Sunlight streams through the windows of the penthouse and pour onto Derek's face, the inviting beams make his eyes flutter open and his arm instinctively reaches up to run through the damp black hair matted to his forehead. It isn't warm in the loft, but nevertheless, Derek's sweating profusely. He rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, and something doesn't feel quite right. A large hand picks up the phone from where's residing on the bedside table and a swift swipe to the calendar confirms that he isn't even shooting today, so why was he awake? The time reads 6:45 am, and Derek doesn't get up, he doesn't even make a move of getting out of bed any time soon. He sits up and his groggy eyes scan the bleak walls of the loft, from the city skyline to his right, over the ramshackle table and spiral staircase in front of him, all the way to the heavy steel entrance to his left. He's catching a scent he's never smelled before, but his heightened senses let him know that he's absolutely alone in his apartment aside from the pigeon on the windowsill that won't stop pecking at the glass. The black wife beater he's wearing clings to his torso like a second skin and he wracks his brain, trying to remember bits and pieces from the nightmare he'd had the night before. It's fascinating, having visions so vivid and so realistic, and then they're gone as quickly as they were imagined up. Derek leans back against the headboard and lolls his head gently to the left, where a dried leaf is blowing across the concrete floor with the breeze of the cracked window. Curiosity gets the best of him, and with narrowed green eyes he inquisitively lifts a corner of his bedsheets to reveal more tattered leaves scattered across the mattress and dirt plastered in splotches on his legs and feet.
Great. He's sleepwalking again. Well, the wolf inside of him is.
Derek slips his legs cautiously over the side of bed and stands, fingering at the hem of his black tank to grip it and peel it away from his sticky body before tossing it in the vicinity of the laundry basket behind the headboard. He knows something is wrong. He doesn't want to look down, but he does, and his chest is surging underneath a paste of mud and…is that blood? Another breeze creeps into the loft and carries the scent up to Derek's nose while his fingers tremble, feeling their way over the caked mud. This isn't mine. He can't remember the last time his hands wavered so forcefully like this, and he turns them over a few times with the wolf inside clawing at his chest trying to help him desperately remember his dream. Perhaps it wasn't, and that's why he was struggling so much to not shift, and maybe that's what the sickening feeling is in the pit of his stomach. Derek doesn't scare easily, but he's terrified right now and has no idea fucking why, and the last time he was sleepwalking three miles into the middle of the fucking woods was when he was in high school, so whatever this thing is that's brewing in Beacon Hills is affecting more than just its human residents. The only thing Derek's hoping for as he clenches his hands to stop them from quivering, is that he didn't kill anyone.
It's not even noon and Stiles is already trying to solve another fucking murder. It seems like every single time he thinks he figures something out, another wrench—or another body, rather—makes the problem more and more uncontrollable. Evidently, this new corpse is just like the other gelatinous flesh pile they'd found earlier in the week, and with the permission of his father, he's been granted access to the morgue. Sort of. He's been given permission to accompany someone who's been granted access to the morgue, under the conditions that he touches absolutely nothing. "If you do so much as breathe on that body, I'm grounding you," were the exact words the Sheriff had commanded, and he's not about to get ratted out by a hellhound.
"Melissa's up a few floors, so I think you'll be okay investigating without getting caught," Parrish encourages, and with a swift turn, the cool steel door squeaks open and the lights flicker on at the detection of motion. There are two large metal trays on one of the examination tables with a large sheet covering both of them, and Stiles swallows thickly before cautiously padding forward after the deputy. "These are the latest two victims we found. Honestly, I'm not even sure we can call them victims because none of the DNA belongs to anyone dead."
The room is cold and sterile and smells faintly of formaldehyde and bleach, with the white fluorescent lights casting a sickly glow on both the living and the dead. Parrish reaches forward and delicately folds the sheet back to reveal the remains. Stiles closes his eyes briefly and silently thanks all of his high school illegalities for giving him a strong stomach, because there's a legitimate blob of melted skin in the tray on the table. "What the fuck is this?" He reaches into his pocket to pull out a small knife and pokes at whatever monstrosity is liquefied in front of him.
"Stiles don't—"
"Calm down, you would've done it." He's swirling the dagger around and lifts it up, and both of them grimace at the long, slimy string of goo connecting the blade to the remains. "This is fucking disgusting." He pushes the pile around some more, and honestly, what kind of lunatic are they dealing with here? The only rational explanation he can think of is a disease actually separating the skin from muscle tissue, and they haven't had a case of Ebola in Beacon Hills literally ever. Plus, who infects someone, waits for them to die, and takes a fucking skinned body? Maybe they are dealing with a serial killer, a biohazardous serial killer.
"Wait, Stiles, stop," Parrish quipped, and he's picked up a pair of toothed forceps, "I think that's an ear." Sure enough, the steel forceps reach in with a squish and retrieve an entire ear, which Parrish lays back on top of everything else despite the sneer on Stiles's lips. There's very little blood on any of the skin in the tray, and definitely not in what's left of the ear that Parrish is now poking at with a scalpel, which leads him to rule out the Ebola theory considering they'd be dealing with a festering smoothie of hot blood, liquefied organs, and contagion-riddled vomit.
The rolling tray clatters when Stiles bumps into it and Parrish looks up at him with interested green eyes and a furrowed brow, while he paces in front of the examination table. "I need to do some research. This definitely isn't a serial killer." Stiles watches Parrish cover the tray back up with the cloth, "I've never seen anything like this before."
Parrish's body stiffens, and his voice lowers to a whisper, "Neither have we."
"And you don't know who they are?"
An autopsy report is pushed across the examination table and Stiles reaches for it with hesitant fingers, and he's a little uneasy at the mystery that waits for him in the chart. "They tested a sample of the skin from each of these trays. There's animal hairs and blood from the dead bodies we have," the deputy says, watching Stiles thumb through the papers on the clipboard in his hands, "but these piles of tissue? It's the same DNA. They're from the same person, and that person is still living, according to our records."
"Derek Hale," Stiles mutters to himself as the mugshot with the lens flares shows up paperclipped to the second autopsy report. "I don't understand. You haven't arrested him?"
"We have no grounds. Look at this shit, Stiles." Parrish whisks the cloth off of both trays at once and good god, that's repulsive. "If this was Derek, he'd be dead."
"That just means I have some research to do, now doesn't it?"
—
Pages and pages of information and almost all of it seems to be completely useless considering Stiles has been at it for over three hours and still hasn't uncovered anything even remotely relevant to the details of the case. There's a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad sitting on the desk to Stiles's right and in his chicken-scratch is a list of creatures he's already managed to eliminate, with the exception of four.
Werewolf
Hellhound
Demon
Changeling
Ghost
Ghoul
Leviathan
Djinn
Wendigo
Zombie ?
Necromancer
Witch
Aswang
Skinwalker
Shapeshifter
He's stressed. "Alright," he mumbles, his hands rubbing together and fingers wiggling, "let's see what we've got here. Aswang, you're up." There's an unsettling feeling in the pit of Stiles's stomach that's never been there before, and he can only assume that whatever reason is causing it isn't a good one. He desperately doesn't want Derek to have anything to do with this because it means he'd be falling for a murderer, and while that's insanely in character for who he is as a person, Stiles isn't sure he's quite ready to visit Derek in prison while he brings in the next fucking Al Capone or something. Werewolf is at the top of this creature catalog with the single most reason being that Derek is one, and if he does turn out to be the one slaughtering the residents of Beacon Hills like lambs…Stiles doesn't want to even imagine it. "Aswang," he repeats, and the article has piqued his interest because now he's worried that he's falling for a murderer.
"Shapeshifters disguised as townspeople, quiet and elusive, transform at night into creatures like bats, crows, boars, or most commonly," Stiles's voice lowers to a whisper, "big black dogs. Oh, God." He doesn't even know, does Derek turn into a big black dog? Dogs and wolves are the same, right? He grabs a pen and starts jotting down important factoids on the legal pad to his right. "Enjoys unborn fetuses and small children, okay. Has a long prob—uh, probose—proboscises?" Stiles vaguely remembers studying insect anatomy in biology and makes a side note for the poor sap that has to read these in the case file, "Tubey tongue to suck the children out of their mother's wombs while they're sleepi…Jesus Christ, that's horrifying. Uh, fast and silent, if noises are made, louder the noise, the farther away to cause confusion, will replace victims with plant material doppelgangers, bloodshot eyes, nocturnal, daywalkers, what else?" There are two stacks of books upon books in the corner of the desk that are old and tattered with yellowing pages, and the one on Filipino lore isn't one Stiles has even cracked open yet. He picks it up and skims over the table of contents to find the creature he's looking for before turning to the proper page and intently scanning the behavioral page. "Vulnerable in the daytime because of a lack of superhuman strength, can also be befriended?" That's a gamechanger.
He likes to think that he and Derek are friends, with the cupcakes and the sink fixing and the ride home, but then again, Derek isn't the most pleasant of people, so maybe they're not friends. "Can be repelled or killed with garlic, salt, and religions artifacts, cannot step on consecrated ground, decapitation is also an option," Stiles reads further to find an easier way to immediately decide if Derek is going to go baby sucking any time soon, "To spot an aswang in daytime, look straight into their eyes. If the reflection is upside-down, the person in front of you is an aswang. Another way is to look at the person upside-down between your legs and if their image is different, they're an aswang. Okay, easy enough." He's terrified because what if Derek is this fetus-draining, tubey-tongued, daywalking thing that he sees every single day stroll into his bakery to get a dozen cupcakes? The FBI can't just catch him and lock him up because a prison full of meals isn't going to prevent murders, but facilitate them even more, so Stiles is slowly realizing that if this ends up being what they're looking for, he's going to have to literally cut Derek's head off.
His long fingers reach for a prescription bottle of Adderall up next to the dusty lamp casting a warm glow on almost everything in the dark room. The blinds are drawn and the sunlight is leaking through to draw lines on the carpet, over books and clothes and maps that he's using to figure out how to best monitor a perimeter in the preserve. Without taking his honey brown eyes off of the computer screen, he pops the lid on the bottle and tosses two pills into his mouth and washes them down with a swig of water, willing himself to focus for just a little while longer. He's got to get down to the station and let Parrish and his father know what he's found so far, so that mistakes are kept to a minimum, along with the whole town protection thing too. Stiles sighs deeply and shuts his computer, that uneasy feeling in his stomach only worsening at the heartbreaking possibility of seeing Derek at the bakery later when he goes to check on Liam and Scott. He knows that there's a very very strong possibility that Derek is just an alpha and not some creepy fetus stealer, and for a moment the sick feeling he had goes away at the thought of Derek's dark, stubbly face and how it probably feels rubbing against his own jaw, with those perfect lips and those indignant, tantalizing green eyes. Maybe, once all of this chaos passes, Stiles can take Derek on a date, probably a nice restaurant, maybe a hike through the preserve, or just a movie night in, who knows. He shakes his head to try and focus back on packing his things into a backpack, sliding in the old books and the pages of research he's printed off of the internet. He zips the bag and grabs the Adderall for good measure before he runs downstairs and snatches his keys off of the hook by the door. "Please let me be wrong."
Stiles runs into the station and nearly misses three deputies in an attempt to get to the Sheriff's office as quickly as he can, one of those being just the one he was looking for. "Perfect timing," Stiles pants, attempting to catch his breath before he throws open the door to his dad's office and starts talking a mile a minute, "Parrish, I've found something."
The sheriff holds a hand up to Stiles once he's opened the door and the younger purses his lips in frustration as he tosses a look to his left and right at Parrish, who's patiently waiting. Stiles is rolling his eyes at the fact that no one seems to have a sense of urgency around here? People are dying and he could have a lead and no one is listening to the FBI intern with an insatiable itch to just dig, dig, dig into research and—
"What is it now, Stiles?"
"Dad!" he all but sobs with an eclectic mixture of excitement and terror and nearly everything in between, barely able to get his words out coherently, "I think got something that might help. You see, I found this creature called an aswang a-and I have a theory on how it could be related to Derek so—"
"Whoa, whoa, Stiles," the sheriff picks up the paper Stiles has all but gently slid across the desk and his brow furrows, "slow down. You're telling me that this creature could be the one killing people?"
Stiles nods vigorously until his father sets the paper down again, and his eyes shift to the deputy standing beside his son. "Parrish, can you do some reading on this? Make sure that we have enough precautionary defense just in case this is what we're dealing with." Stiles watches Parrish leave the office before he ponders ways to prod at the gears turning in his father's head, unsure if he's going to take any drastic measure to protect the rest of the town. "We've gotten reports of a large black dog with red eyes trashing yards and running into the woods. No one's gotten a picture of it, so animal control's been trying to track its movements and catch it, but we aren't sure if it looks—
"Like this?" Stiles holds up an issue of Loup-Garou magazine from several years prior and on the front, a large black wolf is perched on a craggy rock looking with glowing crimson eyes toward the bolded text on the side column, The Unstoppable Derek Hale. He raises an eyebrow and tosses the magazine down on the desk, landing with a smack on top of various case files and Stiles's copious notes on the aswang. "I found it in the public library periodicals. Don't you think that maybe I should—"
"No," his father interrupts, "I think we're going to look into this, and that you in absolutely no way should take any matters into your own hands. Let us do our job, and you need to keep yourself safe and undercover. If you see something, you call me or Parrish. Are we understood?"
Stiles can't believe he's being benched, per usual. "Dad, are you sure? Please, let me help! I can—"
"Are we understood?"
"Fine," Stiles bites, bobbing his head and pursing his lips before he spins on a heel and walks out of the office. Seriously? With everything that's going on and all of the supernatural drama he was involved with in high school, Stiles doesn't understand why he's not being utilized more in the investigation. He's pretty damn good with that baseball bat in the back of his car. He makes his way out of the sheriff station and hops back into his jeep, rumbling his way down to the bakery.
Stiles spends the next couple of hours helping Liam finish baking up the healthy alternatives for the Argent shoot tomorrow, and surprisingly enough, he's figured out a way to make the cupcakes taste just as good with more wholesome ingredients. He's putting away all of the contents strewn across the counter and doing his best to clean the whole wheat flour, coconut oil, and Greek yogurt splattered on the kitchen island as he goes, so that once it's time to leave, he can pack up and head out to the woods in search of clues. He rolls his eyes as he puts the applesauce back into the cooler, because he's not just going to sit this one out. Since when has he ever listened to instructions? For god's sake, he's kept the fucking police scanner in his car for over 6 years when his father told him to take it out over 6 years ago, so like hell is he going to just hang back and let everyone else get to do all of the fun crime-solving.
He runs into Liam hanging his apron up on the hook next to the door and offers a kind smile. "Thank you so much for helping with all of this," Stiles says, turning on an oven light to check the cupcakes, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."
"No problem," Liam responds, and he's pointing at the oven, "I forgot how much I like baking things. I get why you do it. It's cathartic."
Stiles watches the batter bubbling in the tins and turns to the teen in the doorway with a curious look. "You're helping tomorrow, right? I could use an extra set of hands getting all the stuff there while Scott's holding down the fort here. I'm sure we won't be very long."
"Yeah, why not?" Liam smiles and agrees before leaving, and Stiles can hear him from the kitchen as he walks out the front door, "Oh, shit, sorry man."
Stiles curiously peeks his head out from the kitchen and sees none other than Derek, green eyes brightly gazing around the shop as if he'd never seen it before. He's in all black, with a leather jacket hanging over his broad shoulders, and sunglasses suspended on the collar of his black Henley. Stiles's chest immediately tightens, and he desperately wants everything he's researched to disappear because Derek is so stunning and all he wants is to be able to pine from afar and not think he's a homicidal maniac. Act nonchalant, Stiles. It's just Derek. Taking a calming breath, Stiles walks into the storefront with a smile on his face and a panic in his heart. "Hey, Derek, what can I get you?"
Derek turns from staring at the record player and flashes Stiles a smile? "Hey, Stiles. Could I get a dozen chocolate cupcakes?" Stiles stops and glances around for a second before leaning over the counter to stare directly into Derek's jade orbs, and his reflection? Normal, he thinks. "Stiles, what are you doing?" Derek's eyes keep shifting back and forth between both of Stiles's and he swears, for a second the light hit them and they just illuminated a silvery white before returning to a light green.
"Just making sure you're okay," Stiles answers with a chuckle, popping back behind the register. "I never thought I'd see the day you order something besides your usual." And there it is again, Derek Hale smiling at something Stiles said, which makes the baker nervously grin back at him.
"Just mixing it up today."
"Well, let me box those up for you." So, Stiles does, packs up the chocolate and vanilla, and stares at the prepackaged dozen of red velvet sitting in the refrigerator with a frown on his face. Something isn't right. He takes the mixed dozen and puts a sticker on the edge of the box before he slides it across the counter to Derek, who pays happily. "Derek, I told you, you get free cupcakes. I'm not going to accept this."
Derek pauses, hand hovering over the cash laid on the counter. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. Enjoy your cupcakes."
"See you tomorrow, Stiles," Derek chimes, and flashes another grin before taking the money back and leaving the bakery. Stiles purses his lips and falls to sit back against the wall behind the register, because what the fuck just happened? He may or may not be slightly offended that Derek didn't get his usual red velvet considering he finally got the hint to have them already ready for the brooding alpha for when he gets here. And why was he smiling? Derek Hale doesn't smile ever. All of the magazines Stiles went through at the library this morning proves exactly that point, with every single spread being absolutely gorgeous, but a scowl is carved into Derek's features in each and every photo. Everything is silent for a second, and Stiles doesn't think he even heard Derek's Camaro angrily roar away, but he does, however, hear it angrily purr into the parking lot.
And Derek walks into the bakery.
"Derek?"
He's in a red Henley and dark wash jeans with an inky scruff spread along his cheeks and soft lips, which are curved downward into their typical scowl. "What the fuck are you doing?" He glares down at Stiles from in front of the register, his expression softening a little when he listens to how rapidly the boy's heart is pounding inside his chest.
"You were just here."
"No, I wasn't. I was just at the sheriff station." Derek's then looks just as confused as Stiles's, and they both are silent for a moment before Derek walks over to the front door and flips the deadbolt. He closes the blinds in both storefront windows and stalks back over to where Stiles has gotten up off of the floor. "Stiles, what the hell are you talking about?"
Stiles grimaces at Derek, "What do you mean what am I talking about? You literally just came in here five minutes ago all fucking smiles and got your cupcakes and walked out! And you're telling me you were at the sheriff station? Nice try, buddy." He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and glowers right back at Derek as he dials his father.
"Stiles—" Is Stiles seriously holding a hand up in his face right now? He can feel his blood boiling and his claws are digging into his palms, letting small droplets of blood onto the floor.
"Hey, dad, was Derek—he was? No, he was at the bakery. What do you mean no? I sold him a dozen cupcakes, of course he was here! I have—Dad—D—DAD, listen to me. I literally have it on camera! Y-Yes, I can bring it home to prove to you it's real, I just—yes, okay, but—okay, bye." Stiles looks from Derek, to the door, back to Derek. "Why were you at the sheriff station?"
"Why is it any of your business?" Derek snaps, slamming a fist on the counter.
Stiles stares straight into Derek's eyes. "Because your little werewolf ass just came back into my bakery after leaving less than 5 minutes ago with the biggest fucking cheeseball grin on your face and you were nice for once in your life? If you told me right now that it wasn't you, I honestly wouldn't be surprised because it's clearly going to give you some heartburn if you act pleasantly toward someone for more than ten seconds. You're one of the most insufferable people I've ever met in my life."
"It. Wasn't. Me." Derek grits out, trying to control his anger. "I was at the sheriff station to answer a few questions about the murders around here and clear my fucking name, considering I'm apparently a suspect even though I've been at work every time someone dies." Derek's scanning Stiles for anything suspicious, because he still doesn't understand why Stiles would have that case file and he's been involved with law enforcement enough in his life to know that the last thing the sheriff should legally be doing is letting his child in on a criminal investigation.
"So, you're a fugitive now?" And Derek senses himself climb over the counter to grip the front of Stiles's apron, and with a swift motion, Stiles is slammed against the wall with Derek's body pressing into him to hold him there, growling inches from his nose. He lets out a shaky breath and his honey brown eyes shift rapidly back and forth between Derek's seething red ones, the wolf's lips curled into a snarl to reveal long, pearly canines. "Wow, grandma, what big teeth you have."
"You better fucking watch it," Derek barks maliciously, claws tearing through the apron in a bout of anger. The wolf inside is thrashing at the earthy, cinnamony scent wafting off of Stiles and it turns his vexation into a craving for more of that smell. Stiles is scanning Derek's features because his look went from feral to hungry is a matter of seconds, but he's not about to bear his throat in submission to this indignant jackass that obviously always has the upper hand. He's pissed at Derek for ripping his apron and he's pissed at Derek for threatening him and he's pissed at Derek for pinning him against the wall with his rock-hard body because he's so into the woodsy smell of Derek's aftershave and the feeling of his chest pressed against his own.
"I'm not afraid of you, Derek," Stiles whispers, letting his eyes flicker between Derek's eyes and his perfectly pink mouth, and he lets out a shaky breath and flicks his tongue out to lick his own lips. Nervous habit.
Derek knows he's only partially lying because he can smell the fear coming off of Stiles, and the rage, and the lust. The wolf is yearning for more contact, but Derek backs up and drops Stiles, blinking away the ferocity and climbing back over the counter. He stalks over to the front door and flips the deadbolt to let himself out. "You should be."
—
The next morning, Allison rushes to meet Stiles and Liam in the parking lot of the studio they're shooting at with dazzling smile and big hug. "Thank you so much for doing this for us. It means a lot and I know the crew is going to have a field day with good snacks. How can I help?" Stiles hands her a pastry box full of cupcakes and picks two others up to carry himself, Liam taking a crate of bread and shutting the back of the Jeep. "Okay," Allison says, "Follow me. Be as quiet as you can, they're already shooting."
She leads them into the freight doors of the studio space and Stiles can't help but look around at the old warehouse and how economical the Argents are with their designing. The trailers are in the parking lot but inside there's rusty shipping crates converted into dressing room spaces with furniture and vanities, and there's standalone vanities set up around different shooting areas for makeup and hair. It's incredibly intricate for such a large operation, and Stiles wonders how long they've been doing editorials. There's a long wooden table in the middle of the warehouse where Allison's stopped, rearranging the fruits and veggies already on there to make room for the boxes of cupcakes and treats.
"I don't want to do this anymore, Chris," a blond girl storms around a white backdrop and is making a beeline for the food table while Allison's father jogs after her with a camera in his hands, "he's starting to piss me off with his attitude."
Chris sighs with a look that says he knows she's right. "Erica, you don't have many shoots left with him. Once they're over, fight all you want, I'd just like to keep my white sheets white. I have too many that are bloodstained already." He follows her to where she's halted right in front of the box of red velvet cupcakes Stiles has just opened, reaching in and taking one. She scans Stiles's lanky frame and takes a bite of the treat in her hand.
"Who are you?"
"My name's Stiles," he offers with an outstretched hand that Erica doesn't plan on taking. "I'm just dropping off some cupcakes."
She takes another bite and narrows her gaze, and with a mouthful of scarlet crumbs, she inquires, "You're the baker?" And Stiles nods with a small smile because yes, he is in fact, the baker. Erica's face lights up with a crazed grin and she turns to Chris. "Make him do it. He'll listen to the baker."
Chris seems to ponder the idea for a moment and Stiles just stares at Liam because, honestly, he has no idea what's going on or why it's happening but if he gets to take some photos today, it'll be a weird fantasy come true. "Okay, Stiles, let's get you a wardrobe."
They get him out of his graphic tee and flannel and into a thick knit blue sweater with a left breast pocket and a pair of slim fit dark wash jeans to accentuate the figure Stiles never knew he had. Allison fixes his hair and Lydia puffs on some makeup, both girls relentlessly inquiring about his new internship at the FBI. He makes sure to stick to the story that Agent McCall gave him because there's absolutely nothing that's going to throw him off of his game except for—
"Chris, I'm not doing this." Stiles knows that gruff, irritated voice anywhere. He turns in the swivel chair and comes face to face with Derek, who's looming over Stiles in a pair of blue jeans and no shirt. "There's no way—"
"Humor me, Derek," taunts Chris, "Stiles is great at following direction and I'm sure he took his Adderall this morning. You'll be fine." He walks back to the backdrop and Derek looks pissed, but Stiles isn't going to let this opportunity to put Derek in his place pass him up.
"C'mon, Derek, I don't bite." And Stiles raises an eyebrow before he leaves Lydia's vanity and meets Chris in front of the backdrop with a growling Derek in tow.
Chris's only direction is, "Do what feels natural." Derek fists Stiles's sweater and pulls him close like he'd done in the bakery the night prior, but Stiles isn't afraid this time. He's got a huge smirk on his face and Derek's trying hard not to shift and rip off the sweater that looks so good on Stiles's slim frame. "Why are you here?" Chris is snapping photos and Stiles brings an arm up to grip Derek's wrist, while the photographer keeps yelling at them to "act on natural chemistry" because apparently that's a thing that they have.
"Allison asked me to cater healthy snacks, so here I am," Stiles explains, letting his eyes wander over Derek's naked torso, shimmering with perspiration underneath the warm studio lights. "Anything else you'd like to know?" Stiles can see the intrigue in Derek's eyes and he tightens his grip on Derek's wrist with both hands now, never once breaking eye contact. "You wanna let me go?"
Derek doesn't, he doesn't ever want to let the little shit go because he smells so good and he had no idea Stiles had muscle mass underneath the six shirts and flannels he wears to work every day. He does though, and almost immediately Stiles rushes forward and clasps one hand around Derek's throat and the other pins his left hand over his head when they crash into the wall that the backdrop sheet is hanging in front of. Chris yells something about artistic vision and Derek's eyes pierce through Stiles's brown orbs, and his right hand reaches up to grab the hand around his throat, but Stiles swings his wrist out, smashing Derek's hand against the cinderblock wall and pinning it with the other above his head in a singlehanded grip. His right hand returns to its place around Derek's neck and he smirks at his self-defense training. "If you want to fight Derek, I'll fight." His thumb presses into the side of Derek's neck and Stiles can feel his pulse racing underneath his fingers, almost as if Derek's enjoying their bickering. He's fully aware that Derek could break out of this hold at any time, and he's also fully aware that Derek isn't going to hurt him, but the only thing he's focusing on right now is that Derek's panting up against the wall and doesn't seem to have any intention of breaking free.
"I like this obedient Derek centerfold inspiration," Chris yells over the music pulsing through the studio speakers, "I've never seen it before. Keep doing what you're doing, Stiles."
So, Stiles keep doing what he's doing, his eyes shifting between Derek's apoplectic green ones in front of him, and he smells that aftershave again as it lingers in the air around Derek's jaw. Stiles is so close to his face that he's surprised Derek hasn't shifted yet, and a warmth in his chest spreads throughout his entire body when he watches Derek's eyes slide down from his eyes to his lips. He wants so badly to capture Derek's whole body between himself and the wall and, God, just bite that perfect scowl that's always etched onto his face. He smoothly slips his left knee against the wall between Derek's legs, and that earns him a breathy growl from the older that he cuts short, pushing his hand up to the tender flesh right underneath Derek's jaw and jerking his head to the right to expose Derek's throat.
"Good, hold it!" Chris praises, encouraging Stiles to look left into the camera. "Now switch, Stiles, stand behind Derek and do that again!"
And Derek doesn't resist when Stiles lets him go, he only steps forward to let Stiles squeeze behind him, and when he does, he pushes his back against the younger and knocks the breath out of him. Derek grinds his teeth when Stiles inhales deep on the back of his neck and he's glaring at Chris, who's snapping a burst of Stiles's arms snaking over his shoulders to grab his throat with his right hand. The wolf is ripping at the inside of his chest and he's sweating because Stiles smells like rain and leaves and it's all so crisp and clean that the wave of pheromones that rolls off of Stiles surprises Derek a little bit. He clenches his jaw and turns his head to look at the boy, and all he sees is a little simper from Stiles before long, slender fingers spider their way into his hair and yank his head to the left. His throat is vulnerable again and he can hear his heart drumming in his chest and drowning out the relentless gnashing of the wolf under his skin, he swallows thickly and lets his eyes go red at the camera. He doesn't pay attention to anything Chris is shouting but Stiles does, and all of a sudden, he smells embarrassment and Stiles doesn't let Derek up at all while he protests with the photographer.
"I-I can't do—are you sure? I'm clearly already crossing a line here," Stiles argues, shooting a look down at Derek, who scowls right back and snarls when the fingers in his hair clench tighter, "he's going to rip my throat out if I bite him. He's already crushing me against the wall." Derek pushes backward and a breathless 'Fuck' tumbles from Stiles's lips and sends a shiver up his spine. "Fine," Stiles barks, "I'll fucking bite him."
"Stiles, when this shoot is over, I swear to God I'm going to—" Derek's breath stops and catches right in the back of his throat when Stiles's blunt human teeth roughly sink into the tendons on the exposed side of his neck. Stiles flicks his tongue against the damp skin between his teeth, tightening his hold on the alpha's throat by pressing a thumb into Derek's carotid artery and feeling the pulse thump beneath his fingertips. Derek's skin is salty, and the musky smell of the wolf and the aftershave is flooding Stiles's nose and wow, he's sweating in the cord-knit he has on and he's become hyperaware of Derek's tight ass firmly pressed into his groin. His mind is spinning because he has no idea where this rage and dominance came from when he feels Derek's throat vibrate with a low rumble, so he bites down harder because, oh yeah, Derek being a fucking asshole all the time has driven an urge inside Stiles to put him in his place. He bets a pretty face like Derek's doesn't get told no very often.
Derek's stewing and the wolf is in a frenzy because it just wantswantswants everything about Stiles and he's trying so hard to stay calm, but his eyes are flickering with each puff of the baker's hot breath on his neck and he just relinquishes every ounce of control he has left and lets the booming howl rip from his core. It hurts and his body burns and he notices Stiles's hold on him slackens when his knees give out and his leaden body becomes two hundred pounds of dead weight.
The whole crew is gathered behind Chris, who hasn't stopped holding down the shudder button, and they're staring at Stiles with endless curiosity. "Okay, guys, take a break and wardrobe change, and we'll regroup in thirty with Derek and Stiles." Everyone disperses except for the aforementioned pair and Stiles just watches the contraction of Derek's intercostals as he pants on all fours.
"Derek, I—are you okay?" he chokes out, reaching a hand down to gently touch the wolf's shoulder. Derek's arm flies up and wraps around his wrist before he even gets close, and he doesn't even turn around when he tightens his grip and lets his claws pierce the pale skin on Stiles's forearm. The boy hisses and wrenches his wrist free, leaving droplets of his precious B negative on the pure white muslin under their feet.
"Shut up, Stiles." And Derek stalks off.
—
Derek can't sleep. He doesn't understand Stiles and he doesn't understand himself, and he can't grasp this infatuation he has with the spine-tingling chill that comes when Stiles wraps his long, willowy fingers tight around Derek's neck. He's so fucking angry at himself for submitting because he's an alpha for fuck's sake, but Jesus Christ, that rush of pure pleasure he felt with Stiles's teeth embedded in his skin is something he needs more of. His eyes flutter shut, and his fingers find their way to his neck to rub the tender bruise where he's purposely halted the healing process. If he wasn't sure about his attraction to Stiles, he's definitely interested now.
Stiles had apologized after their second session in the studio, for reasons unknown, and Derek just thinks Stiles is assuming his boundaries. The second shoot was less aggressive, but Derek was sure the boy was shaken from the events of their first. They tried a bit of role reversal the second time around, with Derek fully clothed on the ground with a stunningly shirtless Stiles looming over his body. The boy's skin is dotted with little moles and it's so smooth that Derek had to be careful not to reach up and touch him in fear that he'd lose himself again. He's got a lean, muscular frame on him too, with an enticing trail leading from his navel and disappearing under the waistband of his Calvins. Just thinking about it is making him sweat and the wolf stir in his body, and now he's livid about it all over again. He's even angrier about the fact that he'd locked himself in his dressing room and by the time he'd come out, Stiles was gone and in his place was a small cardboard cube with a handwritten note taped to the top that read, I brought you one that wasn't made with whole wheat flour and applesauce, but with all the gluten and carbohydrates. He'd left another business card underneath the note, with a phone number written in white gel ink overtop the stripes on the back of it.
Derek didn't call it, and Derek doesn't plan on calling it, but not because he doesn't want to. He's never been this scared in his life. He's not sure why he's so afraid, maybe because he's not quite sure what falling for someone so absolutely fucking right feels like, maybe because the wolf inside of him is definitely sure that its Stiles, maybe because he knows that he's not going to be able to deny this craving he and the wolf have whenever he steps foot into that fucking bakery. But something isn't right still, and Derek just needs to keep this insatiable ache at bay long enough for him to figure out what's so peculiar about the baker. The moonlight streams into the windows and casts shadows on the foot of Derek's bed that wills him to restless sleep, yet another night full of visions.
Stiles can't sleep. He doesn't understand Derek and he doesn't understand himself, and he can't grasp this fixation he has with the surge of desire that comes when Derek gasps and quakes and growls underneath the touch of Stiles's fingers. He's so fucking angry at himself for relentlessly taking control because Derek's an alpha for fuck's sake, but Jesus Christ, that wave of hedonism he felt with Derek's pulse flowing through his fingertips is something he wants more of. His eyes flutter shut, and his fingers find their way to his wrist to rub the halfmoons from Derek's claws where they pierced his skin and drew blood. If he had any doubts about how alluring Derek is, they've flipped to absolute certainty.
Derek had stormed off after their second session, so Stiles should've known a cupcake and a phone number wouldn't even come close to making up for the shame Derek probably felt submitting as an alpha, to a human nonetheless. A tiny part of his mind is keeping him awake in the slim hope that Derek's going to make the call and at least let him apologize for following direction because he didn't come back to Beacon Hills with the intention of finding anyone—he only wanted to find the murderous killer on the loose—but now he's become hooked on Derek and doesn't plan on letting go. Chris had given Stiles his wardrobe as a thank you for "putting up with Derek's antics" and a business card in case he ever needed promo shots of the bakery or anything. When he'd taken the clothes off of the hanger at home, an old business card was taped to the hanger with a ratty masking tape label reading Derek Hale, and on that card was everything he ever needed to know about Derek: suit, inseam, shoe, height, waist, and a phone number.
Stiles didn't call it, and Stiles doesn't even think of calling it, but not because he doesn't want to. He's terrified. He can't pinpoint exactly why he's so afraid, maybe because he's not quite sure what's going to happen if Derek just willingly submits and Stiles lets himself go, maybe because he doesn't want to get close to anyone just to up and leave back to headquarters once the case is solved, or maybe because once he finally breaks down Derek's wall he's not sure he'll ever be able to let him go again. But something isn't right still, and Stiles needs to stop his advances on Derek until they can figure out for sure that he isn't the serial killer on the loose. The moonlight streams into the windows and casts shadows on the carpet next to Stiles's bed, and it's bright and inviting, so Stiles does what he does best when he doesn't see the police cruiser in their driveway yet and decides to go searching in the woods for that big black dog.
When Stiles had brought home the security footage from the bakery the night before, it clearly showed Derek walk into the bakery in all black with zero indication prior to his arrival, no headlights, no turbo exhaust purr. He looks up at the camera and there's a silver lens flare, he takes his cupcakes, and he walks out. No headlights, no turbo exhaust roaring away. Then a couple minutes later, there is headlights and there is an exhaust rumble on the other side of the storefront windows, Derek walks into the bakery in a red shirt and jeans, he looks up at the camera when Stiles mentions them on the phone and there is no lens flare. Another camera at a different spot catches a red lens flare when Derek shifts and knocks Stiles up against the wall, and when Derek stalks out of the bakery, there's headlights and the exhaust roar from that 6.2L supercharged V8 DI engine before he speeds down the road. So, Stiles is absolutely convinced that there's two Dereks, because there's also a recording from their interrogation at the sheriff station with a timestamp overlap from the bakery video. They just need to figure out which Derek isn't actually Derek, and they need to figure out what he is.
His jeep rattles to a halt in front of a thin metal gate with a burnished birch wood sign swinging in the breeze that reads Beacon Hills Preserve: No Entry After Dark. Stiles ignores it. He's certainly done it before, even later than the 2:13 am that the jeep radio currently reads, and it's obviously not the last time he's going to do it, because he's FBI now—technically an intern, but it still counts in his mind—and he's got a fucking police scanner in his jeep. That scanner is undoubtedly the reason he gets into trouble because it has a way of beckoning him right into crime scenes, except for tonight. He's flipped through all the stations on his way over and got nothing, so it looks like he's on his own with a flashlight, a set of brass knuckles, and a chain-wrapped baseball bat.
It's dark, but Stiles can see pretty well with the vibrant glow of the near full moon leaking through the canopy of trees to illuminate the brush underneath his Nikes. He tucks his bat underneath his arm for a second to zip his red hoodie up to his neck, blocking out the chilly October breeze wisping over the goosebumps on his skin. If that black dog, more likely wolf, is out here in the woods, Stiles can only think of one place that would be sheltered and safe enough for it to make a home, so he hangs a left and sets off towards the charred infrastructure of the Hale house.
The only noise Stiles can hear besides the leaves crunching under his feet and the bugs chirping in the trees is the beating of his own heart. Clouds are starting to trickle in front of the moon and the beam from his flashlight is becoming more important as the night creeps on. An owl hoots in the distance and his heart skips out of fear, but he treks on and the manor suddenly soars into the sky immediately in front of him. Stiles doesn't know why but the sight of the blackened splinters of wood jabbing upward into the clearing makes his stomach drop instantaneously and he becomes hyperaware of snapping twigs and rustling trees all around him.
There's a large clearing in front of the house that Stiles can only assume was once consistently used and full of life before it became a slaughterhouse, burning from the cellar and taking at least nine lives with it. He hastens toward the clearing and nearly trips over what his flashlight reveals to be one stray sneaker covered in dirt and brush, and upon further inspection, a huge lump lay along the tree line of the glade. His fingers reach into a pocket and fumble around for his phone and the two percent that it's got left and he's dialing 911 and praying that he can at least tell the operator what's going on.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I think found a body, o-out on the preserve. I was going for a walk a-and—"
"Sir, please stay calm. What is your location?"
His heart's racing and his mouth is trying to form a coherent sentence. "The burned-out Hale—" And the line goes dead.
His legs can't take him forward any faster and he comes upon a boy, staring up at him with large blue eyes and the attempts he makes to speak are drowned out by the gargling of blood gushing from his slit throat. Nonononono, Stiles chants in his head, clamping his hands over the wound in an attempt to stop the hemorrhaging and just do something to prevent this kid from bleeding out in the middle of the woods because he told himself there wouldn't be any more victims and that he was going to find this fucking thing and now here he is, watching another kid choke on his own blood. The life fades out of the boy's eyes and the burbling stops to let a thick, sanguine puddle slowly leak around his limp body and Stiles stands up, hands shaking violently and varnished a shiny crimson. He knows a deputy is probably on their way and he's hit with an overwhelming urge to just run, and he does, out of the clearing, out of the woods, and into his jeep.
He climbs into the car and starts driving away from the preserve, and no, he definitely shouldn't have gone out investigating alone because now he's looking hella guilty driving away from a crime scene with blood on his hands, literally. He's white-knuckling it all the way home, and lucky for him, the sheriff is probably one of the dispatched units on scene right about now because his cruiser isn't in the driveway. Stiles throws the car into park and just sits there for an eternity listening to the static cracking of the scanner in his console, until it quickly becomes full of chatter on nearly every station.
"This is the Sheriff, I need back up on the preserve, we've got another body."
"10-4, Parrish is in the area and should be headed your way."
"Copy that, I'm pulling up to the preserve now, what's your location?"
"The Hale house, and send an ambulance. This poor kid is still warm."
Stiles wipes his red hands on his red hoodie and flips off the scanner before he has a panic attack listening to the reports when he knows he's just going to have to read them later. He takes off his jacket and balls it up in his hand to wipe the evidence from the wheel and the door of the jeep before he takes himself inside. He strips down to his skivvies and compulsively scrubs at his hands until they're raw and even then, Stiles can still see the blood in the ridges of his fingertips and he feels it soaking into clothes he isn't wearing, so he pops a Xanax to curb the panic attack that's trying to suffocate him before he walks into his bedroom and falls into one of the most restless sleeps he's ever had.
—
Derek rolls over and the old aroma of ashen yellow cedar that fills his nose is what jolts him awake. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know exactly where he is and why he's there, and between the nauseating aroma of beta blood and the swarm of deputies, he knows he shouldn't leave unless he wants a death sentence by firing squad. They've been combing through the preserve for the better part of six hours and besides most units being police on the scene, Derek hears paramedics, a medical examiner, and a Stiles? Derek carefully lifts himself up and silently pads over to an ashy window to get a better idea of the investigation below, maybe even an answer or two to the hundreds of questions that've been buzzing around in his pretty little head lately.
"Stiles, I know you were the one who called this in. Everyone on the force has known you since you were three, and you think they're not going to know what your voice sounds like?"
"Dad, look—"
"I'm not going to ask what you were doing in the middle of the woods at three in the morning and I'm not going to ask why you ran, because I already know the answer to both of those questions. I am going to ask you why you're here right now and not letting us do our jobs." The sheriff's unmistakably irritated at the fact that his son is following him around the border of yellow crime scene tape with a whole fountain of information just pouring uncontrollably from his mouth, stuttering about research and creatures of interest.
The sheriff stops walking. "Look, son. I know you ran because you were scared, but you have to promise me you're not going to do something as stupid as go hunting for fairytales in the forest after the town curfew! What the hell were you thinking? You weren't thinking, is what it was! What if this ended up being you, huh? I put this damn curfew in place for a reason, to keep this town safe and you're the last person I should have to be enforcing it to." He ducks under the tape. "Go back to the station. I'll tell Parrish to interrogate you like any other witness. You can look at the reports when they're done, but I'm certainly not letting you into this crime scene. You may be doing the FBI a favor, but I'm still your father."
And Derek listens to Stiles go.
"Sheriff," greets the medical examiner, "it's the same modus operandi as the last three. The cause of death is hemorrhaging, four deep slashes across the throat and the poor kid bled out. His name is Brett Talbot, seventeen." He squints up at Sheriff Stilinski and throws a gloved hand over his eyes to shade them from the morning light. "You got any idea what's going on yet?"
"Stiles is working on it. The FBI is supposed to send him an update today with full access to all of their resources, so we can figure out what this thing is and, more importantly, how to stop it."
Derek sits down behind the window and all of a sudden, everything is starting to make sense—the case file, the interrogation, the other Derek at the bakery the other night— because Stiles is getting involved in something that he can't handle. Derek knows Stiles is going to keep coming after him for answers even though he doesn't have any to give, and the last thing he needs is to be tailed again by the fucking feds.
Then again, how sure is he that he doesn't have answers? This is the second time since the murders started that he's been in the woods for something, and the wolf inside of him has enough sense to not wake him up apparently because he doesn't remember anything, not even a nightmare of what it could've been. Derek isn't so sure he even wants to know what he's been up to, why he wakes up so unrested every morning covered in leaves or mud or now, in the shell of his old life with a fucking body in the front yard.
He can't be doing this, can he? Surely, he'd know if he was murdering people and he'd have to have a reason to be. It's just like his mother used to say to him; he's a predator, but he doesn't have to be a killer. To be completely honest though, the power that comes with being an alpha is difficult to control, and sometimes, Derek's even afraid of himself. But that isn't standard practice, right? They don't go out in the middle of the night murdering everyone, do they? Derek doesn't think so, at least he doesn't think he's the type of power hungry alpha that does anyways.
He stops thinking and sets his jaw, trying to figure a way out of the house and away from the crime scene without being spotted. This kid Brett was a beta, unknown to Derek, most likely a part of one of the more popular packs in town led by Satomi Ito. A certain sweet scent coming from his blood tells Derek he was born a wolf, and he knows that when you're born a wolf, there's a sizeable chance you'll evolve and be able to assume a full wolf form. If the other victims were born wolves, Derek knows exactly what kind of power hungry alpha is murdering innocents and exactly why he's doing it.
