Title: Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)
Author: ANTchan
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Genre: E/Romance/Mystery
Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Summary: Deputy Stiles Stilinski is fascinated with Beacon Hills' serial killer cold case of 2011, to the point of obsession. He's going to solve it if it kills him. It's that last bit that lands him on mandatory health leave. It's his own bad decision-making that puts him in the middle of the woods at night. Going off the path to help a wolf caught in a hunter's snare? That one he's not sure about.

An AU where Scott was never bitten, Derek never followed Laura to Beacon Hills, and Peter was never caught.

This chapter includes a Danny/Stiles sex scene. Take that as you will.


Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)

Chapter 4: I don't know where I'm going (but I don't think I'm coming home)


-1-

He must pass out at some point, because the next thing Stiles is aware of is sunlight pouring through the window and Kira and Scott pounding on his door. He's ready to scowl at them as soon as he answers, but the first thing he sees is Scott standing in the hallway, donning a white crop top with a caricature of a nutella jar (of all things) on it and high-waisted, floral-patterned shorts. He's got a similarly patterned red headband holding his bangs back today. And wearing a hopeful expression.

'Don't fuck this up by being a sleep-deprived douche, Stiles. Don't do it.'

"Lookin' great, Scotty!" he manages to say instead. His voice is rough and he can barely keep his eyes open, but he manages an appropriate amount of enthusiasm.

Scott beams. No matter how grouchy and exhausted he feels, it's worth it for that. Stiles does a mental fist pump of victory. "Really? You think it looks okay?" Scott gushes, tugging at the cuffs of his shorts.

"You look pretty as fuck, bro." Stiles smothers a yawn, disguising it as best he can by looking Scott over. "Not feeling like make-up today?"

"Nah. We were thinking of heading down to the lake today. It'd just smudge off."

Oh. Great. They're both too cheerful to be decent as they usher him down the stairs, and they chatter at him about their plans for the lake the entire way down. It should sound fun, but today Stiles has had too little sleep and too much emotional trauma to be even the slightest bit enthusiastic about it.

Danny, Lydia, and Jackson are waiting for them when they reach the kitchen. Jackson's head pops up as they enter, but his eyes land on Scott and whatever's about to spew out of his mouth gets lost. Instead he stands there gaping at Scott, until his friend tenses and slowly turns in Jackson's direction. Stiles clenches his hands on the back of his chair, patience on a hair-trigger already.

Stiles isn't sure if it's him Jackson sees glaring or Lydia. Either way, he jolts, clears this throat, and mutters without any heat in his voice, "Nice outfit, McCall."

Scott, like the rest of them, doesn't know what to do with the compliment, even if it's a reticent one. But the potential disaster has passed without blowing up in their faces. Scott even seems pleased to hear it, if confused.

Breakfast goes pretty smoothly after that, as far as Stiles can tell. He's not sure he could even be considered among the living yet. Stiles is only just starting to resurrect himself via coffee and breakfast when he decides to speak up. "I'm gonna just chill here today."

Lydia gives him a stare that could shatter glass. "You're what." Each word is clipped and without inflection. She doesn't even wait for him to answer. "No, you're not. You're going with us. And you're going to have a great time." She's using the tone that brooks no argument – the one that she uses to win disputes with people twice her size, age, and (supposed) authority. It's the (as Stiles likes to refer to it) Lydia Martin Is Queen tone of voice.

Luckily for Stiles, he's both used to that tone and far too exhausted to care. "No. What I'm doing is staying here and pretending last night didn't happen."

From breakfast bar, Jackson scoffs. "So you got drunk and imagined you saw some weird shit. Boohoo."

"I was NOT drunk, Jackass. I wasn't even drunk when I left here!"

"So then you had a break from reality. Not like that hasn't happened-"

Stiles slams his hand onto the table, not caring if it makes most of them jump. "If you finish that sentence," he says heatedly, "I will jump over this table and beat you with that barstool, I swear to god. You of all people should know why that isn't fucking funny."

Jackson goes blissfully, deliciously silent, averting his eyes and looking especially guilty when Danny nudges him with his foot. The room is quiet for a few minutes, just long enough for Stiles to begin to fidget. He refuses to be the one to break it, however. It's Kira, in the end, who does, leaning onto the table on her elbows and peering at him with large, hesitant eyes. "What did you see last night?"

She's the first one to actually ask him that. And Stiles finds the words welling up and spilling from his mouth before he can even consider why he shouldn't. He knows exactly how crazy he sounds. Exactly how impossible what he's seen is. But it ate away at him all night, until he felt like screaming. The sensation is only worse now in the light of day, when last night's terror seems all the more fantastical. So he talks. And rants. And rambles off on tangents like it's his job.

He's halfway through his encounter with the animal in the valley when Lydia stands up, her face startlingly pale before she turns with an irritated flip of her hair. "I've heard enough," she says with an air of boredom. "I'm going to go get ready for the lake. Jackson, come on."

Jackson scurries, actually scurries across the room towards her, eyes dark and face pale. Scott opens his mouth to ask, but quickly shuts it again when Danny shakes his head, expression grim. They listen for a moment as the pair tromp up the stairs, until their footsteps fade on the third floor stairway.

"We didn't see anything weird while we were in the woods last night," Scott tells him, his voice quiet.

'Good,' Stiles wants to say. The terror was enough, but the thought of it being out there with his friends isn't something Stiles can handle.

"There wasn't any sign of a… wolf either," Kira adds. She winces, as if she feels guilty even saying it.

"I know that was real." Stiles presses his thumbs against his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure building there. "Not an actual wolf, maybe. It was way too accustomed to people to be one. And there haven't been any wild wolves in California for like… decades. It was probably somebody's wolfdog that got loose."

"Probably," Scott agrees. He reaches over to grip Stiles' shoulder. "Rest for a bit. And then, if you're feeling better, come out to the lake? We'll be there all day."

"Sure. Yeah. I'm gonna just… have fun, guys." He makes his escape as hastily as he can without making it obvious, swaying as he deposits his dishes in the sink and makes a break for the stairs. He takes them two at a time, a dangerous idea for him even when he's at his best. So it's no surprise when he stumbles at the last one, catching himself on the railing and half swinging around it. He looks up just in time to see Jackson and Lydia leaning against the wall opposite the third floor stairs. They're huddled together, heads bent close and expressions pinched.

"It's not real," Lydia mutters. Her arms are crossed protectively over her chest, knuckles white.

"I know! But I'm not the one who got a look at it, Lydia. You did. Just because Stilinski freaked out and thought he-" And that's when Jackson notices Stiles standing on the landing below. His expression immediately closes off, and for a second Stiles is taken back to those good old high school days when he was convinced Jackson was nothing more than a rich douchebag.

He's still a moderately rich douchebag. But now he knows there's layers involved. It softens the distaste.

"Uh. Hey." He tries not to cringe at the pathetic attempt. "You... okay?" And it only gets worse.

Lydia answers a little too quickly. "Fine." She pulls Jackson away by the hand, and out of his sight. She doesn't even try to cover up the lie.

Disheartened, Stiles stumbles back to his room, kicks the door closed, and collapses into bed. He doesn't sleep for long, or very well. He keeps seeing red eyes and open jaws full of fangs every time he starts to drift off. Stiles drifts in and out of sleep, never long enough to get any decent rest. So it's a relief when there's a knock on his door.

"M'comin', hold on." Stiles oozes out of bed like something from the primordial soup. He sort of feels like it too. At least he only manages to trip on one or two things before getting to the door. "Ow! Shit. What is it- oh. Uh. Hey, Danny."

Danny's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest in the perfect way to accentuate his biceps and his smile easygoing. "Hey. The others just left."

"They just… and you didn't go?"

If anything, Danny's smile sharpens. "Nah. I volunteered to babysit. Someone's got to look after you."

"Right, because I so need a- wait." He's halfway into starting an annoyed diatribe when the thought hits him. Stiles takes in the other man's posture - his almost catlike smile and easy, attractive sprawl of his body. His throat immediately goes dry. "Oh. You- really? Do you want to- because hell yeah we can totally do that."

He has to stop because Danny leans right into his space, his eyes full of promise. "What you're going to do, is go shower… and then come meet me in my room. Okay?" Danny doesn't wait for him to form an answer, just dips his head to close the distance, slotting their mouths together for a brief, exhilarating instant. And then he gives Stiles a seductive little smile before striding back down the hall towards his room. Stiles watches him go, lips still parted and tingling. It's not until Danny disappears from sight that he explodes into movement, sprinting full pelt for the bathroom.

It's the quickest shower he's taken in his life.

He emerges after - clean, shaved, half-hard, and still damp - holding the towel around his hips as he races back down to the other end of the hall. He skids to a stop in the open doorway, only to find Danny sitting on the bed, waiting for him.

"Hey there." Danny stands with fluid grace, bedroom eyes already turning Stiles' insides into molten fire and oh god, fuck yes, he's on board for this. The moment Danny is within arm's reach, Stiles catches a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in, too excited for slow and teasing kisses and skipping right to burning and slick. Danny hums against his mouth, pleased rather than annoyed, carding a hand through his still-wet hair. "Stiles, did you even dry off?" His laugh is breathy, sending an electric thrill down Stiles' spine.

"Enough. You think I could wait for this?"

"Obviously not. I don't know if I should be flattered or if you're just desperate."

"Both?" Stiles breathes, darting forward to nip at his lower lip. "Definitely a bit of both." His voice hitches in want, and it would be embarrassing if it didn't put that smile onto Danny's face. The one that's knowing and sensual and far too sexy.

His eyes go wide as Danny slides to his knees without preamble. The towel is plucked from his hand and tossed carelessly aside. Strong, sure hands smooth up his thighs, making a beeline for his cock and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Danny's shameless in taking him in hand, stroking him in sure, deft motions to full hardness. He glances up at Stiles, smile soft as he takes in his bitten-red lips.

"You play with yourself in the shower?"

"Maybe a little," Stiles says, placing a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. "How d'you expect me not to when you're waiting here?"

"Mmhm," Danny hums in acceptance, almost purrs, really. And then Stiles' knees do go a little weak because he brushes a hand over sac and back over his perineum, just teasing with his fingertips until they press against his hole. The pads of his fingers just barely tug against his rim. "Here too? You didn't have too much fun without me, did you?"

"Never," Stiles says. "Can you blame me for getting excited?"

"Desperate," Danny coos up at him.

"Yes, yes, desperate. You want to hear me beg, Danny? Because I will. When have you ever known me to have shame?"

He laughs, and Stiles is just about to start begging - loudly and theatrically - when Danny looks up at him through lowered lashes. "You don't need to do that. This time." He doesn't get a chance to come up with a snappy comeback for that, because Danny lowers his head and kisses just under the head of his dick. It comes out as a vicious curse instead, his body sagging against the doorframe.

"Mm, I love your dick," Danny hums, dragging his tongue along the ridge of the head.

"Size queen," Stiles retorts, but there's no hiding the fondness in his voice. How can he with that kind of ego boost?

Danny sits back enough to arch a brow at him, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Size queen? You're not that big," he teases.

Stiles gasps in mock outrage.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Have I offended you?" Danny huffs, dipping in for one brain-melting pull of soft, wet lips and gentle suction around him. "Lemme make it up to you." He lowers his head, gazing up at him through his lashes.

From there suction and wet heat is all Stiles can focus on. All he can look at is the stretch of Danny's lips around him, slick and obscene. Danny knows exactly what he's doing, bobbing his head in shallow little movements to match his stroking hand. He knows exactly what tricks make Stiles legs buckle and shake; exactly how to flick his tongue along the underside of his cock and how to twist his hand until Stiles can't form a coherent thought.

"God, you are such a fucking tease. What are you even doing-" Stiles isn't even conscious of what he's saying. Doesn't care. Especially not when Danny draws back, lips red, puffy and slick, and smirks before twisting the tip of his tongue against his slit. His hands fly to Danny's broad shoulders for balance. He can feel them shaking under his hands. Feel Danny's laugh vibrating against his cock. "Don't- shit! Don't you laugh at me, jerk. You try staying standing while getting your dick sucked."

"Maybe later." Stiles keeps his hands on Danny's shoulders as he climbs to his feet, drags him in because he can't be expected to resist kissing those reddened lips and nibbling on them to make them even puffier. And Danny lets him; lets his mouth go slack and Stiles take control of the kiss so he can focus on walking them back towards the bed.

The kiss is suddenly broken with a shove, and Stiles goes tumbling face first onto the bed. "Ohhh~ Mister Mahealani, be gentle with me~!" He shrieks with laughter at the playful swat on the thigh that gets him.

"Dork. Scoot up and lie on your back. Get comfy."

Stiles chirps out a teasing, "Yessir!" and scurries to obey. He tucks a hand behind his head after wriggling comfortably into the pillows, idly caressing the other down his stomach and over the base of his cock. He watches as Danny starts stripping off his clothes, grinning at the extra roll of his hips or arch of his spine that he puts into it.

"Noo," he pleads as Danny is kicking his jeans off his feet. "Go slower. Sexier."

"Do you want a strip tease, or do you want me to ride your dick?"

"What kind of ultimatum is that?" he says. Stiles pats frantically at the quilt. "Get up here, you cruel man."

Danny tosses a condom and a bottle of lube onto the bed before climbing up. He straddles Stiles' hips, but Stiles beats him in reaching for the lube. Danny's brows arch in silent question.

"I wanna do it," Stiles says quickly, his voice coming out raspy with desire. "I want to watch you ride my fingers for a bit." That earns him a smile, and Danny obligingly lifts up so Stiles can get a hand under him to run slick fingers between his legs. He takes a moment to enjoy the fluttering pleasure in Danny's face as he rubs at his entrance, waiting until the muscles give to push inside. Danny barely waits for him to still, let alone get two fingers in him.

The sight of Danny rocking above him, eyes drifted closed and mouth slack, makes up for this entire disaster of a vacation. He's not even inside him yet and it already makes up for it. Danny could just get off riding his fingers and Stiles would be pretty satisfied with the show.

Not that he isn't looking forward to Danny riding him through the mattress. Because that is a thing that's happening. And it's going to be amazing. Somehow Stiles manages to keep his excitement in check, not hurrying Danny along as he presses his fingers into the movements of his hips, opening him up and crooking his fingers just enough for Danny to shudder above him.

Soon Danny is lifting off him, swatting his hand away and sliding down from his hips, face pink with pleasure. Any question Stiles would've asked is smothered by quick, fervent kisses, but he still hums out an inquisitive "Mmm?" against Danny's mouth. The other man only chuckles at him. The ripping of foil answers for him anyway.

Stiles isn't much help, his flailing hands ineffective as Danny rolls the condom down his length. The most he actually does is hold the lube for him and attempt, attentively, to make sure that Danny is relaxed and slick and ready to go.

And then Danny is straddling him again, guiding himself down onto his dick and everything is gripping heat. Stiles forgets to breathe for a few moments as Dany sinks down. His breath comes back in a gasp just as Danny's mouth drops open in a soundless moan. He's actually struck speechless, and Stiles is glad Danny is more than a little preoccupied or he'd never let Stiles live that down.

"Fuck, I love you," Stiles manages to hiss all in one breath.

Danny's eyes flicker down to him, a coy smile tugging at his lips. And fuck, Stiles is so glad they made it past that point in their friendship where the phrase would cause Danny to freak out. He can say it now without worrying what it would do to them, with both of them comfortable with the fact that you can love someone and not be in love with them.

"I know," Danny replies slyly.

And that should not turn him on like it does. Being Han Solo'd should not turn him on like that. "You're ridin' my dick and quoting Star Wars at me. Marry me, you gorgeous bastard."

"I'm amazing, I know."

"Damn straight you are."

"And I…" He leans down, grinding his hips in a slow roll that knocks the breath from Stiles' lungs all over again. "...am going to take such good care of you." He grabs Stiles' spasming hands and brings them to his hips, holding them there as he begins rocking in an easy, deep rhythm. "Say 'thank you, Danny.'"

"Tha- Thank you - fucking hell."

"Good enough," Danny laughs softly.

It's slow to start, deceptively so. But Danny's so tight around him, clenching just right as he grinds on him. It's not for a few minutes more that he actually starts to lift up, just a little, just enough. Just an easy rise and fall, letting his head tip back and expose the long line of his throat. It's unhurried in its pace. They have plenty of time to enjoy it. And it's the perfect pace to watch Danny moving above him, taking in the slow, torturous undulation of his hips, the bunching of thigh and abdominal muscles with each movement. The parting of his lips around each quiet gasp or the clenching of his hands around Stiles', holding them to his hips, it does as much to him as the act itself.

"You're gorgeous," he whispers.

"Yeah?" Danny's voice comes out soft and breathy. His eyes are fond and this, this is just what Stiles needs. He doesn't mind the sex where it's all nipping teeth and pent up frustration. Where Danny resists and resists until his annoyance causes the dam to break. That's its own kind of treat, its own game. But this is teasing and light and caring.

For the first time in days, Stiles feels like he can breathe. Each quick gasp comes out on a moan, the realization leaving him shaking and arching as the pleasure spikes.

And that seems to be what Danny's waiting for. The other man leans forward, pressing his hands into the sheets on either side of Stiles' head. "You ready?" he asks sweetly, too sweetly.

Oh, Stiles is in for it. "Fuck yes. Do it." his hands slide back to grip Danny's ass, dragging him down on his cock. "Give it to me."

He means it to be a challenge, throwing an extra buck of his hips to spur Danny on. He watches the pleasure flit across Danny's face, his eyes widening and face going slack, before he comes back to himself and glares down at him.

And then he's shifting his stance, lifting himself up and letting gravity take care of the work for a few thrusts, leaving both of them gasping. From there, it's all Stiles can do to hold on. His nails dig into the backs of Danny's thighs, his sharp moans sounding distant to his own ears, as Danny rides him with reckless abandon.

Stiles bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. It's the only thing he can do to keep from coming too soon. There's nothing teasing or even skillful about the frantic rock of Danny's hips. It's just a punishing race to the top and it's going to be over soon enough already without Stiles losing it right there.

Danny goes until he starts to tire, a disappointed whine slipping past his lips when he can't keep up the gruelling rhythm. His legs shake under Stiles' hands, straining for more. "I've got you," Stiles rasps quickly. He grabs Danny's wrist, pushing it up the bed towards the headboard. "Brace up there. Come on, 've got ya."

"Fuck, Stiles…"

"Gonna take care of you, too." He lets Danny steady himself gripping the headboard, and nudges Danny's hips higher. Once he gets his feet under him, it's so, so easy for Stiles to piston his hips up into him, to pick up the pace where Danny left off. And Danny's hitched cry is all the encouragement he needs. "Not gonna-" Stiles can't even finish the thought, hips snapping hard as the pleasure spikes hot in his belly. The rest of his words come out all in one breath. "Fuck, m'gonna come soon. Want you to come for me. Danny - Danny, want to make you come."

Above him, Danny curses, eyes dark and hot. "Gonna fuck me 'til I come on you?"

"Yes!" His arching body changes the angle of his next thrust, and Danny shouts. "Yeah. Yeah. Gotcha. Come on me, sweetheart." Stiles has no idea what he's saying anymore, just lets his mouth run with it. Danny seems to like it, anyway. His hand beats Danny's down to his dick, fingers curling around him in an almost too-tight grip and stroking him fast. He has just enough thought to slick his palm in the precome dripping steadily from the slit. Danny's so close, so close that Stiles can feel it around him.

Danny's starting to sink lower, low enough for Stiles to lean up and bite at his chest and collarbone. His gasps and cries get higher and louder every time his hips buck down to meet Stiles' thrusts. And then the tension snaps, Danny going still and trembling and spilling over Stiles' belly and that's all he can take. He drags Danny down by any part of him he can reach, his mouth colliding with Danny's chin rather than his lips but fuck if he cares at this point. He just holds on for dear life and fucks up into him until his own orgasm comes crashing down on him. His vision goes grey around the edges and even his toes tingle and it's fucking great.

And maybe it's a little hot once the initial crest of orgasm dies down, and maybe he can't breathe too well with their faces mashed together and sharing clumsy, trembling kisses. But fuck, he wouldn't trade it.

After a few moments, Danny rolls off of him, groaning as he lifts off Stiles' dick. He collapses onto the bed beside him, and as soon as Stiles' sex-numb hands get the condom off, tie it shut, and toss it towards the trash, he's right there with him. For a while, they just lie close, trying to catch their breath.

"Do you think… do you think I saw something?" he asks after a while.

Danny, wonderful man that he is, doesn't even pretend to not know what he's asking. "I think you saw something. Not sure what it was. Could've been a bear, maybe?"

"I guess." Stiles muffles his sigh into the pillow. Logic, while he loves it, isn't even close to satisfactory right now.

"Hey." Danny scoots closer, fingertips trailing up Stiles' arm. "The forest is weird at night."

"Weird enough to make you see giant red-eyed monsters?"

"Well… weird enough to make you think that's what you're looking at. Or hey. Maybe you found the next Bigfoot hotspot." Stiles shoves him. But it only makes him laugh.

"Jerk."

Danny's expression softens, making Stiles stomach do a dizzying little backflip. "You feel better, though?"

He does, miraculously. The steel grip around his chest has eased just enough. "Yeah..."

"That's great." Danny is too ridiculously sweet for words, with that genuine relief in his voice. And to make matters even worse, he leans over and brushes a kiss to Stiles' temple. "I'll set an alarm. Get some rest, and then we'll go meet everyone at the lake?"

"I guess... can I push Jackson in for being a douche?"

"If we do it together, he won't be too pissed at you."

Stiles fist pumps. "Yesssss."


-2-

The vacation, after that, is great. The lake is beautiful and cool, and Stiles has an awesome time. Hanging out on the lakeside relaxes them, the tension from the last 24 hours easing. It's almost like a proper vacation. He works out his frustrations in an impromptu lacrosse game. It's all laughter and banter.

Stiles still dreams of red eyes and the dark, encroaching forest that night, but he doesn't wake up nearing a panic attack. Danny must hear his restless pacing anyway, because he slips into the room within a few minutes and takes him to bed. Stiles can only be grateful, especially when Danny smothers his exhausted rambling with his mouth and shoves a hand down his boxers. There's no teasing about it, just the demanding pull of his hand and the delicious friction that makes his toes curl, until his rambling turns to sharp whines of pleasure. After, he shoves Danny gracelessly onto his back and slides down the bed to swallow as much of him down as he can take, until Danny tugs roughly at his hair and makes reedy moans as he comes.

After that, Stiles sleeps dreamlessly.

The next night Lydia and Kira convince Scott to put on darker make-up than the gloss and faint eyeliner than he usually braves wearing. Stiles, Jackson, and Danny get lured in, in a matter of minutes, and soon they've all had their makeovers and spend the evening taking selfies with each other looking gorgeous and Stiles falls asleep in the den with his makeup still on. It's a horrible mess in the morning, and there's pictures on Kira's phone to prove it.

He doesn't see even a glimpse of either the strange creature or the wolf for the rest of his time at the cabin. But the strip of wire is still in his room – now stowed safely inside a plastic bag just in case it is poisonous. And the hemp rope is still buried just at the boundary of the yard. He follows the line of it on a day when he's left relatively to himself – follows it almost clear around the property line. He wants to cut a piece of it loose too, to take it home and examine it. But some instinct tells him that isn't a good idea, for whatever reason, and he decides against it.

"Where did you guys find this place?" he asks at dinner that night.

"My mother likes these campgrounds," Kira chirps back. "She came out here a lot before she moved to New York before I was born. I've always wanted to visit."

On Monday morning they pack up the cars and leave. Danny, gracious and sweet, lets Stiles ride with him.

The road head fails spectacularly. But it's fun anyway.

Danny drops him off at his ramshackle old building, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Home, sweet, slightly dilapidated home. He hefts his duffle bag over his shoulder, checking his mail on the way in, and flips through it as he bounds up the four flights of stairs to his apartment. It's faster (and frankly safer) than the out-of-date death trap of an elevator the building has.

He skims through the only interesting piece of mail – a colorfully worded letter stating that Finstock, his current landlord and retired lacrosse coach, was going to be stepping down to general handyman and assistant because the owner of the building was "finally moving in and taking responsibility for this dump." His week is going to be entertaining, by the looks of it. Watching the unsuspecting owner of the building being put through the Finstock welcome would be the highlight of anyone's week.

Stiles does the whole routine of slamming his shoulder into the sticking door of his apartment as he unlocks it, and then the echoing move of kicking it shut with more force than usually necessary to make sure it closes completely. The apartment is just how he left it. Which is highly suspicious.

And that isn't paranoia talking. Stiles is a cop's son. He knows how this works. He drops his duffle by the sofa and spends a decent fifteen minutes just scouring the flat and his laptop for any sign of tampering. The paranoia is only when, upon finding nothing, he still isn't convinced. But Stiles only sends his customary "got home safe" texts to Scott, his Dad, and Melissa and settles down on his sofa with his laptop, a soda, and a giant popcorn bowl of Doritos.

"Back to work," he crows with what is probably a disturbing amount of glee. He clicks through the right path of files on his laptop, until he gets so deep into mundane research folders and finds his prize – labeled: dramatistic pentad. Which, instead of opening up to a dissertation of dramaturgy, gives him the entirety of of the BHSD's digital files on the Alpha killings.

As if he didn't have several dummy files and backups all over his computer.

"Really, Dad, if you think taking the files is going to stop me, you've got another thing coming." The vacation had turned out nice. A little traumatizing. But restful otherwise. But now it was time to get back to work.


-3-

The fact that Derek wakes up at all is disturbing. The fact that he wakes up on the floor of his hotel room is downright suspicious. He's naked and his entire body aches. It takes a few minutes to piece together why he isn't chained to his radiator. Slowly, painfully, Derek pulls himself upright to take inventory of himself. He's a little dirty, but other than the ring of raw, scabbing skin around his left ankle, there's no other injuries or blood on him. The wound smells faintly of wolfsbane, but Derek doesn't feel the slow, creeping illness in him at all. So either it wasn't a deadly strain of wolfsbane, or whatever caused the injury didn't cut deep enough.

So he had run into hunters last night, then, rather than the Alpha. The idea of being grateful for hunters is a bitter one.

Derek climbs to his feet, wincing as his muscles protest. He doesn't know what to think. His shift the night before had been an instinctual one. The entire night is a blank. And it leaves him with more questions than answers. He doesn't feel the agonizing pull of the Alpha anymore. Did that mean the hunters had found them and killed them? Were there hunters in the area who had the skill to take down an Alpha? And if that was the case, how had Derek managed to run into them and escape with only a minor injury?

His head starts to throb just thinking about it. So Derek grits his teeth and limps all the way to the shower, hoping a good wash will clear his ankle of any wolfsbane and let it heal properly.

It's not until he's clean again, and just letting the hot water ease his aches that he realizes why he can't feel the Alpha anymore:

It's because there's a sensitive new bond in its place.

"Fuck!" He slams a hand on the tiles to avoid falling, a surge of shock and panic overtaking him so fast he gets lightheaded.

He has an Alpha. Not even the same Alpha that killed his sister. The new bond feels nothing like the Alpha that had called him here. And that makes no sense. He ran out into the night and… what, found not one, but two Alpha werewolves and latched himself onto the least murderous one? How in the hell had he managed that?

The thought of breaking the bond rises almost immediately after the initial panic. He doesn't want a Pack. (His Pack is long dead. He doesn't deserve another one.) It would be nothing at all to break the bond with this new Alpha and run back to New York. The problem with that is… that he'll be alone again. Not just alone, but vulnerable. Severing the link with this Alpha (Derek refused to even think of them as his) would make him just as susceptible to Laura's murderer as he had been the night before.

He wants nothing to do with this Alpha he has somehow submitted to. But if it's necessary for his survival, then...

He shivers as the water goes cool, and quickly gets out. Derek dresses quickly, and spends the rest of the afternoon waiting for this mysterious Alpha to call Derek to them or to show up looking for him. Something.

But there's nothing.

Instead, around mid-afternoon the heavy silence is broken as his phone starts blaring Nicki Minaj's "Anaconda" at him.

By the way/ what he say?/ He can tell I ain't missin' no meals/

Come through and fuck 'im in my automobile

Let him eat it with his grills, and he keep tellin' me to chill/

And he tellin' me it's real, that he love my sex appeal/

"Ceri..." he growls at it, racing over and snatching it off the desk before it can keep going.

Did you like the addition I made to your phone, handsome? ;)

Derek glares at the text.

You're the worst.

I think you mean the BEST. Come on. You laughed. You totally cracked a smile.

Derek purses his lips, effectively smothering the small smile that's just starting to form.

More like I almost threw my phone across the room. How's Chicago?

I'll accept that response. :) Chicago is fun, but cold as hell. It's only October wtf. You sure you don't want to take off work and come keep me company?

As far asCeri knows, Derek is supposed to be in New York, in their shared apartment, caught up in work. Not on the other side of the country fighting off one Alpha only to align himself with another. He considers telling Ceri everything right then. He makes it through a half a dozen attempts.

Something happened. I'm in Beacon Hills-

I think the person who murdered my sister is trying to-

I'm in trouble-

I might not be there when you get back-

I need your help-

In the end, he doesn't choose any of them. Derek gazes in desperation at the blank text box, clutching his phone hard enough that the case starts to creak ominously.

No, you know how it is.

How's the photoshoot?

It's a weak attempt of acting as if nothing's wrong. At least through text, the deception will go unnoticed.

Awful. The model isn't cooperating, the traffic fucking bites

it's cloudy all the time so the lighting is shit.

But it's got so much HISTORY that I don't care.

Got some great culture shots for the article.

I wish they'd let me do a People of New York style piece. This city has some great stories.

I'm… sorry?

You should be.

But seriously, you should come out here for like a weekend. Have you ever actually been to Chicago?

I could show you the sights! The very cold, windy sights.

And your baby girl misses you! :p

Derek huffs out a breathy laugh, momentarily forgetting at least some of his worries.

You're the one who wouldn't let me look after her.

And the one who whined that you couldn't be away from her for even a day.

Ceri doesn't reply for a while, and Derek is left staring intently at his phone. He's just starting to wonder if Ceri got distracted, when his phone starts into "Anaconda" again and a picture pops up in the window. A raccoon kit is belly up on the floor, her little paws wrapped around Ceri's fingers as they tickle her fat belly. Her mouth is open, ready to gnaw on them. It's unfairly adorable.

See? The little gremlin misses you, Der-bear, the caption reads. He rolls his eyes at the pet name, and chooses to blatantly ignore it.

What have you been feeding her? She's even fatter than the last time I saw her.

She's a growing baby and needs to eat every three hours! Of course she's fat!

Uh-huh. I think someone's been sneaking her treats.

I'M not the one who does that in this household, Mister. YOU'RE the one that always spoils her dinner.

This is a fight they've had many times before and, Derek strongly suspects, they'll be having for the rest of his life. (Or whatever's left of it, a dark little voice reminds him.) He lets them go back and forth for a while, letting the familiarity ease the tension building in his shoulders. Until finally, Ceri gets frustrated.

UR A BUTT.

You like my butt. You say it all the time.

Well YEAH. You have an ass sculpted by the gods, Der-bear. It's aesthetically pleasing to all forms of life. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN UR NOT A BUTT.

And then, after a moment:

I miss you and your stupidly attractive face.

Something clenches tight in Derek's chest. It shouldn't be as jarring as it is. Ceri says things like that all the time. He can even hear it in the same, affectionately teasing tone as it always is. His fingers hover over the screen, the words already in his mind but not able to manifest. Just like it always does. The words always seem to get stuck. Sometimes the guilt of not being able to say it makes him force the words out. Most times, he just doesn't say anything at all.

But the idea that this could be his last chance to say anything leaves him cold.

I miss you too. I'll talk to you soon?

It's not even close to adequate. But it's the only thing he can say.

The Alpha he's now bonded to never shows up. By evening, Derek is fed up with wallowing in the anticipation and leaves the hotel. If this Alpha won't come to him, he'll find them. The cover of darkness allows him some privacy from the ever watchful eyes of Beacon Hills' residents. He's had enough of the knowing, pitying looks to last him a lifetime. For the first half hour he wanders aimlessly, not having the faintest clue where to start tracking the Alpha. Several times, he almost turns back. The scent of territory and forest rot is too much. It's by pure luck that he eventually comes across a familiar scent. His instincts know the scent of "his" Alpha before the rest of him has the chance to process it.

At first, he suspects the faint familiarity of the scent is from the blurry memory of his night before – just his subconscious instincts going to work. The Alpha is local. Even though the trail is faint and old, Derek manages to follow it through most of the town. The thought of an Alpha squatting in his family's territory makes his blood boil.

All of that changes when he reaches a point at the edge of the Preserve. The trail is only a few days old here. He can actually distinguish the scent – can relate it to the sweet smell of burning timber and fresh earth. But it's also…

Human.

The Alpha is human. Which is impossible, and he's sure it has to be a trick. Derek follows it back into the Preserve, swiftly picking his way through the rotting growth. It's easier to push away the scent memories when focusing on the Alpha. It's not until he stops at the base of a hill that the scent sparks a memory.

"Dude, that was Derek Hale!"

For a moment, Derek doesn't even breathe.

"Shit."

The gangly human is his Alpha.

Somehow.

He can't wrap his head around it. The man isn't a wolf, or any kind of shapeshifter. He doesn't have the scent now, and he didn't then, when his scent was at its strongest. There hadn't even been any trace of magic on him.

He retreats back to his hotel room, mind whirling too much to think properly. He spends the entire night trying to make sense of it, but nothing will come. He knows, only, that he has latched on to a very human Alpha, who knows nothing of the kind of life Derek lives. Who probably doesn't even realize what has changed, if he can even sense that much. There's nothing but the nature of the bond itself keeping Derek in Beacon Hills now. With the human unaware, Derek could return to New York and never have to think about this place again. (That is, of course, a lie. Beacon Hills is in his blood and in his dreams, and it has never left him.)

But there's still the matter of the Alpha werewolf – his sister's killer, who's making moves on his family's ancestral territory.

He spends another day grappling with what to do. And then the next morning he finds himself emailing his boss, apologizing for his sudden departure and requesting a leave of absence in order to "take care of his family's estate." It's not exactly a lie. But when his boss replies with sincere condolences and understanding, Derek still feels bad about it. The remainder of the day is taken up with phone calls to lawyers, accountants, and one very memorable call to the caretaker of one of his family's buildings.

All Hale family assets, including properties, are in Derek's name now; but Derek, like his sister before him, had been content to let investors and caretakers look after them. By the look of it, many of the Beacon Hills properties have fallen into disrepair. In fact, from what Derek had seen the night before, much of the town is in need of work. Empty or neglected buildings could be found on every street, and while the town is still beautiful, it is a fading beauty. It's a shade of the town in Derek's memories, when the territory was thriving. The upkeep of the territory, of better or worse, falls to him now.

And if that gives him a reason to stick around where he can track Laura's murderer, then Derek is not about to pass up the chance.


-4-

So it's another night of zero sleep and obsessive research. Another night ending with Stiles the being blinded by the sunbeams suddenly pouring through his window after getting absorbed in his studies. No one can catch him in the act this time, though. He's still on mandatory (read: forced) leave for another day. And if his research has shifted focus from the Alpha case to wolves and cryptozoology, then no one but him will ever know that.

He can't say what makes him leave his apartment around mid-morning. Stiles is intimately familiar with the need to move, to pace, or even to simply stand and fidget as his mind works through something. He's had ADHD since childhood. Dealing with impulsivity is his life. But today it can't be satisfied with pacing around his apartment. Ignoring it only makes it worse, and before long Stiles is pulling on his jacket and shoes with the intent of walking down to the corner convenience store for a much needed Monster.

Running into the landlord and caretaker of the building on the way down to the lobby isn't out of the ordinary. Most of the time, Stiles actually looks forward to it with a strange glee. Finstock (who still insists that Stiles call him Coach even though he hasn't been the man's student for more almost five years) is even more eccentric now that he doesn't have to censor himself – not that he ever did much of that to begin with. His stories are now even more outlandish and his "sage advice" more disturbing and fascinating than ever. So, yes, running into Finstock in the halls is a normal, if twisted part of his day.

The man who's with Finstock today, though…

"Bilinski!" There's no time to run. His reflexes are sluggish from exhaustion, and it leaves him just standing there like an idiot as they approach. "Got someone to introduce you to: the owner of this fine mess. This is Bilinski, our resident deputy of the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department. Lives in 4E. I taught him back in high school. Good kid, but can't keep focus worth a damn. Assigned a paper for my econ class once and he gave back—"

Oh no, they are not telling this story right now.

"Derek Hale," Stiles interjects before Finstock can continue with that line of thought. He sticks his hand out in greeting, trying not to cringe at how he must look. Because of course Derek Hale would be the owner of his building. The universe would throw that at him at even the slightest chance, let alone with the reality that the Hales had owned half of Beacon Hills before the fire and so of course they would all belong to Derek Hale now. Of course Derek Hale would choose to visit his building looking like he's walked off the cover of a magazine. While Stiles, on the other hand, looks like death warmed over.

'Don't let them see you squirm, Stiles. It's your own building. Well. His building—you live here! Own it.'

"Stilinski, actually. Stiles Stilinski. We've met before."

Derek Hale doesn't shake his hand. His eyes flicker briefly down to it, and his expression goes pinched, like he's smelled something foul. (To be fair, that's probably Stiles. He hasn't had a chance to shower yet, so sue him.) "Yeah. Few days ago, wasn't it? You were out in the woods on our property."

So he did remember that. And, hey, the ridiculously hot guy remembers him! Stiles will blatantly ignore the thinly veiled disdain on the man's face if it means a confidence boost like that. Even dislike is better than invisibility (as his many fruitless years of crushing on Lydia Martin showed). He could just leave it at that.

"Yeah, but before that too, actually." Is he actually doing this?

Hale's (highly expressive) brows draw together, perplexed.

He's totally doing this. "Uh, six years ago, actually? Last time you were in town. At least, I assume that's the last time you were in town because this place isn't that big and news travels fast." He's rambling. Shit. "So, you know. Last time you were here we ran into each other? At least, that's what my buddy, Scott, tells me because I don't remember much of it. I, uh, had an overdose. Bad reaction to some meds I was on. Like, really bad. Like I probably could have died, bad. And you were there and Scott says you called the ambulance? Which, I mean, thanks. I didn't even know it was you or I would have like, tracked you down and thanked you somehow? Not that I was in any condition to… they kept me in the hospital on mandatory suicide watch for a bit—" That is not what he wanted to say. At all. "Not that it was like that! I tried to tell them that after I could, you know, talk, but I wasn't going through a great time then and…"

Derek Hale is staring at him, his eyes now more horrified than disgusted. But otherwise, unreadable. Coach, however, is watching the exchange with shameless fascination.

"….and… uh. I'm just going to stop talking."

There's a few seconds of awkward silence, something that Stiles isn't unaccustomed to happening in his presence. He opens his mouth to break it, maybe make his hasty escape. Because he is far too tired for this.

But Hale beats him to the punch. With his face drawn into a scowl, he says, "I never did anything like that. Your friend must be mistaken."

Oh.

His face heats, and Stiles just knows he's a highly unattractive shade of red now. He wants to protest, but Hale is looking at him like he's a particularly strange bug he'd found at his feet and his insides just wither in mortification. "I… yeah, I guess, right? It was a while ago," Stiles finds himself saying. His mouth is moving on autopilot. "Right. Sorry. Yeah. Enjoy the rest of Finstock's tour. Welcome to whatever the hell this is, and all that."

Stiles darts past them for the stairs, not stopping until he's bursting through the lobby doors. He's going to need an entire six pack of energy drinks to live this down.

Making a fool of himself in front of attractive people is his life, apparently.


END CHAPTER 4.