Archive of Our Own ^beta

You're twenty-three when you meet the person you're going to let become your Achilles heel some day. Except Achilles was a warrior, that's not your thing, and you don't know this yet because you're twenty-three and you're still hyper-focused on burying your sister and staying alive one pathetic day at a time. 

He's sixteen and the first thing that hit you was I know you, even though you didn’t, you've never met this sixteen-year-old doe-eyed kid that didn't have a proper name (what the fuck is a Stiles? That can't be a legal thing to put on a birth certificate) and felt like trespassing on private property was exactly what he and his friend should be doing on a Friday night.

You suppose there were better things to do than digging six-feet of space underground for Laura, like intimidating high school kids out of your family's property as if you have any right to still call it yours. But your brain seems to not have caught up to your Biology, because Biology punches your gut and tells you I know you, where have you been? and the brain said, "What do you think you’re doing? This is private property." 

They left shortly after that, and you didn't know this then, because the flight from New York was shitty enough without having to hold a funeral for your sister, and jet lag is a bitch when you're a werewolf who has their senses constantly cranked up to a 10, but you've met him. You didn't know his name much less his age at the time, and you don't know this yet , but you've met him and that -

That changed everything. 

.  .  .

One of the first things he says to you is "I'm not afraid of you," with wide eyes and a skip in his heartbeat that made him sound anything but fearless, in the back of a police car where you were handcuffed by his father, and the entire situation was all his fault. 

“Okay,” he rears back after you raise the animosity of your glare, “maybe I’m a little afraid of you.” This is true, because he smells like it. He smells like cheese dust, deodorant that’s unforgiving on your nose, and fear. So much of it that you’re a little bit pleased because this is still all his fault, but he’s wrong to be afraid of you, wrong to accuse you of murdering your own Alpha. Because whoever killed her? That’s who Stiles should be bone-deep afraid of. 

So, see it doesn’t make sense why the second time you get stuck with him in a car is when you’re bleeding out black, a wolfsbane bullet lodged in the meat of your forearm, and Stiles is somehow threatening to leave you out to die and saving your ass at the same time. 

The world is getting too fuzzy and the impending feeling of dying takes over any other faculties of your brain other than the self-preservatory part, so you don’t question it when, after, with the sting of the burned-out poison purged from your body and Stiles is all-too delighted to have witnessed you evade death, do you finally take note that the sound of his heartbeat was what brought you to safety in the first place. 

.  .  . 

It gets alarming after that for a hot second. Because Mom always knew how to pick Dad’s heartbeat from two miles away, says her wolf could come home to wherever he was out of pure instinct without having to think about it. 

You worry about this for all of thirty minutes before you find out Peter’s alive and he’s killed more people after he killed Laura and it’s up to you now to murder the last family you have left in this god-awful town. 

.  .  . 

You’re twenty-three and you were never supposed to be an Alpha. 

But that doesn't matter anymore, because your family's dead and so is Laura, and you've burned Peter down and suddenly the weight of an entire territory and a newly-turned werewolf by the name of Scott McCall is stacked heavily on your shoulders. 

It's confusing, because with this newfound power, you feel everything so much more intensely: from the gritty, vacuuming feeling of your family's absence to the mind-swimming urge to make a pack of your own, and then there is the twitchy, inexorable sensation of something missing from your heart - a person-shaped hole that you've never felt before. Except now it is becoming glaringly obvious, and you find yourself turning up to Stiles Stilinski's bedroom window more times than what is appropriate (which is probably zero times), because while Biology says, I just found you, I can't let you go now, your body responds with misplaced aggression, shoving the boy against walls and steering wheels. You ignore the punishing feeling in your gut berating you for hurting what's meant to be handled tenderly, but you're twenty-three, you were never supposed to be this alone and jaded and confused, so you don't listen to Biology. 

Instead, you listen to the sound of your own feet walking away from him every time he saves your life and you save his, pretending it makes more sense than starting something you can't stop. 

.  .  . 

You come to understand why it's him a little, why it's him the world or the fates or fucking Mother Moon chose for you the way your mother knew Dad was it for her and even Peter moved to Oregon when he met Olivia at the drop of a hat. It's a little hilarious how you found out, because you're in over eight feet of water and the person you're supposed to protect and cherish is holding you up while a Kanima is prowling the perimeter and somehow, you both still have enough energy in you to fight about trust. 

Because what the fuck would he know about trust, right? He's sixteen, pushing seventeen, and you remember being the exact age he is when Kate Argent took your trust and ran with it while she burned your house and everyone in it. You trusted a pretty face and it bit you in the ass and turned you into a floundering Alpha werewolf with four dysfunctional teenage werewolves under your protection, one of which hates you. 

So what makes him think he could trust you? And you could trust him? You know how this story goes for people like you: you find the one person who's supposed to keep you afloat (figuratively) and then you're either going to lose him or he breaks your spirit in a betrayal that won't surprise you. 

So this is what you're going to rewrite the story into, with Stiles begrudgingly helping to keep your territory as safe as you can manage and you splitting your time between training the Betas (even Scott who will swear up and down he will never be in your pack) and keeping an ear out for the human's heartbeat at night: you're going to keep a safe distance from him, and you will learn to be a functioning Alpha, and you will keep this odd rag-tag bunch of teenagers alive, even if it kills you this time.

(But here's the secret the universe lets you in on since that night: Stiles is sixteen, pushing seventeen, and he has a self-sacrificing streak a mile long. He's got these incredibly bright doe-eyes and hands that are strong enough to keep you and his friends alive, and he always smells like medicine and Cheetos and right . And when his heartbeat pulses in your ears, it ricochets in your sternum, and just like that you'll always know how to find your way home.) 

.  .  . 

Talia Hale never had the time to prepare you for something quite like this. 

.  .  . 

Stiles has a way of convincing you to do things, like letting the pack have a sleepover and charging your credit card with purchases of pizza and soft drinks more times than you should be letting them. You can't remember who bought the Netflix subscription or how your fridge gets magically stocked with a hodge podge of snacks and Pepsi, but you do remember vetoing the request for making a copy of the loft's keys, four of which are now in a pile on the coffee table. 

Stiles spins the ring of his copy around his finger and says, "Maybe we should get a blood-hound," but you're putting your foot down on adopting an animal. "We should have one, it'll be the pack mascot," he finishes, with that same shit-eating grin he wore the day he got you arrested. 

"No," you deadpan, pushing past him to go to the kitchen where the stove top is cooking macaroni and cheese you didn't buy. 

"C'mon!" He throws his hands up. "It'll be great. Teach the werewolves how to play nice with other animals. I'm pretty sure bloodhounds could teach you all a thing or two about scent-tracking, right?" 

"With what mode of communication?" 

"Growling! Yipping! Barking! Nature's universal language!" 

You place him with a glare. 

"Yeah, I can't see you yipping either," he says breezily and picks right up, "but I have it on good authority that Scott would excel at yipping. He would be the best yipper, so you can translate the growling. It's going to work out. Bloodhound Hale, mascot of the Beacon Hills pack. We'd go viral in the supernatural grapevine for being inclusive and pet-friendly!" 

"What would we need a mascot for when we already have you?" 

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up and he says, "Oooh, Papa Wolf has jokes. I see how it is. Puny human isn't awesome enough to be considered up your ranks cause I can't regrow vital organs. Well, fuck you very much, I think you'd be lost without me." 

You have no idea, you think exasperatedly, letting a baleful smile grow from the tight set of your lips. 

Stiles has a way of making you feel at ease when the situation calls for trouble and nervous when it’s not. When it’s June and school’s out and the betas have taken over your house, you can’t keep still until you know there’s enough food in the fridge and the third time Stiles complained of getting heat stroke, you bought an industrial fan the day after. When he sighed about the Sheriff not paying for repairs on the Jeep after the last Wendigo attack, you had your phone dialing the auto repair shop before he could finish his diatribe. He still doesn’t know it wasn’t the Sheriff who got it fixed up. 

The next month, three wayward omegas tore through Beacon Hills and interrupted your grocery run. It’s barely any skin off your back, but the feral omegas were crazed in their attacks, lunatics that are too-out of it to have any real form or reason in their fight. They go down quickly, and you’re left to bury six halves in the shallow depths of the Preserve. You’re a little sore and mildly scratched, but a lot more just pissed that your night was disturbed. Going home to an empty loft seemed like an unsavory choice, so you let your gut do its thing, open your senses to follow instincts, and it was only natural to have ended up crashing through Stiles’ bedroom window. 

“Dude, what the shit?” Stiles exclaims from his computer table, a highlighter in hand and half a Twizzler hanging out of his mouth. 

You let yourself drop to his bed with no other greeting but a grunt, sinking into sheets that smell saturated by Stiles’ scent. Your tense muscles have only started to unknot themselves before you hear Stiles say from behind, “Uh, not that I’m not thrilled to see you here, but I’m actually not thrilled to see you here. With blood on your clothes.” You feel him get on his feet and approach you warily, probably wondering if it’s smarter to just let resting werewolves lie. 

“Derek? Are you...good? Should I be breaking out the bestiary? Are we in trouble? Goddamnit I knew I should’ve done my homework last night,” he grumbles. 

But before he could work himself up, in one strain of muscle, you turn on your side and say, “I’ll leave in a few. Just...just give me a minute.”

Stiles stares wide-eyed at you; have his eyes always been that big? He says, “Okay, yeah. Hotel Stilinski is up and running twenty-four-seven on nights the Sheriff works doubles. Eleven-seven on other weeks, though,” he brandishes a pointer finger that falters when he takes in your torn shirt. 

“Don't ask,” you mutter. 

Sometimes, Stiles actually has it in him to shut up. So he does this time, puts his finger down and clamps his mouth shut and nods before sprawling back on his desk. You stay for what feels like less than an hour, but already healed to full strength in half that time. The other half was spent marinating in a cocktail of senses - Stiles’ scent, the sound of his heartbeat nearby, and the mess of matching sheets bundled on top of his mattress, some dorky Star Wars-patterned collage stretched across the Queen-sized bed that reminds you just how much younger he is.

Later, when you leave the same way you came in, you’re going to feel guilty about this. You’re going to shower yourself out of the guilt that will brew so distastefully in your stomach, you’ll be threatened to howl ruefully into the forest. But for now, you crunch up on your elbows as silently as you can, and watch Stiles with unbidden interest. You observe the chaotic mess of his hair where the moonlight has splashed stripes of pale light onto it, and the long, nearly elegant line of his throat. Then there's his shoulders, already broadening into the man he’s growing into. You feel your pulse settle down, as you try and count the moles he has on this side of his face; you feel your skin crawl with a warmth you haven’t felt since your family was alive, and then you feel your heart trip on its own ventricles, where it catches in your throat and compels you to reach out. 

And you don’t think it’s fair, because Stiles is so beautiful, and you never stood a fucking chance.  

.  .  .

You had a plan, it’s a very good plan to stick to. Protect the town, train your Betas, and keep your distance from Stiles. 

So far, you’ve been failing by a staggering magnitude. 

.  .  .

You’re twenty-four when you realise you’re very hard to kill. Ask Kate, she’s tried it twice. Ask Peter, because that motherfucker just won’t stay dead and apparently it runs in the family. Ask Deaton, he’s partially at fault for keeping you alive. 

It must have been a challenge for the trespassers of Beacon Hills at this point: kill the too-sturdy-for-his-own-good Alpha for shits and giggles and live to tell the tale. It just never seems to happen, though. This should be good news for the territory and the pack because what the hell would these teenagers do without someone pulling the reins (even if you don’t know where you’re going either); but instead, it’s a little infuriating because it keeps happening.

January opens with a skinwalker infestation that ends up with Isaac dragging your body to the Vet with gaping wounds and impressive bite marks, February comes in with an honest-to-God stampede of gremlins that was more annoying than threatening, March was silent - too silent - because halfway through April arrived a vengeance that very nearly could have put an end to you. 

In Syrmia, they called it Bukavac , in California it’s only referred to as,

“ Fucking dragonsaurus ,” Erica hissed out during recon, when there’s finally time to lick your wounds and breathe in air that didn’t smell like sulfur and the insides of their mouths have stopped tasting like ash. Isaac’s worse-for-wear, and Scott is livid because Boyd left Stiles to barrel through the Bukavac’s vulnerable side for the last fatal blow. But Scott is still angry, because Stiles got hit with its barbed tail when its neck cracked away from the rest of its body that swung to the side in momentum, and the repercussions have him looking like a broken rag doll with singed clothing and pale skin and dislocated bones, and you are - 

You are counting every single shallow breath he’s taking, because if it stops you’re pretty sure so will yours. 

But you don’t get to be weak, because you’re the Alpha, you’re his Alpha, and the fact that you’re not dead means you get to help him live. You round on Deaton with eyes blaring so red it reflects off of every metallic surface in the clinic, and demand “What can I do? What can - what’s going to save him? I’ll do it, I’ll do anything .”

Deaton holds up a blood-soaked hand that shakes in the air and says, “You know what to do, Derek. You’re the only one who can help him now,” like the ever-cryptic piece of shit that he is. And you want to punch him in the face like you want to bring back to life the monster you just killed just so you can pummel it back again to death for hurting the only human in your pack, the only one vulnerable enough to take the worst of the attack and the one so invaluable to your goddamn being you’d give up a limb and an eye to save him. 

And suddenly you do know what to do. 

You stalk forward where Scott is bent over Stiles’ body, Erica and Isaac scampering away to Boyd’s side who only stares at them with a haunted expression. You put your hands on the human’s throat, where his windpipe has a sickening divot that he won’t survive from unless you do this - unless you allow yourself to give up a part of you to him, to keep him alive.

Power surges from the pit of your stomach and the discs of your spine, burning warm and meeting in your belly as it travels to your solar plexus. This is your magic, the life force that makes you half-man, half-wolf. The Catholics call it demonic, but your grandmother called it your soul. This is the core of your being, the one that has the ability to knit back skin and muscle and replace fragmented bones and responds to the magnets of the Moon; this is the only lasting gift you have left that your family gave you - the gift of being born a werewolf and a Hale. 

You push it out and concentrate on letting it pulse from your hands to the body below you, palms growing hotter like it’s iron that’s heating up. You push the memory of Laura’s laugh, Cora’s dollhouse, the way Dad always had a wise thing to say after every conversation and the soup Mom made after full moons. You push it down to mend Stiles’ broken bones and feel them crack and rearrange as you feel your own bones actually breaking in response, but you stifle a cry when you feel it crawl further into his body, wrapping around his marrows and reaching experimentally to Stiles’ own core. 

This is when you know there’s no turning back. 

(Stiles awakens in the morning's hush, alive, and not once in the night did you leave his side.)

.  .  .

Two days later, you tell Sheriff Stilinski the truth. 

“So...werewolves,” he surmises as he sets the mug of his coffee down. He’s got the too-deep lines of exhaustion carved in the planes of his forehead and the worry speaks volumes in the crease between his eyebrows. You note that he looks nothing like Stiles on most days, but is the spitting image of him when he looks like this. 

“You’re telling me my son regularly almost gets killed because he’s been hanging out with you werewolves and the reason why he’s unconscious right now is because a - some sort of, dragon hit him.” The Sheriff turns his frown on you. “And you want - what, my blessing?” 

“No, sir I -“

“I heard you, you said you,” he closes his eyes and takes a deep, commiserating breath, “You said you bound yourself to him as his...Alpha. Shit, werewolves. And now your soul or whatever the hell part of you is completely attached to him. And that’s why my son isn’t dead. That’s - Christ . That’s correct, is it not?” 

You wince. “I - it’s not that simple. I’m sorry, I - we had to keep him alive. He’s human, and stubborn. God, is he stubborn.” 

John cuts you off with a disbelieving scoff, “I know how stubborn he can get but this is - this is a whole different league of insane, you know that, right? For me, at least. Apparently not for my only son who has been gallivanting with things that are made to kill him.” He shakes his head, pauses like he wants to say something else, but continues, “So whatever you did, it’s keeping him safe from now on?” 

“That would suggest it, yes, Sheriff,” you start awkwardly. Because there is an infinite amount of more than that in the mechanics of what you’ve just done for Stiles. “I assure you it’s more dangerous to me than it is to him. As long as I’m alive, he has access to me - it. My, uh, life force. He’ll heal unlike any other human.” 

“And what happens if you die?” John counters, a frigid tone to his voice. “That’s what you’re getting at right, your... bond with him can keep him alive for as long as you do. What happens when you mess up the next time?” 

“He won't die,” you assure him quickly. “The bond just means that I...am capable of keeping him safe and offer healing as fast as mine. He’s not going to be invincible -“

“Good, the last thing he needs is thinking he can put himself in even more danger now when he wakes up from the hospital. Continue.” 

“Agreed. Essentially, he’s going to be...mine to look after. There is close to nothing that my abilities can’t guarantee his preservation. I was serious when I said as long as I’m alive he’ll have it. And I’m very hard to kill.” 

John considers you thoughtfully for a beat, then he asks, “What’s the caveat? A bridge has two sides. Stiles gets you for some sort of hybrid bodyguard and life support. What do you get?” 

The question stuns you, because you’re not as knowledgeable about soul-bonds as much as you’re letting on. You think of your parents, who taught you what it meant to be soul-bonded by raising a family as beautiful as their love for each other. Of your mother Talia, who would hurt when your father hurt and would mend with him just the same. And you remember your Dad, who told Laura on her sixteenth birthday that finding a mate would mean becoming powerful, complete, and most of all have the privilege of keeping love where love is willing to be kept. And for a precarious moment, even the memory of Peter going feral after losing his mate and child flashes in your head. You tamp it all down, not yet ready to wrap your mind around all of it yourself. But you’re going to try. 

It makes you ache in more ways than one to doubt if you’re ever going to have or even begin to deserve having that. 

So you look at the Sheriff with all the earnestness you hope you’re conveying, and your heart thunders in your chest when you start, “I’ve spent the past seven years dealing with my family’s loss.” 

The Sheriff sighs, thawing at the memory. “I know, Derek. This isn’t fair on you, either.” 

“Sheriff -” 

“Call me John.”

You swallow down trepidation and nod. There isn’t a skip in your heartbeat when you tell him, “But if I lost him now, I wouldn't survive it. That’s more than enough on my end.” 

Something then changes in John’s expression, a sort of realisation dawning that makes his lines soften but has his eyes flickering in confusion. And then, nothing. A placid, comforting mask settles, the one he put on years ago when the embers of your family home still made you smell the smoke, handing you a blanket in the back of a fire truck. He was still a deputy when you were 16. 

“Then we have a lot more in common than I initially thought,” John finally decides on, leaning back on his chair with an expression that looks a little bit lost.

You bite back words that you want to tell this man, words like I'll die before I ever let anything happen to him again or I promise I'll make him happy or even the desperate thought of I can prove I'm worthy of him, just let me try. 

You don't say any of this.

It should have been obvious long before Stiles was in the hospital: you couldn't have stopped yourself from falling in love even if you had ripped your heart out and tried even harder.

.  .  .

Boyd says, “I’m sorry,” two weeks after, once Stiles was back on his feet again but hasn’t shown up at the loft since. 

“You saved us all,” you remind him. “You shouldn’t be apologising.” 

Boyd shakes his head. “I don’t understand what you did yet, or why Stiles doesn’t bruise at Lacrosse anymore. He’s happy about it at least. But I’m...we’re going to do our best,” he says softly, “to keep him safe. For you.”

The only thing you can say to that is, “Thank you.”

One day, Boyd is going to get it. And so will Erica and Scott and Isaac. One day, so will you. You’re starting to. You’re starting to embrace the pleasant buzzing under your skin, feeling the bond lie present there, finally making itself known. Biology says, I was never forged. I was here before you were even born. But the brain knows to respect boundaries; smaller, this time. 

One day you will make peace with it, be content with hanging by the sidelines while you watch Stiles make his own decisions for himself. One day you’ll apologise for not telling him as soon as possible. But for now, you will continue what you do best: rearranging your life for this doe-eyed seventeen-year old, now pushing eighteen, and you will put on your big boy pants because you’ll be whatever the hell he needs you to be: a friend, a protector, a confidant - it doesn’t fucking matter. 

What matters is he’s safer than he was before, and you will burn the whole world down if it meant pulling him out of the ashes. 

.  .  . 

“You’re secretly sort of the best, aren’t you,” Stiles says on an afternoon in August, with his SAT reviewers staking claim on the entirety of the loft’s one dining table. He hasn’t completely stopped badgering you about the ‘werewolf voodoo’ you did back in April, but he’s been lenient enough to not push it too hard lest you turn tail and flee. (You’d come back, though. There’s everything keeping you here.) 

“I mean, you’re still like, totally the epitome of broody even if you’ve stopped shoving me against surfaces and have made it known you have more than fifteen words in your vocabulary,” he continues distractedly, a pen twirling expertly between his long fingers. It makes your mouth dry when you stare too long, “But you’re actually doing a bang-up job with this whole Alpha thing after a few trial-and-errors. Three time's the charm, and all that jazz. And that’s high praise from the Sheriff’s kid, dude. I know decent leadership skills when I see it," he finishes with a grin, pink mouth stretching over perfect teeth. It makes you cough into your mug of tea. 

“Uh, thanks. Not that I needed your approval, but thanks,” you respond, lying because your wolf all but preens at your mate’s compliment. He thinks I’m doing a good job. I should keep doing that. 

“Liar,” Stiles says amusedly, “my opinions totally weigh a fuckton. More than Jackson’s anyways, and only slightly less than Boyd’s.” 

The only person I listen to is you. “Definitely less than Boyd’s and and only slightly more than Jackson’s.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes but laughs anyways. “Where are your cubs? Why am I the only one here most of the time?” 

They leave because they know I like having you alone with me. You shrug. “You tell me.” 

He looks around from the couch he’s on. “Where’s Peter?” 

“Somewhere in Arizona. Don’t really care enough to know what he’s up to,” you answer, flicking open the morning paper to see if anything suspicious made it on the news. 

Stiles snorts and says, “You should. I’d want to keep tabs on a zombie werewolf if I were you. Plus, he threatened to kill me if I hurt you before he left. That’s crazy, y’know, because one, how the fuck would I even begin to hurt you? Not with these muscles against those that's for sure. And two, his right to make threats about safe-keeping your well-being shriveled up like a pair of cold balls when he tried to kill the both of us on separate occasions.” 

You only offer another shrug, half-listening and half-figuring out the 5-letter word for snow in Spanish. “Peter’s weird like that.” 

The context of the aforementioned threat creeps up on you with a cold realisation. 

Huh. Peter knew. And apparently cared enough to threaten Stiles on your behalf. 

You look up from the paper and see Stiles in a threadbare Spiderman shirt that must have been old by the way it stretches over his shoulders, lower body clad in a soft-looking pair of sweatpants that he borrowed from Isaac’s room. There’s a pen cap crammed in his mouth - why is there always something in his mouth? What level of hell is this that you’re forced to see this shit all the time? - and an over-large pair of headphones he doesn’t use for music but for grounding his twitchiness when he has to focus on studying. It’s a little laughable that someone so unsuspecting is so aptly deserving of Peter’s threat, because Stiles could probably hurt you more than anyone or anything in this town now.

“I’m staying for dinner by the way,” He informs you without even looking up.

Forever’s alright, too. “Not like I have a choice,” you say instead, more for show than anything by the way his mouth quirks at the sides. He’s got you wrapped around his fingers and he knows it, won’t call you out on it because he’s sort of-nice, but he’s been slowly building up putting in a request for a video game console for the loft and isn’t being subtle about it at all. You’ve already been preparing some space on the TV set for the worst. 

.  .  .

The Remuel clan used to be a warm contact of your family's, but grew cold ever since they all, well, died. 

But it still doesn't make sense why they'd hold you hostage like this. 

"I wouldn't have come willingly if I had known you were out to get me," you tell Georgia, the pack's Alpha, drily. She's an old, willowy thing that probably had a quarter of her burly mate's strength in one pinky finger. She smiles softly across from the table, a cup of tea in hand. 

"Never out to get you, Derek. Just testing the strength of your pack, you know how it is,” she responds, kindly, almost.

Her twenty-three-person pack is coupled in different corners of the large manor they all inhabited, everyone related like your family’s pack had been. They interact in a way that makes you feel like you’re not at all a hostage but rather a visitor that they all mostly ignore, going about their days looking for all they’re harboring another pack’s Alpha like going about a normal routine. Kids are starfished on the floor playing with crayons and the older members are chatting amongst each other. 

It’s the best hostage experience you’ve had in your life, really. 

“What do you hope to gain, Georgia?” 

She takes a sip of her tea and primly responds, “Reassurance. I loved Talia like a sister. If your pack doesn’t show the togetherness I would hope they do, I’m taking it upon myself to step in.” 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” you tell her seriously. But fear niggles in the back of your mind, a shred of uncertainty that makes you doubt if your maladjusted pack really can pull it together enough to show the Remuels they can stand fine on their own. 

Please find me. 

“That’s okay, Alpha Hale,” Georgia says, “I wasn’t asking what you thought of it.” 

“They’ll be here,” you tell her with more strength than you actually feel. 

She smiles slowly, “I’m praying with you.” 

.  .  .

It takes four hours before the sound of a barrier breaking rattles the Remuels’ manor. Four hours before you find the familiar heart beats of the pack, and when the rune-fortified door bursts open, Stiles stumbles in with a wild look on his face. 

“Holy shit, I’m totally Batman now,” he says in bewilderment, before taking stock of all the pairs of eyes trained on him. 

Across from you, Georgia stands up with a self-satisfied grin. “Welcome. It’s so good to see you.”

“Uh,” comes Stiles’ response. But it’s enough for relief to wash over you, enough for your wolf to want to howl victoriously. You stand up straight in your chair and revel in the way Stiles’ amber eyes light up when he sees you, then look guarded all over again when Georgia walks towards him. 

“We meant well,” Georgia says placatingly, “how did you break down our wards?” 

Stiles only shrugs, hands in his jeans like he’s holding something there. You smell mountain ash. 

“Magic,” he says plainly. “You’ve got something that’s mine. We’re prepared to bring this place down if we don’t get him back.” 

Georgia’s eyes flash red, and she grins when she says, “Of course.” 

.  .  .

You’re not sure what you did to deserve him, but whatever it was, you’d do it again.

.  .  .

“You have to tell him,” Erica says over dinner the night the pack graduated from high school. Isaac nods in acquiescence and even Boyd looks like he’s actively interested in this conversation. 

“You’re not the boss of me,” you tell her without any real heat to it. 

Erica rolls her eyes and tells you, “I don’t have to be to know when it’s high-time for a confession. He’s your mate and he’s been doing a great job at it without even fucking knowing. Even Boyd likes him, and Boyd only likes two things: me, and yogurt.” 

Boyd nods his head and makes no other move to comment other than taking a bite of the diner’s famous apple pie. 

“It was cute at first but now it’s just sad,” Erica continues, her red lips pouting exaggeratedly.

“This is really none of your business. Finish your food.” 

Her expression then shifts into something softer. “I know, we just,” she looks at her two packmates for support, “we’re all moving away in a few months and it’s awesome that Stiles is staying, it really is. We just want to make sure you’re happy even when we’re so far away.” 

Isaac lays a hand on your shoulder. “It’ll be fine. You should tell him. We’re looking forward to having another parent anyways.” 

Erica cackles at this and Boyd chokes on a laugh, and just like that the uneasy knot in your stomach unfurls a little more. Here on this night, you get to enjoy the completeness of your pack, save for the absence of the other person running it with you. And so what if Scott still kind of hates your guts and so what if you’re nervous about being away from these rag-tag bunch of young adults once they move out of town. You have a pack now, and that’s enough for you to breathe easier. You’ve got Erica’s going-away keychain gift, Boyd’s stock of yogurt in the fridge, and Isaac’s scarf wedged between the couch cushions. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you ride on the joke with your own smile trapping a spoon-ful of sugary pie between it. 

.  .  .

The Sheriff calls you out of the blue to inform you Stiles has strong-armed him into inviting you for dinner. He instructs you to wear something nice, bring a decent bottle of scotch, and John says though he has no idea what sort of terrifying thing Stiles has planned in his head, he’s got a shotgun if the dinner doesn’t end with Stiles in a good mood. 

When the call drops, you stare at the phone with your heart in your stomach and your mind running through the names of liquor brands your Dad used to like. 

.  .  .

“Hey! Hi, wow you’re here,” Stiles says when he opens the door to see you shifting uncomfortably on the Stilinski’s front porch, a bottle of Macallan in hand. “Not that I’m surprised you’re here because I invited you myself, or well, Dad did, by proxy. Anyways, holy shit you’re wearing slacks.”

“Should I not have?” 

“No, that’s - that’s fine! I just feel a little underdressed now, that’s all.” He points to his plaid ensemble. His hair looks styled and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He looks perfect. 

The door swings open and John joins his son in the doorway, dressed in his uniform that you know is out of place because he doesn’t patrol on Sunday nights. 

“You’re right on time, Derek,” John says. “Seriously, right on time. When I said seven o’ clock I didn’t actually mean on the dot.” 

“Derek is punctual,” Stiles endorses. “Never been too late to save my a- butt. This is usually behaviour that’s commended, so, y’know, we’re going to have a firearm-free dinner, right Dad?” 

John only frowns at him for a second before he swings the door all the way open and gestures for you to come in. “Come in, son. Is that a Johnnie Walker?” 

“The Macallan, actually,” you hand it over, resisting to flourish a little because it was expensive as shit . But it’s worth it when the Sheriff looks the right amount of surprised and pleased. Stiles notices this and beams at the two of you. 

“Right! Dinner’s almost ready so get comfortable, have a neutral chit-chat on the dinner table while I’m gone,” Stiles commands more than says as he flurries into the kitchen. Your dress shirt feels tighter than usual when you’re sat across from the Sheriff at the round table, and it belatedly registers how much this feels like a meeting-the-parents sort of thing. 

“So,” John starts awkwardly, “how’s the rest of the pack?” 

Family talk, you could do this. 

“Erica and Boyd moved out a week ago, and Isaac’s ready to leave by Wednesday,” you tell him. “It’s nice of Stiles to stay here for his first year.” 

“I honestly don’t know what’s keeping him here,” John shrugs, “I don’t know a single kid other than him who’d rather attend online classes than spend his first year getting wasted at frat parties.” 

You try for a laugh and respond, “You should have raised him worse, then.” 

“I wonder where I went right with him sometimes,” John rests his hands on the table and asks, “So, I can’t be the only one who feels like I’m meeting the boyfriend, right?”

You balk a little, which the Sheriff takes as an opportunity to continue, “Because I thought it’d take a couple more years before either one of you got your head out of your asses, but here we are.”

Stiles chooses that moment to swoop in with an appetizing dish between his oven-mittened hands. “Hope you’re not talking about me behind my back already! Chicken parm and roasted eggplants are on the menu. Now, where were you two?” 

John clears his throat and shamelessly points out, “Just some old-fashioned father-in-law interrogation.” 

“Hng, father - excuse me?” Stiles nearly-squeaks. 

“I’m too old for pretenses, kid.”

“No, you are not too old to play it cool, old man. And yes, that’s an oxymoron. Except it’s not, because you’re young enough to at least let me play it cool.” 

John only shrugs and begins piling his plate with chicken and only three cuts of eggplants. 

Stiles turns his attention to you and demands, “Don’t you have any objection to this?” 

God help you, you actually don’t. Instead, you proffer your plate to John’s extended hand and respond as he fills your plate, “Did I pass?” 

“What?” Stiles asks, the only person in the room wound up.

It’s a little hilarious. It’s plenty exhilarating, because the Sheriff says, “You had me at The Macallan,” and Stiles is sinking to his seat muttering, “I don’t believe this,” and dinner stitches itself into something actually nice rather than nerve-wracking. The Sheriff complains about his cases and consults you about the more peculiar ones he has right now like he actually values your opinion, and when Stiles has wound down enough, he babbles endlessly about how accommodating Stanford is about their online program. 

It feels like acceptance, and it feels right when Stiles presses his knee against yours under the table, and when he laughs beatifically at an off-hand comment you made about the current mountain-lion population, he puts a hand on your bicep and your heart beats, I love you I love you I love you. 

Nighttime finds you with Stiles announcing, “Dad, we’re going upstairs,” and the Sheriff remarking, “Leave the door open.” 

Stiles disobeys this, and you don’t know how it happens, but it’s Stiles who makes the first move. He threads a hand in yours and when he kisses you, he sips mouthfuls of your fear and turns it into something beautiful. He asks, “Is this okay?” and you can only press your mouth to his in response because nothing in your life has been more okay than this right here, with your hands weaving around his waist and on the side of his jaw, coaxing it to open where you can lick into him just right. 

He flails for a second, not knowing where to put his hands until it lands awkwardly on the sides of your ears, and for this muted moment, where he’s cut off your hearing, the wet slide of his lips becomes your entire world. Just this, just the warmth of him where it arches into your body, just the taste of him making you drunk on the emotion that brews in your chest and the arousal that burgeons in your groin. You learn he’s especially delicious when he moans. 

You pull away at this, but careful to keep him close. 

He looks at you through long eyelashes. “I’ve figured it out,” he says. 

“Figured what out?” 

“I know how I survived,” he whispers, as if it’s a secret he’s kept from you. “And I know what I’ve been feeling isn’t one-sided, that it hasn’t been one-sided for a long time.” 

You breathe out a laugh. “You have absolutely no idea.” 

“I know,” he says and fits a hand on the grooves behind your ear. “But I was right. You really are sort of the best, Derek Hale. And for what it’s worth, I would have fought anyone off to be werewolf-married to you.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. “That’s not - how did…”

“I told you, I’ve figured it out,” he chuckles. “And it’s whatever you wanna call it, what’s the PC term? Mate? Partner? Soulmate? But Derek, three years, really? You couldn’t have dropped an anonymous tip I belonged to you at least last year?” His tone is accusing, but he smiles that breath-taking smile and it makes you thank the fates, the universe, Mother Moon, or whoever ran this show for helping you eventually find your way here.

“You don’t belong to me,” you say lamely. 

Stiles scoffs. “Well, you don’t have a choice. You’ve been it for me for a long time and I have a sneaking suspicion deciding to soul-bond with me is a pretty solid declaration from you.”

“I just meant you’re under no obligation, idiot.” 

He leans back in to kiss you chastely, once, twice, three times. “I know. How many times do I have to tell you I've figured it out?”

The smile that blooms from you makes you ache in all the good ways. “So you’re okay with this?” 

“More than,” he answers. “Are you?” 

You don’t stop yourself from nuzzling the underside of his jaw when you confess, “I loved you first.” 

Something awe-struck shows itself on his face, and for the rest of the night, you learn the sound of your heart slotting into place where it’s been inching one milestone at a time. 

Next to the restrained cry Stiles makes when he grinds down to completion against you, it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. 

.  .  .

Epilogue

It’s an otherwise ordinary day in December when Stiles opens the door to the loft and announces, “You should build me a house.” 

It’s such a shocking and at the same time unsurprising Stiles thing to say that you laugh first and pull him close for a kiss in greeting before asking, “Why?” 

He wraps himself around you, strong arms locking at the nape of your neck. He was twenty-one when he got a tattoo of a wolf on his forearm, and it catches the light overhead from this angle. “Because,” he says, “we’re going to need one.” 

You look at him curiously and glance up, “I have a loft.” 

“I like your loft,” he says matter-of-factly, “it’s a very good loft. Industrial chic and slightly less spartan now. But you’re going to need a house.” 

“Why?” 

His mouth spreads into a grin. “Because we’re going to have a family some day. And I want a master bedroom and at least five extra rooms for the werewolves I’ve adopted and the kids we’re going to properly adopt ten years from now. Or seven, depends on when I’ll finish my masters.”

Your heart beats so robustly in your chest you forget how to breathe. 

“And I want a big kitchen because holidays are going to be bigger now with two packs and my Dad and Melissa. There’s going to be some epic Christmas days and hellish Thanksgivings, I just know it. And a good-sized backyard where you furry creatures can tumble around, because no matter how weird attaching ‘ doctor’ to Scott’s name is, he’s still an overgrown furball and he likes bonding with your pack. I want a big ‘ol study room with floor to ceiling shelves like in Beauty and the Beast where I can write my codes and you can read your stupid Classics.”

“They’re not stupid.”

He laughs. “I’m pretty broke right now, so I’m sorry if I can’t do the whole getting down on one knee shebang. But if it isn’t obvious enough, I’m trying to ask you to marry me.” 

You want to tell him, I laid down my soul for you. Instead what comes out is, “I can buy the rings.” 

“Thanks for volunteering, love of my life, but I need an answer first.” He sounds confident, ready, not-at-all afraid of your answer. 

And when you say, “Yes,” he pulls you in a kiss so sound it mends the last of your broken parts because suddenly your whole life is ahead of you, and it looks so, so wonderful and hopeful and bright. 

“We should have one of those engraved rings, with the heartbeats,” he says right after. “I saw it on Tumblr, we just record our pulse and get it on the inside of the rings and there’s an app that can play it! It’ll be awesome.” 

There’s nothing else to say but, “Okay. Yeah.” 

Because it is going to be awesome. You’ll be able to carry the cadence of Stiles heartbeat with you around your ring finger, and you know clear as day that the sound of it will always lead you back home. 

fin