Chapter Fourteen

Tomorrow, Derek would go to Ikea. He'd replace the broken dishes, the broken furniture, stop by Future Shop and pick up a new TV—and as many of Stiles's DVDs as he could remember. Until then, though, they'd have to settle for dinner served on paper plates and wine in plastic cups.

Turning off the burner on the stove, Derek slipped on a pair of oven mitts and gingerly picked up the boiling pot of pasta and carried it to the sink where he poured the contents into a plastic colander. Luckily, plastic wasn't as fun to break as dishes or to twist as metal, so the colander had survived unscathed. Unlike the large metal pot, which had both handles ripped off. As steam rushed up, hot and wet against Derek's face, he closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the familiar scent of fresh cooked pasta momentarily distract him from the conversation behind him.

"Look," Isaac was saying, "I just don't see why you're not more help. As far as I know—as far as any of us know—it's not like you have a job or anything. So why haven't you found out more about this other pack?"

"Maybe you read one too many Hardy Boys as a child. Detective work isn't exactly as simple as you might think." Peter poured himself another glass of the wine. "It takes time."

"Of which you have nothing but."

"I'm sorry, would you rather be in charge of research? After all, you've been a werewolf for, what, all of three years? Surely you must know all there is to know by now. It's not like I haven't been one for, oh, that's right, my entire life."

"Would you two stop it?" Scott interrupted. "Isaac, I'm sure Peter's doing his best. And Peter—cut it with the snark, alright? We've got enough to deal with without jumping down each other's throats."

"The spaghetti's ready." Derek pulled the pasta from the sink and set it on the counter. "Does someone want to get Stiles?"

There was a long stretch of silence, and then with a roll of his eyes Jackson yelled "Stiles! Get your ass down here!"

"Was that really necessary?" Derek asked, taking the pot of spaghetti sauce from the stove and placing it on a hot pad beside the pasta.

"Yes."

At Derek's raised eyebrow, Jackson continued with a long-suffering sigh. "He's being a dick. No one wants to go talk to him."

There was another beat of silence, neither Scott nor Isaac immediately attempting to refute Jackson's claim. Peter chuckled from behind the rim of his plastic cup.

Scott shot Peter a reproachful glance. "He has his reasons," he said finally in response to Jackson.

"He had his reasons," Jackson corrected. "It's been—"

"Just cut him some slack, okay?" Scott asked with the first hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

"Oh, come on. I am done tiptoeing around—" there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Jackson broke off with a huff.

"I'll get the plates," Isaac said loudly when they could hear Stiles making his way down the hallway. He reached onto the counter behind him and tore through the plastic wrapping, pulling out half a dozen of the paper plates. "Jackson, do you want to open the cutlery?"

"Only if I can slit my wrists on one of the knives and avoid this entire debacle," Jackson muttered under his breath, but he reached for the package of forks nonetheless.

"Stiles," Peter said in greeting when the boy rounded the corner into the kitchen. "Would you like a glass of wine?" There was a casual, possessive intimacy in the timbre of his voice, and Derek's lips were half-curled in a snarl before he realized what he was doing and managed to press them closed. Stiles didn't seem to have noticed, but from across the room Scott sent Derek a pointed look—though Derek didn't miss the way Scott's eyes narrowed when he looked back at Stiles and Peter.

"It's a nice Chianti," Peter was saying as he poured a glass for Stiles.

"We're not having liver, are we?" Stiles asked dryly, taking the cup when Peter offered it to him.

"Actually," Peter set the bottle back on the counter. "Hannibal Lector doesn't drink Chianti with liver in the book. It's—"

"Amarone." Derek showed his teeth then in what could almost be interpreted as a grin. "Why don't we grab some food and move into the living room?"

"Wow, Derek, you've only been here half a day and you're already acting like you own the place." Stiles raised his glass in a mocking toast. "Glad to see you've made yourself right at home."

"Dude," Jackson turned on Stiles with a glare, "He made dinner. So shut up or go back upstairs."

"How many times do I have to point out that this is my house?" Stiles wondered out loud. "Should I just get it tattooed on my forehead? Printed on a t-shirt, maybe?"

"Stiles," Scott warned, grabbing a plate from Isaac and shoving it at Stiles so that he was forced to take it in his free hand. "Just let it go until after we eat."

Stiles looked mutinous, but after a second he dropped Scott's gaze. "Whatever," he said, and took a drink of wine.

Derek kept his jaw clenched tight and tried not to let the tension he felt in his shoulders show. Isaac handed him a plate and Derek dished out the pasta.

Five minutes later, they were all sitting on the living room floor, crowded around the coffee table. There wasn't really enough room for the six of them, especially with Stiles taking up nearly an entire side to himself, but they'd made it work. For a while there was silence, nothing but the occasional "Pass the parmesan," but eventually Isaac turned to Stiles and brought up his new Orphan Black theory, and then Peter asked Jackson if he'd seen the new line of Porches, and soon conversation picked up.

"No way, absolutely not, no," Stiles was insisting. "Felix is not Sarah's monitor."

"Right, but just think about—" Isaac argued.

"I mean there's no way they compare to last year's, but—"

Derek let the noise of their conversations blur around him, focussing on his pasta. If he didn't tune in all the way he could pretend, even if it was just for a few minutes, that nothing had changed. That his pack was still whole and healthy.

"This is great sauce," Scott offered, pulling Derek back to reality. "I'll have to get the recipe. Or," he gave a crooked grin, "Get Isaac to get it."

"He's still doing all the cooking?"

"Yeah. Thank god. Stiles and I would live off pizza pops, otherwise. Which I'm not actually sure you can do…"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Don't try it."

"I don't plan to." Scott glanced at the rest of the table, but they all seemed caught up in their conversations. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice so that it was barely above a breath. "Isaac's fine. No side effects."

Derek gave his head the tiniest shake. "Not here," he said through his teeth. They'd kept what they'd done a secret from the rest of the pack for a reason, and he didn't want it to all be for nothing if Scott let it slip because he forgot that five sixths of the table had supernatural hearing powers.

Scott's mouth thinned into a grim line. "Right, sorry," he muttered, sitting back upright and shovelling another forkful of pasta into his mouth. As he chewed, his eyes moved from Derek to the living room wall were the message had been left. "It was him this time."

So much for having one dinner without discussing Marcus. Derek bit back a sigh of annoyance and dropped his fork back onto his plate, no longer interested in eating. "Yeah."

"Did you guys just say it was Marcus?" Stiles broke away from his conversation with Isaac. "What else aren't you telling us?"

Jackson groaned.

"Nothing, Stiles," Derek said wearily. "We're not hiding anything."

"Except how you healed Isaac," Peter pointed out.

"He's healed—isn't that what matters?" Scott glared at Peter. "How we did it isn't important."

"And thank you, by the way," Isaac tipped his cup in a toast to Scott and Derek.

"Okay, can we get back to the point here? What were you saying about Marcus?"

"Does anyone want to finish eating first?" Jackson asked of no one in particular, and was summarily ignored.

"He was here," Scott answered Stiles. "He's the one who wrote the message in the wall."

"How do you know that?"

"It smells like Alpha. Since it wasn't me and it wasn't Scott, and I highly doubt we have a third wolf pack running around our territory, that means it was him."

"Does this mean you can find him now?" Stiles turned to face Derek and raised an eyebrow. "That we can finally do something about his little reign of terror?"

"We could always have found him, Stiles," Peter leaned back, resting his elbows on the carpet. "It was just a matter of what we'd do with him—with them—once we did."

"Hmm, I don't know, maybe kill them before they kill us!" The vehemence in Stiles's face was unsettling and Derek had to stop himself from reaching out and running a soothing hand down Stiles's back.

"I don't think they want to kill us," Isaac spoke up. "Or, at least, I don't think they want to kill us Betas." He gestured at himself, Peter, and Jackson.

"Dude, I think they tried to kill you," Jackson spoke around a mouthful of spaghetti.

Stiles was frowning, some of his anger apparently receding as his brain began to whirl. "No, I think Isaac is right. Friday night got… out of hand. I don't think they were planning on hurting Isaac that badly."

"They want us to join them," Isaac took a sip from his own cup of wine. "That's what they said to me, anyway."

"'Tick tock,'" Peter mused, looking up at the words on the wall. "I'd say our time is running out."

"So, what do we do?" Jackson looked at Derek.

Derek glanced at Scott, then answered. "For now, I'm moving in here. And you are, too."

Jackson stared at Derek in disbelief. "Uhh, no. I already have a dorm. I'm fine. There's no way I'm living off campus with you losers."

"Jackson," Scott began, but Derek wasn't finished.

"And Stiles, I think you should stay with Danny while Jackson is here."

"Oh my god," Stiles rolled his eyes. "This is my house. I'm. Not. Leaving." He gave a disparaging shake of his head. "And you're not staying."

"I'm staying," Jackson insisted. "At my place. If Stiles gets to stay, so do I."

Derek let out a long, slow breath through his nose and tried not to let the irritation that prickled along his skin show. He'd known this was going to be a hard sell, but it was the best way to keep them all safe. He probably should have talked the idea over with Scott beforehand though—the way Scott was watching what was happening with polite interest but making no move to help Derek indicated that he probably wasn't too happy to have the idea sprung on him at the same time as everybody else. But it wasn't like he'd had any time to speak to Scott alone about it. Scott had been in school and Derek had been cleaning and, goddamnit, Derek was the Alpha. An Alpha. He had the right to make decisions about the safety of the pack.

"Do you want to be responsible for something happening to Danny because you're there?" Derek spoke directly to Jackson.

"They're not allowed to kill humans… Stiles said." But Jackson was beginning to look uncertain.

"That didn't stop them from dislocating Stiles's shoulder," Scott finally spoke up.

"Yeah, but… Stiles is pack. Danny isn't."

"He lives with a werewolf—do you expect them to think otherwise?" This time it was Peter, and while Derek was grateful for the support he didn't spare a glance in his uncle's direction. At some point Derek was going to have to confront him—ask him what he'd thought he was doing with Stiles—but that was going to have to wait. As much as possible their pack needed to present a unified front.

"Alright, fine. But I'm not sharing a bed. Or a room." Jackson got to his feet and stormed into the kitchen.

"He can have Stiles's, or Isaac can share with me—we've done it before," Scott waited for Isaac's nod of assent and then turned to Derek. "Are you okay with the couch?"

"Um, hello?" Stiles waved a hand. "I am not okay with that. He's not staying here."

"Yeah, he is." Scott turned to Stiles. "And you're going to stay with Danny."

"No."

"Stiles, I don't think you're taking this seriously enough," Peter interjected. "We don't want you getting hurt."

"I don't care what you want," Stiles met Peter's eyes and there was a tension between them that froze Derek's heart mid-beat. "I'm not going anywhere," Stiles finished, turning back to Scott. "You heard Jackson; I'm pack."

After Stiles's blow-up when he'd discovered Derek in the house earlier, Derek had expected more of a tantrum from him. While Stiles was clearly pissed, he wasn't blowing up. Maybe that meant he'd be able to see reason soon enough. "Look, Stiles," Derek began, but stopped when Stiles held up a hand.

"Whatever you're about to say, I don't care. This is my house, I'm not leaving. That's it. The end." Like Jackson had before him, Stiles got to his feet, but instead of following Jackson into the kitchen, he went up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door shut.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," Peter commented.

"Shut up, Peter." Scott rose, gathering the empty paper plates with Isaac's help. "I'm going to go get some beer. No offence Peter, Derek, but wine's not really my thing."

"Thank god." Jackson popped his head out of the kitchen. "Take me with you."

"Isaac, you go too," Derek ordered. "It's late, and I don't want anyone going out after dark in groups of less than three."

"Yes, sir," Jackson gave a sarcastic salute and headed to the front door to pull on his shoes.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to leave those three here alone?" Derek heard Isaac ask Scott quietly from the kitchen. "They might kill each other by the time we get back."

"Good riddance," Scott replied, not bothering to keep his voice down, as he dumped the paper plates and plastic cutlery in the garbage. Derek said nothing and waited until the three of them had pulled on their coats and walked out the door, Scott careful to lock it behind them.

"And what about me?" Peter asked finally, turning to Derek. "Am I to be bunking with the troops as well?"

"No," Derek replied shortly. "You can go back to Beacon Hills. I don't want Marcus to think he's run us all out of town."

"And yet…"

"Go." There must have been something in Derek's voice that brooked no argument, because for what was probably the first time in Peter's life he merely gave a slow nod and stood, before following the rest of the wolves out of the door.

Derek waited until he heard Peter's car pull away before getting to his own feet and making his way up the stairs.

Facing Stiles's closed door, Derek shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wood, taking a moment to just breathe. He could smell Marcus still, smell the four wolves of the other pack that had also been here and helped cause the gleeful destruction. But behind that he could smell Stiles and it made Derek's chest ache with a longing that had something akin to despair creep up his spine. This whole thing was unravelling in front of him—everything he'd done to try and keep Stiles safe had only wound up hurting him. Maybe worse than if Derek had done nothing at all.

It was too late to think about what-ifs, however. He'd done too much damage to try and backtrack—at this point the truth would only make things harder, more messy. He still thought that untangling Stiles from the supernatural was the kid's best chance at survival, at normal. Stiles's best chance of having a life that he could actually live instead of merely survive.

So Derek raised his hand and knocked on the door.

"Fuck off," Stiles snapped. "I'm done talking to you guys about this."

And now Derek could feel his own anger surging, mingling with his fear and frustration until all of these emotions boiled over and he could feel his eyes bleed from green to red. He reached for the doorknob and wasn't surprised to find that Stiles had locked it. With a twist of his wrist Derek broke the lock and shoved through the doorway.

"Hey!" Stiles scrambled up from where he'd been sitting on his mattress, his back against the wall. "You can't break in to my room. Get out."

"You said it yourself. You're pack."

"I—what?"

"Downstairs," Derek advanced towards Stiles, enjoying the way Stiles couldn't stop himself from flinching back. "You said you're pack."

"Yeah, well," Stiles gathered himself, straightening his spine and refusing to back away when Derek moved closer, "I am."

"If you're pack, then I'm your Alpha."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine, you're the Alpha."

"You need to learn your place," Derek's voice had thickened into a growl, more wolf than human.

"Oh, and where's that?" Stiles scoffed. "On my knees in front of you?"

"Your knees, your belly, or your back. Whichever you'd prefer."

"I'm gonna go with 'd': none of the above." Stiles curled his lip at Derek. "I'm not your bitch. You can't force me to submit to you, or whatever the fuck this is." He turned away, turned his back on Derek, and walked across the room to lean back against his desk. "Would you just get over yourself and get out? The 'I'm the Alpha' act is getting old."

The instant Stiles turned his back on Derek, Derek had to dig his claws into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw blood. It was either that or he'd use them on Stiles—the insolence from a subordinate pack member was unacceptable. This wasn't about Derek-and-Stiles anymore. This was about Alpha-and-Beta. No, not even that. Alpha-and-human, and Derek would not tolerate this level of disobedience.

"Do you think," he began, once again stalking across the room towards Stiles, his eyes full of power and fury, "I would let Jackson speak to me the way you do? Or Isaac?"

"Please," Stiles was still affecting an air of casual indifference, but the way his fingers tightened around the rim of the desk and the air sharpened with the scent of fear told Derek a different story. "Are you trying to convince me they're scared of you? 'Cause no way. I don't buy it. You're a leader, not a dictator."

"Splitting hairs," Derek murmured, close enough now that he could see the blood flush in Stiles's cheeks.

"No, it's not. Those are different things, and you know that."

"What I know right now is that you're refusing to obey—"

"'A direct order from a superior officer'?" Stiles mocked. "Come on, Derek. I didn't sign up for the army."

"But you signed up for this." Derek let his fangs slide out, raised his clawed hands.

Stiles's eyes darted between Derek's mouth and his hands, and he wet his lips before his eyes came back to meet Derek's. "What is it you want from me right now? I'm not leaving. That's not going to happen, no matter how werewolf you go on me. This is my home as much as it is Scott's, and that means I'm staying. So what do you want?"

You.

When Derek said nothing, Stiles made a frustrated noise and tried to push past him, but Derek refused to move, trapping Stiles back against his desk. Stiles's eyes flashed angrily, whiskey gold going molten hot, and his hand darted down to his pocket. But Derek knew what he was going for, knew Stiles would try to pull out whatever it was he'd been wearing earlier that day, and so his own hand shot out to wrap around Stiles's wrist with bruising force.

"Don't you dare," Derek snarled. "You don't use mountain ash or rowan on me."

"Or what?" Stiles spat. "What are you going to do about it?"

Derek could feel the pulse in Stiles's wrist pound against his fingers, the beat racing electric from Stiles's skin to Derek's. Stiles's wrist fit perfectly in the circle of Derek's hand. His body, where they were now pressed nearly flush, fit perfectly against Derek's. Stiles's lips, mouth open and parted in indignation, aligned perfectly with Derek's. Because they were perfect, and they fit, and Derek was tearing that apart to keep Stiles safe and alive. Why couldn't Stiles just cooperate?

"That's what I though," sneering, Stiles tried to yank his arm free of Derek. "Your bark's always worse than your bite."

Derek's free hand came up and fisted in Stiles's hair, tight enough that Stiles gave a surprised yelp of pain, and then Derek was dragging him forward until their lips crashed together. Stiles's mouth was still open and Derek took ruthless advantage, his tongue sweeping in to chase away any protest Stiles might have formed. For a brief second Stiles remained rigid against him, his free hand coming up to push at Derek's shoulders, but Derek pulled back slightly, just enough to sink his teeth into Stiles's plump bottom lip, and Stiles shuddered. His hand stopped pushing, fingers tightening into the fabric of Derek's shirt as he tried to pull Derek closer, a hot whine of need sounding in the back of his throat.

Derek shifted the angle of the kiss, slanting his lips over Stiles's with bruising force that had them both swallowing groans. He could taste Stiles's arousal, smell the way desperation thickened the air around him, and it took all of his willpower not to shove Stiles back onto the desk and just take. Stiles would let him. That much they'd already established. But as much as he wanted to, Derek didn't need to take from Stiles—he needed Stiles to give.

Breaking the kiss Derek pulled back, watching Stiles as his chest heaved, breathless and flushed.

"What do you want?" Stiles asked between breaths. "What are you waiting for?"

"I told you what I wanted." Derek could see the outline of Stiles's cock, hard and eager, through the fabric of his jeans. "You need to learn your place in this pack."

"Jesus," Stiles ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. You win." He leaned back against the desk, head tilted mockingly to the side, baring his throat. "This is how real wolves do it, right?"

Derek closed the distance between them, placing his hands on either side of the desk of Stiles but not touching him, his movements slow and deliberate. He leaned in until his lips were millimetres from the exposed line of Stiles's throat. Stilled. Waited until Stiles's heartbeat stuttered and then sunk his teeth into Stiles.

There was nothing gentle about it, no caress of lips or tongue to soothe the pain, just Derek's teeth closing tight around Stiles's flesh. Stiles made a sound low in his throat, his own hands coming up to grab Derek's hips and pull the Alpha closer until Derek's body was pressed full against his and Derek's erection ground into Stiles's. Derek didn't break away, didn't do anything but bite down harder until he could taste Stiles's blood and Stiles's hips began to thrust helplessly into Derek.

Then he pulled back, stepped clear away from Stiles who stared back at Derek with his eyes wide and hazy, droplets of blood oozing from the bruise livid against his pale skin. Derek licked his lips, rolling the taste of Stiles's blood and arousal around in his mouth like it was a hard candy he could suck until he got to the gooey centre.

"You can stay," Derek said, calmly. "But so am I." And with that he turned and walked out of Stiles's room, not bothering to close the broken door behind him.