Chapter Twelve

When Scott showed up at his door late on Monday night, Derek wasn't surprised. He'd been expecting a visit from the other Alpha ever since Stiles had walked out the night before. Scott didn't bother knocking, just shoved open the large iron door to the first floor of Derek's loft with a screech that set Derek's teeth on edge as he made his way down the stairs.

"You told me this wouldn't happen again." Scott yanked the door shut behind him with another scream of metal-on-metal. "You swore it wouldn't."

"It wasn't like last time." Derek stepped off the last stair and watched Scott cross the room towards him. He could feel Scott's rage rippling through the air between them, caught the glint of red swimming just under the dark surface of Scott's eyes.

"Bullshit it wasn't." Scott's voice was thick with contempt. "He's hurting, Derek, and this is the second time you've taken advantage of that."

The anger that had spent the last twenty-four hours simmering in Derek's gut roiled dangerously close to the surface. He found himself striding across the loft to meet Scott in the middle. "Careful."

"I'm not going to let you keep fucking with Stiles like this. Or should I say I'm not going to let you keep fucking Stiles."

Derek's hands flexed at his sides, the urge to grab Scott by the collar of his dress shirt and throw him against the wall nearly overwhelming his thin grip on control. "He came to me," he managed tersely.

"And that changes anything—how?" Scott demanded, livid. "He was getting better. He was getting over you. And then he and his dad show up for Thanksgiving dinner and Isaac and I can smell you on him. Jesus, Derek, we could smell you in him."

The crudeness of Scott's last statement had heat rising in a furious rush across Derek's face. If Scott noticed he didn't seem to care.

"Get your shit together. I've done my part. I've held up my end. You need to do the same." Or else, Scott's tone implied.

"I'm trying," Derek growled. "It's not like this is—"

"I swear to god if you say 'easy' I am going to rip your tongue out and nail it to the floor." Scott's own hands were balled into fists. "Do you think this has been easy for me? Stiles has been my best friend for nearly as long as we've been alive. He's a brother to me in all the ways that count. We don't lie to each other. Except that I'm lying to him every day."

"I know that." Derek gritted out through clenched teeth. "I'm trying—"

"You keep saying that." Scott stepped closer, spine rigid with righteous anger. "But what are you trying to do? Get laid? Keep Stiles pining over you? What is it, Derek?"

Ire lashed tight around Derek's throat, choking him, and he struggled to keep the storm of it banked. "I'm trying to keep him safe. We both are. You agreed to this, Scott."

"I didn't agree to this. You told me it'd be a clean break. I agreed to lie for you—to lie with you—to keep him out of this werewolf shit. I agreed with you when you said that he was too wrapped up in it, that we were going to get him killed if we didn't get him out. You said you'd do whatever it took to keep him safe." Scott brought his hands up and shoved Derek, hard, causing the other werewolf to stumble back a step. "Since when did that include fucking him?"

"Since he tried to go to Peter for that," Derek snarled, fury erupting like a thunderclap.

"He—what?"

"You heard me." Derek pushed into Scott's space. "Now tell me you'd rather have him fucking my uncle than me."

Scott made a wordless noise of frustration, pulling back from Derek and pacing in a tight, angry circle. "That doesn't—you can't keep—it doesn't change anything, Derek. You have to stop."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I won't do it, I won't turn him away if that means he heads straight to Peter. I won't do it." The thought of it had claws sliding sharp and vicious from the tips of Derek's fingers, a red haze forming in front of his eyes.

"Derek—"

"It's not going to happen." Derek's voice was a low, throaty growl of warning.

Scott stopped pacing, turning to face Derek with his hackles up. "You're not the only Alpha of this pack. You don't get to make calls like that on your own."

"Stiles isn't pack—isn't that the point?" Derek could feel his jaw bones shifting as his teeth began to lengthen into fangs.

"The point is to keep him safe. Alive."

"You're right, and this doesn't change anything. Stiles still hates me." He'd made that perfectly clear last night. "He's still less a part of things than when…" when we were together. "He's being kept out of it."

"Like how he was 'kept out of it' when Isaac was attacked?" Scott's eyes were glowing a red to match Derek's, his stance shifting so that he rested on the balls of his feet. "They went after Stiles because they know he is pack. This plan isn't working, Derek."

"Yes, it is." Derek could feel energy, power, coursing through him. The beast in him wanted to attack Scott, to force him to submit to Derek's authority. But he wasn't an animal, and he and Scott were equals by mutual respect and agreement. So Derek was forced to use reason and not physical strength. "Look at how focused they've been on him when they think he's just pack. How much more significant do you think he'd be to them if they knew how important he really is to me? To you?"

"And how is you still sleeping with him going to help that?" Scott seemed to be fighting the same battle as Derek, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he was trying to keep himself under control.

"Because that's all it'll be," the words tasted bitter on Derek's tongue. "As far as anyone else knows—as far as Stiles knows—it won't mean anything."

"I can't believe this," Scott's anger appeared to drain out of him, replaced with weary resignation. "What's even been the point of the last couple months if you and he are still—"

"The point," Derek's own fury abated, features slowly returning to human, "is that he'll get over it." Me. "Eventually."

"God, Derek," Scott rubbed a hand over his face. "We should just tell him. It was stupid. It's not working—"

"No!" Fear was copper bright in Derek's mouth. "Can you imagine what he'd do if he found out? If he realized we'd been lying to him this whole time?" Even the thought of it sent Derek's pulse racing, scattered. "This isn't just about Marcus. This is about the next Marcus. And the one after that."

Scott worried at his bottom lip, still not looking convinced. "But if he finds out…"

"He won't," Derek insisted firmly. "It was always going to be hard, for all of us, but do you really think he'd ever walk away from this," he gestured with his right hand to encompass the whole supernatural shitshow that was their lives. "With both you and me so much a part of it? This way," Derek swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment. "This way he has a shot at a normal life."

"Yeah," Scott sank down onto the arm of the couch, resigned. "You're right, I know you're right. I just," he looked up at Derek and the uncertainty on his face was painful. "I hate having to hurt him."

"It's for the best," Derek said gently, feeling every one of his twenty-six years like they were decades.

"Okay." Scott heaved out a breath and then stood, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. "I gotta get back, I told my mom I was just gassing up my bike." He headed to the door, pausing once he'd pulled it open. "Happy Thanksgiving, by the way."

"Thanks," Derek lifted a hand in acknowledgement, his face carefully blank. "You too."

He waited until he heard the front door of the warehouse close before turning and making his way reluctantly back upstairs. Pushing open the door to the second floor he stood in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the two-person spread of Thanksgiving dinner laid out over the kitchen island. Untouched, it had long since grown cold.

He and Peter had made plans weeks ago for their first Hale Thanksgiving in longer than either of them cared to remember. Derek had offered to cook if Peter would bring the wine, pick up dessert. Derek had been looking forward to it, at least until Stiles had shown up the night before with Peter's scent clinging to him like cheap cologne and the imprint of Peter's teeth bruised into his skin.

After Stiles had left—covered now in Derek's scent, with Derek's marks a constellation across his back—Derek had slept only fitfully, unable to even distract himself with A Storm of Swords. It didn't help that he now knew what fate awaited his favourite character, and he definitely didn't want to think too long about the way he'd found that out. He'd rolled out of bed early and had begun preparing that evening's meal, spending all day in the kitchen painstakingly creating each flawless dish.

Peter had called around noon, presumably to find out what time Derek wanted him over. But seeing Peter's name on his phone had made Derek's hands ball into all-too-human fists, the swelling of rage inside of him surpassing the wolf. He didn't want to rend and tear Peter into pieces. He wanted to slam his fists into Peter's face until it was bloody and broken. He wanted to feel the skin of his knuckles split against the bones of Peter's face.

So Derek hadn't answered.

Hours later, when every dish was cooked to perfection and the island was laden with steaming serving plates heaped with food, Derek found he had no appetite. And so the meal sat, growing cold and congealed, as Derek alternately paced or stared blankly at the TV screen, waiting for the inevitable visit from Scott.

Now that he'd returned, Derek didn't feel any more like eating the food he'd spent all day making. He should be hungry—he'd tasted each dish here and there throughout the day, but that had been it. By all rights, Derek should be famished.

But the thought of making himself a plate turned his stomach, made his lips curl back from his teeth in disgust. Even the smell of the food was an off-putting invasion of his senses.

Another of his carefully laid plans gone sour.

Before he even knew what he was doing Derek was across the room in a blur of motion. Fangs bared, vision lost in a sea of red, he swept one furious, clawed hand over the surface of the island. Food and dishes cascaded to the floor, the sound of the shattering stoneware lost in the ferocity of the roar that tore itself from Derek's throat.

Several Months Earlier

There were glittering fairy lights strung throughout the first floor of Derek's loft, a large, garishly coloured 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEREK' banner hanging from the exposed pipes in the ceiling, and probably two dozen balloons bobbing gently in the air. Derek had laughed out loud when he'd pulled open the door to the loft and Stiles had popped out from behind the couch, accompanied by the rest of the pack—wolf and human both, to shout 'Surprise!' at him. No matter that he'd heard and smelled what they'd been setting up from half a block away. No matter that Isaac had spilled the beans a week earlier after casually asking Derek his thoughts on ice cream cakes. Stiles's excitement—poorly hidden as always—had been infectious, and even if Derek had been a touch leery about celebrating his birthday for the first time in more years than he was comfortable with, the sight of Stiles wearing a ridiculous party hat—and the fact that he'd somehow managed to convince Peter and Jackson into wearing them as well—was enough to lay his fears to rest.

Now that the initial 'surprise' part of the party was over, Derek sat on the iron stairs that led up to the second floor and began making headway on the enormous piece of cake he held. It wasn't ice cream, but a very rich and decadent chocolate that Allison had made. Her mother's recipe, she'd said, and Derek had met her eyes for a long moment before she handed it to him without a trace of hostility.

Across the room Scott was mixing a drink under Lydia's careful eye—an old fashioned, Derek judged by the oaky scent of whiskey and the sweet lick of cherry. Jackson lounged on the couch with a beer dangling from his fingers and a look of guarded interest on his face as Danny began to shuffle a pack of Cards Against Humanity. Against the far wall, Stiles was in the middle of a good-natured argument with Isaac about whether or not the werewolves were going to have to play Pin the Tail On the Donkey both blindfolded and wearing noise-cancelling headphones.

Though actually, when Derek narrowed his eyes and looked closer, someone (Stiles, because of course it had been Stiles) had pasted a wolf's head cut out of black cardboard paper over top of the donkey's, and, sure enough, its hooves had been similarly replaced with over-large and definitely canine paws.

Stiles was waving around a fluffy tail and gesturing earnestly at Isaac. His voice was loud enough that even without Derek's 'werewolf superpowers' he would have been able to hear what Stiles was saying, but Derek let the noise of it wash over him, blending with the sound of Gin Wigmore caterwauling from the portable ipod speakers and the clamour of the rest of their friends. It was, Derek reflected with an unexpected rush of pleasure, rapidly becoming the soundtrack of his life—this loud, bubbling swarm of energy and laughter and pack.

He'd had it before, years and years before, when his pack had been his family in the most literal sense. The same warm pulse of something that was his and the solid, concrete certainty that nothing could take that away. But of course something—someone—had. And then there'd been nothing but a bleak, reeling loss. Laura had been there still, the two of them not-quite lone wolves, but it hadn't been the same. She'd carried the mantle of Alpha like a cross, a weight heavy and crushing on her shoulders. She'd done her best, Derek knew that, but she'd been so young. They'd both been so terribly young.

It hurt still, the years they'd had chafing against each other with the wounds Kate had created leaving them jagged and raw. They'd fought more often than not, at each other's throats at every turn, Laura trying her best to be the Alpha their mother had been and knowing she wasn't.

That had made it worse than if they'd been Betas. As two Betas they could have found another pack, could have found a place for themselves in another city. Derek could have gone back to school, graduated with a class, had friends, had a home. It wouldn't have been the same. It could never have been the same as it was going to be, before, but it would have been better than what they had. It would have given Derek some semblance of a normal life. But Laura had had so much to prove and that had kept them alone and driven them apart.

And the lone wolf does not survive.

Only Derek had. He'd been miserably, achingly alone, but he'd done it. He'd left Laura in their cramped basement apartment after one particularly venomous fight. With the marks of her claws still burning bloody over his ribs, he'd fled with nothing but a duffle bag and a crumpled wad of bills he'd saved from working as a bus boy at a shitty roadside diner.

He hadn't meant for it to be forever. He'd gone back three months later after he'd found a steady job working construction in the next town over. It had been a stupid fight after all—about money, of all things, because Laura had refused to touch what their parents had left them. She'd insisted it was too big a risk, that the hunters were still out there and could be watching the accounts to see where and when the remaining Hales would surface. Derek had thought she was being absurdly overcautious. Or that's what he'd told her, anyway. A part of him had hoped that was exactly what Kate was doing, and that when she found out where they were she'd come for them again, and this time Derek would bring her family to ruin.

That vicious thirst for revenge had cooled though, after he'd realized what it meant to be actually on his own. So he'd gone back, hat in hand, and hoping Laura would come with him. He'd found another apartment—just as small as the one they'd been in before, but in a nicer area, with big windows and a balcony—and he was making enough that he thought between the two of them they'd be okay. They wouldn't be scrounging to survive anymore, and so maybe the issue of their parents' money wouldn't come up again.

But Laura hadn't been there. She hadn't been there for at least a month, according to their surly upstairs neighbour, who hadn't been able to provide Derek with any more information than that. Derek spent six more months looking for Laura before he'd given up. If she wanted to find him, she could.

She didn't.

Then, years later, a sign of her had and Derek left everything without a backwards glance. He'd driven for two days straight back to his own personal hell because there'd been a spiral-marked deer in Beacon Hills. A spiral-marked deer, and the body of his dead sister.

In the end though, after everything that happened, Derek thought coming back to Beacon Hills—and staying—had been the best decision he'd made in the last decade. Because he had family again. He had pack. He was happy in a way he'd given up on ever feeling again.

He had Stiles to thank for that. Stiles, because he'd demanded better from Derek, because he'd expected better. Stiles who had looked past all of Derek's crap and saw down to the core of him and forced him to be the Alpha that Beacon Hills needed. Scrawny, sarcastic, snarky Stiles who hadn't let Derek fail like Laura had.

Stiles, who had now stopped flailing about with the faux wolf tail and appeared to be trying to pin it onto Isaac. Who, for his part, was nearly doubled over with laughter and only just managing to avoid the wicked pin Stiles had fixed to the end of the tail.

As though he could feel Derek's eyes on him, Stiles looked up and met Derek's gaze, grinning impishly. Derek rolled his eyes, tried to summon up a scowl but couldn't quite manage it. Stiles stopped trying to stick Isaac with the tail for long enough to blow Derek a noisy kiss before redoubling his efforts.

"You're too close to the boy."

"What?" Derek was caught off guard and unable to stop the question from escaping his lips.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." Peter threaded his arms through the iron rails of the staircase and leaned in. "Stiles."

"I know who you mean," Derek replied tersely, the chocolate cake now tasting like chalk in his mouth. "I'm just not sure what you mean by it."

"Yes, you do," Peter said softly, seriously. "He's so very… human." There was an odd note in his voice but Derek was too distracted by the next words out of Peter's mouth to pay it any heed. "You need to turn him."

"No." The word cracked like a whip, landing heavy and sharp in the air between them. "I won't do that." Derek sucked in a long breath, trying to control the thudding of his panicked heart. He twisted to face Peter, eyes glinting with the barest hint of red. "And you know why. You know exactly why." He felt shaken, thrown off balance and hardly able to believe that Peter had brought it up—but then again, Peter seemed to make a career out of being unbelievable.

Peter gave a dismissive wave with his hand. "That was years ago, Derek. I'd have thought you'd be long past it. After all, you've turned humans since."

"Yeah, and look how well that turned out." Bitterness was thick in Derek's voice. He'd heard nothing from Boyd and Erica since they'd left. He'd tried reaching out, emailing them at least once a month, but there was never an answer. For all he knew, they were dead.

"Isaac's still here," Peter commented.

"One out of three?" Derek laughed hollowly. "That's not even a passing grade."

"But two out of four would be."

"No."

"Derek—"

"No." This time Derek's eyes flared with the full strength of his power.

Peter inclined his head dutifully but not before Derek caught the quick gleam of cerulean darting across his irises. "You're the Alpha."

"One of them, yes," Derek snapped. "And neither of us is turning Stiles."

"Then tell me, nephew mine," Peter met Derek's eyes again, and this time his had returned to their pale, human blue. "What is it you intend to do about him?"

The reminder that Peter was Derek's uncle rankled, which, Derek knew, was exactly what Peter had intended. He willed his wolf back down beneath the surface, looking back at Peter with his eyes calm and green once more. "Why would we need to do anything about him? He's not the only human attached to this pack."

Peter snorted. "You mean Lydia? Allison?"

"And Danny."

"Please." Peter rolled his eyes, bringing his hand up and ticking off his fingers one-by-one. "Lydia's a banshee, Allison belongs to a whole family of hunters…"

As if Derek could forget.

"…and Danny's hardly a part of the pack. He's only here because he's Jackson's best friend and lord knows Jackson wouldn't deign to attend a party unaccompanied."

Derek could feel tension knotting his shoulders. "I don't see—"

"Exactly. Neither you nor your co-Alpha can see the problem Stiles presents."

"Stiles isn't a problem," Derek bit out, unable to help the frustration he felt from seeping into his voice.

"He will be."

"Would you stop—" Derek cut himself off, taking another deep breath before continuing. "Why do you think Stiles is going to be a problem?"

"He's weak. He doesn't have Allison's training, he doesn't have Lydia's power, and he's certainly more invested in the pack than Danny will ever be. After all, his brother and his boyfriend run it. He'll never not want to be a part of it, to be with the two of you in the thick of things."

"Some people might see that kind of loyalty as a virtue." Peter wasn't the only one who could pepper a conversation with barbs.

Peter's lips twitched in wry acknowledgement. "I'm not denying that. But do you really think the two of you can keep him safe?"

"Yes." The alternative was unthinkable.

"And at what cost, Derek? How many lives are you willing to risk to keep one human boy alive?"

All of them. Any of them. Derek's thoughts must have shown on his face because Peter shook his head, grim.

"He nearly died last year. You nearly killed him."

"Those were… unusual circumstances." He could still remember the feeling of his shoulders driving into Stiles's back and sending the boy sprawling and breathless to the floor. Stiles's head had hit the tile with a crack and he'd lain there, stunned and gasping for breath as Derek had reared up over him, fangs gleaming.

"Not for us," Peter insisted. "Do you really think we won't be facing another Kanima, another rabid Alpha?"

"You tried to kill him before any of that."

Peter laughed then, and Derek's hands tightened around the paper party plate in his hands. "I did, at that. And if you remember correctly—you nearly got yourself killed trying to defend him."

"I'd do it again."

"No one's denying that, Derek. But you can't be everywhere all the time. There's only one of you."

"And Scott."

"Two of you, then. Either way, the next—what does Stiles call them? 'Big Bads'?—what happens when the next 'Big Bad' targets Stiles simply because they know both you and Scott will do anything to keep him safe? He's always going to be in the crosshairs."

Derek was silent, unable to deny that the thought hadn't crossed his mind more than once. That it didn't keep him up at night, wondering. "What are you suggesting?" He asked, finally.

"You need to break his heart, if you want to keep it beating."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

The look Peter gave him was pitying, and it made Derek's stomach clench. "He's in love with you. Anyone can see that. And that means he'll never walk away. If it were just Scott mixed up in this, then maybe. But the both of you? Not a chance. So you need to do what he can't."

"You're saying I need to leave him."

"Yes."

"Peter—"

"Do you love him, Derek?"

Derek said nothing, he didn't need to.

Peter waited a beat, then continued. "You know I'm right. It's the only way to protect him. To be sure he'll be safe. Otherwise, when he dies—and he will die—his death is going to be on your hands."

"I won't let anything happen to him!"

"Like you didn't let anything happen to the girl?"

"Paige." The name ghosted over Derek's tongue. "Her name was Paige."