Chapter Text
II. In which Stiles is an idiot
Stiles knelt down to check out more trail marks. With his dad being the sheriff, he knew exactly what to look for when tracking someone—broken twigs, sunken earth, trampled leaves—but the trail seemed to end here. This didn’t make any sense unless the beta had suddenly dropped off the face of the earth, in which case, an invading pack was the least of their worries.
He was tired and pissed. Derek had been more than vocal about his views on not tracking one of the betas to the opposing pack’s hideout at their pack meeting earlier. Stiles insisted, saying he’d stay out of sight and hearing range, but Derek had firmly said no without further explanation. Derek might be his alpha, but Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. He didn’t have the overwhelming instinct to obey like the others, with the exception of Allison, did. His idea was a good one and could give them an edge. Strike the other pack while they were sleeping or something. Derek had no good reason for turning it down and everyone knew it. Stiles knew that having the knowledge of where their enemies’ hideout was was a huge advantage. So he grudgingly agreed to stay clear, then went home to arm himself with cloth pouches of wolfsbane and a flashlight.
He’d been following the blond beta through the trees and forgotten paths until he was sure he was completely lost. Checking his phone, Stiles, groaned at the time—already 4:30 and he had school in a few hours. Derek would kill him if he found out Stiles had disobeyed him with nothing to show for it. He might even kill him for disobeying him with something to show for it.
Then he froze, covering his groan with a clamped hand over his mouth. Fuck. How could he be so stupid? There was nothing about this that didn’t scream trap. He had allowed himself to be lured into unfamiliar territory until he was weak, both mentally and physically exhausted and probably too far away from anyone, human or wolf, to help. Now there were missing tracks. Werewolves could jump. There was no short supply of trees in the Beacon Hills Wildlife Preserve. Stiles hesitantly looked up, locking his eyes with the brilliant glowing blue ones if the female beta who was snarling in werewolf form. Stiles froze, trying hard not to do something else stupid like scream or hyperventilate.
There was a moment where they just stared at each other, her crouched predatorily about thirty feet up, him on one knee with a hand still touching the damp earth that held her footprint impression. He tried to think of a plan, some means of escape, but his mind was a blank sheet. She was stronger, faster, relied on instinct. The only instinct that drove Stiles was a steady hand sliding over his pocket to where the pouched wolfsbane was held. It would slow her down at best. Derek had been right; Stiles was an idiot.
Movement happened all at once. The beta pounced towards Stiles’s spot on the ground while he stumbled backwards; trying to find purchase among the masses of brown leaves so he could crab-walk backwards on his elbows. She wasted no time in kneeling in front of him, grabbing his shirt collar. But before she could tear his liver out or something, Stiles shoved the wolfsbane pouch in the center of her pinched face with enough force for the cloth to split open, speckling her nose and forehead with purple dust. When she crumpled back, whining and growling, Stiles had time to pull away, get to his feet and run like a bat out of hell back the way he came. Silently, he really wished the bitch would just die of exposure. Not so silently, he made a pathetic strangled sound as the hood of his sweatshirt was tugged backwards harshly enough that the sound of tearing fabric could be heard. His back was slammed callously into a tree, knocking the wind out of him. While he struggled to remember how breathing worked, Stiles snuck a hand into his pocket again, drawing the backup supply of wolfsbane from it. A snarl greeted his feverish second attempt at defense while she grabbed his hand, prying the small pouch from pathetically human fingers by twisting his wrist in a way wrists weren’t meant to be twisted. Stiles gasped, feeling an odd sensation shoot up from his wrist to his forearm. It didn’t feel broken-at least he hadn’t hear bone crack-but explaining how he got a sprained wrist in his sleep to his dad was going to be trickier than the usual, “I was beat up on the street” or, “it happened at lacrosse practice.” Not that he’d need to think about a plausible lie if he was dead in the next ten seconds. He would die proving Derek right and that was sucked no matter how anyone looked at it.
You're thinking about Derek in your last moments of life. Really Stilinski? He thought to himself. No. That was so wrong and so not Stiles. He was supposed to be blabbing his mouth off in yet another undignified attempt at not dying. So, to convince himself that he was totally not a romantic sap who thought about the hot werewolf that had kissed him in his last moments, Stiles said the first coherent sentence that popped into his brain.
“You know, you are really fucking stupid.” The beta snarled, claws at his throat. That was smart; tell the person you’re at the mercy of that they’re stupid. Stiles cursed not thinking that through. Plans were starting to appeal to him more and more today and that fact kind of worried him. Now that it was out there though, might as well dig himself a deeper grave.
“You don’t think they’ll come for me?” He baited with a laugh that he prayed she wouldn’t pick up on as nervous. “Yes, you’ll kill me and yes, they’ll find my corpse, but Derek—my alpha? He throws me into walls and threatens to kill me daily—and he likes me. I’m almost kinda disappointed I won’t be alive to see what he’ll do to you.” So much for not thinking about Derek. And wow, he was really dead now. He tried remembering how to actually do the whole life preservation thing, because whatever he was doing at the moment was definitely not it. “Another thing that’ll be disappointing: you killing me. So why don’t I put down the wolfsbane, you let me go, and everyone goes home happy? I live, you don’t get ripped to shreds by my pack.” Seemingly not satisfied, Blondie-Beta made a gross sound that might be considered a laugh as she applied pressure to his neck, but not enough to actually break the skin there.
“Your pack?” She spat. “And where is your precious alpha now?” Stiles could feel her tense on the sensitive skin coating his jugular, about to puncture it.
The next few moments would’ve been much cooler if Derek had said something heroic like, “right here” before tearing the girl away by her hair. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. The alpha dragged her about ten feet away from the tree Stiles was pinned against, slitting her throat quickly and efficiently before she even had time to register what was happening.
Stiles crumpled, sliding down to sit against the tree in relief. As he panted through the adrenaline and pure joy that he was alive, Derek bent over the werewolf’s body with his back to Stiles to make sure she was really dead.
“Hey, nice timing. Made everything all dramatic and completely terrifying on my part.” He paused. “Not that your help was needed; I had a plan.” Derek stood up, whirling around to face Stiles, green eyes burning in anger. He was fucking pissed. That was kind of expected thought.
“Plan?” He practically shouted while stomping over to drag Stiles up against the tree again. “What was your plan exactly? Climbing out of hell?” Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off. “Are you hurt?” Only Derek Hale could make being concerned sound so angry; like it would be a major inconvenience for Derek if Stiles had any injuries. Though Stiles did feel the hands clenched in his red hoodie tighten protectively rather than menacingly.
“I’m fine,” he assured the alpha, then set his jaw defensively. “And I brought wolfsbane.” Derek rolled his eyes like he was in the company of an ignorant child.
“Look how well that worked out.” Derek released him surprisingly gently and started walking away, probably towards his car.
Stiles realized he was wrong. Derek was right. But Stiles wasn’t about to let Derek think that. Not without a fight, at least.
After looking at the werewolf’s retreating back, and retreating other parts, for a beat, Stiles ran to catch up in a flurry of limbs.
“My idea to track the beta was smart and you know it. You just didn’t want to admit it because I’m the annoying kid that you throw into walls,” Stiles argued bluntly when he was next to Derek, almost jogging to keep up with his quick pace. The statement made Derek’s frown grow impossibly more intense while he halted abruptly. Stiles wondered why they’d stopped until he noticed the black Camaro in front of him. He really needed sleep if he was this bad at simple observations. Derek was facing him again, standing a little too close; like he really wanted to make a point. He tried looking in Stiles eyes, but then seemed to find the string of his hoodie very interesting instead.
“You know that’s not true,” he said in a low tone. “I was out here tracking the other beta. Then I heard you about a mile away. If you had just listened to me and stayed home tonight, we could know where their hideout is by now. Instead, we have two dead betas that could’ve been used for interrogation.” Stiles was totally ready to mention that killing the pack was kind of a good thing before he processed the first part of that.
“Wait, you took my advice? You were tracking another beta? Why didn’t you tell me, you asshole? It was my idea, I could’ve helped!” Derek gritted his teeth and closed his eyes to try and swallow his temper.
“No, you couldn’t have.”
“And why’s that?” He challenged.
“It was too dangerous, as you so helpfully demonstrated.”
“Too dangerous,” Stiles laughed bitterly. “Why, because I’m human?”
“Because you’re Stiles! If you get hurt, then I’m responsible! Just like if Allison’s hurt its Scott’s fault.” There was a tense silence between them and Stiles was kind of very aware of what Derek had just said. Aware in a not so comprehensive way, really. Scott was responsible for Allison because she was his ‘mate’ or whatever. So why was Derek responsible for him exactly? Sure, they spent a good amount of time together, but that was mostly to go over information because quite frankly, Stiles was the only one in the pack who did his homework about the supernatural and Derek had grown up with the knowledge. Were werewolves responsible for a human when they spent excessive amounts of time with them and occasionally slept on their floor when the information-sharing had gone into the early morning?
“Oh.” Was all he could manage. Derek almost looked like he was blushing in the dim moonlight, but Stiles couldn’t be sure.
“Did she hurt you?” Derek asked in a smooth subject change. Any trace of anger or annoyance was either hidden expertly or gone altogether. He reached with two fingers under Stiles’s chin to gently tilt his head up so he could get a better look at his neck. Stiles realized that it was probably bruised from the claws that had been there just a few minutes ago. Another injury he’d have to explain to his dad. They weren’t terribly painful, but they did sting a little. Derek bent down to take a closer look, eyes glazing over red to see better in the low light. Stiles wasn’t above saying he was really fucking turned on at the moment.
“It’s nothing,” He promised with a low voice, but Derek laid his hand flat against his neck anyway. Stiles reflexively closed his eyes, feeling any discomfort absorb into the hand in time with the pulse in his neck. It started to not just take away his pain, but make his skin tingle in pleasure. His head was light from the tingling, the cool press of a calloused hand on his sensitive neck, the smell of Derek’s cologne mixed with an earthy dirt-and-leaves scent, the heat of their bodies close enough to keep away the chill of the California night, the warm press of Derek’s lips against his barely parted ones…wait, what? Stiles made a conscious decision to not freak out this time, keeping his eyelids loosely closed and muscles relaxed. He really didn’t want to scare Derek off like last time by tensing up or his pulse rising. The latter was easier said than done because Derek’s hand proceeded to slide up Stiles’s neck and rub a thumb against his cheek. Stiles found Derek’s hips with his hands and inched closer, swiping his tongue against thin lips to ask permission.
The action was like a trigger or something though, because Derek pushed back in the same fashion he had the fist time if not harsher. His mouth was open in shock and Stiles internally sighed. Derek used the back of his hand to wipe his lips and that wasn’t a blow to Stiles’s ego or anything. He knew he’d brushed his teeth before he came out tonight, so it wasn’t bad breath or something.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” The alpha said with wide eyes. Opening his mouth to say something, Derek beat him to it, speaking mostly to himself. “I don’t know why I did that….” Stiles smiled, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Kissing Derek was awesome. It was really, really awesome. It was something Stiles could easily get used to. It was not something that Derek should be apologizing for. Before Stiles could say any of that, Derek spoke first again. “I don’t want you to think that I….” Oh.
“No, right, I didn’t think that you would ever...”
“Especially not you.” Double oh. Aaand there was Stiles’s irritation hitting. Because Derek was a jerk and had to say that. The biggest asshole the world had ever seen. He couldn’t just leave it where it was? He had to make it completely and totally clear that Stiles was not his type, in his league, or going to be with him. Ever. As if he couldn’t have figured that out through context clues eventually? So Derek had for some weird, screwed up dominance reason kissed Stiles a few days ago. So he felt bad for Stiles getting attacked and gave him a pity kiss. Wasn’t too hard to figure out, even without super werewolf senses. Stiles gritted his teeth and looked at Derek’s now green eyes.
“Yeah. Right. Just take me back to my jeep.” Derek looked confused, like he’d missed something. His eyes did that thing where the eyebrows fell while his eyes became round, but he didn’t say anything.
Stiles tried to keep his own eyes from drooping on the long drive back to his Jeep and apparently didn’t do a very good job of it because he woke up to his alarm a few hours later. He was in his room dressed in pajamas and told himself he was just too tired to remember driving home and changing. Then he saw his wrist wrapped in tight bandages. He’d forgotten about the injury there. It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.
So, the stupid werewolf he was pissed at kissed him, drove him home, changed him and tended to his wounds. Stiles was finding it really hard to stay angry, but managed it anyway, saying that it was total invasion of privacy.
Derek was a bastard.