They drive in silence for several minutes, and every so often, Derek can't help but glance over at the boy's profile. At the curve of his throat, the arch of his neck. At the way the setting sun is painting his skin with golden, glowing light. Easy. It would be so easy to just pull over and tell Stiles to hold still while he sinks his teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Easy to make him tilt his head in invitation. Easy to go so far beyond just giving Stiles the bite.

It would be so easy, and God, Laura would be so disappointed in him.

"What?" Stiles asks suddenly, breaking him out of his thoughts. He glances over to find Stiles watching him with an irritated furrow on his brow, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Nothing," Derek grunts immediately, internally wincing at how defensive he sounds.

"You're doing your creepy staring thing again. Seriously, I can feel the serial killer vibes all the way over here. I'd just like to point out, no one made you offer to drive me home and—"

"Are you all right?" Again, he means to ask. He means it to sound genuine, an actual inquiry as to Stiles' wellbeing…because he doesn't like the way Stiles had looked in the woods for that split second before he got his masks back up. He means it to be a concerned question.

He's well aware it comes out like an accusation. It seems to be a talent he has.

Stiles reels back a little, the muscles in his neck and shoulders twitching as though the sudden interruption is yanking him onto a new train of thought physically as well as mentally. "Huh?" he says stupidly, cocking his head in a curiously birdlike movement.

Derek grits his teeth, hands tightening momentarily on the steering wheel. "Are. You. All. Right?" he bites out again. Then, because it's clear that an actual expression of concern from him is just going to short-circuit Stiles' brain, he brings them back onto familiar territory. "It's a yes or no question."

"Wow, was that as painful as it looked?" Stiles asks sarcastically, and it doesn't escape Derek's notice that he doesn't answer the question.

That seems to be a talent Stiles has.

"Stiles." He slows the car at the four-way stop that they will use to turn onto the main road back into town. There's no one at any of the other stop signs and he uses the opportunity to turn and glare at Stiles. Stiles glares straight back, mutinously, before blowing out a gusty sigh.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice dark, and Derek doesn't even need to listen to his pulse to know he's lying through his teeth.

"Clearly," Derek deadpans. "That's why you're trying to hide from Scott, right?"

For a moment, Stiles looks like he's going to protest, like he's going to keep arguing. Only a moment, though. After that he just…deflates. He slumps back against the passenger side door, looking pale and exhausted.

"I just want this to be over," he admits quietly. "I don't want you guys to have to babysit me, and I don't want to have to worry that Scott is gonna slip up and tell me to go play in traffic or something-and oh my God I wish that wasn't an actual possibility with him-and I want to go home."

"I want my dad," he doesn't say.

"I'm scared," he doesn't say.

"I don't know how much longer I can deal with this," he doesn't say.

He doesn't say any of that, but Derek hears it loud and clear. He looks away from the worn-down, defeated look in Stiles' eyes, and puts the car back into gear. He continues on the way to the Stilinski house, the quiet pressing down on them like a living thing. He drives, his mind racing as they draw closer to their destination. The sheriff's car isn't in the driveway when he pulls up to Stiles' house, and he hears Stiles sigh softly as he opens the car door. The boy scrambles out of the vehicle, hitching his backpack up onto his shoulder.

"Thanks for the ride, I guess," Stiles tosses out, sketching an awkward sort of wave in the air with one hand. Derek drums his fingers on the steering wheel, watching as Stiles walks up towards his front door. His steps are heavy, somehow, his shoulders slumped and head hanging as though his neck doesn't have the strength to keep it up. Derek swallows convulsively.

He won't force the bite on Stiles. He won't.

But…if Stiles wants it? If Stiles is willing? There's nothing wrong with that…

And if Stiles is not in the best frame of mind to be making decisions like that-if he's too tired and frightened to be thinking clearly…well, the end result would make up for taking a little advantage of the situation, wouldn't it? He's not considering doing what Peter wants…but it's not the same, if Stiles asks for it. It's not.

He's jumping out of the car before he's really finished with the thought, following Stiles up to the porch where he's fumbling with his keys. Stiles jumps when he hears Derek's boots hit the porch floorboards, whirling around and barely catching his bag as it slides off his shoulder.

"Der—holy shit, what?" he asks, one hand going to rest in comic exaggeration on his chest.

"I need to talk to you," Derek says without preamble. Stiles rolls his eyes a little.

"Of course you do. 'Cause it's not like we just spent almost half an hour in a car together." Stiles watches him silently for a few seconds, before shrugging his acquiescence. "C'mon, then," he says, turning back to the door to grasp the keys that are still dangling in the lock.

Derek follows him into the darkened, silent house. Some of the tension seems to lessen in Stiles' shoulders as soon as he crosses the threshold, and he rubs his eyes tiredly. The backpack hits the floor with a thump, a few old-looking books and a yellow legal pad covered with Stiles' scrawl spilling out onto the floor. Stiles heads immediately for the kitchen, leaving Derek to trail silently behind him. He makes a beeline for the fridge, yanking it open and scowling fiercely at whatever it is he sees inside. He closes it with a sigh, reaches up to massage the back of his neck with one hand.

"So what did you want, Derek?" he asks quietly.

Derek takes a deep breath, and though he'll never admit it out loud, he's nervous. The buzzing, pulsing sense of want is burning through him again, more powerful than it's ever been now that there's actually a chance of satisfying it. He wants this. He wants it so badly, and he has to get this right.

"If—" he starts slowly, and finds his eyes drawn to the long line of Stiles' throat, the soft throb of Stiles' pulse. "If there was a way to break this curse now, tonight-if you didn't have to wait to see if Deaton's friend can help…would you take it?" he asks lowly.

Stiles goes still. Still and quiet, absolutely frozen for an instant before he slowly turns away from the fridge. He leans back against the kitchen counter, arms wrapped around his middle, those honey-brown eyes boring into Derek's. He swallows roughly, gnawing on his lower lip.

"You're talking about biting me," he says, and it's not a question. Derek is a bit startled…but he knows he shouldn't be. Stiles has always been quick on the uptake.

"Yes," he says seriously. "The change would break the spell and—"

"Yeah, I know, I know," Stiles interrupts, raking one hand back over his hair. "Deaton told me that first day at his office," he adds when Derek isn't able to keep his surprise off his face this time. "He, uh, he wanted me to know all my options. I mean—not that I just assumed you'd want to…I mean, Deaton said you'd do it, but I didn't think you'd want him talking for you…I mean—"

"Stiles." It's Derek's turn to interrupt now. "Deaton was right." He tries to keep the hope out of his voice, tries to stay neutral, but his teeth are practically aching in his mouth, his blood singing in his veins with the need to just take what he's been wanting so intensely. "I didn't want you to have to make that decision if Deaton's friend was going to be able to get here fast, but now…if you—if you want, I can end this thing for you right now."

Stiles is tempted. He can see it, in the sharpening of Stiles' eyes, in the sudden tensing of his shoulders. He can see it, and it's all he can do not to change right there and then and surge across the distance that separates them. Stiles bites his lip again, closing his eyes briefly.

"Derek…dude." He laughs a little, a grim humorless sound. "I don't…" He shakes his head, and Derek is disconcerted to realize that his hands are shaking a little. "I can't," he says finally. "I can't believe you'd offer...thank you, thank you for even thinking about it. But…I can't do something like that just because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't. I don't—I don't want to be forced into it. Hell, I don't want you to be forced into it. I mean, I know we're not friends or anything, I know you don't want me in your pack." Stiles breaks off his ramble, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and shaking his head back and forth.

Derek listens dully, and he can't help flinching at Stiles' last few sentences. No idea. He has no idea just how much the thought of forcing him into it has crossed Derek's mind of late. He has no idea just how desperately Derek does want him in the pack.

Has no idea how desperately Derek just wants him.

Disappointment knifes through him, sharp and hot. He clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt, forcing his expression to stay neutral. "All right," he says evenly, as evenly as he can when he wants to deny everything Stiles just said; when the ball of want is pulsing heavy and sickening in his chest. "Just…the offer's on the table," he says, when everything in him is crying taketaketake.

Stiles nods gravely, his lips twitching into a brief sort of smile. "Thanks," he says seriously, and his voice seems a bit warmer.

Derek turns to leave, heading back out towards the front hall. He's not paying much attention to where he's going, too busy trying to maintain control that feels far too fragile, and as he enters the foyer, he nearly trips over the detritus that had spilled from Stiles' backpack. On autopilot, he bends down to shuffle the mess into some kind of order…and freezes as he sees a crude sketch of the Alpha pack's symbol at the top of the legal pad. He frowns slightly, scanning the page of hastily written notes.

Most of it is gibberish to him. Stiles may be a hell of a researcher, but he is also the only person who actually knows how his research methods work. There are what looks like map coordinates listed in haphazard columns, broken sentences, and lists of names and phrases that make absolutely no sense.

What the hell is a 'BloodSlayer_627'?

"Oh…sorry about that," Stiles says from behind him. The boy darts around to his side, reaching for the notes and books gathered in Derek's hands. "I've been trying to cross-reference sightings of this Alpha pack over the past couple years…see if I can figure out where they're from or how many there are. Anything, really."

Derek raises an eyebrow, staring pointedly at the list of ridiculous names at the bottom of the page. When he looks up again, there's a blush painting Stiles' cheeks. "Yeeeah, that's a list of the members of my guild on the Dark Realms server. It's an RPG I joined and…and you know, that's not important. What is important is most of the guys in this guild are hunters. I mean that, or they're nerds leading very vivid and violent fantasy lives, the details of which are disturbingly useful in the Whedon-worthy supernatural drama that is our lives." He smiles a little. "They use the chat forums to pass information around the hunter community…really useful intel. They think I'm a hunter based out of Toronto."

Derek feels his other eyebrow climbing. Stiles coughs nervously.

"I've gotten some decent contacts out of it…I should have a heads up if anyone starts adding new nasties to their bags of tricks or if any big groups start heading our way again. This guy…BloodSlayer? Apparently he's faced off against the Alpha pack before. Or an Alpha pack, anyway…are there more than one? Scott and I were trying to figure out how that power structure would even work. I think it has to function like the old pirate crews…the whole 'first among equals' thing coming into play. 'Cause they have to have a leader…" Stiles trails off, caught up in the rapid-fire machinations of his thoughts and Derek finds himself just staring.

Stiles has clearly been doing this for a while, now. He's clearly been doing it even since he was cursed—researching, planning. For God's sake, he's been networking-making contacts with hunters and pumping them for information even though it's as good as painting a target on his back if any of them discover he's using what they tell him to protect werewolves. Derek knows—he knows-that it's mostly for Scott's sake. Possibly, it's even for Jackson's sake as well now.

But it's also for Derek's pack.

For Boyd and Erica and Isaac, because Stiles does care about them, does want to help them. Maybe it's even a little bit for Derek…because whatever else has passed between them, Stiles has never actually turned his back on Derek when Derek needed his help.

This. This is what he wants, what he could have-this cleverness, and care, and ridiculous bravery.

With the want and the disappointment of Stiles' refusal still blistering through him, tight and painful in his chest, he's not strong enough to just turn away and leave. He just needs to see if there's any chance he can have what he wants. Any chance at all. If there's not, then he'll let it go…he swears he'll let it go and just learn to live with this godawful desire, like he's learned to live with every other pain in his life. If Stiles rejects him—there's no reason Stiles even has to remember it.

Once.

He'll let himself slip just this once.

The others have all used the curse against Stiles…multiple times. He's just going to let himself do it once.

He ignores the part of him—the part of him shrieking with his mother's, his father's, his sister's voices—that screams that the others had all done it accidentally, damn it, and lets the books and notes slide out of his hands. He catches Stiles by the wrist when the boy goes to duck down and pick the books up off the floor. Stiles looks up at him, startled, and before he can think too hard about it, before he can listen to his better judgment, Derek yanks the boy against his chest.

Once. Just this once.

"Hey!" Stiles gasps out, and it's all he has time for before Derek kisses him, just the way he's been wanting (aching) to do for the past two weeks. For longer than that. There is one perfect, perfect instant when it's just like Derek had pictured it, when Stiles slots against him just as closely as though he was meant to be there, when the warm softness of his mouth just melts against Derek's, sweet as he imagined it would be. Derek can feel every part of himself practically sigh with pleasure, soaking into the rightness of the moment.

Then Stiles starts trying to pull away.

Struggling in his arms, frantic and flailing, his heart pounding not in excitement, but in fear. He throws himself backwards, away from Derek until only Derek's grip on his wrist is connecting them. He starts tugging insistently at his hand, eyes wide and his pulse jackrabbiting in his chest.

"Whoa! Whoa, whoa, time out! No! What was that…why the hell…what the actual fuck, Derek?!" Stiles shouts, jerking his wrist with increasing desperation. His scent, his eyes, his body…there is nothing there but fear and anger, no hint of welcome, no spark of arousal or excitement.

Well.

Derek has his answer, then.

He has his answer, and he knows Stiles' wishes now. He isn't interested in the bite—not even to save himself from the curse. He isn't interested in Derek.

"Stop," he says, voice low and rough. "Be quiet and stop moving." He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the flash of green in Stiles'. Instantly, though, the body in front of him goes still—though if anything, Stiles' heart starts to pound harder. Terrified. He's terrified, and he'll never be Derek's. Never belong to the pack. He doesn't want to.

Derek opens his mouth, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue. Forget this. Just go up to your room and forget all about this.

Once.

He just wants to know what it would be like once.

He curls his hand more firmly around Stiles' wrist, his thumb brushing over the thrumming pulse point soothingly. He steps closer, days and weeks of fraught desire pounding through him and drowning out everything else. Once. Just once. He lays his other hand against Stiles' neck, cupping his jaw gently.

"You want this," he says. The words feel like they're being dragged out of his throat over broken glass, but he can't stop them. "Just for tonight, you want this. Want me."


Sooooo...there's another thousand or so words of this chapter...but it's fairly mature content, and I don't want to get TOS'd by ff/net's fancy new crackdowns on mature content. This story carries a rape/noncon warning on AO3, and Derek is a creep in the rest of this (though it stops short of portraying rape, and it carries the warning more for the fact that Stiles literally cannot say no rather than Derek doing any violence against him). The chapter is posted in its entirety on my AO3 account. You may either search the user name Never_Says_Die at archive of our own or use the following link:

archiveofourown works / 491112/ chapters / 932338

Just be sure you take the spaces out.

Thank you for reading!