Some Fires Never Die
A/N: This has been posted on a03 for a while so you might have read it there already. I decided to try something based off a tumblr prompt, and use a disjointed timeline, so watch the numbers at the beginning of each section. I don't hate the end result, so hopefully, you enjoy. More warnings at the bottom if you are worried.
5
Scott finds him in his room in the middle of the night. Stiles hasn't slept yet, mind wired with thoughts and possibilities. Scott tumbles through his window less gracefully than Derek would have, but still doesn't make a sound. Werewolves.
"Hey, Stiles." Scott's greeting is unsure but heartfelt. Stiles is grateful.
"Hey man," he murmurs.
Scott comes over and sits on the bed tentatively — far away from Stiles. There's space between them that has never been there before, and it feels like a great distance that Stiles can't cross even if he tries.
"Derek told me."
Stiles heart thunks out of rhythm, panic, and horror filling him. It was never supposed to be like this.
"He told you—"
Scott interrupts, "About you two."
Stiles calms, "Oh. Oh. That. I'm sorry."
"It's fine, Stiles," Scott says softly, "I've known for a while, I just wanted you to tell me, you know? You guys didn't have to keep it a secret, I would've been happy for you."
Stiles feels guilty because he knew Scott would react well. He knew Derek and their new alpha had set aside their differences, and they were working together. They were almost friends.
"I know, Scott. You're great. It was just a lot of pressure, trying to get it all right, plus, my dad."
Scott frowns, "I wouldn't have told your dad if you didn't want him to know."
There's silence for a moment. "Well, it's done now. Don't need to worry about it anymore."
"Stiles, no," Scott protests, "please—"
"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers, "I am so, so sorry. But Derek doesn't need — Derek shouldn't have to… I, I'm just sorry. I can't. I can't do this to him."
Scott's eyes light up red in the darkness of the room, sad but still filled with alpha determination. "Stiles, neither of you should have to sacrifice your happiness."
"Just stop, Scott," Stiles says sharply.
Scott stands up, "If you don't want to fight for this, I won't make you. But for what it's worth? You two were happy. You were good. And Derek needs more happiness; hell, you need more happiness."
"Get out." Stiles hisses, desperation and guilt in his voice.
Scott heads to the window, "Stiles? You're my best friend and I'm still allowed to tell you when you're being an idiot. And right now? You're being an idiot. I love you, man, and nothing is going to change that. Not this, not any fucking magic they can throw at us."
Stiles' throat feels clogged with all the tears he's shed on this terrible day, but he manages to murmur: "Thank you."
Scott shrugs, "Derek feels the same as I do. He loves you, Stiles. Don't waste that."
The alpha is gone in the next second, and Stiles can do nothing but bury his head in his pillow and try to breathe.
3
They've finally got the upper hand; the wolves have the witches surrounded, Allison hovering above them with her bow out, arrow strung for anyone who makes a bad move. Three of the witches are on the ground, bleeding but not dead. Stiles is standing slightly behind Derek, bat in hand and a gun on his hip. The gun is a new addition, but a necessary one. Even his dad agreed on him practicing with it.
"It's over, call them off before any more of you gets hurt," Scott's voice is loud in the near-quiet of the building. It's an old shopping center, racks and shelving falling into disrepair around them.
The head witch, Diana, stiffens her spine. She has these ridiculously long, dark curls and electric green eyes. Stiles had nearly stopped in his tracks the first time he saw her, he was so surprised by her beauty. Now, covered in dust and gore, for the first time she looks like a dangerous witch; still beautiful, to be sure, but deadly.
"It's too late," a different witch hisses, "we're all dead anyway."
Scott frowns, "If you give us back the three women you took, and leave our territory, we won't hurt you."
Diana laughs, loud and haunting, "Sure, you won't hurt us. But the hunters already know about us. We're dead the minute they catch up to us."
"Well, you have a head start," Derek says, and Diana turns slowly to look at him, staring at him in a way that makes Stiles feel like she knows too much already.
"Your past haunts you, Derek Hale." Her voice is low and sultry, echoing powerfully. Stiles can feel the hairs on his arms raise with the supernatural quality of it all. They knew the witches they were dealing with were powerful, but Stiles didn't realize until this moment just how much magic they had.
Derek's hands clench at her words, "My past is irrelevant to this conversation, Diana."
"Oh, but it's not," she grins maniacally, "I can see the fear in your heart, the guilt, and the pain."
"Surrender!" Derek snarls.
Diana's eyes light up, green and glowing with a dark magic Stiles can nearly feel in his blood. It's instantaneous, the werewolves leap on the nearest witches; Diana's hands come up, light and shadows blending in front of her.
Diana screams. It's painful and devastating and filled with fury; her words, when they come, are clear and horrible: "I see fire."
The next minute is eternity — Allison's silver arrow embedded in Diana's throat, her beautiful face twisted with vengeance and magic; Derek's arms stretched out with claws towards Stiles… Stiles, who has stumbled back a step, his hand clutching at his chest, his heart.
It burns, burns on the inside where Stiles can do nothing to fix it. He knows that Diana's last spell has hit him, and the magic thrums through his veins and arteries, clogging and clearing and decaying.
He drops to his knees, hands out on the dirt in front of him. His hair hangs in front of his face, long and dirty blonde. His nails are pink, clawed at the tip in a sick mockery of werewolves. Stiles lifts his shaking hands to his face, coming into contact with smooth skin, no hint of the stubble he had felt just this morning.
Panic unlike any other races through Stiles, overcoming the lingering pain of the magic, and he forces himself to his feet. His feet — bare and delicate, with red nails like blood and a toe ring curled around the left middle toe.
He looks up to chaos. Diana is dead, her witches tied and gagged around her, most of them unconscious. None of his friends seem to be injured, yet they are all wearing faces that indicate someone has died. The air is stale as if no one has breathed in a long, long time.
Stiles turns to see Allison and catches himself in a broken mirror hanging off the wall. He knew, of course, he knew, that he had been changed. His shoulders felt slimmer, heavy with the weight of breasts and magic. His hair falls past his bare shoulders, and when he glances down he is clothed in rags that seems to be some semblance of a dress.
The mirror though — it gives him the last piece of the puzzle. Eyes, familiar eyes glinting out at him, laughing and mocking even when he didn't mean for that expression to be on his face. His lips, twisted in horror.
"Kate?" Derek's voice is choked, filled with pain and horror that Stiles can only begin to imagine.
Stiles spins back, and Derek is half a step closer, werewolf blue eyes glowing in the darkness.
"No, no," Stiles hears himself protest, horrified whispers, "no, no, Derek, no."
He spins again, back towards the doorway, bare feet already listening to his body as though they are his when he knows they are not.
Stiles runs.
He's not proud, but in the face of the lingering stinging all over his skin, and Derek's blue eyes burning with betrayal he doesn't know what else to do. He races out of the shopping center and onto the street, all the way to his jeep before he realizes that nobody is following him.
Derek has let him go.
1
Let it be known that Stiles hates witches. He shouldn't, not really — Dr. Deaton bordered on something similar, and Stiles is not so deep in denial to understand that there is something buried deep inside himself that has the potential for magic. He gets that magic isn't inherently evil and that not all witches are evil. He's just personally never met one that was good.
"Why is it always witches?" He whines.
Scott rolls his eyes, "Stiles, it's not always witches! Just a few weeks ago we dealt with that ghoul, and before that—"
"Scott, you swore you wouldn't ever mention—"
"Fairies." Derek finishes, smirking.
Stiles glares at the man on the other side of the couch, who had previously been minding his own business and reading his book. Currently, his eyes are still glued to his pages, but his smile lingers, and it's obvious he's laughing at Stiles.
"Okay, traitors," Stiles hisses, "while we all laugh at Stiles for the accidentally-getting-betrothed to the fairy prince incident, let us not forget who solved that problem!"
Isaac pops his head around the edge of the kitchen, "Umm, Stiles? Pretty sure that was me. I solved the fairy thing."
"Exactly!" Stiles stands, knocking his phone to the floor in his haste, "And… wait. Hey! Isaac, you did not solve the fairy thing by yourself!"
Isaac gives him a total shit-eating grin, "Fine, you helped."
Stiles sinks despondently back into his seat on the couch, "I do not get the credit I deserve here, I'm telling you guys."
Scott laughs at Stiles' words and stands, "Whatever Stiles, you know we love you. Isaac, man, we gotta go."
Isaac grabs up his leather jacket from the chair and grabs Derek's car keys. Derek's eyebrows lift but he makes no other movement to protest Isaac driving his car. Stiles would be jealous, except Derek also recently let him drive the Camaro, and it was exactly as amazing as Stiles had imagined it would be.
He sidles up next to the werewolf the minute they're alone, and Derek finally sets his book down and turns to face him. Stiles has always thought Derek's eyes were amazing, whether they're hazel or alpha red or electric blue, whether they're filled with fury or heartbreak; still, he had never expected how genuinely beautiful they would be when they were warm and surrounded by smile lines.
He'll never get over the way Derek saves his smiles now, hoards them and gives them all to Stiles without ever being asked.
Stiles throws his leg over Derek's thighs, settling easily onto his lap. Derek's hands are warm when they clasp his hips, and Stiles leans in to press his forehead against Derek's collarbones.
"I can't believe they've been taking people. For sacrifices… again! Seriously, why is it always witches?" This time, Stiles doesn't have a trace of humour in his voice. He's not joking, not this time. He hates witches.
Derek's hand runs up and down his spine slowly, and tension bleeds out of him at the movement, "Stiles, we can deal with this. Just like we deal with everything else."
Stiles melts into him but doesn't speak anymore. Derek isn't wrong necessarily — they have dealt with everything that has been thrown their way, and they've done it together.
That doesn't mean it was done well. There have been too many bodies, and late nights, and horrific tragedies. Lydia's throat has gone raw from predicting death, and Stiles' hands still shake when he thinks he's not in control of himself. There is darkness around all of their hearts, and they have earned their battle scars.
Plus, things are… things are good now. Better. It had taken ages for Derek to trust Stiles enough to even admit that he cared about Stiles, and it had taken Stiles a long time to trust himself enough for anything.
Now there were long nights at the loft where Derek read quietly while Stiles studied, and smiles, and implicit trust where there had only ever been fear.
"Derek, I just don't want anything to," Stiles swallows, nerves creeping up on him, "change."
"Change?" Derek's already frowning when Stiles pulls back to look at him.
Stiles can literally feel his face turning a brilliant and embarrassing shade of red, "I don't want to lose you."
Derek's scowl disappears into an odd expression Stiles only seen on him a few times; it's quietly happy and smug at the same time, and Stiles treasures it. Derek's hands leave his hips to settle onto the sides of Stiles' neck, his pulse pounding beneath the warm skin. The werewolves skin has flushed as well, and Stiles gets a thrill from realizing Derek is blushing.
"Stiles… you won't," Derek murmurs, "you won't lose me. I won't let it happen."
As far as reassurances and plans go where Derek Hale is concerned, it's not exactly the best one, but Stiles is easily distracted when Derek leans in and kisses him. They fall into it easily, familiar territory. Stiles clings to Derek, biting gently at his lips when Derek pulls back to mouth at his chin, following the line of his jaw to his neck. Stiles bares it easily, and Derek's breath is uneven when he rubs his lips gently on Stiles skin. His stubble is rough, almost ticklish, and Stiles is so full of happiness he could burst.
"Your room," Stiles commands, breathless.
Derek stands easily, taking Stiles with him, despite the fact that Stiles has actually filled out quite a bit in the last year. Perks to dating a werewolf.
They land on Derek's bed together, grinning and almost laughing. Stiles still can't believe he gets this: Derek sprawled out on top of him with messy hair and crinkled eyes. It's more than he would have ever imagined, and he had imagined a lot.
When Derek tugs Stiles shirt over his head, Stiles runs hot. Suddenly, the easy laughter and tenderness from before drains out of him and all he knows is desire, hot and thick in his veins. He's on Derek in an instant, kissing him deeply, tugging at his hair.
Derek is very quickly on board, drawing his own shirt off and running barely-human hands down Stiles' back. He gets both of their pants undone quickly, and Stiles can feel how hard he is against Derek's stomach. They've done all of this before, once or twice, although Stiles knows Derek is still going slowly with him. He's terrified, and Stiles can't blame him. He knows all about Kate, he always has, though Derek and he had never spoken about it.
Derek's hand is on his jaw, his eyes blazing, "What do you want, Stiles?"
"Everything," Stiles answers, "I want everything you'll give me."
Derek stills, "I would give you anything."
Stiles' heart stutters unevenly at the words, so honest in this moment. The room is dark, the light from the window throwing just enough to show Derek's face.
"I want you to fuck me." Stiles whispers, heart caught in his throat.
Derek's eyes go dark with lust, "Are you sure?"
"I trust you," Stiles says, but he means three different words entirely.
4
He goes home because there is nowhere else to go. He parks outside his house and stumbles to the door, opening it and crashing to the floor inside. His father is on his feet with his gun out in an instant, still in uniform. He must have just gotten home.
Stiles looks up at him. He feels the same inside, not evil or dark or murderous. He loves his dad — fuck, he loves him so much, and he hates this.
"Dad, please," he says weakly, "please, it's me."
The sheriff lowers his gun by a few inches, "Stiles?"
Stiles nods, "It's me, I swear, it is."
"Tell me your name."
Stiles heaves a groan, "God, even if I could pronounce it I wouldn't drag that monstrosity into this room. Mom's name was Claudia Joan Stilinski — used to be Dziedzic. Polish as hell, I tell you."
His dad sets his gun on the coffee table and rushes to Stiles' side. He pulls him close, hugging his shoulders and staring at his face as though he's seeing a ghost.
"How did this happen? Magic?"
Stiles nods, "Of course. I don't know… I don't… I just came home, I don't—"
"Breathe, Stiles," His dad murmurs, cupping his face. Stiles wonders hysterically for a moment if his dad feels weird holding the face of a full-grown woman.
They stand, shutting the door and moving towards the kitchen. Stiles gets set down and handed a glass of milk while his dad leans against the fridge and stares at him. It takes him a few minutes before he goes pale again.
Stiles thought he would put it together sooner, honestly.
"Kate Argent."
Stiles grimaces, "You got it."
"Why are you walking around in Kate Argent's body?"
"Gross, I'm not," Stiles huffs, "this body is mine but somehow a witch fashioned me to appear like Kate."
"A witch." The sheriff repeats the word as though he doesn't believe it, but Stiles has seen his father work enough to know that he's already three steps ahead. They're similar that way, minds whirring a million miles a minute.
Suddenly, his father's dark eyes are pinning him to his seat, subtle fury and accusation leaking into the expression: "Stiles Stilinski, you tell me right now why a witch would decide that you needed to look like Kate Argent."
Stiles is so fucking tired of lying to his father; he was tired of it months ago when his dad didn't know about werewolves, and he really thought it would end once his dad found out, but then there was the darkness in his heart, and the nogitsune, and if Stiles had to say he was fine one more damn time he would snap.
Then. Well, then. Then there was Derek.
If there's one thing Stiles knows, however, it's that his dad isn't stupid. He knew when Stiles was lying about werewolves, and he knew when Stiles wasn't himself. It won't take him long to figure out about Derek either, given half the chance.
"She sort of cursed me, I think. It was her dying act." Stiles says, lifting his eyes — his now-green eyes — to meet his dad's: whiskey brown, like his should be.
The Sheriff lifts one hand to rub at his hair, heaving a sigh. "Stiles, for the love of god. Please tell me you weren't dating Derek Hale."
Stiles makes a tiny wounded sound. It hits him harder than expected when his dad already uses the past tense, as if it's already over. As if there's not even a chance.
"Not technically."
The sheriff looks up at the ceiling as though he will find answers there. "Not technically. What does that mean, exactly?"
Stiles clenches his fists, "It means that we weren't officially dating — I guess. We hadn't told anyone yet, but we were going to. Yes. We… we were… very serious, together." Stiles' voice breaks on the last word, and his dad loses the pinched kill-me-now expression.
Pity and sympathy remain now, and his dad comes to where he's sitting and crouches down, taking his dirty hands in his own, pink painted claws be damned. He breathes deeply once and then swallows. Stiles imagines he's swallowing all the words he'd like to scream and yell right now, and he's never been more grateful.
"I'm so sorry, son," he whispers, "I'm sorry for you, and I'm sorry for Derek. We know what Kate did, and I can only imagine how you feel staring at her face in a mirror right now. Or how Derek would feel looking at you. So, I'm not happy, but I am sorry."
Stiles leans forward and hugs his dead, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes for just a moment while he lets himself pretend he fits into his father's arms the way he did only a few hours before.
"Okay, c'mon kid," his dad's voice is rough, "let's get some clothes for you."
Stiles follows up the stairs and gets dropped off at the shower, where his dad promises to bring him back some clothes. The shower feels incredible, and the bottom is left brown with dirt and long strands of hair. Stiles has never really had to deal with washing out as much hair as Kate had, and he doesn't exactly relish it now.
He hops out of the shower and rubs down his body vigorously and clinically. He ignores, to the best of his ability, Kate's skin and tan lines and body parts. He wants nothing to do with the way his body looks, and he definitely does not want to think about Derek kissing it or touching it at all.
When Stiles leaves his room with the towel around him he heads to his own room. He's surrounded by posters and research and his comfortable blue bed when he shuts the door. He sinks onto his bed that he imagines still smells like Derek and looks at the clothes his dad has set out for him.
It's a floral t-shirt with a v-neck and dark blue jeans with holes in the knees. There's no underwear, but there is a sports bra.
Stiles feels himself fall to the ground almost as if he is outside his own body. His knees hurt, vaguely, and he's clutching the clothes so tightly to himself they are in danger of ripping. His breath is hacking sobs in his own ears, and his lungs feel tight.
Panic attacks are not a particularly new thing for Stiles. He had them after his mom died, and after the werewolf thing, and when the nogitsune finally left him, and now. He expects he'll have them after this, too. Just because he knows them, it doesn't make them any easier, doesn't make him any less desperate to get air into his lungs.
Suddenly there is a hand on his bare back, and a blanket being wrapped almost too tightly around his body. The clothes are wrenched from his grip, and he is left holding nothing but a tanned hand, gold band on one single finger, and fine lines and callouses. He knows these hands. They have held him and protected him and raised him, and they are safe.
"Stiles," the voice is slow and calm, and even, "Stiles, you aren't breathing, and I need you to breathe. You can do it, I know you can."
The man takes a deep breath and Stiles struggles to do the same. There are brown eyes, and a slightly crooked nose and Stiles loves him.
"Now again, with me this time," the man says, stroking his hand down Stiles' spine, "and one more."
They sit there, crouched and curled on the floor, Stiles wrapped in a blanket and his father's arms. It takes him a long time to breathe, and when he finally collects himself he is soaked in sweat and tears, and his dad is not much better off.
Stiles feels laid bare, and not only because the only thing on his body is a blanket. It's disconcerting, but Stiles pulls the blanket closer to himself and lets his father rub his back. He's still clutching his hand in his own and trying desperately to keep his breathing even.
"I don't want," Stiles croaks, "those clothes."
His dad's eyes are confused for a moment before they clear, "Because they belonged to your mom?"
Stiles nods, "I don't want her to touch anything of moms."
The Sheriff's grip goes tight for a moment, almost painful, "Stiles, look at me. Look."
Stiles raises his eyes, and his dad is infinitely kind and gentle when he says, "Kate Argent is dead and gone, son. She won't ever touch anything that belonged to your mother. Right now, there is just you and I, and you're a little mixed up in some magic, but you are my son. You are not Kate."
Stiles curls a little further in on himself, "They're mom's clothes."
His dad sighs, "Stiles, they are your mom's, yes; however, she would not mind if you had to use them, not at all. She loved you, Stiles, more than anything. It would not matter to her if you came home a werewolf, or bigfoot, or looking like Kate Argent. It would only matter that you came home. You are our son, no matter what you look like."
"Everyone is going to hate me."
The Sheriff raises his hand to pull Stiles' chin up, "No one with any goddamned brains is going to hate you. We are going to fix this, and you will be back to your old body, and everything will be fine."
The Sheriff stands and goes to Stiles dresser, pulling out grey sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt. He snags an elastic from around a scroll Stiles had on his dresser. He drops the clothes in front of Stiles.
"Get dressed. Wear your clothes," he bends and picks up the women's clothes he had set out from before, "I'll be back in five minutes."
Stiles dresses quickly, pulling on his sweats over a pair of boxers. He sits back on his bed, feeling marginally better about life. His dad comes back in with a brush, and stands beside him, taking his long hair and smoothing it out slowly. He pulls it neatly into a long braid, away from Stiles' face.
They don't speak, not about what has happened, or how they both know that the Sheriff only knows how to do this single women's hairstyle because Claudia always wore her hair back in a single long braid. They don't talk about how he learned after she got sick, so she could keep her hair nice, and when her hair fell out, he never quite forgot how the braid used to all come together.
His dad stands when he's done and there are tears in his eyes. He clears his throat, "For what it's worth, Stiles, I know your mom would be proud of you. And I am, too."
"I love you, dad," Stiles says, eyes on his carpet and heart in his throat.
"You too, kid." His dad says as he shuts the door.
6
Stiles slams open the doors to Deaton's clinic more forcefully than he had intended, but he doesn't let it stop him. They swing shut behind him, and Deaton glances up from whatever paperwork he's doing behind the counter.
Their eyes meet and Deaton goes pale for a moment, swaying with shock. Then, his brow furrows and he says, "Stiles?!"
It's the closest to actual shock and horror Stiles has ever seen from the so-called vet. That doesn't exactly bode well.
"Yes," Stiles affirms, "I got hit with the last magic spell of a powerful witch named Diana right before she died, and suddenly I am now resembling the late Kate Argent, may she burn in hell."
Deaton's mouth opens and closes once without any words, but Stiles doesn't back down. Deaton nods after a moment and flips the counter up, gesturing for him to follow.
"This is not going to be easy," Deaton murmurs, watching Stiles carefully as he settled onto an exam table, the same one Derek had once begged to have his arm cut off on.
"I don't care how difficult it is, Deaton. I need to fix this. I can't walk around looking like Kate Argent; not only will it be really confusing and terrifying to the regular people of Beacon Hills, but all of my friends are the people who killed her."
Deaton frowns, "I understand the implications of you looking like Kate. However, this isn't some easy fix. Curses aren't easy to unravel, and Diana took most of her secrets to her grave, I'm afraid."
Stiles' heart is racing, and he can feel anger and hopelessness dripping into him. "I don't care if it's difficult, I need to fix it."
"You're the one who is going to have to unravel this, Stiles." Deaton tells him, "We both know that there is power within you, and you have been avoiding it. If you can unlock it and harness it, it's possible you can snap Diana's magic off of you."
Stiles winces, "Why did I know this was all going to come back to the stupid spark inside me. Fucking witches, man."
"Stiles, not all witches are bad," Deaton scolds, "after all, where do you think you even got the spark? Someone in your lineage must have had some type of magic."
Stiles is speechless for a moment because he had always thought his mother was made of magic, the way everyone had always calmed with her voice. The way she could nearly control the room with the force of her emotions.
He abandons the thought soon after — his mother hadn't been magic. He does wonder if it came from her side though, and if so, why had no one saved her.
Stiles has to forcefully shove the thoughts out of his brain, reminding himself it's irrelevant. His mother is dead, he has magic, and he's cursed. Nothing has actually changed.
He forces himself to speak, flippant and vulnerable: "Ugh, probably my mother's Aunt Hilda, apparently she was a total witch anyway."
The joke falls flat on a room full of nerves and pity. Deaton hands him a candle that smells suspiciously like a vanilla Christmas cookie.
Stiles frowns, "Great just what I needed, some mood lighting. How about we don't be vague here, and you tell me my first step."
Deaton scowls but hands Stiles a small bag, this one full of wolfsbane. He then gives Stiles a final bag, filled with a bunch of dried herbs that look a little bit like potpourri, and smells absolutely horrendous.
Deaton clears his throat and finally explains. "These are some substances for you to work on. You're familiar with wolfsbane, try to make it do other things, make circles or line doors. Keep focusing on your intentions. You can do the same with the candle: light it, snuff it, make the flames big or small. The herbs are to be burned in your room as a type of incense."
Stiles sets the bag beside him, "Okay, but as cool as it would be to light a candle with my mind, tell me… how in the hell is this supposed to help me with my Kate Argent visage?"
"I don't know yet," Deaton says. "But magic got you here, and it can get you out. It's all about belief."
Stiles slides off the exam table and snatches the items, angry and out of ideas for how to fix this. Deaton was his only hope, and while Stiles obviously wanted to try everything he had suggested, it didn't seem like an actual cure.
2
Derek leaps into his room late one night, Stiles barely awake with a textbook on his lap. Derek doesn't say anything, just lays down beside Stiles, pulls the textbook away and shuts the lamp off. Stiles doesn't protest; he curls his body around Derek's in the darkness and breathes.
"They've taken another girl. That makes three."
Stiles sighs, "We knew they would. One a week till it's over. We have to stop them."
The witches haven't stopped, and Stiles is getting worried about their numbers. Derek's been looking incessantly for them, and he's getting worn out.
"We got a lead today. We're going to go check out their last known location tomorrow with the pack, Allison on call just in case."
"I'm coming," Stiles demands.
Derek scowls and his eyes light up, the only sign of his annoyance, "I know. But for the record, I don't want you to get hurt because you went there. It's dangerous, and you're human."
Stiles kisses him, easy and gentle: "Thank you. For letting me come."
Derek breathes out against his cheek, "Stiles, I—" he cuts himself off.
"What?"
Derek turns to him, all blue werewolf eyes and danger. Stiles isn't scared though, he hasn't been scared of Derek in a while.
"I want to tell the pack."
Stiles freezes, "About us?"
Derek nods, decisive. "I think they suspect, they can smell you all over me," he sounds smug, "and it's… a thing."
"A thing," Stiles repeats, nonplussed.
Derek kisses him again, gentility and tenderness in every movement he makes. Stiles makes a gutted moan involuntarily, and Derek swipes his tongue against Stiles' lip.
He pulls back, "We're a thing."
"Really?" Stiles teases, "First I've heard about it."
Derek growls playfully, a slow smile lighting up his face. "Stiles, I want to be with you. I want to date, to tell our friends, to meet your dad. If you want to, that is?"
Stiles groans at the mention of his father, horror flooding him. Still, his heart feels full and warm, and he never thought he would have this.
"Derek Hale," Stiles breathes, "I want all of it. We're a thing. Official and all that shit."
Derek grins, small and private and helpless. He's happy. "After the witches, after tomorrow. We tell them. Pack celebration."
Stiles kisses him and it already tastes like victory. Derek wants him, enough that he made it known, even used his words. It's not the first time Derek has done this, but it always takes Stiles by surprise.
Contrary to everything Stiles knows about Derek, he makes the first serious move when it counts. Before they had gotten together there had been unbearable energy between them; anger, guilt, pain, shared trauma, and above all of that, a sense of teamwork. They had saved each other, more than once, and that left a mark on someone.
Derek had kissed him in the rain outside the old burnt Hale household. Stiles still had a heart filled with darkness, and Derek's kisses had tasted like ash and poison. They had clung to each other, Derek's hands too close to claws, and Stiles kisses too much like bites.
It had not been perfect. It had been angry and awful and brutal, and when it was over Stiles felt like he had survived a war he had not ever wanted to be a part of.
But then —
Well.
Derek had sunk to his knees right there in the dirt and reached out with his hands, and Stiles hadn't been sure if he was about to be killed or asked to play executioner when Derek had reeled him in and held him, his cheek against Stiles' stomach.
Stiles had moved only to place his hands gently on Derek's shoulder and head, holding him to his body loosely, free to escape if he wanted.
Derek never moved, not until Stiles had finally sunk down to the dirt beside him, staring at his eyes, lit blue and guilty. Derek had reached out and pulled Stiles in, and kissed him again.
That time, it was perfect. Lips and heat and tenderness that hadn't been there before.
When Derek had pulled back he looked wrecked in a whole new way; vulnerable and young, delicate in a way Stiles wasn't used to. It had been the first time he had looked this way in front of Stiles, maybe the first time he'd looked that way since he had been sixteen.
"I'm afraid," Derek had whispered, "of you."
Stiles hadn't known what to say, so he had pressed his forehead to Derek's and brought Derek's hand up to rest on his heart, frantic with passion but steady in its truthfulness.
"I am not someone you should be afraid of," Stiles had replied.
"I trust you," Derek said.
Stiles hadn't answered, but he now knows that Derek hadn't been saying those words to show Stiles he wasn't afraid but to explain why.
Derek was terrified of fire. Not exactly hard to understand why. Kate Argent had burned his whole life away before his eyes and left nothing but ashes and guilt where his heart used to be. He had trusted her, loved her, protected her.
He trusted Stiles. Stiles who was sarcastic and young and ready to set the whole damn world ablaze for the people he loved.
Stiles was a liability; he had been a liability there in front of the Hale house for their first kiss, and he still was now, safe and tucked in his bed with Derek at his side.
"I can't lose you," Derek says, bringing Stiles back to the present. They're still curled together in Stiles' dark room.
Stiles makes his heart as steady as possible for his next words, truthful and honest and scared, "I'll never leave you."
7
Stiles would be lying if he said he hadn't expected Derek to come to him eventually. That was the thing about Derek; he was good, and he tried so hard in ways you didn't expect. Stiles wouldn't have blamed him if he had gotten the hell out of town, never looked him in the eyes again, and yet he isn't surprised when he hears his window creak the way it does when someone leans all their weight on it for the briefest of moments.
Stiles doesn't move, not yet. He doesn't want to scare Derek, not any more than he already probably has.
So he stays cross-legged on his floor surrounded by twelve candles of different sizes and smells. They're all lit, some of the flames climbing higher as Derek enters. Stiles doesn't open his eyes, though he almost smiles at the fact that he has the incense Deaton gave him burning in the corner, and he can only imagine what Derek's face must be doing at all the scents in the room.
"Stiles."
It's the first time Derek's said his name in what feels like years, though it has only been the better part of two weeks. Stiles still remembers the last time, the way Derek's eyes had been flared open in horror and panic as magic had raced towards him.
He wishes he couldn't remember that. Or the way his voice had cracked when Derek had called him 'Kate' before Stiles had run away.
The candles all flare a little brighter when Stiles opens his eyes and sees Derek for the first time. He's leaning against the wall to the left of the window, attempting to look nonchalant and failing miserably. His claws are already bare, though his eyes remain hazel and flat.
Stiles uncrosses his legs and stands gracefully — far more graceful in this body than in his own, though he doesn't understand how that could be possible. He doesn't question it.
"Derek." His voice is higher, sultry in a way Stiles wasn't purposefully trying to do. Kate oozed charisma and charm, and some of that seems to be leaking into Stiles when he looks like her. He hates it in ways he didn't even know he was capable of.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to come over," Derek's voice is steady.
Stiles frowns, "No, Derek. I don't want you to apologize. I get it, I seriously do. It's okay."
Derek steps forward, a little shaky at first, but soon he's only an arm's length away and his eyes are flaring the familiar blue of the wolf, "No, it's not okay. I am sorry. I should have followed you the minute you ran."
Stiles is lost for words, though he has imagined this conversation a thousand times in his head, "I don't blame you."
Derek reaches a hand up, his claws suddenly nowhere to be found, and lets his fingers rest lightly on Stiles' cheek. Stiles closes his eyes at the contact — it feels like Derek is touching him because he is, but it also feels like Derek is touching her.
"You're not her, you know."
Stiles shudders at the words. His dad has said them a thousand times, Stiles has repeated them to himself till his throat has been raw, but he has waited, waited to hear them from Derek.
"I know." His voice is choked up.
Derek's hand is suddenly more solid on his face, more than tentative brushes. He brings his other hand up to join it, holding Stiles' face captive.
"Open your eyes," Derek commands, and Stiles is helpless to obey, "you aren't her. You aren't Kate. I know it and you know it."
Stiles clears his throat, "That doesn't make it any easier for you to look at me."
Derek lets him go and nods slowly, "You're right."
Stiles' throat burns with unshed tears, "I'm trying to fix this."
"I know."
Stiles opens his blurred eyes and blinks back his tears, "Deaton told you?"
Derek laughs hoarsely, "No. I know you, Stiles. I knew you would be the one to fix this the moment it happened. I knew you wouldn't ever stop, not until you were yourself again."
Stiles nods, "Deaton told me if I could unlock my own magic I might be able to throw hers off. Diana's. We're still not sure how, but… look." He focuses on the place within him where he found his spark burning the brightest, and imagines the candles being blown out.
The room is plunged into darkness in seconds, the only light coming in from the moonlit window and Derek's nearly glowing eyes. Stiles lets them sit in darkness for only a moment before relighting his collection of candles with barely a thought.
"That's impressive."
Stiles frowns, "I know it's cool, but it's just not enough. I don't feel any different, and I can't find any flaw in the curse yet."
"It doesn't matter—" Derek starts.
"Of course it matters, "Stiles snaps, "you can barely look at me, you can't touch me, and—"
"Stiles, stop. It does matter, I get that. But it's okay if it takes you a little while." Derek's voice is soft, "I can handle it."
"You can handle looking at the face of the woman who destroyed your life multiple times, and knowing that I'm the one under the face?" Stiles hisses, "Because I can't handle that, Derek."
Derek reaches out and tugs on the long braid hanging over Stiles' shoulder. Stiles had already attempted to dye it a different colour (with Lydia's assistance) and no matter what they did it wouldn't change. He had tried cutting it off, and it just reappeared within moments. Diana's curse was thorough.
"You know, you look like her, but not really. She never wore her hair like this. No makeup, different clothes."
"That's about all I can change without the curse snapping me back into what she normally looked like," Stiles grumbles.
Derek shrugs, "It's enough, though. Kate wouldn't have— Kate…" he pauses, choking a bit on the name, "Kate wouldn't have ever looked like this."
"Good." Stiles crosses his arms, stubborn and hurting and so desperate to fix everything.
"It's more than that, though." Derek says softly, "It's the expressions. You don't look like her, not all the time. Like right now… you look like you."
"With Kate's face." Stiles rolls his eyes.
Derek looks more vulnerable and terrified than Stiles has ever seen him for a moment, "You don't scare me."
Stiles heartaches, "You sound scared."
Derek nods, "Okay, I am. I'm terrified. I'm staring at the eyes that watched my family burn to death, but they aren't your eyes. I don't hate you. I'm not scared of you. I'm scared of her."
Stiles shuts his eyes, "We're just a little too close to the same right now."
Derek moves faster than Stiles can follow, and suddenly he's wrapped up in Derek's arms, and Derek has his face pressed to Stiles' skin. Instinctively Stiles lets his head roll to the side, baring his neck. He soaks in the presence of Derek, desperate and so willing to let this moment last forever.
"You smell like Stiles." Derek murmurs against his neck, "You sound like Stiles. Different voice, but same inflection, same words. You're Stiles."
"That won't make it any easier for you to be with me," Stiles says after a long pause. They both know it's true, even if they wouldn't like it to be. It's one thing for Derek to hug him in the body, safe in the scent of Stiles and his eyes hidden against a neck. It's another for Derek to wake up to Kate Argent's face every morning.
Derek whines and Stiles finally feels tears fall from his eyes, "I don't care."
"You do, Derek," Stiles cries, "You do, and that's okay."
Derek squeezes him, almost too tightly. He lets go and steps back for a moment, staring into Stiles' eyes as if memorizing him for a moment. He's still got one hand clutched in his own, ignoring Kate's stupid pink nails.
"I love you," Derek says.
Stiles can feel his heart stop, he can feel happiness and horror and love all welling out of him at the same time. He feels his own heart breaking at the same time that it feels whole.
"I love you too," Stiles says, hoarse and honest. He can give Derek this, at least.
Derek looks absolutely broken; his hazel eyes are so, so tired.
"Just so you know, Kate has never looked at me like you just did." Derek whispers, "And she never said those words to me either. You're not her, you never will be. And I love you even when you have her eyes. I trust you even when you have her eyes."
Stiles closes his eyes because he can't bear to look at Derek when he's being so open and honest. He knows he can't have this, not yet, maybe not ever.
There has to be a way to break the curse.
He opens his eyes, realization striking him like lightning. Stiles can feel it now, his magic growing inside him. He lights his candles up until they are his height, circling around him. His magic is a storm, powerful and almost out of control. It's like fire — like Diana had said. She had seen fire, and Stiles had assumed that she meant Kate — and maybe she had meant Kate, but it's still important.
Derek's eyes are almost panicked, staring at Stiles surrounded by flames. Staring at Kate surrounded by flames. Stiles wonders belatedly if his candle fire will actually burn his house — it feels warm, but Stiles knows instinctively that it won't hurt him. It can't hurt him, it's made from him.
"Derek," Stiles' voice comes out strangled and hoarse as if two voices are fighting for dominance in his throat, "Derek, I need you to kiss me."
Derek's eyes go wide, flickering the electric blue of the wolf almost involuntarily. He doesn't want to come any closer; Stiles knows it even without the magic swirling around inside him. Derek's terrified of fire, and Stiles can't blame him.
"Derek, the fire won't hurt you." Stiles says again, stronger this time, "I promise."
"Stiles?" Derek's voice is soft, but he takes one small step forward.
"Yes," Stiles replies, "I need you to kiss me. I can break the curse."
Derek takes another step. He's in front of the flames now, and Stiles is desperate; he knows he can't hold this magic forever.
"Derek, please," Stiles begs, "trust me."
Derek breathes deeply and steps forward into the flames. He pulls Stiles into a kiss — not their first, definitely not, but the first where Derek is kissing a face that looks like Kate, and the first where Stiles feels like he could level his entire house if he wanted to.
Stiles' heart hurts.
He feels it, the moment he loses control of his fire and his magic, and he clings to Derek's arms around him. Derek doesn't let him go, even when it feels almost unbearably hot and Stiles wants to cry because he did this — he has made Derek Hale walk into fire and burn.
But —
But then.
It stops.
Stiles finds himself slumped on his floor, against Derek's chest. His candles are out, some toppled over onto his carpet. His room stinks of smoke and incense, and Stiles isn't entirely sure how he's going to explain this whole mess to his dad.
He glances down at where his hand is curled in Derek's grey henley. His nails are short and blunt, his fingers long and freckled.
Stiles reels back, shoving Derek away from him for the briefest of moments.
Derek seems shellshocked — his eyes are hazel again, and they are filled with pain and ghosts. They follow Stiles' face for a moment before comprehension dawns.
"Stiles." He grates out.
Stiles looks down at his flat chest and his absolutely boring man feet. He's never been so grateful to be able to run a hand through his short hair.
"Derek," Stiles says, looking back at him, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Derek half smiles, and then suddenly Stiles is being reeled back into his embrace, and they both relax into each other in a way Stiles has almost forgotten they used to be good at. They fit together, they always have.
"Don't be sorry," Derek says into his collarbone, "you fixed it. You're you."
Stiles chokes on words and lets a single sob out, "But the fire — I made you… you had to go in—"
"It's nothing," Derek murmurs, "breathe, Stiles."
It takes minutes of trying to get his own breaths to match Derek's, and by the time Stiles does it he's feeling exhausted and nearly boneless, slumped into Derek's chest.
He lifts his head up, looks into Derek's eyes and knows Derek is looking into his own regular brown ones. "Diana gave us the clue, you know. It was all about making you face your worst fears, and she managed to hit all of them in one go."
Derek frowns, "Kate coming back from the dead, you betraying me, and then burning alive."
"Pretty much," Stiles says, hoarse, "I fucking hate witches, man."
Derek nods, "Me too. Except you."
"I'm not a witch!"
Derek lets out a laugh — Stiles nearly falls over. He hasn't heard him laugh in… maybe ever. Stiles can't even be angry at his witch comment now.
"I love you."
Derek sobers, eyes warm and familiar, "I love you, too."
8
fin.
A/N: This is not a genderbend fic - Stiles does spend some time in a woman's body though. There is one moment where Kate is naked in the Sheriff's presence, and I tried to make it the most minimal amount of creepy and awful as possible, but just in case. Stiles does have a panic attack in this fic. Let me know if I missed any other things I should warn for.