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“Hale, good. I thought I’d thought you’d be here.”
Derek nearly brained himself on the window sash as the elder Stilinski opened the door into Stiles’ bedroom, which was, Derek could tell, oddly bereft of Stiles.
He caught the faltered move before he could embarrass himself further, and for a brief, hesitant second debated making a run for it.
“You’re already almost there, son, just come on in.” The sheriff made an annoyed-looking wave of his hand as he shut the door behind him and leaned up against it. It was a trap, it had to be. Derek sniffed at the air, but found no wolfsbane or mountain ash on it. There was just the worn-and-oddly-placid scent of the Sheriff. Mostly he smelled like the inside of his cruiser, like vinyl and metal. And kevlar. With a hint of gun oil. That last part was what worried him. He swallowed.
The Sheriff repeated the gesture. “C’mon, quit letting the air out. I don’t bite.”
Derek eased the rest of the way in through the window and closed it behind him. And then, yeah, awkwardness. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say, or where to stand, or how to act, really. How do you act in front of someone who arrested you at one point?
“Okay, so, you’ve been doing this for what, like ten months now?”
“What?” Derek panicked, because of course the Sheriff knew. He knew about Derek slipping in through Stiles’ window in the middle of the night. It had been an accident at first, really, it had been. He’d been on the run from some hunters who ambushed him at the loft. As soon as he could, he high-tailed it out of there and made a beeline for the woods. He’d run until he realized he didn’t really know where he was running to. He couldn’t go back to his old house, because he could almost guarantee that the hunters would be there too, waiting for him. It’d happened before. So when his wolf had caught the familiar, worn-cotton-and-flannel Stilinski scent on the breeze, he made for it. Because it had saved him in the past. Thankfully, there was a light on in the upstairs window. Derek figured it couldn’t hurt.
Of course, when he tapped on the glass with a clawed fist, Stiles had nearly flailed out of his desk chair in surprise. But he let him in anyway, bitching all the while about how his life would’ve been so much simpler if he hadn’t dragged Scott into the woods that night two years ago. When he saw Derek still wolfed-out, with blood caking his torn shirt to his skin in a few places, he shut up pretty quick.
Well, sort of. Stiles never really shut up.
But he did mouth a quiet “oh.”
Derek remembered that because his wolf had watched the circle his lips had made with an odd, wanting fascination.
But then Stiles started to ramble about hunters, werewolf healing, and wondering whether or not Derek’s natural state was injured and covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids. Even as he complained, he went to the bathroom to grab some paper towels and a warm washcloth and set about cleaning Derek up. His wolf had growled at the pain as he gently cleared away the dried blood around some of the more tender injuries, chiding him on being a big, werewolf baby. Derek had shut up after that. Stiles had even offered him clean clothes and the air mattress he kept rolled up underneath his bed.
The wolf had declined though, opting instead for the narrow space of floor between Stiles’ bed and the window in which to curl up. Stiles had even set him up with a blanket and a pillow.
After that, Derek stopped by on a near-daily basis, almost on instinct. While he told himself that it was because Stiles was probably the least useless person in Beacon Hills who was actually willing to help him with research, or the latest creature-feature drawn to the town, it was mostly because when he was around Stiles, Derek couldn’t help but feel like somehow, he was safe. He trusted him. His wolf did too. That’s how it started.
Derek usually found Stiles’ window unlocked and slipped in to wait for him if he wasn’t there, passing the time by sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the pictures on his wall. Sometimes, when he was sure he wouldn’t be caught, he even curled up in Stiles’ sheets, burying his head in one of the human’s pillows and drinking in the scent. If Stiles was there, Derek always noticed how he’d just open the window for him, sliding open the sash without the slightest complaint or commentary on the matter. He’d let Derek ask his stupid questions, or just let him sit in silence while he rambled on about something absentmindedly. It made him feel like he was wanted somewhere, like he wasn’t just the lone wolf anymore.
The sheriff snapped his fingers, and that brought him back to reality.
“You still there, Hale?”
‘Wha- Oh, yea- yes, yes sir.”
“Good. Look, I knew I’d probably find you here, and I wanted to level with you.”
Derek gulped again.
“I know about you and Stiles.”
Derek made to protest, opening his mouth as panic flooded into his veins, before the Sheriff held up a hand. “Let me finish, son. Look, I’m getting older, and while I would normally have this conversation with someone… like you and why you’re interested in a seventeen year-old boy, my son, no less in an interrogation room, age has granted me a certain… perspective.”
Derek felt his ears grow hot. He shoved his hands inside his pockets for the lack of anything better to do with them.
“Not to mention, there was a couple years between his mom and myself, so I’m willing to turn a blind eye to that particular issue.”
“Sir, you don’t und-” Derek was desperate to explain that there was nothing going on. Except for his giant, goddamn crush, that is.
“I said let me finish,” the Sheriff quickly replied, cutting him off. “I don’t care so much who he… spends his time with, but I do care about him.” He sighed, and put his hands on his hips, seeming almost as unsure of himself in the situation as Derek was. “I guess what I’m getting at is, Stiles’s had a rough life, and I haven’t helped much. I don’t know what it is about you climbing in through his window at all hours of the night, and frankly, I don’t want to, but he’s seemed happier, almost. He smiles more. Talks a little more than he used to.”
Derek scoffed lightly almost instinctively, and then promptly panicked. He looked up only to see the smallest hint of a grin scrawled the elder Stilinski’s usually tight-lipped mouth, like he knew what Derek meant. “His mom used to talk a lot too,” he added with a wistful tone. There was a small chuckle before he cleared his throat and locked it down. “But, I don’t want him getting hurt. I know he’s not really a kid anymore, and he’ll need to make his own stupid mistakes.”
Derek looked up wondering the Sheriff lumped him in with that one. Hell, if he did, he was probably right. “But I don’t want to see him hurt anymore than he has been already. Understand?”
Derek swallowed again, because apparently that was the only response he could manage anymore. “Yeah- yes… yes, sir.”
“Good. And start using the front door for a change. And maybe come over for a real dinner once and a while.” He clearly didn’t know that Stiles usually fed them both leftovers on the nights when his dad was at the station.
“Okay.” Derek sensed the conversation was drawing to a close, so he backed up toward the window as the Sheriff made an awkward move to the door.
“And Hale?”
Derek froze with his hands on the sash. “Yea- yes, sir?” He needed to stop doing that.
“Too many people have walked out of Stiles’ life. He doesn’t need another one to do the same.” Derek tilted his head over his shoulder, only to catch the click of the door as it settled closed. He eased out onto the roof and closed the window, just as he heard the sound of Stiles’ jeep pull into the driveway, and the faint, rabbit-quick beat of his heart. And he wondered what the hell he just got himself into.
--
The next day, when Derek arrived at Stiles’, he checked to make sure the police cruiser wasn’t there before making his usual entrance. He sniffed to confirm. Yeah, the Sheriff was gone, probably at work. Thank god. He didn’t need another repeat of the day before.
The only scent that seemed to permeate through the walls of the house was that of its younger occupant; the odd, worn flannel and salty-sweet odor that accompanied Stiles Stilinski’s presence. So Derek backed up a few paces from the eave and pushed off of the ground, vaulting onto the roof outside of Stiles’ window like he normally did, with as much grace as he could manage. When he strolled over to the window, he found it already open.
He hesitated. Stiles was inside, he was sure, because he could hear his heart beating serenely as clearly as he could hear his own. But it was almost too peaceful, like it was forced, deliberately trying to give nothing away. But Derek didn’t really have a choice. He needed a translation on a passage from one of his family’s old history books, one of the hand-written tomes in which the Hales had recorded the relations of almost all the known werewolf packs and their whereabouts. The oldest entries were written in Gaelic, dating back to some of the earliest packs ever known. Unfortunately, Derek’s ancient Gaelic was a little rusty. Okay, it was definitely more than a little rusty. And while Stiles didn’t understand the language either, Derek knew he’d have an idea of where to look to get a translation.
So basically, Derek had no choice. He had to go in. Go in and Spring the trap. He hoped that the Sheriff hadn’t mentioned their little conversation from yesterday.
“What the fuck did you tell my dad?” Derek’s gut knotted itself tightly as he nearly spilled through the open window. He never got anything he wanted.
“Wh- err, nothing, I swear,” He replied as he pulled himself through. Stiles’ heartbeat ramped up to an angry sprint, and Derek knew he’d been sitting there, waiting to bitch him out. Figures. Why did he like this little shit again?
“Then why the hell does he think that you and I are… together?” The way he bit off the word, it made Derek’s heart sink in his chest.
“I- he… he seemed to think that because I come over-” Derek didn’t get to finish his sentence before Stiles cut him off.
“I don’t under- why does that me-?” He groaned at the half-aborted thoughts and let his head fall against the desk, and Derek wrinkled his nose at the sour, tense scent that began seeping into it. It was a mix between frustration and… something else that Derek hadn’t breathed since, well, before the fire. He sat down on the foot of Stiles’ bed, shrugging off his bag and stared at the human’s back as he steepled his palms in front of him. “Figures,” Stiles intoned, lifting his head and aggressively closing the textbooks and notes scattered in front of him, “I can’t seem to actually get laid, but my dad thinks that it’s actively happening, with the last person in this town who wants anything to do with me.”
Derek felt a strange, ruddy flush spread across his cheeks. Eyes downcast, staring at the carpet beneath Stiles’ desk chair, he played with the fibers with a toe of his shoe.
“Why would you think that?” He asked softly.
“Well, do you?” The question was dipped in anger as he looked over his shoulder toward the werewolf.
Derek opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat.
Derek literally heard Stiles’ heart freeze for a second in his chest. He couldn’t help but hold a breath until it restarted. Slowly, the human swiveled his chair around to face him.
“What?” He asked, his face inches from Derek’s would have been if he was not aggressively trying to burn a hole into the floor with his eyes.
“Just forget it.”
Stiles made a pump-the-brakes hand motion. “No, dude, wait, are you telling me that- you actually want me?” He paused. “You? Mr. Tall, Dark, and Misanthropic? With the brooding glare and the muscles and the-” He stopped himself.
Derek looked up to see a mirrored flush across Stiles’ face, and he sighed. In truth, he hadn’t given it much thought. Okay, that was a lie, he’d thought about it every day since that night Stiles took him in. But hell if he was going to admit it, especially to Stiles, of all people. He was the one that stuck. After everyone else had left, had disappeared, died, or used Derek, Stiles was the only one that was still standing there. He was always eager to help, even if that meant creating new problems instead of solving the ones in front of him. He was loyal, intelligent, and had saved his ass on multiple occasions. Derek trusted him. And more importantly, so did his wolf. He occasionally wondered what would happen if-
No, he thought, shaking his head, trying to dispel the thought. It shouldn’t, couldn’t happen. There was too much at risk. It didn’t matter that Stiles probably would put himself in danger no matter what was thrown in front of him if it meant saving one of his friends, or saving Derek, but he couldn’t- no, wouldn’t ask that of him.
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t- You can’t- it’s too much. Too much to ask.” His mouth was spilling out pieces of his racing thoughts, sounding utterly and completely incoherent. That was when Stiles’ hands slid under his jaw and lifted his head. Derek’s pulse immediately began to sprint as the contact rushed across his nerves. Whether it was from touch of Stiles’ hand, or the flickering, smoldering amber-brown of his eyes. He couldn’t be sure. Their faces were inches apart, and Derek considered, for the briefest of seconds, closing that final distance.
“What is?” Stiles asked, his voice doing that supple, irresistible thing that it did when it got all fucking soft and tactile. Somewhere deep inside his chest, his wolf whined with want. It was more than Derek could take.
“This,” he answered, as the word left his throat on a heady breath. He threw whatever remaining caution he had to the wind and sank his lips into Stiles’ mouth. As the short distance between them was finally closed closed, Derek could feel the crackling arcs of electricity begin to span across it. He tried to breathe, but the air was heavy with the scent of Stiles, all sweet and pungent and utterly suffocating. It hemmed him in, pressed against his skin, filtered in through his pores, ghosted over his lips, prickling the flesh as their mouths finally pressed together, a deep, yearning hum slipping up through his throat as they connected. Stiles carded his hands up the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck, holding both of them there, locked together by their lips, noses crushed against each other, until Derek began to forget all the reasons that he had for not doing this sooner.
After several minutes, Derek finally let their lips slip apart, mingled flesh pulling ever so slightly as they separated. Stiles’ hands slid absentmindedly down to the base of his neck, thumbs splayed up over the crook of his jaw. Derek lingered there, forehead pressed against Stiles’, breathing into the quiet, private space between them. His world was a swirl of their mingling scents, their out-of-sync, sprinting heartbeats, and the strange, tingling surety of Stiles’ fingers against his skin. Everything that coursed through his mind echoed with the ring of his name, threatening to undo all the careful anchors that kept his wolf at bay. Through short, ragged breaths and closed eyes, Derek tried to regain some control.
“Stiles,” he breathed, “Stiles...I don’t- This can’t- Everyone around me gets hurt. If that happened to you, I couldn’t-” he sighed, giving up on the thoughts his mouth wouldn’t put into words. “I just don’t want to hurt you.” The thought of breaking Stiles’ heart was painful. But the thought of him suffering some kind of abuse, ending up bloodied, or beaten, or worse, because of him, was downright excruciating. He couldn’t handle it. Not again.
Stiles’ smiled out a broken puff of air. It was warm, fully imbibed of heat, of light, and of something more that Derek couldn’t quite describe. “I’m not as breakable as you think I am, dude.”
“But you are, though.” Derek whispered in reply, savoring the way that the pads of Stiles’ palms were playing across the sensitive skin of his neck. He knew he should pull back, break away, but the feeling was keeping him rooted to the spot. It was all he could do to keep his wolf from taking over, and nuzzling into the crook of the human’s neck. All it wanted to do was mark him, claim him, take him as his own.
“Why, because I’m apparently one of the few people in this damn town who’s still attached to their humanity?” His tone was mostly joking, but Derek knew it was a sore spot for him. He always wanted to do more. He wished he could. But he’d turned down Peter’s bite. And would likely turn down Derek’s too, if it was offered. Derek wouldn’t though. He’d never cross that line unless Stiles asked him for it. And maybe not even then. Although it was tempting. The thought of them running through the woods, Stiles learning, persistent, becoming just as if not more skilled a wolf than Derek was himself. But he wouldn’t do it. Not if there was even the slightest chance that it wouldn’t take.
So he didn’t answer. He didn’t want to break the moment, the soft brushing of Stiles’ thumbs over the muscle of his neck, the splay of fingers across the dip at his collarbone, the way he was pressed so deeply into him, that Derek knew he’d regret it the second they broke contact. Stiles chuckled in the silence. “You do realize that human or not, with or without you, I’m always gonna be in danger, right?”
Derek knew it. There wasn’t any length that Stiles wouldn’t go to for the people he cared about. Himself included. He’d always be there, even when he knew he shouldn’t be.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Good. Because whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me, dude. And trust me, I can handle whatever you throw at me.” Stiles paused to push Derek back onto the bed and fit himself onto his lap. Derek didn’t resist.
It was his turn to chuckle as he propped himself up on his elbows to drink in the way Stiles was sitting across him, long thighs bracketing his hips, the warm, comfortable weight of him pressed down against his lap with a stupid grin on his face.
“I do, you know.” The response was quick, instinctive, and Derek wasn’t sure if it came from his mind or his wolf’s. “Trust you, that is.”
“I know,” Stiles answered, before pressing a gentle kiss against the hollow of his throat.
There was a soft, appreciative growl from Derek’s wolf as he barred it, lifting his chin to give Stiles more access to it. At this point, he’d probably let him rip it out and eat it without putting up a fight. As Stiles’ lips trailed down it, to the hollow of his collarbone, Derek’s nerves began to misfire in rippling waves across his body, and slowly, he began to forget why he was there.
--
That sunday, Derek knocked on the front door of the Stilinski house. It felt odd, like he was doing something furtive, unusual, and he couldn’t help but feel exposed somehow. But as the familiar footsteps and faster-than-most heartbeat skipped to the other side door, his nerves quieted a little. Stiles had the door only halfway open before he threw himself into Derek’s arms, and planted a big, wet kiss across his surprised lips.
“No PDA’s on the front porch, you two!” Came a yell from the Sheriff.
Stiles pulled back quickly, his ears flushed a blotchy, satisfied pink. Derek licked his lips.
“Why’re you looking, Dad?” He threw back without looking. There was silence. He laughed. Derek thought he could listen to that sound forever. He blinked, and Stiles threaded an arm through his, and pulled him inside, closing the door behind them. Derek spent the rest of the afternoon watching the Mets game with the Sheriff, while Stiles made dinner. He even managed to slip into the kitchen a few times to watch him cook, admiring the way his hands carefully, meticulously measured out all the ingredients for whatever he was making. It was all he could do to not just want to eat out of them. But he resisted the urge, mostly because there would be no end to the dog jokes he’d have to endure as a result. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension that Derek still had the twinges of began to ease out of him. And it was true, Stiles was more talkative than he’d ever seen him. He cracked smiles more often, and looked positively enthralled as he waxed eloquent about school, about Derek, the goings on with Allison and Scott and Isaac and other miscellaneous things. Derek just kind of sat there quietly, listening to it all, a stupid smile carved into his lips as he munched on the food that Stiles had prepared.
The sheriff let out an appreciative, meant-to-be-stifled belch once they’d finished eating, and Stiles shot him a look.
“Jeez, if looks could kill.” He paused, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin as Stiles glared at him. “What? It was good. You only let me eat the good stuff once a week, I have to savor it.”
Stiles was helping Derek clear the plates. He shook his head. “Well if you don’t quit cheating on your diet, you won’t be able to for much longer.”
“I will not be badgered by my teenage son,” the Sheriff joked. Derek laughed. “Just you wait,” he pointed at Derek, “Sooner or later he’ll start pullin’ that crap on you too.”
Derek raised his eyebrows as he picked up a pile of dirty plates and silverware and made his way to the kitchen sink. “I have no doubt,” he replied. Stiles poked him in the ribs and he stifled a growl, nearly dropping the plates.
“Welp, I’m gonna go meet a few of the guys for a beer,” the Sheriff ventured, and Stiles cocked an eyebrow. “Thanks for dinner, son. And Derek, nice to see you using the front door for a change.”
Derek’s cheeks reddened and he dropped his eyes, pretending to focus on filling the sink with soapy water. The Sheriff chuckled. He shrugged on his jacket, said something quietly to Stiles, and Derek heard the door open and shut, and the thrum of the cruiser’s engine.
After a few seconds, Derek felt Stiles’ arms thread around his waist as he scrubbed one of the plates and rinsed it, and a warm cheek press into the back of his shoulder. He could feel Stiles’ heartbeat through his spine, and smell his content, satisfied scent as it seeped from his pores. And then it hit Derek all at once. A week ago, he didn’t have anyone, and was pining after something in a way he couldn’t quite describe. And now, here he stood, wrapped in Stiles’ arms, washing dishes. Like suddenly he had a home. A family, and someone who loved him.
I’m getting ahead of myself, he thought. Then Stiles pressed a soft kiss against the nape of his neck.
“Hey Sourwolf, whaddya say we skip the dishes and go… upstairs?”
Then again, maybe not.