And you are the wolf
And I am the moon
And in the endless sky, we are but one
We are alive
In my dreams wolf and I
When he looked at you, you'd try to remember that you two aren't on the same level. You'll try to remember that he's the Alpha, and you aren't even a part of the pack. You're a measly human, sarcastic and stupidly brave when you shouldn't be. Your best friend is a werewolf and his girlfriend is a werewolf hunter and her relative burnt the Alpha's house down and killed his family and you think that everything in Beacon Hills is a really fucked up tragedy.
You look at him after saving his life multiple times and remember that he still doesn't trust you, and you'll try to believe that his proclamation doesn't break your heart. You'll believe that he's just the Alpha of Beacon Hills, that he isn't the man that you almost-kinda-not-really love (but you'd never admit it to yourself out loud.)
Your father is a cop, you remind yourself. You've put him in prison more than once. He has the right to not trust you. Yes, you say. He'll never trust me.
You'll go to the pack meetings and you'll see him-big muscles and beautiful eyes and hard demeanor- and you'll spend the entire time imagining how sweet he was before the Argent's ruined his life. He would have been gentle, loving, happy. That's the real Derek, you tell yourself. Maybe if he'd just love me, I could—
(You stop yourself because you know how stupid that sounds, and you hate yourself for even forming the thought.)
(You can't even pass your classes. You can't even be first-line for lacrosse. How could you make the Alpha love you…change for you?)
(Waste of space.)
(You killed your mother.)
And you panic and run out of the trains station and try to forget the faces of the Betas watching you break down, forget the face of your mother as the tears run down your cheeks, forget the flash of your father screaming at you, saying "You killed her! You killed your mother, and now, you're killing me", and you collapse somewhere in the woods after running for so long and you cry until your eyes burn. You'll cry until your panic attack settles and the cars stop passing by with their bright lights. You'll cry until you're numb and when you remember that you and him aren't right, it doesn't hurt anymore.
You're such a mess, you think. You should stay there forever, a stack of bones useless until the trees take you in and make you into something beautiful and you won't leave such a mess for anyone anymore.
You stay in your position until you hear a cracking of dry leaves and a heavy foot coming near, and you bounce to your feet right as he comes in. The Alpha. (What are you doing here?)
"I've come to get you. Scott's worried."
(He could've gotten me himself.)
"Allison came," he sighs, and that says everything about your newly formed shitty friendship with Scott as you could.
(Yeah.)
"Come on, Stiles."
(Can you just…sit?) He looks at you funny but complies, his leather jacket against your flannel clad shoulder. (What were you like before?)
Derek gives you his hard stare that means 'back off'. You don't. You never do. You'd think he'd pick up on that by now. He sighs and says, "Very open, trusting. Stupid."
(Trusting someone is never stupid. Some stupid people just make trusting seem like a mistake) you say. Derek looks at you funny, like that night you saved him from drowning and you said something about abominations. That same exact look, like he found something in you he'd never seen before, like he swooped down to your level and let himself connect to you.
(I think you're great) you mumble stupidly, before you stop yourself. (I mean, you do a great job being an Alpha.)
"Stiles," he says, and you try to tell yourself you don't absolutely love the way he says your name. Stiles. Derek. Stiles and Derek. Stiles Hale. Derek Stilinski.
(Fuck.) you scream, and you bury your head in your lap because you hate yourself. You won't admit it, but you know it. Christ, it's never been more obvious. (You can go.)
"No," Derek states. You look up and he's in your space and you barely have time to register anything before his lips are on yours, soft and sweet and—JESUS CHRIST he's exactly how you imaged him, the real Derek. The vulnerable Derek. Gentle, loving, sweet—his hands are on your neck and his stubble is burning your chin and his lips taste like salt and he's so warm. God, he's like the sun's rays beating down on your bones and turning you into liquid goo.
(Fuck) you whisper when he pulls away, and you're so lightheaded you fall over and all you see before you black out is another headlight of a car zooming by the woods where you lay.