Chapter Fifteen

When Peter returned to Beacon Hills he wasn't surprised to find the lock on his door broken. Annoyed, but not surprised. Biting back an impatient sigh he dropped his keys back into his jacket pocket and stepped into his apartment.

"If you'd simply called ahead I could have left a key under the mat for you," he commented sardonically, walking into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. "But I'm pleased to see you've made yourselves at home."

The man standing at Peter's bank of windows didn't turn around, his large black silhouette interrupting the view of the city lights beyond, but the younger one lying sprawled out on Peter's couch sniggered, raising the half-empty bottle of wine he held in mocking thanks before he brought it to his lips and took a long swallow. Seeing the bottle's label Peter's eyes flared blue and he put his glass down on the counter with a thud.

"That bottle was worth more than your entire existence," he hissed, losing his composure.

The boy looked back at Peter with his brown eyes placid. "It tastes like shit." He held Peter's gaze, grinned, and then very deliberately tipped the bottle so the wine poured out in a ruby-red stream onto the white fabric of the couch and dripped onto the carpet.

"Marcus," Peter said tightly, "Control your dog. Or I will."

"I'd like to see you try, old man," the boy sneered, dropping the now-empty bottle carelessly to the floor and getting purposefully to his feet.

"Aiden," the man at the window finally turned around, "Play nice."

And yet he hadn't bothered to say anything when the whelp had been pouring a '53 Bordeaux all over Peter's living room. Peter took a deep breath and reminded himself that he'd repay Aiden's insult soon enough.

"Not that it isn't a pleasure to meet you in person," Peter leaned back against the kitchen counter, settling his hands in his pockets. "But why are you here? If my nephew stops by he'll be able to smell—"

"Then he'll think we paid your apartment the same visit we paid to the young Alpha's house. And the one we've been paying his."

"I didn't sign up so that my own house could be trashed."

"Send me the cleaning bill." Marcus moved forward and Peter got his first good look at the man. He was big, thick and burly in a way that said hired muscle and his hair, shorn close to his head, only reinforced the image. His skin was a dusky gold, either from a deep tan or something a little darker a few generations back, and it made his pale grey eyes stand out in chilling contrast. He wore slacks and a dress shirt, and though they seemed out of place on his large frame he was obviously comfortable in them.

"Don't think I won't," Peter muttered. "Now, do you want to tell me what the point of this little visit is?"

"I want to know what's taking so long," Marcus said. "We've been here for months, and still—"

"Alright, for starters, I'm pretty sure you've been here for a week at most. And your Betas' little guerrilla tactics are cute, but—" Peter's words were cut off mid-sentence when Marcus crossed the room in a flash, claws springing from a hand that wrapped itself around Peter's throat and lifted him off the floor.

"But nothing," Marcus growled. "You told me this pack was weak. Easy pickings with two Alphas and no real leader." He gave Peter a shove back against the kitchen cabinets before letting go and taking a step back, the red slowly fading from his eyes.

Peter kept his lips pressed tight to hide the way his fangs had popped out and instead rubbed gingerly at his throat until they receded, careful to keep the rage he felt off his face. "And that's still true—but you haven't made a move to challenge either of them. Instead you've had your wolves picking on the human, or ganging up on the youngest Beta. Hardly making an impression of strength."

"Well, I'd be an idiot to go up against two Alphas, wouldn't I?"

"Which is why it would be helpful if you worked on driving them apart! The break-in at Terrace Bay was stupid. Now you've got them both under the same roof, you've brought them together against a common enemy: you."

Marcus scowled. "That wasn't my intention."

Peter sighed. "It may still benefit us—though it's going to take longer. The human is a point of contention between the two. I'll do what I can to keep them at odds over him, but you need to pick up the pace if you want to control this territory sooner rather than later."

"What do you suggest?" Marcus asked.

"Well," Peter smiled, "I have a few ideas."

When the other werewolves had returned the night before, they'd not only brought beer but two air mattresses as well, one for Isaac to sleep on in Scott's room and the second for Derek, in lieu of an actual couch. Having expected to spend the night on the floor with nothing but a sleeping bag, Derek had been grateful for Scott's forethought. Unfortunately, the air mattress hadn't done anything to help ease Derek's sleep. He'd spent the entire night tossing and turning, kept awake by the quiet noises of a strange house full of other people and the unfamiliar sounds of a different city filtering in from outside.

When dawn finally crept in through the windows, Derek allowed himself to get up. He'd have a quick shower and then head out to pick up coffee and breakfast before the rest of the pack woke up and had to leave for school—which made him realize that he didn't have a schedule of their classes. He made a mental note to ask Scott for a copy. Moving quietly up the stairs, Derek was careful not to look in the direction of Stiles's door at the end of the hall. He could hear Stiles's quiet, sleep-slow breathing, and the mental image of Stiles sprawled indelicately over his bed was too easy for Derek to picture, as it was something he'd witnessed more than once.

Though never this bed, he reminded himself, never here.

Pushing these thoughts out of his mind, Derek stepped into the bathroom and began to strip.

It wasn't easy unlocking the front door while juggling five to-go cups of coffee (the tray only held four) and a large paper bag full of fresh bagels and cream cheese, but after a minute or so of struggling with the key Derek managed it. Shouldering the door open, he stepped into the front entrance, nearly tripping over a pair of shoes someone had left carelessly in front of the doorway. Swearing under his breath, Derek kicked the shoes to the side and thanked god for his faster-than-human reflexes, which had been the only thing preventing him from dropping the coffee.

"Here," Scott hurried down the stairs, his hair still wet from the shower, "Let me help."

"It's fine, I've got it." But Scott was already taking the tray out of his hands, eyes closing briefly as he inhaled the aroma of hot coffee.

"This is great," he commented, following Derek into the kitchen. "You can stay over any time."

"Thanks," Derek replied dryly, setting the bag down on the counter.

"You brought too many coffees though—Isaac and Jackson both have class early on Wednesday."

Derek shrugged, relatively unconcerned. He hadn't been sure how Isaac, Scott, or Jackson took their coffees so he'd simply asked for one black, one with cream, and one with cream and sugar, figuring they could sort it out on their own when he got back. "If cold coffee is the worst thing that happens today, I won't complain." He reached for the second cream-only coffee and took a sip before turning back to the counter and reaching for the bread knife.

"Hey, don't jinx it." Scott had chosen the cream-and-sugar coffee and took a large gulp. "I gotta run but… I don't suppose you'd make me one of those bagels to go?"

"Sure." So much for having breakfast with the pack.

"Great, thanks!"

As Scott pounded back up the stairs to grab his backpack, Derek sliced a bagel and popped it into the toaster, wondering idly if this was how his mom had felt sending him and his sisters off to school in the morning.

When Scott came back downstairs Derek handed him the wrapped bagel. With a nod of thanks Scott took it, grabbed his coffee, and was out the door.

Slightly at a loss for what to do next, Derek reached into the bag for another bagel. He'd wanted to head out to Ikea after breakfast, but he shouldn't leave Stiles in the house by himself, and when he focused he could still hear Stiles moving around upstairs. Drumming his fingers on the counter while his bagel toasted, Derek wondered how quickly Ikea delivered. He could always order everything online.

"Hey, Scott, did you see where I left my…" Stiles's words trailed off when he stuck his head over the second floor balcony and saw Derek looking up from him from the hallway below where he'd stepped out of the kitchen after hearing Stiles's voice.

"Scott left."

"Oh."

"I picked up bagels," Derek offered. "Coffee too. It might not be hot anymore, but I got you a caramel macchiato. With whipped cream and extra caramel."

"What are you trying to do?" Stiles demanded. He'd tried to hide the mark Derek had left on his neck, wearing a hoodie pulled high, but short of a turtleneck nothing could disguise the bruise.

"I'm sorry about last night. Just, think of it as a peace offering."

"A peace offering?" Stiles laughed, picking up his backpack from where he'd dropped it on the floor and coming around to make his way down the stairs. "You've got to be joking."

"We're going to be sharing the same space for a while. I don't want what's been going on between you and me to affect—"

"There's nothing going on between you and me, Derek. You've made sure of that."

Derek rubbed a hand over his face. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. What you mean is, 'Stiles I don't want you and your inconvenient emotions or humanness or whatever to get in the way of my Important Werewolf Things'. So sorry that I can't just shut myself off like you can. Sorry that having my ex-boyfriend living uninvited in my house is a cause of concern for me. Sorry that I ever could have thought that you loved me and that it took Scott to make me realise I was wrong. Sorry I don't want your fucking 'peace offering'. And, by the way," Stiles continued when Derek opened his mouth to respond, "I don't drink macchiatos anymore."

"There's other coffee—"

"Hello? Are you even listening to me? I don't want coffee. I don't want you here."

"I'm not leaving."

"Yeah, you've made that very clear." Stiles stepped into Derek's space, his body vibrating with anger. "And I'm beginning to think it's because you don't have anywhere else to be."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I bet it really sucked when Scott and Isaac and, hell, even Jackson, moved out of Beacon Hills. After all, it's not like you have any friends your own age. Or any friends at all, period. None of us would have anything to do with you except that, oh yeah, you turned half of us into werewolves."

Derek took a step back. "Stiles—"

"Are you really that worried about Marcus, Derek, or are you just lonely?" Stiles's voice was harsh with scorn. "You've got his scent now. You could find him, kill him. But you won't. Oh, no, big Alpha werewolf Derek Hale is going to move in instead. Because that's safer, right?"

"You don't—"

"No, you don't. You don't have anything in your life except a handful of teenagers that are stuck with you because of some supernatural bullshit. No wonder Boyd and Erica left—they must have realized how pathetic you really are."

Derek froze. He and Stiles hadn't been a thing when Boyd and Erica decided to leave, but later, when they were, Stiles had asked about it. And Derek had told him, so Stiles knew how much that had hurt. He knew Derek couldn't escape the guilt of failing them in the most fundamental way that an Alpha could possibly fail his Betas. He knew that throwing it back into Derek's face would be twisting the knife.

"You might think you're better than he is, but at least Peter's upfront about using people."

Derek sucked in a breath, hoping it might somehow fill the twisted, hollow space that his chest had become. Stiles just shook his head, a look of disgust on his face, and walked past Derek towards the door.

"Wait. Stiles. Please." Derek reached out but stopped himself before his fingers touched the bare skin of Stiles's arm. If Stiles was wearing wolfsbane or mountain ash to ward him off, Derek didn't want to know. "You said I don't have anyone else, and you're right. Everyone else is dead. Or gone. I can't lose any more people, Stiles. This pack is all I have."

Stiles faced him, eyebrow raised as he waited for Derek to continue.

"I can't leave, not until we deal with Marcus, until I'm sure it's safe. But I'll stay out of your way." Derek hesitated, swallowing. "I'm sorry I've been—inconsistent—with you."

Stiles hooked his hands into the straps of his backpack and said nothing.

"I can tell when you want me, and that's hard to resist, so—I haven't. But that's not fair to you. Clearly it's just your body reacting, not your brain. So I'll leave you alone, as much as possible." He met Stiles's eyes, doing everything he could to keep his face clear of emotion. "That's what you want, right?"

"Right," Stiles repeated, the bitten off word landing like a punch to Derek's stomach. "I'm gonna go to school now. Stay out of my room, I don't want you touching my stuff."

Derek nodded in acknowledgement and Stiles walked out the door without a backwards glance.

By the time Scott got home from school he was exhausted. Thursdays were the busiest days of his week and on a normal night all he wanted to do was collapse onto his bed with Netflix on his laptop and a cold bottle of beer. Popcorn too, if he could be bothered to make any.

He didn't think he'd get to do any of those things tonight. Derek had been staying with them for a week or two now, and it wasn't getting any easier. The small house had comfortably fit three, but five was a whole other matter. It might not have been so bad except that he was still sharing his room with Isaac. He supposed he could have pulled rank and made Jackson or Stiles take turns sharing, but he and Isaac had both agreed it wasn't worth the headache.

For a while, things between Stiles and Derek had seemed okay. Derek carefully kept out of Stiles's way and, for his part, Stiles seemed hell-bent on ignoring Derek. But that had only lasted for a few days, ending abruptly when Stiles had come home and discovered that not only had Derek replaced all the ruined furniture, but bought them new laptops as well.

Personally, Scott had been grateful. He'd spent most of his savings from the summer on textbooks and tuition and there was no way his mom could have afforded to buy him a new one (plus he did not want to have to explain why he needed it). The gnawing worry of how he'd be able to complete assignments and essays without his own computer had been an added stress he really didn't need. He knew Isaac had been equally grateful, and would have assumed the same of Stiles—forgetting, somehow, about Stiles's idiotic sense of pride.

Even after Stiles had calmed down and been forced to accept the fact that he could wait hours at the library for a free computer or use the MacBook Derek had bought, it seemed that Stiles couldn't stop going out of his way to needle Derek. Derek, at least, was doing his best not to react, but somehow that only made Stiles push harder.

Which was why Scott wasn't surprised to hear Stiles's voice raised loudly in indignation as he made his way up to the front of the house. It was also how he knew he wasn't going to get the relaxing evening he was so desperate for.

"…and why do you always have to be in the kitchen?" Stiles demanded. "You went and bought yourself a pull-out couch and a brand new TV since I guess the living room is now your bedroom, so why can't you just stay in there if you need to be here at all?"

"Stiles," as it had for the last couple weeks, Derek's voice remained level, "Let me finish cleaning up from dinner and then I'll be out of your way."

"Right, make me sound like the asshole because you made dinner and I'm just being an ungrateful little—"

"I didn't say that."

"And I didn't ask you to cook dinner, or clean up, or move in. So don't act like you're doing me some big favour!"

"If you'd give me five minutes—"

"Could you two please take it outside?" Scott asked tiredly as he dropped his backpack at the front door and made his way into the kitchen.

"There's a plate for you on the stove," Derek supplied when Scott reached for the handle of the fridge. Scott grunted his thanks and pulled out a beer, twisting off the top and taking a long swallow.

"I'm not finished," Stiles ignored Scott, still focused on Derek who stood at the sink, his hands full of soapy water.

"Yes, you are," Scott interrupted before Stiles could continue. "Finals are coming up and I have to study—and I can't do that when you keep yelling. I don't care—" he raised his voice when Stiles opened his mouth to defend himself, "What you think Derek's done now. I don't care. So go take Jackson, and Isaac if he'll go with you, and see a movie or something. I don't care what you do. Just don't be in the house tonight, okay?"

Stiles spluttered, "Why do I have to be the one to go? Derek—"

"Stiles!" Scott's control snapped and he was too tired to rein it in when his eyes began to glow scarlet. "You're the one yelling so you get to leave. End of discussion." Not waiting for a reply he grabbed the still warm plate from the stove—ham and scalloped potatoes—and made his way up the stairs to his room.

Thirty minutes later, the house was blissfully quiet. Scott leaned back in his desk chair and closed his eyes with a soft sigh of relief. He never thought he'd be so happy to be home alone. Well, not alone, exactly, because Derek was still around. And the house wasn't totally silent because he could hear the muted noise of the TV on in the living room, but no one was yelling or fighting or arguing over the remote. Scott didn't have to filter out the background noise of five separate heartbeats and breathing patterns and fingers on keyboards or the thousands of other noises the human (or werewolf) body seemed to make.

Picking up his empty bottle of beer and his dinner plate Scott made his way downstairs, giving Derek a silent nod as he passed by the living room where Derek was watching a rerun of Star Trek: Voyager. Reaching the kitchen, he rinsed out the bottle and tossed it into recycling, put his plate in the dishwasher, and grabbed another beer from the fridge. After a moment's thought he grabbed a second and tossed it to Derek on his way back up the stairs. Derek caught it without looking away from the TV and gave Scott a small salute with the bottle in thanks.

Back in his room, Scott eyed his textbook where it lay open on his desk. He should study—he hadn't been lying about finals being right around the corner—but he finally had his room to himself for a while. Feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt he bypassed his desk and settled onto his bed, pulling his laptop across the covers towards him. If he started now he could probably watch three episodes of Dark Angel before everyone else got home.

When his phone buzzed at the beginning of the second episode he almost ignored it, but responsibility got the better of him and with a sigh he paused the episode and grabbed the phone. His brow furrowed when he realized who the text was from.

Peter Hale: Do you have a second?

Scott scowled. He didn't want to interrupt his first night in to himself for anything short of a life-or-death situation. And he definitely didn't want to interrupt it for Peter. Even if Peter was actually dying. Scott knew that wasn't very leader-of-the-pack of him, but Peter gave him the creeps. Especially after whatever it was that had happened between Peter and Stiles.

Unfortunately, Peter seemed to realize that Scott would be content to ignore him, and a second text followed the first.

Peter Hale: It's about Stiles.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Scott muttered, and closed his laptop with a sigh.

Scott McCall: Ok. What?

Peter Hale: He's not safe.

Scott McCall: He's out with Isaac and Jackson. I think he's fine.

Peter Hale: I don't mean right now—Scott could almost hear the unsaid 'you idiot'—I mean he's not safe from Marcus.

Scott McCall: We're doing everything we can.

Peter Hale: Not everything.

Scott McCall: What do you mean?

Peter Hale: I spoke to Derek about this months ago. I'm surprised he didn't tell you.

Scott McCall: …

Peter Hale: He's the only human in a pack of werewolves. There's one quick fix here, Scott.

Scott McCall: You want me to turn him.

Peter Hale: Yes.

Scott McCall: If Derek said no, I'm sure he has a good reason.

Peter Hale: Are you sure about that? Sure enough to bet Stiles's life on it?

Scott's fingers hovered over the screen, suddenly not very sure at all. Peter was a creepy, manipulative bastard, but he was their creepy, manipulative bastard. He didn't want Marcus to take over the packs' territory any more than Scott did. Of that, at least, Scott was fairly certain. There'd be nothing in it for Peter—what could he possibly get out of having a strange Alpha in charge? So maybe this unsolicited advice was exactly that: advice.

Scott McCall: I'll talk to Derek.

Peter Hale: Good. I just want what's best for the pack.

Yeah, sure he did. Scott rolled his eyes.

Scott McCall: Don't push it, Peter.

Peter Hale: Very well. Have a good night.

Scott didn't bother replying, just tossed his phone to the mattress beside him and opened his laptop back up. He'd bring it up to Derek tomorrow—tonight he was going to finish season two.