The Rarest Thing
"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
It starts with an argument. Scott and Stiles are throwing words at each other, Stiles narrowing his eyes with irritation and Scott actually red in the face, and Isaac's snickering in the corner because this is just stupid, the human and the beta shouting about whether a golden retriever or a cocker spaniel would make the better pet. Derek just pinches the bridge of his nose, counting to ten, because he's not thinking about the way Stiles' eyes light up with the fire of indignation, or the way his mouth moves when he speaks, so smoothly obscene yet perfect. Not at all.
The afternoon is perfectly ordinary. Derek and Isaac are here because they found an injured raccoon by the side of the road while driving to Derek's loft, Stiles is here because he and Scott are usually in a six foot radius of each other, and Deaton – well, it is his clinic, after all. The man walks in, announcing he's found the brand of sutures he'd been searching for, and Stiles just beams with delight, argument forgotten as he suggests names for the sedated raccoon.
"No, we aren't keeping it," Derek says firmly, when Isaac turns beseeching eyes on him. The boy's a total softie, but Derek likes that. It reminds him of Laura, how she could never turn away any creature that needed help. She was forever rescuing squirrels and lost puppies and even cats sometimes, and just like Isaac, she'd mastered the puppy eyes, and how to whine like a pleading cub. Things Derek has trouble saying no to. But he's no stranger to faking resolve.
"Esmeralda!" Stiles shouts, whirling to grin at Derek, and that's when it happens. His flailing arm slams against a nondescript brown jar, and he's covered in a pale blue dust, staring at them all in shock before Scott throws back his head, howling with laughter, and Isaac joins in a second later.
But Derek's frowning, and so is Stiles, and in that second he knows something is wrong, confirmed by Deaton's sharp inhale seconds later.
"What is it?" Derek demands, and Deaton shakes his head.
"Nothing too dangerous," the emissary says calmly, looking faintly amused. "Just stay close by him for the next couple hours."
"What?" Scott's looking torn between hilarity and absolute panic, "What do you mean? Is he going to die?"
Stiles lets out a sort of whine, still finely dusted in blue powder, and Derek sighs before going over to help him, trying not to think about how good Stiles' hair feels against his fingers as he gently flays the powder from it.
"No, he isn't," Deaton replies, sliding his hands into gloves. "In fact, nothing might happen at all, but someone should be around him for the next twenty-four hours until we know for sure." He hums a little as he gets the sutures set up, then fixes them all with a steeled smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have this little guy to fix up. Scott, hand me the…"
Derek tunes him out, leaving Scott and the enigmatic emissary to it as he hooks his fingers around Stiles and Isaac's collars, manhandling them out the door in front of him. Stiles is already babbling incessantly, all about fucking blue powder, man, gets everywhere and I really don't want to die, who'll make my dad eat broccoli? and then that poor raccoon, Scott's still terrible with stitches and Derek hears the words but focuses on his voice, on the steady heartbeat, on the fact that Stiles actually trusts that nothing is going to happen to him.
Isaac, on the other hand, is broadcasting his worry, so Derek drops a hand onto the back of his beta's neck, letting the grip and warmth ground the younger wolf, smoothing out the sharper tones in his scent.
"Isaac, go home with Stiles," Derek orders, tamping down roughly on his own worry. Thank god it's only Saturday, they don't have school tomorrow. They're graduating at the end of this year, going to college, and damn it, he's going to have to learn to be alone again, after everything, because maybe Cora will stay here with him but the rest will be leaving, and –
"Derek?" Isaac's hesitant, his baby blue eyes round, and Derek forces a smile, focuses on projecting confidence and broadening his stance, and it works like a charm. The beta relaxes instantly, sensing the mood change in him, even if it's mostly invented. Stiles always laughs about how seriously Derek takes the whole "fake it till you make it" thing, but it works, so. There.
"Call me if you need anything," he says seriously, switching his gaze from Isaac to Stiles, who looks downright skittish when Derek's eyes land on him. Maybe he's actually worried, then. Hmm.
Without waiting for a response, he gets into the Camaro and peels away smoothly from the curb, watching them hop into the Jeep and drive in the other direction. And if he parks the Camaro down a side street and follows them to make sure they make it back to Stiles' home in one piece, well, no one will ever know.
-:-
That night passes uneventfully, but Derek doesn't get a wink of sleep. Cora, who had insisted on having her own place one floor below his, since she's so used to living alone, comes up to spend the night over. Which means that first she complains about everything. Literally. Everything.
There's not enough pretty cushions, the walls are too white, Derek, what were you even thinking, he needs more plush blankets because those are where it's at (what it is he'll never know), she wants pineapple on her pizza but he's disgusted by it, she slides Lethal Weapon into the DVD player but he likes Braveheart better.
God, he's missed her so much.
After ten trips down to her own apartment to get everything she wants, Cora's deigned to curl up beside him on the futon, Peter flopped loosely in the armchair to Derek's left, and if he closes his eyes the feeling of security and family makes him feel like he's finally home. After two more movies in the series Cora starts snoring against his shoulder, and Peter carries her to the master bedroom, tucks her into Derek's bed. Their uncle is gentle with her, tender in a way Derek thought he'd forgotten how to be. It loosens something in his chest, like maybe they can still make it through everything, somehow.
But the worry is still there. He's seen more of the supernatural than the rest of his betas have, they don't fully understand what could happen. Extra limbs, organs, maybe one missing. Lost memories. Curses and enchantments, fatal diseases, another dose of bad luck, the list is endless and he can't dwell on it for too long without his eyes bleeding red.
Peter gives him a knowing look and lets himself out of the loft, declares he's going back to his place and reminds Derek to lock the door behind him. He feels sixteen years old again, going out for the first time with the house keys in his pocket, getting a copy made for the girlfriend he'd been seeing in secret. But this is his house now, and no Kate is here to haunt him, and he needs to relax, like Stiles always tells him. It's just that he's forgotten how.
He listens for Cora's steady heartbeat, the sound of her breaths, centers himself with the knowledge that his baby sister is safe. Then he goes out for a run.
The streets are quiet, now, it's past midnight and most of the town is sleeping. It's getting cold out, his breath misting over into small clouds in every exhale. This is routine, and routine is what gets people killed, but Stiles had told him a few months ago when Derek had gotten too paranoid about the fire escape being temporarily walled up for maintenance that he needed to relax, that if he wanted a stable pack they would need a stable alpha, and that's what he's trying to be for them now. He thinks it's working. Scott sometimes comes around for no good reason, Isaac smiles more, Erica and Boyd are finally recovering from being tortured by the alpha pack. Peter loses the calculating look in his eyes whenever he smiles at Cora, Jackson is still a douchebag but now it's mostly just posturing, Lydia laughs more easily and Allison is beginning to lose the pinched guilt on her face. And Stiles seems just the same.
He goes past all their homes, slowing as he jogs past each to listen for their heartbeats, catch their scents on the air, give his own a little time to mingle in and maybe linger for a while. He knows it calms them, especially Isaac, who's still staying with Scott, to know that he's nearby. If not for Ms. McCall, Isaac would have moved in with him immediately, but she took the boy under her wing, proclaiming something about him needing to be mothered for a while, and Derek knew that she would be a better parent than he. Someday Isaac will be moving into Derek's loft, they all know it, but for now he's with the McCalls, who are apparently trying to put some weight onto his lean frame. Derek likes Ms. McCall, trusts her with his beta. She's direct, brave, and the most kindhearted woman he knows. She reminds him of his own mother.
In front of Stiles' home, he actually stops, leaning for a moment against the fence. There are three heartbeats – Stiles, Isaac, and the Sheriff. Everyone's seems normal, steady and slow with sleep, and he loiters for a moment longer before loping back towards his loft, some of the tension in his muscles ebbing away. The pack is safe; he can sleep tonight.
He ends up out on his balcony, stretched out on the chaise Cora had forced him to buy. It was black – the only concession she'd agreed to make. Leather isn't comfortable, Derek, when are you going to learn she'd said, and he'd laughed, because Laura had said the same thing to him once, and his sisters are more alike than he could have imagined. He's never been so grateful for the large windows and glass doors his loft has; without having to move he can glance back to see Cora, can make sure she's still here and still real.
It's only when the stars wink out into a pale dawn sky that sleep seeks him out.
Cora shakes him awake, drags him over to his bed and makes him kick off his shoes before throwing the comforter over him and telling him she's going back to her own place. He's too tired to respond, something about the stress of the alpha pack and the past few weeks catching up to him, but she just cards her fingers through his hair and kisses his forehead gently. Words are too much for him to manage, his tongue feels like lead in his mouth, but Cora understands him. She stays, her fingers sliding through his hair, her scent calming him back to sleep. When he wakes, deep into midday, she's gone.
Stretching, Derek pads over to the dresser, pulling out clothes for a shower, when he remembers to check his phone. No missed calls, no messages, just a couple more hours until it's been twenty-four, and they don't have to worry about blue dust anymore.
The shower is heaven, and he gives himself longer than usual. Maybe he can finally wash the stench of blood from his skin. He even shaves off most of the beard, but when he comes out to find clothes he sees a pink button-down shirt and jeans laid out on the bed, with Cora's scent all over the room.
Sisters.
He wears them anyway, goes downstairs and scowls when Cora and Peter snap a picture of him and then fall off their barstools laughing. A smile unfurls within him, even if it doesn't make it to his lips.
Cora's just forcing Peter to play Mario Kart with her when Derek's iPhone buzzes, and he swipes across it to answer the call. "Yes?"
"Derek?" Isaac's voice is high, terrified, and instantly he's on his feet, headed for the door, Peter and Cora rising to follow.
"Isaac, what happened." He's at the car now, waving at Cora to get in but leaving Peter behind to guard the loft – he gets a dirty look for it, but Isaac and the rest still aren't comfortable around his uncle and he'd rather not have to deal with that now too.
"Stiles is gone!" Isaac wails, sounding miserable. "We woke up and everything was fine, Scott came over to play video games and Stiles went upstairs to take a shower and he vanished, we can't even scent him, Derek what –"
"I'm on my way," Derek grits out, pressing down sharply on the accelerator and not caring if he gets pulled over, the Sheriff knows him know and Stiles is missing, Stiles is fucking missing, why the fuck had he fallen asleep he should have stayed with him and Isaac, he's the alpha and they're his responsibility and –
"I'm sure they're fine," Cora says, her voice edged with something harsh, something he can't place. "You know Isaac, his sense of smell isn't the best and the other day he was convinced that I –"
"Scott knows what his best friend smells like," he snaps, and then they're pulling up by the Stilinski house and Cora hops out before the car has stopped rolling and barrels into the house, and even as he follows her in there's this pride in his chest that yes, this is his sister. She can be cruel and crude and angry, but in the end, this is baby Cora.
"Scott found him," Isaac says, abashed, as soon as they walk in, and Derek can breathe again. He forces down the anger, he can feel the fear of punishment in his beta and so he just nods, squeezes Isaac's shoulder and then walks past him, leaving him with Cora.
Scott's upstairs, and Derek follows his nose, finding the younger wolf crouched by the foot of the bed. He wrinkles his nose; the room reeks of spunk and sweat and teenage boys and pizza, but beneath that there's Stiles, who smells like…wait.
"What happened?" he growls, and Scott stands, eyes worried.
"See for yourself," Scott sighs. "He won't come out."
"Come..." Frowning, Derek moves to where Scott was, ducks down and lifts up the comforter to peer beneath it. And his breath catches in his throat, because it's clear why Isaac thought he'd lost Stiles' scent.
There's a tiny animal curled up opposite him.
It's Stiles, it has to be, the scent is identical, but now there's something else clouding it, and he huffs out a breath. Scott is teetering on the verge of panic, Cora and Isaac are waiting downstairs, their heartbeats too fast to be relaxed, and Derek's the alpha. He has to fix this for them.
"Stiles," he says quietly, and then glances back at Scott, who snarls a little but leaves the room. Derek stretches out on the floor now, eases himself partway under the bed. "Stiles," he says again, louder, his hand reaching out.
There's a soft whine, and he nods. "I know." He's keeping his voice gentle, the way he used to speak to his younger siblings when they were afraid during a thunderstorm or after a nightmare. "I know."
It takes a moment, but the animal begins to uncurl, and Derek slides out from under the bed, waits for Stiles to come to him.
He's a fox. Pale orange fur, and those ears are goddamn huge, practically the size of the fox's face – Derek stifles a laugh, and Stiles narrows his eyes, beating his fluffy tail against the ground in irritation. Yep. Definitely Stiles. He whines, soft and high, and something melts inside Derek.
"We'll go and ask Deaton how to bring you back," he promises, and Stiles steps gingerly closer, cocking his head to one side, before coming to a decision. He springs forward with surprising strength, settling himself into the crook of Derek's arm and gazing balefully up at him. Keeping his expression flat – it's harder when all he wants to do is grin stupidly – Derek stands up, feeling Stiles' claws digging into his forearm as he fights to keep his balance. Tucking the little fox closer against his chest, Derek lopes down the stairs, where his pack and Scott are waiting in the living room.
"What the fuck?" Cora stares at them in disbelief, and Scott comes forward, his eyebrows coming together in a V.
"Stiles?" The fox yips, nosing at Scott's outstretched fingers, before settling back against Derek.
"He got turned into a fox," Isaac says, disbelieving, and Cora huffs at him.
"Obviously," she drawls. "How do we bring him back?"
"Deaton," Derek says.
"We should go now, before his dad gets back from his shift," Scott says, and Stiles whines again at the mention of his father. "I'll hold him while you drive, Derek," he adds, and without waiting picks Stiles from Derek's arms.
"Get in the car," Derek orders, striding past the teenaged gaggle into the front yard. The sun hangs low in the sky, it'll be evening soon. He feels cold, wishes he was still holding the fox, and tells himself to shut up. Wolves are tactile creatures, he's just missing the contact and familiarity of touch, that's all.
And, of course, Deaton is abso-fucking-lutely useless. He pokes and prods at Stiles until he's curled around Derek's ankles, showing his tiny teeth, and Derek tries not to look too smug when Scott glares at him. It's probably because he's the alpha – he projects a sense of strength and safety to his pack that must draw Stiles towards him. Deaton says he isn't sure how to bring him back, that they had better tell the Sheriff and keep someone with the fox at all times, that he'll look into it and let them know when he finds something.
Twenty minutes later they're all in the Stilinski kitchen, with the fox sitting erect on the kitchen table and the pack collapsed in chairs around him.
"We have school tomorrow," Scott frets, and they all turn and stare at Derek. Even the tiny fox.
He sighs. "I'll look after him, if the Sheriff doesn't mind."
"What is a fox doing in my house? And where is my kid?"
Yep, it's the Sheriff, standing in the doorway, having taken them all by surprise because a room full of werewolves didn't hear him.
When it becomes clear that none of the others are willing to bite the bullet, Derek stands – somehow he always feels the need to stand when talking to the Sheriff. "Stiles is the fox." He gets disapproving looks from all the betas and rolls his eyes. It's like taking off a Band-Aid, not that he's ever had to use one. Get it over quickly and all that jazz.
"What?" John steps closer, squinting at the little animal, which has managed to get peanut butter all over his paws and freezes in the middle of licking it off, expression supremely guilty.
The fox yips, then growls in frustration before rising up on his hind legs, waving his peanut butter-slathered front paws in the air wildly and taking a few steps forward, miming bipedal movement. Then he takes a flying leap off the counter – Derek snatches him out of the air and places him gently on the wooden floor before he breaks anything in the landing – and scrambles over to the fridge, pawing at it and whining.
John gives a small, shocked-sounding laugh. "Well, he's definitely crazy enough to be Stiles," he begins, before taking a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. "Does he want food?"
"Maybe?" Scott sounds uncertain, but he opens the fridge door anyway. The fox spares him a disgusted look before shoving the door shut and whining again, and Scott gasps. "I get it!" Bending down, he lifts Stiles into the air until the whining stops, just when the fox is level with a photograph of John, Claudia, and a much younger Stiles. Leaning forward, Stiles prods his nose against his own face in the picture, and the rush of air John expels actually ruffles Derek's hair.
And then the Sheriff flies across the kitchen to scoop up the little fox, chuckling wetly as it yips excitedly and then snuffles across his face. The action is surprisingly animal, and Derek raises his eyebrows a little.
"How to we bring him back?" John demands, scratching the tops of the fox's head. And then he grins, tugging at the ears. "And what the hell kind of fox is this?"
Scott and Isaac are laughing now at Stiles' squawk of indignation, and Cora fixes Derek with a longsuffering stare. "We don't know," she deadpans at the Sheriff, who looks more than a little displeased at the news. "Deaton says he'll look into it, but for now, he's a fox."
"I'll have to call the school," John groans. "I think we used pneumonia last time, how about…"
"A family emergency," Isaac pipes up. "That's what I used to use when…" he trails off, and Derek moves forward, gripping his beta's shoulders tightly.
"Call the school, maybe even tell them he's out of town," he tells John, "And we need to figure out how to keep an eye on him. Deaton says someone should be with him at all times."
"I could take a few days off work," the Sheriff says doubtfully, eyeing the little fox that had returned to licking peanut butter off his paws in his father's arms, "But if this takes longer than a few days…" He looks up, staring right at Derek, what Stiles calls his bad cop face on. "This isn't permanent, is it?"
Derek cringes. He's been afraid of this question. "We'll do whatever it takes to bring him back," he promises.
"Derek can watch him," Isaac suggests, and Scott gives a decidedly nervous laugh.
"Yeah, because he and Stiles get along so well."
That stings. He'd thought he and Stiles get along alright, but if he really thinks about it – but he doesn't get time to, because Cora is at his shoulder, teeth bared.
"Back up, jerkface," she hisses, and the Sheriff even takes a step back. "My brother's the alpha, and Stiles will be safest with him. Unless you want to skip school for however long this takes, which wouldn't make a difference to you since you're failing all your classes anyway, will it?"
"Cora," Derek says in warning, letting his eyes flash red at her. She harrumphs loudly and drops into a chair, making Isaac move skittishly away from her. Derek frowns a little. Cora's been moody and angry lately – more so than normal, and it's usually when the rest of the pack is around. Whenever he tries to bring it up she changes the subject, though, so he lets it alone. For now.
"Will you be able to watch him?" John's eyes are narrowed, calculating, and Derek meets his gaze evenly.
"If you want me to. And if he doesn't mind, then yes, I can."
John dips his head. "I'm free till tomorrow morning, I can drop him off then."
"We'll leave you for now," Derek nods, gesturing to his betas to leave with him. "We're going to have a pack meeting to discuss this while Stiles is with me tomorrow, if that's okay," he adds, turning back to the Sheriff, who just nods.
"Whatever it takes," John echoes him, grinning down at the fox blinking sleepily against him.
Derek's the last out of the house, since it's clear Scott is planning on staying, but he isn't expecting the younger wolf to grab his arm and hold him back.
"You better take care of him, Derek," Scott warns. "I know you won't hurt him, but you don't know him that well either, and I'm –"
"You're worried," Derek finishes. He's not angry with Scott. If anything, he understands. "I'll make sure he's safe. I swear it."
Scott bobs his head, satisfied, and then smiles a little. "At least Mr. Stilinski looks like he's having fun?"
They both glance back into the living room, where Stiles and his dad are curled up on the sofa watching NCIS reruns, both of them yelling at the screen periodically – well, the Sheriff is yelling, and the fox is yowling loudly. They both wince.
Werewolf senses. Dammit.
"Good luck with him," Scott laughs, before stepping back to shut the door.
Cora's grinning broadly by the time Derek gets into the front seat of the Camaro, and Isaac's giggling in the back. "What?" he demands, trying to ignore the way their merriment is prickling under his skin, trying to coax him to smile.
Alpha senses. Dammit.
"Oh, I cannot wait to see Jackson's face when he meets Stiles," Cora sighs happily, and this time they all laugh as the car purrs gently into the evening.
-:-
A shuffling sound in the hallway wakes Derek, and he springs up, listening for a moment before identifying the Sheriff's and Stiles' heartbeats and relaxing. The offensively red analog clock reads 4:30 AM and he rubs a hand over his face tiredly, feeling the stubble scratching against his skin. He's slept two hours; it'll have to do.
"When I said morning, I meant it," John smirks when he opens the door. There's a picnic basket in his hand, with the lid flipped back partway to allow air flow. "You don't need to keep him in here, he probably won't like it. He's had trouble with small places after…" He trails off, and Derek winces a little when he remembers the nogitsune, how ironic it must be that Stiles is a fox now.
"Why is he there at all?"
"Because he refused to go in the old cat carrier we had in the garage, but he likes the smell of food in here and he kept falling asleep and sliding off the seats in the car. We actually had to go back for this after he bumped his head the third time."
Derek smiles a little, taking the basket. "I'll look after him," he says again, quietly. "When will you come pick him up?"
"Tonight," John groans. "I'm working double shifts today, and the break in between them is barely enough for me to sleep a little. One of my deputies is pregnant and on leave, and we all are covering for her."
Now that Derek looks closely, he can see the dark circles and bags under the Sheriff's eyes, the way his skin seems crinkled with the exhaustion he can practically smell.
"Thanks for taking care of him, Derek," John says, stepping back. "Him and all the others."
The door closes, and Derek is left standing there in shock. No one has actually thanked him before, as if he'd done anything worth being grateful for. Mostly he gets his pack into trouble and then tries his best to get them out, which usually isn't enough. His own baby sister had survived the fire and he hadn't known. She's different now, too, from the way she used to be. The fire had tempered Laura, dampened her fiery temper and made her gentler, sweeter. She'd cuddle him on the bad nights, stroke his hair and tell him it wasn't his fault, that she didn't blame him, that they were a team now and she would never ever leave him. Except she had, and Derek had howled at the moon in hours after she left. I thought you swore to never leave me.
Cora is flinty now. Her eyes are hard, her teeth and smile sharp, she sleeps fully dressed and with shoes on the way he does, her words are unkind. The little sister who used to demand piggyback rides and climb into his bed when the lightning frightened her and coerced Peter into baking brownies with her on Sundays is still there, she comes out when he's hurt or exhausted, but for the most part Cora is different now. He can't blame her. The fire burned them both in more ways than one.
Laura was always the best of them, the kindest, the bravest, and she's gone. He needs her now, he needs his alpha, but he's walking in her shoes and even though her feet were slender and tiny, those shoes are much too big for him. He'll never measure up.
A whine breaks him out of his thoughts, and he starts when he realizes he'd somehow moved to sit on the futon, placing the basket beside him. A small, dark nose is peeking out of it now, twitching, the rest of Stiles covered in a red checked blanket. He whimpers again, and Derek wonders if the fox can scent emotions the way werewolves can, if he's been broadcasting loudly enough for Stiles to pick up on it. Or maybe Stiles is just hungry.
He pushes back the basket lid completely and lets Stiles creep out, dragging the blanket with him since it's gotten hooked onto his massive ears. Seriously, what kind of fox is he? Because Derek has seen red foxes, and they look absolutely nothing like this. Stiles is too small, his fur too pale an orange, and his ears too comically gigantic. The red blanket is now butting insistently against his hand, and Derek groans. It's too early for this.
"What do you want?" he asks the blanket, and it tilts back as Stiles' eyes peer up at him, big and dark and round. The fox squeaks, and Derek chuckles even as Stiles' eyes get bigger, and he tries again. This time it sounds like the rawr Cora used to make before she figured out how to growl properly.
"Food?" Derek tries, and gets rewarded with a slap. From a fox. From a fox that even as high as his knee. "Water?" Another slap. "Sleep?" This time Stiles yawns, showing off tiny but sharp teeth, and Derek picks him up. "Okay."
He's headed for one of the guest bedrooms, but Stiles' ears prick up at the sight of the king-sized bed in Derek's, and he scrambles out of Derek's grip, landing with limbs splayed on the floor before scampering inside, ignoring Derek calling him back. Yipping with excitement, he jumps impressively high to get onto it, the crawls under the covers and turns around several times before curling up into a tight, orange ball and raising his head expectantly at Derek.
"Good night, Stiles," Derek sighs, closing the door and heading down the spiraling staircase to the kitchen. Coffee, he could use coffee. And there isn't a small smile on his face. Nope. None at all.
A couple hours later, when the sun's up, he calls Peter and they trawl through the databases on his laptop, looking for something useful. Of course, Peter thinks the whole thing is hilarious and maybe they should leave Stiles as a fox, since he talks a lot less, but after three hours they need a break. Peter slinks out, his laptop still perched on the coffee table, muttering something about belligerent nieces and going to see a chick flick again and I wish I could fall sick and have a good excuse. Derek grins in response, all teeth. Cora is a blessing.
After that he tinkers around the loft, wishing he could go out for a run but feeling guilty about even contemplating leaving Stiles here alone. It's his fault this even happened, really. There's so much he should have done differently. His own uncle had been the rogue alpha and he hadn't noticed, he'd not realized Kate was a hunter when all the signs had been staring him in the face, and he'd slashed at Peter before Scott could even try for the cure. He had forced Scott and Stiles into this life, and if there's no cure for this either, if Stiles lives the rest of his life a fox, it'll be his fault. Fuck, what if he'll only life a fox's lifespan? Derek's breathing too quickly now, and he forces down the panic. Alphas are strong, alphas don't need constant reassurance, alphas…are going to check on their fox-shaped packmates. Just to make sure everything is alright.
After all, if there's anyone who doesn't deserve any of this, it's Stiles. He's incredibly loyal, has a quick mind and sharp tongue, isn't by any stretch of the imagination a caring person but he's protective. He's sharp angles and soft-looking hair, too many shirts and a red hoodie. He's the bitter scent of coffee blended with teenage boy and something inexplicably Stiles, he's laughter that shakes his whole body and a quiet, heavy sadness that never quite leaves his eyes. He's complex and simple and angry and gentle and just so alive in a way that most people never will be. He doesn't deserve this, not after the nogitsune – Derek still has nightmares about those days, he can't even imagine what Stiles must be suffering in silence – not after Peter and the kanima and everything else that the boy has rescued them of. And Derek tries to protect him, but he's cracked and broken and not as strong as an alpha needs to be, and Stiles was never one to sit back and watch from the sidelines. A baseball bat will never be a match for werewolf strength, but Stiles has courage in spades. He can hold his own, at least for a moment or two. Long enough for backup.
Predictably, when he gets into his room, the bed is empty. He fights down the quick stab of panic, because there's no way Stiles has escaped – he would have heard him, and he can hear Stiles' heartbeat here still, somewhere close.
There's no fox under the bed, but the scents he's picking up are warm, bright like amusement, and he's got a hunch that Stiles the fox is playing a game. Well, fine. He's got a wolf nose, definitely stronger than that of a fox, and he's just straightening up and drawing a deep breath when something small and caterwauling lands sharply on his head, claws digging into his skull and shoulders.
"Fuck!" Derek twists around, loses his balance, and he and the still-yowling Stiles both go down, crashing into the floor. He can feel soft fur squished beneath his neck and rolls away, shaking inside a little when he hears a mewl of pain. "Stiles, are you hurt?"
The fox just breathes, lying horribly still, and Derek picks him up carefully, looking him over for blood or damage, when Stiles twists in his hands and backflips through the air to land on a pillow, panting happily.
"You are an idiot," Derek informs him, and Stiles barks. Well, then. "Hungry?"
Derek tries to feed Stiles some of the dog food that Erica bought last week as a prank – she'd filled it into a cereal box and Jackson had tried to throw her out the window. An astoundingly stupid move, given everything they knew about how ferocious pack females could be. Honestly, they were all lucky they had supernatural healing abilities – especially when Boyd thought that Jackson had no right to attack her from behind and decided the time had come to get involved in the whole mess. Peter had broken it up, since Derek and Isaac had been too busy making bets on who would win, Scott was looking horrified, and Allison and Lydia were watching Grey's Anatomy in the next room. Derek absolutely did not want to know. There had been lots of shouting about "McDreamy" and "McSteamy" and even Jackson had gotten involved.
His pack was absolutely insane.
Stiles responds about as well as Jackson did to the joke, but a snarling fox that is about the size of his old radio and making pretty much the same scratchy noise is hardly threatening. Eventually he gives up and Stiles busies himself nosing through Cora's favorite cushions, and Derek sends out a text over the GroupMe that the pack had absolutely insisted on having. Lydia had declared that life had left him behind fifty years ago, and it was about time he got with the program. And then had added a whole bunch of apps to his phone and pestered him until he learned to use them. He might be slightly afraid of a 5'3 teenaged girl. Maybe a tiny bit. Or more than tiny. Especially when she drags him shopping with her, because monochromatic Henleys cannot constitute your entire wardrobe, Derek, not if you want to be a legitimate alpha capable of interacting responsibly with other packs. He had an entire section in his closet that comprised of her choices, which she browbeat him into wearing whenever they had to make an impression. Derek would have snarled at her to leave him alone, but she'd actually been right, so he let it stand.
And he'd be a liar if he didn't admit that the way Stiles' eyes bug out a little and the way Stiles' cheeks and neck are dusted with a light blush whenever Derek wears something of Lydia's choosing didn't have anything to do with it.
Yep, he's a damn liar.
The pack meeting is in two hours, and Derek muffles a yawn behind his hand as he glares at the bright October sky. He's so tired, he almost doesn't feel something tugging at his jeans. When he peers down, he sees Stiles' teeth sunk into the denim, trying to direct Derek backwards. The little fox growls when he reaches down to pick him up, so Derek throws his hands in the air, grumbles a bit, and lets Stiles tug him up the stairs and back into his room, before the fox vaults up onto the mattress and makes himself comfortable again, looking expectantly at Derek.
Ah, what the hell. He's shared a bed with pack before. Admittedly, pack has never really meant a teenager he was maybe a bit attracted to, but here was a fluffy little fox and his bed and dammit he hadn't been this sleepy in months. Not even bothering to kick off his shoes, Derek drops onto the bed, and is reaching for the comforter when claws rake up his arms, drawing rivulets of blood.
He hisses, jerking his arm away sharply, and Stiles whimpers and ducks beneath a pillow. Fuck. Is Stiles actually this afraid of him, that one sudden movement makes him think that Derek's going to strike him?
The guilt is eating at him now, even as his skin seals shut once again. Maybe he shouldn't have been so ready to slam teenagers' heads into steering wheels, even if said teenager had basically forced him into a PG-rated striptease. And the spicy scent of arousal hadn't just come from Danny that afternoon.
He's flushing just from the memory, and Derek growls a little at himself, before seeing the pillow quiver and realizing that Stiles is still right there. It occurs to him now that he doesn't know how being a fox is affecting Stiles. Maybe he's still perfectly sentient, just in a fox's body; or maybe he's a mix of fox and Stiles, the way werewolves are a blend of the wolf and the human. Maybe he's reacting to his alpha the way Derek's betas do, the way they can sense and are affected by his moods. It's hard to tell, and Stiles for once can't speak, so he's going to have to work with what scarce information he does have.
A quick flick of his fingers dislodges the pillow, and Stiles is staring up at him defensively, bushy tail trembling a little. Derek stares back, wondering how to make the next move, and settles for running two fingers firmly but gently over the fox's forehead, from the top of his nose to between his ears, and chuffs out a surprised laugh when Stiles actually wriggles all over with delight.
What was that children's book, Derek wonders, something about giving a mouse a cookie? His little cousins had always begged him to read it to them, Matthew especially – the kid would chase after Derek doggedly, clambering into his lab and pushing the sticky picture book into his hands, complete with Bambi eyes. He'd always been powerless against those big brown eyes. And he's reminded of that book now, of how one thing leads to another with irresistible, unpredictable certainty, because Stiles has nosed his way into Derek's lap, all fear forgotten, and is humming happily, rubbing his head against Derek's hand to make him keep petting.
It's strangely cathartic, too, scritching at the fur between the ridiculous ears, watching Stiles' eyes droop with sheer bliss. He remembers, fuzzily, what it had felt like to be groomed by another's hands, in his wolf form. Full shifts were difficult, and after his family died he'd been unable to manage it, but it was in that final showdown against the alpha pack, when Kali had wrapped her claws around a whimpering Jackson and threatened to eviscerate him, slowly and painfully, that he had snapped. Jackson had been staring at Lydia, lips moving soundlessly, and when Derek pieced the words together he broke.
I love you. Three words that Jackson had been unable to say since he discovered he was adopted – the boy had been convinced he was going to die, and before he knew it, Derek's skin was rippling, fur sprouting from his pores, bones snapping and rearranging, and his jaws were locked around the other alpha's neck long before he fully registered that he'd shifted completely.
But he hadn't done it since. Cora couldn't shift, she'd never learned how, and it felt too personal. His mother had taught him to do it, and after the fire Derek and Laura would shift and run together for hours, until they were too exhausted to lift a paw, but after losing her too…Derek didn't know if he could do it again, unless his pack was threatened as Jackson had been.
Stiles buts his little head forcefully against Derek's ribcage, and he blinks, brought abruptly back to reality. The fox huffs, tilting his head and looking at him curiously.
"I'm sorry you're afraid of me," Derek says quietly. It's so much easier when he's speaking to a fox than a human.
For a moment Stiles just blinks and him, and then he turns around and jumps down to the floor, prowling around Derek's feet, his ears twitching slightly. The rejection burns a little, but before Derek can react, Stiles moves. With a loud caterwauling sound that's probably supposed to be a roar – the little fox just doesn't have the lungs for it, and Derek fights a grin – Stiles launches himself into the air, landing on Derek's knee and scrabbling up until he's wrapped around Derek's skull, claws digging in a little bit painfully. He's still yowling, and the whole thing is painful to werewolf ears, but it's the least threatening thing Derek has ever seen and before he knows it he's laughing, because he can see his own reflection in the dark emptiness of the TV screen and he looks ridiculous, sitting there with a big-eared fox wrapped around his head.
The mirth is still bubbling helplessly from his chest when Stiles leaps daintily down to the couch beside him and then fixes him with a look. And Derek knows it's stupid, but right then he hears Stiles' voice. I was never afraid of you, you dipshit.
It's a lie, but he rubs his thumb gratefully between the fox's ears in response.
Eventually he figures out that Stiles had only clawed him to make him take off his shoes, and they fall asleep with the fox curled up on Derek's chest, tucked under the covers, cold nose buried in his neck, rising and falling a little with every breath Derek takes. It's comforting, makes him feel strangely but wonderfully grounded, and it's not long before sleep finds him.
The little fox snores. Loudly. It's not at all cute.
-:-
Come to think of it, he should have thought this out more. Pointing to the tiny fox munching his way determinedly through the enormous bag of Cheetos that Scott brought with him and declaring that Stiles has been turned into a fox probably wasn't the best way to inform the pack that Stiles was indeed a fox, especially since Scott had agreed not to let anyone know until they could hear it at the same time, to avoid confusion.
Why had they even tried. Confusion always found them anyway.
"He's so cute!" Allison squeals, picking the fox up and tugging at his ears with a giggle. "And these are so big!"
"He's a fennec fox, they have large ears to help keep them cool," Lydia sniffs haughtily, but Allison just raises an eyebrow and a minute later Lydia joins her on the floor, both of them petting Stiles, who now looks panicked and as though he'd very much like to flee the scene if only he could figure out how to give them the slip.
Scott is staring at Allison dopily, and Isaac and Boyd are betting on how Jackson is going to react, whenever he stops the disgusted stares long enough to say something. This is a disaster.
"Say hi, Jackson," Lydia scolds, and without any warning, she drops the fox in Jackson's arms as if he was a baby. Shocking them all, Jackson actually coos at the fox, a genuine smile stealing over his face. Then Boyd and Isaac guffaw loudly behind Derek, Scott smirks, Lydia plants a kiss on Jackson's cheek, Stiles scrambles for the floor and gets trapped by Allison, Cora walks in late with Erica demanding to know what they've missed and carrying pizzas, Peter slams his book shut and walks out, and Derek drops his head in his hands.
Hopeless.
"What is that?" Erica shouts, pointing dramatically at Stiles, and Allison holds him up like Simba – her eyes are shining with glee and she's forced the entire pack to watch that movie so many times that Derek has actually hidden the disc – and announces that this is Stiles, Erica, keep up. Her smile is just too nice, and something tenses in Derek, because he knew that the two girls didn't get along but –
"You're holding him all wrong, honey," Erica says sweetly through her teeth, "Let me." Stiles yelps as Erica squishes him against her, and Scott is up against Allison's shoulder now, watching Erica carry the little fox over to Boyd with narrowed eyes.
His pack is young, still volatile, but they're learning. At least, he hopes they're learning.
"Erica," he says, and she glances over at him, slightly chastened – Derek counts it as a win.
"So how did this happen again? Stilinski piss off someone he shouldn't have?" Jackson's lounging back on the futon, his head in Lydia's lap, but his eyes when he watches the fox be cautiously petted by Boyd are anything but malicious. Even Scott isn't offended by the question.
"Magic blue powder," Isaac supplies helpfully, and Jackson laughs so hard he falls off the couch.
"Let me guess, Deaton knows nothing," Erica says derisively, and Boyd flicks her temple in response.
"We'll figure it out," he says, voice slow and reassuring, and Derek remembers why he likes Boyd so much.
"We will." His own voice rings with the alpha power he deliberately allowed to bleed into it, and all the wolves sit up a little straighter at that. He grins. "Pizza?"
They're headed for the table, where Cora deposited the boxes, when behind him he hears Erica snicker and suddenly Stiles is yelping. Derek whirls around, sees the little fox claw at the hand Erica had closed over his ear, and she just reacts – Stiles is flying through the air, Scott is yelling, and Derek reaches out and snatches the fox mid-flight. But the alpha in him is too far gone to control; before he knows what he's doing Derek has turned on Erica, roaring, and he's fully in the beta shift already, Stiles cuddled up and trembling in the crook of his arm. She drops the bravado instantly, baring her throat in submission, and the wolf is instantly soothed, turning its attention instead to the frightened beta he's – wait.
Stiles is not his beta. Stiles is not a part of his pack. Stiles is here because of Scott, not because of any loyalty to the pack itself. Or to Derek, his traitorous mind whispers, and Derek shoves the thought to the back of his mind, even as his wolf whimpers.
The fox squirms, and Derek lets him down, watching him race across the room to demand pizza from Scott. Lydia makes Jackson pick Stiles up and hold him away from the food before she insists that they check whether pizza is safe to feed foxes, at which Stiles barks obnoxiously, making Scott rescue him from Jackson. Scott then gives Allison puppy dog eyes, making Cora hiss in disgust, and Allison and Lydia "borrow" Jackson's phone to research fox-appropriate food. Taking advantage of the overall confusion, Stiles clambers onto Scott's shoulder, where the werewolf surreptitiously sneaks him bits of pizza while the others are distracted. Well, Scott sees, because this is his best friend and he's doing the feeding; Isaac sees, because Isaac notices everything; and Derek sees, because he always sees Stiles.
He always sees Stiles.
Fuck.
A/N: So there you go! I got the idea for this from a tumblr post, it's my first shot at a Teen Wolf fic, hope you liked it! The quote in the beginning is from Oscar Wilde, if you're curious. Reviews are always welcome, if you want to leave comments or questions or suggestions or just say hello :D
Also come find me on tumblr at .com! (I changed the URL, for those of you who were following me before, it is very much the same blog with some more fandoms added!)