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“Tell me again why we’re doing this?”
Stiles rolls his eyes at Scott.
“Because.”
“Wow, that’s mature.”
“Kill me,” Stiles laughs. “Because Peter promised he’ll leave me alone if I get a hug from everyone in the pack. And even though I love seeing you pups rolling in the mud and yipping happily, I also love my sanity, so I want Peter out of my life.”
Scott bares his neck as he rolls his head, laughing.
“Alright, dude,” he says. “You’re the alpha.”
There’s more than one inside joke in Scott’s words, but Stiles can’t really begin to count.
Being with the pack is awesome. Sometimes. Most of the times, really. Even though he’s the weak human, Stiles rarely feels like he is being left aside in favor of stronger, quicker and generally better significant others. Scott is, well, Scott, and always will be and the betas themselves aren’t so bad either, now that they have gotten their heads out of their asses. Jackson still growls when Stiles promises him dog treats, but in the end they’re like this big, dysfunctional kindergarten class and Stiles is quite content with his life at the moment.
With an exception, really. When he signed up as the pack nanny, Stiles totally forgot that Peter was included in the deal.
So, Peter is the king of creeperdom, news of the century. Really, Stiles should know better, with the bite and the crazy tossing him around whenever he liked and so on. It’s like he can’t help it, no matter how Derek assures them that once he was a sane human being.
Death touches everyone differently, in the end. It took Stiles’ mother, Derek’s happiness and Peter’s sanity.
This doesn’t mean Stiles doesn’t feel sorry for him. Every time he steps into the charred skeleton of the Hale mansion, there’s this shiver running up his spine when he remembers people dying in there, the photos he dug out of his father’s archive; when he touches the remains of the walls, he can almost hear the screams of the trapped Hales. He wonders if Peter hears them, when he closes his eyes. From the haunted look in Derek’s eyes, he thinks both of the Hales hear them.
However, this doesn’t excuse him from being the gigantic asshole he is. So, when Peter promises that he’s going to leave Stiles alone, like, forever if he gets a hug from every member of the pack – everyone, Stiles, don’t cheat, not only the werewolves – Stiles jumps at the opportunity because fuck yes that’s why, basically.
Scott is easy. Stiles doesn’t even need to explain him anything. They bro-hug and it’s awesome and it’s one down the count.
Allison looks at him like he’s crazy.
“It’s for the greater good,” Stiles offers, hoping she doesn’t decide to go all ninja badass on him. She’s like a Disney princess, all smiles and dimples and bright eyes, but he can’t forget her look as she was shooting arrow after arrow into their pack.
Everyone has their own darker side. He’s not immune and he isn’t judging anyone, but he can’t forget.
“It’s stupid,” she replies after a moment, sighing and opening her arms in an aborted permission to hug her. “But again, there’s nothing new.”
Allison is a saint, Stiles is sure of it. After all, she was able to put up with all of Scott’s crap in the time they were together, and now she’s putting up with Isaac and all his problems and, at the same time, with being the head of the Argent family.
She’s so strong and yet she feels small in Stiles’ hug. He hides his face into her hair, hugs her tighter and hopes to have a bit of her strength.
Immediately after, they run into the betas.
Isaac is the first to approach him and Scott somehow cautiously, even though Scott had sworn there wasn’t animosity between them. Stiles thinks that Isaac had spent too much time being afraid of confrontations to be totally calm in situations like theirs.
The odd thing is, Isaac approaches them, sniffs Stiles’ shoulder and makes a face.
“Why is there Allison’s perfume on you?”
Stiles frowns.
“Can you really—” he asks, turning around and trying to sniff his own shoulder. Erica snickers and he glovers, with little to no effect on the werelady. “Scott, can you really sniff Allison off of me?”
His best friend frowns, then sniffs him and nods.
“Yeah, it’s faint but it’s definitely there,” he provides, shrugging, and Stiles feels for a moment a very horrible person for asking his best friend to sniff his ex girlfriend on him. It’s just—Allison and Isaac, it’s so new, he can’t really grasp the fact that Scott and Allison’s fated romance has come to an end. It’s not his fault, really.
“Why do you have Allison’s perfume on you?” Isaac asks again.
Sometimes, Isaac is so insecure it almost hurts to watch him. He steals these sideway glances of Scott and Allison and ScottandAllison and everyone else is trying to tiptoe around the mess it’s going to spread when they’re going to talk about it. Stiles loves them, loves his best friend and Allison and Isaac, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere close to the three of them in moments like this.
“Nothing important, she’s just helping me with a thing,” he minimizes. “Actually, you can help me too.”
“What to you want, Batman?”
Erica’s laugher is a nice sound. She leans on Boyd’s shoulder, the other werewolf looking as stoic as ever, and she cocks her head in a display of false confidence. Actually, Stiles has learnt how to read her act and she’s just this overgrown puppy finally coming to terms with a bubbly personality she tried to hide for too long. She’s kind of nice, when she isn’t hitting him with pieces of his own car.
“A hug.”
“You can kiss my ass,” Erica laughs again, but she open her arms and Stiles is happy to indulge in a moment of comfort, hiding his face against the leather of her jacket and smiling. If he had had a sister, he’s sure she would have been like Erica.
Isaac is more insecure. He hesitates, holding up a hand toward Stiles’ shoulder, then dropping it again.
“It’s nothing bad, really,” Scott says, with little to no effect in calming Isaac’s nerves. “He’s trying to have people sign his petition to have Peter gone for good.”
Isaac doesn’t obviously understand, but the sighs and hugs Stiles. It’s just a moment, then also Boyd hugs the three of them, big arms long and strong enough to encircle also Erica and Stiles. Erica rests her head against his shoulder, there’s an elbow digging into Stiles’ ribs and the werewolves are forgetting his bones aren’t as strong as theirs, but it feels right. It feels like pack and the nights spent on the bestiary and then playing Halo with Scott and Erica.
It feels like everything right in the world and Stiles is just grateful to have them.
“Go and chase the big bad wolf away, Stilinski,” Boyd says, almost smiling with his chin on Erica’s head, and then he hugs them some more.
Stiles never had the impression that dealing with Jackson would have been nice, but the jackass is putting up quite the fight. And it’s not like this is a strange request, ok? Just a hug.
They hug plenty of time in the heat of the games with the pack, when everyone is snuggling someone else and they devolve in quite a puppy pile on the big carpet in Derek’s new loft.
“It’s different, Stilinski,” Jackson repeats, rolling his eyes so hard Stiles almost hope they will be stuck on the inside of his eye sockets. “You can’t just ask people to hug you. I’ve got a reputation to hold onto.”
Scott is getting impatient and Stiles is sure that, by the second, he’s going to rush into the argument to be his knight in shiny armor and actually make everything worse. Jackson doesn’t like it when people team up on him, with the only exception of Danny and Lydia. They’re also the only people in the world apparently able to put up with Jackson’s antics.
“Look, Jackson,” he says, before Scott can act. “I know we are not friends, but we’re pack. And I thought pack helped each other.”
“What is this commotion about?”
Lydia looks like she just woke up, the hair tousled and the makeup smudged under her eyes, a lacrosse kit hanging to her thin frame. She’s still the most gorgeous creature ever to be seen and Stiles thanks every ancient and present god that they’re getting on a more familiar territory and he isn’t anymore the insecure kid tripping over his feet whenever her strawberry blond hair was in sight.
“Stilinski’s being an idiot as usual,” Jackson sums up, much to Stiles dismay. He’s pretty sure that Scott just rawr-ed, behind him—and that’s incredibly mature, thank you.
Lydia arches one perfectly-shaped eyebrow and pads away. She returns one moment after, with a glass of water and an apple. She hops on the couch, cuddling against Jackson’s side, and after a moment of hesitation he slips an arm around her shoulder, protective.
Lydia has always been able to get the best out of Jackson.
She crunches her apple and then yawns.
“Seriously, you woke me up,” she says, flipping her hair with dismay. “I want to know what this is all about.”
“Peter,” Stiles says, and this immediately gets her attention. She’s never going to forgive Peter for what he did to her. She can’t accept anyone messing with her head, she’s too proud. Stiles hates Peter with the force of a thousand suns, but he’s never going to compete with Lydia Martin in this. Peter has scarred her too deep to be ever forgiven.
“What about him?” she asks, her voice as cold as ice.
“He has made this stupid bet with me,” he says. She cocks her head and follows every single word with a dismaying intensity in her eyes. He’s glad not to be on the receiving ending of such hate. “If I get a hug from everyone here, he’ll leave me alone.”
“I can think of several ways of permanently make him go away,” she says and no-one in the room doubts it. Jackson swallows nervously, never sopping stroking her hair in an attempt to calm her down; Scott, the traitor, actually snickers. After a moment, Lydia’s face softens. “But this is easier and won’t make me go to jail,” she gets up and walks to him, quickly enveloping in a soft hug. She smells good, fresh apple and Jackson’s cologne, and her shoulders are small in Stile’s embrace.
Jackson is looking more unconfortable by the minute. Stiles almost feels sorry for him.
After a moment, Lydia turns back to her boyfriend.
“I’m sure you were just going to hug Stiles, weren’t you?” she asks sweetly. Jackson swallows and nods.
“Of course,” he says, stiffly letting Stiles hug him. He stays still, not making an effort to respond to the hug.
“Come on, Jackson boy, don’t try to hide that you’re shamelessly enjoying this,” Stiles whisper, if only to see him blush in outraged rage and quickly jump away with the grace only werewolves can muster up, without tripping on the sofa or the small table near it.
“This will suffice, I think,” Lydia says, but she holds Jackson gently and he hugs her even gentler, as if she is something precious to him. It’s actually kind of nice to watch them after all they’ve been through.
“Yes, I think so,” Stiles smiles, hoping they’ll understand what he’s thinking. From the soft light in Lydia’s eyes, he thinks at least she does.
“We’re finished, man,” Stiles practically glows with satisfaction once they’re back in the Jeep. “I won.”
“No, you didn’t,” Scott feels this inexplicable desire to interfere with his happiness, apparently. Stiles doesn’t let him get to him, however. He starts the Jeep whistling, totally satisfied with himself. “Stiles, you still have to get Derek.”
“C’mon, he’s the crazy uncle who killed his sister,” Stiles reasons. “I’m sure he won’t refuse me his help.”
“I’m not going to be a part of this madness.”
Stiles can’t believe what he’s hearing. Derek is stubbornly still with his arm crossed against his chest, an eyebrow arched in outrage, Peter practically gloating in a corner of the room. Stiles resolutely ignores his presence and concentrates on the alpha of doom. Derek Hale, here to ruin his life day after day.
But if Stiles is something, he’s stubborn to the point of idiocy. No-one ever said that he can’t try to convince something with fangs and claws that he’s absolutely right.
“Come on, dude,” he says, taking an encouraging step toward him. “It’s Peter.”
“Yes, I’m aware of it,” Derek replies. “It’s Peter, my only living relative and a member of my pack. Why, Stiles?”
It’s like a cold shower for Stiles. He never thought at it this way, apparently; he never thought that even if homicidal and crazy, it’s still Derek’s only living relative.
He’s an asshole, definitely an asshole. Why isn’t the Earth opening up and swallowing him.
He’s blushing to the tip of his ears. Peter, in the corner, is laughing his ass off, the creepy bastard. Stiles is sure he planned all of this, he knew Derek wouldn’t give him up. It’s the embarrassment of havingbeen conned by Peter Hale that forces him to continue pushing, even though he feels horrible. He’s going to apologize to Derek with something really good, maybe even a batch of brownies only for him; he’s a goner for caramel kissed brownies.
“He’s not going to disappear forever, Derek,” he reasons, feeling even more horrible when Derek flinches at the bad choice of words. Two batches of brownies will be enough? “He’ll just leave me alone for a while.”
Derek’s eyebrows are scrunched in the frowny-est frown known to humanity.
“He’s still bothering you with the bite crap?” he asks; then, without waiting for Stiles’ answer, he turns to his uncle. “Are you?”
Peter just shrugs.
“It’s not my fault you bit the idiots,” he says. “I’m jut trying to convince the smartest one to join our pack.”
Stiles isn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult; Derek just sighs, pinching his nose with a look of intense suffering in his eyes.
“Peter, Stiles is already pack,” and this doesn’t fail to make something in Stiles’ chest unfurl with a warm feeling. “We’ve already been through with this.”
There’s a moment of silence, when Peter continues to shamelessly gloat and Derek is probably reanalyzing all his life choices that led him here, and Stiles thinks it’s the perfect moment to continue with his persuasion skills.
“See, Derek?” he asks, pointing at Peter grin. “I want him gone from my life! For good! And I don’t care if he’s still around, I just want all his stupid biting crap gone! Forever! I don’t want to be a werewolf,” he finishes. “Not that you aren’t great, because you guys totally are. I just… I’m content with being the awkward human being with the laptop and the brain and—”
Derek sighs again. This may not have been the best persuasion strategy—
“Alright, I’ll do it,” he concedes, a look of unfathomable pain in his eyebrows. They’re actually nice eyebrows, when they’re not furrowed in annoyance, pain, all the scale of sufferance from I scratched my knee to my crazy ass girlfriend murdered my family. Too soon? Stiles shakes his head, trying to get rid of the thoughts about Derek’s eyebrows. He concentrates more on said werewolf stepping inside his personal space and going straight for a hug.
“I think this is enough—”
Derek doesn’t let him go immediately as Stiles would have thought. Instead, he holds him fiercely and angles his head better; after a moment, Stiles can feel the tip of Derek’s nose tentatively brushing over his neck, then quickly jerking away, then again nosing his shoulder over the shirt and finally settling in the crook of his neck, Derek almost hiding his face there. It’s not confortable, but it’s actually kind of nice, unexpected. Derek feels smaller, shoulders almost trembling under Stiles’ touch. He tentatively brushes his hand on the wide expanse of Derek’s back, patting him on the shoulder.
How is he supposed to deal with an alpha nervous break-down?
When he draws back, Derek looks… actually, he looks embarrassed. He isn’t usually one to take part in the puppy piles going around. He’s more like the parent that looks over his children with the most patient and loving and genuinely exasperated face ever, but he doesn’t participate to the cuddling moments. Which is a shame because, as Stiles can testify first-handed, Derek is a pro at hugging.
“So, that will be it,” the alpha says, looking more like a dejected puppy than a majestic creature. Stiles hardly stops himself from cooing and petting him. He values his life more than he wants to hug Derek again, thanks a lot.
“Yes, I think so,” he nods, then turns to Peter. “I expect not to find creepy notes in my locker from now on, Hale.”
Peter doesn’t answer. He’s looking at Derek as if he’s trying to crack some complicate puzzle his nephew just turned into. He nods absent-minded, and Stiles doesn’t doubt the creepy notes won’t stop any time soon.
“Come on, Stiles,” Scott says, eyeing both Peter and Derek suspiciously as he grabs his best friend by the elbow and proceeds to hauling him out of the door.
There’s this haunted look in Derek’s eyes as they leave the loft and Stiles sincerely hopes he didn’t break their alpha.
Derek is definitely avoiding him and Stiles can’t really think about a plausible excuse for the thing.
On the other hand, Lydia is utterly pissed of that Peter is still around, only not bugging Stiles as much as before.
“I thought I could trust you, Stilinski,” she says.
Stiles is half sure she’s joking and half praying she doesn’t decide to take out her revenge on him.
It’s the tenth night since this uneasy Derek radio silence started when Stiles hears the soft pads of feet on his roof and then the window sliding open. He spins in his chair and he’s greeted by the sight of a very awkward alpha climbing through the open panes.
“Welcome home,” he says, his words lacking the usual sarcasm because it’s really great to see Derek, after days. He may be a jerk, but he’s his jerk of an alpha and he’s grown on him.
Derek doesn’t really answer. There’s this uneasy shuffling around, both of them trying to avoid direct eye contact and casting sidelong glances and immediately pretending they weren’t doing anything.
Derek speaks first.
“Apparently, Scott thinks I owe you some explanation,” he says, uneasiness dripping from every single word he utters. “He thinks you’re being insufferable since our last meeting.”
Stiles snickers.
“Yes, I think you do owe me an apology, but you can get your jacket off first. And your shoes. And sit down, jeez, I’m not going to kill you. Or hug you again.”
At the mention of the hug, Derek looks at him with a strange light in his eyes. It takes a minute for Stiles to figure out that he’s hopeful.
“… unless you want another hug?” he asks, puzzled. “Is this all about it? A hug?”
Derek’s ears are so brightly red that Stiles can’t help but wanting to pinch them. The alpha shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“It’s just—” Derek growls, utterly frustrated to Stiles’ delight. “The betas don’t see me as part of the pack but as their alpha, they don’t really—ask for physical closeness,” he’s obviously trying to explain something that he can’t put into words. “It’s something integral to the pack but they can’t—I’m used to it. I mean, I was. When, you know, I had a pack.”
It all comes down to his family, again, Siles should really have guessed before. He can’t believe Derek is still afraid of asking something more of his betas, now that they worked out the problems that followed the bite and the whole kanima showdown. He can’t believe he doesn’t know how to teach them what a pack is; or, rather, that he can’t ask them if they can be his friends. But, then again, Derek is a fucking martyr and he’ll die before asking for something nice for himself.
“You smell like them more than I do,” Derek is still explaining, one word after the other. “When you hugged me… I don’t know how to explain it. It felt familiar. You felt familiar. I know it’s not your problem, but—”
Stiles can’t let him go on with this crap, he decides. That’s why he flings himself at Derek, hugging him tightly.
“Cut the crap, you overgrown pup,” he jokes, face half smashed agains Derek’s chest. “You can ask for a hug whenever you want. And the next time the playtime at your house devolves into cuddling, I want you at the bottom of the puppy pile,” he adjusts himself so he isn’t suffocating on Derek’s shirt “I want the betas to hug the hell out of you.”
I want you to really be part of your pack, to start building a family again, he means to say, but again he doesn’t seem to be able to say it properly.
But Derek hugs him back, his stubble rough against Stiles’ forehead, and Stiles thinks that it’s alright, for the moment.
They have time, now; they’ll be able to make it work.