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Stiles stood at the window, frowning as more trees lost leaves. The debris swirled in the air, and he jerked backward when another small branch smacked the glass in front of him. He checked his watch. Derek had run out into the preserve hours earlier searching for Peter, who had disappeared…again. Pulling his phone out, he called Derek and cursed when he heard Crazy in Love playing from the kitchen, meaning Derek hadn’t taken his phone with him.
Pacing and running his hands through his hair, Stiles tried to figure out his next move. The storm picked up, shaking the shutters. The house groaned, and Stiles squatted in the middle of the room and tugged at his hair. Derek knew how to take care of himself, but that didn’t make Stiles feel any better about him being outside while the elements tried to bring down the house.
He jumped when there was a bang against the front door. Jumping to his feet, Stiles ran for it, pulling it open as Peter fell through the door, Derek draped over his shoulders. Peter dropped Derek to the floor and walked away like he couldn’t be bothered. Flipping him off, Stiles turned his attention to closing the door before dropping to his knees beside Derek’s unconscious form.
Struggling, he rolled Derek to his back and gasped when he saw the blood coating the front of his shirt. Working quickly, he tore the already tattered fabric until he could push it back from his chest. Running his fingers through the blood and over the skin, he searched for an injury. Finding none, he relaxed. If Derek had healed, then he would be alright. It didn’t explain why he was unconscious, though.
“Peter!” he shouted, jumping when he found the man standing a foot away, watching them. In his hands were a bowl and a couple of towels.
He handed them to Stiles wordlessly and then disappeared down the stairs to the basement, probably to make his escape through the tunnels. It was perhaps a wise move if he had anything to do with Derek’s condition. He did have a moment of concern for the man when the wind rattled again. Hail beat against the windows, echoing through the house.
Soaking one of the towels in the bowl of water, he started cleaning off Derek’s skin. The storm increased outside, and Stiles heard the sound of glass cracking but didn’t want to leave Derek’s side to investigate. “You need to wake up right now. I need to know if I have to hunt down Peter’s ass and light it on fire. Again. He hasn’t died in a while; he’s about due.”
“I heard that,” Peter’s voice floated up the stairs, barely audible over the noise outside.
“Good!” Stiles shouted. Derek winced beneath his hands, and he refocused on him. “Okay, c’mon, Der. I need you to open your eyes. Let me see those pretty green orbs that can only be properly described by fanfic writers.” Not that he spent time reading fanfic. Except when he fell down internet rabbit holes while researching the supernatural.
“I’m turning off the internet,” Derek muttered, wincing and opening his eyes. “What hit me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Peter said, returning to the room, a book in his hand. “If I were to hazard a guess, I would say Jack Frost, but as far as I know, he’s imaginary.”
“Fae,” Stiles said, not even bothering to look at the book. Anytime anything seemingly imaginary struck in their neck of the woods, it always came back to the fae. The clan living in the preserve were suddenly in the throws of the equivalent of puberty. Hijinks and tomfoolery had become commonplace.
The windows rattled again, and Stiles felt his anger burning. Rising slowly to his feet, he crossed to the front door and pulled it open. He felt his spark growing inside, warming him against the extreme cold. As Stiles reached the edge of the porch, the wind picked up, swirling around him. Stiles rocked on his feet as he raised his arms, the warmth growing to intense heat in his hands. Sparks flew around his fingers.
He felt Derek’s hand on his back, clenching in the fabric of his shirt, but not trying to stop him, just showing support. Taking a deep breath, Stiles pushed his voice out. “If you think this storm is bad, imagine the one I will release for hurting my mate.” He spoke with great confidence, and he saw Peter looking out one of the windows flinch at the tone.
The wind around Stiles spun faster, and Derek’s grip tightened as Stiles’ feet left the ground. His focus shifted slightly as he pictured himself as Storm fighting for the X-Men. Quickly bringing his mind back to where it needed to be, he pushed the heat out of his fingertips, smiling as it cut through the wind around him.
“One last chance!” he roared, the trees closest to the house shuddering under the power of his voice. Derek’s phone began to ring, and Stiles knew his voice had carried to his father at his home.
As quickly as the winter storm came on, it died down—the air warming around them to a normal temperature for California that time of year. The wind around Stiles died down, and he alit on the porch again, collapsing back against Derek. Scooping him up into his arms, Derek carried Stiles into the house and laid him on the couch in the living room. He pulled blankets over him.
“You need to stop wearing yourself out,” Derek scolded, running a hand through Stiles’ hair.
“You need to stop getting yourself attacked,” Stiles countered.
Derek glanced over his shoulder at Peter hovering in the living room’s opening. “Well, it wasn’t completely unprovoked. At least, not by me.”
Stiles struggled to sit up and glare over Derek’s shoulder where Peter had ducked his head, looking sheepish. He could feel his spark growing again and let out a low growl, sending a thunderous rumble through the room. Peter stumbled back a couple of steps, eyes wide before he took off running, the front door slamming after him.
“Smart move,” Stiles mumbled before falling back onto the couch. He made grabby hands until Derek maneuvered himself to sit behind him, back against the arm of the couch and Stiles against his chest.