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[5]
"Yeah, keep walking, bud. You’ve got about as much chance of a date with her as I have getting laid in the next six months."
Derek watches him take a bite of his sandwich, eyes trained on where Lydia is perched primly outside the street cafe.
"Why do you do that?" he scowls. Stiles swallows, side-eyes him.
"Dude, the whole point of a honeytrap is that she identifies the incubus. Construction worker with ketchup on his shirt isn’t a likely suspect."
"No," Derek shakes his head. "The whole… self-loathing thing."
It bothers him. Has for a while, now, and he has no definite idea where the irritation is coming from. Maybe it’s an uncomfortable familiarity.
Stiles sets down his sandwich, clutches at his chest. “Aww, is this where you tell me I’m a beautiful person, and anyone would be lucky to have me?”
Yes, Derek thinks, but grinds his jaw. “It’s where I tell you that if you think that way, someone will recognise it. Prey on it. Use it against you.” A crease forms on Stiles’ forehead, lips parting. “And you deserve not to have your self-esteem, or lack of, twisted into a way of hurting you.”
He looks at Stiles straight on.
"It happens without you even realising it - you get drawn in because you can’t believe someone wants you. That you’re good enough for them - but you are. In fact, you deserve better." And yes, anyone would be lucky to have you.
There’s a void of silence after that, in which Derek watches, what he imagines to be, Stiles’ brain imploding. The affronted and confused expression softens minutely, Stiles’ eyes flitting between his, and the first doubts creep in. He shouldn’t have— maybe he went too far in saying—
"You mean, for the pack. Because what happens to one of us, happens to all of us?" Stiles is looking at him like he’s not sure if he believes it; like he wants Derek to disagree. "Right?"
Derek opens his mouth, not sure what he should say, but then a ladies’ shoe hits the windshield, startling them both, and they each whirl to see Lydia, with a guy almost twice her size in a headlock, his eyes bulging, and her face thunderous.
"Oh.. Shit!" Stiles yells, tumbling out of the car. "Dude, no brotherly pep-talks when Lydia’s in a sting op!"
Brotherly, Derek thinks, and kicks the incubus in the stomach.
[4]
"Is this exactly necessary?" Stiles asks. He's got one foot up on the table in front and is chewing a pen like it somehow wronged him. Derek has to agree - Deaton only seems to want to help when it serves the mysterious "balance" he's always referring to. Derek would still like to know where exactly the balance was when his family were barricaded in their home and burned alive.
Scott looks pained. "Look, bro, you said yourself, you couldn't find anything helpful in your research. Argent hasn't been home in months." He looks to Deaton, as if for encouragement. Derek resents the fact that Scott seems to trust him so implicitly, but at least Stiles shares his suspicion. "Just-- listen to him. Remember the tips, and if something happens when you're alone, at least you'll be better fit to defend yourself."
Lydia sighs. "It's always the same - silver, decapitation, mountain ash--"
"These are The Shadowmen, Lydia," Deaton interrupts, managing to sound both patient and condescending. "They aren't like anything you've encountered before."
"How do I kill it?" Derek asks, done with the formalities. Stiles holds up a hand, gesturing to him, raises a sardonic brow.
"Real questions, folks."
"You don't," Deaton says simply, "Shadowmen are of the spirit realm, you can only vanquish them - send them to another plane."
Stiles scrubs a hand down his face. "Of course."
"Now, to better understand them, you need to be aware of where they come from." Deaton turns to an actual laptop, and opens up an honest-to-god PowerPoint. "Accounts have been dating back to Europe in the Dark Ages--"
Stiles slumps, legs splayed out, and begins to fidget. Derek wonders idly how he can survive a full school week when ten minutes of Deaton's lecture has him itching around like he's late for something important. Lydia is diligently taking notes, her pen flying over the paper as quick as Deaton can speak, and Scott is nodding dutifully, taking it all in. Derek is trying to stay interested, he really is, but--
A tiny ball of paper lands in his lap, and he looks up to see Stiles leaning on one hand, nodding toward it completely unsubtly.
What the? He opens the paper, only to see the word Booorrrriiiinnngg in Stiles' signature tiny scrawl. Passing notes? Seriously?
Didn't his generation text these days?
He screws up the swatch, throwing it back at Stiles, mouthing "grow up" as soon as he's sure nobody is looking.
Stiles grins, impish and proud, and scrabbles at another piece of his notebook. Derek is determined to ignore it - he really is, but Stiles' legs are longer than they might seem and his reach includes the front leg of Derek's chair.
He sighs, put-upon, and unfolds the note,
Wanna go steady w/ me? Y[ ] or Y[ ]
Derek is pretty sure all blood has rushed straight to his ears in about six seconds flat. This is ridiculous. Derek is a grown-assed adult. Notes from eighteen year old, obnoxious little--
"Everything alright, Derek?" Deaton asks, and he jerks back to the moment, taking in all eyes focused on him. Stiles looks like he's about to collapse any second from sheer amusement.
"Uh," he says, and then hardens his expression. "Look, I'm sure this is all really interesting, but we don't have time. Just stop being so damn obtuse and tell us how to get rid of these things."
Scott looks almost disappointed, but Deaton is carefully blank. "I see. Well, if we just skip to the final few pages of the slideshow..."
It's when they have a gameplan and they're leaving the clinic that Stiles sidles up to him, innocent as anything.
"So, uh, you never wrote me back. Do I have a date to the Spring Fling? We could slowdance to Usher," he says, and Derek plants his fists in his pockets.
"Shut up, Stiles," he says, and decides to walk off the heat in his cheeks.
[3]
"Hold still."
"I've literally been kidnapped and beaten and it was less unpleasant than this."
"Why are you in my apartment?" Derek asks, setting down his groceries. He's sure he locked the door this time. In fact, he distinctly remembers arming the intruder alarm.
"The natural light in here is gorgeous," Lydia says, standing back to check the viewfinder. Stiles is perched on the edge of Derek's desk, dressed in smart slacks and a pressed shirt that's open at the collar. He's angled subtly so that the fading afternoon sunlight catches the planes and angles in his face just so.
He's breathtaking.
"That doesn't answer my question."
"He thinks I'm about to nude-up and get butt-prints all over the expensive antiques," Stiles says, turning away from the window, and Lydia sighs.
"I'm so happy I could convince you to keep your clothes on," she deadpans, and turns to Derek. "You're distracting the subject."
"The subject has a name!" Stiles retorts indignantly.
"Will someone explain to me what's happening?" Derek asks, looking between them both. The ice cream in his bag is probably melting and he'd recorded three weeks' worth of Game of Thrones, yet there are teenagers in his loft.
"Lydia's profiling me for the school newspaper," Stiles says, reaching up to ruffle at his perfectly styled hair, but halts at the last second. Derek is sure Lydia's sending him a look of death that he can't see. "The Future Of Beacon Hillls series," he says with a flourish. "Or else it's an online dating profile that she hasn't told me about."
Lydia grunts under her breath. "You won't need one if you just hold still and look as pretty as I've been making you." She stands up straight. "Right Derek?"
She gives him a look that says disagree and I'll pull your claws out with the tweezers I probably keep in my purse. Derek raises his eyebrows and nods. "Uh, sure?" he says, and Lydia turns the camera on preview to show him the shots so far.
"Definitely," he says, breath coming out in a whoosh.
When he looks up, Stiles is watching him, a pensive look on his face. Lydia snaps a picture, and smirks when she checks the tiny screen.
"Perfect," she says, and Derek clamps his lips shut so he won't agree.
[2]
"A kitsune majoring in Japanese studies. Is that not a little," he searches for the correct term, "Obvious?”
Kira’s eyes widen in delight, and she drops her notes and turns on the couch to face him. “Holy crap!” she says in English, before switching. “I did not know you could speak it!”
"I am a little out of practice,” he explains, pulling a face. “It has been a while.”
"It sounds good to me," she beams, and strokes her palm over the page. "I think I, of all people, should learn as much as I can about my culture."
"You sound the same as Stiles," Derek says, smirking. “Since he decided on mythology, I get a lot of late phone calls asking to separate fact from fiction.”
Kira watches him for a moment, her eyes warm. “Your face changes when you speak about him.”
Derek looks away. “He is just that kind of person.”
Her gaze roams over his expression, and she raises a brow. “Not to everyone. Scott tells me that they are the youngest people in Beacon Hills to have restraining orders filed against them.”
Derek repeats her words to catch up - he really is a little rusty, and smirks. “That is understandable.”
"But not for you?”
Derek rolls his lips. “At one time, possibly. Not now.”
"I can see your heart is soft for him."
"He has a way of softening the heart. He is remarkable. I am honoured to call Stiles my friend." She watches him shrewdly, clearly reading behind his words. Derek feels himself fidget. “We all are.”
"Mmhmm. And you’re sure you want to be his friend?" She narrows her eyes, "And remember, you should not lie in Japanese. Bad luck."
Derek wrinkles his nose. “That is not a rule.”
She laughs, sweet and mischievous, “Fine, I thought I could trick you.” She points to herself. “Kitsune.”
Derek smiles, until she cocks her head encouragingly, and he sighs. He tugs on a loose thread from a cushion. “If that is what he wants. I could not say I have not thought about more. I am happy to just be in his life, for as long as he will permit me.”
The door to Kira’s living room slams open, startling them, and Derek turns to see Stiles, clearly not having been home yet, shrugging a backpack off his shoulders. “Fuck, I was so sure I was late, but it’s just you guys,” he says, looking at each of them, before settling on Derek. “Were you speaking Japanese?”
Derek turns away, a slight wave of panic in his chest. “I’m helping Kira.”
Kira inclines her head exasperatedly; Derek ignores her.
"Okay, but I’m pretty sure I heard my name, dude." He visibly perks up. "Were you talking about me? What was he saying?" he asks Kira.
She turns to Derek and he gives her a pleading look, before interrupting. “I was telling her how abrasive you are.” Stiles scowls. “But less so, lately.”
He looks to Kira for confirmation, and she hesitates, then shrugs. “Pretty much, yeah.”
Stiles scoffs. He picks up a cushion to lob at Derek’s head and says, “I see my moving away hasn’t made you less of a dick.”
Derek shrugs, and determinedly doesn’t look at Kira, shaking her head in his periphery.
[1]
They brace themselves as Lydia’s eyes glaze over; threat of tears hovering around the edges. Derek doesn’t remember clawing a hole in the wood of his desk, just the pain of the splinters in his palm when she whispered, "They have Scott."
—-
It wasn’t ever that obvious, how much of an anchor Scott had been for Kira before it looked like he might be taken away from her. She shudders and thrashes as Derek reassures Isaac on the phone, his wolf restless through the bond; we’re working on it, we’ll get him back, no, don’t come home, we’ll keep you updated.
Stiles is calmer than Derek would have expected. He’d walked out of the room to call Melissa, promise her they had it under control, and Derek had seen him gripping the iron railings on the balcony for long moments before stepping inside.
It’s a curse to have grown to know him so well. Stiles is a rock on the outside - a rock that is hollow and crumbling.
Lydia and Danny still haven’t got a lock on Scott’s cell when Derek walks into the clinic to update Stiles. He finds him telling Deaton in no uncertain terms that he will help; Scott will be saved; if those things don’t happen, Stiles will be coming back for him.
Derek wants to be afraid - of Stiles, and for him. Mostly, he just aches.
—-
The warehouse has mountain ash built in to the very walls. Of course it does. Stiles doesn’t even hesitate; slides out of the jeep with an athame fixed to his belt and a .44 magnum strapped to his ankle.
Derek has to watch him go, his skin crawling, not sure what to do with his hands, feeling useless once again. How fitting that a True Alpha can lay bleeding in a building his own pack can’t enter?
The look in Stiles’ eye causes him to call out, and he’s running before he can think.
"Be careful," he says without breath, like it’s any use. Stiles stares at the ground, his eyes dead, and nods. "I mean it. Scott is stronger than you are, even if you can’t— we can find another way. Just… be careful."
"That thing took him because he’s good," Stiles says over the crash of the downpour, trance-like, and then looks at Derek at last. "Feeding off him. He’s the best of us. My—" his voice cracks; a part of Derek falls apart with it, "My brother, if anyone is dying tonight, it’s not him.”
He shrugs off Derek’s hand and forges on, and Derek hurriedly says, “It can’t be you, either. Please, Stiles, I—”
It’s a conversation that’s been reversed so many times. Derek feels sick to be on the other end of it.
Stiles stops, and so does Derek, the words burning out his tongue and something in his chest. It’s raining, and he silently begs the sky not to weep for two best friends who will die for each other - not tonight.
"Come back out of there," he says, instead of what he means. I’ll tell him when he comes out, he promises himself, clenching his jaw.
Stiles nods, once, and disappears into the shadows.
[+1]
Scott's recovery is slower than normal. When Stiles had limped out propping him up, he was beaten, drained, half-starved with sores on his wrists from wolfsbane chains. Derek is sure that only the task of coaching Kira through focusing blasts of lightning on the buiding's walls had stopped him from charging the barrier.
It's on the second night of aching at the sight of Melissa slumped in a chair by Scott's hospital bed that Stiles texts him. Last door on the right. End of the hall.
He covers her with a blanket, check's Scott's monitors once more and slips out, the ward deserted.
"Stiles?" he asks softly, pushing the door open.
He's on him before even Derek's eyes can adjust to the darkness; warm heat of his lips, the scent of him everywhere - clutching at Derek's shirt like a lifeline.
Derek falls into it, kisses back on reflex; a soft, fragile hope blooming in the pit of his stomach that makes his hands shake. His skin is electricity; every cell of his being charged with at last.
And then he scents it, underneath it all - the despair and desperation, feels the shuddering breaths against his lips, and he pulls back.
"Stiles," he croaks, but Stiles is lost, latching on to his neck feverishly. "Stiles, stop." And he does.
Cheeks together, Derek still has to strain to hear the small, cracked husk of his voice. "Please," Stiles says, eyes closed. "Please, I need--" he kisses the corner of his mouth, imploring. "Need you. Now."
Derek takes a steadying breath, reminding himself of the sour edge to Stiles' scent, and shakes his head. "You're upset. Scared. I can't--"
"I want to," Stiles interrupts, determined, he's looking him in the eye now, but there's still something broken, half-dead staring back. "I know you want..." He averts his gaze, paradoxically shy. "You want me, right?"
The unsure note in his voice makes pain bloom behind Derek's sternum. His words are no longer ash; they force their way past his lips like a freight train. "Yes," he says resolutely, and it's loud in the empty room. "Yes, I want-- Always."
Stiles doesn't react - just surges forward, kissing him again, but it's not enough. Now the words are out, he has to make him see. Tell him.
"Stiles," he says against his lips, and pulls back, shaking his head. "You don't see-- This can't be just..." The deep, obsidian gaze boring into him pulls his guard away; he is raw. "I love you. And you're hurting, in shock, maybe, and I want to take that away... but this can't be just-- I can't do that. Not with you." He twists a shuddering palm in the bottom of Stiles' shirt, and Stiles straightens up.
He looks him square in the eye. "It's not," he says with conviction, more sure than he's sounded in days. He places a palm on the back of Derek's neck, solid and grounding, leans their foreheads together.
"That's why you're-- I'm done pretending. One of us almost dies every few months and I can't-- I don't want to die, Derek, I don't want to die waiting - not knowing how this feels."
He kisses him again, sweet and encouraging. "I just--" he whispers against his lips, salt in his scent from unspent tears. "Need you to make it better. Love you, Derek. Make it go away."
Derek is powerless against that. He swallows the rest of his pleas down like poison, burning out the hurt. Stiles is pressed against the door, and Derek leads him away with careful kisses and a guiding hand. He lays him reverently over the starched sheets, trails his nose over the delicate skin of his throat, leaving promises in his wake. Stiles stops forming words, arching up to every touch, welcoming each caress like it's rebuilding him. His skin goosebumps at each reveal to the air, he gasps when Derek wraps a hand around him, whispers encouragement into his neck. Derek immerses himself in him, draws out the pain with nothing but his lips and his hands and his assurances; no blackened veins in sight.
Stiles trembles beneath him, brow slick, holds his gaze as they share breaths. This is not a darkened room, this is a sphere of calm where there are no unsaid declarations and they will never be the same as they were.
Derek kisses him through his orgasm, drinks in his pleasure, and finds his own with Stiles' hand in his hair and his lips on his temple.
They share limited room, pressed together, hands clasped between them, saying everything they never dared to.
Derek thinks of all the missed opportunities, words he bit back and berated himself for. They no longer matter. This is better - this is happiness, because Stiles, he was ready to say them back.