at him as she skimmed over a sheet of paper in front of her before dashing off her signature at the bottom and handing it off to a hovering assistant. "When we started Beacon we made a commitment to creating a prejudice-free workplace. That was important to you, and important to me, and unless you've gone bird-brained spending so much time alone in the Great White North, it should still be a priority for you."
"It is, Lydia, but—"
"No buts, Derek," Lydia said firmly. "You're going. I've confirmed your flight. The pilot is waiting for you at the airport. There's a driver and a hotel room waiting for you when you land, and if you survive the journey—"
"Ha ha," Derek panned, rounding up his last pair of clean socks.
"—you can order yourself a ridiculously large room service dinner and charge it back to the company, deal?"
"I'm going to pick the most expensive bottle of wine," he warned her.
"I'd expect nothing less." Lydia leaned forward and met his eyes through the screen. "I know this sucks for you, but you'll only be in the air for an hour or so. It'll be over before you know it."
"Or I'll go down in flames over the Atlantic Ocean."
"I'll take good care of Beacon in the event of your untimely demise, I promise."
"Great, thank you. Very reassuring."
Lydia glanced down at her watch. "You'd better go or you're going to be late. Text me when you land, okay? And Derek?"
"Yeah?" He glanced up from where he was zipping his bag shut.
"I love you."
"Oh, jesus," Derek huffed, but he couldn't help the way his cheeks pinked slightly. "I love you, too. Now stop babying me and go rescue a penguin or something."
Lydia winked, and then the screen went dark. Derek closed the laptop and eased it carefully into his backpack, securing the power cord and performing one last quick check of the hotel room to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything else. He wouldn't be gone for very long, three days tops, but it was always a pain in the ass to realize you forgot something as simple as your toothbrush or a change of underwear.
Deciding he had everything he needed, Derek hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and grabbed the straps of his duffle bag before heading out the door.
Like everything in Qikiqtarjuaq, the airport was tiny. With a population that hovered around the 500 mark, they certainly didn't need much, and after spending so many years in California, Derek found the small community refreshing. He liked that after six months he recognized nearly every face he saw, even if he didn't know all of the names quite yet. They all knew his, of course. Derek could live in the community until he was eighty-five and he'd probably still be the new guy from the States. Qikiqtarjuaq had its fair share of tourists, but few people stayed for longer than a week or two.
Stepping out of his truck and locking the door behind him, Derek zipped his parka up against the frigid winter air and hurried across the parking lot towards the small, single-story building. This time of year it was dark already; they were down to maybe four hours of sun in a day. Only the rising moon and the airport lights ahead guided him as he trudged through the snow.
Reaching the door, he tugged it open and stepped inside, grateful for the heat that wrapped around him even as it fogged up his glasses something awful. Dropping his bag he pulled his glasses off to wipe them on his scarf, nodding absently at the man behind the desk.
"Hey, Charlie."
"Mister Hale," Charlie returned Derek's nod, "I hear you're off to Nuuk."
"Yeah." Derek pushed his glasses back onto his nose and tried not to think of how exactly he'd be getting there. "Work thing."
"Not enough birds here for you?" Charlie cackled at his own joke.
"There are never enough birds for me," Derek winked. "Keep an eye on the place while I'm gone, will you?"
"You got it." Charlie swung himself down from his stool and ambled out from around the counter, picking up Derek's duffle bag and leading Derek into the waiting room, such as it was.
"Your pilot'll be back soon, he just went to grab something hot for dinner."
"Great, thanks Charlie." Not great at all. Derek didn't want to have to wait around any longer than he had too—even being in the airport, with the long stretch of runway disappearing into the dark outside of the waiting room window, had Derek's palms sweating in his gloves.
"You want a coffee while you wait?"
Caffeine would only make Derek even more jittery than he was already, but the urge to do something with his hands was overwhelming. "Yeah. I'll grab it, don't worry."
Charlie gave an amiable nod and headed back into the main entrance to pull himself behind the counter and return his focus to the Sudoku puzzle he'd been working on. Derek shrugged off his backpack, set it in the chair beside his duffle bag, and made his way across the small waiting room to the adjacent kitchen. The coffee pot was cool to the touch, but Derek didn't mind. The process of making a fresh pot would take his mind off the trip he was about to make, at least for a few minutes, anyway.
Dumping the cold coffee down the sink, he rooted around in the cupboards until he found a can of Tim's and began to scoop it into the filter. With any luck, there'd be something resembling cream in the fridge and Derek could have himself one last double double before he left Canada.
When the coffee was done Derek helped himself to a mug, added the prescribed amount of cream and sugar, and then wandered back into the waiting room. He could see the plane from the window, a small two-seater that looked like it ought to be remote controlled. Derek gritted his teeth and turned away. He was a werewolf for god's sake. He could rip a full-grown tree out of the frozen earth. He could go toe-to-toe with a polar bear (and on one memorable occasion, almost had). He could survive things that would kill any other living creature on earth.
There was nothing about a short flight (over a fathomless ocean, in the dead of winter, on a plane that looked like it could fall apart at any second) that should scare Derek Hale.
"Heya, Charlie."
Derek heard the front door swing open and then closed. His pilot had returned, it seemed.
"Stilinski," Charlie returned. "Your passenger's in the waiting room. Waiting."
"Aw, come on, I'm like five minutes late. You try telling Rose you can't stay for a bowl of her apple crumble. That's right. You can't. No one can. That woman's incredible. And so is her apple crumble."
Charlie gave a snort, and the new voice turned wheedling. "Don't be like that, man. I brought you some, too."
"Oh. Well, then." Charlie sounded immediately pleased, there was the sound of a plate being handed over, and then Derek heard the newcomer head into the waiting room. Derek set his untouched cup down on the coffee table and pulled off his gloves so he could shake hands with the man.
"Hot damn, where have they been hiding you?" The pilot rounded the corner and Derek's eyebrows flew up over his glasses, his hand dropping. There was no way this was his pilot. Not happening. This guy wasn't a pilot. This guy wasn't even a guy—this kid had to be in high school, for crap's sake.
"I'm Stiles," the kid continued, holding out his hand and waggling his fingers until Derek hesitantly brought his own up. "And that over there is Roscoe," he nodded his head at the window, and Derek winced. He was about to trust his life and limb to a teenager with a toy plane that had a name. A name that was 'Roscoe'.
"You ready to go?" The kid—okay maybe he wasn't quite a kid, but Derek would eat his parka if he was over the age of twenty-three—looked straight into Derek's eyes with his surprisingly level amber gaze.
"Yes," Derek responded stiffly. "Just let me dump this." He glanced down at his cup of coffee, wishing he'd taken the chance to see if Charlie had something a little stronger stashed in the kitchen that Derek could have added.
"Whoa, hey, no, no."
Stiles's hand shot out and grabbed the cup (and what the hell kind of name was 'Stiles', for that matter?) before Derek could get it.
"That's fresh coffee, dude. You don't just dump fresh coffee. Ooohhh," he brought his nose close to the rim and inhaled, his eyes falling closed so that his eyelashes, impossibly long, brushed his cheeks. "And it's Tim's. No, this is precious cargo. This is coming with me."
"Um," Derek wasn't entirely sure what to say to that.
"You don't mind, right?" Stiles didn't wait for Derek to answer. He was already striding past Derek into the kitchen and pulling a travel mug out of a drawer. "I just can't in good conscience let it go to waste. I've been in Utah for the last month and, man, the coffee there sucks some serious ass." He dumped the contents of Derek's cup into the mug and screwed the cap back on before heading back into the waiting room.
"Not that I'm against ass sucking, on principle," he said with a wink that left Derek feeling suddenly very hot inside of his coat, "Just not when it comes to my coffee."
"Right," Derek managed, bending down to pick up his bags. This was going to be the worst hour of his life, he was sure of it.
The pilot tucked the travel mug into the pocket of his own parka and wriggled into a pair of gloves. Then he fished a keychain out of his jeans and set off for the back door of the building, out towards the runway. "Come on, we're wasting daylight."
Derek opened his mouth, glancing out the window at the complete blackness of the night beyond, and closed his mouth with a snap. Better just to get the whole thing over with. Pulling his own gloves back on, he followed Stiles out of the airport with a quick wave for Charlie, and tried not to let the panic that had begun to flutter in the back of his throat overwhelm him.
The snow crunched under Derek's boots, and the cold night air took his breath away. Above them, the sky was clear and if Derek looked up he'd be able to see a breathtaking view of the stars. He kept his gaze firmly on Stiles's tracks through the snow in front of him. He'd be seeing more than enough of the sky in a few minutes, and he was going to devote the next five to being thoroughly thankful for the ground.
Up close, under the bright white lights on the ramp, Derek could see that the plane was painted a cheeky robin's egg blue, and it made the plane's resemblance to a toy all the more obvious. Closing his eyes, Derek offered up a quick prayer to whatever gods happened to be listening that he wouldn't actually die in such a ridiculous looking contraption.
"So what are you in Qikiqtarjuaq for?" Stiles asked as he opened the passenger door and gestured for Derek to climb inside. Derek looked around Stiles into the tiny interior and fought back a grimace. It didn't look like it would fit his duffle bag, let alone himself along with it.
"Work," he replied shortly, tossing his bag in and then placing his backpack with his laptop more carefully on top of the duffle bag and behind the passenger seat.
"You don't have to be Veronica Mars to figure that out," Stiles said, giving Derek a helpful boost on his ass as Derek clambered inside. Derek shot Stiles a venomous look around his shoulder and Stiles backed off with an impish grin, his hands held up innocently. "Just trying to be helpful."
"I don't need any help." Derek folded himself into the tiny seat, fingers rubbing absently along the sheepskin cover as Stiles shut the door. Stiles circled the plane slowly, poking and prodding at things for reasons Derek didn't want to think about, before he finally made his way around to his side of the plane.
"So," Stiles continued once he'd settled himself into his own seat. "What kind of work?" Derek wasn't sure how the kid had managed it, but he somehow looked comfortable crammed into the small space. Derek was sure that the pilot's long legs should have been folded up somewhere near his ears, but apparently his side was more spacious than Derek's.
"I study owls. Snowy owls."
"No shit?" Stiles looked impressed as he fiddled with the instrument panel in front of him. Derek watched the surprisingly graceful movement of Stiles's long fingers and tried to distract himself from the fact that pretty soon those fingers would be the only thing between him and certain death.
Fuck. He had to stop thinking about death. He was going to jinx himself for sure.
Stiles turned to Derek, his expression more serious than Derek had witnessed yet, and a trickle of trepidation ran down his spine. Oh god, had Stiles discovered something wrong with the plane? Thankfully they were still on the ground. If the plane broke down before he left maybe Lydia would understand him missing the conference.
"When Hedwig died in Deathly Hallows, I cried for like an hour. I'm serious. I couldn't even keep reading. And, like, we're talking the last Harry Potter book ever, twenty minutes after midnight, there's gonna be spoilers all over the world by six am so I gotta get it read by then, but fuck. That hit me hard. My dad heard me sobbing in the bathtub. I thought the running water would be loud enough that he wouldn't hear me, but he nearly broke down the door before I could tell him I was okay."
Derek stared unbelievingly at Stiles.
"Well, I mean I wasn't okay, obviously, but y'know, I wasn't bleeding or anything, which was what he was worried about."
"Right," Derek said again.
"Those fictional deaths, you gotta watch out for 'em." Stiles shook his head and turned his attention back to the dashboard, absently handing Derek a headset and proceeding rapidly through a litany of safety instructions and flight information. Derek lost track somewhere around how to open the doors in an emergency and didn't catch up again until Stiles asked, "You buckled in?"
Derek nodded—he'd strapped himself in the first chance he got. Apparently that wasn't enough for Stiles though, because without warning Stiles reached across Derek's chest and tugged at the strap. Derek jerked back, or as much as he could in the seat, and had to dig his fingers into his own thighs to stop the vicious, animal snarl that nearly flew from his throat.
The thought of flying had him on edge enough that his control over his wolf wasn't as good as it usually was. He'd thought about taking a suppressant, but the idea of being however many thousand feet over the Atlantic and groggy from the drug had worried him more than accidentally outing himself to his pilot.
It wasn't like Derek kept the fact that he was a werewolf a secret, exactly, and he'd bet good money that everyone in Qikiqtarjuaq knew, but that didn't mean that he went out of his way to inform strangers. There was still enough stigma associated with the condition, species, whatever you wanted to call it, that he didn't advertise the fact.
"Hey, take it easy buddy," Stiles eased back, his hands in the air again. "Not a fan of flying, are you?"
"I'm fine." Derek turned to look out the window. They were crammed in so close together that it wasn't like he could completely ignore the guy, but he didn't have to encourage familiar conversation.
"If you say so," Stiles said, in a tone that implied he did not believe Derek at all.
Derek didn't take the bait, just scowled at his own reflected image in the window. If he survived the trip, he was going to murder Lydia. Twice.
"Okay," Stiles said cheerfully. He radioed in with Charlie briefly before announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, hang on to your hats because we are in business."
Derek clenched his hands into fists, screwed his eyes shut, and started reciting the Latin names of all of Canada's native birds in his head as the plane trundled up to the runway.
Derek usually managed to relax at least a little once whatever plane he was in was actually in the air. Apparently this was only true when he was flying over land, though, because despite the relatively smooth way Stiles had gotten them off the ground, Derek couldn't stop picturing the vast, empty expanse of ocean beneath them.
He'd looked it up, before, when he'd made the flight up to Qikiqtarjuaq six months ago, and unless he was somehow decapitated or his torso became completely severed, Derek would probably survive a crash over land. Over water, he wasn't so sure. People disappeared over the ocean. All the time. Even in this day and age when the technology far surpassed anything that had come before, planes and ships simply got lost. They were there one moment and gone the next. Just lost.
Which meant that it would probably be worse for Derek if he did survive the initial crash into the ocean—because that meant he might survive in the freezing cold water for days, maybe even weeks, before finally succumbing to thirst or the elements. The odds of anyone finding him were so slim, it'd be an agony of waiting only to die alone and helpless.
Or not alone, he supposed, cracking his eyes open to glance over at Stiles. How long would he be able to keep a human alive, assuming Stiles was able to survive the plummet and the crash into the water? What would Derek do if Stiles was injured? What the hell was the ethical choice in that scenario?
Do you give someone the bite when it might only prolong their suffering? If they were going to die anyway, wouldn't it be more merciful to let them go quickly?
"Okay, dude, I can hear you freaking out from over here. Stop it."
Derek realized he'd been staring at Stiles, and catching his reflection in the window to Stiles's left he saw that his face was pale and drawn, with his eyes wide and horrified behind his glasses. Hastily, Derek turned away and focused his attention on his hands where he'd been slowly twisting his gloves. It was warm enough in the plane that he'd taken them off.
"I'm fine," Derek responded shortly.
"Yeah, sure you are," Stiles rolled his eyes and reached forward to turn down the music. "I've done this flight like, a dozen times. It's short and quick and easy, we'll be fine."
"Don't say that."
"What?"
"Don't say we'll be fine. Don't you watch any horror movies?" Derek turned back to Stiles, a look of disgust on his face. "What are you going to say next, we should split up?"
Stiles raised an eyebrow. "I don't know if you've noticed, but it's pretty much impossible for us to split up. We're as split up as we could possibly be in this plane. Roscoe is a lot of things, but roomy isn't one of them. Now," his lips quirked and those amber eyes took on a wicked gleam, "You could always come closer. You know, to counter-act the jinx and all."
Derek gave an embarrassed huff and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning as far away from Stiles as he could manage. He could feel the tips of his ears heating up and he hoped his beard hid enough of the pink on his cheeks. "Could you stop hitting on me and focus on the road—or the sky—whatever, so we don't crash into…"
"Santa Claus?" Stiles laughed. "I hate to tell you, big guy, but he's about the only thing we're going to find this far North."
"We're flying right now. It stands to reason that other people might also be flying. I just don't want to fly into anyone else, okay?"
"So you don't want me to stop hitting on you cause you don't like it, you want me to stop hitting on you because you're afraid I'll be too distracted trying to get into your pants to stop us from crashing into another plane?"
"I—" Derek sputtered, not sure how the hell he was supposed to respond to that question.
"I'll have you know I'm an excellent multi-tasker," Stiles winked.
"That's—I—look, just fly the plane." Derek muttered, completely unable to meet Stiles's eyes.
"What's the coolest thing you know about snowy owls?"
The abrupt change of subject had Derek's head spinning and he answered without thinking. "They've been found as far south as Texas and Florida."
"Like, they just flew down on their own?"
"Yeah. No one is really sure why." Derek tugged on his scarf. He'd expected the small plane to be freezing, but the tiny cockpit had filled up with their body heat and a quick glance at the window to his side showed him that they were actually fogging the place up. He had a brief, entirely too-vivid picture of a smeared, sweaty handprint against the fogged glass and the accompanying thought of what, exactly, could result in such a handprint, before he caught himself with a shake. Thanks a lot, Titanic, he thought with a scowl. He was already worried enough about his pilot's ability to fly while talking, let alone while doing… other things.
"I get it," Stiles said easily, and it took Derek a second to remember what they had been talking about. "When you can fly, when man-made borders or roads or, hell, even mountains, stop being obstacles—why not go as far as possible? Just to see—just to prove—that you can."
"Is that why you like flying?" Derek didn't want to be having this conversation. He didn't want to be having any conversation. He wanted to sit in (un)comfortable silence for the next, he glanced down at his watch, forty minutes until they landed in Greenland and he could get the hell out of this plane. And yet… he found himself oddly interested in what Stiles's answer would be.
"That's part of it, yeah," Stiles sounded surprised, and pleased, that Derek had asked. "I mean, I'm still bound by laws and airspace borders, and it's not like I can just fly whenever and wherever I want, but there's a certain freedom to it that I've never felt doing anything else. But for me it's," he paused, expression going thoughtful, "It's about being brave enough, skilled enough, and smart enough to keep a hunk of metal in the air when, by all rights, it should never get off the ground." Stiles turned to Derek. "It's magic, you know?" There was a crooked half-grin on Stiles's face, passion bright in his eyes, and Derek couldn't look away. "I mean, these days, now that all the fairy tales turned out to be real, it's easy to feel like there isn't any more magic left in the world. But my job, the thing I do for work, is keeping a hunk of funny-shaped metal soaring through the air using the decomposed bones of dinosaurs that died millions of years ago. How is that not the most ridiculous fucking magical thing you've ever heard?"
"I've never really thought about it," Derek said, when Stiles seemed to be waiting for an answer. Truth be told, the whole 'hunk of metal' bit was not helping with Derek's anxiety over flying, but it was hard to complain when Stiles was so obviously delighted.
"Most people don't. They get too hung up on the long wait times or," Stiles's grin turned knowing, "The cramped flying conditions."
At the reminder, Derek shifted his legs, recalling with fondness the ease at which they could be stretched on a car ride simply by pulling to the side of the road.
"But that just means it's like lost magic. Arcane shit," Stiles just sounded cocky now and Derek snorted.
"So, what, you see yourself as some kind of wizard?"
"If the pointy hat fits."
"Please," Derek rolled his eyes.
"Watch it, buddy. This wizard could dump your ass into the Atlantic and no one would ever find you." Stiles waggled his fingers in what Derek assumed was supposed to be a mystical fashion. "Best vanishing spell there is."
Stiles's words echoed too closely Derek's earlier thoughts, and all the good will (or at least not ill will) that he'd been beginning to feel towards the pilot dissolved.
"I guess certain personality traits are attracted to feeling all-powerful," he said stiffly.
Beside him, Stiles winced, shrinking a little into himself. "I was kidding—you know I'd never—well, no, you don't know me at all so I guess you think maybe I might, but I wouldn't drop you in the ocean never to be found again." Then, just as Derek started to feel a bit bad himself and was about to offer his own apology, Stiles said, "That'd be, like, a total waste of dead dinosaur."
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Derek glared.
"What? Oh, come on, man. That was funny."
"Maybe to a twelve-year-old boy."
"Twelve-year-old boys have excellent senses of humour. Don't you remember being twelve years old?" Stiles glanced appraisingly over at Derek. "Then again, maybe you don't. Maybe you popped out of an egg somewhere looking perpetually grumpy and thirty-ish. Oh my god—were you offended by my dinosaur joke because you're a dinosaur?"
Derek's mouth dropped open, an indignant response on the tip of his tongue but luckily (or not at all, really) the small plane gave a sudden jerk and Derek's heart stopped.
"Whoa there, baby," Stiles's hands flew over the controls, his brow furrowed and his attention wholly on the plane and the display in front of him.
Derek's gaze shot to the front windows. He'd spent the trip so far completely avoiding looking in that direction, and now that he had, he wished he hadn't.
When they'd left Qikiqtarjuaq the sky had been clear, but now, whether due to their altitude or the distance they'd travelled, they were surrounded by clouds. The plane's lights cut through them, to a point, but they also managed to illuminate the swirling snow. Another gust of wind buffeted the plane and Derek could feel his throat tighten around a panicked whine that threatened to escape.
"It's just a bit of bad weather," Stiles said absently, though Derek didn't miss the way his hand had tightened around the—what the hell was it called on a plane? The steering wheel? Joystick?
Derek tore his gaze away from Stiles and tried to focus on the gloves in his lap. If he could just keep his attention on his stupid gloves, just really look at the things and notice how there was a thread coming loose in the right one and he was going to have to—
The plane shuddered again and Derek jerked rigid in his seat, his hands clenching around the sheep's wool so hard that it dug into his palms. He could hear the rapid beat of his own heart and the way his breathing was becoming ragged and uncontrolled. Where his hands were gripping the edges of his seat, Derek could feel the tips of his claws push at his skin, and when the plane shook again they popped out into the fabric of the seat.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stiles's eyes flick over to him. "You're going to have to take a deep breath and find your calm, dude."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, no, you look super fine."
"We're flying into a snowstorm. Tell me, how am I supposed to look?"
"Just because it's snowing and there are clouds doesn't mean it's a snowstorm."
"No? Then what does it mean, because I can't think of—"
"Who's the pilot here?" Stiles fixed Derek with a stern look. "Trust me, this happens all the time. You get to a certain altitude and you wind up in the clouds. And this time of the year it's fucking freezing, so, bam! Snow."
Derek clenched his jaw, but Stiles's words made sense. It was the middle of winter, and they were practically next-door neighbours to the North Pole. A little snow didn't mean they were going down in flames.
Of course just as Derek was beginning to relax, his fingers slowly releasing the seat cushion, there was another gust of wind and this time the swoop of the plane was impossible to deny. Derek's stomach gave a lurch and his eyes slammed shut as he braced himself for the impact he was sure would come.
"Just a bit of wind," Stiles announced. He sounded unconcerned, almost cheerful, though if Derek hadn't been too busy trying to slow down his out-of-control heart rate he might have heard the strain in Stiles's voice as he wrestled to keep the plane steady.
Derek didn't bother to answer, he was too busy trying to remember to breathe as the plane continued to shudder and jerk. Each gust of wind against the metal made the plane creak ominously, and to Derek's superhuman ears the howl of the wind was overwhelming.
"Hey, man, seriously—are you okay?"
Derek forced his eyes open. "I'm fine."
"Oh, for the love of—" Stiles broke off and turned to fully face Derek, whose face paled even further when he realized Stiles wasn't paying any attention to the controls.
"Would you just fly the goddamn plane?" Derek hissed through clenched teeth, unable to tear his own eyes away from the whirling vortex of snow and clouds in front of them.
"I am flying the plane. The plane is flying. I'm doing that. We are in the air, we are moving forward, and nothing is wrong. Or that wrong, rather," Stiles amended before continuing, "Except for you. You are the main thing that's wrong, so you need to stop hyperventilating and just chill the fuck out."
"I'm fine."
"If you keep saying that, I'm seriously going to hit the eject button on your seat."
Derek knew Stiles was joking, knew there wasn't actually an eject button, and even if there were an eject button there was no way Stiles would deploy it in mid-air over the ocean in the middle of a storm because that would probably endanger Stiles and the plane, too, but that didn't stop him from picturing what it would feel like to be hurtled a hundred miles through the air with nothing but his seat cushion. The thought of the air screaming past his ears and the sickening plummet and the imagined sensation of falling had Derek digging his claws deeper into the seat, his eyes screwing shut and his head pressing back against the headrest like he could will himself back on the ground. "If you keep talking and not flying, I am going to rip your throat out. With my teeth."
"That's exactly the problem." Stiles sounded more exasperated than frightened by Derek's threat. "This storm? That's not a safety issue. This storm is a minor inconvenience that will give us a few bumps along the way." As if on cue, the plane gave a sudden dip and Derek could feel the bones in his jaw being to shift as his body reacted to the surge of accompanying terror the only way it knew how. "But an out of control werewolf in the cockpit, now that is a safety issue."
The plane dipped again, Stiles's hands and attention turning back to the controls and Derek's teeth beginning to elongate. "You said it wasn't a storm," he accused. But then— "How—how do you know I'm a werewolf?" The initial jolt of fear at being recognized when he thought he was passing mingling with the overwhelming sense of dread he currently felt.
"You weren't obvious," Stiles reassured him, glancing back at Derek. "My best friend is one though. I know the signs. And that means I know you need to calm down before you, not the storm, do some serious damage to Roscoe."
"Roscoe," Derek growled, eyes closed and claws now digging into his own flesh instead of the seat, "Is a stupid fucking name for a plane."
"Please," Stiles scoffed. "Roscoe is a perfectly respectable name."
"Says the guy named 'Stiles'."
"Trust me, you don't want to know my actual name."
"I don't care what your actual name is." Derek could hear the thread of panic in his own voice. "I just need you to land this goddamn fucking plane in one piece."
"Well then, not to worry. I haven't crashed it yet."
"Stiles!"
"Sorry."
For the next twenty minutes, Derek did okay. He wasn't alright, or calm, not by any means, but he managed to remain more or less under control. He kept his eyes firmly shut, his hands clenching and unclenching into tight fists in his lap. He could feel the wetness of blood through his jeans, knew despite how quickly he healed each time his claws dug into his own flesh that he drew blood every time. The smell of it, hot and metallic, coated his tongue as he concentrated on taking deep, level breaths. He had no idea what Stiles thought about the whole thing—could easily picture the askance look that might be on the pilot's face when he eventually realized that his passenger was probably staining the sheepskin seat cover with blood.
Whatever. Derek would get him a new one.
He was in control though, that was the point. Or mostly in control. He was on top of things.
Until the snow suddenly became hail and the gusts of wind that had been buffeting the plane began to toss the small aircraft through the air like it was the toy Derek had initially compared it to.
When the plane tilted sickeningly to the left and Derek was thrown forward against the strap of his seatbelt, Derek felt his last, tenuous hold on control shatter.
His vision blurred and then snapped into focus, claws springing from his hands and fangs snapping at the air in front of him like he could fight the storm himself.
There was a strangled yelp from the seat beside him and Derek whirled around as much as he could in the small space, turning glowing eyes on the human sitting mere inches away.
"Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," the human swore, barely glancing up from the control panel in front of him. "We are so fucking fucked."
Derek snarled, thick and vicious.
"Derek," the human warned, "Trust me, you're not going to like what's going to happen if you—"
Derek didn't wait for the human to finish. He reared back in his seat, teeth bared and then lunged for the pale throat in front of him.
There was an indignant squawk and then Derek's entire world flipped upside down.
Panic clawed at his throat as Derek's hands scrabbled uselessly at the air in front of him. He could feel the press of the something against his chest, around his hips, and his teeth snapped uselessly against an enemy that he didn't know how to fight.
"Are you good yet?" the human was asking, but Derek couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his own heart in his ears and he fought desperately to pull himself free from whatever it was that held him back, claws raking the air as he tried to find a handhold.
"I'm going to take that as a 'No, Stiles, I actually need a little more time, and maybe a wolfsbane-laced Valium, if you have one handy'."
There was an awful buck, and the plane shook harder than it had yet. The human swore again, and then Derek's world was righting itself. He fell back into his seat with an inelegant thunk, panting with stress and fear. He could hear a high-pitched whine coming from somewhere, the dumb sound of an animal in pain, but didn't connect it to the tightness in his own throat.
"So here's the deal," the human was saying conversationally, "I can't keep flying upside down because, well, the storm is making things a tad… difficult," he glanced over at Derek who was staring bleakly at the window, glowing eyes darting this way and that as he tried to track the individual balls of ice as they crashed into the glass. "But that means you're going to have to keep your hands—and teeth—to yourself and try not to kill me. Because I promise you, if you kill me, you will also die a terrible death and while I don't know you that well, I feel like I can safely bet you don't want that to happen. Got it?"
Derek wasn't sure what it was, but he slowly began to feel like he was coming back to himself. The plane shuddered under him, and the whine Derek couldn't hold back increased in volume, but he managed to keep himself in his seat. He couldn't see the human—Stiles—couldn't tear his eyes away from the sky in front of him, but when the plane dipped and jerked again and Derek only pressed himself farther back into the chair, he felt the tension in the cockpit ease slightly.
"There you go, that's a good boy. Jesus," there was a slightly hysterical edge of laughter to Stiles's voice now, "I can't believe I just said that. You know, I keep telling Scott he's not a dog and yet here I go, 'good boy'-ing you. Looks like it's working though. Cause I'm talking, and we're still flying through a storm, and you're not freaking out. I mean, you're still full-werewolf over there, but you're a little less murder-everything-that-breathes-near-me-werewolf, you know?"
Stiles kept up a steady stream of nonsensical dialogue. He talked about his best friend Scott, the fact that his dad was the sheriff of the town where he grew up, he listed his favourite places to visit, and when Derek finally began to feel his fangs recede back into his gums and his claws slowly retract from his fingers, Stiles was giving a detailed—way too detailed—history of male circumcision.
"Stop! Please, god, just—stop!" Derek protested, bringing his now entirely human hands up to cover his ears. "Who knows that? Why do you know that? No—don't tell me. I don't want to know."
"You can't tell me you didn't learn something," Stiles's voice was hoarse, and heavy with the weight of relief as he looked over at Derek's now fully human features.
Bits and pieces of the last half an hour were slowly filtering back to Derek as Stiles began to prepare the plane for descent.
"Were we… was I…." Derek frowned. "Were we upside down?"
"Oh yeah, buddy. You tried to eat me. Like actually eat me. And not in a sexy way. More like a bloody, chunks of flesh sort of way."
Derek shuddered and pulled as far away from Stiles as he could. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put you in danger like that." He was furious at himself. He should have taken the goddamn suppressant even if they made him groggy and nauseated. There was no excuse for him to have been so careless.
"Don't beat yourself up," Stiles protested, like he could read Derek's mind. "You couldn't have known—"
"That flying scares the hell out of me? That fear can provoke the shift?" Derek let some of his anger leak out into his voice as they slowly drifted down through the clouds. The wind was still strong and Stiles was still fighting to keep them level and on course, but Derek was too focused on his own failure to notice.
"Do I look dead to you?" The ire in Stiles's voice surprised Derek out of his dark thoughts.
"No?"
"Exactly." Stiles sounded not just pissed, but self-righteous about it. "I can—and did—handle myself. I don't need you feeling all woe-is-me and self-indulgently guilty because you weren't the one putting us in danger."
They emerged from the clouds and Derek could see the Nuuk airport and the runway outlined in coloured lights. He traced the gridlines with his eyes and let himself relax into the soothing rigidity of their order. Stiles's words rang accusing in Derek's ears and he wasn't sure what made him feel smaller: the fact that he was pretty sure he had nearly killed Stiles, or the fact that Stiles had apparently dealt with him so effectively that he hadn't considered Derek a threat.
The touchdown was rough, the plane bouncing and then skidding over the runway. Derek closed his eyes and manfully swallowed back the wince at every shuddering jolt until the plane finally rolled into place and came to a full stop.
"Well, thank you for flying Stilinski Air. We apologize for any undue stress you may have felt during our journey, but hope to see you again soon. Please thank your flight attendant on the way out and be sure to get your complementary pin."
Derek wasn't going to ask, but he would have bet large amounts of money that Stiles had actually gotten pins made up, in case anyone made the request.
"Thank you," he said stiffly, before twisting around in his seat to try and grab his bags.
"Hang on," Stiles reached out, his hand surprisingly solid on Derek's shoulder and Derek imagined that he could feel the heat of it even through his coat. "It'll be easer to get at them from outside the plane."
"Yeah, sure." Derek felt an odd sense of loss as Stiles pulled his hand away, but ignored it. He unfastened his seatbelt and then reached for the door, fingers hovering an inch or so away when he realized he wasn't sure how to actually open the damn thing.
"Oh, sorry dude, lemme just…"
And before Derek knew what was happening Stiles had unbuckled his own belt and was practically crawling into Derek's lap. Derek felt his breath catch in his throat, his heartbeat stuttering and then surging forward with a gallop as Stiles pressed against him in one long line from his outstretched arm to the slight dip where his waist curved into his ass. Stiles had no qualms about bracing himself up with a hand on the seat between Derek's legs, and Derek had to dig his teeth into his lip to hold back the groan that threatened.
Derek's own hands had flattened against his thighs, the desire to reach out and touch almost as overwhelming as his earlier urge to reach out and tear. Stiles gave the door handle a complicated jiggle, the movement causing him to rub against Derek's chest. Derek let his head fall back against the headrest and tried to think about anything other than how Stiles's movements caused Derek's shirt under his jacket to slide over his nipples, and how he could feel his whole body tighten in response.
"There you go." Stiles pulled back and Derek's fingers flexed with the urge to hold Stiles in place. He couldn't be certain, not 100%, but he suspected that Stiles had let his hand drag back over Derek's thigh on purpose.
Derek gritted his teeth and shoved open the door, tumbling out of the plane with all his grace as a werewolf. He'd swung around and pulled out his bags before Stiles had even managed to drop his own headset on his seat and clamber out after Derek.
"Hang on, wait up!" Stiles chased after Derek as he made his way towards the main terminal, his strides long and purposeful, but Stiles's hand gripping the sleeve of his coat had Derek slowing a fraction so the pilot could keep up.
"Phew," Stiles remarked, seeming suddenly weakened now that they were back on solid ground. Derek shot him a suspicious look, but continued towards the doors ahead of him, not sure what to make of the fact that Stiles's hand was still on his arm.
The automatic doors opened with a quiet woosh and the warmth and light of the airport washed over them. Derek continued to make his way towards the customs and immigration desk without comment, but suddenly Stiles's hand vanished and there was a loud thunk.
Startled, Derek turned back to see Stiles sitting flat on his ass on the tiled floor, his elbows propped on his legs and his head hanging between his knees. Instantly concerned, Derek dropped to the floor in front of him, discarding his bags without a thought.
"Stiles—Stiles, are you alright?" He could hear Stiles's heart, wild and frantic, and the paleness of Stiles's face made Derek certain that his near mauling of the pilot had finally hit him. "God, Stiles, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Stiles glanced up at that, his pupils blown and eyes huge. "We almost died."
"I know, Stiles, jesus, I didn't—"
"No." There was a faint edge of hysteria in Stiles's voice, a waver that might have been laughter, or maybe panic. "Not you. I mean—yes, you, because hello, werewolf. But that storm, oh my god."
"That st—you said… you said it wasn't bad. You said it was nothing." Derek felt a dawning edge of realization.
"I have never flown in something like that before. I didn't think—I mean, I checked the weather report on my phone before we left Qikiqtarjuaq and it wasn't supposed to be—"
"Oh my god," Derek echoed faintly, his ears ringing. "You mean—oh my god." He felt like every single one of his bones had dissolved.
"Oh yeah. Like, I was about eighty-seven percent sure we weren't gonna make it." Stiles was taking deep, even breaths, clearly dealing with the panic better than Derek was because Derek didn't feel entirely tethered to his body. "We did though." Something like pride was warming his voice. "I rocked the shit out of that. Did you see? Fuck, I'm a god."
"You're the devil," Derek stated flatly.
Stiles ran a hand through his hair and grinned at Derek. "I'm a god," he repeated, and then before Derek could react he was surging forwards and his lips were on Derek's.
Derek's mouth dropped open, shock making him freeze, and then Stiles's tongue was in his mouth and Stiles was wrapped around him, his hands sliding into Derek's open jacket to grab fistfuls of Derek's shirt and yank himself closer.
Derek knew he should be shoving Stiles away, knew he should be too furious to form words, but the shock of understanding that he had been that actually close to certain death, and the feeling of Stiles's body hot and hard against his, had Derek reeling drunkenly. He bit at Stiles's mouth, savagely pleased when Stiles jerked against him and made a choked off whine against Derek's lips. Derek fisted a hand in Stiles's disheveled hair and dragged his head back, tearing his mouth off of Stiles's—now red and swollen and slick—and bent his own to suck a dark bruise into the pale skin of Stiles's neck. Stiles shuddered, his hands convulsing in Derek's shirt and grinding shamelessly against the werewolf.
Derek wasn't sure how they made it out of the airport. There was a loud, confusing blur of uniformed officials and stamped passports and then he was pushing Stiles into the car that waited for him, pressing him into the leather of the back seat and pressing his teeth into the tender skin of Stiles's ear until Stiles gasped and writhed under him. Then they were at the hotel and Derek was shoving a handful of bills at the driver, not caring that he had probably grossly over-tipped, just needing to get Stiles into a room so he could get his hands on the lithe body that he could feel through the fabric of Stiles's clothes.
The clerk at the desk gawked at them, taking in the fever-bright glow of Stiles's eyes and the rasp of beard-burn against his skin. Derek glowered, hand clasped possessively around Stiles's wrist and then he was dragging the pilot into the elevator and they were slamming into Derek's room.
Derek struggled out of his jacket and Stiles pinned him against the wall, kicking the door shut behind them and yanking Derek's shirt out of his pants, his clever fingers delving lower to struggle with the clasp of Derek's belt. Derek growled, inhuman, and Stiles gave a wild and breathless laugh as he shoved Derek's jeans down his hips and wrapped his fingers around Derek's cock.
"You almost killed us," Derek's blood boiled, fury and desire colliding until he was blind with them both. "You fucking shit."
Stiles didn't reply, just dropped to his knees and enveloped Derek's cock with the wet heat of his mouth. Derek's hands were back in Stiles's hair, the fine texture silky between his fingers. He fought not to drive himself into Stiles's throat, tried to hang on to what little control he had left. Stiles hummed, the vibration shooting straight to Derek's spine and he arched into the sensation. He could feel Stiles grin around him, and then Stiles swallowed Derek down as far as he could take him and Derek saw stars.
Stiles used his lips and tongue and the slightest hint of teeth until Derek had to push him off, swearing. He grabbed the neck of Stiles's shirt and hauled him to his feet, spinning Stiles around so Derek could hold him against the wall and lick the taste of himself from Stiles's mouth. Derek's hands found Stiles's ass and hauled him up until Stiles's legs were wrapped around Derek's waist and he could feel Stiles, hard and eager, through his jeans. Derek dug his fingers into the firm flesh of Stiles's ass and Stiles broke away with a strangled whimper, his hips bucking into Derek.
Derek bit at the curve of Stiles's neck where it met his shoulder, drawing the delicate skin into his mouth until Stiles writhed helplessly against him, his fingers scrabbling at Derek's shoulder and balling in his hair. Derek worried at the flesh in his mouth, knowing it might be a touch too-lupine but unable to pull away until he heard Stiles make a sharp gasp of pain. If it hadn't been for the heady scent of the pilot's arousal thickening in the air, Derek might have felt bad, but as it was he growled against Stiles's throat and rutted against the human, drinking in the wrecked noises coming out of Stiles's mouth as the pain surged against the pleasure, both of them sharper for it.
Just as Stiles's bucking hips took on a frantic edge to their movement, Derek stepped back and let Stiles tumble to the floor, just barely catching himself on the wall.
Stiles reached for Derek and Derek pulled away, dragging off his shirt and kicking out of his pants until he stood naked.
Stiles let his eyes fall over Derek's bared skin and he reached for Derek again but Derek pulled back. "Bed. Now," Derek didn't even know where it was, hadn't bothered to look at the layout of the room past the entryway. Stiles stumbled forward, clumsy as he tried to yank off his own clothes and Derek followed him with the determined focus of a predator.
He was too impatient to wait for Stiles to finish undressing, just shoved the pilot when he was close enough to the mattress that Stiles fell back with a woof of surprise, tangled in his pants. Derek grabbed Stiles's jeans, snarling when they tangled on Stiles's boots and only just stopping himself from literally tearing them off.
"Easy there," Stiles said with a breathless laugh as he kicked off his boots.
"Nothing about this is going to be easy." Derek met Stiles's eyes, and whatever Stiles saw in Derek's gaze had his mouth snapping shut, the gold in his eyes going molten as Derek crawled up Stiles's bared body to press himself flush between Stiles's spread legs.
The sensation of Stiles's naked skin against his own was intoxicating and Derek had to close his eyes and fist his hands in the sheets to stop himself from simply grinding against all that pale skin until they both were slick with sweat and come. He didn't want this to be over so quickly. He had no intentions of finishing until the cocky, motor-mouthed human was desperate to the point of incoherence.
"Turn over," Derek demanded, pushing himself up and off of Stiles as the younger man scrambled to obey. Derek moved across the room with lightning speed, opening his duffle bag and pulling out a small bottle of lube and a condom. He was back on the mattress before Stiles had even finished moving and he had no qualms about shoving Stiles further up the bed.
Stiles hissed as the cold lube hit his skin, but he shoved back against Derek's finger, greedy, and Derek landed a sharp slap against Stiles's ass in reprimand. Stiles squeaked, shocked, and Derek did it again for the pleasure of seeing red bloom over Stiles's skin.
Stiles's cheeks were flushed, his mouth slack and open as he twisted around to watch as Derek finally sunk a finger into him. Stiles's ass was as hot as his mouth, the slickness of the lube making it easy for Derek to work another finger into his tight hole before he'd even had time to adjust to the first. Derek twisted his wrist, pumping the digits into Stiles and grinning wide and wolfish when Stiles groaned and hung his head between his shoulders.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles panted as Derek worked him open. Stiles's back gleamed with sweat and Derek leaned forward to lick up his spine, the taste of sweat over hot flesh making him shudder as Stiles thrust back against Derek's hand. Derek added a third finger and he could hear the breath leave Stiles's body as the younger man clenched around Derek.
"Come on, man, please," Stiles begged when Derek withdrew all three to trace the pad of his thumb around Stiles's slick rim, dipping in momentarily to tug before stroking over the puckered flesh.
"My name isn't 'man'," Derek commented, "Or 'dude', or 'buddy'."
"'Big guy' isn't far off though, am I right?" Stiles seemed unable to help himself as he glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "Cause now I've seen you naked and—"
Derek brought his hand down in a firm slap right over Stiles's hole and Stiles's whole body jerked, a choked yelp catching in his throat even as he spread his legs wider. Derek smirked, pushing two fingers back into the heat of Stiles's body and stroking lightly over that spot inside Stiles that made the pilot moan shamelessly and arch his back.
"Fuck, Derek."
Derek leaned down and pressed a kiss against the soft skin of Stiles's ass as he withdrew his fingers and wiped them against Stiles's thigh. He grabbed the condom, tearing open the package and rolling it down over himself before getting settled between Stiles's spread legs.
With one hand on Stiles's hip to steady the younger man, Derek guided himself to Stiles's entrance and began to ease himself in. Stiles's breathing was ragged, his sides heaving as Derek slowly drove forward until he was fully sheathed inside Stiles. Stiles made a quiet noise, something akin to a sob, and Derek pulled out only to thrust back in again before Stiles had time to adjust.
"Are you good?" Derek asked, not pausing in his rhythm of fucking into Stiles.
"Yes, god, fuck, yes. I'm good. Please. Don't, god, don't stop," Stiles babbled, his hands twisted into fists in the bed sheets as he rocked back into Derek's thrusts. Derek brought both hands up to Stiles's hips, holding Stiles in place as he increased the pace, the slap of skin against skin filling the room until it nearly drowned out the breathless moans that spilled out of Stiles's mouth.
Stiles was hot and wet and tight and the feeling of all that delicate, human skin under Derek's hands and opening greedily for his cock had Derek fighting to stay in control. He could feel the moment his eyes began to glow, knew his fingers digging bruises into Stiles's hips were suddenly that much sharper. He growled, low and dangerous, running himself over and over that place inside of Stiles, and then the human was going rigid under him, his body clenching brutally around Derek as he came in slick, wet bursts against the bed.
Derek increased his pace, fucking Stiles through his orgasm, and then as Stiles went limp in Derek's grasp Derek groaned and spilled into the condom as his own orgasm hit.
Now just as boneless as Stiles, Derek eased out of the clutch of Stiles's body and tossed the condom into the bin beside the bed before collapsing to the mattress beside the human.
Stiles wasted no time twisting around to snuggle up against Derek and Derek lifted his arm so Stiles could slide under it, their skin hot and sweaty as they lay in breathless silence. Derek could hear the frantic pace of their combined heartbeats begin to slow, and his eyelids felt impossibly heavy. Stiles was a comforting weight against his chest, and Derek felt himself glide gently towards sleep.
"If this is going to be how flying with you ends every time, I can't wait for the return trip," Stiles murmured sleepily, lips brushing against Derek's skin.
Derek's eyes popped open. "Return trip?"