And Then There's You, a teen wolf fanfic

And Then There's You

Derek's in Colombia, restless and unsure. Stiles is in California, feeling powerless and useless. As Derek decides to come back to Beacon Hills, Stiles has to deal with a sudden, drastic shift in his life. Somehow, they both find an anchor. Pre-slash Sterek.

…

It was sudden. At least there was that. He'd barely seen it coming.

Stiles' last thought before the bolt of power crashed into him was how Deaton had told everyone in the pack, repeatedly repeatedly repeatedly, "Don't let them get near Stiles."

Then he couldn't think at all. There was no earth, no grass or dirt or trees or sky or air. His every bone shattered, broken down to dust, and he was gone. The water he fell into, the spring they'd been trying to protect, hurt. If he'd had a throat to scream with it would've torn out of him, ripping all the muscles along the way. A hundred million needles stabbed him and the dust of his body turned to flame at the liquid touch.

…

When Derek left Beacon Hills, his only destination was "Cora." She was the only family he had, the only thing he knew for certain would be waiting for him. Braeden accompanied him to the US border, but turned back after that. She said she wanted to make sure he wasn't suffering side effects from becoming an evolved wolf. It meant she had been waiting to see if he needed putting down or if he had control over himself.

His control was never in question.

Somewhere in the last year, Derek's anchor had stopped being anger. If it had still been anger, becoming an evolved wolf would've been troublesome and painful. But it wasn't. Derek's anchor was no longer something dark and cruel. Derek's anchor was bright and energizing, and that gave him all the strength he needed to keep the wolf at bay, no matter the situation.

After what he and Braeden had shared, Derek didn't have the heart to tell her that she had no part in his easy transition.

Stiles. His anchor was Stiles.

…

After facing druids and werewolves and were-cat-things and hunters and kanima and bounty hunters and creepy doctors and a nogitsune and creatures with power over memory and Derek evolving and Derek leaving-

The witches hadn't seemed all that dangerous.

A dozen ladies moved to town within a week of each other. A dozen men the week after. With all the deaths recently, the town economy welcomed them with open arms. Even though the pack could tell they weren't normal humans, they didn't do more than make a statement. Each pack member was to meet with a few of the new arrivals and let them know that this town was protected and owned already, and any hostilities would be dealt with. Swiftly.

Deaton stepped in. "You can split the newcomers between your pack members, but leave out Stiles."

All he would say in explanation was that the witches were dangerous to Stiles, more so than the others. It wasn't even that the witches themselves were particularly dangerous in general, but something about them had Deaton as taught as a wire. It reminded Stiles of Derek when the alpha pack came to town, except he hadn't forbade Stiles from helping out. Either Derek had trusted him to help or he'd known no words would keep Stiles away, or both. Probably both.

Stiles helped Deaton prep defenses against witches, just in case, while the others did the work of a pack. Without him.

All the action had been done without Stiles, actually.

When a witch made an offhand comment that caught Lydia's attention, Stiles helped her research it. But when that witch had to be accosted for putting love spell ingredients into the drinks in their café, Stiles was forced to stay at home with his dad.

When strange carvings showed up on the walls of the local clubs, Stiles was the first to figure out what they were. But when the pack went to a club to ask why the witch had put up guards against infidelity, Stiles wasn't allowed within two blocks of the place.

It grated on his nerves. He hated it. He felt like a fifth wheel, stowed in the car but never used. Impotent. The friend in rom-coms who always helps the main character figure out their problems and achieve their goals but who doesn't get the girl (or guy, or job, or whatever) in the end. He was there, but he never got any action.

And every time someone asked if Stiles was coming along, Deaton would remind them that Stiles was not to get near the witches. Ever.

He couldn't go to the café, or the club, or that second dinky library on 8th street. He had to keep an eye out at the mall and let his dad know that the new dentist couldn't be theirs no matter what rave reviews they were getting.

Derek's loft became a haven. None of the witches lived in the building. None of the pack drama followed him there. There was no furniture, no knickknacks, no anything, but Stiles imagined Derek was just up the stairs in what used to be his bedroom. And he pretended Derek was there and he complained to Derek and talked to Derek and imagined Derek's calm or snarky responses. Just like they'd had before he left. It helped, but once Stiles left the loft it would only take a day or so for his nerves to jump back up again at his Deaton imposed restraints.

"I hate this," Stiles told Scott after a month. "It's like I'm in a cage but the walls keep moving. I can't go anywhere these days!"

Scott put a hand on his shoulder. "As soon as we figure out why Deaton won't let you near them, we'll find a way to work it out. This isn't forever, you know?"

But as much as his friend and alpha assured him, Stiles began to think he'd have to move to a new town to feel like a free human being again.

…

Derek didn't like Colombia. Cora, who had become fluent in a few different forms of Spanish in the years she'd been separated from the Hale family, loved it. In Colombia, she could find enough people as crass and hard as she was to feel completely at home. But Colombia was louder than Derek was used to, especially where Cora liked to hang out.

Instead of hanging around with her, Derek spent his time elsewhere.

He worked at the local library. It was a small building, nothing compared to the ones in Beacon Hills but enough in its own right. He shelved books, helped people find what they were looking up information on, and even assisted visitors with the library computers and using the internet.

Libraries were quiet. There was a lot of knowledge contained with those walls. Derek liked to read up on things when visitors were scarce. It didn't matter the subject. Derek only wanted to learn what he could about what he could. He wasn't sure why, it just seemed important to know.

During special events, Derek volunteered at the local schools. Sporting events, graduation events, plays, performances, whatever. If they needed help, he was there. They weren't as strict on giving volunteers lengthy background checks or interviews as back in the states, and for that Derek was grateful. He just wanted to help out, not suffer an interrogation.

Part of him wondered if it was creepy for him to like hanging around schools. Another part reminded him that, for a time, his pack was made up of high school students, and he was simply comfortable around people that age because of that. He didn't want anything from the students. He just wanted to help, as if helping these students would make up for all the ways he'd screwed up as an alpha back home.

Though they were family, Derek didn't let Cora know his reasons for the jobs he took. All she needed to know was that he was working, and he was with her, and he was content. He wouldn't go so far as to say he was happy, but he was definitely happier than he'd been in a long time. That was enough for him.

…

One place Stiles could go without worry was the Preserve. He'd had the idea while in Derek's loft, where he'd asked his imaginary Derek where he could go to stop feeling so damn stuck, and suddenly he remembered how Derek used to skulk around the forest when they first met him.

So to the Preserve he went.

Stiles spent so much time walking those woods that he could recognize exactly where he was no matter the time of day or how far in he was or how deep into his own thoughts he'd been. He probably knew them as well as, say, a werecoyote who spent more than eight years roaming it, or a pack of werewolves who spent everyday living in it for generations.

His favorite spot was the spring. It was about an hour walk into the woods, but if Stiles didn't have anywhere else to be, he would either drive or trek out to the spring to relax. It bubbled up from the earth in clear waves, too gentle to overflow the natural rock border around it.

The first time Stiles saw the spring, he'd been taken in by how smooth and shiny the rocks under the water were. The walls of mother nature's basin were riddled with them. He'd reached into the water to touch one and felt an instant tingling sensation in his fingers. It crawled up his arm like the blood in his veins. At first, Stiles thought it felt neat, interesting, but the closer it got to his heart the more he worried, so he pulled his hand from the water and didn't touch it for more than a second from that day on.

He researched the spring, looking up any articles in old papers about a water source in the woods, asking rangers in the next town over if they'd seen anything like it (subtly, of course, he wasn't stupid), and used the broad and limitless power of google, which turned out to be more limited and narrow than he'd expected. He wished he could ask Derek. He'd lived there, after all.

Nothing explained the spring. Nothing except magic.

…

Derek spent a good portion of his time not at work out of the city. For two months after joining Cora in Colombia, Derek didn't understand how Cora could stand to stay surrounded by people so often. Then it hit him: he was an evolved wolf. He felt closer to nature, to his wolf side, than he had before his transformation.

Luckily for him, Colombia had lots of open space. Derek would drive, find an area devoid of people, shift into his wolf form, and run.

Being a wolf was freeing. There was nothing tying him down as a wolf. The world was wide open to him. Sure, he couldn't go into town, but why would he want to when there was so much out there to explore?

Derek ran when the sun was out. He ran when it was raining. He ran during the full moon with Cora along beside him.

Besides running because he liked it or because the wolf in him needed the space, Derek also ran because there was a trembling in his body that needed release. It was an antsy, restless feeling that grew stronger the longer he went between runs.

"I don't understand," Cora said when Derek explained that he felt a need to run, to move, to go. "I mean I do. You've been moving around for awhile, so have I. I've been running from people almost my entire life. But we're finally settling down. We don't have to go anywhere, run from anyone. So why do you still want to?"

"I don't know," Derek said.

But the restlessness returned, again and again, stronger, requiring more to run it off each time. His life was peaceful here, with his sister, but foreign. Maybe he just needed time to adjust to the culture, the people, the lifestyle of this Mexican city? In the meantime, he would run.

…

The first time the pack heard about the spring was from the witches.

Malia was getting lunch at the café one of the witches owned, getting good food at the same time she spied on the people there for any foul play. The witch owner approached her when things were slow and asked, "Do you know this town very well?"

"Uh, I guess so. A bit, at least," she said.

"Do you know if there's a freshwater spring nearby? Or if there used to be one?" the witch asked.

Malia hadn't ever heard of a spring in town, even one that had been destroyed to build something in its place, but she agreed to ask the pack about it once the witch explained that a bath in a natural spring was rejuvenating and that she hadn't had one in months and felt as creaky as an old door.

"It's magic," Stiles said when Malia asked about it at the next pack meeting.

Every eye turned to him. "Wait, you know where it is?" Liam asked. "I mean, there's actually a spring? Where?"

"It's in the Preserve," Stiles said, frowning. "It's really far off, but still technically part of Beacon Hills. And I'm telling you, the thing's magic." He snapped his fingers. "That's what they came for. They're after the magic in the spring!"

When they consulted Deaton, he confirmed their theories. He'd forgotten about the spring himself, since it was so far away and no supernatural creatures indigenous to California, heck the United States, had ever shown interest in it. But yes, it was magic, and it could make the witches incredibly strong if they could harness it properly.

As early as the next night, the pack had a sentry by the spring at all times. Always two people at a time, with fully charged cell phones. Again, Stiles wasn't allowed to participate in case the witches showed up.

Stiles put up with it for almost a week before he got sick of it. "I'm going."

"Going?" his dad repeated. "To the witch spring? Didn't everyone say you can't?"

Stiles grumbled even as he pulled on a coat, it was a cold night. "Yes. But have you seen them? They're all getting tired because they have to work more shifts because I can't help out. And the witches haven't shown up yet, why would they choose tonight, right? Besides, it's not like I'm helpless, and Deaton won't even tell us why, exactly, I'm supposed to stay away. If he thinks that just because I'm human, I'm staying behind, he's got another thing coming."

And he was out the door before his father could say another word of protest.

…

The library closed in ten minutes. Derek would finish shelving the cart of returns, scan for any other books left out that needed putting away, and then sit in the back room until it was time to go. That was the plan.

Then he saw the boy.

Curly hair so dark brown it was practically black that was kept short, close to his head. Long sleeved, dark blue shirt, arms muscled enough to show through the fabric. A strong but lopsided jawline.

"Scott?" Derek reached out before his mind was done processing what he was seeing, and more importantly, what he wasn't smelling. "Are the others-"

The boy flipped around under Derek's touch. It wasn't Scott. He was too young to be anyone from the pack. He was fifteen or sixteen years old, and his dark eyes glared at Derek as he spewed Spanish at him for the rough treatment.

Of course it wasn't Scott. Of course the pack wasn't there. Stiles and Lydia and Kira and that kid, Liam, they were all back in California. Why would they come to Colombia, to this specific town in Colombia, to the library where Derek sometimes worked?

Derek couldn't breathe. He worried he was losing control over his wolf, but an image of Stiles in his mind, a "You've got this" that was never said but that he could hear as clear as a bell in his ear, and he knew that wasn't a problem.

There was no fear of shifting in public. No, Derek's problem wasn't supernatural. He couldn't breathe because for a single moment, a brief instant, he'd thought the pack was in danger. He'd thought they'd come to him, for protection or to protect him, or to join forces, or whatever. He'd thought the pack was with him again.

But they weren't. No, they were in Beacon Hills. They were safe at home tonight.

…

It was actually lucky that Stiles ran out of the house that night, sped to the Preserve, and dashed to the spring. The two pack members on duty, Hayden and Liam, were surrounded by witches when he arrived. Hayden had her claws out. Liam, standing next to her, took a step back and crunched his fallen cell phone under his feet on accident.

"Shit," he mumbled, just as the witches began to attack. "Shit!"

Stiles saw flashes of light well before he got to the spring. When he was closer, he had to dodge a few errant attacks flying hither and to about the forest. And then he was there, and he saw a witch about to put his hand into the water while the other witches distracted Hayden and Liam.

"No!" he shouted, and ran at them.

He collided with the witch so hard that the other man slid and rolled almost ten feet before stopping. That left Stiles standing between the fighting and the spring, but that thought barely occurred to him. More of the pack was showing up – Scott and Malia and Lydia.

Stiles let out a relieved breath to see them. Lydia looked at him, her eyes widened in fear, and she opened her mouth to scream.

And the bolt of power flung him backward into the spring, even as it ripped him to shreds.

The pain seemed endless. The pain was nonexistent. There was no world left around him. The whole world compressed within him. He was nowhere. He was everywhere. He was on fire. He was drowning. He was dead. He was alive.

He was alive.

Reaching out, Stiles felt the smooth stones in the wall of the spring with fingers that shouldn't exist. But they did. He pulled himself out of the water and into air that was spitting with activity. Scott and Hayden and Liam and Malia and Lydia going all out against witches who no longer seemed to know whether to run or fight or maim or kill. And the entire pack was crying.

Anger flared in Stiles, anger that someone had hurt his pack. His body began to glow, though he hardly noticed. All he knew was that he wanted the witches to hurt the way the pack was hurt, and suddenly they all began to cry. They clutched their chests and dropped to their knees and wailed, terrible, broken cries of loss.

"Stiles!"

Scott was in front of him, gripping his shoulders. His dripping wet shoulders. Why was he wet?

"What, Scott?" Stiles asked.

"What are you doing to them?" Scott asked. He was…scared? Of what? Of Stiles?

Slowly, the crying stopped. Stiles shook his head. "I don't know," he whispered, as realization crawled over him. He'd made them cry. With just a thought, he'd made them feel like they'd lost their dearest friends. "I don't know."

…

The witches begged mercy. They offered up the life of the one who had hit Stiles with his magic, but Scott declined. If Stiles had been in better sorts, he might've been impressed with how Scott pulled off the idea that he totally knew what just happened with Stiles' power.

Scott ordered them to leave, and they fled like dogs with tails between their legs, always glancing back at Stiles like he was a spiteful god who might end them at any time.

Only after they were gone did Deaton finally explain what he'd meant when he told Stiles to stay away.

"I once asked you to use the spark inside you to trap werewolves in mountain ash," he said. "But that made me realize that you could do much more." He actually looked uncomfortable. "I admit that I kept you in the dark for selfish reasons. With training, you could've become a powerful emissary, no, more than that. But I worried that you would use what you were taught for dark purposes. I knew the witches would also recognize this power in you, with a glance or a touch, and…I was afraid of the strain it would put on the pack."

The realization that Deaton had thought Stiles would ditch Scott for the witches made Stiles angry, but he wasn't a violent person by nature. Instead he imagined trashing the back room of the vet's office, just to relieve the tension.

Every jar, glass or metal or plastic, shattered into a thousand pieces around them, releasing liquids and bandages and an assortment of other materials clattering to the counter tops and floor.

That was how Stiles' magic worked. What he could imagine, what he could believe himself capable of, he could do. He'd had the ability to extend the mountain ash at only sixteen. With the witch's power destroying him at the same time the magic spring recreated him, Stiles had grown exponentially stronger.

"So, if he thought he could lift a car…he could?" Lydia asked. Yes. "If he imagined setting the tree outside on fire?"

The tree lit on fire. Stiles got a room full of pointed looks. Water crashed onto the tree from nowhere and put out the fire. He laughed nervously.

"He lacks control," Deaton said. "I blame myself for that, for refusing to train him. But I admit that I never saw something like this coming."

Deaton's suggestion, since Stiles was now too strong for conventional training, was to treat him like a were. He needed an anchor, Deaton said.

"Even without training, Stiles could make the impossible possible. Power like that can go to your head. If he is to prove me wrong, that he won't use these gifts for evil, then he needs something to remind him…of his humanity."

…

He was searching, Derek realized. Every day, he was searching.

After the incident with the boy in the library, Derek began to realize the truth of the life he'd built in Colombia. It was flimsy. It was ephemeral. Cora had said they were settling down, that they didn't have to run anymore, but that wasn't true for Derek.

He wasn't settling down. He was growing more restless by the day.

No matter how many times a week he went running in the wilds, it always felt like he was running in the wrong direction, like no matter how long or far he went he was never going to get where he wanted to go. It was like a bad dream he couldn't wake up from. He felt lost, even with Cora beside him griping about what happened at the market, though her little smile proved she thought it was hilarious rather than annoying.

Cora fit in here. Cora could make a home here. Derek couldn't.

His eyes roamed in the library. He inhaled deeply every time the door opened, hoping for a scent of someone familiar. He realized he read so much because he wanted to be prepared for anything that might happen, because Stiles wasn't there to do it for him. He couldn't rely on someone who wasn't there. And no matter how many times the library door opened, it was never Stiles. It was never the pack. Everyone smelled foreign. Everyone and everything smelled off.

When he worked events at the local schools, his gaze flittered amongst the faces. Once, he saw a redhead and his heart jumped in his chest. In the next moment, she turned and Derek saw it wasn't Lydia but a girl with a softer face, her eyes bright but a bit vacant, like her mind was somewhere else. There were tons of people to mistake for Scott, lots of boys working to gain muscle, to look manly but approachable, to have the presence of an alpha.

He never found anyone who reminded him of Stiles. Pale skin was rarer here than in the States. No one flailed quite like Stiles, had a booming laugh like Stiles, had moles in the same smattering pattern as Stiles.

In both of his jobs, paid or volunteer, Derek was looking for the pack. He'd left Beacon Hills after ascending. He'd thought that was what he wanted. No, what he needed. He'd been wrong.

He needed to go back. But first he needed to talk to Cora.

…

They'd tried everything. Scott suggested using Lydia as an anchor.

"Scott, remember when you used Allison as an anchor, and then you fought with her?" Scott blushed, remembering his flimsy control in the early days.

"But….but you're not dating Lydia?" he hedged.

So Stiles tried. Whenever his mind wandered and suddenly his errant desire that his empty soda cup would clean itself instead of him needing to do dishes became truth, he imagined Lydia. He imagined her telling him off. He imagined that day she'd kissed him during his panic attack. He imagined her banshee wail. He imagined her clothes, her perfume, her glittering eyes, her wit, her snark. He imagined everything he could.

The dishes kept cleaning themselves.

Lydia suggested his dad. In her defense, it almost worked.

When he was in the store looking at the cute stuffed animals and thinking he should get one for Liam as a gag gift, but hey wouldn't it be funny if the pink panda in his hands could actually crawl up to Liam and 'kiss' him obnoxiously, and suddenly all the toys were moving on their own and crawling out onto the floor and looking for people to love on, Stiles imagined his father. Strong, able-bodied, capable of anything. Tired, lonely, barely holding it together for the sake of his son. Trusting Stiles, loving Stiles, caring for Stiles. He was always there.

The toys stopped moving.

But then Stiles drove the Jeep into a ditch. He believed he could lift it out on his own and he did, setting it back on the road as if it were made of paper. He'd been so proud of his control. Then his super strength tore out the driver's side door, the steering wheel, jammed the break, tore the seatbelt. He felt like that scene in The Amazing Spider-man when Peter'd just gotten his powers and broke everything in his bathroom.

Thinking of his father didn't stop the strength. It took half an hour of breathing exercises before he could call someone to come get him without breaking his phone.

His research skills weren't an anchor. His ADD wasn't either. Happiness was paltry. Fear was a disaster. Thinking of the pack as a whole might've worked, but Stiles kept getting distracted by the pack as individuals and couldn't focus. His mom just made him sad and then suddenly it was raining.

It wasn't until he tried anger that he got it right.

To be fair, anger was a shit anchor. Sure, Stiles got angry sometimes, but that caused problems with his new magic. It didn't solve anything. But when happiness, jealousy, sadness, fear, and even hunger had failed, Stiles finally tried Derek's way.

He'd been having one of those dreams where something flips in the dream and keeps spinning even when it shouldn't, and no matter what you do you can't make it stop, and you wake up with a gasp locked in your chest because you felt powerless and trapped by the spinning. Except when Stiles woke up, he had to immediately shut his eyes again because he was the thing spinning. A perfect ball of him rolling over and over and over in the air, just above the safety of his mattress. The dream had followed him into life and if he couldn't stop the motion in his dream, how could he possibly stop it now that he was awake?

He had to get control of it. Stiles tried getting angry at his lack of control, felt it spark within him. It didn't get much further. Stiles was getting dizzy from the spinning and couldn't concentrate well.

How did anger ever help Derek control his wolf? Stiles wondered.

"Run!"

The memory of Derek telling Stiles to get to safety, away from the kanima, was so vivid that Stiles would've sworn Derek was next to him, shoving him in the direction of the exit.

Stiles hit the bed with an "Omph!" The spinning had stopped.

…

Derek gave his two weeks' notice at the library. He got the feeling that it wasn't required in this town, in this place so far from everything he'd ever known, but he did it anyway because that's what he'd done growing up. In fact, giving two weeks' notice was why he'd been later than Laura in returning to Beacon Hills in the first place. Was he wasting time by doing it again?

When he first told Cora he was going back, she thought he was joking.

Then she realized he was serious.

Then she tried to talk him out of it.

They were family. They had to stick together. He couldn't leave her. He said she could come with him. The pack would be glad to have her. Hadn't they been nice the last time she was there? Cora balked at the idea.

"They aren't our pack," she said.

Still, around the arguments that seemed to fill every moment between the siblings now, Derek prepared to leave. He packed up his few collected belongings. He called the building manager for his apartment building back in Beacon Hills, setting up a cleaning service and prepping for his return. He shipped what he could ahead of him, letting the manager know they could just shove everything inside for him when he got there.

He told the few schools he worked with that he was leaving. They were sad to see him leave and a few people even gave him food or other small gifts in farewell. The library staff was a bit more extravagant, but not by much. They had a luncheon for him, with homemade food. People had to eat around doing their jobs, so it wasn't a united event, but Derek thanked them anyway.

…

A week later, the elevator on the community college campus broke down.

It happened all the time. Too many first-year students liked to jumped up and down inside of it, trying to make it get stuck between floors, so the entire system was a bit whacko. Stiles and Lydia were alone in the elevator when it happened.

"Great," Lydia breathed out. "Class in five minutes and it'll take them half an hour to get the fire department here to bail us out."

"Cover the camera?" Stiles asked.

When it was covered, Stiles grabbed the doors. They wouldn't budge more than an inch. Stiles couldn't make himself strong. After the incident with his Jeep, strength had been a problem for him. He was scared he wouldn't be able to control it again, so he couldn't imagine himself doing it anymore.

Derek was unconscious on the floor of the elevator. Stiles had to wake him up, get him to safety. Derek held his hand. Stiles rubbed his shoulder.

The elevator doors were open, both sets. Stiles hefted Lydia out on the third floor, where their class was, then followed her out. He tried to pull the doors closed again, but there was nowhere to grab, so he left it as was.

"They can wonder about it," he said with a flippant wave. "Anyway, we've got class."

Lydia commented after class on Stiles' confidence. He hadn't hesitated to touch her, even though everyone knew about the loss of control with his Jeep.

Stiles just shrugged and said, "I think I'm getting the hang of it."

…

"I still can't believe you're leaving me alone. Again!" Cora growled.

Bringing up the Hale fire was petty, but Derek knew Cora was only trying to protect herself from being hurt again.

"I can't stay here, Cora," he said in a huff, crossing his arms. "You don't understand."

She flashed her werewolf eyes. "No! I don't! We're family, Derek. We're all we have. We have to stay together. Why would you throw that away to go back there? Back to the place where everyone died?"

Because he couldn't stop thinking about the pack. Worrying about them. Wondering about what they were doing. Scott had sent a letter, once, explaining what was happening in town, but only once, and that had been shortly after Derek started living with Cora. His skin itched with the need to be with them. He felt un-tethered without them. Wasn't that evidence that they were pack to him? He tried to explain this to Cora but she just shook her head.

"They aren't our pack," she said. It was her ending argument, the one that was always true no matter what Derek said.

Until now.

"They are the closest thing to a pack I've had since mom died," he said. "Even if they never formally accept me into the pack, they're important to me. It's not a want, Cora. I need to be with them. They are my pack."

Cora stared at him for several long moments, her eyes searching his face for answers the way her ears were no doubt listening to his steady heartbeat and her nose was probably sniffing out his emotions.

At length, she said, "They aren't my pack."

It was decided that night. Derek would return to America, to California, to Beacon Hills. Cora would stay in Colombia. They would keep in touch, exchanged phone numbers and email addresses already stored in their memories. They would visit each other from time to time. They were still family. They would simply be living apart.

…

Malia lost control on the anniversary of the accident. It had never happened before, so no one was prepared. Later, Malia would speculate that maybe it was because she'd gone to visit the old car and her old den that year that caused the break, but break she did.

Stiles had driven her out to the Preserve, had walked with her as she talked about her life as a coyote. The longer they walked, the more she talked about her life before the shift, before the accident. She'd loved her mother, and her sister. She remembered, acutely, the games they used to play and the food they used to eat. She knew what song had been on the radio just before everything had gone to shit.

Almost as soon as the car came into view, Malia stopped talking, mid-sentence.

She didn't go full coyote, not like when she was a child, but she did go into beta mode. She did chase Stiles through the woods, stumbling and scrambling to get away. It was when she managed to scratch him that Stiles realized this wasn't going to work.

Isaac had been about to kill him, unable to control his wolf. Stiles had been on the floor, helpless. And then Derek, red eyed, let loose a roar and Isaac crumpled.

Stiles flipped around, grabbed Malia by the throat, and threw her away from him in one smooth motion. It wouldn't have worked if she'd been even a step further behind. As she stood up and prepared to charge him again, Stiles flared his eyes like an alpha and roared.

It wasn't powerful like Scott's or Derek's, but it was enough. The sound that came out of Stiles' throat was close enough to a werewolf's roar that Malia jolted backward in surprise.

Her shift fell away and she reverted to human form. "Stiles?" she asked, almost sounding frightened of him. Or maybe herself.

Derek looked over his shoulder at Stiles, full of confidence. "I'm the alpha."

Stiles blinked, his eyes immediately losing the red, and gave a confident smile. "Welcome back, Malia."

…

Derek was his anchor.

Holy shit. Derek was his anchor.

…

Beacon Hills was exactly like Derek had left it: small town with an unearthly feel. There was something different about the air, though, like the Nemeton was sending out signals again but it was protecting from the supernatural rather than drawing it in.

Derek spent a day setting up his apartment, saying hello to the landlord, and making sure his living situation would switch locations as easily as his body had. And though he didn't see anyone from the pack that day, he could smell the wolf scent all over, and he fell asleep that night feeling more at ease in his skin than he had in over a year.

He ran into Malia first, who dragged him to Scott, who called Stiles and Lydia and Liam, who all arrived together.

Derek told them about life in Colombia and how Cora was doing. Scott told him how little action the town got these days, how normal life seemed almost. They discussed school life and home life and relationships that had changed since Derek was gone. Liam even mentioned that Stiles was an emissary now, though it earned him a sharp look from the ladies in the room.

"That's good," Derek said, trying to show his congratulations and pride in his tone, as he met Stiles' gaze. "Every pack needs a good emissary."

And oh, he'd thought his memory of Stiles was good. In his memory he could count Stiles' moles, watch Stiles flail or have calculated control over his body, hear him speak clearly. But in person it was like every detail was super fine. Stiles' eyes flecked with color depending on the lighting of the room. Stiles' smell wrapped around Derek like a blanket, and it reminded him of the feeling of protection he got from the air of the city now. Stiles' heartbeat was just a scant breath off beat at all times, a rhythm Derek urgently wanted to learn to follow.

He felt so calm in Stiles' physical presence that it was like he wasn't a werewolf at all. His control was so effortless, here, almost within arm's reach of his anchor.

Stiles himself seemed more centered too. He seemed more focused than when Derek left, as if his mind was calmer now, or as if he had learned to control his ADD better. His body was as uncoordinated as ever though, and he knocked a cup over shortly before the pack broke up to go home again.

Scott stopped Derek from leaving, even as the others were driving away.

"What are your plans now?" he asked, and it was clear he didn't mean a career or a relationship or any other life plans.

Derek flashed his blue eyes, focused on the ground – a sign of deference. "You're the alpha," he said.

When he met Scott's eyes again, the look on Scott's face was awe. It was probably hard for him to believe that Derek, with his angry eyebrows and short sentences, who had scared him as a boy, was now willingly submitting himself to him. But a few moments later, Scott nodded with all the confidence an alpha should have.

It wasn't yet an offer to be part of the pack, but it was better than what they'd had before.

…

Stiles had his arms up to the elbow in the spring. The tingling he'd felt that first day crawled through his blood with the speed of a bullet from a gun. It was faster every time he touched it. Now he knew the tingling was magic. He was reaching into pure magic every time he touched the water.

With the magic coursing through his veins, it was cake to believe he could do anything. Forget lifting cars, opening elevators, cleaning dishes, controlling a werewolf, or flying through the air. Stiles could hold up a city. Stiles could keep criminals at bay. Stiles could make sure that no supernatural creature of evil intent ever set foot in his town ever again.

His skin burned with a light so bright it was like looking at the stars under a microscope. It flared around him and he was as aflame as Parrish ever was, but with a fire that didn't burn.

He could feel the life in the trees around him, the slick of rainwater still clinging to leaves even hours later, the heartbeats of squirrels and birds and rodents in their homes. He could sense the almost overpowering force of the spring's magic coating the city and forests of Beacon Hills in its protective embrace.

Belief only got Stiles so far. He believed he could protect the city, and so far that had proved true, but whenever he began to doubt it he would return here. He came to the spring once a month, to recast the magic over those he cared about, to make completely certain that he remembered exactly how strong he could be, already was.

"Stiles?"

Stiles pulled his arms from the water. Everywhere the water dripped to the forest floor, the grass grew thick and lush and green. He turned and saw Derek standing twenty feet away. His eyes were wide in disbelief.

The magic withdrew into Stiles. He didn't need a memory or a thought about Derek to remind him that he couldn't use his magic to be a god, not when Derek was really there before him. The less his skin glowed with power, the closer Derek walked.

"What happened?" Derek asked, his voice as strong as any command but with a soft entreaty instead of a demand. "When? How?"

"Short version? Witches." Then Stiles told Derek the long version. He didn't leave anything out. He even included Deaton's fears that the magic, and Stiles' sheer strength, would turn Stiles into the very thing the pack tried to protect the town from every day.

"Can you control it?" Derek asked, as simply as if he were asking after the weather.

Stiles looked deep into Derek's eyes. They were a richer color than he remembered from before. Maybe Stiles could just see them better now, with a new sense, or maybe he'd never looked close enough before. It made Stiles remember what he'd thought upon entering Scott's house the other day.

Derek's voice in person had just proved how wrong Stiles had been when he'd thought of his memories. They were covered in radio static compared to the medium timber of Derek in person. And Derek's cocky confidence from the past had been replaced by a solidity only gained through true acceptance and knowledge of one's self. Derek was fully in control and wore it like a fine suit. It was a good look on him. A really good look.

"I've got something reminding me I'm human, just like you."

How do you tell someone they're your anchor? Especially when you haven't had close contact with them in so long? How could he tell Derek that he was Stiles' humanity?

…

"Derek!"

He took the hand reaching for him, clasping it strong and sure. Quickly, his blood rushing in his ears, Derek helped pull Stiles from the pit. Together they got Stiles' knees to the edge, a firm foundation. Stiles huffed out laughter, squeezing Derek's hands in thanks.

"I thought I was a goner," he joked.

Derek opened his mouth, to say what, he wasn't sure. I'll always protect you? You're safe now? It's over? But then a darkness leapt from the pit, wrapped itself around Stiles' neck and arms and legs, then ripped him back over the edge. The last thing Derek saw of Stiles was his wide, screaming eyes and grasping hand.

Then he was gone.

Derek woke up in a rush, Stiles' name a gasp on his lips.

He'd no sooner washed the sweat from his face then he was driving across town to the Stilinski residence, where Stiles still lived while he attended college. He climbed up to Stiles' window and was inside before the window even finished opening.

Stiles was asleep in his bed. His chest rose and fell in the natural rhythm of slumber. Derek's nightmare faded away like mist in the sun. He sank to sit on the floor beneath the window.

The sound woke Stiles, or maybe it was the cooler air coming in through the window, or just a sense that he was no longer alone in his room. He was awake, and he probably would've thrown a lamp at Derek if he hadn't realized that it was, in fact, Derek who had crept in during the night.

"Derek? Wha-why are you here?"

Derek saw the way the moonlight lit up one side of Stiles' face but left the other in shadow, and the words slipped from his mouth. "You're my anchor."

Stiles did nothing but blink and stare and blink and stare for several long moments, his heart skittering like a rabbit in a chase. "What do you mean, I'm your anchor?" he asked at length.

So Derek told him how, ever since Boyd had died, Stiles had been what kept him human. He hadn't noticed at first. He was so torn up that he had difficulty keeping his wolf side controlled, but the thought of Stiles' hand on his shoulder always brought him back. And then whenever something stressful happened, something that tested his control, he remembered Stiles. Stiles, who didn't see werewolves as abominations, who saw them as people, as natural to the world as anything else, if a bit more annoying to deal with. Stiles brought Derek and Scott closer during the events with the nogitsune. Stiles let Derek know what was real and what was all in his head. Stiles, staying true to himself no matter what happened, kept Derek human.

Stiles was his anchor.

He didn't expect Stiles to start laughing. It was only the fact that it sounded like Stiles was laughing at himself, and not Derek, that kept Derek from getting angry. Stiles clutched his own chest as he quietly chuckled himself into breathlessness. Derek stayed sitting under the window.

When Stiles could speak again, the laughter dying away, he admitted, "You're my anchor too."

There was no way, Derek thought. How could he, a werewolf, be Stiles' anchor?

"It's hard to explain," Stiles allowed, scratching his face. Whenever he thought he'd go mad with the power, or when he feared he couldn't control the magic, he remembered Derek. He remembered Derek in control, Derek as an alpha, Derek protecting him. Even Derek unsure of himself was enough to remind Stiles he couldn't let all of this go to his head. "It was like…if you could go through what you did, and you were still good, then I can't let this beat me. So…yeah. You keep me human too."

Derek repeated Stiles' reaction. He chuckled. He didn't laugh as forcefully or as long as Stiles, but the irony and relief and gratefulness he felt all rolled into a ball in his chest and he had to let the pressure out somehow or he might explode.

When he was done with his little huffs, Stiles got out of bed and knelt on the floor in front of him. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight. He held out his hand to Derek. "Here's to keeping each other sane."

With zero hesitation, Derek took Stiles' hand and gave it a good squeeze. He said, "To keeping each other human."

…

fin.

…

This was inspired by post/74728826629/teen-wolf-bingo-bitten-he-answers-all-his on hales-emissary's tumblr, but it's so loosely connected that it's like one strand away from breaking away completely.