Derek walks into the vet's office silently with Stiles in tow, stopping at the counter and tapping the service bell. "Just a moment, Derek," Deaton calls from the back. He rounds the corner with a smile, though it quickly fades to a somber expression when he sees Stiles.
"How did you know it was us?" Stiles asks.
"I didn't. I only knew it was Derek. But that's unimportant. What incantation did you cast?" he inquires quickly.
"Moh Thwil set Gwaothe," Stiles says and the air in the room moves slightly around him.
"I see... And you didn't read enough to know about casting the circle did you?" Deaton accuses.
"Well I saw that one was tagged with a sticky note and the first one in the book, but it sounded dumb. 'Circle,'" he mocks with air quotes.
"I marked it for a reason, Stiles," Deaton chides in quiet anger. He pulls down a large tome from behind a false wall in one of his cabinets. Opening the tome to a picture, he explains, "Sparks with potential, if they do not cast a circle, can lose control of an incantation. This is one example," Deaton points to the painting of an entire city ablaze. Underneath, it reads "The Great Fire of London, 1666." "We're lucky you didn't cast something more destructive."
Stiles looks sideways at Derek perhaps a bit sheepishly, before turning back to Deaton. "Well, I'll just cast the circle then. Problem solved," Stiles claps his hands and turns to go.
"Unfortunately, Stiles, it is no longer that simple," Deaton explains.
"Of course it isn't," Stiles laments, crumpling back to lean on the wall next to the door.
"Now that you have allowed the will of an incantation to flow through you, a single circle may not grant you control of subsequent castings."
"So what does he do now?" Derek asks.
"Nothing," Deaton deadpans, to Stiles disappointment. And he had just started using real magic. "If he can," Deaton chastises.
"I'll make sure of it," Derek assures, pulling Stiles by the arm out of the clinic.
"Just let me cast the circle," Stiles pleads as he and Derek enter the house.
"No," Derek grits out, certainly not for the first time. "You're not getting this book from me until Deaton says you can do more magic." Stiles grabs at the book as Derek waves it just out of his reach.
Stiles stops the childish game of keep away he was inadvertently participating in, and takes a deep breath. "Fine then. You leave me no choice: Moh Thwil set Gwaothe," the air begins to stir.
"Are you being serious right now?" Derek asks indignantly.
"Moh Thwil set Gwaothe," he repeats and the air is tangibly blowing in the sealed house.
"Stiles!" Derek warns, but the teen opens his mouth to speak again. The werewolf, refusing to break to Stiles' will because of a temper tantrum, slams the teen against the wall with his whole body, a large hand sealed over Stiles' mouth to keep the incantation from escaping. "You're being a ridiculous child. Stop messing with things beyond your control and just go to bed." The wind in the house dies down and the air between them becomes stagnant.
Derek lets go of the teen's mouth and Stiles doesn't say a word. He just levels a glare at the wolf before turning and heading up the stairs. When Derek eventually follows, he finds Stiles doing homework at his desk. "If you want to go to bed that's fine. I'm not going to make any noise. Sleep in the bed, I'll take the floor tonight."
"Stiles," Derek sighs as though the teen is being unreasonable. Mostly because he is. But Stiles just waves him off so Derek slips out of his shirt, socks, and pants and under the covers of the large twin size bed. He doesn't fall asleep though. He just listens. To the pen on the paper of Stiles' notebook. To the heart rate which must come from frustration not rooted in calculus problems. The eventual closing of his books, the brushing of his teeth, the slide of fabric over his skin. And, eventually, the steady, even breaths of sleep.
It's then that Derek gets up, gently moves the sleeping teen to the bed, and then slides into the sleeping bag. He knows it doesn't make sense. Stiles was the one acting crazy. Derek has nothing to apologize for or to feel bad about. But somehow, he still feels like he's the one in the metaphorical dog house. If only Stiles knew what he was thinking: the jokes he'd make.