AN: Review? Pretty, pretty, fucking please? -ambles off to cry in emo corner-

Warnings: Language

Disclaimer: I don't own "Teen Wolf".

Chapter Ten
War Material

Derek sleeps through the rest of the afternoon, the entire night, and most of the following morning. Because he may be a werewolf but he still needs at least five hours a night. And he has been getting them. He was only making up for lost time.

Which is why, at ten-thirty, he's woken up from a light sleep by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Derek is up like a shot, jolting from the fuzzy warmth of sleep to ice-cold awareness and alarm. The old Hale house is the first place the hunters will go. They know who he is. Peering through the broken window, however, reveals a different kind of guest approaching his husk of a house. A much more welcome visitor.

He grabs a clean shirt from the duffel beside the mattress and makes this way back through the house to the door, swinging it open to allow Gabriel entrance.

"I love what you haven't done with the place." Gabe greets. He's dressed in a sharp Marine Captain's uniform, and Derek doesn't think he's ever actually seen the man before without a uniform of some kind on. His dishwater blonde hair is cut in the familiar buzz of his profession-or rather the buzz cut hs chosen profession is imulating. Smuggling is such a demanding trade-and he makes up for his five foot nine height by being wide as an ox.

"The Hale Pack sees you, Gabriel Davis of Pack Summers, and welcomes you into our territory as a friend." It's an old tradition, and Derek never thought he'd ever actually have to say it. But he is Alpha now, and better safe than sorry. The last thing he wants to do is piss off his arms dealer who happens to have a veritable armory on wheels.

Gabe's sarcasm washes off his face the moment the words start pouring Derek's lips, and he figures he made the right decision. "I thank you for the courtesy, Alpha Hale." He bows his head deeply as a show of respect, but not submission. He remains loyal to the Summers Pack, not Derek. Which is just fine with both of them. Derek nods back, only half as deep. He does outrank Gabe now, and this is his territory after all.

"So, you have what I asked for?" Derek says when the somber moment ends.

"Yep." A careless gesture towards a rather large truck parked next to the Camaro. "Everything you asked for. Which took some doing, by the way."

"I appreciate it, Gabe." Derek sighs, instantly relieved by the knowledge that he'll be better able to protect his Pack now. He pulls his phone from his pocket, calls his accountant, and organizes for "Captain Gabriel Davis" to receive a shocking amount of money deposited into a Cayman account. After that's all taken care of, the two wolves set about moving the merchandise.

The boxes sit conspicuously in his would-be living room after Gabe takes off again. Or maybe it just seems that way to Derek. After all, they're just your average, run of the mill brown cardboard boxes. He could have anything in them. He could finally be moving into the house properly for all anyone knows. Weather exposure, notwithstanding.

Until he rips the tape from them and begins sorting through the arsenal he's just acquired.

A low whistle filters through his lips as he pulls out the very nice armor. It's light-weight, not that any self-respecting werewolf would a problem hauling something much heavier. So light, in fact, that Derek cannot suppress a smirk. They can wear it under their everyday clothes. Their chances of surviving this this just went up twenty-three percent.

The handguns are shiny-black and come with ten clips each, which Derek never asked for and thus didn't pay for. Derek shakes his head. Sly little bastard. Sometimes, when the sarcasm is flying and the old wounds sting, Derek forgets that they're friends. Or at least as close to friends as Derek gets with anyone. For a moment, he pauses, takes a second to hope Gabe doesn't get in trouble over this.

Then he gets back to work because the pack needs this equipment, and Gabe's a big boy; he can take care of himself. The same cannot be said for the newest members of the Hale pack.

The uniforms are perfect, varying sizes for the different wolves Derek has to put them on. Some of which he hasn't even met yet. But for the betas he already has, he has flawlessly fitted fatigues; the others can be tailored later, when they have someone to actually wear them. The camo pattern is Army standard—not that twiggy backdrop favored by hunters, the normal kind shooting ducks and deer— and will blend seamlessly amongst the woods. Won't even standout much-in bits and pieces-on the street. A lot of kids seem to be wearing it these days.

The thick leather of the boots is strong and supple. The sole hard but textured for silence, sure to fall without a sound even to their supernatural hearing. The trip wire is sturdy and nearly invisible, and he has plans for it that he's sure will make Scott whine and protest and Stiles gag. But with a few pieces of oak, readily available from the forest that surrounds him, he'll have garrotes that kill quickly and quietly and a protected—re: booby-trapped—base camp.

The flash grenades and smoke bombs look like they're supposed to, but he wasn't expecting anything different. Gabriel is a good man and a good Wolf, and Derek trusts him as much as he trusts anyone. He considers taking one of each, just to be sure, but he doesn't want to waste supplies if he doesn't have to. "Redirecting" military supplies is difficult and risky, and he doesn't want to make Gabe do it more than is strictly necessary.

Supplies inspected, Derek carefully boxes everything back up. He'll put the boys in armor soon enough, and teach them how to use the guns. But he needs them dressed casually and relaxed for what happens next.

Nothing screams fake I.D. like an anxious face.

"Dude. What smells like terror and mint and blood?" Stiles asks Scott as soon as they enter the locker room. It's mostly empty; they somehow managed to not only be on time, but early for once. "Are we about to find a body again? I have long since crossed that off my list of things I'd like to do. It's been placed very firmly on the Never Again list.

Scott takes deep sniff, which-even knowing what he's doing-looks weird as hell, "I dunno."

"Yes. Thank you, Scott. Very helpful." Stiles says, but he's not really paying much attention. Even his sarcasm is kind of light. Mostly because he's distracted by trying to find the freaking smell.

Scott and Stiles proceed, walking slowly with their noses in the air and inhaling like they'd been holding their breath. Idly, in some place that isn't deserving of his active attention, Stiles is glad they're early and no one sees them doing this because, well, they probably look really stupid.

Please don't let it be a body. Please don't let it be a body. Stiles isn't sure who he's praying to. He was never a big believer in God even before werewolves made themselves a part of his everyday life. Maybe there's a werewolf god! On second thought, they probably worship the moon. Which Stiles could be down with. The moon definitely exists and it definitely has some measure of control over his life now that he's of the wolfy persuasion. Please don't let it be a body. Please, moon, old friend, old buddy ,old pal, don't let it be a freaking body.

The scent trail leads to another person and, uh, awkward.

Number thirteen: Isaac Lahey, sophomore, midfielder, second string, quick but flinches from contact. Unlikely to make first string as long as he's afraid of contact. The data flies through Stiles mind, as well as the statistics of his score/miss ratio, and he realizes that he needs to stop hyper-analyzing any and all data he has access to. Because, that right there, that was freaky and he feels like a stalker for no apparent reason. And that shit's not cool.

"What happened to your face?" Scott demands with the subtlety of a drunken, highlighter yellow bull who's just stumbled into an exclusively red china shop. Stiles battles valiantly with his urge to face-palm.

Smack.

He loses.

Scott and Isaac are both staring at him now. And Stiles is staring at the hand that as defied his will and slapped his own forehead. Stupid hand… "What Scott meant to say was, 'What happened to your face?' But, you know, nicer and stuff."

"I tripped over a log." Isaac shrugs. "Out in the forest. I hit pretty hard, huh?"

"Your face could be compared to hamburger, and the hamburger would get offended." Wow. Stiles really just said that. To a guy he doesn't know well. Or at all. Awkward: take two, everybody. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I just shouldn't have words, but that's usually when I have most of them. Like right now for instance, I should be shutting up and getting ready for practice but here I am, babbling pretty incoherently to you about how I randomly say stuff things all the time and I should really stop talking now."

Stiles snaps his mouth closed and Scott and Isaac are staring at him again. Oh, and look! There's Jackson to make this moment complete. But he, thankfully as far as Stiles is concerned, forgoes any kind of mockery and just sneers like the king douche he is. At which point Scott, also thankfully from Stiles point of view, drags him over to their lockers.

"You realize he was lying right?" The quiet sound of Jackson's voice is both startling and weird. Because Mr. Co-Captain Sir is still on the other side of the locker room. "His heartbeat did a mambo when you asked about his face."

"Maybe he was embarrassed." Stiles points out, knowing for a fact that his heart pounds in his ears when he feels humiliated.

"I also live across the street from him. His dad's a nutcase."

"Did you tell my dad?"

"No." Ah, the sweet sound of puzzled arrogance in the morning. "Wasn't my problem."

"So how come you're mentioning it now?" Scott finally decides to join the conversation.

"Derek said he wanted more people for the pack, right? It's not my problem, and I don't really care if he solves it. But, if anyone needs super healing and the ability to rip someone's throat out, it's probably him."

A moment of silence while the rest of the team filters in and the three of them consider Jackson's point. And he does have a point. If Isaac's dad is hurting him, then Stiles thinks the guy should have the option of defending himself and/or scaring the man into compliance. But it's not his decision to make.

So he texts Derek. Duh.

Potential prospect. Lacrosse practice. #13~~Stiles

There's no response and Stiles can only assume that the sourwolf is A, sleeping or B, doing something he deems more important than scouting for new werewolves… Stiles is pretty sure it's A. And that's okay because Derek is an unemployed Alpha werewolf living off an inheritance in his dilapidated, burnt husk of a mansion. He doesn't have a reason to be up at the ungodly hour of six-thirty in the morning.

Practice is much the same as yesterday's. Stiles plays well, but he doesn't play great. He gets another "good hustle" from Danny, but without the ass slapping. Stiles isn't sure if that's a bad thing. Does Danny not find him attractive? Or is it that he does, but he doesn't want to weird out the team by actually being "gay" around them?

And why will no one tell him if he's attractive? It's a simple question, people! He's not asking you if you want to marry him, or even date. He just wants a little reassurance that his face is aesthetically pleasing!

And back on track now. Derek finally responses to his text around lunch, and that seems pretty lazy to Stiles. The guy doesn't have a reason to be up early in the morning, but whilst in the middle of the war his uncle started you'd think he'd manage before noon, seeing as he's the Alpha which makes him the military equivalent to the president and general all rolled into one person.

Be there for afternoon practice. Tell Scott and Jackson. We have somewhere to be later~~Sourwolf (Yes, that's Derek's name in Stiles' contact list. Don't judge.)

Yep. No. That's probably not good.

Derek lurks behind the bleachers during the practice, eyes glued to lucky number thirteen. Even from here Derek can smell him. Kind of bitter, but kind of sweet. Copper mixed with mint and sweat and blood and so much fear. The boy is quick, light on his feet and agile. And he's scared, freezes up every time an opposing player charges. Full-contact is obviously not the kind of sport he needs to be playing.

But there's potential there. Derek can use fear. With the promise of strength, of never having to hurt much for long. And the kid would be grateful; loyalty born of gratitude is particularly strong. Stiles was right. Number thirteen is a good prospect for the Bite.

That decided, Derek shifts his eyes to the first string players. Number six, the goalie, is good. He has quick hands. Quick eyes. There's potential there, too.

Further proof that Derek should listen more often when Stiles starts running his mouth. The kid's babble-talk may be seventy percent random, but the thirty percent that's actually relevant is useful. Which makes since he's not an idiot, near as Derek can tell, just hyper and sarcastic and completely incapable of shutting up for any real length of time.

The practice ends and the team rips helmets from heads, giving Derek his first look at his candidates' faces. He takes a good minute to note relevant information. Hair and eye color, height. Data he'll need to give to Tommy if Derek decides to turn them. Ad he probably will. They suit his needs well enough. Six looks to know Jackson relatively well, since he's talking to the guy without a single insult being tossed his way, and Stiles had recommended thirteen.

He's tempted to tell Stiles and Jackson to bring the boys along. On one hand, nothing draws attention and sets off creeper alarms like asking two teenage boys to get in a stranger's car. On the other, Derek really doesn't have time to wait.

"What's up?"

"Numbers thirteen and six."

"Danny too, huh? Whatever you say, sourwolf. Could you at least pretend you're happy to have a coupla options?"

"Bring them with you and the others."

"What? You're going to do it now? Like right there on the lacrosse field?"

"No. First, I'm going to take you all to get fake I.D.s. Now bring them with you." Derek hangs up. He doesn't have to explain his orders and Stiles does have to follow them.

And soon, numbers six and thirteen will too.

AN2: I know Isaac's jersey number is actually fourteen, but I really wanted him to have unlucky thirteen. So, now he does. Because this is fanfiction, and I can do that.