Preface
I'll Show You Mine (If You Show Me Yours)Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/530377.
Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning:
Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category:
M/M
Fandom:
Teen Wolf (TV)
Relationship:
Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Character:
Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Sheriff Stilinski, Scott McCall
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates, Kidnapping
Stats:
Published: 2012-10-06 Completed: 2012-10-07 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 2805
I'll Show You Mine (If You Show Me Yours)
by Klavier (orphan_account)
Summary
It's not every day that you turn seventeen. When you do, though, it's customary to wake up with the name of your soulmate written across your wrist. That's kind of the problem, actually - because Stiles somehow got himself stuck with a brooding, twenty-something werewolf for life.
Notes
I don't own this idea and I don't know who does - nor do I own Teen Wolf. Hope you like it!
Comic Relief
Stiles Stilinski doesn't wake up on his seventeenth birthday.
Instead, he launches himself from the bed at 6:00 am sharp, still more than half asleep but fumbling with the light switch anyway, because today is the day he gets his name – all he has to do is look down at his wrist, and he'll see the name of his soulmate.
It takes far too long to blink past the sleep in his eyes and read Derek Hale, in a slanted script not unlike his father's handwriting, actually.
Stiles' heart plummets. It's not Lydia, he thinks, and for the first time acknowledges the fact that he was hoping it would be her. They really weren't meant to be at all.
And then he realizes that he knows Derek Hale. Oh shit, he knows who Derek Hale is. And he's going to kill Derek Hale because he's been seventeen for years and he never told Stiles that his name was written across his wrist.
That's about the time his dad knocks on his door and interrupts the angry post-reveal stew that he's brewing. "Stiles?" he calls. "I know you're up, I heard you fall out of bed."
It takes about two seconds before he's pulling on his gloves, hiding Derek Hale from the rest of the world – and more importantly, his dad. Sheriff Stilinski had even bought Stiles these gloves, as a customary birthday present. But his dad can't know. A fugitive of the law at one time, oh holy shit what had fate done to him -
"Come in," he mumbles, and the door opens so fast it makes him dizzy.
His dad stands frozen in the doorway, looking down at his son with concern. "Are you…all right?" he asks tentatively. "What does it say?"
He can't tell his dad.
How can he tell his dad?
Oh, don't worry Sheriff. Your son's soulmate is only a werewolf who's been arrested for murder and has some major family issues and just happens to be the epitome of good looking not to mention he's like ten hundred years old –
"Stiles? Whoa, kid, are you okay?" His dad is shaking him, and Stiles is immediately angry again.
"I'm alright, dad," he croaks, and flees downstairs. It's going to be a long day.
-
Scott catches up with him on the main staircase, latching onto his sleeve and pulling Stiles backwards. "Hey!" he yells, causing some underclassmen to glance at them warily, "stop avoiding me. What's wrong?"
Stiles doesn't know how to answer. At least, not here – surrounded by people, stuck inside walls of white-out and staples. It's crushing against his chest, and the name on his wrist seems to burn like fire against his skin –
"If you don't want to talk about it," Scott says, lowering his voice and dropping his eyes to the gloves on his best friend's hands, "then I'm not gonna make you. Stop running away from me, man."
Stiles rips off the glove.
Scott's entire face goes white, and he almost chokes, "No way, no way, no – "
Derek Hale. "I know, Scott." It burns him like fire and he doesn't know if that's a good thing. Of all the people to be stuck with, out of seven billion people, he had to land himself with the moodiest supernatural creature within ten hundred miles. Oh, God. His life is like a sitcom, isn't it? Except he's not the snarky best friend like he always thought – no, this is worse, he's the comic relief.
"I need to find Derek," Stiles says, pulling the glove back on like it's an entire coat of armor.
Scott's eyes bug out of his head, and he doesn't say goodbye.
-
The Hale house is actually looking better than ever. After Isaac got tired of crashing in that uber-creepy train hangout they had, he begged Derek to let him refurnish the house. One thing led to another and the entire pack ended up fixing holes in the ceiling and slathering paint on the walls for almost a week – until a rogue psychopath with werewolf-specialized bullets wandered into town.
Anyway. Stiles isn't nervous when he bangs open the door without knocking. No, he's mad all over again – from his toes to his wrist (burning, why is it burning?) to his head, he is furious at Derek Hale.
In fact, he announces this as soon as he steps over the threshold.
"Derek!" he yells. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. I am pissed and I'm pretty sure we need to talk about this – thanks for never mentioning it, by the way, but in case you didn't know, today's my birthday. You can save the cake for later, no problem – but I know now. We're soulmates. Like, bonded for life and everything. So you can stop being a total dickhead and like, talk to me about this – anytime would be great! I'm just – "
He's finally silenced by a hand over his mouth. "Please," Derek implores. "Shut up."
They're at the foot of the staircase. Stile glares at him, smacking his arm away and pulling the glove off his right hand. "Look," he says, shoving his wrist under Derek's nose.
He doesn't even glance at it. "I know what it says," he huffs, leaning back against the railing and glowering out the window. Stiles – kinda wants to punch him in the face. It would probably hurt his hand more than Derek's jaw, but it would feel so good.
"Um," he says. "I think you're missing the point here – what does yours say?"
Derek doesn't move. Stiles is tempted to rip off his leather gloves and burn them, but it's expressively forbidden to remove someone's gloves, even if you think they're your soulmate. Scratch that, knows. He knows that the Derek Hale on his wrist is the same Derek Hale standing in front of him. Stiles just cannot understand why on earth he wouldn't tell him.
Slowly, with eyes carefully trained on his hands, Derek lifts his glove off his hand. Stiles snatches it and turns his palm over, to see –
Genim Stilinski. That's his goddamn legal name. His own handwriting, too. It's like he wrote it there himself, and oh holy shit Derek is his soulmate and he's Derek's.
That's something.
He drops Derek's hand like it scalded him (more like tickled really, but semantics) and starts laughing. It's a masochistic kind of laugh, and Derek is running a hand through his hair and reaching for Stiles' shoulder with his eyebrows scrunched up like he doesn't like the sound of it –
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, stepping back.
Derek looks at him like he's sprouted two heads and no, he doesn't check to make sure he hasn't, thank you very much. "You're five years younger than me," Derek reminds him. "Once I figured out who you were, I couldn't just walk up and announce myself to a twelve-year-old."
But that's not what Stiles is talking about.
"No," he says. "No, because I've been around you constantly – far more than I would like, to be honest – and you never mentioned it. Scott's been a part of your pack for months now. We've had group meetings on that couch! You made me vacuum the carpet after I tracked mud on it two weeks ago!"
He's yelling, with his hands up in the air, and he misses the despairing look on Derek's face.
"I'm not twelve any more, Derek! It's not impossible for people to find their soulmate before they're branded, it happens and you should have been honest with me."
He steps closer and runs a finger over Derek's wrist, over his own name, the stark black of the marking contrasting painfully with his white skin. Derek watches him, and says, "I'm glad it's you."
Stiles turns around and walks out of the house. He slams the door of his Jeep and takes a deep breath. I'm glad it's you.
He drives away.
Isolated Incident
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Derek hasn't seen Stiles in two days.
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be an issue. Sometimes he went several days without seeing anyone from his pack at all – they took off and did their own thing, with or without adult supervision, some at home and some at school. He didn't pry because he didn't particularly care where any of them went, as long as they didn't get murdered. (Or worse, bring something back to murder him. That's actually a concern now. Damn witches and their mind-control.)
But this is a problem because not only has Derek not seen Stiles in two days, but Scott hasn't either. Sheriff Stilinski hasn't seen him. Lydia hasn't seen him. Jackson, Danny, Boyd and Erica haven't seen him.
In fact, by their count, Derek was the last person to see Stiles.
You know, when he found out they were soulmates, and Derek screwed it up with his big mouth and his inability to form coherent sentences around that spastic kid – whom, as it seems, will now die for it.
Because Derek's been tracking him for the past day and a half, and he can't find Stiles. His scent literally disappears in the middle of the road, and there's nothing within a ten mile radius of that spot. It's immensely frustrating, and it doesn't help that he can't even think straight through the pain in his wrist.
Stiles' name on his hand is burning.
He doesn't know why. He's never heard of the names hurting before, not for any reason, but this pain is driving him insane.
So insane, in fact, that when he catches Stiles' scent almost fifteen miles away from Beacon Hills High School (approximately 53 hours after their last conversation) he almost misses it. It almost feels like a hallucination of the very worst kind, but luckily he's streaking through the trees before he can even think about moving.
It's a house.
He doesn't even think twice about busting down the door, but before he can even step inside there's the tell-tale click of a gun.
"I knew it," he says. A scrawny kid in black, backed against the far wall, with hands trembling on the trigger. "I knew you'd come."
Derek is far too angry to deal with bullets and words (if Stiles were here, he'd wheedle this guy to the breaking point) so he lunges forward and snaps the gun in two. "No," the kid says. "This worked. You came. Now I know how to get to you – "
He breaks off, choking, as Derek presses him into the wall by his throat. "Where is Stiles?" he growls. He can't think about what this kid is saying, he can't even begin to imagine what it means that he's here –
The kid splutters and wheezes. "Everyone knows," he gasps, "how to b-break you."
He tries to laugh, and Derek drops him like a sack of potatoes. There's a loud thump from the room next door, and the kid scrambles toward it like a rat. Derek kicks him hard enough to break several ribs, hears a pained moan, and bolts across the room.
Stiles Stilinski burns his wrist like he's actually being set on fire, and the words die in his throat when he kicks down the door.
He's there. He's sitting there, hunched over like an animal in a goddamn wooden chair – tied at the ankles and wrists, wearing the same clothes he last saw him in. Derek doesn't remember moving, but his fingers are fumbling with the knots before he can speak. "Hi there," Stiles croaks, with eyes half-lidded and a splash of dried blood on his cheek.
As the last knot is demolished under his shaking fingertips, Derek's bare skin brushes against Stiles. Immediately, the flaming ache in his wrist is soothed – like his skin was the perfect balm. Derek would love to sit and stew, would love to stop and think about what that means, but they're on sort of a tight schedule – the kid from the other room is still whimpering in the corner, but who knows what sort of backup he has.
"Time to go," he mumbles, and pulls Stiles to his feet gently. He wobbles, but manages to stay upright long enough to stumble out of the house and call Scott.
"Thanks," Stiles says, and leans his head against Derek's shoulder as they shuffle. His voice is low and quiet, and Derek's arm tightens around him at the sound. It's far too sad and far too old – 53 hours and this is what happens. He thinks about a 24/7 guard, then thinks about earplugs.
Sheriff Stilinski's car screeches to a halt beside them, in the middle of the woods on a Saturday. Scott leaps out and trips over a tree root, with Stiles's dad right behind him.
"Don't mention it," Derek says, but what he means is I'm sorry.
-
The next time Stiles can think coherently, he's in his room.
More specifically, he's sprawled across his bed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, with sore muscles and a headache the size of the Milky Way. "Oh, God," he groans, and stumbles out of bed with the intention of dripping downstairs and finding his dad, because this amount of pain should not be normal, he should put in a complaint about that –
Then he nearly jumps out of his skin because Derek is leaning against the far wall, looking up at him with an expression that rivals a puppy with its tail between its legs. "What," he mumbles. "What are you doing here?"
It's not until Derek frowns that he thinks, oh, maybe something's wrong. It's not until he absently tugs at the gloves on his hands that he thinks, oh, something is wrong. Yeah. A deranged hunter with a gun and a superiority complex, that's what's wrong.
"Do you remember what happened?" Derek asks delicately, picking his way over to Stiles with a certain wariness.
He thinks about his wrist with Derek's name on it, and the illusion of fire. "Yeah," he says, and then sways because he's so freaking tired it hurts. Instantly Derek is there, hands guiding him to the bed, where he flops down with a pained huff and rolls to face him.
"It was an isolated incident," Stiles says, and begins talking as fast as he can so that Derek will stop looking at him with those guilty-storm eyes. "The guy was a… a son of some hunter family man. He wanted respect and went after the closest pack, which, here we are. He was tracking you when he heard us talking about… about that thing, so he figured he'd take me back as bait or ransom and be like, worshipped by his family. But it turns out they had all moved camp while he was gone, and he couldn't get in touch with them. So he… was just stuck with me, really. Didn't have it in him. I'd say. Never even got to that fun stuff he was talking about, with the knife and pliers. Guess he doesn't have the guts, maybe that's why his psycho family up and – "
"Stop," Derek says, and reaches a hand out to where his shoulder is pressed into the mattress. It's less to steady Stiles than it is to steady himself. The room falls silent, and it's almost like the whole world has stopped spinning. At least, that's what Stiles wants to happen. Maybe he can completely forget the past four days and move on.
And then Derek says, "I'm sorry."
Stiles looks up at him – kind of through his eyelashes, because he hurts too much to move into an appropriate position – and splutters, "Uh, what for?"
Derek's eyebrows pinch together and he says, "It's my fault that they took you. They were trying to get to me, and used you because of the… because you're my soulmate."
He's kind of mumbling and choppy by the end, but Stiles flexes his hand without thinking and looks down at Derek Hale, stamped across his wrist in permanent black letters. He tries to be angry at Derek – he remembers that he was, several days ago – but he's far too drowsy to muster up the energy necessary for irritation.
"That's not your fault," he says. I'm glad it was you. "Fate works in mysterious ways, right?"
Stiles tugs him onto the bed, clasping their hands together and smiling when Derek sighs into his neck and relaxes. He throws an arm over Derek's back and snuggles closer, not even bothering with personal space – there was something oddly addicting about his skin, and there was no way he'd deny him that comfort right now.
They'll probably argue about this forever, Stiles thinks. But he's glad – because yeah, Derek is an emotionally constipated monster of the night with a leather fetish, but he's also destined to be with Stiles forever.
And that's kinda totally awesome.
Chapter End Notes
I might continue with this 'verse later, if the inspiration strikes again. For now, thank you all for your support!
Afterword
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