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“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
Stiles levels Derek with a glare.
“Researcher, remember?” His voice is steady, even though his palms are sweating and his heart beats so fast that he’s basically feeling it vibrate in his chest. “Who, out of the whole pack and anyone connected to it, has read up on most of your history? Most of werewolf history, be it fictional or legitimate? Who spent nights reading the Bestiary? Who had to multiple-erase Google searches every night?”
“It’s not…” Derek starts, then looks away from Stiles’ face.
“It’s not real? It’s not … what, Derek?”
“I thought you didn’t want this,” Derek says weakly, in a voice that he normally only uses for the rest of the pack, for Scott, for those he knows can pick up sounds that humans can’t.
“I didn’t,” Stiles admits and watches as Derek’s head whips around. “The bite itself? No, that’s not what I’m asking for, Der.”
“Then maybe…” Derek takes a breath through his mouth, like it’s different, like he can keep Stiles’ scent away by not breathing through his nose. It doesn’t work, of course, and Stiles can see how Derek shudders.
“Maybe it’s you who doesn’t know what I’m asking for,” Stiles whispers and takes a step closer. “Maybe I need to be clearer.”
Derek lifts a hand, palm open towards Stiles.
“Stiles, you… y-you don’t...” he stumbles over the words.
Stiles can feel frustration rising in his mind, impatience tugging at his nerves. He wonders if Derek is being deliberately obtuse, if he’s refusing to understand what Stiles has suggested. There is no way Stiles is the only one who gets it, the only one who feels and fully comprehends why it’s the only way.
“I don’t know what I want? I don’t understand the consequences? I can’t possibly be sure?” Stiles doesn’t raise his voice, he keeps it quiet because he knows that it will reach Derek anyway.
He speaks quietly because yelling would alert the others, Isaac out in the forest, Scott downstairs, Kira in her bedroom, Lydia outside on the front porch. They’re a pack of misfits still, maybe more than they used to be, the ones they lost not replaced by anyone new even though time has passed. Stiles didn’t discuss any of this with the rest of them, nor with his Dad. But it’s the only way, it’s the only thing he wants, the one thing he has wanted for years.
“Do you think… do you remember when you asked about the ink I got on my eighteenth?”
Stiles waits until Derek nods slowly.
“I didn’t lie, obviously,” Stiles says quietly, “when you asked what it was. When I told you it was connected to my Mom and Dad.”
“Stiles, what…” Derek starts but it’s Stiles’ turn to raise a hand to stop the Alpha.
“You didn’t ask when I came back with another one.”
“Scott said you went for a retouching,” Derek says simply, but his eyebrows show his confusion and curiosity.
“That’s what I told him,” Stiles says and takes another step closer to Derek. “I didn’t want him to lie to you. I didn’t want you to figure out he was.”
“Stiles, what did you do?” Derek asks, part of his tone angry, another part surprised.
Instead of answering directly, Stiles tugs on the bottom edge of his worn out T-shirt and pulls it up a little. He sees the way Derek’s eyes drop down to the exposed skin, and he feels the way the air seems to thicken.
“Do you think I did this without thinking? Without knowing what it could mean?” Stiles says, feeling his voice shake as doubts start spinning in his mind. “Do you really think I don’t know what I’m asking for, Derek?”
When Derek doesn’t look up again, Stiles follows his gaze down to his own hip. There, just below the edge of the T-shirt, hidden halfway behind the waistband of his jeans, is the “retouch” he lied to Scott about. Because it wasn’t a retouch, the first tattoo with his Mom’s initials is unchanged higher above it.
Derek doesn’t move and Stiles’ mind fills with fear for a moment, questions about whether he’s the only one who feels it, the only one who wants that connection. But there’s not even a hint of regret when his eyes trace the ink. A perfect mirror image of the triskellion from Derek’s back, now etched into Stiles’ hip, a spot of comfort regardless of what happens next.
“Stiles,” Derek breathes out and takes a step towards Stiles, coming within reach. “Stiles, what did you do?”
With that question, Derek’s hand moves towards the tattoo and he covers it with his palm. The moment their skin touches, Stiles feels like sparks are flying out of his skin, like the tattoo has been set on fire.
“It’s not just me, is it?” Stiles asks, his hesitation making his voice barely audible to his own ears. “Tell me I’m not the only one to feel this, Der. That I’m not the only one who held back for years.”
“No.”
Stiles almost misses Derek’s answer. The words that follow are stronger, Derek’s eyes lifting to meet Stiles’, flashes of blue shimmering against green background.
“I can’t… why would you… Stiles why did you do this?”
“Because I’m sure,” Stiles answers after a moment, holding his ground. “Because what I’m asking you for isn’t what I said I didn’t want back when I was in high school. I never wanted to be bitten just for the sake of being a wolf. I still don’t. That’s not what I want, Der.”
“What do you want?”
“You know, Derek. Your wolf knows. The tattoo is…”
“...a mirror image. Did Deaton…?” Derek asks hesitantly.
“He told me about the link it would reinforce,” Stiles nods. “Explained about the twin images and how they strengthen what already exists. Derek, this isn’t something that wasn’t there already. It always has been.”
“I know,” Derek admits, resignation obvious in his tone. “But you’re…”
“I’m not sixteen anymore,” Stiles says firmly. “I’m not the same erratic kid. I’m legally an adult now, I know what I’m choosing.”
“This isn’t the same as humans, though,” Derek tries to protest. “I didn’t want to… I knew, but I didn’t want to bind you to something that there isn’t a way out of. Not an easy one, at least.”
“It’s my decision,” Stiles’ voice strengthens. “I choose this. You. Us.”
Derek presses his palm firmer against the triskellion on Stiles’ hip. It’s answer enough, combined with the softening look in Derek’s eyes. Taking it as an invitation and answer, Stiles steps closer, lifts a hand onto Derek’s shoulder and then slides it under Derek’s T-shirt until his palm rests in the middle of Derek’s tattoo.
Home. Mate. The words settle in Stiles’ mind as the circle completes. Mine.