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Clean. Too clean, pristine, no Stiles, where was Stiles? Over and over, through his frantic race from one end of the house to the other, Derek's mind kept screaming, "WHERE IS STILES?" He was panicking. He knew what this felt like. He'd had panic attacks for a while after his family's death, and he was edging toward another one. He couldn't find his mate. His mate was gone.
He opened another bedroom door, and froze. No Stiles, but his scent was here, and so were his belongings. Half unpacked, bed with things stacked neatly on them. Clearly in the process of moving in. Derek couldn't think in anything but jagged fragments as he stared around the room. His chest tightened painfully, his heart squeezing. Stiles had moved out of their room. Stiles was…not gone, not out of the house, but gone from his space, gone from… His heart squeezed again, and he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down.
Focusing inward pulled his attention to the spark that was Stiles and their bond. It was steady, pulsing with strength and warmth. Nothing about it suggested anything but the full health and calm of Stiles. Somehow, that made Derek mad. Stiles was fine! But he didn't tell Derek anything, just moved, left Derek to panic, frantically search for him, didn't bother to tell him anything! How was that equality? How was that treating each other as equal mates?
"Derek?" Stiles said from behind him. Startled, Derek spun, snarling. "Whoa, easy. Mind letting me by?"
Derek was stunned into backing up. He was angry, visibly angry, he knew he was, and Stiles just… "What the fuck?" he ground out.
Stiles glanced at him as he passed by. "What the fuck what?" he asked, voice calm.
Derek flailed wildly, gesturing at the room. "The fuck?! Why are you moving in here? Why did you move out of our room? And where did you go? You weren't in the house! I thought--" He choked back the last words, pride not letting him share how scared he'd been.
Stiles raised an eyebrow and studied Derek's face for a moment before turning his back on Derek and going back to putting clothes in drawers. "I went to pick up a few groceries while I was thinking about it," he said casually. "I wanted to make sure I had things in the house that I liked to eat."
Derek's hands curled into fist, confused at his angry response to Stiles nonchalance. "Things you like to eat?" he asked, since he wasn't sure he'd be able to say anything else civilly.
"Yeah, you know, snacks and things for meals and stuff. I want to be comfortable here in my prison." Stiles still wasn't looking at Derek.
"This isn't a prison!" Derek shouted before he could stop himself.
"It sure feels like one!" Stiles snapped back. "From where I'm standing, Derek, I'm a pretty arm ornament, trotted out when you need to prove your superiority, and put back on the shelf when you don't need me any more. Maybe a convenient hole when you need some relief. That's a prison. A plush and comfortable one, but still a prison. If I'm going to be kept in it, it's going to be on my fucking terms." He slammed the drawer shut and turned around. "I moved out because I refuse to be your play toy. Do you understand? If you touch me, it will be rape. I do not consent any longer. I will be your showpiece for the council, I will be your mate when necessary to keep your pack together, but you will not touch me."
Derek stared at him. "What?" he asked stupidly.
"You heard me. If we aren't equal, then you'll at least respect the damned boundaries I set, and let me keep my self respect." Stiles glared at him.
Derek snarled, hands curling tighter into fists. This wasn't the way this was supposed to go. He was supposed to apologize and Stiles was supposed to understand and… "Dinner's in an hour," he choked out and spun, stalking down the hall. He found himself in the kitchen without really meaning to be there. He stared at the counter, trying to breathe deep and calm himself down, trying to refocus himself. Why was he so angry? Well, no, he knew why he was so angry. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Stiles with him, by his side, in his bed.
Stiles took that away from him, though. He'd removed himself as much as was possible, and erected a barrier that he knew Derek wouldn't cross. How… how was he supposed to get through to Stiles now?
He slammed his way through making dinner, pounding the hell out of the chicken breasts until they were flatter than he’d ever managed before. Eggs got beaten to within an inch of their life, and herbs got chopped and pulverised in his mortar until they were as close to dust as fresh herbs could be. Even all of that did not calm Derek’s temper. By the time he was rolling up the last of the chicken around its cheesy filling, he was feeling slightly more even tempered, but still incredibly frustrated.
He wanted to make this work with Stiles, of course. He really wanted to make it work, but he...well, he liked the sex. And Stiles was his mate, so they should have sex, right? Making it about equality wasn’t fair. Derek would be willing to bottom for Stiles on occasion, but he was the alpha, he was bigger, stronger, it just…
He growled again, and forced himself to keep from slamming the oven door. Breaking it would ruin dinner, and he wasn’t sure how he’d explain it, anyway. Derek turned his attention to the rest of the meal, trying to keep himself from destroying everything. It wasn’t the green bean’s fault, after all.
Derek tried to think back to what Scott, Isaac, and the Sheriff told him about Stiles. Equality. Partnership. His mother and Stiles’ mother working together for it. Stiles’ wish to help, to educate and change the way things were. Derek stirred the bacon pieces he was rendering as he considered that. If Stiles thing was helping, then why not help Stiles help? Make sure that he had everything he needed to make it to where he wanted to go.
“What are you thinking about so hard?”
Derek stiffened. He had been so involved in his thoughts that he missed Peter coming in entirely. “Things,” he said.
“Oh, very descriptive,” Peter said dryly. “And also not at all subtle. I imagine this has something to do with why your young mate is no longer in your room?”
Derek spun, glaring. “How did you know?” he demanded, heart pounding with rapidly rising fury. “If you’re bothering him…”
Peter raised his eyebrow and his hands. “I can hear him in an entirely different part of the house, putting away his clothes. Temper, temper, Derek.”
Derek grumbled and turned back to his pan. “He decided he wanted to take time to get to know each other,” he mumbled, stirring the bacon some more before dumping in the green beans. “It makes sense when you’re human.”
“Certainly,” Peter said smoothly. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with him smelling angry during the ceremony today, would it?”
Derek only managed to contain his wince through years of long practice. Living with Peter was an exercise in self control. “We had a small disagreement.”
“Sure,” Peter said easily. “That must be it.”
Derek stirred the pan in front of him, even though it wasn’t really necessary, and tried not to focus too much on Peter’s words. Just because his uncle seemed to know things he shouldn’t didn’t mean anything.
“Hello, Stiles,” Peter said.
Derek didn’t flinch. He absolutely completely, utterly did not flinch. He didn’t turn around either, though, and for a long moment, he could feel two sets of eyes burning into his back. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? He was still angry, yeah, but under that, more than that… he hurt. He felt betrayed. Confused. Sad...and a whole hell of a lot like a the kid who’d lost his family and didn’t know where to turn anymore.
“Let’s set the table, shall we?” Peter eventually said. “The plates are in this cabinet here, and the silverware in the drawer below. Let’s just grab some napkins, and…” The clinking of table settings told Derek that they were doing exactly what Peter suggested. It irked him for some reason, knowing that Stiles was doing what Peter suggested without questioning it. It didn’t matter that it was the most logical thing to do. It just bothered him.
In the dining room, Peter started chatting with Stiles, asking him mundane questions he might ask anyone: how was Stiles father? how had Stiles’ classes been going? When was graduation? Derek’s hand tightened on his spoon at that last question. Graduation. How had he forgotten that Stiles still had a couple weeks of high school left?
“June 1,” Stiles responded. “No big deal. It’s just high school.”
“In this town, graduating high school still deserves a celebration, don’t you think?” Peter asked. “We could have a little party here, if you’d like? Or maybe help your father host one, if you’d rather?”
Derek could hear Stiles’ brief hesitation, and a flare of hope warmed him before it was extinguished again with Stiles’ response. “A little one at my dad’s place would be great. I don’t have a lot of friends, and I…”
“Nothing wrong with keeping to the familiar,” Peter said easily when Stiles trailed off. “I think it makes perfect sense. I remember your mother fondly, and I know that she would like that.”
There was a tightening in Derek’s chest that had nothing to do with his own feelings, and it took him a moment to realize what it was.* Stiles’ bond with him was mostly passive, mostly a way to strengthen and stabilize Derek. Being able to tell that his mate was safe, healthy, basic and passive things like that, were all he thought he’d get out of it. He was, apparently, wrong, because that tightening was the brief squeeze of old grief--Stiles’ grief.
“I didn’t realize you knew her,” Stiles said quietly. “I knew that she worked with Talia, but not that it was close enough for you to know her.”
Peter hummed a little. “She was often here during the day, when you were in school. They would take advantage of our extensive library to back up whatever it was they were working on. I would help as much as I could, since my own degree is in history.”
“Is it?” Stiles asked, startled. Derek was, too, a little. He’d forgotten his uncle’s degree, his passion was in history. Since the fire, and his own recovery, Peter had set it all aside to support Laura, and now Derek. He tried to ignore the change in Stiles’ voice, the shift from polite conversation to genuine interest. “I had no idea. Anything in particular?”
“Possibly similar to your own ideas,” Peter said smoothly. The wooden spoon creaked in Derek’s hand. “I know that you’re intending on history with an emphasis on teaching, is that correct?” Derek had to strain a little to hear Stiles’ quite affirmation, even though the clinking of plates, silverware, and glasses had stopped. “My own area of focus was, understandably, paranormal and supernatural history, folklore if you will. Your mother and my sister would very often ask me what I could tell them about the past, the stories that pertained to their long term goals.”
“What were they?” Stiles asked eagerly.
“Equality, of course,” Peter said.
Derek slammed the spoon down onto the counter. He winced, but refused to apologize when Peter and Stiles came into the kitchen, giving him amused and knowing (Peter) and surprised and confused (Stiles) looks.
“Everything all right, nephew?” Peter asked innocently.
“Perfectly fine,” Derek grit out. “Dinner’s ready.”
Stiles stared at him a moment, expression shuttering faster than Derek thought would be possible for someone as open as Stiles was supposed to be. Laura had always said Stiles wore his emotions on his face. Derek didn’t see any of that now. “Thanks, Prince Adam,” he snapped, and turned on his heel to head back into the dining room.
Derek frowned and looked at Peter, who was calmly straining the pasta. “Prince Adam?” he finally said, for lack of anything else.
Peter glanced up at him and smiled slightly. “The name of the Beast in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast is Prince Adam,” he said, and, after he dumped the pasta into a serving bowl, carried it out of the kitchen.