Chapter Text
The summer passed and winter came, cold and dark, but the pack endured, thrived even, sustaining each other through the lengthening nights. Those of them who had been weak and hurting after so much time alone, Kira, Jackson and Derek, found themselves healed and energized by the wolf moon. The ties binding them to the pack strengthened.
It helped to be living in such close quarters. The big house hadn't been finished in time for the fall of the first snow, and Isaac, Jackson and Derek had resigned themselves to spending the winter almost on top of each other in the one-room cabin. Derek was selfishly glad for it. He felt safe being able to hear his packmates during the long, cold evenings, to feel them warming the air with their breath and smell the lingering haze of their emotions, all mixed up with his, as they ate and slept and lived together. He started to dream for the first time since before the war.
When he had first entered the army, he hadn't been able to let his guard down long enough to sleep for more than four or five hours at a stretch. He had never spend so much time away from his pack and it had unnerved him to be surrounded by so many foreign bodies, to have so many strangers around him as he slept. Then there had only been Isaac and he had felt the Alpha powers settling over his shoulders like an iron weight. He had worked himself to exhaustion every day and woken up every morning with his jaw aching and his teeth clenched, his heart hammering in his chest, terrified of what might have happened while his guard was down.
Now, he would lie awake at night to the sounds of Isaac and Jackson's steady breathing, listening to their heartbeats. Stiles drifted off sometimes, while they sat together during the full moon, and Derek had long-since memorized the rhythm of his resting heartbeat. He would play it in the background of his mind, next to Isaac and Jackson's, steadying him like a metronome. It was more than just him now, there was a pack.
Once, an actual wolf had come sniffing around the cabin in the middle of the night and Jackson had been up and out of bed in an instant, snarling out the window at the poor creature and then collapsing back into bed again without ever fully waking up. As acerbic and irritating as Jackson was during the day, he had his own battles he was fighting. Derek wasn't the only one to have lost everything and he wasn't alone in his hyper-vigilance.
After that, Derek found himself sleeping longer. Deliberately or not, something deep in his chest had slowly begun to unclench. Instead of jerking awake after five hours of unconsciousness, feeling tense and sore with anxiety, Derek would drift in and out of strange dreams, only finally waking up when Isaac dropped down off the top bunk sometime after seven in the morning. He would watch Isaac slip groggily into his boots and overcoat and stumble out the door for his morning constitutional, not bothering to get up yet. Jackson would be awake in another minute and fighting him for use of the washstand was never worth it.
Living with someone meant learning a lot of stupid, funny, personal things about them. Isaac, for instance, was so regular one could quite literally use his morning call of nature as an alarm clock and Jackson was almost pathological when it came to his personal grooming routine. Derek was fairly certain that Jackson shaved at least twice a day and considered priority access to their mirror a privilege worth drawing blood over. Which was why Derek stayed in the warmth of his bed, watching Isaac get up and Jackson stumble towards the sink, feeling no particular rush to rouse himself further. It was still January anyways and the sun wouldn't be up for a few hours yet.
Jackson stumbled around groggily, stirring up the fire and setting the kettle on before lighting a kerosene lamp and laying out his shaving kit. He polished his straight razor in long, practiced strokes against his razor strap as he waited for the water to boil. Derek watched him for a while, it was the same routine every morning and the predictability of it was relaxing.
"Don't even think about bringing him back here." Jackson caught Derek's reflection in his shaving mirror, his eyes narrowed critically.
"What are you talking about?" Derek stretched under the covers and started considering the merits of rolling out of bed and getting dressed.
Jackson gave Derek a condescending look over his shoulder, as if his non sequitur should have made any kind of sense. "Stiles," he said with no small amount of disgust. "You're always like this after you see him."
Derek felt the back of his neck heat up. He had seen Stiles the day before. Stiles had come by the station to bring his father lunch and Derek had been there filling out paperwork. There was a moose that tended to wander into town every winter and hold up traffic. It happened so often that Derek had gotten a little behind on writing up the incident reports and, of course, because it was Stiles and all odd and amusing occurrences in the world could be at least peripherally traced back to Stiles, Stiles had butted his nose in and wanted to know all about it. Apparently Stiles used to tag along on animal control calls and was somewhat attached to this moose, had named it even. Łośek, because, as a kid, Stiles hadn't wanted to be the only one in town with a confusing Polish name.
Stiles and Derek had chatted. It had been nice, and then Stiles had left and Derek had finished out his workday and gone home and slept and had good dreams.
"What, exactly, am I like?" Derek glared across the room at Jackson.
"You sleep in." He said it like he was accusing Derek of having wet himself. "And then you wake up all relaxed and contented, it's like living with someone who's still going through puberty."
"I don't know what you're implying." Derek sat up, frowning. They hadn't been those kind of good dreams.
Jackson snorted, going to fetch his hot water as the kettle started to whistle. "And I don't really don't care. Just keep him and his bodily fluids far away from me."
Derek growled, "This isn't any of your business." He could feel his fangs start to descend.
"Don't act so offended, it's not like you're courting." Jackson lathered up his shaving soap and started spreading it across his jawline, seeming to have lost all interest in the conversation.
Jackson could be a real shit sometimes.
Deflated, Derek collapsed back against his pillow and stared up at Isaac's bunk above him. It was true that he had been dreaming a lot recently. His dreams were not always necessarily about Stiles, but Stiles was often in them. The night before, for example, he had been dreaming about his family's house.
It had been summer and he had been trying to get the front door hung, but the frame kept pulling away from the wooden studs. He kept trying to nail it back into place, but the wood would only splinter or pull away even more. After struggling for what felt like forever, he had been about to pry it all off and start over from scratch, when suddenly Stiles had been standing there, leaning against the side of the house and watching him with a raised eyebrow. Dropping a tub of wood glue and a couple of C-clamps into Derek's lap, Stiles had smiled down at him, his upper lip twitching as if to hold back his laughter as he asked, "Didn't your mother ever tell you? Just because you own a really good hammer doesn't make every problem a nail."
Maybe it had sort of been about Stiles. Sort of about the house and sort of about Stiles, like they were connected somehow.
Derek sighed and sat up, rolling out of bed and walking over to the woodstove to start a pot of coffee. As much as he hated to admit it, Jackson had a point: they weren't courting, or dating, or together in any way. Derek had been seeking Stiles out for months now, sitting with him during the full moon, finding him at the autoshop or the Sheriff's office and dreaming about him when he felt safe enough to dream. He had an attachment and he was indulging it without permission to the point where others were noticing. It was improper, disrespectful and needed to stop.
~~~~~
The right thing to do was to go see Scott, it was proper and respectful. It was also mortifyingly embarrassing. Mortifyingly embarrassing not just to Derek, but also, quite obviously, to Scott, who almost choked on his own spit when Derek approached him early the next morning as he was opening up the animal clinic.
"Excuse me?" Scott croaked out between coughs, turning on Derek in disbelief.
"I would like your permission to call on Stiles."
Scott opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he knew it was his turn to talk but had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to say, before finally sputtering out, "You mean, like, ask him on a date?"
Derek restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "No, I mean call on. Dating is for children. If I just wanted to feel him up in the back of a car we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Why are we having this conversation? Shouldn't you be talking to him?" Scott's eyes widened suddenly in horror. "You're not asking for my help, are you? I'm not sure--"
"No." Derek cut him off. "I'm asking because you are the Alpha."
"Yeah, so? That doesn't make him my property, what the fuck?"
Derek pinched his eyes closed and sighed. "You're my Alpha too. It's a sign of respect to ask permission. Respect to you, to the pack and to him."
Scott eyed Derek skeptically. "Okay... well, then yeah. Consider yourself free to go ask Stiles... whatever you're going to ask him."
"Thank you."
"This isn't my blessing or anything. He's gonna answer you however he's gonna answer you."
Derek nodded, turning to leave. "I know."
"And I hope you're not be expecting me to keep this a secret."
"I'm not."
"And..."
Derek paused at the door, looking back at Scott over his shoulder with both eyebrows raised.
Scott made a face. "You're totally gonna ask the Sheriff's permission too, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Wow, that is so old-fashioned. But, like, out of curiousity, what would you have done if I had said no?"
Derek shrugged, "Asked him anyway."
Scott laughed and shook his head, still looking a bit shocked, but now slightly less off-balance. "Yeah, okay. Well, good luck, I guess."
"Thanks." Derek walked out the door, bracing against the cold and closing it tightly behind him.
~~~~~
As awkward as the conversation with Scott had been, the one with Sheriff Stilinski was considerably worse.
Derek dropped by the Sheriff's Station in the early afternoon. There tended to be a lull in activity just then and Noah was always in a better mood after he had eaten. Asking to speak with the Sheriff in private, he was quickly ushered into Noah's office.
The Sheriff gestured for him to close the door and sit down, but Derek politely refused, preferring to stand at parade rest for this conversation. His face must have looked rather grim, because the Sheriff reached down into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "What's on your mind, Hale?"
"I would like to ask your permission to call on your son."
One of the glasses immediately disappeared, back into the desk.
The Sheriff poured himself a stiff drink. "No."
Derek wasn't surprised, but it still hurt.
He locked his knees and concentrated on his breathing evenly, not allowing anything to show on his face. He hadn't been expecting the Sheriff to approve. Sheriff Stilinski loved his son, would want someone good for his son, someone safe, not a werewolf with a dead family and a history of violence that followed him around like a bad smell.
"You do not have my permission." The Sheriff drained his glass, putting it down hard and watching Derek from across his desk. "Stiles is my only son. I will support him and protect him, no matter what it takes."
Derek stared straight ahead. "I appreciate that, sir."
The Sheriff looked tempted to pour himself another drink, but instead put the bottle away and slammed the drawer shut. "I will support him," he sounded almost angry, as if daring Derek to say otherwise. "I will support him, Hale, to the exclusion of all else. Do you understand me? He is my son."
"I understand, sir."
"Dismissed."
"Thank you, sir." Derek was glad he hadn't sat down. He felt light-headed; getting up would have been difficult.
~~~~~
Three days later, it was Sunday and the whole pack had gathered at the hockey rink. Sundays were hockey days. It was a pack tradition that had snuck up on them, starting out as just a casual pick-up game between Stiles, Scott and a few kids they had gone to highschool. But then Liam had joined, and then Isaac and Jackson and now they all played, except for Malia, who found it amusing to come watch. There were enough of them coming regularly to form two full teams and had gotten pretty good. Good enough that Coach Finstock would come by some Sundays to run drills with them in hopes of drumming up support for a city-wide hockey league.
Derek had resisted involvement for as long as possible, hockey was not his sport. He had played varsity baseball, football and basketball, but never really learned how to skate. Eventually, though, he was forced to admit that it was unhealthy to outright avoid pack activities and, once even Malia had started showing up, it became somewhat undeniable that Sunday afternoon hockey was a pack activity.
It had been three days since Derek had talked to Scott and Noah and during those three days he had found himself to be both astoundingly industrious and undeniably cowardly. The front drive had never before been so well-shoveled, the firewood never so neatly stacked. He had latched on to any excuse to keep away from town and, by Saturday afternoon, anything within a three mile radius of the cabin that had needed repairs had been fixed. Every blade had been sharpened, and anything with a joint, seam, or roof had either been weatherised, reinforced, or buttressed. Then, suddenly, it was Sunday, hockey day, and he had no more excuses.
On the upside, Sunday was probably a good day to talk to Stiles. Stiles was good at hockey and doing things they were good at tended to put people in an equally good mood.
Being human and not naturally very coordinated, Stiles was almost always at a pronounced physical disadvantage to the rest of the pack. But hockey was a skilled sport and he had been playing for a long time. Ironically, Derek was under the impression that Stiles did not actually care that much about hockey. Kicking a puck around the ice had just been a convenient way for him to avoid thinking about things like his mother dying, his father being sent off to war and his best friend being turned into a werewolf. Getting good at it had been more of a side-effect than anything else.
On the downside, Derek was less good at hockey. His quick turns were pathetic, his stick skills were sloppy and he was just starting to get the hang of skating backwards. On the days when Finstock ran practices, Derek generally spent the whole time stuck in the goal, where he was less likely to trip all over himself. Thank God he was a werewolf too, because Derek was pretty sure that half the pucks he had actually managed to block had either caught him in the face or caused him to do what what should have been irreparable damage to his knees. Add to that the fact that he really hated to lose and most Sundays ended with Derek in an incredibly piss-poor mood.
That day was no exception. If anything, that day was worse. He was on-edge and stressed out. There was no more putting it off: he was going to talk to Stiles. After practice.
Derek had never before been more aware of the physical presence of someone at whom he was studiously not looking.
"PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!" Coach Finstock blew his whistle long and loud, making all the shifters flinch and cover their ears. They were running one-on-one drills, with Derek in goal, and Derek had actually managed to win one, for once.
"You call that a check? That was pathetic, I've seen harder hits on a kindergarden playground! Jackson, show them how it's done!"
Jackson came down the ice with the puck. He had played hockey with his old pack up north and he was not only good, but also an unrepentant show-off. True to form, once he got within scoring distance, instead of just shooting like a normal person, he decided to throw Derek off-balance with a completely unnecessary lacrosse move, scooped the puck up with the flat of his stick and dumped it in the goal over Derek's shoulder. Derek tried to block it and ended up flat on his face. He could practically hear Jackson smirking as he skated away. What an asshole.
"PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!" Finstock blew his whistle again. "Jackson, trade in for Hale! Hale, get your sick-pack abs off the ice before you start melting a hole in it. You may look like Cary Grant, but it's a goddamn miracle you haven't split your own head open yet!"
Derek pulled himself off to the side of the frozen pond, surreptitiously feeling at his nose. It smarted and, while he was pretty sure it wasn't broken, there was nothing worse than having your nose heal off-center. Why couldn't Stiles have liked baseball? Derek was good at baseball. Maybe he could get the pack to start a league in the summer. He could teach Stiles to pitch. Stiles would be a good pitcher. Or a shortstop, since he was kind of scrappy.
Derek watched the pack line out for the one-on-one drill against Jackson as he indulged his day-dream. Stiles smiling and laughing on the pitcher's mound. Stiles diving for a ground ball. Stiles playing catch on a bright summer day. Stiles tripping Jackson and sending him sprawling across the ice.
Wait.
Derek did a double take and, yes, Stiles had indeed just unabashedly tripped Jackson, hooking his stick around Jackson's ankle and giving it a nice tug before skating past him, unimpeded, and dumping the puck right in the net.
Jackson was on his feet, pointing and yelling, before Coach Finstock could even get his whistle in his mouth. "FOUL! He fouled me! That was a foul!"
Finstock rolled his eyes as Stiles skated back towards center ice, grinning. "Oh, give it a rest, Jackson. This isn't ballet. Good initiative, Stilinski! But make it a little less obvious next time. If you're gonna trip somebody, try to make sure it's not visible from Canada."
"Yessir!" Stiles gave a mock salute.
Jackson was visibly steaming. He was so angry he was starting to turn colors, and not even red either, actual colors, like orange and a splotchy black. His hair was standing on end and his eyes shining a bit too brightly. His five o'clock shadow was beginning to look more like three-day-old stubble.
Derek skated forward. "Hey, Finstock, how about we take ten?"
"How about you get your ass back on the sidelines? We can't just take breaks! This is hockey practice."
"I'll give you five bucks to go smoke a cigarette."
"Done." Finstock started patting down his pockets for his cigarettes. "ALL RIGHT EVERYBODY, TEN MINUTE BREAK. Don't even think about stingeing me, Hale, I know where you live."
By this time, Derek, Scott and Stiles, because, of course Stiles would have to stick his nose in, had all reached Jackson, crowding around him as much as he would allow, trying to block him from public view.
"You cheated! Everybody saw you cheat, you should be tossed right off the team! You shouldn't even be allowed in the pack, you're just a human!" Jackson was raving mad. His voice was starting to slur a bit as his fangs came in.
"Jackson!" Scott flashed his red eyes. "Concentrate! You need to calm down. This is not the place."
Jackson bared his teeth and growled over at Stiles, who was looking at him with his head cocked to the side and a curious expression on his face.
"Are you sick?" Stiles asked. "You're all stripey."
He had a point. They all turned to look. Jackson's Beta form was normally a sort of sandy brown color, as one would expect with a lion, definitely not orange and black.
Jackson scowled. "My mother was a weretiger. I have two beta forms, unlike you pathetic--"
"OH MY GOD!" Stiles cut him off, practically jumping up and down with excitement. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! YOU'RE A LIGER! A WERELIGER! And, Oh my God, your mother was Russian! You're a Siberian Wereliger! That's so cool!"
"I could break you in half!"
"Yes, but so could a weretitmouse, so don't let it go to your head. But you're a wereLIGER! How does that even work? Oh my God, this is so awesome!"
Jackson glared over at Stiles with narrowed eyes. He had calmed down a bit and his face was starting to drain of its unnatural color, but his eyes were still glowing. "Are you acknowledging my superiority?"
"Dude, how is that even a question?"
Jackson sniffed snootily in response but before anything more could be said, Kira skated over. "Hey, guys! What's the hold up? We ready to scrimmage?" Though still a little timid, Kira also somehow managed to be unflaggingly optimistic at all times.
"Jackson's a Siberian wereliger!" Stiles proclaimed proudly.
"Um... congratulations?"
"PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!" Finstock blew his whistle and they all cringed. "Time's up!" he shouted, stepping back onto the ice. "Thieves get rich, saints get shot, God don't answer prayers a lot!"
Kira looked around with wide eyes, more confused than ever. "What does that even mean?"
Finstock had not changed his coaching style at all since Derek had played football for him in high school. He, Scott and Stiles all collectively shook their heads. "Nobody knows."
They broke into two teams for a scrimmage and Derek found himself on the sidelines again, waiting to be subbed in. He'd probably be put in after halftime. The pack was competitive, but not to the extent of being poor sports, and they got along well these days. Sure, Jackson had a temper, but so did Derek and Isaac. Stiles too, when it came down to it, though Stiles' anger tended to burn cold and slow. Derek saw it in his eyes sometimes when Allison was nearby. It was a calculating kind of anger, hard, persistent and slow to forgive.
Stiles wasn't angry now though. Derek watched him play. He and Scott worked seamlessly together. According to Stiles, they had used hockey as a training tool during that first winter after Scott had been bitten. It had helped him to learn focus and control. The practice had stuck and now it was a tradition. Every pack had its own traditions and the McCall pack had been playing hockey together since the very beginning.
Stiles made an interception and dashed off down the ice, faking left to draw Isaac after him and then making a blind pass to Scott, pumping his fist in the air as Scott scored. He came around the back of the goal for a high five. "That's right, Scotty, that's how it's done!"
Liam snorted and jabbed him in the side as they lined back up for the faceoff around center ice. "Don't you ever score your own goals, or is passing to Scott all you know how to do?"
Stiles just smiled and winked saucily. "I would, but Scott gets pissy if I don't let him in on the action every once in awhile." Then the puck dropped and they were off again.
There was laughter and teasing and banter. The pack was happy. It wasn't perfect, but there was a sense of easy camaraderie in the air. Everything smelled of sweat and wet wool and belonging. The pack was starting to coalesce, with it's own identity and traditions.
In another five minutes or so, Derek would be called to sub in and he would be a part of it too. Stiles might smile at him and tease him about his shitty skating and Jackson might yell at him for missing a pass. He might make a goal. He might make an interception. He might fall flat on his ass, but he'd be a part of it. He was already a part of it. This was his pack now. It should have made him happy, but instead it just made him feel sick and cold and sad.
"Greenberg," Derek turned to the other substitute waiting on the sidelines next to him, "tell Finstock I'll drop by on Monday with his money. I have to head out."
"Huh? What? Sure, yeah."
Derek unlaced his skates quickly and slipped his boots on. He was gone before the next goal was scored.
~~~~~
He made it halfway home before he gave up on all pretense of control and stripped to his skin and shifted, leaving his clothes piled up in a snowdrift to be collected later. Or never. If someone stole them, or some animal ran off with them, Derek wasn't sure he would care. He just needed to run.
He ran and ran and ran, stretching out his legs and feeling the cold air in his lungs and the rush of the wind through his coat, clearing his mind and thinking of nothing. Not thinking about his mother's house and how it had been gutted and re-designed to be more like a dormitory than a family home. Not thinking about family. Not thinking about Christmas and New Years and hockey on Sundays. Not thinking about pack. Not thinking about Scott McCall, who was a young Alpha with a young pack and who was allowed to run his pack however he wanted. Scott McCall, who wasn't a Hale and had never been a Hale and couldn't be expected to know or care about Hale Pack traditions. Not thinking about Stiles, who was strong and stubborn and beautiful. Who might say no, but also might say yes, but either way, was bright and sharp and soft and lovely enough to be worth any amount of teasing and humiliation. Not thinking about how stupidly in love he was and how desperately he wanted someone to tease him about it. Not thinking about how no one ever would, because there was no one left.
Derek ran until he was tired and then he ran some more, making a wide loop around the outskirts of town and skirting the banks of the river for a while before heading back up north towards the road, as if trying to pretend that he didn't know exactly where he was going.
He approached the smelting plant from the back, coming upon it as if by coincidence and picking his way through the abandoned buildings carefully, like he didn't know exactly where he was, hadn't thought about it, hadn't avoided it, hadn't been giving the place two square miles of breadth since Stiles had first told him about it almost a year ago.
The air was cold and dry and the snow was hard, packed solid and frozen in place so that he left no prints as he walked. It was quiet, quiet like it only ever was in the middle of winter when sun was going down. The shadows were lengthening and he was glad for it. His wolf form was dark, almost black, and he stood out against the snow. The dark coloring, like the full-shift, was a Hale pack trait and was something to be worn with pride, a sign of his heritage, but it was also very exposing.
He could feel his eyes glow as they picked up the last of the afternoon light and then: there it was. There was the slag pit, the mass grave that his family had been dumped in, the final resting place of the pack he had been born into. There was the pit, a place he had been telling himself meant nothing but had nonetheless been avoiding. There was the pit and next to it, inexplicably, there was Stiles.
Looking cold and tired and like he had been waiting for maybe a long time, there, next to the pit, was Stiles.
It took a minute or two for him to notice Derek's presence, but when he did, Stiles uncurled himself from the front seat of his jeep and stiffly jumped down into the snow, grabbing a shovel out of the back.
"I thought you might come here," he said as explanation, as if it explained anything, and walked towards the edge of the slag pit.
Everything was covered in a thick layer of snow so that the surface of the pit was only visible as a circular indentation in the ground, one ill-defined lump among many ill-defined lumps that made up the winter landscape. But Stiles seemed to know what he was looking for. He chipped away at the snow and ice that had hardened into a berm around the embankment, fishing around a bit before excavating a certain spot, digging it out with his shovel and then crouching down to brush it clear with his mittens.
He stepped back, glancing over in Derek's direction but not quite looking at him. "I figured, if you were coming here, you might want to see this."
It was wooden marker, already weather-beaten and cracking, but still clearly legible.
Here lies the Hale Family.
Taken from us on the day of our greatest triumph, August 15, 1945.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost
"It's not much but... there was a collection, to have a marker put in. It only seemed right. Some people though there should be something from the bible on it but your family wasn't very church going. I hope it's okay. I mean, of course it's not okay, but..."
Derek padded closer, so he could peer over the edge. There was nothing to see. The pit was covered in snow, and there was nothing to smell. It was just a barren, frozen hole in the ground. The air was dry, all of the moisture frozen out of it. The only smells in the air came from the snow, the tannon of the pine trees and Stiles.
Stiles was fumbling awkwardly with his shovel, looking more awake now, but also uncomfortable, as if suddenly not sure what he was doing there. "I can leave, if you want. I don't even know why I thought you might come here, and you probably want to be alone. But, the wood cracks more when it gets uncovered, so I didn't want to dig it out if I was wrong about you coming. Not that, I mean, you've probably already seen it. But then I thought about visiting my mom and... when dad was gone, it was hard. To go alone. So then I thought that maybe you hadn't. But. I can leave."
Derek felt hollowed out, empty and untethered. He had been standing at attention, holding himself on edge and in control with anger, pain and through sheer force of will, for so long that now that he was finally trying to let go, it felt like there was nothing to fall back on. His family was gone and he felt their absence like a sucking void: cold, empty, and alone.
He turned away from the edge and into Stiles' space, pushing up against Stiles' side and pressing his muzzle into Stiles' jacket.
"Hey... oh, okay. Yeah, okay. This is fine too." Stiles allowed himself to be pushed over so that he was crouching in the snow, where Derek could smell his face and the little bits of hair that peeked out from under his hat. "It's okay, it's okay. Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I've got you. Here." Stiles ripped off his scarf and fumbled with the top button of his jacket, pulling open his collar and lifting his chin to give Derek full access to the entire length of his throat, inviting Derek to scent him. Just like that. Like it was nothing.
Stiles ran his mittens over Derek's fur and drew him close. On any other day, Derek might have shown restraint. He might have sniffed at Stiles' cheek and nuzzled into his chest, or pressed their noses together, or done any other number of things that were sweet and nice and affectionate and not that. Because Stiles had no way of knowing what that was. If Scott didn't know, then Stiles wouldn't know. Stiles had lifted his chin and showed Derek his pulsepoint like it wasn't the biggest sign of trust that could be offered to a werewolf. Like it wasn't something most grown wolves only ever did with their Alphas and their mates. Like it wasn't something huge and significant and meaningful.
On any other day, Derek would have held back, would have politely found a way around it, a way to not take advantage, to not get his hopes up. But it wasn't any other day and Derek was just too damn tired. It had been so long since anyone had shown him that kind of trust and he ached for it like a phantom limb. If Stiles didn't mean it, it would hurt later, but for now Derek was weak.
He buried his face in the open collar of Stiles' jacket, running his nose up Stiles' neck, from the notch of his shoulder all the way up to his jaw and behind his ear, breathing him in and basking in the warmth and comfort of it all. Stiles hummed to himself, petting at Derek's fur through his mittens and squirming around to tuck Derek more comfortably under his chin.
Derek was unsure how long they stayed like that, probably only a few minutes, but it could have been longer. By the time he pulled back, Stiles had gone stiff from the crouching down in the cold. He sighed and rubbed his face against Derek's coat. "Let's get you home, okay?"
Derek nodded. Stiles could have suggested that they drive to Africa and Derek would have been fine with it, but home sounded good too.
He thought he saw his discarded clothes and hockey gear in the back seat as he climbed in, but he could have been mistaken. He curled up in the front, laying his head down on Stiles' lap and was already half asleep by the time the jeep was even warmed up enough for them to leave.
The cabin was dark when they pulled up to it. No one was home, something that was uncommon enough to be curious, but Stiles seemed unsurprised. He went directly inside and started a fire, stripping down to his long underwear in front of the door and hanging his things to dry along the wall. He looked soft and rumpled, digging around in Derek's trunk for a towel, some soft cotton sweatpants and a sweater and then turning to look at Derek fondly but expectantly, like maybe there was something Derek was supposed to do now that he was forgetting.
At which point Derek realized that being in his wolf form was probably a bit rude and inappropriate, seeing as how they were indoors now. He shifted so that he could dry himself off and put clothes on and be tucked into bed, which maybe should have felt condescending or at least patronizing, but actually felt lovely and comforting and just right. Then Stiles climbed in bed behind him, slotting himself against Derek's back and wrapping an arm around Derek's chest and he was so warm and his skin is so soft and his shoulders so solid and strong that everything should have been just perfect. But instead, it was terrifying.
Derek could feel Stiles' pulse where his hand pressed against Derek's chest, could hear the beating of his heart and the soft rasp of his breathing and it all seemed suddenly so fragile and fleeting. All he could think about was the unguarded door, the soft spot on Stiles' back, just between his shoulder blades, the delicate bumps of his cervical spine, the gentle curve of his neck and the narrow cage of his ribs, all left open and exposed to the unguarded door.
Rolling over, he brought Stiles across his chest, manhandling him around until he was between Derek and the wall. He felt across Stiles' back and neck in the darkness, reassuring himself that all was well, and then clutched him close so he could smell his hair and feel his heartbeat against his chest.
Stiles grumbled a bit during the process, but seemed mostly asleep already and too tired to put up much protest. He yawned as he resettled his head against the pillow. "Seriously? Don't think I don't know what you're doing. We're gonna talk about this. In the morning, though. Big talk. There's gonna be lots of stuff that we talk about. In the morning."
Derek nodded against the nape of Stiles' neck. Maybe it was paranoid and irrational, but he felt better like this. "Isaac and Jackson...?" He asked sleepily.
"Were advised to find somewhere else to sleep tonight."
"Mmm," Derek muttered in approval, bringing Stiles, if at all possible, even closer. "Did Scott tell you?"
"That you asked permission to 'call on me?'" Stiles snorted. "Yeah, probably before you were even out of the building."
"Mmm, I was going to ask you today."
"Too bad you're a big fat chicken."
Stiles sounded teasing and affectionate, but Derek huffed anyways and rubbed his forehead into Stiles' hair. "Can I call on you?"
"Too late, so sorry. Position's been filled." He patted Derek's arm, and burrowed a little deeper under the covers. "You were too slow. I'm calling on you now. Look at me, doing all this calling. We're at your house and everything. Now go to sleep."
"Mmm."
~~~~~
Derek woke up bathed in light. It was streaming in through a crack in the curtains over his bed, warming his face and shining in his eyes, just enough to wake him up, but not enough to be unpleasant. The fire must have burned down in the night because the air in the cabin had a bite to it, but under the blankets it was warm. Stiles had shifted, turning to lie on his stomach with his head tucked under Derek's chin and one hand tangled in Derek's sweater. He was heavier than he looked, a solid weight against Derek's chest, loose and pliant with sleep. His mouth had fallen open and he was snoring, just a little bit.
Stiles stretched as he woke up, rolling his hips, arching his back and kneading with his fingers, like a cat. Derek moved with him, running his hands down Stiles' back and cradling his hips. It felt good, comforting. Stiles was here, in his bed, because, of course, Stiles should always be here.
Letting out a soft sigh, Stiles squirmed around until he could bury his face in the crook of Derek's neck, nosing at his collarbone and seeking out the hem of Derek's sweater with his hands. He slotted his thigh between Derek's legs and rubbed up against him lazily as he traced the curve of Derek's ribs with his fingers.
"G’morning, handsome." Stiles' voice was rough with sleep and he sounded only half-awake. Everything was soft and warm and dream-like. Stiles' hips fit perfectly in Derek's hands and he smelled like pine trees and engine oil and wool, like sex and love and home and like everything that Derek never wanted to give up or let go of. His breath was hot against Derek's neck and his fingers soft and gentle against Derek's side. Everything was slotting into place just right, like grooves in a disk lock. He rocked into Derek's thigh and hummed contentedly against Derek's throat. Everything was as it should be. Stiles was here, because, of course, Stiles should always be here.
Derek's eyes flew open and he sat up, pulling away and spinning around so his feet hit the cold floor next to the bed, shocking him awake.
"Whaaa?" Stiles fell back against the bed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and squinting up at Derek, who sat there, panting. "You okay?"
Derek scrubbed at his face, trying to will his heart rate back down and his palms to stop sweating. "We should talk. There are things you should know first. About... this."
"If you're worried about the werewolf thing, I'm pretty sure I've got a decent handle on the situation. And I have it on good authority that your equipment works pretty much like the standard." Stiles paused, reaching out to trace the line of skin showing on Derek's back where his sweater had ridden up. "Unless certain things are different for born werewolves."
"Werewolves mate for life."
"Oh." Stiles pulled his hand back. "But Scott... But... Wait, so, you've never..."
"What? No. Of course I have!" Derek glared back at Stiles over his shoulder, more embarrassed than anything else. "Werewolves can have casual sex."
"Okay..." Stiles watched Derek's face with a raised eyebrow. "Then... I don't know if I totally understand what you're saying."
"Sometimes sex is just sex," Derek huffed and looked away again, folding his hands to keep from fidgeting, "and sometimes it's not." The sex talk: how mortifying.
"Sometimes it's making love?" Stiles sounded understandably incredulous.
"I'm not being trite." Derek glared down at his hands. "It's real for us, it can tie you to someone, like and anchor."
"An anchor?" Stiles sat up, looking horrified. "As in: having sex with me is like tying yourself to a lead weight and taking a long walk off a short dock?"
"No! It's stabilizing. Like an anchor. Or like, if you had spent your whole life trying to build a house on top of sand, and then were suddenly given a solid foundation."
"So... that's good then. Foundations are good. Stabilizing is good."
Derek kept his eyes firmly on his hands. "Not if it doesn't last. If it goes away, then all you've done is build a house in the clouds."
Stiles narrowed his eyes and when Derek didn't clarify further, he prompted carefully, "You're going to have to unravel that metaphor a little more."
"Scenting, sex, commitment: it's all bound up in the same thing. I won't be able to keep them seperate. I'll go all in. Everything. Right now. Forever. I can't do that. Not when you're not sure."
The bed shifted a little behind Derek's back as Stiles sighed and kicked his feet free of the covers. He leaned back against the bed for a moment, gently running his hand down Derek's back and then jumping to his feet. "Okay. I guess I should have known. Not like anything else with you has ever been normal. You made such a production out of asking everyone permission like this was Victorian England, it only figures you'd be earth-shatteringly traditional. So apparently werewolves imprint on people sometimes. I should be way more weirded out by that. Jesus H. Christ. This would be cute, if it weren't so fucking frustrating."
Derek's head sunk lower towards his knees and he refused to look up as Stiles got dressed. Stiles' words washed over him without registering. It was right that he told Stiles. It was right, but it wasn't fair. He wanted to still be in bed with Stiles, warm and safe, even if it was only temporary. He wanted it so badly.
He watched Stiles in his peripheral vision, saw him slip his boots on and wind his scarf around his neck, button up his jacket and pull on his hat. He steeled himself for a polite goodbye.
But, instead, Stiles ran his hand through Derek's hair and kissed the crown of his head. "Taking a hint isn't really one of my strong points, so you're gonna have to be clear with me, okay? We can take this at your pace, you can 'call on me,' or whatever, if that's how this works. Come over for dinner tonight, my dad will make casserole and threaten you with a shotgun, it'll be the whole authentic experience. Be there at six, shave, wear something clean and bring a dessert or something. My dad likes apples."
He brought his hand down to the back of Derek's neck for a second, kissed the top of his head again, and then left.
Derek stared down at his feet blankly for another ten seconds, blinking rapidly as he tried to process what had just happened. When he finally did, he was up and out the door, running through the snow to Stiles' car in his bare feet.
Stiles had just turned on the ignition and was letting the jeep idle while the engine warmed up. It was bright out, the sun reflecting off the brilliant white of the snow and Stiles had his sunglasses on, his head tilted up to take in the warmth of the sun and his collar opened slightly at the neck, despite the cold. His skin was paler and his hair darker than it was in the summer, bringing out the flush of his cheeks and the pink of his lips as he turned to smile at Derek's approach. "Did you want your things? I picked them up off the road yesterday and was going to give them back, but didn't want to ruin my dramatic exi--"
Derek stepped up onto the running boards and into the jeep, throwing his leg over Stiles' lap and settling himself down to straddle his legs in one easy move. He brought their cheeks together, scratching his stubble across Stiles' day-old scruff and scenting him as he slowly leaned back, feeling his way closer and closer to Stiles' mouth until they were kissing.
It could have been long and deep and mind-bendingly dirty and Derek could tell that Stiles would have been open to that plan, very open. But it was their first kiss Derek maybe also panicked a tiny bit at the last second, and so instead he just cupped Stiles' cheek carefully and kissing him softly, licking tentatively at his upper lip, just enough to taste, and then pulling back and climbing out the jeep again, almost as quickly as he had climbed in.
Stiles looked a little dazed behind his sunglasses, his mouth hanging slightly open and his head tilted upwards and towards the side of the jeep, swaying closer as Derek reached around behind him and into the backseat to grab his clothes and hockey gear from the day before. Derek laughed and stole a kiss to the dark beauty mark over Stiles' left dimple as he pulled away.
"Oh, go inside and put some shoes on. You have baking to do, preferably pie." Stiles wrinkled his nose in mock frustration and swatted at Derek playfully as he danced back, out of reach. "And don't forget to practice looking intimidated in front of a mirror before you come over. My dad's been going over his speech for the better part of a week now and I know he'll be really disappointed if you don't look even a little bit scared."
"I'll keep that in mind." Derek smiled, watching Stiles as he backed up the jeep and then drove off, staring after him long past the point where he had disappeared down the road and onto the highway.
Hopefully Isaac or Jackson would know how to bake a pie, because Derek had no clue. He caught himself frowning as he thought it over and then laughed out loud in spite of himself because, really, wasn't that just the most gloriously mundane problem to have?