Chapter Text
Stiles bursts into the living room, all but collapsing into his father’s warm embrace. The older man grunts a little at the force of the impact, but otherwise remains quiet. Stiles can feel his father’s confusion settling over them, and he wants to offer his dad an explanation for his sudden hug attack, but right now, he's only focusing on soaking up all the comfort he can.
“You want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?” The Sheriff asks. He sounds hesitant and unsure, and Stiles just shrugs, trying to sink deeper into the embrace.
“I just want this,” Stiles mumbles. He knows his dad probably can’t hear him considering the fact that his face is buried in his dad’s shoulder, but some of the emotion must bleed through because his dad just holds him tighter.
The next morning, Stiles feels content just ignoring his not-quite death and the emotional moment with his father that followed, but John must not get the memo. He stares at Stiles all through breakfast, his lips twisted in concern.
After what feels like an eternity, the Sheriff speaks, “Kid,” he begins, his hand somehow finding its way to Stiles's own hand. “You know that you can trust me with anything, right?”
Stiles eyes his father’s larger, much hairier hand, that’s resting on top of his. For a moment, he considers slipping his hand out of his father’s grasp, but when he sees the seriousness in the Sheriff’s face, he decides it might be better to leave it there.
“You know that you can tell me anything, right?” the Sheriff adds. He tightens his grip on Stiles’s hand, and the younger man tries not to squirm too much in his seat.
Stiles wants to confide in his dad. He would love nothing more than to just lean his head on his father’s shoulders and just release some of the weight that’s been resting on his shoulders. But when he sees the concern on his dad’s face, he can’t bring himself to tell the truth. How could he if he knows that the truth would probably send his father into a cardiac arrest?
Steeling himself, Stiles opens his mouth, prepared to lie, but the Sheriff is already raising a hand to stop him. “I can tell when you’re about to lie to me,” he admits quietly, eyeing his son with disappointment.
Stiles swallows, still unable to convince himself to tell the truth, even with his father’s disappointed gaze settling on him. “You remember how after I was kidnapped, I told you about Scott’s...er...furry problem.” There’s a pause where the Sheriff nods his head, his eyes tracking Stiles’s every movement. “Well, I’m just worried about the alphas and whether or not they’re going to try something else.”
There’s a heavy silence, and Stiles winces when he feels the Sheriff’s arms wrap around him. He feels unbelievably guilty at lying to his dad like that, but what is he supposed to do? He can’t just say: “guess who died last night?” No, he isn’t going to do that to his father. He’d blame his emotional rollercoaster on anything and everything if it means that the Sheriff doesn’t have to hear about the gruesome ways Stiles has died. Guilt be damned.
“Don’t worry, son,” John murmurs. His grip tightens on Stiles for just a brief moment before he slowly pulls away. “We’re going to catch them.”
Stiles shuffles through his first two classes on autopilot. His mind is still struggling to comprehend the fact that for the first time in his entire life he’s managed to lie to his dad. He isn’t sure if he feels guilty about the lying, or if he feels guilty because he feels good about lying. Either way, he’s still a piece of shit son.
Scott seems to pick up on Stiles’s mood easily enough. He allows Stiles to mope for the next few periods, but he puts his foot down once lunch starts.
“You sure you’re OK?” Scott asks as they shuffle through the slow moving lunch line.
Stiles forces himself to smile. “I don’t think anyone who’s forced to eat this lunch is OK,” he jokes as the lunch lady plops a spoonful of something onto his plate. Hesitantly, Stiles pokes at the food with his fork, ignoring Scott’s exasperated sigh.
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Scott complains. He follows Stiles to a table where Lydia’s already sitting.
Lydia, god bless her soul, starts talking the second she sees them, preventing Scott from getting another word in, “I don’t know where you two have been, but the alpha pack is getting bold.” She pops a sorry excuse for a french fry in her mouth before continuing, “They’ve enrolled those steroid twins. I even have AP Bio with one of them.”
“They’re smart enough to take AP Bio?” Stiles asks, still poking at his own food.
“Knowing how under qualified the teachers are, anyone with half a brain cell can take AP Bio,” Lydia retorts. She flips a strand of strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, her lips pursing in disgust. “How much worse can this get?”
Stiles understands her frustration. It was only last night that those demon twins tried to kill him, and now, they’re going to be hanging out at his high school. He must've really fucked up in a previous life.
Scott frowns. “I’m guessing it’s going to get a lot worse,” he mumbles, guilty looking over at Stiles, and seriously, what did Scott do now?
Stiles must be making a face because somehow Scott manages to look even guiltier. Good.
“Well, you know,” Scott mumbles. He glances over at Lydia who’s giving him an unimpressed stare. “Derek says the pack should be watching you at all times because Deucalion’s interested in you.”
Stiles wrinkles his nose, “Ugh, you made it sound like Deucalion wants to bone me or something.”
And now Stiles is picturing Deucalion seductively lying across a bed, whispering, “Draw me like one of your French girls.” That’s probably going to scar for life.
Lydia, unaware of Stiles's mental dilemma, is raising an eyebrow. Her eyes are glinting mischievously, and her lips are twisted into a-- oh shit, Stiles knows this look.
“Oh really,” Lydia coos. She leans forward, putting her weight on her elbows. “Deucalion is interested in you,” she grins, and Stiles swears he can hear the sounds of small children crying. “I wonder if it’s because of your immortality.”
Scott frowns, an honest-to-God look of confusion washing over his face. “Why else would he be interested in Stiles?” Scott turns to look at his best friend. “Why else would he be interested in you?”
Stiles opts to just send Scott a sympathetic look instead of dignifying his question with a response.
Lydia, ever the wise woman, just plows on, “I think that if we want to get the alphas off our backs, we need to learn as much as we can about Stiles. I heard from Allison that your powers manifested, but we still need to hone them.”
“Oh,” Stiles fidgets. “I don’t really want to hone them.”
Lydia raises an eyebrow.
“What?” Stiles cries, indignant. “I almost killed those muscle twins; forgive me if I’m a little wary.”
Scott sighs. “I think that’s why she wants you to learn control, bro. What if you power on during a lacrosse game?”
Stiles pictures it. He can practically hear parents and kids screaming as the beams of light erupt out of palms. He sees Scott burning into a crisp and Allison’s dad having to put a bullet in his head just to stop him.
He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I have to get to class.” He mumbles, not caring that the next class doesn’t start for another ten minutes.
Behind him, he can hear Lydia calling out, “Think about it Stiles.”
Stiles is still thinking about his conversation with Lydia when he’s trudging to his jeep at the end of the day. He’s bailing on lacrosse practice in favor of moping around and pretending that he doesn’t have weird super powers.
He makes it all the way to his jeep before Lydia intercepts him. He takes one look at her, and prepares to defend himself for choosing to avoid the problem at hand, but instead, his finds himself shrinking beneath her glare.
“So?” She asks. She folds her arms across her chest, and he sighs.
He knows that he’s supposed to say yes, that he’s supposed to be really excited that he’s finally upgraded from being the pack human to being useful, but still. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for this. If he decides to go down the superhero path, then he’s going to be dragging his dad down with him, and Stiles doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to handle Deucalion going after his father.
He can practically hear his mother tsk-ing in disapproval as she murmurs, “Kochaine, sweetheart, you know what you need to do.”
The thought brings with it a pang of sadness that leaves Stiles’s head spinning. Did his mother have to make a choice like this? Was she like him? Why wasn’t her powers enough to save her?
Stiles shakes his head, trying to rid himself of those thoughts. He knows what he’s going to do. “I’ll let you train me,” he says. His voice comes out steadier than he thought it would, and he feels a momentary flash of pride.
Lydia smiles, and Stiles thinks for a moment that she probably knew his answer before he even knew his answer. Normally, Lydia’s strange intuition would frighten him, but today, he just finds it comforting.
“We have work to do, Stilinski,” Lydia sing-songs. “Specifically, you have homework to do.”
It’s a testament to their budding friendship that Stiles barely looks up when Derek climbs in through his window. He just grunts out a hello before flipping to the next page in his book.
“Isn’t that the book Deaton showed us?” Derek asks. He leans over Stiles’s shoulder to watch him take notes, his fingers grazing against the inside of Stiles’s wrist.
Stiles’s hand falters for a moment. He eyes Derek’s fingers with interest, wondering if the older man is aware that he’s caressing his wrist. Unable to speak due to the sudden dryness in his mouth, Stiles nods his head.
“Do I want to know how you got that book from Deaton?” Derek’s voice sounds rough, and his lips are practically caressing Stiles’s ear.
Stiles feels his body shudder, and he closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath. “Actually, Lydia got the book from him,” His voice sounds way too high, but Derek, thankfully, chooses to ignore it.
“Do I want to know how Lydia got that book from Deaton?” Derek jokes.
“Probably not,” Stiles responds.
Derek’s fingers trace one last circle on the inside of Stiles’s wrist and then he pulls away. Stiles tries not to show too much disappointment as he watches the older man walk across the room to sit on his bed.
Silently, Derek kicks his shoes off and peels off his leather jacket before lying down. He lets out a low moan of appreciation when his back hits the mattress, and the sound goes straight to Stiles’s dick.
Stiles struggles to turn his focus back to the book. He was doing so well until Derek showed up. How could anyone expect him to focus with Derek touching him or rolling around on his bed. Stiles thought that after everything they’ve been through, he’d be used to having close contact with Derek, but nope. He just keeps on making a fool out of himself.
“What are you expecting to find out?” Derek asks. He sounds like he’s half asleep, and when Stiles glances back, he has to do a double take. Derek’s lazily scratching his stomach, his shirt riding up to reveal his toned abs. Jesus, how does a man like Derek not have any body hair? Does he wax? Shave?
“Um,” Stiles responds, eloquently.
“We already read the section on you,” Derek rolls over, giving Stiles a perfect view of his ass. “It didn’t say much.”
Stiles blinks, still staring at Derek’s god-like bottom. “Uh. Lydia’s got me reading up on the different species who were also thought to be immortal,” he mumbles. “She wants to be sure that I’m actually immortal and not just some really powerful fae.”
“And then what?”
“I have to start digging through my family history,” Stiles responds. He sighs, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I have to find out if there were any others like me, and whether or not they can guide me.”
Derek makes a hum of approval. “Have you talked to your dad about it?”
Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, of course I did,” he responds sarcastically. He was barely able to tell his dad about werewolves; how was he going to admit that he’s been murdered?
“He can help you, Stiles,” Derek argues.
“Yeah because every dad wants to help their kid reattach their severed limbs,” Stiles bites back. He remembers how stressed his father was when Claudia was in the hospital. There is no way he's putting his father through that.
“You’re just going to snoop around?”
“You have a better option?”
Derek shrugs, burying his face in the one of Stiles’s pillows. He stays like that for a moment and then he mumbles, “Your father is home. He brought a pizza.”
“Cool,” Stiles stands, the argument already forgotten. “Do you want to eat with us?” He pauses to nudge Derek’s leg. “I’m sure my dad won’t mind.”
“I’ll just stay up here,” Derek responds quietly.
Stiles nods in response, trying to stamp down the disappointment that’s slowly rising in his chest. It isn’t like he deserves to feel disappointed. He and Derek are just really close acquaintances. Nothing more.
Stiles heads downstairs, forcing a smile when he enters the kitchen. “Hey, dad,” he greets the sheriff warmly.
“Give me a hand here, son,” The sheriff responds. He’s balancing a two liter bottle of Diet Pepsi and an extra large pizza in his hands. Obediently, Stiles grabs the soda, and the Sheriff offers him a thankful smile as he drops the pizza onto the counter.
Once his hands are free, he rounds on his son. “Is that Derek’s Camaro parked outside?” Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but his father holds up a hand to stop him. “Better question: should I be concerned about Derek parking his Camaro here?”
“What?” Stiles tries his best to look affronted by the question. “Why are we assuming that the Camaro should be equated with feelings of concern?” Stiles asks. He busies himself with grabbing the plates, so that he doesn’t have to see the sheriff’s reaction. “Perhaps, the Camaro should be equated with feelings of relief and joy.”
The sheriff squints as if he’s struggling to make sense of what Stiles has just said. “Are you dating Derek Hale?”
“Oh my God, no.” Stiles tries to hide his blush by ducking his head as he sets the plates on the table..
“Do you want to date Derek Hale?” The sheriff asks.
Why can’t the ground just swallow him whole and take him away from this embarrassment. “Dad, Derek is here because we think we found a way to defeat the alpha pack.”
The sheriff sits, already snatching up a slice of pizza. Stiles watches his dad chew, deciding that now would probably be a bad time to mention that his dad should be watching his diet. Instead, Stiles just shovels his own piece into his mouth.
“So,” the sheriff begins, finishing his first slice. “I should be concerned.”
“Dad-”
“I’m just saying,” he interrupts. “I doubt that you’ll be staying out of harms way.”
Stiles shrugs. He doesn’t feel like lying to his dad. “Hopefully, everyone can stay out harm's way, but realistically...”
The sheriff just nods his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. His eyebrows are tightly drawn together, and Stiles knows that he’s managed to stress his father out.
“Actually, Dad,” Stiles begins, thinking that now is a good time to change the subject. “Have you ever met mom’s family? Or spoke with them?” He ducks his head down so that he doesn’t have to see the face his father makes in response to the questions.
The sheriff puts his slice of pizza down. Stiles can feel the weight of his stare from across the table, but he doesn’t dare to look up.
“I’ve met them once or twice; they didn’t enjoy my company too much. You know this.” the sheriff responds quietly.
Stiles nods his head. He tries to swallow the inevitable lump in his throat that comes from talking about his mother. “I just have some questions for them.” Hesitantly, he raises his head to face his father.
The sheriff’s eyes are glazed over like he’s looking right through Stiles. His jaw is clenching and unclenching, and Stiles watches as his fingers grip the table top. He’s about to tell his dad to just forget it when the sheriff finally speaks.
“You want to know about your mother?” He asks, voice sounding as though he’s a few moments away from tearing up.
“Yeah...well, kind of,” Stiles fidgets uncomfortable with the somber mood. “I want to know more about my family history. I’ve never really met any of them besides my crazy babcia.”
The sheriff sighs. “Your mother,” he pauses to clear his throat, “she kept a detailed family tree. It should be in the basement.”
“Oh,” Stiles stands up. “I’m going to go check that out if that’s OK?”
Stiles moves to go to the basement, but the Sheriff puts a hand on his arm to stop him. Stiles freezes, raising a questioning eyebrow.
“Bring some food upstairs for the Hale kid, OK?”
Half an hour later, Stiles manages to drag two boxes of papers and journals, a plate of pizza, and glass of Pepsi up two flights of stairs. Derek, the unhelpful bastard, lazily eyes Stiles as he enters his bedroom.
“Oh no, Derek,” Stiles’s voice drips with sarcasm, “don’t stand up. I’ve got it. It isn’t like I’m just a fragile human, and you’re a fully capable werewolf.”
Derek grunts out a half hearted response.
“Yeah, fuck you too. I hope you choke on that food,” Stiles complains. He dumps the boxes and food onto his cluttered desk, too tired to care when a few drops of Pepsi spill onto his math homework. Who knew a few papers could be so heavy?
Derek sits up, sniffing the air with interest. “Is that pepperoni?” he asks as he slowly stands up.
Stiles shoots him a glare. Now, he decides to get up?
Derek shuffles over to the desk sleepily; his fingers absentmindedly scratch at his stomach. With his free hand, he snatches up the pizza greedily devouring it in two bites.
“You eat like a wildebeest,” Disgust colors Stiles’s tone.
Derek shrugs before going for the Pepsi. “What’s in the boxes?” he asks once he’s downed half the glass.
Mirroring Derek’s earlier actions, Stiles just lifts his shoulders. “It’s just some family history.”
Saturday morning, Stiles crams himself into a small diner booth across from Lydia. He blearily blinks down at the menu, the words failing to make sense to his sleep addled brain. He had spent the previous night reading his mom’s detailed notes on their family history until seven in the morning. Then, after sleeping for a mere twelve and a half minutes, he received a text from Lydia telling him to meet her at the diner. Normally, Stiles would’ve ignored the text, but his fear of Lydia (shut up, she’s scary) forced him out the bed.
Lydia nurses her small cup of hot chocolate, tapping her manicured nails against the table. Her piercing brown eyes have not left his since he sat down, and he’s starting to fidget.
“So,” finally, she speaks, “how did your research go?”
Stiles frowns, staring down at his own cup of hot chocolate. “Not well,” he admits. He rubs the back of his neck as he meets Lydia’s gaze. “It was a dead end.”
Lydia purses her lips. “Your dad didn’t have any insight?”
“No,” he responds not bothering to mention that he never asked his dad about the supernatural side of the family. “I read up on all our family history, and it turns out that everyone was just a regular schmuck.”
Lydia digests this information as she takes a small sip of her drink. “I guess we have to work from scratch.” She digs around her purse before pulling out a small notepad and a pencil. “Let’s start with your powers. Right now that’s the most important part.”
“What’s the second most important part?”
“Don’t get off topic, Stilinski,” Lydia warns. She flips her notepad open to a page filled with questions. “When did your powers start to manifest?.”
Stiles frowns. “The night that those two demon twins attacked me.” He pauses and then, “Unless by powers you meant my unnatural ability to come back from the dead. That happened when I was thirteen.”
“What triggered your powers that night with the twins?” she asks scribbling something down.
“Um."
Lydia raises an eyebrow, “How did you feel when your powers were triggered? What were you thinking of?” She rephrases the question.
“I was scared,” Stiles admits. “Those demon twins were going to kill me.”
Lydia scribbles something down in her notebook, humming to herself. Stiles watches her movements with interest. He wonders what exactly she’s writing down.
“I feel like I’m in therapy,” Stiles jokes. When Lydia raises an eyebrow, he adds, “Since you’re writing everything down.”
Lydia rolls her eyes, “Well, I need to document everything perfectly if we want to figure this out before Deucalion. If you have any weakness or any way you can die without coming back, we need to know it and we need to prevent the alphas from figuring it out.”
Stiles nods his head. Her reasoning is logical, and it sends him into a brief moment of panic. What if they didn’t figure out his weaknesses before Deucalion? What if the next time he dies, he doesn't come back to life?
Sensing his distress, Lydia places her hand over his. “Stiles,” she speaks soothingly, “don’t worry. The pack will protect you.”
Once Stiles calms down, Lydia continues her interrogation.
“How much do you think Deucalion knows?”
Stiles shrugs. “I’m not too sure,” he mumbles. “He knows that I can’t die and that my hands can emit light.”
“Speaking of light,” Lydia flips a few pages until she lands on one filled with notes. “I think your element might be fire, but we’ll have to do tests to be sure.” She pauses to close the notebook and gently places it back into her purse. “Anything else we need to talk about?”
“Um,” Stiles blinks.
“Good,” Lydia grins. “Give me a ride home.”
Stiles drives around aimlessly. He thinks about driving home, if only to take a quick nap, but the thought of sitting alone his house, convinces him to drive deeper into town. He’s about to pass the flower shop for the third time when he decides to simply get out and walk. He parks haphazardly on the street, too wound up to care about potential parking tickets. He squints as he clambers out of the car then he’s off walking down the street. Occasionally, he pauses to rub the back of his neck before continuing on his way.
Eventually, he stops outside of a small apartment building. He recognizes it as Derek’s building, and he doesn’t hesitate to let himself in with the spare key Derek gave him.
Derek is camped on his sofa with a crossword puzzle when Stiles finally wanders into the loft. The older man grunts out a hello, not bothering to look up.
“I hope you didn’t walk here alone,” Derek calls out.
“How did you know I walked?” Stiles responds, not bothering to lie to Derek. He disappears into Derek’s kitchen, reemerging later with a can of rootbeer.
“I didn’t hear your car pull up,” Derek retorts. He lowers his puzzle as Stiles settles beside him on the sofa. “I also didn’t hear anyone walking with you.”
Glancing at Derek over the edge of his rootbeer can, Stiles shrugs. “So what if I came here alone?”
“You know it isn’t safe,” Derek scolds him.
Stiles shrugs again, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Sorry,” he mutters.
Derek places a comforting hand on the back of Stiles’s head. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again,” he says it so quietly that Stiles almost doesn’t hear it.
“I won’t,” Stiles responds, “I promise.”
Derek laughs as he tosses his puzzle onto the coffee table. “Good. You want to watch a movie?”
Stiles nods his head, unable to tear his eyes away from Derek’s smile. He knows it’s rude to stare, but Derek rarely allows himself to have moments where he’s relaxed and smiling. Stiles wants to freeze time so that he can take a moment to fully appreciate it.
Derek turns on Iron Man, and Stiles settles in, trying to concentrate on the film. Halfway through, Isaac comes in with Scott and Allison tow, closely followed by Lydia. The four of them crowd onto the sofa with Stiles and Derek, screaming over the movie. Stiles wishes he could be annoyed by the interruption, but one look at his friends, and he’s smiling with them.
Stiles wakes up with his face buried in Scott’s armpit and Isaac’s legs thrown across his back. He wriggles from underneath Isaac, careful not to knee Allison in the face or step on Lydia’s hair. Once he’s free from the puppy pile, he shuffles towards the kitchen, hoping to find some food that wasn’t eaten by Scott last night.
Derek stands by the stove, sleepily pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He forces a smile when he notices Stiles. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Stiles yawns. He watches as Derek fumbles with the carton of milk. “I take it that you’re not a morning person.”
“No,” Derek laughs. “I hate being awake before eleven.”
“Why are you awake now?”
Derek shrugs, “I wanted to be awake when the pack starts to leave. Maybe even make them some breakfast.” Derek pauses to yawn. “Do you want some eggs or something?”
Stiles shakes his head. “I need to get home. I didn’t tell my dad where I was, and he’s probably going to flip a shit.”
“Let me walk you to your car,” Derek offers through a mouthful of cereal. “Make sure you don’t get kidnapped. Again.”
Stiles ducks his head to hide his blush. “You were kidnapped too.”
“Whatever.”
The two of them walk in companionable silence with Derek occasionally yawning and Stiles constantly poking Derek in the side to keep him awake. It takes them twice as long to make the walk, but Stiles isn’t going to complain since it means he gets more time alone with Derek.
When they arrive at Stiles’s car, Derek takes the time to hold the door open for Stiles. The younger man smiles, his heart fluttering nervously as he clambers inside the jeep.
“Stay safe,” Derek warns, his eyes narrowing.
Stiles has to fight the urge to run his fingers over the crease between Derek’s eyebrows. “I’ll stay safe,” he promises.