Archive of Our Own

Someone had to put the dic(k) in dictator.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Place said power in the small hands of a grieving boy, and yeah, shit was going to go down. The world saw fit to tear Stiles Stilinski's mom away from him, to wither her to bones and grit while the medical staff helplessly as the heart monitor wired to the strongest woman in Beacon Hills fell silent. In that instant when she died, frame shuddering once in that telltale death rattle, not a soul noticed the panicked, wide eyes gleam red. It lasted a tenth of a second.

Before that Stiles had only glimpsed the edges of true cruelty. Life, as it turned out, was intrinsically unfair. It was worse than someone else getting more. Worse than picking the wrong pack of cards at the grocery store and watching some other kid maniacally wave around the limited, holographic. This was officially the worst thing to happen to him.

Shock numbed Stiles. It left him with tear-streaked cheeks and cotton for a tongue. Nurses bustled around, periodically offering a sympathetic word in dulcet tones, a hand on his bony shoulder, a paper cup of hot chocolate. Nothing registered. His throat felt dry; the cocoa tasted bitter. He stared down at his twined fingers, ignoring the sickly, pastel walls and vinyl floor. For some reason, the scent of antiseptics stung his nose anew. Three weeks ago, his mom had been fine. Whole. Alive.

Minutes passed. Hours. Stiles waited, hunched in the plastic seat with his hands wrapped around the soggy cup.

In other rooms, patients who were not his mom clung on. They lived. He could hear their hearts collectively pounding in his head, a cacophony of lungs and pulses and groans. Already he had been shuttled from his mom's former room, away from the dead body in the bed. He sat in a daze until his dad finally arrived fresh off the scene of a car wreck. When his dad went to hug him, Stiles recoiled at the metallic scent of blood. Stains littered his dad's khaki uniform. Someone else had died that night on a vast stretch of asphalt.

Deputy Stilinski took his son home immediately.

They arrived to an empty, silent house – one far too big for two people. It loomed above them, darkened windows menacing. Grass grew ragged and wild in the front yard. Patches had browned. Weeds choked out what few flowers thrived. California summers could be harsh when there was no one to remember to water, though their yard normally left something to be desired though.

Claudia Stilinski had always mourned her lack of green thumb.

Stiles's first impulse was to rip apart that world with his teeth. He got about halfway through destroying their living room before his dad shot him with a tranquilizer. Twice. He went down snarling, but later that night, locked in the bathroom for the good of the neighborhood, he was reduced to sniveling whimpers.

There should be no sons with mothers if he couldn't have his own. No doctors who lied. A gaping hole had been left in his mom’s wake, panic and fear and rage leaking from this wound. Stiles alternated between all-consuming fury and tears. He raked the bathtub, leaving behind long, white scars. The bars affixed to the window frame held firm. (His parents had prepared for this. They had known that she would die. Neither had told him.) The sight of her mom's toothbrush left him howling in a corner.

He could hear his dad breathing on the other side of the door. As the night progressed though, his dad migrated to the living room to seek the solace offered by endless bottles. Well-wishers provided them with a steady supply of liquid sympathy (and casseroles), and after that, the liquor store did just as well.

-----

Deputy Stilinski found himself in far over his head. Recently widowed and entirely human, what he wanted was to escape. Alcohol made things bearable. It curtailed the grief that threatened to devour him whole and pick his bones clean. Everything hurt too much. Mornings where he had once had someone to drink coffee with were replaced by throbbing hangovers and his son locked in the bathroom like a feral animal. He didn't know what to do. (Tranquilizers and bars. Keep it contained.) He couldn't control his son so he caged him.

The funeral was a quiet affair. Neighbors whispered about his son's absence. He took him to the cemetery later when there were no bystanders to witness the boy's features contort with fresh grief.

Others might come and take his child away. Werewolves could claim that the Boy Alpha was a risk. Hunters would call it a precautionary killing. Hell, they could even go as far to claim it'd be a merciful one. A single slip was all it would take. The wrong person catching a glimpse of those crimson eyes (his mother's eyes) and out came the hairy secret.

Deputy Stilinski could never allow that to happen. He protected his son unlike how he had failed Claudia. If that meant Stiles had a cell at the station that they might as well hung a plaque with his name, then so be it.

-----

At school they said Stiles had a problem with figures of authority. What the teachers failed to comprehend was the fact that he was the highest figure of authority the town had to offer. Who put an Alpha in detention? His energy level ran at a different frequency than the other kids. He could have run for miles and miles without being winded, yet he was expected to stay put at his desk for hours. When he spoke up (forgetting to raise his hand more than half the time), he got in trouble. There was something about his tone – far too sharp for a child speaking to an adult. Labels practically slapped themselves onto him.

His teachers didn't understand. His dad couldn't.

What Stiles required was a pack. His mom had left him all alone in that regard. She had left him behind with a human father who loved them both but had never pursued the Bite.

There was an art to selecting Betas.

His age made building his pack challenging. Adults would question his authority. No one significantly older than him would do. He limited his potential pool to those his age or younger. Not just anyone could hack the lifestyle. The lessons Claudia had passed to her son were few, but he remembered the important parts. He recited them to himself. If he was to be the Alpha, then he had to do it right.

Stiles sought out those who would find the relationship mutually beneficial.

Scott was a logical choice. He was his best friend, after all. Trustworthy. Practically pack already. He made the offer in the playground during recess and sternly informed his friend to mull it over. (Scott had said yes immediately. That answer remained the same through the rest of classes and a play date.) It fixed Scott's asthma. There were no more terrifying attacks, his friend hunched over gasping, rasping for breath as traitorous lungs refused to function. More than that, Scott could protect his mom. After all, Scott was the man of the McCall house.

To say that his own father was less than thrilled was a vast understatement, but there was no taking back this gift though. Stiles practiced rolling his eyes in the bathroom mirror. He learned not to flinch when his dad yelled at him, ranting about danger, about ruining Scott's life, about the threat to Melissa's. (It hurt. You'd think he had turned Scott into a monster. And if his dad thought Scott was a monster, then what did that make Stiles?)

Two pint-sized werewolves locked in a room were really not that much more of a problem than one.

Training Scott was hard, but he managed. No one ate Melissa McCall. And she only whacked Scott upside the head with a baseball bat once.

-----

Having created one Beta, the urge to expand his pack proved irresistible. It wasn't just that Scott made him stronger. Pack mates filled the hole that had haunted him since his mom... It made things better. Tolerable. He hurt less and smiled more with Scott at his side.

The boy with the heart condition and the criminal record plus that easy, likeable smile? To put it succinctly: yes, do want.

Danny was harder to convince than Scott. Danny was skeptical. Danny demanded time to decide. Danny wanted demonstrations and the opportunity to research thoroughly. These were all good things, indicators of traits that their pack could benefit from. Danny was smart who thought through decisions before acting.

Stiles waited. He nagged and texted and made a general nuisance of himself, but he would never force the Bite. Scott advocated for his cause too, less forcefully yet perhaps more effectively with that crooked grin and total confidence in Stiles.

It worked. Danny took to lycanthropy like a natural.

-----

His third Beta was a girl who was the spark of electricity that sizzled in the stale air of school. An initial flash of vibrancy that set the short hairs on the back of his neck on edge followed by a staccato of volts enmeshed with pain and fear and confusion.

A cocktail of medications dulled her until she was near invisible except for when the seizures kicked in. Stiles surreptitiously started paying attention. Under his surveillance, he noticed how whenever their eyes met, the girl's heart pattered like mad. If he cracked a funny joke in class, she would always already have had her head angled toward him, listening in.

He wondered how long she had orbited around him, a satellite cloaked in darkness.  

After he made her one of his own, she blossomed. She shed the drab shackles of illness and those who ostracized her. He understood afterward that she was no mere satellite. Erica was a star, burning fiercely in her own right.

-----

Those who lose young share a brand of suffering. He was drawn to those who had lost as he had. Death paid its visits sparingly. Gossip traveled fast in Beacon Hills. Words not meant for young ears could be whispered from across the room, but Stiles heard.

Two boys, both with a history of being locked in small spaces. One because his father was the monster. One because he was the monster. They were like mirror images. The circumstances reversed just so. Two broken fathers, two dead mothers, two boys too young to be left all alone.

He noticed the bruises that adults let pass without comment. Human beings were so fragile. The bodies of their young easily broken. He watched the cycle of discoloration with an almost scientific interest. After all, his own veins and tissues stitched themselves together so that he never dealt with tender black eyes.

And when he offered an escape, Isaac said yes.

Stiles grew accustomed to blood between his teeth, slick and metallic. Here was a promising politician who always kept his promises. Those brought into his fold stayed. His pack was loyal to a fault. He doled out health, strength, and kinship. They rewarded him with loyalty (and backtalk).

As for those who dared to rise against the Stilinski pack? Well, those folks learned the hard way to steer clear of Beacon Hills.

-----

"What do you mean telling that other Alpha to suck my cock was a breach of protocol? Dude was traipsing about on my territory! That justifies a blowjob."

Derek paused on the threshold. The voice echoed through the vast space. Its owner was loud and abrasive and young. Vulgar words for a crude person. His eyes alighted on the single chair positioned at the far side of the empty room. A black thing, its poor paint job betraying streaks of plain wood. The occupant sprawled across the seat, one leg thrust over the armrest. The back of the chair arched high above the boy's head. Perched on the edge sat a crow. It cocked its head in his direction, a beady eye locked onto him. Derek's attention traveled back to the speaker.

An unruly kinglet who had ascended the throne too early.

He couldn't decide whether the years had been kind or cruel. Gone was the wide-eyed boy with the mischievous grin who used to tackle Cora. In his place was this half-grown man who radiated annoyance and acted like the world sat at his feet. There was a gauntness to the adolescent's features, a hollow curve to the cheeks and dark crescents beneath darker eyes. The upturned nose remained the same, and the moles, if anything, had multiplied.

The crow cawed. Multiple pairs of eyes swiveled in Derek's direction. Whatever chance he had had of silently backing away into the shadows evaporated.

The boy, for his part, had gone slack-jawed. It was a momentary ailment.

A hand flew out to gesture dramatically, and Derek noticed the long, white fingers. The nails bore bite marks. He had never heard of a werewolf who bit his fingernails. "Guys, why do you do this to me? Look, it's not much of a secret lair if you escort everyone right on in."

One of the few werewolves lining the walls cleared his throat. "It's an abandoned warehouse."

"Silence your insolent mouth, Danny. You respect the Den of Stilinski. The Dudecave? This is a work in progress, all right, and come on, it's a hell of a lot better than my living room." Exasperation leaked in the voice. Derek could picture the teenagers crammed into a domestic space, eyes flashing in a well-lit room with wall-to-wall carpeting and curtains adorning the windows. The move must have been recent. Dust coated the floors, most of it untracked. Cobwebs flourished high above, adding a silvery film to the lofty ceiling.

The blonde who had ushered him inside blew out an irritated sigh. She drummed ruby fingernails against her hipbone. "Dudecave? This isn't a boys' only club, Stiles."

"Focus! The point is that you can't let just anyone in here. I don't care if he looks like he escaped a secret government facility where they purposely breed attractive people for the purpose of repopulating the planet with perfect specimens of humanity after the release some killer plague to take out the rest of us."

Damning silence. Derek was aware of the upward migration of his eyebrows but was incapable of halting their progress. This was not what he had expected to find here today.

"It is a legitimate theory. Nothing any of you say will convince me otherwise." Predictably, no one offered a word of contradiction. Derek caught several rolled eyes. The boy huffed before smoothly leaping down from his throne. And there, finally, was the predator cloaked in scrawny limbs and pursed lips. An innate gracefulness laced the Alpha's swagger.

Derek knelt, taking a position of deference. He was careful to keep his muscles loose. This was a position of vulnerable subservience, not a coiled crouch. His eyes fixed on the feet that had come to a stop before him. One of the Alpha's shoelaces had come untied. None of this was going according to plan. "I've come to ask temporary sanctuary within your territory, Alpha Stilinski."

Once upon a time, two packs divided this town. Tensions ran high despite how they never devolved into outright conflict. Shared territory always caused strain among werewolves unless the groups properly bound. They had met formally on an annual basis and were politely cordial when passing in the grocery store or when it came time to pick Cora up at the elementary school that Claudia's son likewise attended.

Laura and Derek had abandoned Beacon Hills when they left, and with it, their right to call it home. Now that he had returned alone, he was merely an intruder. Judging based on that earlier spiel, the teenager did not take kindly to trespassers.

He waited for the Alpha's verdict. The boy was drawing it out, hemming and hawing.

"Fine," he said finally. "But you're on probationary status."

A sigh of relief escaped Derek.

Claws dug into the soft underside of his chin. They moved forward, scraping lightly against his scruff as the boy guided his face up. "I recommend that you be on your best behavior, Hale," Stiles said, lips curled into a smile. That mouth was far more distracting than the set of red eyes gleaming down at him.

Black feathers temporarily obscured his vision as the crow landed on the Alpha's shoulders and spread out its wings. If a bird could loom, then this one was doing an impressive job. It snapped it beak at him, then angled its head toward the boy.

"Mortimer, meet Derek. He's going to be staying with us for a while," the Alpha crooned softly to the crow.

Coming back to Beacon Hills might have been one of the biggest mistakes Derek had ever made.

-----

Derek walked the fine line between guest and servant in the Stilinski household. Stiles's second order of business (first had been forbidding him from using the title of Alpha Stilinski ever again) was that Derek had to stay at his home where the Alpha could keep an eye on Derek at all times. Unappealing as that decree had been, Derek couldn't argue with its logic. Any Alpha worth two cents knew better than to leave an unknown werewolf unsupervised.

He was provided with the guest bedroom, a place clearly little used. Dust caked every surface and billowed in the air when he sat on the bed. Spiders skittered beneath the furniture. It was still nicer than camping out in the back of the clunker he rented to drive from New York to California. (The Camaro stayed with Laura. That had been a given despite the absurd parking fees in the city.) And it was vastly preferable to squatting in the burned out shell of Hale House.

A miniscule section of the bathroom counter was cleared away for his belongings (a toothbrush, a traveler-sized toothpaste, and a razor). One towel had been designated for his use solely.

The rules were simple. He could enter and leave as he pleased, as long as he checked in with either Stiles or the sheriff. But he was expected to be on the Alpha's beck and call. He had to pull his weight around the house, which translated to chores, chores, and more chores. He wasn't sure whether he was being exploited or domesticized. Vacuum cleaners and Derek had never been on the best of terms, but with the aid of ear plugs, he learned toleration.

He wasn't the only houseguest. Isaac stayed over once or twice a week, usually arriving with a duffel that stunk of Scott. It was safer for the werewolf to go on a farce of endless sleepovers rather than return home. The living room couch was Isaac's bed of choice when he stayed over.

Mortimer, despite purportedly being wild, acted as if he owned the house as well as the Alpha. Too many mornings when Derek woke to find the crow roosting on his pillow, plucking out his hair. He'd get an aggravating caw caaaw caaaaw in his face for his troubles, which would be followed by what shaped up to be a customary wild-goose chase around the house where he'd growl threats about turning Mortimer into the saddest pair of drumsticks ever while the crow zoomed about overhead, screeching with what Derek assumed to be the equivalent of mocking laughter.

Whoever happened to be awake and present would place bets. So far, Mortimer reigned undefeated.

The second he was freed from school Stiles began abusing his power on an hourly basis. Derek endured ridiculous orders that ranged from him being forced to answer the phone and act as the unhappiest receptionist to bewildered telemarketers to serving as a sounding board when Stiles dramatically read aloud essays for school.

Sheriff Stilinski maintained a cordial distance. At the very least, the human never acted like he was a butler, slave, and lackey all rolled into one. He figured they had silently reached some sort of accord. Stiles bossed Derek around like a power-high tyrant, and Sheriff Stilinski pretended Derek was a mute houseguest.

A week passed before he learned how wrong he was.

"Can you help my son?"

Derek quirked an eyebrow at the weary man. Sheriff Stilinski continued unloading the dishwasher, taking care as he stacked the plates. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the dishes. The few that matched were pale blue, and these were handled with upmost tenderness. It was surprising how easy it was for him to figure out that they'd probably had ties to Claudia. A wedding gift, perhaps. Nostalgia mired with tragedy.

"He's not a bad kid. Or that bad of an Alpha. He doesn't exactly menace the town. But he's..." Sheriff Stilinski trailed off and finally stopped what he was doing to lean back against the counter. "He's inexperienced and reckless. He mouths off the wrong people. Always has. God, I can't ever shut him up." Worry tracked haggard lines in his skin, making the human looked decades older.

Derek shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The atmosphere in the kitchen was heavy with a cloud of parental consternation. He pressed his lips in a tight line, uncertain as to what he should do. It wasn't his place to tame this Alpha. What he wanted to do was to flee. All of this raw emotion left him antsy.

Others had done worse as Alpha; that was a fact. But the life expectancy of a werewolf was often dictated by a number of attributes. One had to be smart, to know to maintain a low profile and how to negotiate the prickly alliances with fellow packs. Of the upmost importance was the knowledge of how to avoid hunters or at the very least, strike an accord with them.

Ideally, pack hierarchy remained stable. Within packs formed by blood – that is, those who were family and passed the mantle of Alpha naturally, the successor was easily determined. Leadership could be an innate quality. It had been in Laura's case. He had been born into a pack and raised with the knowledge that his role was to help his sister.

When said sister had told him that they needed space, well, his world had been thrown on its axis again. The pack that Laura was supposed to tend to was gone. Their family was dead. And the only other survivor was the one responsible for their loss. Derek couldn't blame Laura bailing on him. The real question was why she hadn't given him the boot years ago.

Kitchens, he decided, were lousy places for confrontations. They offered little in the way of escape routes. One minute, he'd been fishing ice out of the freezer, and the next, Laura had cornered in the cramped kitchen of their apartment and was treating him the dreaded time apart talk. His Alpha, his sister, had broken up with him on a temporary basis. Just a month, she had promised. And after that, they'd figure it out from there.

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat, drawing Derek out of the past. "You have more practice at this than my son's friends. They're a good lot too, but all of them are in over their heads," he said wearily. It was clear that the man wished the Alpha had never expanded his pack. "Could you help Stiles and the rest of them?"

Derek fumbled with the milk carton but managed to return it to the fridge. What was he supposed to say? He nervously met the man's steady gaze. "...I'll try for however long I'm here."

Making promises he couldn't hope to keep was a stupid habit to develop.

-----

Pack training sessions were a chaotic nightmare to behold. Derek imagined countless Alphas of yore looking down their noses at this display of immaturity. He had witnessed half-weaned pups exhibit more discipline than this tangled mess of over exuberant teenagers. They roughhoused and dared to call it sparring. The more he learned about the Stilinski pack, the less he understood their ability to thrive and terrorize.

Erica and Isaac raced in dizzying loops until they collapsed in a breathless heap on the ground. Blonde hair fanned around both of them. Danny hollered their times, using a pilfered speedometer that bore signs of belonging to a certain police station. Up the numbers went on a whiteboard littered with matches of Tic-tac-toe and Hangman.

Stiles and Scott wrestled on a row of repurposed yoga mats, alternating between light-hearted insults and growled laughter. The pair pinned one another barely using a tenth of their true strength. Neither broke out in the faintest sheen of sweat.

Derek got a better work out on his own doing a series of grueling pull-ups, push-ups, and the rest of his exercise routine. What was this even supposed to be? He felt like a substitute stationed in an unruly classroom far out of his league. It was all he could do to resist the impulse to hide his face in his hands.

"What? Are you that unimpressed by my methods?"

Derek glanced up, vaguely startled by the ease with which Stiles had crept up on him. The Alpha cocked his head to one side like the dratted crow, a mockery of interest in rumpled clothes. Scott lay sprawled on the mats, watching with curious eyes.

"What methods? You're just letting them run wild." Derek tossed a despairing hand toward the others. If he had wanted to stay unobserved, he should probably avoid dramatic gestures. The trio by the whiteboard had ceased their chatter to join in the creepy group stare.

"Relax, buddy. We're only warming up." Stiles slung an arm around Derek's shoulder and grinned wryly. Derek tensed, wishing he could shrug off the unwanted touch. There was something about the boy that left him perilously on edge.

Fingers drummed a lazy beat on his collarbone. Derek gritted his teeth.

"How about a drill, everyone? Reverse hide and seek?" Stiles called out to the rest as he released his hold on Derek. An excited murmur of consent filled the air. Erica dusted off her jeans while Isaac stretched his arms high in the air. Danny had capped his marker in a move that shouldn't have qualified as menacing but still somehow was. Scott was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Derek figured this was a bad sign. All eyes remained trained on him.

"You're It. Ten seconds." When Derek merely stared at him, Stiles shoved him lightly toward the waiting doorway. "Run. You might not like what happens when we catch you," the Alpha warned, all smiling teeth.

Derek could take a hint.

The meager head start gave him a negligible advantage. The formerly disorganized pack was breathing down his neck in mere moments. Worse than that, they had a home advantage in this network of dim streets and dark buildings. He had grown up learning the tricks of the Preserve, how to hide his scent using stones and creeks. Sprinting around in town was deemed too risky, especially for young werewolves. Training where humans could see was fucking irresponsible.

Howls rang out behind him, and footsteps diverged. They were splitting up. Evidently, Stiles had taught his pack a thing or two about hunting.

Too bad he was the prey.

Derek skidded around a sharp turn into an alley and backpedaled just as fast as two pairs of bioluminescent yellow eyes greeted him. A quick dodge to the left saved him from Isaac, who wound up tackling a trashcan. A groan of disgust and Erica's bright laughter followed Derek as he ran.

Two down. Three to go. And that was assuming the rules forbade second chances.

Ahead the road offered three routes: left, right, or straight. It screamed of a trap. He threw himself flat on the asphalt, narrowly dodging the two werewolves coming at him from either side. Scott and Danny collided with a resounding thud.

Derek continued on his hands and knees. His claws caught on the gravel as he climbed to his feet amidst Scott's mumbled apologies. Just a bit farther and he'd clear the labyrinthine section of warehouses. The end of the street was heralded a single lamppost, unexceptional other than the fact that it worked. Its light cast a warm glow, catching in worn bricks and the curb.

A child's faith in a nightlight to ward off the monsters is tragically misplaced. He should have noticed the crow perched on top.

A shadow detached from the metal pole and plowed into his chest, connecting firmly with his gut and sending him flying into the pavement. Derek gasped, the breath knocked out of his lungs. His struggled panting mingled with another's.

"You lose," Stiles commented wryly while straddling his midriff.

-----

"Could you explain why I have to wear your old lacrosse sweatshirt?" Derek asked he held the ratty thing in front of him with blatant disdain. The emblazoned twenty-three mocked him. It just did.

"Because," Stiles said obligingly while motioning for him to put it on, "you have to smell like pack. This is me being nice and forward thinking. Also, you lost." He paused to smirk. "Unless you'd prefer for me to mark you the old-fashioned way. That I could do."

Derek hastily pulled the hoodie on and zipped it up as high as it would go. The fabric strained to accommodate his shoulders. When he readjusted the hood that had caught on one of his ears, he could distinctly hear fine threads snapping.

He felt ridiculous. A great, red, hulking thing labeled as Stilinski's property.

Stiles beamed at him. "Looking good. It totally matches your face and ears."

Derek breathed out heavily through his nose and reminded himself that strangling Stiles was bound to make a poor impression on the Alpha. Even if he did wrap his hands around that scrawny neck (perfect for wringing), he'd be lucky if Stiles didn't immediately rip him to shreds.

It was definitely time to change the subject.

"Why did you quit lacrosse?" The blunt question was met by a surprised look. It wouldn't have taken a werewolf's keen senses to notice the neglected stick and pads. The equipment sat in a sad heap in the furthermost corner of Stiles's room, like some athletic graveyard.

"It was boring," Stiles spat out. The half-baked excuse hung in the air. Suddenly, rearranging junk on the messy desk was the boy's most pressing concern. "There was no challenge anymore. Where's the fun of beating humans? God, could you quit with the judgmental eyebrows?"

Derek crossed his arms over his chest and was mildly grateful when the seams of the borrowed jacket didn't burst. "You're lying, Stiles."

Stiles fiddled with the screen of his laptop before slamming it shut. When he whirled around to face Derek, there was a glint of red in his eyes. Derek refused to waver.

Surprisingly, it was Stiles who looked away first. Hunching his shoulders, the boy meandered to the window. He stared outside at a beautiful, sun-filled day. Even from across the room, Derek could make out the blue sky that stretched overhead endlessly with nary a cloud in sight.

"My dad used to come to every game," Stiles began quietly. "No matter what." Long fingers traced idle shapes on the glass. "But he wasn't proud of me. Not really. You could tell even when he was cheering his head off. He thought it was cheating. I had an unfair advantage against everyone else. When I scored or won or whatever, it wasn't because I deserved it. I couldn't take it after a while, okay? Him trying to pretend that I'm not...what I am and wishing for something else."

The hug Derek wrapped Stiles in was not by any means a manly one. There was no macho clap of hand on the back or speedy retreat. He was not the type for hugging. His arms had acted without permission. The two of them fit together perfectly.

Stiles nearly shoved him out the window. Regular glass would have shattered. It was a lucky thing that Sheriff Stilinski had an invested in the type that could take a pounding. The frame creaked alarmingly before Stiles released him and stormed out of the room.

-----

The pack defied Derek's expectations. For an eclectic bunch of oddballs, they were good kids at heart. Yes, they drove him up a wall, but that probably had more to do with how they were teenagers. Considering the great power they had been gifted with, none of them had inflicted dire mayhem on the town or their enemies.

One downside was that the group seemed to have come to a consensus that he was the lowest rung on the totem pole. That meant more degrading orders. Some mornings, he had to play chauffeur for Isaac or Erica. One inglorious Friday, he spent the night camped outside of an Apple store so that Danny could obtain the shiniest iteration of the iPhone.

Scott sporadically instructed him to deliver meals to Melissa McCall at the hospital with handwritten notes scrawled on napkins. Another thing Scott was fond of was warning Derek every chance the teenager got that he had his eye on Derek Hale. One wrong move, a step out of line, and Scott would be all over him like woah. There would be no ousting of Stiles Alpha. Not with Scott on watch. Derek found the constant badgering a cross between endearingly loyal and as infuriating as fuck. As if he wanted to steal this pack and town away from Stiles.

Derek endured all of that and more without protesting. Well, without protesting verbally, at least. According to the adolescent despots, his eyebrows gave away his displeasure.

On the second Thursday night, Erica instructed him to braid her hair. Sisters taught a boy a multitude of unmarketable skills. Growing up in a household dominated by females, Derek had learned young. He never finished off the last of the chocolate before that other time of the month. The phrase "throws like his girl" left his lips a single time, which Laura had overheard and demonstrated exactly how strong her arm was by chucking his Gameboy. (Worst game of fetch ever.) And he could braid.

As he stood with Erica perched on the edge of the kitchen chair in front him, he struggled not to think about how Cora would have been roughly the same age. The wild, blonde hair that twisted between his fingers was nothing remotely similar to his little sister's straight, dark locks. His lips tightened into a strained line. Where Cora would have squirmed, teeming with impatience, Erica stayed put and prattled on about classes and evil Chemistry teachers.

Who was to say Cora might not have learned to sit still? His fingers wove with a deftness that proved his hands remembered all too well how to perform this chore. He looped the hairband tightly around the end and mutely tapped Erica on the back to indicate he was done.

She hopped to her feet. When she flipped the braid over her shoulder to inspect, she was plainly pleased by what she saw. "Not half bad. Thanks."

-----

Due to circumstances beyond Derek's control, he found his lap usurped and used as a pseudo-cushion. This was what became of reluctantly agreeing to watch Saturday morning cartoons with Stiles. He hadn't so much consented as been dragged downstairs by a pajama-clad Alpha with sleep-mussed hair.

It had been too early in the day for this nonsense. It was still too early. All of the sugary cereal in the world could never hope to convince him otherwise. The proof in his judgment resided in the fact that Stiles had conked out by the third commercial break. How Stiles managed to sleep through the shrill, loud voices blasting from the television was beyond his understanding. The vibrant colors of the show gracing the screen made direct eye contact difficult. That was the sole reason Derek was gazing elsewhere.

At the present moment, the monster of Beacon Hills was no more than a boy, all gangly limbs and drool at the present moment. Derek gently nudged Stiles's chin to staunch the flow of saliva. The action earned him a low grunt. He sighed in return.

How could this be the creature that struck fear into the hearts of those who would dare try to claim Beacon Hills for their own? Stiles was barely out of his pup years.

The town was a perfect location for werewolves with its extensive Preserve and foundation-deep magic. It was as if the soil and roots called out to them, the pull of the moon made tangible. Add to this the easy access of prey and the community with its many amenities to run amuck in. Rivals were enticed by the pretty package. Yet, Stiles dug his claws in and fought off the competition. It was just a boy and his pack of misfits. The odds had never been in their favor. He couldn't begin to wrap his mind around how they had avoided being torn to shreds. From what he had seen so far, he assumed it was one part ingenuity and two parts sheer stubbornness.

Rumors of the prowess of the Alpha of Beacon Hills traveled far, across the country from the west coast to the east. Derek remembered the first time he caught wind of it. His ears practically pricked up as he heard mention of his home in a crowded cafe that catered to a specific brand of eccentricity in New York City.

Feral was a common word used to describe the Boy Alpha. Dangerous. Cunning. Vicious.

Perhaps everyone looked younger in their sleep. Maybe even he seemed harmless. It softened the harsh lines and the perpetual curl to Stiles's lips.

He was struck by the strangest impulse. Another werewolf might be tempted to kill an exposed Alpha, to steal that power for his own. What would being packless matter when one had the ability to cobble together a new one?

That wasn't what he wanted. Derek leaned forward, taking in the parted lips and long eyelashes. Moles scattered pale skin, and his fingers twitched with the urge to trace them, to count them. He inched closer. Each exhalation stunk of sweet, artificial berries, but beneath those fumes was the ever-present scent of Stiles. Derek breathed it in.

None of this changed the truth of the matter. Stiles was loud, obnoxious, and too cocky for his own good. Most of the time, he wanted to throttle the teen with his bare hands. A little bruising might knock some godforsaken sense into the idiot. A lesson in humility would work miracles. Sooner or later, Stiles was bound to screw up irrevocably.

Eventually, Laura would call and tell him to come back, and he'd be minding his own business in New York when he'd hear that the Alpha of Beacon Hills and his underage pack had all been brutally slaughtered.

At which point, he'd think I told you so. That was it. Really. Derek grimaced. The lie rang false even in his head.

When the hell had this happened?

His lips ghosted over Stiles's. Red eyes snapped open.

Oh, fuck.

The Alpha shot upward, groggy disorientation mired with aggressive reflexes. Their skulls collided with an impact that sent sharp bursts of white flashing before Derek's eyes. Before he could begin to react to that, he found himself physically flung backward. His sore head collided with hardwood floor followed by the rest of his body. Claws sliced through his shirt, scraping over his shoulders while a solid weight pinned down his torso. A throaty growl penetrated the air, one that exasperatingly had his wolf whining.

His attempt to buck Stiles off went nowhere fast. For all of his muscle mass, nothing quite compared to the full strength of a practically full-grown Alpha.

Teeth scraped against Derek's throat, and his breath hitched. He forced his body to go limp. Thrashing about beneath the teenager would just get him killed faster. The deep rumbling from Stiles petered out.

Golden amber eyes studied him with gusto. The intensity did little to help Derek to relax. He thought might have preferred the snarling reaction of a handful of seconds ago. The smile Stiles flashed at him exposed retreating canines.

"We really need to quit running into each other like this."

When Stiles climbed off of him and returned to watching cartoons, Derek stayed on the floor.

-----

"Erica thinks I should turn him next. Enlist him for the lycanthropic cause." Stiles jerked a greasy thumb toward a lone figure at an otherwise empty table. Mortimer stole an unguarded fry and flapped to perch on the far side of the bench to eat.

Returning to Beacon Hills High made Derek uncomfortable. Doing so at Stiles's beck and call because the Alpha had a craving for curly fries for lunch failed to help matters. He eyed the stranger. It wasn't his business who Stiles bit. So far, the Alpha had been lucky. The Bite had taken each and every time. Such a streak was highly breakable.

One day, eventually, Stiles was going to end up with a dead body on his hands. It was inevitable.

"I'm not sure if he's really a team player. Boyd's kind of a loner," Stiles continued as he shook the remaining crumbs and salt from the container into his palm, which he then unceremoniously licked clean.

"You're wrong," Derek said quietly, ignoring how Stiles's head swerved toward him. "He's lonely. There's a difference." He watched Boyd finish a bag of chips, noting how the teenager's gaze carelessly drifted to the surrounding tables and their occupants.

"Hmm." Stiles studied Boyd with renewed interest, absently licking each finger clean. "Well, if Boyd's so lonely, why don't you go over and make nice?"

"I said lonely. Not desperate," Derek protested in a mutter. The balled up carton hit him dead center in the forehead. He blinked.

"That, abject buddy of mine who has sworn to be a good and obedient werewolf, was not a request," Stiles clarified, beaming as he pretended to toast Derek with his soda and taking a great, big slurp through the specifically requested bendy straw.

If Derek didn't know better, he'd think Boyd was less thrilled about this enforced undertaking than he was. The teen looked him over and set the empty bag on the chair to his right while plopping his backpack on the one to his left. "Seat taken. Both of them. All of them."

Derek arched an eyebrow and tucked his hands into his pockets. Stiles waved at him. Heaving a sigh, Derek sat down on the table itself.

It was a very long lunch period. Neither Boyd nor he budged an inch until the bell rang. Boyd left, muttering something about weirdoes. Stiles dubbed the catastrophe a hilarious triumph and mentioned there was no need to rush. They could always win Boyd over later.

-----

The month flew by faster than Derek could have predicted. Laura hadn't called during those four weeks, but he refused to take the lack of communication as a signal that he couldn't return to New York. Likewise, his brain balked at considering what else that silence could mean. Laura was fine. She had wanted space. Or maybe, she assumed he would call first.

Derek filled the tank with gas, packed his bags, and returned the house key to Stiles who balled it up in a tight fist. It was only then that Derek figured out why there had been a third key in the first place. That tarnished scrap of metal must have once belonged to Claudia.

Stiles gave him a curt goodbye, eyes flitting to the computer screen the entire time.

Derek pretended he didn't care. There was one last place he had to visit in this forsaken town before he hit the highway. And it was not the hospital where his silent, scarred uncle wasted away. Derek couldn't bear to go there.

The rented car broke down half a mile away from Hale House. Acrid smoke wafted from the engine, indicative of the vehicle's overdue demise. Derek cursed under his breath, debated calling for a tow and decided it could wait until later. Even if he had to walk the rest of the way, his visit to his old home was not going to be deferred. If he postponed it yet again, then he would never make the sojourn.

It was a cool evening. Clouds to the west were gradually covering the sky; a hint of rain was on the scant breeze. He tilted his head back and breathed in deep the essence of soil and woods. Far above him the stars looked the same as always. Derek remembered the thrill of running through the Preserve at night, his family spread out among the trees as they raced beneath the glow of the moon. His heart pounded.

Tonight, there was the slimmest crescent of white visible. It should be hours before the storm arrived. Plenty of time for him to visit the ruins and then return. He could even take a detour and grab a rabbit as a peace offering for his unexcused absence at dinner. Stiles probably wouldn't care either way. Then, he remembered he wasn't going back. There would be no more dinners with Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski.

Derek set off at a jog, cutting between two trees to enter the Preserve rather than follow the road. This route was faster.

Muscle memory kicked in. Central Park was no wilderness compared to the Preserve. He leapt over a tangle of roots and picked up speed. This was the playground of his childhood, a backyard with no fences. The sprawling forest had always been as much a home to the Hales as their house.

He could almost hear the laughter of his sisters.

Derek's eyes stung and as he passed another tree, he let his claws score the brittle bark. Destroying trunks didn't make things better, but they certainly didn't make things worse.

He ran and ran and ran until he heard the whispered rustling of the underbrush.

There was something in the wood. Derek spun around, struggling to decipher the source of the noise. Leaves rustled all around him. He stiffened. There was no wind here, not with the foliage to hold it at bay. Branches cracked sharply to his left, but nothing was there. Derek growled softly, teeth bared. Other than the trees, the Preserve was eerily absence of sound. Its nocturnal inhabitants were clearly a lot smarter than him.

He hated fighting an unseen opponent. Invisibility was cowardice, but whoever it was would have to show themselves sooner or later. And then, he could let some steam out the good, old-fashioned way.

As he whipped around yet again, his feet caught on vines he hadn't noticed. His arms pinwheeled, and he crashed into a patch of briar. Thorns tore through cloth and skin. It was a minor nuisance at most. He struggled to free his boots of the winding vines. His claws sliced through the vegetation easily enough but as fast as he worked, he seemed to make little to no progress.

Derek huffed.

He puffed.

He sort of flopped back and articulated a sound that would have done an angry, drunk pirate proud.

God, he was such a hopeless idiot. Getting his ass handed to him by plants.

More thorns jabbed at him. He glowered down at the mess. Most of the barbs were tipped in red. Blood. His vision blurred for a second, and Derek blinked hard. He shook his head as if he could physically shake off the strange, unsettling numbness that raced through his veins. The briar toward the edges glinted in the moonlight. He pinched one spine between forefinger and thumb, pulling his fingers away to find them coated in a sticky substance.

That...was not good.

Vines writhed about his ankles.

Derek let loose a howl.

-----

Stiles sat bolt upright in bed and promptly toppled over the end of the mattress to land in a heap on the floor. He clawed at the blanket that fell in a heap on top of him. Literally clawed. Fabric tore in vast swathes as he freed himself.

Derek was gone. Derek was in trouble. The roar reverberated in his chest. It left him rattled and panicked. The call for help was strong, as blood-curdling as if it had come from any of his Betas. He scrambled to his feet and was halfway through his window before he realized that he was dashing off in his pajamas. Then, he recalled the howl that had roused him out of a sound sleep and scaled down the side of the house at a breakneck speed. Mortimer was left fluttering in his wake.

He reached the cusp of the Preserve and wondered if he should have brought his phone to call for backup. Sure, he could howl and alert everyone in over a mile radius that he was on the prowl. However, maintaining the element of surprise was one of the few advantages he had remaining. Besides, if he was dealing with a truly dangerous threat, then he wanted the others far away, tucked in their beds and sleeping. That went triple for his dad who had come home just before midnight after a late shift. Having a sheriff for a father was a major boon, but Stiles strived to keep his dad as far away as feasible from the hairier elements in his life.

A thousand scenarios ran through his head as he loped on autopilot. His imagination had always been wild. Tonight it flooded with blood and broken bones, severed torsos and empty eyes. Half of Derek hanging from a tree by a rope or chains. Derek on the side of the road and riddled with holes.

Yesterday, Derek had scrubbed down his Jeep stripped down to those too tight jeans, scowling whenever Stiles saw fit to holler that Derek had missed a spot. In his humble opinion, it had made for a highly enjoyable afternoon. Even with bubbles up to his forearms, Derek proved an alluring display. Drenching Derek with the hose (at Erica's brilliant suggestion) hadn't done anything to diminish the odd-werewolf-out's appeal.

That evening, when Derek had tried say goodbye before leaving for the East Coast, Stiles had simply shut down. The silent treatment hadn't prevented from Derek from leaving.

And now, Derek might be dead or dying or comatose or...rolling about the forest floor ensnared in a Chia Pet gone horribly, horribly wrong.

This was not what Stiles had expected to find.

Derek's eyes were shut, and the plants surrounding his form seemed intent on burying him alive, which he thankfully still was. The strained heartbeat told Stiles that much.

Stiles circled the briar twice, taking in the curling vines and the dripping thorns. The recent aroma of fertilizer and turned earth was detectable beneath the regular forest fragrances. Someone had planted this thing in his Preserve. A neat, little snare ideal for catching unwitting werewolves. He hated hunters, especially crafty ones who took cunning approaches instead of charging in, guns blazing.

Freeing Derek was a painstaking process. If Stiles wasn't careful, he'd wind up trapped too. He managed, digging wildly and uprooting the plants section by section. Nicks scored his fingers, but the paltry amount of poison barely slowed him down. He murmured nonsense to Derek, berating the man for his carelessness and babbling about how he must have inherited his mom's black thumb.

Once he'd gotten Derek out, he wrapped some of the ravaged plants up, using his shirt as a makeshift bag. Then he lugged Derek's bulk onto his back with clawed hands and ran home as fast as he could, which, considering the adrenaline and the business of being an Alpha, was pretty damn fast. The laboring pulse thumping against his spine provided excellent motivation. Stiles didn't stop until he reached the bathroom.

The lacerations oozed a viscous, black substance. A scratch or two might have been nothing, but Derek was covered in the tiny cuts. The man's skin was a vivid landscape of grayed white splattered with inky black. He propped Derek in the bathtub.

Stiles was eight years old and watching his mom die all over again, not even allowed to touch her and help alleviate her pain. His fingers trembled, and he reminded himself that there were no humans to interfere here. He could fix this. He would.

"I swear, Derek, if you die on me, I will freaking find a way to bring you back to life for the sole purpose of killing you again," he threatened as he tore off what remained of Derek's clothes. The thorns had rendered them rags anyway. Besides, he could recompense Derek later. Everyone needs a little plaid in their wardrobe, and Derek was notably lacking.

The man's breathing came in harsh sputters.

Stiles pressed his palms against burning skin, took a deep breath, and leached the first shockwave of pain. "Christ," he hissed as agony roared up his hands and through his arms. When he pulled away, he thought Derek little less ashen. Not by a lot though.

What was the most important thing to do when a person was poisoned? Determine their last will and prepare their funeral arrangements. Nope. If he wanted to save Derek, then he had to a) extract the poison and b) apply the antidote. How lucky for him that those two kind of went together in this case.

Stiles jammed the plug into place and swept the thorns, leaves, and roots from his bundled shirt into the sink. Keeping an eye on Derek (wheezing had to be a bad, bad sign, right?), he shredded toilet paper and sprinkled it over the heap. He fumbled around in the cabinet to locate a half-used book of matches. It took three matches for him to successfully light a fire. Each attempt was accompanied by a mumbled expletive. The toilet paper ignited, and Stiles blew on the blaze gently. The flames curled around the drier edges of certain leaves before catching hold. His nose wrinkled at the pungent scent of smoke and wolf's bane.

"It'll be fine. Just you wait. Any minute now," he talked to fill the nagging quiet (and to drown out the awful rasp of Derek's shallow breathing). Once the briar had been reduced to smoldering ash, he scooped it up with his bare hands, singeing his fingers in the process. Stiles winced and dumped the stuff onto Derek. The cinders hissed softly as they came into contact with Derek's sweat.

Coughing, Stiles blinked back tears and climbed into the tub. He rubbed the ashes into each scratch, taking comfort in the faint glow of purple that signaled the toxin's destruction. His own cuts were healing too, brief pinpricks of pain followed by his skin stitching itself together. Beneath him, his patient moaned and thrashed, slamming him into the side of the bathtub twice before Stiles locked his knees around Derek's torso. His progress was intermittently delayed whenever he had to pluck out a stubborn thorn, pinching it between two claws and tossing it onto the bathroom floor.

"Shut up, you big baby," he grunted as he dabbed some ashes along Derek's ribs, purposefully working downward. His eyes skimmed sweat-slick skin, searching for injuries he had missed. It was a challenge to remain clinical. Were thighs supposed to be that muscular? He heaved Derek over, forsaking gentleness in favor of, well, getting this whole thing over with. A glance revealed that Derek's backside had taken the brunt of the onslaught. Gouges striped his vertebrae and left inflamed lines along his deltoids.

Stiles climbed out of the tub to grab fresh handfuls of ash, which he smeared generously everywhere. And if that meant he massaged Derek Hale's butt cheeks, then that was a sacrifice he had to make. He rolled his eyes up to the uncaring ceiling. The sacrifices Alphas made for their packs.

Derek's whining had decreased to the occasional whimper.

As soon as he was satisfied that he had covered every inch of Derek, he twisted around to turn on the faucet and jerked up the knob so that hot water rained down on them. It washed away the ash and blood and black in dirty rivulets. Stiles generously prevented Derek from drowning.

Derek watched him feverishly with half-slit eyes that made him self-conscious of how he was partially naked, soaked to the bone, and sharing a cramped space with a totally nude Derek Hale. If Derek wanted to question his authority or his methods, then he could. Later.

Stiles wiped Derek dry with his own towel because he had viciously thrown the one Derek had used for the last month in the trash. Try as he might, Derek's scent had permeated his home. None of that mattered as long as Derek was back, if only for now.

Color returned to Derek's skin and that worrisome breathing settled down to closer to normal. Finally, Stiles dragged Derek to bed. Every spare blanket in the house wound up stacked on top of Derek, along with Stiles who clocked out on the uppermost fleece throw.

-----

Derek was bedridden for the next two days. Technically speaking, Derek claimed he was fine a day and a half ago, but Stiles had ordered him to stay beneath those covers or else. As the resident hero of the day, and Alpha of this town, Stiles was no stranger to bossing others around.

There were bowls of chicken soup (including the a batch made by his dad featured the special, star-shaped noodles his mom had used)  and rants about figuring what hunters might have dared to traipsed into the woods planting evil briar patches of death. Mortimer roosted on a spare pillow and sounded the alarm whenever Derek dared to so much as roll over. When Stiles sent out the pack, they had located a dozen more traps in the Preserve. Each received a Viking funeral, which was to say a hefty dose of lighter fluid, fire, and then a subsequent smothering.

Stiles could only keep Derek trapped in bed for so long. By the dawning of the third day, Derek had developed a serious case of cabin fever. He gave Derek permission to move around the house with the greatest of reluctance. The sooner Derek recovered, the sooner Derek would leave.

-----

The mission had been laughably simple: obtain buttery delicious popcorn for the hungry Alpha. Stiles thought he could trust Derek to man the microwave alone. After all, Derek had proclaimed himself fully recovered a dozen times over and might have declared that Stiles had to quit babying him. (The nerve!) He had relented. What could go wrong? The instructions for the art of popcorn-making were printed right on the front of the packet. College students managed every day without reducing their dorms to burning infernos.

Ten minutes had passed. A guy could only watch a paused movie for so long. His patience had become a worn thing five minutes ago.

He stormed into the kitchen with Mortimer stealing a ride upon his shoulder. That made two individuals who were peeved at the lack of popcorn in their lives. All he caught was the tail end of a farewell.

Derek cradled the phone as if it was something precious.

"Someone actually called you?" Stiles asked doubtfully. He'd started to wonder if the cell phone Derek toted around even functioned. As often as Derek checked it, the guy never seemed to text or call anyone. Derek finally tore his gaze away from the device and looked at him unsteadily.

"Laura found Cora." It was a name that rarely crossed anyone's lips. Derek's tone had a rusty, broken edge to it, like saying it aloud was a challenge. Stiles took a few steps closer. "...Cora went feral, but she's okay."

Of course, it went without saying that it was usually everyone else who suffered when a werewolf lost control. Stiles was not going to be the one to bring up how dear, little Cora could have ripped out a fair number of throats while Derek was having a moment. Plus, Cora had been nice. A little prone to socking a person in the face, but only when said person deserved it. And he had kind of been a brat.

"Laura's taking care of her. Helping her to readjust." There was a tremor in Derek's voice. "Laura needs more time with her and thinks I should stay away for now." Derek tore open the plastic wrapping and shoved the popcorn into the microwave. "Cora blames me. It's my fault." The man programmed the timer with shaky hands.

There were almost too many emotions radiating from Derek for Stiles to keep track of them all. Foremost was relief, which was followed closely by regret and happiness. Hurt and fear registered as a bitter odor. Strange was the utter lack of anger. Stiles imagined that he would be furious at discovering such a secret. He stumbled over what to say and blathered out a few canned phrases. "Oh, wow. Winner of the biggest news is you. Jeez."

Derek dragged his fingers through his hair and gave Stiles a helpless look. "Do you mind if I stay here for a few more months? In Beacon Hills, that is? I could find a place to stay."

Ouch. If Derek sincerely believed Stiles might kick him out then that hurt. Mortimer pecked lightly at his earlobe and jarred him back into action. He brushed aside the crow, who cawed his disapproval before taking flight.

"Dude, mi casa es su casa," he proclaimed as he closed the remaining distance separating them. Kernels popped in the background, most definitely egging him on in the secret language of snack food. (What? He had to glean confidence from somewhere. Mortimer was pacing the length of the kitchen counter, claws clacking away unhelpfully.)

Stiles cupped Derek's cheeks to forcibly tilt the werewolf's face toward his. Derek's scruff had grown out of control. It was verging on beard territory. He rubbed the pads of his fingers down to Derek's jawline, watching how the other's eyes widen. Maybe beards were up his alley. Or maybe anything to do with this grumpy, disparaging intruder who barged into his life intrinsically appealed to him. He certainly knew how to pick them.

He tightened his grip and leaned in to press his lips against Derek's. It wasn't the kiss of movies or anything fancy like that. For one thing, Derek's ridiculous buckteeth clinked against his. The venture started out aggravatingly dry because Derek simply stood there, shell-shocked, and then it devolved to sloppy, wet, and salty from the enforced soup diet that lingered on Derek’s tongue.  (Still, Derek actively kissing back was a major development.) Things improved after he nipped Derek's bottom lip and got him properly backed into the counter, which freed up his hands for wandering.

The blaring beeping of the microwave caused them both to flinch and break apart. Goddammit, popcorn. They were breathing heavily, and Derek was doing that adorable thing where his ears went pink. Involuntary reactions like that should be illegal. Stiles grinned. "You're welcome to stay with me forever. Like your forever home. If you were a dog."

"Shut up, Stiles."

The popcorn was cold and gross by the time they got around to opening the bag. Congealed butter was the definition of unappetizing. They let Mortimer eat its contents. After all, they had more important matters to attend to, such as making out on the couch.