Chapter Text
It’s the middle of spring break when the hunters decide to attack, Chris and Allison off to visit relatives. Allison had protested, hadn’t wanted to leave Beacon Hills, but had reluctantly agreed when her dad promised Scott that they were only a phone call away should anything happen.
And boy does it happen.
Stiles finds himself in the middle of a downpour, driving home from the daily lacrosse practices Finstock had scheduled during their break, when his phone goes off. He only swerves a little when he grabs it off the passenger seat and answers.
“It’s not me, I swear!” He yells over the blinding rain and thunder and lightning, no greeting necessary.
“I know it’s not you!” Derek yells back. “Lightning just struck the house!”
Stiles gives it up and pulls onto the shoulder at that, puts the Jeep into park and throws his hazard lights on, just in case. There’s no other traffic on the road, and without the Jeep’s steady rumble, he can hear Derek panting softly on the other end of the line, what sounds like the crunch of leaves…
“Oh my god, where are you?” Stiles replies, knows that by the sound of it, Derek is running – but whether it’s to something or away from something is what he doesn’t know.
Derek doesn’t reply, but he’s still on the line from the sound of it. And Stiles is so glad he stopped the Jeep, because not two seconds later a figure comes bursting out of the woods, barrels straight across the road.
“Holy shit!” Stiles shouts in surprise, nearly drops his phone.
Of course it’s Derek, cell phone in one hand. And of course he’s shirtless.
And barefoot.
The alpha climbs into Stiles’ Jeep and Stiles just stares for a moment, mouth hanging open. Derek buckles himself in, then looks over at Stiles.
“What the – “ Stiles starts, giving Derek a one-over. The werewolf looks pornographic – wet sweats clinging to his thighs, water cascading over his muscular shoulders, down his perfectly toned chest….his hair dark and damp and plastered against his forehead.
“Stiles, drive!” Derek growls, his green eyes going wide. Stiles thinks he sees the alpha’s teeth elongate – just a little – and that snaps him from whatever the fuck else he was thinking, makes him put the Jeep in drive and peel out onto the road.
“At least tell me where we’re going…” Stiles manages, once his heart stops pounding in his throat.
“To the vet clinic,” Derek replies promptly. “That’s where I told everyone to meet up.” He explains.
“And the house…?” Stiles ventures, curiosity getting the best of him. Had months of renovations just gone down in flame – again, he wonders. He glances over at Derek.
“I think it just damaged the roof,” the alpha replies solemnly. “I didn’t exactly stick around to find out…”
“And it’s still only the one guy, right?” Stiles asks. “Only one of them can control the elements?”
“As far as we know,” Derek nods, then looks back out the window. “We haven’t seen or heard of anyone else in their group having those abilities…”
It’s still raining heavily, but not like the torrential downpour of earlier. Derek seems nervous, on guard even – as if the group of hunters will pop up at any minute, in the middle of the road.
“Well, he’ll be pretty wiped out after this, is my guess…” Stiles finds himself scanning the tree line as well, just as a precaution.
“Unless he’s figured out some way to not use up all his strength…” Derek mutters, and it’s pointed, directed toward him, Stiles knows, but whatever.
“Nah, look at the rain. It’s barely sprinkling,” Stiles retorts. “But if that is the case, don’t kill him until he tells me how to do that…” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
And Stiles knows that it could very well be true. The hunters might be leading them to think that their mage has gone weak, trying to provoke the wolves into attacking just when they’ve set up some sort of trap. The lightning and sudden rainstorm almost seem too showy to be a real attack.
“Wait!” Stiles yells, slams on his breaks and sends them both pitching forward in their seats. Good thing they’re buckled in. Derek looks up at him like he’d better have a good explanation for the sudden stop.
“Tell them to meet us at the school, on the lacrosse field…” Stiles tells Derek, picks up his own phone in one hand to dial Scott’s number. He swings the Jeep around and heads back toward the high school.
“Just do it,” he snaps at the alpha – who is looking at Stiles like he just sprouted a second head – while he waits for Scott to pick up. Derek lets out an angry huff, but then he calls Boyd, tells him to head back to school.
They meet on the open field, by the bleachers. Stiles is lucky, as none of them were too far from the school when the rain started, when lightning stuck the Hale house. It makes Stiles wonder, though, if the hunters meant to attack them separately, or if they were trying to bring them together. Whatever the case, they’re all here now – even Peter slinks out of the woods near the school like he owns the place.
“Chris and Allison are on their way,” Scott tells them, having reported the attack to the Argents. Stiles knows it’ll take them a good two hours to get back to Beacon Hills, though. And a lot can happen in two hours.
And maybe it’s not such a good idea to be standing in an open field when there’s just been a thunderstorm, but Stiles thinks two can play at that game…
Stiles works with hurried precision, tracing out the runes for protection in a wide circle, using the end of his lacrosse stick to etch the symbols into the wet earth. They are still wearing their jerseys – Stiles, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd – and they look more like a team than ever, Stiles thinks. He knows that it’ll help bind the spell for safeguarding to them even more.
The wolves are alert, using their heightened senses to pick up on any threat. The hunters were close to the preserve, close to the Hale house when they first attacked, Derek had revealed to Stiles as they pulled into the school parking lot. But now they are quiet, and at least downwind, since none of the werewolves can smell them.
“Stay within this circle, if you can,” Stiles tells them, gesturing to the wide ring of runes. “Attack the mage first – he’ll be weak, hopefully.” He adds, and he wonders when he became the leader of this ragtag group. Derek doesn’t correct him, and Stiles feels a surge of power at the thought of the alpha letting him boss the other wolves around. He feels the deep fluttering of something else, too.
But when he gazes out over the field, he knows the runes won’t be enough. There’s no way the fighting will be contained within in the protective circle, and so Stiles sighs, fishes around in his bag for the knife he packed.
He presses the blade to the pale skin of his forearm, drives the sharp point into his flesh – then down – with purpose. He hears Erica gasp as the iron in his blood oxidizes, turning bright red as it greets the air.
“Stiles – “ Derek starts, but Stiles can’t let him finish.
“Just trust me…” He says, meeting Derek’s gaze and holding it for a moment too long. His arm is stinging and there’s the warm slide of blood down over his wrist, his fingers, when he finally moves toward them.
He starts with Erica – her eyes still wide with surprise, lips slightly parted. She’s wearing a long-sleeved top, low-cut with a wide neck, so he draws the symbols right below her collarbones, tries not to use too much blood – he doesn’t want it to run down and stain her shirt. It’s the same pattern he drew in the dirt, only this time he’s hoping the symbols will work no matter where the wolves are.
He moves to Boyd next, then Isaac, then Scott. He uses their forearms as his canvas – the underside, smooth and hairless. Each dab at his wound hurts, but Stiles keeps a straight face, his mouth clamped shut in deep concentration. He has to make sure they’re perfect.
Peter rolls up his sleeves, gazes predatorily at Stiles when he moves to trace the runes on the older werewolf. Stiles tries not to shudder as he works, tries not to think about Peter grabbing his wrist nearly two years ago, offering Stiles the bite.
He does Derek last, letting out a long exhale as he moves to stand in front of the alpha. Derek only has on a pair of black sweatpants, so there’s plenty of skin to work with. The thought makes Stiles’ cheeks color, and he hesitates.
“You don’t have to do this…” Derek says softly. It’s the same thing he said that night in Stiles’ Jeep, and Stiles still doesn’t quite understand it. It’s not really about Stiles being a weak human, or whatever the fuck he’d been thinking it was about. No, it’s almost as if Derek’s warning Stiles, saying, “I’m not worth the effort…”
“Too late…” Stiles replies, his lips curving into a small half-smile. It’s like a promise, and Stiles feels something stir deep within him as he meets Derek’s gaze. He doesn’t look away as his fingers swipe at the blood on his arm, as he traces the symbols across Derek’s chest.
He takes a step back, pulls an old t-shirt from his bag and wraps it around his arm. The blood has already started to congeal, and the cut is so superficial that he knows it won’t even scar.
The hunters appear then, marching out from the tree line, shoulder to shoulder. There’s a low hanging fog from all the rain, and the sight is rather eerie – like zombies, Stiles thinks, but faster, and less dead.
They are heavily armed – crossbows and long bows, handguns and rifles – and Stiles spots their wizard – sorcerer, conjuror, whatever you want to call it. He’s standing off to one side as the others stalk forward, staring at Stiles.
“The one in red, guys,” Stiles tells them, dragging his gaze away from the other magic user slowly. Then he sees how the gang has already wolfed-out, claws and fangs at the ready, low growls and snarls emanating from their throats.
The hunters are close now, so close, and Stiles needs to get out of the way.
“Oh god…” he nearly squeaks as he takes one last look at the werewolves and heads for the bleachers, taking cover there.
Arrows and bullets start flying as the werewolves charge the hunters. It’s six against fourteen – the mage hangs back – so it’s not bad odds at all, Stiles thinks, peaking through the metal bleachers. Boyd brings the first hunter down – there’s a high-pitched scream and a low squelch as the werewolf clamps down on the man’s throat, crushing his trachea.
Erica is clawing at one guy’s back and Derek has just thrown three of the hunters halfway across the field, pulling the arrows they shot at him out of his chest like they’re nothing – and they should have gone in much deeper, those shots were close range, Stiles thinks, which means the protection spells really are working – when the wind starts up.
At first it’s just a flutter, barely rustling Stiles’ hoodie. Stiles catches sight of the mage, his arms outstretched toward Stiles, before the wind whips into a fury, lifts Stiles up like he weighs no more than an errant leaf, then sends him back down, crashing into the earth.
It takes him a moment to catch is breath, recover from it all. The ground is hard beneath him, and when he turns his head, he can see the fight.
Three or four of the hunters are dead or not moving, at least. A few more are bloodied, injured in various ways, slinking off in retreat. The rest of the hunters are gathered in a tight cluster, back to back, their weapons raised. A tense stalemate has been reached, the wolves pacing back and forth, but neither party advancing. Stiles feels relief to see that none of his friends are on the ground.
The ground.
He feels it then, the shift of something powerful and ancient beneath him. In all his weeks of practicing, he’s never felt this connected to the earth, never felt this sure in his own abilities. He’d tried and tried to call the earth by name, to command it to do his bidding. But unlike air or water or fire, it had never obeyed. It had remained strong and stubborn, fixed and unmoving.
But now he feels the thrum of life all around him – through him. The earth is no longer a static entity but moving, living. He can feel the fire, deep within its core. The water that runs through and through. The oxygen and nitrogen and carbon dioxide that fill in all the spaces.
He feels a crackle of electricity in the air and looks up to the sky for a brief moment, then back over to the hunters’ mage.
And right before the lightning comes crashing down on the wolves, Stiles sees the universe come into being, sees the particles collide and expand and burst into existence from nothing.
Stiles’ parents had never been particularly religious. Of course there was a nice service for his mother, when she died. A reverend who said comforting words, patted Stiles on the shoulder. There had been Sunday school, Stiles thinks, when he was little. But he’d always gotten in trouble, hadn’t been able to sit still during the lessons, had asked too many questions like why did they have to bow their heads when they prayed? Or could Abraham really have kids when he was, like, over a hundred years old…?
Of course he’s read the Bible – there’s an old leather-bound copy on the bookshelf at home. Of course he remembers the creation story from Genesis, what with the great Christian nation they live in and whatnot. But suddenly the words are in his head like he read them only yesterday.
And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the earth…
And Stiles knows why he hasn’t been able to control that particular element. Why every attempt at moving the earth has failed.
He closes his eyes and presses his mouth to the dirt, like some homesick voyager back on dry land.
When he opens his eyes and stares at the group of hunters, he calls the earth by his name.
Time seems to stand still for a few seconds, the whole planet pausing in its rotation about the sun. The clouds and lightning the mage had been trying to summon stall out, and the ground begins to shake.
It’s been so long since he’s heard his own name. His mother was the only one to call him that, and he’d buried it alongside her when she died.
But now he understands the power in it. Understands the gift she gave him.
The breath in his lungs is the air; the blood that courses through his veins the water. His thoughts and ideas are the spark – the fire. And his body is the earth.
The ground opens up, swallows the group of hunters right in the center of the lacrosse field.
“Stiles!” He hears his name being called, but instead of from far away, it sounds as if Derek’s right beside him.
And that’s when Stiles realizes he’s standing – he doesn’t know how that happened – and he’s in the middle of the field, between the wolves and where the hunters stood just moments earlier. He doesn’t know how that happened either.
The earth is still quaking, power coursing right through him. The wolves are crouching, pushing themselves up from where they were knocked to the ground. Derek’s already up, fully human as he reaches out and places a warm hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Another arm slips around his middle, as if Derek is leaning forward to wrap Stiles in some sort of embrace. But then Stiles realizes that the alpha is pulling him back, that the gaping chasm he opened up is getting closer and closer to where they stand.
When he commands it, the earth closes up, the edges of the rift coming back together in one shuddering motion.
Derek’s hands are warm around him, holding on tighter even though the earth has stopped shaking. Maybe the alpha thinks Stiles will pass out, lose consciousness – or worse – after such an act, and is trying to prevent a fall. And Stiles feels the hand on his chest, the other on his stomach, lets the warmth along his back where Derek is pressed against him become his anchor. He feels the pulse of life running through them both, feels so connected to everything now that he could burst into a million pieces.
But he doesn’t.
Stiles can feel Derek’s breath hot on the line of his jaw as the wolf clings to him. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and deflates a little, in Derek’s arms. He feels anything but weak, though. And then it hits him.
Holy fuck, I just killed like nine people – maybe more…
The wounded hunters who had retreated are long gone. But everyone else – the ones that were lying still on the ground, the mage, and the able-bodied – they're all dead, crushed beneath tons of earth.
And the lacrosse field looks pristine, like nothing even happened.
Stiles is not going to have a panic attack, nope.
His hands come to rest on top of Derek’s arms and the alpha loosens his hold a bit. Stiles turns, brushes against Derek and if this were any other moment, Stiles would be hard, so hard, but now – now he’s preoccupied with the thrum of energy that fills him to his core.
The runes for protection are half-smudged on Derek’s chest, and Stiles’ long fingers come up to brush across them. Derek is staring at him, wide-eyed, when Stiles finally looks at the other wolves. Erica is leaning heavily on Boyd – in shock, it seems, since she doesn’t appear to be injured anywhere. None of the group has a scratch on them, and Peter is standing toward the back, arms folded across his chest and a devious smirk on his face.
“Stiles…” Derek says his name so softly that Stiles wonders for a moment if he’s hearing things. He realizes his hands are still on Derek’s chest, Derek’s fingers wrapped around each arm as if Stiles will fall over any minute.
Stiles takes one step back and goes down fast, bracing himself with his hands on the damp ground as he simply sits, then looks back up at them all and laughs.
“Holy shit!” He laughs, staring up at Derek. The alpha looks concerned, and he probably should be, Stiles thinks, because Stiles knows that if he wasn’t laughing, he’d be crying or screaming or freaking out in some form. But then he figures the uncontrollable laughter is him freaking out.
He just caused a mini-earthquake and took out a group of hunters. He has every right to freak the fuck out.
“Stiles!” Scott yells, runs toward him, stopping near Derek. “Are you ok?” He asks, his eyes wide with worry. The other betas are just standing there, as if rooted to the spot.
“Holy shit…” Stiles replies, as if it’s the only thing he knows how to say.
Stiles, who is never at a loss for words, can’t find anything to say.
Two years ago, he was a fairly normal teenager – struggling with his ADD, sitting on the bench with his best friend but happy to be a part of the team, pining over the girl he was sure was the love of his life. But then Scott was bitten, and Stiles’ whole world changed.
And he’d just gotten the hang of things – supernatural, werewolf-type things – when another bombshell had been dropped, two months ago.
He has abilities – supernatural abilities. He can control the fucking elements, if he focuses his thoughts, lets himself become a conduit for the energy of the universe. It sounds like some New Age bullshit, but it really isn’t, Stiles thinks. What it really is – well, it’s fucking awesome.
And just like the werewolves need anchors – someone or something to keep them connected to the human side of themselves – Stiles realizes that he, too, has relied on them to keep him grounded.
He’s still laughing, but he’s quieter now and then he stops altogether. Scott is crouching over him, still looking rather worried. Stiles moves to stand, and there’s Derek’s arm, outstretched to help him up. Stiles accepts it, extending his own arm toward the alpha. Scott moves back and Derek curls his hand around Stiles’ forearm, tugs him up and doesn’t let go right away.
They share a significant look. Derek’s green eyes are still too wide, full of concern, his mouth turned down at the edges. And for one panic-filled moment, Stiles thinks it’s all going to fall apart. He’s going to freak out for real, and then Derek will lecture him about how Stiles should have listened to him, should have stopped with the whole magic thing. How Stiles should have never been involved.
But then something else flashes across Derek’s face – a look like he wants to close the distance between them, like he wants to reach out and touch Stiles, really touch him. Stiles feels his heart beat stutter and nearly starts laughing again because of everything that just happened, this is what causes his pulse to quicken. But then the look on the alpha’s face is gone, replaced with one of quiet restraint. He drops his hand from Stiles’ arm and gives him a solemn nod.
Stiles scrubs his hands across his face, wonders if he’s suddenly sprouted horns or something, with the way Isaac and Erica and Boyd are staring at him. Scott’s right there, though, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ shoulder.
“Dude, you ok?” Scott asks softly, squeezing Stiles’ bicep.
“Yeah, just peachy…” Stiles manages as they walk slowly toward the parking lot. Derek is the only one who follows. The others just stand in the field, like they’re in some sort of trance.
By the time he and Scott reach the edge of the asphalt, he turns in time to see the betas snap out of it and lope toward them.
“I’ll drive him,” Derek tells Scott when they reach the Jeep, and oh great, here comes the lecture, Stiles thinks. Scott only pauses for a second before he agrees. He doesn’t move away until he asks Stiles if he’s really ok like three more times, though.
“I’m going to go check on the house,” Peter says, giving Derek a pointed look. The older werewolf glances between Derek and Stiles for a moment, chuckles to himself as if over some private joke before he heads toward the preserve.
Isaac and Erica and Boyd finally approach him, their looks of shock downgraded into a certain level of awe. Erica tilts her head and smiles, and Stiles can’t help but smile back. They hug him then, all three of them moving forward to wrap their arms around him. Stiles has a face full of Erica’s hair, but he can see the look on Derek’s face – a mixture of amusement and impatience – and Stiles laughs, bright and clear, and the betas laugh with him, tell him how awesome that was.
He and Derek are back out on the main road when it hits him again, the gravity of it all. There were people – living, breathing people – and now they are gone, wiped from existence by his own power. The hunters had been stubborn, should have given up after the first time, but they hadn’t. Still, Stiles wonders if they had families, children who will never see their parents again, wives whose husbands will never return…
“Oh god…” Stiles starts to mutter, feels the crushing weight of an impending panic attack. He’s staring straight forward, but his eyes don’t focus. He doesn’t see the road. He sees the earth open up into a never-ending pit, threatening to give way beneath his feet as well.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god…” is his mantra now.
Derek pulls off the road and throws the Jeep into park, nearly tears out of his seatbelt as he reaches out toward Stiles.
“Stiles,” he pleads, leaning across the gearshift. His hands are on either side of Stiles’ face when he practically yells.
“Stiles! Look at me!” Derek shouts, turning Stiles’ head slowly yet forcibly toward him.
“I killed them…I…I killed them. They’re gone, ha! They’re gone…” Stiles is rambling and he feels like he can’t breathe, like the whole world is going to end. He finally meets Derek’s gaze for a brief moment before the werewolf lunges at him.
Derek’s mouth is hot and wet as it crashes down on Stiles’, the kiss sudden and violent and not at all like the other kisses he’s shared with the alpha. It’s a shock to Stiles’ system, Derek biting at his lips, his fingers curled into Stiles’ hair. It’s like a slap to the face, Stiles thinks, only way better, and then he realizes that he’s no longer freaking out. That the panic attack has ended abruptly and now Derek Hale is kissing him, and Stiles had better kiss him back, for all he’s worth. So Stiles does. But it must signal something to Derek, because he pulls back suddenly, and Stiles feels like he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason.
He’s panting, open-mouthed and staring, and his lips feel swollen and bruised. Stiles' whole body feels like a live wire, and he feels everything – where the seatbelt is rubbing against his neck, the throbbing cut on his forearm, the tufts of hair tugged out of place by Derek’s hands, his dick hard in his jeans.
“Uh…” Stiles clears his throat. “Thanks…” He manages, trying hard not to think about his arousal.
Haha, hard…Oh, god…
Derek just stares at him for a moment, then puts the Jeep in drive and pulls back onto the road.
Great talk, Stiles thinks sourly. Some things never change…
Stiles just looks ahead at the road, and it surprises him when Derek speaks up.
“What you did back there, with the hunters…” the alpha starts, and Stiles thinks, great, this is the part where he tells me to never do that again...
“You saved us,” Derek admits. “With the symbols, with everything…”
“Is this your way of saying ‘thank you?’” Stiles asks, knows he probably shouldn’t interrupt the alpha when he’s actually communicating, even if it is vague or stunted. “Because if it is, then – “
“Stiles, just let me finish,” Derek cuts him off, an irritated grate to his voice. But he glances over at Stiles like he’s actually relieved, like it’s a good sign that Stiles’ sarcasm is returning full force.
“Thank you,” Derek does say it then, and Stiles could laugh, but he doesn’t. “You’re an important part of the pack,” the alpha continues. “And you really proved that today.”
And Stiles thinks about how he took charge, how he gathered them all at the lacrosse field, knowing it would be better to be in an open space than cramped in the vet clinic when the hunters came for them. How the wolves had actually listened to him.
“Wow, uh…ok,” Stiles replies, stops himself before he says something he’ll regret. And then he curses himself because this is absolutely the worst time for his sardonic sense of wit to make its comeback. It’s a coping mechanism, he knows, and it’d be easier just to brush everything off, pepper it with humor instead of dealing with it head-on.
The rest of the ride back to his house is quiet, and Stiles is quite proud of himself for being able to keep his mouth shut. Whatever this thing is, between him and Derek, he doesn’t want to ruin it. But he also knows that at some point, they are going to have to talk about it.
When they pull into the driveway, his dad’s cruiser is absent, and Stiles is glad. He’ll have to tell his dad about the whole mess with the hunters sooner or later, but he’d rather it be later. For now, he just wants to take a shower and fall face-first into bed.
When Stiles climbs out of the passenger side and Derek tosses him his keys, it reminds him of that night, weeks ago, when Derek tried to convince Stiles drop the whole magic thing. They are beyond that now, though – way beyond it, Stiles thinks.
Derek follows Stiles to the front door and Stiles feels his pulse quicken. Is this where they part ways? Where Stiles makes some attempt at witty banter and Derek just scowls before stalking off into the woods? Stiles isn’t sure what he wants, but it isn’t that.
He doesn’t have to wonder for long, though, because Derek crowds in on him just as Stiles fits the key into the lock. He grabs Stiles’ wrist, right above the angry rend in his flesh, and Stiles manages to push open the front door before he turns back toward Derek.
Stiles isn’t quite sure who moves first. Perhaps they both move at the very same time and meet in the middle. They kiss – for the second time in just a handful of minutes – and Stiles can’t help but think how that’s never happened before. It’s much gentler this time, Derek’s lips steady and sure on Stiles’.
“So, are we going to have that conversation…?” Stiles nearly laughs, his lips moving against Derek’s as he speaks.
“You really want to talk about that now…?” Derek mouths into the kiss, quirks one dark eyebrow at him as his hands come to rest on Stiles’ hipbones.
“God, no…” Stiles replies, doesn’t even pause to think about it. He just presses harder into the kiss and tugs Derek inside, closing the door behind them.