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He finds them by scent, by sound. He finds them swaddled by the cover of darkness, a false safety net considering the monsters of Beacon Hills only seem to operate during the night hours. Derek knows this, knows that he is needed back with the pack he left behind. Needed to uncomplicate things. It’s how he prefers them.
Simple.
Things either are or they are not.
People either are or they are not.
If things, people, get too tangled, his instinct is to untangle. From the mess, from each other—forcibly.
Often violently.
It’s simpler that way. Easier to tell where the line is drawn when the sides are illustrated in blood.
Things got complicated beforehand. In Mexico.
He remembers bleeding amongst the dirt and sand and chaos of battle. Derek’s heart—traitorous organ—pulsed with selfish, complicated want; each beat a desire flowing unchecked into the open and Derek’s body a sieve slumped against the flesh-warmed rock, growing colder by the minute .
And Stiles...
He stood there, witnessing Derek’s shirt and skin stain with blood; with naked need of comfort—all of the secrets the man kept bottled inside now exposed. Stiles stood there, looking like maybe he wanted to complicate things.
But Derek’s brain had co-opted his mouth before his heart could—it wasn’t up to task anyways, bleeding life force and emotion and insecurity unstaunched and wholesale.
He made an attempt to harden his face and Derek’s mouth said, No.
His mouth said, Go.
He said, Save Scott.
Stiles teetered, he anguished, and he left Derek there. Simple.
Until he looked back.
And Derek again felt confusing emotions beginning to complicate the situation, leaving him no choice but to brutally uncomplicate things again.
He became a wolf.
He ran.
No, Derek Hale will not hear arguments to the contrary about his past decisions.
Now, he finds them as easily as if he hasn’t been away, as if he still has a place with the pack: well earned and deserved after all they've been through. But he so clearly has been away and the evidence before him is messy.
They are clustered in the high school library, because of course they are. Of course he must be dragged back to this infantile prison that commands the entire pack's lives. Derek Hale has stopped questioning exactly which wall he’ll find this ragtag pack against; they often fight better that way, with their backs against the wall, no where else to go. But the library—the high school library, Jesus Christ—is a makeshift base if he’s ever seen one. There are large windows lining an entire wall and not enough secret nooks to cower or stalk in despite the shelves of books, something he’s sure both the chased and horny teenagers lament. Everything is too visible, too on display. There’s probably a state or federal law about enclosed spaces involving adults and minors needing visibility or something.
Amongst the carefully situated tables and chairs, there are some new faces and some old faces and some faces he has seen before briefly but has no interest in getting to know. He wasn’t interested in any of them when this all started, to be honest.
The atmosphere is charged—they are being hunted and a majority of them have agreed to do something rash. He can tell by the look of idiotic determination on Scott’s face; the weight of his alpha rank luring the others in, too. One man—boy—Derek’s not sure, seems awfully gleeful at what’s going on. He wears a shit-eating grin on his face that makes Derek want to strike him down for some reason. The two, Scott and this man-boy, seem to be at the center of everything, plotting, while others orbit past again and again while peppering in questions at random. And then the orbit stops spinning at the sound of his boots. He didn’t want to take them by surprise, to raise their hackles.
They watch him walk in, curious to what part he will play, what information he will reveal and disseminate to the pack, to their leader.
They expect Derek Hale to help unequivocally.
Babies.
He looks for Stiles, surprised to not see him in the thick of it, when he at last spots him. In the back, perched on top of the circulation desk and separated from the table groupings and also the people groupings, the only man Derek trusts has found a way to not hide exactly, but to be overlooked. Derek doesn’t overlook him, but from his tabletop seat in the corner, Stiles keeps his eyes averted. He refuses to acknowledge the surprise appearance and his scent is sour with remorse, with anguish. Anyone could see it if they really look.
The man is simmering in shame.
He is uncharacteristically quiet. It is that more than anything that keeps Derek’s hands in his pockets, to hide his intentions, the claws of his right hand already extended and engaged, waiting.
“Derek!” Scott greets, still a perpetual puppy. “You’re here! God, you’re just what we need.” Scott turns to the smug person to introduce him. But Derek doesn’t need an introduction to know what this man baby is. He stands easily and comfortably next to Scott while the person Derek would trust his life with vibrates with hope and regret in the back corner of the darkened library, ignored and outside of the pack perimeter. If Stiles is the canary in this situation, then that only means the man next to Scott is a cuckoo. An infiltrator.
“Derek, this is Theo,” Scott says, oblivious.
Theo, the cuckoo, gives an entitled jerk of his chin in acknowledgement and holds out his hand with a haughty, self-possessed manner. Derek ignores the proffered hand and instead moves without warning.
The uproar is deafening—shouts and growls and transformations but all of it comes too late. Derek’s already slammed Theo’s head onto the table littered with maps and injects his claws expertly into the back of the cuckoo’s neck. The din dies off, a background noise of no importance, as Derek focuses on the images before him and is transported to a basement lair filled with grotesque equipment. Cosplaying-looking steampunkers with a leather affinity—the Dread Doctors he learns through osmosis—enter the narrative and Theo’s mind reveals all: a chimera amongst the wolves, a double agent, a sower of discord. Derek sees Theo work Scott against the one person who stood in Theo’s way: Stiles. The one and only roadblock; the hardest roadblock. He sees Stiles try to tell Scott what Scott refuses to acknowledge or simply cannot compute. Scott pushes him away with vitriol. Derek sees a creature, a monster, Donovan, threaten death to Stiles, to the sheriff. He sees the monster die from his own evil choices. He sees Stiles defend himself from being murdered, and when the villain dies by his own hubris, Derek sees Scott tear into Stiles, yelling at him for debasing himself. To become a villain. Derek sees Scott accuse Stiles of murder, pushing Stiles away. He hears Stiles, over and over, Say you believe me, say you believe me, tell me how to fix this, say you believe me. He sees Scott turning away from Stiles, leaving him in the pouring rain of the moment, unheard, unloved.
Derek’s veins thrum in anger, in outrage.
Unloved.
He feels Theo’s glee at his own success.
Say you believe me.
Derek’s seen enough. Time to uncomplicate this.
He yanks the claws out of Theo’s neck then punches him in the face with everything he’s got. Theo goes down hard, blinded by the sucker punch.
“Bind him,” Derek orders, he’s done with this shit, this ineptitude. “He’s working for those Dread Doctors. He’s infiltrated you.”
When no one moves, he says, “Bind him. Now” with the force of experience, with the force his mother used to project when she was alpha.
Malia moves first, like a child who’s been told she’s allowed to pick out candy at a store. It’s an unexpected surprise to Derek, but the satisfaction on her face tells him this is a long time coming.
Then he walks with purpose to Stiles. He still sits on the circulation desk, perched like a bird with his hands pressed against the smooth mahogany surface, ready to take flight if he needs to, despite knowing he could never outrun the wolves.
Stiles looks afraid.
Derek doesn't know about any future consequences to what he’s about to do. He doesn't care. He marches right up until he’s up in Stiles’ space, just like old times, until the sturdy desktop prevents him from moving any closer. He wraps his arms around Stiles, tugs him gently until he’s pressed against him; Stiles’ own heartbeat pounding against Derek’s sternum. Derek envelopes him with a hug, provides him cover and safety. Derek becomes a haven in that poorly lit high school library. He's surprised at how simple it all is.
"It's not your fault," Derek soothes. And then elaborates, “I saw everything. You did nothing wrong. I believe you,” he whispers to the side of Stiles’ head, just above the ear, his soft, brown hair pressed against Derek’s cheekbone.
Stiles shifts. He buries his face in Derek’s neck and sobs.
And for Derek, it truly is simple. Derek breaks with him.