That's the word that comes to mind, and he'd never thought it was a real thing before, never thought there would ever be a person who could shoulder that burden, who he'd want to.
But he recognizes the signs now, the way Stiles scent is rich and comforting, like den, like the promise of life and future.
It's too much to think about right now, too much to analyze and worry over right now, so he just manhandles Stiles until the bend of Stiles's spine is flush against Derek's chest, so he can mouth at the back of Stiles's neck.
For Derek, the drift off to sleep is the easiest he's ever had, blanketed by the warm of heat of the body in his arms, the cloudy tendrils of Stiles's scent like the air after a storm. He feels calm, settled, completely at ease in way he hasn't since the day he stumbled onto Laura's corpse. Since Peter came back from the dead, twice, since all of it. His slumber is dreamless, so deep and utterly senseless that when he wakes up, his bones feel like lead, like he's filled with concrete.
He doesn't open his eyes, can hear without doing so, that Stiles is hurriedly showering and dressing, a whirlwind of kinetic energy. Derek grins into his arm, burrows closer into the feathered pillow that still smells like soap and sweat and Stiles. He wants to whine, pout, grab the boy by his hips and throw him back onto the bed, keep him there, squirming and bucking under his hands. But last night was cushioned by the glow of moonlight, an empty house, and it's morning, and Derek has no illusions that under the harsh glare of daylight, it won't be as easy, it won't be like that always.
But he wants, and that doesn't just go away.
Derek has never been one to laze around in bed, and without Stiles lying next to him, he feels silly and stupid in Stiles's bedroom. Without the slightest bit of noise, he creeps out from underneath the blankets, gathering the soiled blankets and sheets in his arms (and maybe Derek smells them with a satisfied growl, but he's alone, and there are no witnesses) and deposits them into the basket he finds in Stiles's bathroom.
He stills suddenly, hearing the stirrings of the Sherriff's waking breaths, a rustle of a jacket thrown onto the ground, and footfalls heading in the direction of the bedroom. In a second he's across the room, leaping over the windowsill with practiced grace, landing on his feet with the faintest thud and the crackle of dead leaves.
/
When he bursts through the door of the new house, he's not expecting anyone to be there. He's never sure where Peter goes, but he doesn't spend much time around—and Derek's warned him enough to stay away—from the school, from Lydia, to abandon the strange, sick satisfaction that he gets from sniffing around Mrs. McCall.
He's not sure it works, but there's nothing Derek can do short of killing him, which he imagines he'll have to do someday, but he's not yet ready to have the blood of his family under his nails again.
But Peter surprises him, descending grandly down the rickety staircase like veritably royalty, wearing a smirk that Derek already wants to claw off of him. But when Peter gets close, his mischievous grin turns sour, he sniffs the air, sniffs Derek, and blanches visibly.
"You stink—you should take a shower, wash that human stench off of you," the man spits. "Smells like weakness."
At that, Derek snarls viciously, snapping at his neck, to which Peter nods, backing off with a cock of an eyebrow and another scowl.
"Like 'em young, don't you, like her?"
And Derek wants to roar, to feel Peter's spine snap under his fingers, but he thinks of Stiles, what they shared, and the memories sooth him, like balm on a burn.
" You don't know anything," he murmurs, and he says it sadly, pityingly, because it's true.
/
Deaton is not an unobservant man—in fact, just the opposite, as it's his job, especially with the Hale pack as he'd once promised so long ago, to watch out for the health of the bonds that form between weres (and others). So, to say the least, he is remarkably unsurprised when the Stilinksi boy finally comes around, a frantic, wild look in his eyes, his arms flapping wildly like a flightless bird trying to lift itself into the air.
He tries not to smile, because it's obvious what he's here for, the expression on his face clearly saying, advise me, wise advising man!
But before the man even gets a chance to speak, to tell Stiles to calm down long enough to actually take a few breaths so he can make coherent sense, the words come spilling out of him and there's really nothing he can do but let the boy vent, sitting back with his arms crossed until he's finished.
And it's nothing unusual, just exactly what he suspected would happen the minute he saw Derek Hale so fiercely determined to rescue the young man, and it was satisfying, seeing that finally Derek was willing to accept his role fully and completely, to finally recognize that as Alpha, his job is not simply to conquer, to demand obedience, but to repay it in kind with self-sacrifice, with humbleness. This, he thinks, is the spark it took to ignite the fire underneath the man, to take the blinders off so Derek could finally see what had been waiting in front of him all along.
"Stiles, listen to me. For werewolves, it's not the physical that matters, not when it comes to finding a mate, finding a match. In an alpha, especially, it desires strength, loyalty—not obedience—compassion, devotion, everything, it seems, that Derek sees in you."
And he's not wrong, thinks Deaton, as the minute Scott had brought this boy to him, with bumbling speech and clumsy steps (not to mention one of the sharpest minds he'd seen in many years), he could tell that Stiles was more important than perhaps they all could've imagined. Not just a spark, but a fire, that could be, and surely was the very thing to revive Derek's dying, dwindling pack. To heal the cracks wrought so deeply by so many years of mistrust and betrayal.
"Will you refuse him?" he wonders aloud. And it's not asked with malice, suspicion, or judgment. Certainly, in the end, it is the boy's choice, and Derek will no doubt respect it, even if it may destroy him. With a mate, Derek will be more powerful than he could ever possibly imagine, with Stiles by his side, it will make him faster, stronger, more deadly, certainly—but it will also make him cautious, more pragmatic, able to show a tenderness to his pack that had been walled up previously by so much loss.
And Stiles, Stiles is just standing there, mouth agape. "I don't know—I don't understand, I can't even decide on a favorite color half the time—"
"It's red," Deaton interjects, smirking, and it's infuriating to Stiles, like Deaton somehow knows, like it was all just some cosmic joke that everyone else in the entire fucking world was in on and he's just finally got it. And Deaton just shakes his head, "If it's here now, it's always been there. And part of you has always known."
"Bullshit," Stiles says, and he's practically hyperventilating right now, but he goes on, "I mean, I think I always suspected I was kinda gay…I'm not that surprised but—"
"Gender is irrelevant to the mating bond," Deaton says.
And at that, he just can't even process anymore, feels like his mind is undergoing a forced reboot, and he follows his body's first instinct: run. Stiles launches himself up from the chair he's been perched in, taking off for the door like a shot. He knows he has things to do yet, things to learn, but he can't stay here, not now. "I'm sorry, I just can't- I have to- " He needs time, needs to be alone, needs to sort out his own head. So he leaves Deaton behind, climbs in the Jeep and just drives, into the reserve but away from the pack's den, out until there are trees and earth and sky around him and even then he can't focus, because it seems like just being freaking outside makes him think of Derek, and he just can't.
The boy leaps out of his chair like a rocket, before Deaton can even raise a hand to try and stop him. The look in Stiles's eyes is all confusion and fear of everything he doesn't understand, and he skitters away like a deer in the headlights with barely a glance back. As the door slams shut with a resounding crash, Deaton sighs, rubbing his hands over tired eyes. While it's neither an unwarranted nor unanticipated reaction (after all, being told you are something so huge and finite as someone's other half, it's not easy to take, and there's really no delicate way to put it), it signifies to the doctor that there's a long and arduous road ahead of them, and the transition will mean growing pains for everyone, himself included.
He considers calling Derek, but it might be best, he thinks, for him to stay away from the boy while everyone's feelings are sorted out. It seems a little like the conditions are stacking up dangerously, like there's drought coming on, thirsty ground, cracking air, and something's opening the flood gates to a forest fire of an enormous magnitude. And if it somehow strikes, Deaton isn't sure they (or specifically, Derek) can recover from this one.
/
Peter's face as Derek speaks, it's like he's been slapped, and the answering snarl makes Derek's skin crawl because it's so pained and desperate with fragility. Apparently, he's hit a nerve.
And Derek's just about to speak, but the door to the house is thrown open, and Derek knows without looking by recognizing the scents—sandalwood and cotton, Astroturf and antiseptic—not to mention the scrambling footfalls about as inconspicuous as a stampede of elephants, that it's Scott and Isaac. When he turns, he sees Isaac tugging anxiously at Scott's sweatshirt sleeve, a river of soothing murmurs spilling out of his mouth, the blonde wolf's lips barely moving as he tries his best to calm the older boy down. Scott is all frenzied resentment, his shoulders draw tight, ramrod straight, his chest puffed up with all the faux-bravado he can muster.
Derek hisses under his breath, already steeling himself for the fight that's sure to break out, but before Scott even gets a chance to start grilling him for, Derek's sure, a number of things, Derek's vision explodes in a sea of white dots that pop like firecracker, and he doubles over, thrown off-kilter by the sudden partial blindness.
Something in his chest feels like it's being crumpled by an invisible fist trying to pop his lungs like balloons. He feels like he's dying, his eyes watering as he gasps for breath, feeling an ocean of panic crash over him, panic, he realizes, that isn't his own.
"Fucking Christ-"he spits out, his hands gripping the guard rail on the porch, the wood splintering under his drawn-out-claws.
Within seconds, Isaac is on him, whimpering steadily under his breath as Derek's knees buckle and the younger wolf catches him, shouldering the brunt of his dead weight as they're both lowered to the floor. And in Isaac's arms, Derek's thrashing violent, chasing the breath he can't quite seem to catch, his extremities tingling and numb from a steadying lack of oxygen. His claws catch painfully on slivers of rotten wood as he slides them over the floor with a screech akin to the horrible wail of nails pressing down on a chalkboard. Behind him, Peter winces.
"What's happening to him?" Isaac asks through gritted teeth, desperately searching Derek's face for some kind of clue, some kind of reasoning behind what's happening. But when he sniffs the air around him, he doesn't find any injuries, and turns helplessly to Scott for any kind of answer.
Scott shakes his head, kneeling in front of the alpha, his palms pressing down on either side of Derek's neck.
Derek tries to speak but he can't, his tongue lying fat and useless in his mouth, as tries to choke out not me, it's not me, and behind him Isaac is crowding Peter into a corner with an accusatory snarl and Derek is dizzy, so dizzy.
Something in Scott's features ease into clear recognition, as his hands find Derek's pulse, and he takes in the alpha's desperate gasps for air.
"It's a panic attack, isn't it?" he asks low and fierce, to which Derek can only nod, because the feeling of dread crushing him is like someone's doing a dance on his chest, with shoes and bells on. "Yeah, yeah, Stiles used to get these all the time, especially after his mom died. My mom taught me how to—"
Isaac makes another frantic noise, waving his palms as if to say fine, okay, get on with it! (Which Derek is grateful for, to say the least).
"Right," says Scott, shaking his head as if he's clearing dust out of there. "Okay, first you have to take a deep breath, and hold it as long as you can, yeah, like that—"
And Derek thinks it's absurd, holding his breath when he can't even find it in the first place, but he's not doing this for himself anyway, not really, trying instead to focus all of his energy on stopping the onslaught of terror, like maybe it'll somehow make it easier for Stiles, wherever the stupid kid is, probably freaking out for no reason, and jesus, Derek's mind won't quit and he wonders, briefly, if this is what Stiles feels like all the time…
Because holy fuck
"And then you've got to take these breathes, in and out, four seconds in, four seconds out, focus on my voice—Stiles said that helped sometimes," and Scott's voice is kind of like fuzzy radio frequency in the back of Derek's head as he finally feels the knots in his chest start to untangle, the only thing going through his mind some form of the words 'Stiles', and 'breathe', and 'okay.'
And when he finally feels oxygen, sweet and rich in his throat, he growls, examining the blackened blood crusting his nails where wood splinters split his skin wind open.
"Stiles used to get these?" Derek finally gasps. "Jesus Christ, that—god dammit."
Well.
Shit.
When everything is calmer, when the painful buzzing in Derek's brain finally quiets, he stands, a little shaky, like a newborn colt testing out its legs for the first time. Isaac reaches for him, but Derek shakes the beta off with a gentle push of his fingers.
"I'm fine," he says, gentle, yet firm. And he knows he is, now, and that somewhere Stiles is fine too.
"But—Derek," says Isaac, his eyes darting across the alpha's face. "You've, I mean, you fought the kanima, and hunters, and you've almost died like a million times and I've never seen you—"
I've never seen you weak, is what Derek knows he means, but Isaac continues to speak, adding— "You don't get panic attacks. You don't—"
"But Stiles does," Scott says lowly. And when Derek turns, there's a static crackling in the air, and Scott's eyes shift cornflower yellow, and Derek's flash red in return.
"Derek," says Scott, stepping closer. "Derek, what did you do?"
"Nothing, I didn't do anything. I didn't mean for this to happen," Derek starts, and the wolf in him yowls in protest, a ominous voice that whispers devils in his ear, says that he shouldn't have to explain anything, that it's his right as an alpha to take and take without justifying it. It's the part of him that wants to see Scott bend his knee and show his throat, be the wolf he was always meant to be.
But Derek knows that Scott feels like Stiles belongs to him. That if they were to draw the pack lines, here and now, the boy would still think it would be him and Stiles on the other side, against the world like always.
Derek wonders if this is still true.
In the midst of this standoff, two more cars roll up, spitting gravel across the road- Boyd's rattling pickup, and Jackson's douchey Porsche. Derek assumes they felt him panicking, and they're all here to make sure he's still alive and breathing. It's almost suffocating, and Derek wishes with every fiber of his being that they'd all just leave him alone.
And Derek, he's not stupid. He knows this is a problem, that this connection, whatever it means, it's not a good thing. It's dangerous, maybe the worst possible thing for all of them—a weakness that can be exploited and abused. Anything that can knock him on his feet like that, it can't be right, it can't be...
And Derek, yeah, he feels Stiles before he even sees him, which again is more glaring evidence that something pretty fucked up and weird is going on between them. And even as the boy comes into view, hunched and rigid like a board, clearly angry—furious, more like it—Derek's wolf is positively giddy at the sight of him. And it's a swirling, stifling, disorienting mix-up of emotions as the alpha feels not only his own joy at the welcome presence of matemineyesmine,, but also the sudden rush of frustration and anger that pours into him straight from the source.
There's a hush that seems to catch and infect as Stiles comes up the steps, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and Derek digs his heels into the ground to keep from automatically reaching for him. It's not even really like he gets a chance to either, because Scott is suddenly lurching toward him. Isaac and Boyd both go after the boy with identical snarls of concern, but it's not necessary, as Derek strikes his arm out to catch across Scott's sternum, and with a resounding crack, Derek has the boy pinned under the point of his elbow, bent gracefully on one knee, his back a perfect bow as he looks up to catch his eyes on the edge of a bruise peeking out above Stiles's collar.
Behind him, Peter clears his throat awkwardly.
"Well, now that we've all gotten to witness another shining example of Scott's poor impulse control, I think we should all just go ahead and address the er—elephant in the room, I believe the expression is?"
Derek rolls his eyes, but rises to his feet, brushing imaginary particles of dust off the front of his jeans, his arms crossed as he bears himself up to full height.
"Besides, this is a happy occasion," Peter sing-songs, throwing an arm around Derek's shoulders, to which Derek flinches visibly.
"Don't," growls Derek, his expression dark. He turns to Stiles, whose exasperated words are clue enough that this is certainly not the way either of them wanted this situation to play out.
"We'll go to Deaton, figure this out—figure out what's wrong," he says, doing his best to sound like he actually has any idea that what he's saying is even true, which he doesn't, of course he doesn't, because it's not like he had a lot of time with his parents to learn about all of this—this stuff.
"No need for a lovers' spat, you two" Peter says toothily, "Perfectly normal at the commencement of the bonding, it'll all sort itself out nicely."
The response to this, of course, is immediate, with everyone all talking and shouting at once and it's impossible to even—jesus.
And when Stiles voice cuts clear through the din, yelling at them all to just shut the hell up for a second so he can think, Derek feels both relief, and a strange sense of pride in seeing that immediately the betas all seem to fall in line at his order. The alpha nods, agree with a quiet, "Thank you," as he motions for the rest of the pack to either make their way inside the house, or get out altogether. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd head up the steps, Scott dragging his heels behind them, looking glum and not a little put-out by the whole thing.
Jackson feints like he's going to head back for his car, but Lydia hisses and yanks him towards the doorway, flashing an entirely-too-pleased-with-herself grin in Stiles's direction before shutting the door behind them with a loud, clamoring sound.
Peter makes no motions to move, and Derek glares at him.
The older wolf has the audacity to look scandalized, scoffing, "Hey, I'm the one with valuable information here. I can help you out, surly nephew of mine."
"Just go inside. Make sure they don't kill each other."
Peter grumbles something about babysitting being a job for the hired help, but Derek is no longer listening to him.
/
The werewolf stands awkwardly across from the boy, hyper aware of every movement Stiles makes—every flicker of uncertainty that plays across the boy's delicate features, his cheekbones carved into an expression of clear distaste.
"I didn't know this would happen," Derek says quietly, and it's the truth. Honestly, he knows about as much as Stiles does when it comes to the more...sensitive topics concerning werewolf lore. It would have fallen to his parents to tell him about that, and Derek hadn't exactly been at the age where it was pertinent, and by the time he was, it was already far too late.
And Stiles, his eyes are blazing, and he looks completely lost, so confused, because he is, because of course he doesn't understand. He's human, for Christ's sake. "This? You mean us? You mean the fucking fact that I felt you—you made me breathe again, I was going to pass out, I always do—I wasn't in control of my own lungs."
"Don't be childish," Derek grits out, taking in Stiles's defensive posturing, the way his mouth is set in a hard pout, the way he's staring at Derek like it's all his fault (even though, the wolf supposes, it sort of is). But he didn't choose this, any more than if he woken up one morning and decided, 'hey I think I'll pick a teenager for a mate, that'll probably be a good idea, nothing to weird can come of that…'
Yeah, fat chance.
And it isn't like Derek did some kind of ritual, said some magic words, it all just…sort of happened.
"This—whatever we are, I didn't know that my-that being with you, would do that—link us, whatever this is, whatever that was," and he looks right at Stiles, his own nails digging painfully into his thighs because he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands, and he can't decide if the prickles of irritation he feels are his own, or if they're Stiles's feelings and it's incredibly awkward and unsettling and kind of horrible.
But also kind of not, if he doesn't think about it too hard, because for once in his life, Derek doesn't feel quite so alone with himself.
Judging from Stiles's anger, from the feelings of terror and revulsion he's doing such a poor job of hiding, he doesn't feel the same way.
It makes Derek feel sick, with himself, with what he's done.
"Listen, I take it all back then, is that what you want to hear? Get out, go home, you don't want to be here, you don't want this, so I take it all back," he says fiercely.
"I 'release' you, 'unchoose' you, fine. And if that doesn't work, we'll get someone to fix it. You won't have to be stuck with me a minute longer than you have to be."
"That's not how it works," Says Stiles, shaking his head, his feet tapping restlessly in the dirt. "That's not what this is—this is magic. This is old. Sacred You're like the worst werewolf ever, I swear to god."
Derek knows just as well as Stiles that standing here sniping at each other isn't helping, of course it isn't, but they're both so irritated and frustrated (not just by each other, but by all of it) that talking rationally has sort of gone out the window. And, yeah, Derek doesn't really know anything about any of this, and the fact that Stiles rubs it in his face like doesn't make the fact any easier for him to swallow.
It's pretty much something that's become unbearably clear to him—that he's pretty much the worst, most unqualified alpha on the planet and this whole mess isn't stacking any points up in his favor.
Not to mention that the way that Stiles looks at him like that, it's exactly the way Laura used to whenever she was annoyed with him, and it makes him ache in all the worst places because even Derek's not so much of a self-flagellator that he blames himself entirely for not knowing what this means, how to undo it, what blood bonds like this even entail.
Because not even Laura got a chance to—before.
And Stiles won't stop feeling the marks on his neck, won't stop rubbing at them, which is exasperating in the fiercest of ways if only because it reminds Derek that despite how frustrated and unhappy with the situation he is at this moment, he still wants Stiles. And every touch reminds him of that, takes him right back into the seconds where Stiles was writhing underneath him.
"Stop that," Derek grumbles, grabbing Stiles's wrist like one might a child who's been caught touching something he's been explicitly warned not to.
"Let go of me," is all Stiles says, soft, hollow.
"Let go of me."
The words echo in Derek's ears like the most chilling of sounds , and he recoils immediately, grip loosening on Stiles's wrist like he's been cut with a blade. Which, Derek thinks, that's sort of what it feels like, a hot, stinging edge of a knife, like the pricks of the alpha packs' claws in his side. He feels gutted.
He looks away to settle himself, to throw up the mask he was sure he wouldn't need with Stiles, though he supposes he was all wrong about that, in every possible way, he was wrong about that. The blood in his veins feels frozen, and his gaze is steeled and impassive when he turns back, letting it fall on the Stiles's face again. He finds he doesn't quite know what to say, staring into the wide, frightened eyes of this boy.
"Go see Deaton, find out how to sever the bond," Derek says finally, and his words are quiet, like every one pains him because it does. It hurts more than any wound he's ever endured. Inside, his wolf howls in protest, thrashing and beating against the walls of his skin until Derek thinks he'll go mad from it.
"I won't touch you again."
/
Peter steps into the clearing when the sun is just beginning to set, smudges of yellow and brassy orange mixed with shadow, and it's all very Hitchcockian, he thinks, very spooky-scary, as the wind whistles through the bare branches of winter-dead trees.
Really, it was getting all B-horror movie up in this bitch.
"Here, alpha-pack, here boys!" Peter whistles theatrically, and he claps his hands for added effect, crossing his arms defiantly as two figures finally emerge—an older man, around Peter's own age (or appearing so, at least), and a young woman, their presence made known only by the sharp, crackling sounds of twigs snapping under their leather boots as they step toward him.
"We didn't think you'd actually show," the younger one says snottily. She's willow-thin, with long hair the color of dirty dishwater, and a scrunched face, with impish eyes and an upturned nose.
"Well, you know what I say—always keep my promises—no, I never say that, that's why I'm here," Peter says, grinning.
The older man's face remains blank and impassive. "Yes, I'd imagine so. Honesty is not usually a trait held by those willing to let their own family be slaughtered by another."
Blondie makes a disgusted noise, and Peter winks. "Well, us Hales like to put the "funk" in dysfunction, know what I mean?"
"So you wish to help us get our retribution?" says the man.
"If by that you mean I get to watch you tear my sniveling nephew limb from limb, then by all means, I say go for it boys. C'est la vie, bon chance, as they say in France."
The older man's eyes are a harvest-moon yellow, marked by deep, black pupils, and at that, he smiles complacently, revealing a mouthful of flashing white teeth. He has a scar, Peter notes, white and shiny with age, which pulls at the side of his mouth, giving him a permanently warped grin.
"As long as," Peter adds slyly. "I get what we discussed."
"Yes," murmurs the man, "Yes, I think that can be arranged."
/
Derek doesn't even watch Stiles go, just turns to head back into the house, leaving the others standing there huddled like sheep on the porch. Even Jackson doesn't sneer as Derek pushes past, ducking their attempts to comfort him, as this isn't something a few simple, reassuring touches can heal. Not when this cuts so much deeper than that.
In the days that follow, Derek never tells the wolves explicitly to leave him alone, to get out, but eventually, they start to keep their distance, if only to get a reprieve from the stifling gloom that's settled like dust in the air of the den. And this is fine with Derek, because though he is never outright cruel, hardly raises his voice to them, he is apathetic and listless, flinching away from their fruitless attempts to engage him. Eventually, they stop trying, even Isaac, who has taken instead to following Scott around like a second shadow.
The days become weeks, and the season starts to change again—he can smell it, the wind losing some of its bitter bite as spring approaches, and the ground thaws. Thankfully, this means most of his pack becomes busy with the demands of school, and Derek does not have to worry about them hanging around with Peter.
Most days it feels like he's going insane, with the knowledge that he isn't fully alone in his own head. Sometimes he is hit with strange rushes of anger, despair, that aren't his own, and he struggles to bury them in the back of his mind. He gets headaches, has an aching hollow feeling in his chest that never quite goes away.
Derek feels him like he thinks an amputee might feel a phantom limb—an empty space that throbs and itches, and no matter what he does, how much he howls and bites, the wolf can't get relief.
/
He only goes to Deaton once, after a week of sleepless nights, begging him to do something, anything, because the nights are the worst, when he can't shut anything out, and he tosses and turns, wakes up more exhausted and vacant than when he falls asleep.
But the vet does nothing, only shakes his head, tells him in soft, pitying tones that there's nothing to do, that to break a bond like this, the damage to their souls would be irreparable.
Derek leaves with the taste of mountain ash in his mouth, an aching hand where he punched clean through the drywall in Deaton's office.
/
After that, there is only one person to turn to, though it fills him with disgust, to go crawling to him, weak and helpless. But Peter does not seem surprised when Derek finally comes to him. Only gives him a watery smile, tells him, "Find an anchor, hold on to one thing, block everything else out. Let it consume you. It's the only way."
So Derek chooses anger. Lets it leech into his bones like black poison, until every inch of him is infected with a rage that he can't shake. Not at Stiles, not really, but at everything, at himself. He lets himself choke on it, swallowing it like black smoke. It feels it, toxic, oozing out of his every pore.
Instead of spending his nights lying in cold sweat, he drives, flying down the dusty back roads outside of town in the camaro, white-knuckling the gearshift, grinding the gas pedal down as he makes turns that would scare the shit out of even the most reckless of adrenaline junkies.
He stops at every seedy, shithole bar, tossing back drinks that he can't even feel, but relishing the burn as the liquor slides down his throat. Sometimes women approach him, sometimes men, their eyes dead and vacant, looking at him like he might be able to do something about it, but the idea of that, it's actually repulsive, makes him feel physically ill.
What he really wants is a fight, wants to feel bones crack under his knuckles, wants to smell the iron-bite of somebody else's blood, somebody he doesn't care about…
Someone he doesn't love.
But even in the most fucked up places, where the skinheads and the junkies hang around outside just waiting to mess someone up, nobody approaches him. Derek thinks it's probably something in his eyes, something so wild and animal that even their weak human instincts rise in response, whispering in their ears to stay away.
It's probably better that way.
/
When they come for him, he doesn't see it, blinded by so much that he doesn't even feel it, the panic of the pack as they are snatched, one by one, from their homes, from the school.
The dart hits him from behind, he thinks, jabbed deep into his spinal cord, paralyzing him like the kanima's venom. Right before he blacks out, loses consciousness, he's aware that his last thought is a sliver of hope that maybe he won't wake up at all.
But he does, and when he does, he knows. Derek is fully cognizant of where he is, his whole body recoiling from the unnatural, familiar chill of death and decay. Whatever they jabbed him with, it makes his muscles burn and his joints ache like he's been stung by a hundred bees. The floor is like ice under his cheek, and when he finally pulls himself upright, he feels the sharp, stabbing pains in his ribs, around his neck, and his wrists, where they've tied him up with silver chains and rope soaked in what feels like some kind of wolfsbane. The scent of his own skin being slow-roasted is nauseating.
He opens his eyes and there's another sight waiting that makes him want to retch, it's so vile, so utterly wrong, Stiles, kneeling at Peter's feet, tied up like a damned dog. Derek's still weak, dizzy, but he hisses, pained as he feels his teeth try to bite fruitlessly through the gag that's been stuffed in his mouth. He thrashes, tests his bonds, but he only succeeds in tiring himself out more, flopping around like a fish out-of-water, starved for oxygen.
And he thinks of his pack, how he smells them now, underneath the floorboards, waiting to be gutted like animals in a slaughterhouse.
"It's time for your debt to be paid," says a voice, low and serious. Three figures come out of the shadows, one he recognizes—the red-haired wolf he'd thought he'd killed the night that Stiles was taken, and what has to be the last remaining members of the alpha pack.
"Peter tells me that this human boy is your mate. Very odd, I think, an alpha mated to a human, they're so-breakable," the man murmurs, grabbing Stiles by the roots of his hair, yanking up to stare at the boy's throat where Derek's mark is still visible, but only just.
"But he's not really my concern," the alpha says, though he adds, like an afterthought, "Though, I wonder if the bond is the same for them. Lena here, for instance, knew the moment you killed her mate, that lovely brunette whose throat you ripped out—it's agony, I've heard. I wouldn't know."
The alpha steps closer to Derek now, the blonde following closely at his heels. With his claws extended, he lets one, razor sharp, dance over Derek's pulse, teasing.
"Let's find out."
Derek doesn't flinch under the needle-point prick of the alpha's claws, his eyes wide, staring right into the red-fire gaze of the man hovering over him. He cringes though, at Stiles's pleas, expecting the boy's cries to be followed by a crack across the face—which they are—the blonde backhanding the boy with the precision of a whip.
The man snarls, and she shrinks back with a whimper, her eyes downcast, submissive. So, Derek thinks, this man is The Alpha, with a capital A, which means deep shit for all of them. Peter mutters filthy, soothing words into Stiles's ear, stroking the swollen flesh of his cheek, and Derek roars, drowning in the sound.
"Your human begging for your life," the blonde spits, her breath hot and sour in his face, "it's pathetic."
The Alpha shrugs, and with no ceremonials, no more words, strikes quick and true, plunging claws into Derek's chest, dragging them down with a terrible ripping sound, cutting all the way into bone, sinews of muscle unwinding like string over Derek's chest. The gag is removed, and even Derek can't stay quiet—and it's a terrible shriek, blood-curdling, that falls out of his mouth, echoing lonely throughout the crumbling walls of the house; and his own blood fills his throat, thick and viscous, and he falls to the ground, twitching and sputtering.
And he's not dead, not yet, but he's dying, his chest heaving the way he's seen animals do—deer hit by passing cars, dogs struck by stray bullets.
He shuts his eyes, tries so hard to block what he can, so Stiles can't feel it, but he's so tired, his body vibrating with so much rage and panic.
What happens next, Derek sees through a hazy curtain of raw pain and lack of oxygen. His Stiles, his perfect, beautiful, crazy-stupid-brilliant boy throws himself down on the ground, spitting a mouthful of wereblood onto the floor. There's a hum, and a buzzing, crackling sound followed by the pungent scent of sulfur—and even the Alphas feel it, their hackles rising—magic.
"A witch," the blonde bitch snarls, though her words are cut off by the fact that she's suddenly body-slammed violently by a writhing, fast-moving blur, what ends up being Jackson, Isaac, and Erica. They pin her down—it takes all of them, working together, to contain the flailing—her limbs like concrete bolstered by brute alpha strength. Lydia comes up behind her, her incredibly human eyes glinting with mischief as she waits for Jackson to nod before pulling a silver blade out from a holster in her boot.
She plunges it straight into the alpha bitch's heart, and Derek's own leaps with what he thinks must be pride, hiding underneath layers of throbbing aches and blood loss.
Derek struggles in his bindings, especially as he sees Stiles cornered by Peter, who's more animal than human at this point (but then again, wasn't he always).
But Scott is there, muttering in his ear, his claws slicing through the ropes that still hold him. And he's gripping Derek's shoulder, and the others are suddenly around him, and they've all got a hand on Derek's exposed flesh, their own veins twisting like snakes as they absorb the brunt of his pain, as it's shared between all of them.
The Alpha lets out a sound, wounded, barbaric. But he's gone in a second, and Derek shakes his head, not wanting any of his pack to follow because he knows it like he knows his own name that they will never see his face again, not ever.
When Stiles hits the wall, every single wolf in the room goes still, their eyes flashing eerily, and the pack descends on Peter. They're ripping him apart, Derek sees, and he lets them, doesn't even think about revenge, about getting his share, because Stiles is lying crumpled in a heap, his leg bent at an unnatural angle.
"Scott," Derek whines, and the boy nods, gathering Stiles in his arms, assessing the extent of the damage. And when Scott looks up at him, eyes wild and desperate, face ashen and pale, Derek knows it's bad, as bad as it's ever been.
"Derek—it's so—you have to save him, he's—"
And Derek knows what that means, knows that saving him means bite him, make him like us. It's everything Derek knows Stiles doesn't want. It's everything Derek never wanted for him.
He's on his knees, his own wound still dripping blood, drops like a torrent of red wine across Stiles's pale skin and Derek is shaking his head because he can't.
And Scott is yelling, screaming in his ear, but he sounds so very far away.
Derek's not expecting what Stiles does next, but then again, that should be a new rule of thumb when it comes to the boy. The older wolf never knows what Stiles is going to do, because the human is constantly surprising him with his intelligence, his bravery, and now this-
His power.
When the boy's dull nails hook into Derek's flesh, he bristles, biting back the growl in his throat at the fresh stab of pain. But the boy's muttering words, and the alpha's eyes widen in recognition as runes from an ancient tongue skitter across his skin like spiders. It's not easy magic, not like healing a cut, or opening a lock—this is a trade.
Life for a life. And as sure as he knows anything, he knows that the Alpha is out there, out in the forest, slowly being drained of his life-force.
Derek holds on tight, pulling Stiles closer as he feels foreign energy draw through his veins, foreign blood pump through his heart, using his body like a conduit as life force flows like water between them. When Derek looks into his eyes, it's not the bright coffee-colored irises he's used to seeing, but pupils black and empty, far away because Stiles isn't there—he's reaching into a void that Derek, being what he is, can never follow him into.
"That's enough, Stiles," Derek hisses, feeling the last dregs of the Alpha's power slide through him, but Stiles doesn't stop, not immediately, his energy still now latched on to the next available source of the most power in the room—Derek.
"Stiles," Derek mutters, his palms coming up to cup Stiles's face "come on, come back, that's enough."
And Scott is yanking on his arm, like that's actually going to help, and Derek's vision is going all blurry again, though he notes that Stiles's color is returning, his body warm and pliant against him, so that's a plus.
The whole still dying thing, not so much.
Derek is shuddering and shaking as that energy pushes its way back inside him, so pure and raw and unfiltered, his own skin feels too small and tight to hold it all. Little slivers of energy pour out of him, his pores, his eyes, like rays of light bouncing off a prism, like cracks in a mirror. The red in his eyes blazes like fire, and he smiles, feeling no pain as the fragmented pieces of his ribs align back together, his spine straightens, the shallow cuts closing like the zippers on a coat.
"Holy shit," someone says behind him, Boyd, Derek thinks, as he stands, flexing his limbs testily. He feels good, better than good, like he spent all night running under the full moon, breathing in cold, clean air, positively drunk on it. And the bond he shares with Stiles, it doesn't tug at him in all directions like before; it's still there, just under the skin, but it feels as much a part of him as him own limbs, an arm, a leg, his own teeth.
When Stiles doesn't open his eyes, Isaac and Scott hover over him, concerned, but Derek knows that the boy is fine, the steady, healthy drumming of his heart is sturdy and strong.
They all look like extras in the worst kind of gore film, but they're all fine. It's sort of a miracle.
He tells Scott and Isaac to take Stiles to Deaton, to get themselves all cleaned up while he takes care of what's necessary.
/
Needless to say, it's a good thing that the Sherriff knows what he is now, because showing up at the Stilinksi home covered in the blood of many, many different people would totally be justification enough for the man to pull a gun on him and shoot without a second thought. Instead, he just goes shock white, gulping in air, while Derek quickly assures him that Stiles is totally fine, just resting—not a scratch on him (which is true, but sort of a half truth).
"So—you killed them," the Sherrif says quietly, later, as he follows Derek into the now completely ruined wreckage of the Hale house, examining the bodies (or what's left of them) with a nudge of his boot, "the ones that took him—the ones that—" and he motions to the blood on Derek's shirt, assuming there are injuries hidden underneath his clothes.
Derek considers lying, considers downplaying what's happened here, but Stiles's father deserves to know as much as Derek can actually tell him.
"Yes," he says quietly. "No one will ever touch him again."
And it's not just a statement, it's a promise, and he thinks Derek's father understands the weight behind his words because he's stock still, his shoulders relaxing visibly, and he's silent, though Derek is pretty sure he hears a mumbled, "Good."
And it's enough, for now.
/
Derek drives the remains a few miles outside of town, burying them in the middle of the forest, in a place where normal, human eyes cannot find them.
But in a way that serves as plenty a warning for the not-so-human things that may still be out there.
He should go back to the den, check on his pack, his family that tonight proved more capable, more unified than he ever imagined. He's brimming with pride, but there's a longing that needs to be filled, a need to comfort and protect.
The window to Stiles's room isn't locked, and he lifts it with nimble fingers, the muscles in his face going lax with relief when he sees Stiles, gleaming, not a trace of blood and gore on him, lying sprawled across his bed, fast asleep. Derek still hasn't cleaned up, still mostly covered in blood and dirt and sweat. He doesn't want to lie down, soil the perfect image in front of him.
The boy stirs, barely even conscious, eyelids heavy, dark lashes trembling, and Derek hears him, whispering so quiet, but so full of need. "I don't want you to go. Stay with me. Stay." And it's so dark in the room, that it's just Derek's eyes that flare like a camera flash, illuminating the room. He shakes his head, presses a finger to his lips so Stiles doesn't try to speak anymore, and moves closer, perching on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes, his shirt, so at least some parts of him aren't bloodstained and grimy when they finally touch Stiles's skin.
The werewolf thinks his heart feels a little like bursting when he sees Stiles reach for him involuntarily with these adorable little grabby-hands that, Derek knows, if the younger man were more conscious, more aware, he'd totally deny ever having.
He slides in close, wrapping himself around the boy with the full extension of his limbs, sighing happily with a soft exhale into Stiles's hair, as their bodies fit like keys in a lock. The buzzing under his skin quiets, finally, and the link between them feels heavy and solid—stronger than ever.
As he drifts of to sleep, Derek's thoughts are mostly shapeless, wordless, but there's a fleeting image of Hale manor, in all its glory, a veritable mausoleum, a scorched relic— but with it there is no accompanying twinges of guilt or pain. And he knows, without words, without any acknowledgement that he will never go there again.
He doesn't need to.
Derek sleeps clear through the night, barely stirring, though in the early hours of the morning he does hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Automatically, his hold on Stiles tightens, and the boy lets out a noise like maybe he's gripping him a little too hard, and Derek begrudgingly loosens his grasp. The door opens with a click, the hinges squealing a little, and the alpha's eyes glow red as he turns, laser-like focus on the sudden intruder.
But it's just Stiles's father, whose expression is blank, if not a little sad. There's a moment where Derek is certain he's going to say something, anything, dare him to do something-but the man only nods, almost imperceptible.
And Derek thinks, this is not the end; someday there will be a time and place to discuss this, but it isn't now.
The door shuts, and Stiles whimpers in his sleep, burrowing closer against Derek's chest, and he nuzzles against Stiles's cheek to quiet him.
/
It's actually Stiles who wakes Derek next, pulling away, mumbling into his pillow. Derek grumbles, rolling closer to close the gap between them.
But when he opens his eyes, he does cringe a little, noting the discernable layer of grit and dried blood cracking over his skin. Slipping out from between the blankets with a last lingering graze across Stiles's spine, he heads to the tiny bathroom attached to the bedroom, stepping out of his jeans and into the shower. It's nothing more than a quick, cursory rinse, his nose wrinkling at the idea of using the scented soaps perched on the tiles floor. Derek doesn't even bother to adjust the temperature of the spray, which is blistering hot as it beats across his tired muscles.
When he checks his reflection in the mirror, he notes, with a look of awe, that the scars he'd gotten from the alphas are gone, his skin new and unmarred, almost glowing.
Which makes him wonder.
He slips his jeans back on, hair still dripping as he climbs over Stiles, maneuvering him onto his back as he lifts the boy's shirt up.
And it's gone…
The alpha's mark. It's gone.
And Derek notes immediately how the boy's pallid flesh blushes pink under his hands, exhaling sharply when he feels the kittenish swipe of Stiles's tongue rough over his damp skin. He finishes taking inventory of the boy's skin—satisfied that every unwanted scratch on him is gone, wiped clean, a fresh slate. It's beautiful, Derek thinks, such a smooth, blank canvas, as he ignores the hunger in him that leaps like a catching fire at the idea of marking it all up again. The air around Stiles is already thick with arousal, pulsating and swirling—it's incredibly distracting. The alpha rolls his eyes, eyebrows raised as he ignores (against the pleas of the beast howling inside him) the twitch of interest in his cock as he gently presses Stiles away, holding him against the mattress with the heel of his palm.
Derek's not keeping him immobile, just away, because he doesn't want to—he can't just jump right back into this so easily. He wants to, of course he does, how can he not, with the warm, heavenly scented body soft and willing underneath him?
"You have to be sure," he says, because he doesn't think he can take it if Stiles pulls away again. He's all in, has been from the beginning, that he can't—
"I won't just give you up again."
Stiles scoffs and Derek doesn't even have to look him at him to know he's rolling his eyes. "Did I ask you to?" And at that, Stiles grabs Derek's wrist and pulls himself upward and suddenly Derek's blinded by molten gold. The wolf huffs, his hand come up to brace against the curve of Stiles's spine, ducking his head into the touch. Stiles's breath is warm, ticklish on the sensitive skin of his jaw. It gives him goosebumps, and he makes a noise, a happy one, because he is—happy, that is. Here, with Stiles near him, surrounding him. He feels safe here. Stiles is home to him.
"When did you get so good at making me say yes to you?" Derek grouses. A year ago, the werewolf was immovable, fiercely stubborn and unwavering in his need for control, and now all Stiles has to do look at him like that. With his stupidly wide eyes, the way he's moving, scent wild, all ozone, crisp leaves, the taste of mountain air on his tongue. Stiles smells like power, and Derek's like a junkie coming back for more.
And Derek knows he's in trouble.
Big trouble
"C'mere then," he says, despite the fact that they aren't alone in the house, despite all the questions still nagging in the back of Derek's mind.
They do deserve this, that can't be denied.
"I never left, silly Sourwolf," Stiles whispers with an easy grin, the boy's grip on his wrist becoming less of a hold, more searching, his delicate fingertips dancing, stark white, against Derek's bronzed flesh.
And of course, that's not what he means, but Stiles is past listening now, past any sort of reasonable, logical discussion. Derek knows by the way he reaches for him; by the way he arches into his chest, the way he boldly brands him with the wetness of his tongue and sweet, hot breath in the hollow of his ear.
So Derek gives him exactly what he wants, showing a flash of teeth before flipping them with a growl, feeling it deep like a lump in his chest, pinning Stiles to the bed by his wrists, eager to quiet that smart-ass perfect mouth with a few marked nips to his lips.
"You have to be quiet," he rumbles into the nape of Stiles's neck, even though he traces the words with his tongue in a way that doesn't really encourage the sentiment, "or your dad's going to come in here and shoot me."
From Stiles's bedroom, Derek can hear the muffled noise of the ancient t.v set, the high-frequency whine of the ray tubes that makes Derek's ears hurt if he listens too hard. But he can also hear Stiles's father's breathing, slow, even, like he's dozed off in front of it. And at that, he laughs, an easy, lighthearted sound because he'd never pictured this—in all the scenarios with Stiles that he's certainly spent enough time imagining—that they'd be making out like teenagers in high school, trying not to get caught.
"You saved me," Stiles says quietly, "he'd never shoot you."
The words are wrong, so Derek stills, head cocked in disbelief. "Stiles….you saved us all."
At that, Stiles flushes pink and shakes his head. "But, I wasn't supposed to...I shouldn't have...Deaton's going to be furious, and I almost killed you, .again. which is kind of a record, even for me, and I-,"
And Derek cuts him off with a harsh, scraping kiss, and a murmured, "Shut up, Stiles," against the boy's lips, and Stiles makes a noise that might have started out as a moan, but comes out more like a growl.
Stiles's little growl hits Derek low in his belly, and the heat that pools there makes him ache in all the best ways. He's tracking his mouth all over the boy, pulling at the fabric of his shirt, not caring a bit when he hears the threads stretch and rip under the force of his hands. And before, Derek had done all that he could to put this behind him, to not think of this when they had been apart, to settle with the fact that he'd never get another chance to touch, to taste, feel.
But he was wrong, and he's not taking anything for granted. Not anymore.
This time he doesn't worry so much about being too rough, about holding him too tightly because he's seen firsthand now, the strength in every sinew of Stiles's muscles, the power he keeps hidden under all that awkward grace.
This time he traces every mole and freckle like he's committing them to memory, writing them down with teeth and tongue and fingertips, a map made of flesh and bone, just for him.
And yeah, Derek's not going to deny that he loves this, loves the way Stiles arcs under the rough pads of his fingers, the way he goes soft and pliant beneath the sturdy cage of Derek's weight. The boy is still so warm, eyes drowsy, half-lidded and heavy from sleep, and with the sun streaming in, blazing, from the windows, Derek can see all of him, every dusty freckle, and every perfect flush in high definition—in Technicolor.
Okay, yeah, and if Derek admitted to ever making a sound so—cuddly and unthreatening as a purr, it would be now, as Stiles cards his fingers through the strands of his hair, pulling just enough for the werewolf's hips to buck reflexively as they seek out familiar friction, the familiar shocks of pleasure, like sense memory, like remembering a dream.
He goes willingly, happily, letting Stiles ravage his mouth, groaning as he tastes the copper bite of his own blood, spilled out of pure recklessness, out of Stiles's eagerness to taste him. And if their story must still be written in blood, Derek hopes they can carve a new one, and that the ink comes from moments like this, from passion and lust and desire, and not the same pain and death and tears that have been haunting them for months.
He rids them of the rest of their clothes with frantic pulls, babbling pleas into Stiles's mouth, the only sounds in the room the slight rustle of blankets and fabric, Stiles's heavy, labored breathing, because Derek wants skin on skin everywhere, needs it after too many nights of longing, of lying awake restless and bitter and angry, always so angry.
With Stiles laid bare, as pale and ghost-white as the sheets on the bed, Derek sits back on his heels, eyes following the fullness of his hips, the curves of his thighs, the marked planes of his chest and remembers what he's heard about scorched earth.
That in there can be no hope, because nothing grows from ground that's been choked and gutted with ash.
But when Derek looks at the boy, the newness of him, he thinks what he's heard must be wrong.
"I had sisters besides Laura," he says suddenly, talking just to talk, though he doesn't know why—because pillow talk isn't exactly a thing he's ever had a proclivity for. But maybe he wants to share more with Stiles than just flesh, more than blood, he isn't sure, but the words spill out anyway. "Twins…just as human as you," the words he punctuates with presses of lips into skin.
"Scared me to death, when I was younger, because I couldn't feel them like I could everyone else, like weres. Used to sit in their room at night when they were little, check that they were still breathing, that they were safe."
"I like that I can feel you," is all he says before falling silent again, watching the sun go down from a peek of glass through Stiles's curtains. It's not 'I love you,' but it's enough for now.
But Stiles won't stop staring at him, but not like other people did, like they do, whenever he goes anywhere, just the man with the dead family, but Stiles, he never looks at him with pity in his eyes. It's something else entirely, that makes Derek shiver.
And he couldn't tell you quite how it happens: Stiles's arms are surround him, caging him in, but Derek notes surprisingly that he doesn't fight it, doesn't feel trapped. His cheek rests against the boy's and there's wetness there.
"Why are you crying?"
"Oh, my sourwolf," Stiles sigh against him, "I'm not crying. " And Derek feels a kiss pressed reverently against his eyelids, and he knows, knows the truth in that moment. There's a touch, gentle and reverent, and it's Stiles, holding his face in his hands.
"I'm not crying," Stiles says again," but you are."
That lingering touch on his chin, it's the last thing he feels before sleep claims him. From the moment he closes his eyes, he dreams, sinks into the images like he's falling into water. Some of them he recognizes, because some of them…are him. He's watching himself, standing over Laura's body—her wolf body—and he remembers that night, when he found them wandering around his property, how they'd –
And then it's gone
And he's watching himself sink to the bottom of pool, his lungs filling with water, limbs paralyzed from Jackson's venom as he's screaming for air but he can't make any noise, and then someone's lifting his head above water and he takes that breath like a victory.
But that's gone too, and then he's nowhere he recognizes, seeing things that aren't his to see, that don't belong to him.
A boy, small and pale, with his face buried into the folds of his father's overcoat, fast asleep.
A woman in a rocking chair, singing a song softly, under her breath, beautiful, happy.
Another little boy with eyes too big for his face, too much hair, dark and hanging into his eyes, laughing and smiling a crooked smile.
/
Derek wakes up with a gasp, still pressed into Stiles's side. He's knows what everything he saw belongs to Stiles, were the boy's memories bleeding through his skin, into Derek's. It's still dark outside, probably still the middle of the night Derek thinks, and he knows that he should leave, even though he doesn't want to—that he's stayed too long wrapped up in the boy, ignored his other duties, his pack.
He gets up, dresses quickly, pausing by the boy's bedside to nuzzle into his forehead.
He hopes that Stiles never sees into his memories like that. Because there's nothing good in them. Nothing worth being remembered.