Flushed

As the end credits rolled on Machine Gun Preacher, Derek sighed contentedly and looked around. Isaac and Jackson had stretched themselves out on the floor in front of the TV after 21 Jump Street, a bowl of popcorn set between them. Now they lay there, asleep by the looks of it, their bodies were pressed together from hip to shoulder. Jackson's head had lulled to the side resting on his folded arms, while Isaac's was buried face down. Derek smiled, turning his attention to his left. Stiles had fallen asleep to, his head set at an awkward angle, that Derek was sure was going to cause him pain when he woke up. His mouth was slightly open and there was a rather unappealing trail of drool pooling against the fabric of his couch. Derek's heart skipped a beat, and he inhaled deeply, warmth spreading through him.

It was only when he went to move that he realised Stiles' legs had migrated to his lap, his right hand still wrapped around the ankle, the thumb unknowingly moving over the skin. Derek stared at his hand for a long silent minute, watching his thumb stroke and fully registering the softness of the flesh beneath it. The warmth. The way the bones shifted as Stiles involuntarily wiggled his toes. Derek listened to his heart beating in his ears and bit at his lower lip, the fantasy flickering to life in his mind. He and Stiles, like this, forever.

A groan startled him out of his own head and he yanked his hand away, eyes shooting guiltily up to where Stiles eyes fluttered open briefly, the teenager's foot wiggling insistently in Derek's lap, "Don't stop." Stiles moaned.

As gently as he could, Derek lifted Stiles off him, jaw clenched against the heat pooling in his stomach, the flames fanned by butterflies. "It's midnight," Derek said breathlessly, his back to the teenager in hopes of concealing the slight bulge in his jeans, "You should probably be getting home. Isaac, Jackson." he knocked at Jackson's foot with his own, barely noting the way Jackson's and Isaac's legs were tangled around one another.

With a frustrated groan, Jackson lifted his head, blue eyes flashing as he turned to regard the alpha. "Uh?"

"You not sleeping there." Derek said, voice rough and tight, "Go to bed." he gestured behind him at the stairs and then left the room. He heard a muttered goodnight while opening the cupboard under the sink. "Night." he easily called back.

When he returned with a dust pan and brush to sweep up the stray popcorn from the floor and couch, Jackson and Isaac were gone, and Stiles was sat up stretching out his back and neck. Derek didn't look, focusing instead on the mess the three teenagers had left behind.

"You could do that in the morning?" Stiles said around a yawn.

Derek didn't look at him, shaking his head, "Rather do it now." It was a lie, he'd much rather leave it, but it gave him a distraction from Stiles' flushed, sleep ruffled appearance that was doing all manner of things to Derek's heart, body and mind.

"Sorry for falling asleep on you." Stiles sighed, "I guess I was more tired than I thought."

"It's fine." Derek stood, carrying the pan into the kitchen.

"I swear next time, I'll stay awake." Stiles promised, following after him.

Derek turned, looking at the young man, "Maybe if you chose the movies next time, you won't fall asleep halfway through." he smirked.

"Deal." Stiles grinned back, "I..." he looked over at the clock, "I guess I should get back."

"Yeah." Derek nodded, turning and folding his arms over his chest.

The teenager didn't move though, instead he slid his hands into his pockets and leant on the wall. "It was a good night though." Stiles eventually said.

"Yeah."

"Are you...feeling alright about it?" Stiles asked meaningfully, his gaze cautious. As if scared of triggering Derek's past.

With a reassuring smile, Derek inclined his head, "I am, thank you." Though the truth was, it had simply felt like a group of people gathering to watch TV. It was most likely because the movies were more modern, thus not reminding him of his mother.

"God, it's hot." Stiles muttered, dragging his hand across the back of his neck. "I'm beginning to think summer will never end."

"It's been a long while since we've had an Indian summer like this," Derek agreed, looking over his shoulder and out the kitchen window. "But it won't last forever. I can smell it."

"As much as the heat is killing me, man, I will miss it. This has been one of the best summers I've had in a very long time."

Derek's head snapped around, brows shooting up, "Really? Even though you weren't talking to Scott?"

With a flush, Stiles shrugged, "It wasn't that bad. Honestly, our summers haven't been that great in the past few years. Not since we were kids."

Derek swallowed, dragging his tongue across his lips, "All you did was help me build this place, not exactly a fun summer."

"Depends on your definition of fun." Stiles whispered, eyes locking with Derek's.

The pair fell into a thick silence, their gazes fixed on one another across the expanse of the kitchen. There was a small voice in the back of Derek's mind telling him to close the space. To march over there and take what he wanted. It felt as if Stiles wanted it too, the way his lips rolled together, the tip of his tongue poking out to dampen them every few seconds. Derek could hear the teenager's heart beating fast and hard, the powerful scent of Stiles' arousal tainting the warm air. It was torture that Derek didn't think he could endure much longer.

The tension was broken by the ringing of Stiles cell in the other room. Tearing his gaze away from Derek, Stiles looked over to the table where he'd left it. "I should probably get that," he muttered regretfully, pushing himself off the wall and vanishing from Derek's sight.

With him gone, Derek dragged in a lungful of oxygen and combed his handing hand through his hair. Turning to the sink, Derek twisted the faucet and ducked his head, drinking straight from the tap.

He was splashing the cold water over his face when Stiles returned. "We've got to go." he said, and there was an uptick of his heart that caused Derek to frown.

"Is everything alright?" Derek asked worriedly.

"We need to leave, now." Stiles insisted. When Derek didn't move, Stiles marched over to him, wrapping his long fingers around Derek's wrist and dragging him away.

Sparks shot up his arm, and he stared wide eyed after the teenager, "Stiles, what...?"

With a shake of his head, grabbing the alpha's car keys off the table by the door, "We really need a soundproof room in this house."

Derek inhaled sharply. It wasn't until they were outside and climbing into the car, that Stiles told him what was going on, "There's been another one."

A wave of disappointment and shame flooded over Derek, "Where?" he asked thickly, twisting the key a little more forcefully than necessary.

"Beacon Hills Museum. - The call was Lydia."

Derek's head snapped around to stare at him, "I should get Jackson?"

"No." Stiles shook his head, his fingers biting into Derek's bare bicep, "She..." The teenager glanced at the house, lowering his voice, "She doesn't want him there."

"Oh?" Derek gaped, pulling the car away from the house.

_(*-*)_/

The museum was dark when they arrived, obviously. After all it was almost 1am. There was only one security guard looking after the place, and if Stiles knew Walter as well as he thought he did, the old man was probably hauled up in his office snoozing while reruns of Gunsmoke played on the crappy portable TV. – So, maybe Stiles had whiled away a few nights hanging out in the empty museum. Okay, maybe he'd hoped to discover the exhibits, what few there were, came to life after dark.

All thoughts of magic museums vanished as he heard Derek inhaled deeply beside him and felt the alpha's body stiffen.

"Stiles?"

Lydia's voice had him turning back around. The dim lights casting long shadows all over the place, meaning it took him a few seconds to pick Lydia out of them. Stiles picked up his pace, rushing over to her. "Lydia, are you okay?" he demanded, hand resting on her shoulders in a show of concern and comfort, "What happened? "

Lydia looked off to the side, into the shadows as she answered, "I was... reading, when...I felt the pull, it drew me across town. When we got here, the back door was open and... I found him." She nodded at the dark connected room.

"Peter?" Derek searched behind him, and Stiles turned, brows risen in surprise and suspicion. "What are you doing here?" Derek demanded, stepping closer to the shadows. Stiles watched him, hands still gripping at Lydia's shoulders.

Eventually, Peter stepped out, lip curves snuggly, and hands buried comfortably in the pockets of his trousers. He looked as if it were perfectly natural for him to be strolling around a museum at night. A museum with a dead body, Stiles silently reminded.

"Derek, Stiles, glad you could make it. Come on then," He jerked his head behind him, "I'm sure our favourite amateur detective would like to see the body." He turned on his heels and strolled off, Derek and Stiles staring after him dumbfounded.

Stiles looked questioningly at Lydia, who looked flushed with embarrassment, even as she straightened her spine defensively. "Lydia?" Stiles pressed.

"He's the only one who knows what I am, and can give me answers." She snapped defensively, pulling away from Stiles.

"He came with you?" Stiles gaped, looking from his friend to Derek, but was unable to ask anything more because Lydia was storming away from him, strawberry blonde hair billowing behind her. He looked at Derek, mouth hanging open and brows knitted together in confusion.

The alpha shrugged, a look of deep concern and suspicion on his face.

"This is weird, right?" Stiles whispered.

Looking over his shoulder to where the pair had vanished around the corner, Derek nodded, "Yes."

"Should I be as worried as I am?" Stiles asked, strolling over to join Derek, "About them, I mean."

"I don't know." Derek looked down at Stiles, "I'll talk to him."

"When you say talk, you mean...?"

Derek pressed his lips into a thin line and arched a brow, the intention clear. Talk meant warn. Derek would warn Peter to stay away from Lydia, and likely used threats if necessary.

"Yeah, talking is good. You talk his ear off." Stiles grinned, winking at Derek.

"You should know; you do enough of it." Derek grumbled, rolling his eyes and walking off after Peter and Lydia.

Stiles couldn't stop the loud indignant sound escaping his throat, and winced as it echoed around the silent building. Quickly, he shot a look over his shoulder to where Walter would be lounging in his office, and prayed that the TV disguised it, or they'd have some serious questions to answer.

By the time he'd reassured himself that Walter wasn't going to come rushing out of his little box yelling at them, Derek was gone. Stiles hurried after him, carefully skirting around the displays, grateful for his night vision.

He found Derek stood with Lydia and Peter staring at the body hanging from the side of an old pioneer wagon, arms outstretched crucifixion style, with the head lulling forward. Quickening his pace, Stiles dashed over to get a closer look, dragging a pair of gloves out of his back pocket. He'd known it wasn't over, so he'd come prepared. Snapping the rubber against his wrists, he squinted at the corpses throat. It should probably freak him out how okay he was with standing so close to a dead body.

Gently he lifted the long hair out of the way, eyes scanning the man's neck before rifling through the hair to his scalp, where a deep indentation stared back at him. Sighing, Stiles stepped away, dropping his eyes to the clean ground. "He wasn't killed here."

"Obviously?" Peter muttered, and then made a muffled grunting noise as someone nudged him.

Stiles had no idea who, nor did he care. He looked back at the body, chewing his lip thoughtfully while wiping his bare arm over his forehead. "How did they get in past the guard?" Stiles mused.

"We got in past the guard," Peter scoffed in reply.

Looking up, Stiles glared at the ex-alpha, "We're not carrying a dead body."

"We could be," Peter shot back, eyes flashing blue in the darkness.

Stiles straightened, tugging off his gloves before flipping Peter off, "Can someone kill him, again."

Derek huffed out a laugh and grinned, "If I thought he'd stay dead, I'd consider it."

There was a low growl that resonated from Peter but no one paid any attention. "We should get out of here," Stiles sighed, tugging out his phone and glancing at the time, "Walter will be doing his rounds in a few minutes, and the last thing we need is to be found standing next to a dead body. – Again." He looked directly at Lydia as he spoke.

With a nod of agreement, Derek and Lydia turned to leave, Peter hovering a second longer, Stiles stared at him suspiciously. "You coming?" Stiles asked, quirking a brow and waving his arm for Peter to take the lead. He wasn't foolish enough to leave his back exposed to the man, even if he could defend himself from an attack.

"This isn't over; you know that?" Peter whispered, looking from Stiles to the body. "It's barely begun."

Stiles sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair, "I know."

_(*-*)_/

"I think it's time to tell my dad," Stiles said wearily as the SUV pulled to a stop in front of the house. "Whether he's ready to hear it or not."

"Do you...? " Derek tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, "I can be there, if you'd think it would help."

Stiles stared at the dark house silently, his head already beginning to ache from the impending conversation, and the world altering consequences. "That would be great," he replied absently.

"Okay, call me when he gets home, or I could come in a wait."

Stiles head snapped around as Derek's offer settled into his brain, "Oh, uh...Don't you had a date?"

Derek met his gaze, corner of his mouth curling slightly. "This is more important." He replied, shaking his head and reaching for Stiles hand where it tapped out an agitated rhythm against his thigh.

Stiles stared down at their linked hands and inhaled deeply, raising his eyes to meet the alpha's, his tongue moving nervously between his lips.

They sat there in the darkened car, the tension thick with unspoken desire, Derek's fingers warm against Stiles own. Sweat pooled in the hollow of Stiles throat and coated his back, causing his t-shirt to stick unpleasantly. But it was all irrelevant at that moment.

Just do it.

I can't.

You know he likes you.

And if he doesn't? If I'm just imagining it? Projecting my own feelings on him.

Come on, dude, it's obvious. Just do something.

I can't. He's not ready.

He looks pretty ready.

And it was true. Derek's eyes fluttered to his lips every few seconds and the man's thumb was stroking slowly across his knuckles. Everything said it was the perfect moment to go in for a kiss, but... He just couldn't.

Are you insane!

Stiles shook his head, angrily blocking out any further argument from his mind. As much as he wanted to close the gap between them and make a bid for Derek's heart, his conscience wouldn't let him. Derek's issues were huge and important, and Stiles wasn't going to be the one to rack up yet more self-loathing and pain. He'd seen the look in Derek's eyes earlier, and despite what the alpha had said, he knew it had little to do with his mom. Whatever Stiles had jokingly said had brought up things Derek wasn't ready to deal with.

With that in mind, and with so much regret it physically hurt, Stiles pulled his hand free and turned to shove open the car door. " I'll call you when he gets in," he said, climbing out, then turning back to Derek, unable to meet his eyes. "It'll probably be pretty late; he's going to have his hands full with the body at the museum."

"Right. " Derek replied stiffly, staring out at the empty street.

There was an uncomfortable silence that hadn't been there before, and Stiles shifted his feet, kicking at the gravel with the toe of his sneaker, his forearms resting on the rolled down car window.

"I should probably get back to the house, tell Jackson and Isaac about the latest body."

"Don't mention Peter. "

Derek shot him a withering look that had Stiles lifting his hands in self-defence and taking half a step back. "I'll see you later."

Sighing, Stiles nodded, "Yeah. Thanks for a great night."

"You're welcome." Derek said rigidly, restarting the car and pulling away from the curb.

Well done. We're back to square one.

Stiles exhaled a long tired breath as he watched the car's rear lights travel further and further away, "He'll thank me for it one day." He muttered to himself.

Sure, in his wedding speech. "Jennifer and I wouldn't be here today if not for Stiles having the courage to not kiss me in a dark car".

"Oh, shut up." He scolded himself furiously, marching off towards the door. "It was your fault I kept chasing after Lydia when she obviously didn't want me. I'm not going to let you do it to me again."

Yeah, well she's obviously got terrible taste in men. Jackson. Peter.

You think her and Peter are...?

No, you think her and Peter are...

The sound of a bike engine had Stiles spinning to stare into the dark, a cold sweat breaking out over his flesh. He held his breath, body right and ready for any attack.

None came. The sound died off into the distance and Stiles figured it had gone in the other direction, away from his house. He let out the breath he was holding, but there was no relief.

_(*-*)_/

It was probably for the best, Derek thought as he drove home. He'd been too close to giving into temptation, the feel of Stiles fingers in his own had felt too comfortable, too right, that for those long few seconds that had felt more like hours, he'd contemplated throwing away all his doubts and worries about Stiles and what it would mean to start something with him, and just go for it. Simply closed that space between them and take the chance.

A part of him rationalised it. Told himself, Stiles wanted it. – And he did, Derek knew that. But the question was, what exactly did Stiles want? Did he want Derek for his appalling leadership qualities, terrible taste in movies, and overall fucked-up-ness, or did he simply want Derek for his body?

He was doing the teenager an injustice, he knew, but the doubt was still there. He was 16. A single, lonely teenager, who as far as Derek had been able to gather, had never had any kind of relationship before. He'd spent half his life besotted with Lydia, and whatever hopes he'd had about gaining the young woman's affection hadn't long been laid to rest. Derek knew all too well that it wasn't so easy getting over people. – Though, losing Paige was completely different to Stiles losing the dream of Lydia.

The fact remained, decisions made while heartbroken were dangerous. They could easily lead a person down a dark, destructive path. Especially when those decisions involved an unscrupulous adult. So yes, stopping whatever was happening between him and Stiles was for the best.

For now, at least.

_(*-*)_/

Instead of going straight to bed, Stiles spent the next few hours worrying.

Worrying about the latest murder and how it didn't fit the pattern he'd built in his head, because sure, there'd been a fourth murder, but the body hadn't been at the high school.

Why hadn't it been at the high school?

Why so long between the last murder and the new one?

He worried about the fact that he'd allowed himself to forget there was someone, an X5, out there attempting to kidnap his friends. Were the two things connected? It was possible. Crazy came in all shapes and sizes. Maybe Erica and Boyd's disappearance had nothing to do with Derek at all. Maybe it was about him. Boyd and Erica had been… Okay, they hadn't been friends, but Stiles had spent a lot of time with them over the past year, and maybe someone thought they would be a good way to get to him.

That thought sent a cold shiver through Stiles, and he hurried over to the window, looking out at the dark back yard, as if expecting to find a super-secret SWAT team preparing to raid the house. With a sigh of relief, Stiles combed his fingers through his thick hair and groaned.

Everything was so tangled. The murders, the mysterious X5, he feared it would take him too long to sort through it, meaning a lot more people would get hurt before he did. People he cared about.

Or worse, he'd never untangle the mess and everyone would die.

Once he'd finished worrying about the possibilty of a super-secret stalker, who may or may not be kidnapping and killing people, Stiles thoughts turned to Lydia and her apparent new best buddy. The thought of her hanging out, by choice, with Peter Hale was… disconcerting to say the least. It was made even worse by the fact that Lydia was doing so secretly. Why?

She's said that Peter was the only one that could give her answers, and Stiles would have to reluctantly concede that yes, Peter knew more about the supernatural than he did, but still, going to Peter of all people after everything he'd done, after leaving her in a coma for almost two weeks, was not something Stiles would expect from Lydia. No matter how desperate she was. Which led to the more disturbing question, why wasn't she telling Jackson? Better yet, why was she pushing him away?

Granted, Stiles knew things hadn't been all that perfect between them since they'd returned to school. He's seen them arguing in the corridors and the parking lot, but that's what couples did, right? – And sure, okay, Lydia and Jackson's relationship hadn't always been that...perfect. Their break up had been brutal, especially for Lydia, and he knew better than anyone how little Jackson had appreciated her. How she'd dumbed herself down so as not to humiliate Jackson in front of their peers.

But really, how was Peter any better?

As much as he'd like to believe that it was just about getting answers, Stiles knew Lydia. Better than many people did he thought, and there'd been something in the way she'd looked at Peter as they'd stood in the dark outside the museum, Stiles insisting that they drive her home, that had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and an uncomfortable twist to his heart.

Stiles could admit he was a little bitter. It was difficult to accept that Lydia would rather spend her time doing whatever it was she was doing, with someone as all-round assholey as Peter Hale, over him. He'd accepted that he didn't have a chance against Jackson, because they'd been together for so long. She loved Jackson. Jackson had been her first… everything, and so while it had broken his heart to watch her go back to him, he'd understood it. – But Peter. How the hell was he losing out to…Peter?

Stiles yanked off his t-shirt, tossing on the laundry pile and sat on the edge of his bed, kicking off his shoes, while stretching out across the mattress, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Perhaps Peter was doing some evil werewolf mojo on her? He considered with concern. Like last time. – Except what had happened to Lydia post bite had nothing to do with Peter, apparently. Stiles frowned, chewing the inside of his lip. It had all been her banshee powers that had made her go a little…off the reservation.

Scooting out of his jeans and moaning at the heat slowly licking up his body, Stiles tossed them over to join his shirt. Grabbing his phone first and staring at the time. 3:27am. "How can there be no sun and still be this hot?" he grumbled to himself, lowering the phone and closing his eyes.

His mind drifted back to Lydia and Peter, and he wondered what he was missing. By all logic, Lydia shouldn't want to be anywhere near Peter after her attack, and yet she was sneaking around to see him. For how long? He suddenly wondered. "Weeks," he whispered, "Ever since she found out about her Banshee-ness." It had to be. How many questions could she possibly have?

There was something more worrying than Lydia's apparently awful taste in men. Jackson.

Or more accurately, how it was going to the effect the pack when Jackson found out, because Jackson wasn't exactly the calmest person in the world, and now he was a damn werewolf. – A werewolf who'd already gone dark side once.

How did packs deal with this kind of thing, Stiles wondered. Affairs happened, right? Were there pack rules?

That said, Peter wasn't pack, so it shouldn't be too bad. – Except pack or not, like it or not, he was still Derek's uncle, which was bound to cause tensions.

Actually, crazed murders and stalker transgenics were sounding better by the second.

Stiles sighed wearily, and stretched his spine, dragging his hand down his sweaty chest to rest on his stomach. The soft hair of his happy trail playing at his fingertips.

Thoughts of the pack inevitably took his mind to Derek, and their confusing relationship. It was hard to believe now that he'd ever thought of the guy as a creepy murdering werewolf, because Derek was far from creepy. He'd met creepy. Peter. Matt. He knew creepy and Derek was decidedly not creepy.

He was just a social awkward mess with no concept of normal human interactions, or how to express his feelings without violence. Stiles wondered if that was down to Kate too.

Derek was just…

He was like…

Yeah, he was like the Hulk. Derek Hale was the Incredible Hulk of Beacon Hills. Lou Ferrigno was his spirit guide. Stiles snorted out loud. He stomps around smashing his way through life, barely saying two words, preferring to grunt and glare at anyone stupid enough to get in his way.

But under that shirtless, muscular physic was Bruce Banner, weighed down with guilt and self-loathing, tormented by his mistakes and trying day after day to make a mends, only to have all his good intentions destroyed by his own demons.

Stiles opened his eyes, staring sadly up at the ceiling, his chest aching at the realisation. He reached blindly for his phone and lifted it over his face, staring at the image of the house for a few minutes, before opening the device and pulling up Derek's contact. The small spur of the moment photo he'd snapped weeks ago, of Derek smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling, stared down at him, and Stiles felt his chest ache with regret.

He gazed up at it, mind replaying that relaxed happy moment across a diner table, until his eyes grew too heavy to keep open, and sleep finally took hold.

_(*-*)_/

Derek hated the heat, or at least this kind of heat. He'd woken stuck to the cushions of the couch, sweat coating his body. At least he'd had the good sense to strip out of his clothes before crashing.

Rubbing wearily at his eyes, and wincing as the bright sunlight poured in through the large window at his back, Derek pushed himself up and wiped the damp from the back of his neck. While his body was naturally able to adapt to his environment, the joys of being a werewolf, he wasn't immune to the effects of extreme weather. It was why he'd hated New York in winter. So he was currently suffering through the heatwave with the rest of Beacon Hills.

The sound of movement and two heartbeats from the next room caught Derek's attention as he approuched the kitchen. He could hear the pair talking in quiet muffled voices, but didn't pay them any attention as he made his way to the refrigerator.

Yanking open the door, Derek reached for the large unopened bottle of orange juice and chugged it down. When it was empty, he sighed and closed his eyes, savouring the cool air playing over his still damp skin.

"So, you and Stiles have a good night?" Jackson asked behind him, his tone amused and suggestive.

Turning, somewhat startled despite knowing the pair were there, Derek glanced between them, his face suddenly feeling twice as hot as it had a few seconds ago. Jackson sat, twisted in his seat, watching him expectantly, brow raised, while Isaac sat looking equally as amused, though a little more sheepish, the sun painting his blonde curls in a halo of light.

Derek looked between them, before settling his full attention on Jackson. A part of him considered letting them believe whatever they wanted, if only to avoid the inevitable anger that would come from telling Jackson the truth, but he'd promised himself that he wouldn't keep secrets from his pack. – Not again. – So, he squared his shoulders and braced his feet, "There was another murder." He informed them matter-of-factly. "At the museum." He pushed the refrigerator door closed and carried the now empty bottle over to the recycling, feeling the pairs eyes on him every step of the way.

"Lydia?" Jackson asked, his voice filled with tension.

Turning to lean back against the counter, Derek nodded, preparing for the anger. The demand to know why he and Stiles hadn't taken him with them. Instead Jackson shot out of his chair, breakfast forgotten completely as he dashed out of the kitchen. Derek watched him go, surprised by the silence. When he glanced over at Isaac, he found the teenager staring down into his bowl, an eerily familiar look on his face. It was the same look he' likely had on his own face when Stiles had rejected him only a few hours ago.

It didn't take much to put the pieces together, and honestly, it wasn't a surprise to him. At least the fact that Isaac was interested in guys wasn't. While they hadn't discussed it, Derek had his suspicions. He'd figured Isaac had developed a crush on Scott a while ago. Though in hindsight he probably should have talked to Isaac about it, especially in light of recent events.

It wasn't that he thought Scott had used Isaac's infatuation, he hoped the boy wasn't that vindictive, but it had certainly made it easier for him to get into Isaac's head. And now, it looked like Isaac had transferred his feelings from Scott to Jackson, which wasn't any better. This time he'd have to say something, because this time it was a genuine risk to the packs stability.

The sound of hurried heavy footsteps on the stairs drew both their attention, and they looked up expectantly, only for Jackson to never return to the kitchen. Instead Derek watched from his place at the counter, as Jackson hurriedly yanked open the front door and vanished through it, not even bothering to close it behind him. – And without so much as a by your leave.

Derek looked over to Isaac, watching as the teenager's shoulders slumped and he slowly got to his feet. "Isaac?" he began quietly, but Isaac's hand came up, silencing him.

The beta looked at him only briefly, face flushed with embarrassment, and clearly indicating he didn't want to talk about it. As he crossed the kitchen, Derek's eyes landed on the distinctive purplish bruise on the boy's neck and he gritted his teeth. Perhaps it was Jackson he needed to have words with.