Work Text:
Stiles stared out the window. His breath fogged the window as he let out another huff. The weathermen had called for snow, but Stiles hadn’t expected to wake up to nearly two feet of snow. He’d had plans to go Christmas shopping that morning, but now he’d be doing his shopping online. Alone.
Knocking his fingers against the glass, he felt a chill run through him. The wind howled above him, and he shook his head. When he’d been looking for a retreat to do his writing, he’d stumbled across the old house. It sat on the outskirts of a wilderness preserve, and he’d immediately fallen in love with the place. He’d never realized just how isolated he would be until after he and his dog had moved in.
Cyrus whined at Stiles’ hip. “Yeah, I know. You need to go out.” He glanced at the pile of snow in front of the door, making it impossible to push the glass door open. He hoped the backdoor would be better, or he’d be trying to lift a hundred and eighty pound Saint Bernard through the window. Stiles reached for the back door. Cyrus let out a low growl, stilling Stile’s hand.
“What is it?” He started to kneel next to the dog when Cyrus began barking and howling. He scratched at the back door, and Stiles hurried to open it. Cyrus raced out before the door was fully open and knocked Stiles onto his butt.
Stiles stood, calling after Cyrus, whose howls began to turn panicked. Grabbing the boots next to the door, he hurried into them. Then he raced out into the yard, still wearing his
pajamas. A chill ran through him, the snow heavy and wet on his face. He hurried to the side of the house where Cyrus’ howling was coming from.
He skidded to a stop when he found Cyrus, head thrown back, standing over someone in the snow. His howls cut off when Stiles hurried to his side, shoving at him to get him away from the person in the snow. “Shit,” Stiles said, reaching for the guy’s shoulder and rolling him to his back, hoping he wasn’t aggravating a back injury.
The man was pale but not red, so Stiles counted that as a win. He patted the man’s cheek, relieved to feel some warmth against his hand, but not much. Patting a bit harder, Stiles tried to wake him up. “Fuck,” he muttered, reaching for his phone and remembering it sitting on the counter in the kitchen.
He debated rushing for the phone and trying to drag the man inside when Cyrus pushed in and snuffled at the guy’s face before dragging his tongue across it from chin to hairline. The man bolted upright with a roar. Stiles scrambled backward at the strange red glow of the stranger’s eyes. Stiles started to get to his feet when the guy groaned and twisted his body, vomiting up black goo into the snow.
“That’s really not good, dude,” Stiles said, reaching for the guy and jumping when he snarled and pulled away from him. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get you out of the cold.”
A shudder ran through him, but he gave a tight nod and reached out to grasp Stiles’ arm tightly. Stiles pulled him to his feet, and he rocked for a moment as Stiles reached to pull his arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get in-” He cut off when the guy vomited the black goo again before becoming dead weight when he passed out again.
It took Stiles too long to drag the guy into his house, and his nose wrinkled at the smell of death coming off of him. As he made his way through the cold, his mind went over the research he’d done on hypothermia while writing his first book. He knew he’d have to call an ambulance at some point, but he had to get to his phone first.
Cyrus sniffed around them, slowing their progress until Stiles snapped at him, and he ran to the back door and waited for Stiles and his burden to get that far. The snow had amassed even more while Stiles had been wrestling, and he was afraid that even if he called an ambulance, it wouldn’t make it out this far.
As he was closing the door, he heard someone shout, “Derek!” and the guy in his arms groaned and flinched. Stiles slammed the door and threw the lock. He turned off the outside lights before lying the man on the floor just inside the door.
“Dude, you need to wake up, or you’re going to hate me in a minute,” Stiles said. Cyrus whimpered and licked at the man, but he didn’t respond this time.
“Alright, time for me to strip the complete stranger, but first blankets,” he muttered, hopping to his feet and racing up the stairs to the linen closet. He’d never been so thankful for the fact that his best friend’s favorite gifts to give were blankets as he loaded himself down and hurried back to the guy’s side.
Cyrus was lying across the man, whimpering and giving Stiles sad eyes. “Move, Cy. We’ve got to get the wet clothing off of him." Cyrus stood and moved as Stiles dropped the blankets and reached for his jacket. Stiles struggled, but soon he had the jackets pulled off and froze when he saw the guy’s arm.
A nasty wound oozing black stood out on his forearm. Black lines crawled up his arm beneath the skin, and Stiles had heard of blood poisoning while researching but had never seen anything quite like this. The black spread so quickly he could watch it happening. “Shit,” he muttered, grabbing a blanket and throwing it over the guy’s body when he began to shudder.
Focusing on the rest of his clothes, Stiles tried not to get distracted by the strong muscles beneath his hands. He wished he were doing this under very different circumstances, especially when he pulled the guy’s pants off and found him going commando. Shaking his head, Stiles chastised himself and grabbed more blankets.
He threw the clothes towards the laundry room and then removed the blankets from the guy’s arm just as the guy sat up with another roar. His eyes were flickering again. The wind howled outside, and Stiles heard someone shout, “Derek!” again.
“No,” the guy hissed, reaching and grabbing Stiles by the front of his shirt. “You can’t let her in.” His eyes were wild, and he curled up into a ball when there was a knock at the front door.
Thinking quickly, Stiles threw the blankets over him. Cyrus nudged the blankets with his nose. Another knock sounded, and Cyrus snarled and barked, racing toward the door. Stiles reached for the wooden door and pulled it inside, relieved when he remembered that he couldn’t open the glass door.
A woman in a black jacket stood knee-deep in the snow, arms crossed over her chest and a bright smile on her face. “Can I help you?” Stiles asked, reaching down to grab Cyrus’ collar when he lunged at the door. He could just imagine him busting through the glass; the behavior was unlike himself and made him not trust the woman.
“My car broke down, and my phone’s dead. Can I come in and use yours?” she asked, lifting a foot out of the snow and moving closer. Cyrus tugged so hard that Stiles nearly fell forward into the glass door.
“I’m really sorry,” Stiles said. “I can’t get the door open, and the cell tower went out when the storm hit.” It was a lie, but if the woman’s phone were truly dead, then she wouldn’t be able to call him out on it. “I know that the sheriff’s department makes rounds, so if you get back to your car, they should be back in no less than an hour.” He was full of it, but he was willing to come up with anything to get her off his porch.
He heard vomiting again, and he wanted to hurry to his guest’s side, but he was afraid to turn his back on the woman. “Look, it’s freezing out here. Can’t you let me in?”
She reached for the door handle, and Cyrus broke away from Stiles and jumped with his paws on the door. Slobber flew from his jowls, coating the door. Stiles stepped back in fear. He had no idea what Cyrus was capable of when he acted like this; he’d never behaved like this before.
“Can you call off Cujo?” she shouted over his barking.
Stiles bit back a smile. “Sorry! Can’t hear you!” he shouted and reached for the wooden door. As he pushed on it, Cyrus dropped to all fours and continued to growl as Stiles slammed the door in her face. He turned the knob and the deadbolt. He stepped to the side and dropped the blinds on the window next to the door.
Hurrying around the house, leaving Cyrus growling at the door, he locked all the windows and closed all the blinds. When the house was cloaked in darkness, he hurried back to the pile of blankets. “Dude?” Stiles started pulling blankets off when there was no response until he touched clammy skin.
His eyes were closed, and Stiles reached out to slap at his cheek. “Derek?” he tried, figuring the woman at the door was a pretty good clue that was the name of the man in front of him. Eyelids fluttered. red flashed through his lashes. “Okay, so you’re in there. And you’re not a popsicle anymore, but your arm still makes me want to blow chunks.”
The man groaned. His hand on the uninjured arm opened and closed a couple of times. “Bullet,” he groaned.
“You've been shot?” Stiles screeched, hoping the wind that had kicked up outside kept the woman from hearing him. He didn’t know who she was, but he had a strong feeling she’d been the one holding the gun. He thanked whoever was listening that she hadn’t used it on him and his smart mouth.
After looking over the injury, he jumped to his feet and ran to the kitchen. Grabbing a bowl, a couple of bottles of water, and towels, he raced back to Derek’s side. Laying out a towel under his arm, he opened one of the bottles and poured it over the wound, surprised when something glinted in the dim light in the room.
“You were shot, and I think the bullet’s still there,” Stiles said, trying to keep his voice steady, although he had no idea if Derek could even hear him. “I’m going to try and take it out.”
Taking a deep breath, Stiles tried to remember the research he’d done on warzone medicine for a book that he’d never finished. The research had made him feel ill, much as the idea of sticking his fingers into the wound was doing, but he didn’t have a choice.
Taking a deep breath and disassociating a bit, he stuck his fingers into the wound, thankful that the bullet didn’t seem to be very deep. It took him a minute to get a good enough grip due to the black liquid. “Seriously, who has black blood?” he muttered.
“Poison,” Derek whispered, and Stiles’ eyes snapped up to meet his. They were still flickering between a strange green and a brilliant red.
“Am I going to die?” he asked, but he didn’t stop working at the bullet, thankful when he managed to slide it out of the wound and dropped it on the floor next to him, shooing Cyrus away when he sniffed at it.
“Werewolf?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles asked, pouring more water over the wound.
Derek took a shuddery breath. “Only poisonous to werewolves,” he stammered.
Stiles snorted. “Yeah, okay,” he said but paused when Derek’s eyes flashed again. He looked over his shoulder when there was a noise at his back door. “So, what next?”
A crash echoed through the house, and Cyrus took off running towards the door, barking loud enough to make Stiles’ ears ring. Jumping up, he finally did what he should have done as soon as he’d seen Derek’s injuries. He crossed to the gun safe tucked under the sideboard in the dining room and took out his gun.
Hurrying to where Cyrus was still growling, he let out a laugh as he found the woman on her back, cursing a red streak. Cyrus had her pinned, a gun halfway across the room. Holding the gun easily, thankful for all the times his Sheriff father had taken him to the shooting range growing up, he kicked the woman’s gun across the floor.
He heard a grunt and glanced over his shoulder to see it had landed next to Derek, probably hitting him. “Is there a reason you broke into my house?” Stiles asked. “With a gun?”
“Get this mutt off me,” she said, struggling beneath Cyrus’ weight.
“I’m thinking….no,” Stiles said, looking over his shoulder when he heard Derek hissing.
Bullets from the gun were scattered around him, and he was pressing his hand over the bullet wound before letting out a roar and arching his back, falling to the floor.
“What the fuck?” Stiles said, inching back towards Derek and keeping his eye on Cyrus. He watched with wide eyes as the black lines that had been crawling up Derek’s arm began to retreat into the wound that was emitting blue smoke. As he watched, the wound shrank until it disappeared. “What the actual fuck?”
Derek rose to his feet slowly, cracking his neck as he did. His eyes flashed red, and his teeth elongated. “You’re a fucking werewolf!”
Derek’s gaze switched to Stiles, and he rolled his eyes. “Nice observation,” he growled out as he stalked toward Cyrus and his prisoner.
As he approached, Cyrus let out a low bark, jumped off the woman, and approached Stiles, standing between him and the others. Derek leaned over the woman and snarled in her face. “You will stay away from me and mine,” he said, his voice an angry growl.
She smirked. “Yours?” she questioned, and Derek reared back, his head turning to Stiles, who didn’t know what was going on, but when the woman reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a knife, he didn’t hesitate to shoot.
She screamed as the knife flew out of the hand Stiles had managed to graze. The bullet embedded into the wall, plaster flaking out. “Get out!” Derek roared. “If you come back here, I’ll kill you.”
“Not if I kill you first,” the woman said, her voice almost as snarly as Derek’s. He lunged at her, and she scrambled to her feet and ran out the door.
Cyrus and Derek stood in the opening of the door, and Stiles couldn’t tell which of them was growling louder. Of course, he was distracted by the sight of Derek’s naked backside. His eyes kept drifting down from the tattoo in the middle of his back to his surprisingly rounded ass when car tires squealed outside. A few minutes later, Cyrus stopped growling, and Derek collapsed.
Stiles knelt next to Derek and felt for a pulse, keeping the gun at hand. It wasn’t strong, but it was there. Derek’s skin was cold again, and Stiles put his hands under his arms and pulled him back towards the pile of blankets, trying to ignore the urge to trace Derek’s body with his eyes. He covered him with blankets, ordering Cyrus to stay with him. He swore the dog rolled its eyes as he laid his head on Derek’s chest.
Stiles closed the door, frowning at the broken lock. The cold air from outside seeped through, sending a chill through him. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he dialed the handyman that had helped him with the house. “Boyd, hey,” he said.
“Now’s not a good time, Stiles,” Boyd said.
“Oh, yeah. Okay….something I can help with?” He didn’t know Boyd very well, but he liked the quiet man.
“Um…my friend is missing, and we’re worried about him,” he admitted after a few minutes.
“Isaac?” Stiles remembered the quiet guy that had come and helped Boyd with painting.
“No, Derek-”
“Derek? Black hair, weird eyes? Back tattoo?” Stiles asked.
“You know him?” Boyd asked, and Stiles heard a woman’s voice in the background say, “He got caught lurking, didn’t he?”
“What?”
“Sorry, that’s my wife, Erica. Do you know where Derek is now?”
“Lying naked on my dining room floor,” he said and heard a cackle, and Boyd remained silent. “He might need help.”
There was a scuffle, and the woman’s laughter grew louder. “Did you break him with your dick?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You should-”
Another scuffle, and Boyd was back. “Is he okay?”
“Um, some woman shot him, and then he was a Derek-sicle when I found him….” He started to mention the magic disappearing bullet wound but stopped. He thought being a werewolf might be something Derek kept secret, especially since Stiles didn’t know werewolves even existed.
“She shot him? Is he dead?”
Stiles glanced over his shoulder and saw Derek had woken and wrapped himself in the blankets, Cyrus’ head in his lap. “No, definitely not dead.” Derek’s head went up and then ducked when he saw Stiles’ watching him. Stiles stepped closer and held out the phone. “It’s Boyd.”
Derek took the phone and spoke into it quietly. He couldn’t imagine Boyd could hear him, but he gave Derek privacy and headed into the kitchen. Stiles looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly lunchtime. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast. He poured out the now-cold pot of coffee and started a new one before crossing to the refrigerator.
He was in the process of chopping vegetables for a salad when Derek appeared in the doorway, one of the blankets tied around his waist and Stiles’ phone in his hand. “Boyd is bringing me clothes, and then I’ll get out of your hair. He said he’d fix your door. I’ll pay for it since it’s my fault.”
“How is it your fault that some crazy woman decided to shoot you and break into my house?” Stiles asked, gesturing for Derek to sit at the small table. “Do you want some coffee? I’m making a salad for lunch if you’re hungry. I don’t know how much energy you burn healing yourself.”
“Thanks,” Derek muttered, sitting and rubbing his fingers against the tabletop.
“Well, since I’ve seen you naked, I suppose introductions are in order,” Stiles said, pouring two mugs of coffee and setting one in front of Derek while he continued putting together the salad. “I’m Stiles Stilinski, writer and recluse.” He chuckled.
“I know,” Derek muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m Derek. Derek Hale. Mechanic.”
“And a werewolf.”
Derek smirked a bit at that. “And a werewolf,” he admitted. “I noticed you didn’t say anything to Boyd about that.”
“Well, I didn’t know if it were something you would want me to advertise to every Tom, Dick, and Boyd,” Stiles told him, moving the salad bowl to the table before grabbing a couple of plates and silverware. “I hope ranch dressing is alright. It’s my favorite, and I don’t get much company.”
“Boyd’s a ‘wolf, too,” Derek said, and Stiles froze, the ranch running out of the bottle and drowning his salad. Derek reached over and took the bottle from Stiles before dumping his salad plate back into the bowl with the rest. He mixed it together, distributing the dressing. He slid the bowl closer to Stiles. “And his wife and their friend Isaac.”
“Is this a situation where if you tell me something, you have to kill me?” Stiles asked, piling some of the salad on his plate and pushing the bowl back towards Derek.
“No, this is a situation where there is a lot that I should tell you, but I’m afraid to,” Derek said, taking some of the salad.
Stiles ate silently, studying Derek’s face, trying to find a response. He allowed himself to finally appreciate the scruff of the dark beard on Derek’s face, a few patches of grey showing. Now that they weren’t turning red, his eyes were a soft green with a much softer glow from the overhead lights. He was a really, really attractive man, and Stiles felt something warm in his stomach and twitch in his pants.
“Well, why don’t you tell me the things you aren’t afraid to tell me, and we’ll work up to the scary stuff,” he said.
Derek’s teeth dug into his lower lip, and Stiles fought the urge to coo at him. He gave a tight nod and opened his mouth just as the back door banged open, and the voice from the phone called out, “Have you told him he’s your mate yet?”
Stiles stared at Derek, frozen in place as the words flowed over him. He couldn’t find words, but something in his brain seemed to be settling into something he hadn’t even realized he‘d been looking for. He tried to speak, but Derek shook his head, the tips of his ears turning pink. “And now that you know….”
“You’ll have to kill me?” Stiles asked, a laugh bubbling up inside him at the insanity his life had become in the last couple of hours.
“No, I’ll have to kill her.” He pushed away from the table as Erica let out a shout, and Stiles burst out laughing when Derek ran out of the kitchen.
He stood to follow and watched Derek chase Erica into the woods behind the house. The blanket fell away, giving Stiles another view of his backside before it was gone in a flash of black fur. “Holy shit,” Stiles whispered, and Boyd laughed until Erica came running back into the house and jumped into Boyd’s arms.
Derek padded up to the door, not looking at Stiles. Cyrus finally joined the party and sniffed at Derek, his tail wagging. “Go lie down,” he told Cyrus when it looked like he was going to explore Derek a little more thoroughly. Cyrus huffed and did as he was told.
“Are you going to come inside, or am I going to find a pupsicle in my yard?” Stiles asked.
Derek bumped his head against Boyd, who handed him a backpack, and then Derek disappeared into the other room for a moment before reappearing in human form, pulling a black henley over his head. He jerked his chin at Boyd and Erica, who nodded. Erica ran outside, and Boyd turned to Stiles.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning to fix your door. Until then, just tape some trash bags over the opening,” Boyd said. Stiles nodded and waved goodbye.
He closed the door. He took a breath before turning to Derek, who was staring at the ground. Stiles watched as he lifted a hand and rubbed it over the back of his neck. “I guess I’ll head out, too.”
“Do you have to?” Stiles asked, not wanting to be alone and really not wanting Derek to leave yet.
“Don’t you want me to?” Derek asked. “I’m a monster.”
Stiles snorted. “You’re a werewolf.”
“A monster,” Derek repeated, and Stiles stepped closer.
“A monster would’ve killed me by now, not offered to pay to repair my door,” Stiles said and ducked his head to look into Derek’s eyes which were squeezed shut. “Besides, I”m pretty sure that, as a rule, monsters don’t have mates.”
Derek’s head jerked up, and his eyes flashed red for a moment, something Stiles was seriously going to have to ask him about once they got to know each other a little more. Stiles laughed, throwing his head back, warmth spreading through him as Derek dropped his head to Stiles’ shoulder as laughter overtook him as well.