Chapter Text
Pack meetings were a little weird without Derek leading them. Or, whatever the hell they were doing right now and calling it a "meeting" was weird, because it was mainly just Scott and Isaac making eyes at Allison in the semi-darkened McCall living room as she and Lydia totally didn't cry at whatever romantic sop fest of a movie they were watching this week.
They weren't fighting anything, which isn't to say that there was nothing to fight– there was. There definitely was, but, True Alpha McCall was having none of it, which left Stiles to research surreptitiously on his phone while the mooning and not-crying went on, try to find ways to vanquish evil on his own, and wax a little bit nostalgic about the drill-sergeant ways of the former Alpha.
Derek was back in Beacon Hills; he knew that much. He'd heard Scott and Isaac doing a bad job of whispering about it at school one day, and they'd shut up as soon as they saw he was approaching, but Stiles had heard "Derek" and "back" in the same sentence, and that was enough for him.
(Well, no, it wasn't really, because what he really wanted to do was track down the asshole right that second and shake him a little (or a lot) for leaving and not saying goodbye or have a nice life or anything at all, and then ask him for help on the brownie infestation they had at the time (which somehow ended up solving itself; the little buggers disappeared almost over night, thank god. Stiles didn't want to have to explain to any disgruntled neighbor why he was setting milk on their front stoop.)
At the moment, the antagonists were sirens, and Stiles was having a damned difficult time pinning them down; they obviously had changed their appearances, because he was pretty sure he'd notice any bird ladies flapping their way downtown, but he had no idea what they'd changed into— they could be anyone, from a little girl on a playground to the nice elderly lady that gave Stiles butterscotches for raking her yard in the fall.
(He hoped Ms. Anderson wasn't a siren; he liked her. She always smelled like chocolate and wore the fuzziest sweaters in existence. )
"But I love you!" declared Generic Male Love Interest on the screen. Stiles was beginning to get a headache induced by a combination of bad movie plots and staring at the same list of names for the past hour. He shut his laptop and maneuvered his way off of the couch and through the puppy pile on the floor, announcing: "I'm leaving, guys; Enrique is obviously not getting laid tonight, and I see enough of that in my day to day, so, see you tomorrow."
Scott looked up at him with that half-pouting, half-confused expression he wore a lot nowadays. "Everything okay?"
"Just tired of watching people pine." Stiles answered, flashing a smile. It was a half-truth; he was tired of watching everyone moon over everyone else while he rolled around his squeaky third wheel. He'd been all but majoring in half truths for awhile now. "I'm cool, Scooter; see you tomorrow."
Scott wrinkled his nose at the nickname, but nodded, and turned back to the movie. Stiles walked out to his Jeep, tucking his laptop into its bag in the backseat and climbing into the driver's side, turning the key in the ignition.
It was time to go see a Sourlwolf about some sirens.
The loft was in shambles by the time Stiles got there. He felt a familiar panic start to build, and, dammit he though he was done with the "oh my god Derek's dead for good this time" feeling. Taking a deep breath and his bat from his trunk, he moved slowly through the ajar door and into the loft, carefully avoiding the shards of broken glass and ohmygod was that blood on the floor. He was starting to feel a little sick.
"Derek?" he called out hopefully. "You alive, dude? Please, please be alive; I don't want to have to say something nice at your funeral."
"You wouldn't be invited to my funeral." snorted a raspy voice from behind him. Stiles let out a high-pitched squeak and whirled around to see Derek covered in dried blood and practically pulling himself to Stiles by hobbling and holding onto the wall, and yet still managing to glare at him.
"Bullshit," Stiles said reflexively, already walking over and putting an arm around Derek to support him. "Jesus fuck, Derek, did you hold a secret gladiator fight club in here? What happened to you?"
"Sirens." Derek wheezed, and Stiles' eyes widened.
"Sirens?" he asked. "You mean you tracked them down?"
"More like they tracked me down." Derek snorted. "I'd been trying to find them for weeks, though, so I guess they just saved me the trouble. There were three of them, and they weren't particularly smart; they were kicking my ass—" Stiles snorted, holding back a laugh. "Shut up. Anyway, they all started fighting over who got to rip my throat out, and they ended up killing each other."
"Dude." was all Stiles said when what he wanted to say was 'you're the dumbest person ever I swear to god if they weren't so catty you'd have died (and I can't have you die on me, you hear? You actually mean a lot to me, and I'm not letting you die.)'
"Help me get to the bathroom." Derek sighed, already limp-tugging Stiles in that direction. "I need to wash this shit off."
It was a slow process, but Stiles finally got them to the bathroom, getting the door open with an intricate kick-flail-don't-drop-the-werewolf combo and allowing Derek to prop himself up against the counter. "You can leave." he said, sounding a bit out of breath, and Stiles snorted.
"And, what, let you accidentally drown yourself in the sink or fall and break your head open? No thanks; I think I'll stick around until I know you're okay."
"I am okay." Derek insisted, but Stiles just leaned up against the doorframe and crossed his arms defiantly. Derek sighed.
"Fine, suit yourself." He pushed himself to a full stand, wobbling a bit as he tried to pull his shirt over his head. After Stiles finally couldn't hold back his laughter, he made a disgusted noise and just ripped it.
"You're going to regret that later." Stiles said, numb to the effect of a shirtless Derek due to overexposure.
"It's got blood all over it." Derek huffed. "And I'm sick and tired of cleaning blood out of all if my clothes. I'll just buy a new one."
"Exactly how often do you have blood on your clothes?" Stiles asked, genuinely curious. Derek actually had to pause and think about it before answering.
"Lately? Twice a week, at least."
"Twice a week?" Stiles repeated incredulously. "Goddamn, Derek, there's nothing to fight, what're you–" He trailed off, eyes suddenly narrowing. "It was you with the brownies, wasn't it?"
Derek didn't answer, just turning on the tap and beginning a slow search for a wash cloth.
"Oh my god." Stiles groaned. "You're the reason I never have to kill anything. You took care of the brownies, and the fucking sea serpent, and Jesus Christ, Derek, did you even think to ask for help on any of this? Scott may not be willing to step up, but you need someone to watch your back!"
"I've made it this long." Derek said, wetting the cloth he'd found and starting to scrub his arm. "I'm fine on my own."
"Bullshit." Stiles hissed.
Derek bristled. "I didn't ask for your input, Stiles."
"Well, you're getting it anyway." Stiles said. "From now on? You don't pull this Batman martyr shit. I've been working on all this, too, and I bet we'd work a lot better together than we would being radio-silent all the time, Scott's No-Supernatural-Contact/Let's-Be-Semi-Normal vendetta be damned. I've got your back on this."
Derek was silent for a long moment, staring at Stiles and blinking. "Okay." he said, slowly, as if he wasn't sure that was what he wanted to say. "We can... yeah."
"Good." Stiles breathed, pushing away from the doorframe. "Now, let's get you patched up so that you can bitch at me, like it's supposed to be."
After about twenty minutes of scrubbing werewolves, floors, and walls, the loft was free of blood, and looked almost normal "I'll call someone about the window tomorrow." Derek sighed.
"I don't even know why you bother with it." Stiles said. "It's just going to get broken again."
"I like it." Derek replied, and then fell silent. Stiles took at that as he cue to leave.
"I'll see you... eventually?" he offered, and Derek snorted.
"Yeah, Stiles. Eventually."