Chapter Text
“I’ve got a problem,” Derek says by way of greeting when he turns up without warning on the doorstep of his shitty campus apartment in Quantico. It's been almost a year since Stiles has seen Derek, but somehow he’s still not surprised to see him. The older man looks just as good - maybe better - as Stiles remembers and he finds himself oddly annoyed by that fact. (And really, that probably says more about him than anything, because he really should be over his slight infatuation with the older man).
It’s Friday afternoon, and between combat training and trying to finish the written component of his course, Stiles already knows he doesn’t have the energy to deal with whatever the problem is. To say it’s been a long week, is the understatement of the decade. He’s three weeks shy of completing his FBI training and he’s had two straight weeks of twelve hour days. He’s pretty sure his brain is about to dribble out of his ears, and his body hurts in places he didn’t know it could.
“Hi Derek, it’s nice to see you too,” he replies sarcastically. “I’ve been great, thanks for asking. Crushing my training, only three more weeks and I’ll be a certified agent,” he folds his arms and looks at Derek with an impressed glare. The older man looks rightfully chastised and rubs a hand across the back of his neck in what Stiles recognises as an awkward self-soothing gesture. Stiles knows that wolves seek comfort in the touch of others, and he feels a twinge of sadness at the fact that Derek has learned to survive without it.
Still, that twinge of sympathy doesn’t mean he feels particularly inclined to deal with the older man’s “problem.” It’s not that they don’t talk, he probably exchanges more messages with Derek than anyone else in Beacon Hills. (Lydia and his father prefer to call, and Scott… well Scott’s busy being a husband/father/alpha/werewolf/vet/whatever else he’s doing). But Derek has never just shown up on his doorstep before. Or, well, at least not since he moved out of California. So he just knows whatever this problem is will destroy his weekend plans of slobbing on the sofa and eating pizza.
“I’m sorry,” Derek apologizes. Stiles nearly chokes on his own tongue because for however much Derek has softened since his return to Beacon Hills, he can’t remember the older man ever apologizing with such ease. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he adds. The trainee agent feels another jolt of sadness for all that Derek has lost. (The werewolf hides it well but Stiles knows how isolated he sometimes feels, that action of self-soothing is the tip of the iceberg).
“I dunno, Derek, how about Scott?” He feels a pang at the mention of his supposed best friend’s name. He can’t remember the last time they’d spoken? Probably not since Christmas. It’s almost May now.
It’s not even as though they’d fallen out, but Scott’s busy with Malia and Caleb and the rest of their pack. And Stiles… Stiles has his FBI training. He’s been told, of course, that friendships don’t usually make it past High School, but Scott was practically his brother, and now they see each other once or twice a year. It’s hard not to feel regret about that.
“You know, your Alpha?” He prompts when Derek’s answer isn’t forthcoming. He knows that Scott and Derek have a tenuous friendship, but Stiles knows that Scott wouldn’t desert Derek in his hour of need.
The older man flashes red eyes in response.
Well, fuck.
He might not be super close to Scott anymore but they share too much history for him not to care. They will always be brothers even with 2000 miles between them and the thought that something must have happened to him makes his stomach turn. His concern must show on his face because Derek holds out a hand quickly.
“No… Scott’s fine. Your dad, the pack, everyone… no ones in danger.” Derek says too quickly, the words spilling out of his mouth in a rush.
“Jeez, give a guy a heart attack,” he brings his hand to his chest dramatically, only half joking. “So where’s your pack?” Derek looks confused for a moment, and Stiles is just about to ask who he killed when Diaz emerges from his room next door. “You’d better come in,” he says instead and opens his door.
(It’s not until later that he realizes that he’d thrown himself back into the world of werewolves with that action).
It’s not much of an apartment but it’s got a small kitchenette, a bedroom with an en-suite shower and toilet, a place for him to study and a two-seater sofa. He assumes that because the training is so compressed that they don’t need to be anything fancy, so while all of the furniture is well kept and the place is clean, the apartment is fairly sterile. Derek follows him in and stands awkwardly by the door.
Derek looks big and awkward in the small space, as though he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with all his bulk. Stiles tries to recall a time when Derek hasn’t seemed comfortable in his own skin and the only time he can think of is when Boyd died. He swallows the lump in his throat at the memory.
Whatever this problem is, he's definitely losing his weekend.
“Who did you kill?” Stiles asks. It’s abrupt, but he’s tired, grouchy and more than a little bitter about the change in his weekend plans.
“I didn’t?” Derek looks offended. Stiles doesn’t know why, he knows Derek hasn’t taken issue with a bit of murder in the past. Hell, he killed his own uncle in cold blood. Sure, no one was going to cry about Peter’s demise but it just proved that Derek wasn’t against killing when it was necessary. It was one of the things that caused his relationship with Scott to be so fraught.
“So what? You just woke up an alpha again?”
“No, I…” Derek lets out a sigh. Stiles watches his shoulders shift with the action and feels the familiar curl of attraction is in his traitorous stomach. Sometimes he wonders whether Derek understands the effect he has on people. “I didn’t kill an alpha,” he explains. “There was an accident - everyone’s fine.” He says quickly. “Your dad and Lydia were taken,” he says but holds his hands palm down, to non-verbally calm him. “Scott was… Scott wanted to wait but I just…” he drags a hand across his own neck once again in an act of comfort. “It didn’t make sense, and I couldn’t just leave them. But there was a nest and it just… they…” he grimaces. “Something weird happened and now…” he drops his hand and shrugs. Stiles thinks that might be the most words he’s ever heard Derek utter consecutively but he’s pretty sure he stopped actively listening after his dad and Lydia were mentioned.
“Dad…” he says the word like a question, his voice small.
“Your dad and Lydia are fine. A few scrapes and bruises but they’re okay. I, uh,” he looks uncomfortable again, “I thought they might have told you?”
“No one tells me anything these days.” There’s a bitter edge to that sentence that he wishes wasn’t there. His dad had told him in no uncertain terms when he moaned about being out of the loop at Christmas that he was glad Stiles had ‘escaped the curse of Beacon Hills.’ Whatever the hell that means. He wonders whether that’s why Scott doesn’t talk to him so much any more - or whether that’s just a product of the literal distance between them. “I take it Scott wasn’t happy?” He asks after a beat. The alpha wolf didn’t like it when someone went against his plans - even if that person did have more wolfy experience than him. Oddly enough, Stiles thinks bitterly, Scott didn’t seem to see the issue when he was the one going against the plan.
“No,” Derek replies, still standing awkwardly by the door. He’s tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans (how he managed that Stiles doesn’t know because they’re almost painfully tight) and has hunched his shoulders to try and make himself look smaller.
It doesn’t work.
“Hmmm,” Stiles hums in response because he can just imagine how not-thrilled Scott had been at the revelation that Derek was an alpha again. The two had always had a complicated relationship, it was only when Derek gave up his alpha spark that Scott started to accept him. Stiles had asked Derek once, during the summer before his junior year of college, why their relationship had improved while he was gone from Beacon Hills. The older man had explained that Scott no longer saw him as a threat. Stiles had taken exception to that at the time and leapt to his friend’s defense, but time and distance had taught him that Derek was probably correct. Since Derek was an alpha again, Scott would most likely see him as a threat.
“I thought True Alphas were supposed to be really rare? You’re telling me that two werewolves in the pack managed to do it?” Derek fidgets awkwardly in his position by the door. “Dude, sit down already, you're making me nervous.” He gestures to the couch, and goes to retrieve two beers from his fridge. Derek might not be able to get buzzed but it seems rude not to offer him one, and he’s not about to get dragged back into werewolf life without a drink.
He wordlessly hands Derek a beer and sits down next to him on the couch. He tries not to notice how warm his thigh feels where it’s pressed against Derek’s and takes a drink from his beer. The older man has shrugged off his jacket but doesn’t look any more comfortable than when he was standing at the doorway. For a while neither of them say anything. Stiles drinks his beer while Derek picks at the label of his.
“It doesn’t feel the same,” Derek says after a short while but doesn’t look up from where his eyes are trained on the label of his beer bottle.
“Okay,” Stiles says, and because he senses that Derek wants to tell him more but doesn’t know how, he adds. “Why not?”
“Before, with Peter… I needed a pack. I don’t know if I could have controlled it if I wanted to, they gave me power. I felt weak without them.” He admits still picking his label and not making eye contact. Derek has always been stoic and even if he’s gotten better at sharing with Stiles since he graduated high school, he doesn’t take pleasure in it.
“Right,” he prompts.
“This time doesn’t feel like that.” Talk about stating the obvious , Stiles thinks, and only just manages to avoid rolling his eyes.
“Well that’s good, at least I don’t have to worry about dealing with a bunch of leather clad teen wolves,” Stiles, he says sarcastically. He has learned, through sometimes painful experience, that poking the wolf is sometimes the way to get him to loosen up. The newly-turned alpha merely shoots him a look of faux warning eyebrows. Stiles finds himself smiling in response. “So what does it feel like?”
Derek thinks for a moment, rocking the beer bottle between his thumb and finger, as he does. He doesn’t look away though, so Stiles counts it as a win.
“I feel stronger.” Stiles does not look at the way the older man’s gray shirt pulls across his biceps. “My senses are better… I can… it’s hard to explain,” he shrugs. That shirt is doing the Lord’s work , he thinks.
“So what? It’s like another evolution, pokéwolf style?” Stiles jokes in an attempt not to watch the wave of motion of that shrug.
Derek’s ability to complete a full shift was almost legendary - Stiles hadn’t realized just how rare the ability was. After all, one of his first encounters with a werewolf was one who could shift. As it turned out, it was more of a Hale family trait than a common werewolf ability, and he’d witnessed more than one person request the older man to show them the full shift. Derek never complied - he wasn’t interested in showing off. However, in hindsight, Derek’s ability to full shift is probably one of the reasons why Scott kept him on the fringes of the pack.
Either way, Wolf!Derek was just as beautiful as human Derek. Strong and powerful looking with glorious shiny black fur. Intimidating if you didn’t know him, but a comforting presence if you did.
“I don’t know? The shift is different too.” Derek admits.
“How?” Because, color Stiles interested.
“Well it’s… I’m… I’m bigger as a wolf,” Derek says awkwardly and Stiles takes delight in the red hue that climbs up his face. It’s rare for Derek to let his guard down enough to show emotions that can be used against him.
“And I’ve always been told size doesn’t matter,” he replies in fake sadness. He can’t help himself, it’s too easy.
“Stiles!” Derek says, looking up at him and flashing him with a glare. But it’s the one he reserves for people he likes so Stiles continues, unfazed.
“What? Look, you came to me saying you’ve got a problem but nothing you’ve told me sounds particularly problematic.” Derek fixes him with another glare - it’s the shutup and listen one. So he does, while observing how amazing the older man's eyes are. They’re sort-of green, with gray and blue and then some golden flecks and they’re framed by long dark eyelashes. He hates himself a little for how quickly he’s fixating on the older man again but Derek is unfairly attractive.
Unfairly.
He could put models to shame.
“It’s wrong,” he states. “ I’m wrong.” He drags his palm over his jaw. “I’m too strong, too fast… my senses… it’s too much.” He says with a sigh. Stiles is about to make a comment about sensitive Alpha problems, but Derek flashes his eyes and he shuts his mouth immediately because he’d basically been staring into them. “Scott almost attacked me on sight right after and, uh, when I went to request permission to stay here Kyle - the alpha - it was weird,” he says. Stiles downs the rest of his beer - he just knows this isn’t going to be good news.
“Weird how?” He prompts when an explanation isn’t forthcoming. (And Jesus, Derek was really bad at getting to the point).
“He just seemed… concerned.” The non-answer is bordering on evasive.
“I mean, maybe you should have called ahead?”
“I did! I had to make it clear that I didn’t want his pack and I was just visiting a friend. And it was fine, and then when I got here…” Derek trails off.
“When you got here…” Stiles waves his hand for him to continue. Derek sucks at storytelling, he decides as he places his empty beer bottle on the table in front of them.
“We met in a coffee shop, in public as is the custom. And he…” he sighs again, and Stiles can hear the nerves. “He bared his neck to me. He was scared.” If he was still back in High School he might have made a comment about how awesome that was. But he knows now that Derek cares a lot more about what people think about him than he will ever admit. He’s figured out somewhere along the way that the reason Derek acted like a monster those early days was because it was a projection of how he saw himself. The werewolf has worked hard to soften his edges since then, but that old insecurity is still there.
“He was scared of me,” he adds, unnecessarily. High School Stiles might have thought that was awesome but Graduate Stiles understands that Derek doesn’t want to be feared. In fact, it's probably one of the things he fears the most.
In lieu of commenting, Stiles leans over to snag the beer bottle out of Derek’s hands. He takes a long pull of the cold drink. Waste not, want not.
An established alpha bearing their neck at a newly fledged one is a big deal. Stiles’s weekend plans have definitely gone to shit.
“Then he’s an idiot. I’m only human and you don’t scare me,” he says as he pulls the bottle from his lips. Derek offers him a small smile in appreciation.
***
Somewhere between completing the assignment that’s due in for Monday morning, and ordering enough Chinese food to feed roughly six people, he fires off a text to Lydia to let her know about his uninvited guest. He’s not expecting a response straight away, even if they speak often, their schedules don’t always line up.
Derek’s there? Call me.
The response comes through almost straight away. He waits until Derek is in the shower and steps outside before he makes the call. He figures he’ll go and pick up some more beers as an excuse to keep out of earshot. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Derek’s side of the story but he’s old enough to know that truth is a matter of perspective.
The phone rings twice before Lydia answers. “Hi,” he says. Out of all of his friends from Beacon Hills she’s the one who keeps in touch the most so he’s surprised that she didn’t give him the heads up on Derek, especially considering his dad was involved.
“Stiles, how are you?” She says pleasantly. Maybe he should suggest Derek take some lessons from her in how to greet people.
“Dealing with a surprise houseguest,” he says as he walks down towards the stairs.
“Is he okay?” She asks.
“I mean. Physically yes. What happened?” He asks as he jogs down the stairs and makes his way across the quad towards the store.
“There was the wendigo nest. Derek…” she pauses, considering her words. “I don’t know how he did it but he got us out.” She sounds uncharacteristically in awe. (Lydia is an impressive woman and she knows it, for her to deem anyone worthy of praise is a rarity).
“How can you not know?” He asks a little shortly. Having dealt with Derek’s side of the story, he was hoping Lydia would be a little more descriptive.
“There were too many of them. He shouldn’t have been able to get in let alone get us out. But all I know is that when he got to us there were no more Wendigos.” It feels like there’s something she’s not telling him, which leaves him a little confused.
“Huh, so what? He went all John Wick on them?” He tries to imagine Derek storming into the nest and battling the wendigo like some sort of nineties action hero and nearly trips over his own sneakers. He’s not proud of the surge of attraction that flows through his veins.
“Something like that,” Lydia has known him long enough to go along with his descriptions without correction. (Which makes him a little sad because he was hoping for some detailed description of Derek’s epic rescue).
“You know what bothers me the most about this?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, he needs to stop imagining half beaten up Derek running to the rescue for the good of his sanity. “My dad and one of my best friends get attacked and nearly die and the first I hear about it is when Derek shows up on my doorstep.” Once he’s remembered that part, it’s hard not to be a little annoyed.
“We’re both fine and your dad didn’t want you to worry,” she placates. “He wants to keep you out of things, we all do.” He’s almost certain that his dad has been encouraging his continued separation from the pack. It should make him angry but he likes that his dad is still looking out for him even though he’s in his twenties - and it’s not like his friends have to listen to his dad, they’re all adults now.
“Except Derek,” he says.
“Well he couldn’t stay around here. Scott was angry when he saw us with Derek. He just-” Lydia is uncharacteristically flustered. “He just completely flipped - worse than I’ve ever seen him. They had a fight. Malia and Liam got involved. I think the only reason no one got really hurt is because Derek ran away.” There’s the familiar sound of concern in her voice.
“Not like Derek to run away,” Stiles huffs out sarcastically. And maybe he’s held on to some bitterness about the way Derek disappeared off with Cora… and Braeden. He pushes open the door to the store with a little bit too much force in his annoyance and almost sends a stand of chips flying.
“Not from a fight he’s going to win,” she pauses. “Stiles, it was horrible, they just went for him. And me and your dad just had to watch, I thought they were going to kill him but he threw Liam and Malia off like they were nothing. Scott was clawing at him like crazy and then Derek had him by the throat. And… his eyes.”
“Were red, I know.” He picks up an extra six pack of beer and balances his phone up against his ear as he goes to pay.
“Yeah…” she sighs. “That was three days ago, and I haven’t seen any of them since.” Assuming Derek drove, and Stiles assumes he did, that meant that he’d basically driven without stopping. It really was wildly unfair how attractive the older man was, especially when he probably hadn’t slept properly for three days. No wonder he’d been so keen to take a shower.
“Hang on,” he says. Handing over his card and his ID to the sales clerk and waiting for her to cash him up. “Thanks,” he says as the sales clerk passes him back his receipt and cards and he picks up and nestles the beers in his arms.
“Any clue why Scott went postal?” He asks, once he’s out of the store.
“Jackson said he felt something powerful nearby but he didn’t know what it was. And Ethan said that Derek’s always felt different on the packbond to anyone else but he doesn’t know why,” she sounds annoyed by how unhelpful they were. Stiles can relate. It feels like he’s trying to put together a puzzle with half the prices missing.
“Well, we all know how Scott can be when he feels like his authority is challenged.” Stiles wonders whether stubbornness is the root cause of True Alphas because Scott and Derek might be two of the most obstinate people he’s ever met. And it’s not like he’s subservient himself. “Derek said he feels different - that he's a more powerful alpha this time around so at least that tracks with what Jackson said.” It doesn’t explain why Ethan said he feels different, but as a former alpha himself maybe he has some hitherto unseen insight.
“You’ve got three weeks left, right?” She asks, seemingly tangentially but Stiles knows what she’s about to suggest. He was in love with her for so long that he almost always knows how she thinks.
“Yeah, and then I’ve got eight days to get back to San Francisco and get set up.” He knows he’s incredibly lucky to get placed so close to home and he can’t believe how soon he’ll be there. Twenty weeks had seemed like a long time when he started, (and has felt like even longer at times) but it’s gone really quick.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Lydia says. It’s not a question.
Lydia works as an actuary, a job that can be done from anywhere with an internet connection. Stiles still has no clue what she actually does, only that she’s really good at it and it pays ridiculously well. Mainly her job means she is free to travel as she sees fit as long as she can get an internet connection. It means she's been on more vacations since she graduated than anyone Stiles knows.
“Um, I’m not sure I have room.” Strictly speaking he’s probably not supposed to have Derek stay in his room but since Derek is a master creeper he isn’t too concerned they’ll get caught. Lydia, however, draws eyes wherever she goes.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Obviously I’ll get a hotel.”
Obviously, Stiles thinks, sometimes he forgets that they’re all in their twenties these days.
“Fine, call me when you get in.” He says.
“Will do, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” he replies, pocketing his phone and picking up his pace to get back to his apartment.
Derek opens the door as he approaches, and Stiles is thankful for the gesture because he’s still holding 12 beers. The werewolf’s dark hair is still damp from the shower and has darkened the neck of the white T-shirt which is probably supposed to be loose but is clinging to Derek's arms and shoulders in a way that makes Stiles swallow. His feet are bare and he’s wearing soft looking gray sweatpants. Stiles tries to remember if he’s ever seen Derek in anything other than skintight denim but his mind draws a blank.
The older man looks… soft. That’s the only word Stiles can think of to describe him. He’s still a wall of muscle and sharp defined edges but there’s a kindness to his eyes that hasn’t always been visible.
Stiles is so screwed.
“Thanks,” he says as he steps through the open door, choosing to ignore his own thoughts. “I went for supplies,” he adds, pointlessly. Derek raises his eyebrow and cocks his head to the side. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. Apparently Derek can tell.
“You didn’t need an alibi to call Lydia,” he says and Stiles nearly trips over his own feet on his way to the kitchen. “If she’s looking for a hotel the Residence Inn in Fredericksburg is probably the nicest in the area but if she’s staying three weeks we’d be better off getting a rental house in town.” Stiles wheels around to look at him, almost dropping one of the sleeves of beer in the process.
“Did you follow me?” He asks, ready to be indignant.
“Didn’t need to,” Derek shrugs, pointing at his ears. “Like I said, it’s… a lot,” he looks down in shame. “I’m still working on control,” he says. Stiles blinks.
“How much did you hear?” He asks. Derek looks at him with something approaching embarrassment, which means he heard the whole conversation.
“I’m sorry that I worried Lydia and your dad,” he says, which is the biggest non-answer in the world but Stiles understands.
“Both sides?” He squeaks out in disbelief and Derek nods, folding his arms around his chest in what Stiles recognises is a defense mechanism. The action, somehow, makes him look both bigger and smaller. “Fuck,” he swears. Assuming Derek heard the entire conversation that’s a quarter of a mile across a road, with a busy apartment block and traffic and, shit, maybe even gunfire from then range in the mix. “You weren’t joking, Superwolf,” he says.
“It’s not…” Derek’s eyebrows unite. “I was in the shower and I could just hear you. I thought you were still in the apartment until I got out of the shower.” Confusion is a new look on Derek, and Stiles can practically feel the vague sense of panic rolling off him.
Before he can really register what he’s doing he’s deposited the beer on the desk and has pulled Derek into his arms. For a long moment Derek stands stiff as a board, but he doesn’t step back.
“You can hug back, you know? In fact it’s actively encouraged.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek replies. Stiles scoffs and reaches back to pull Derek’s arms around to rest on his back. The older man rests his hands gently on Stiles’s back and rests his chin on his shoulder. Stiles rubs his hands up and down Derek’s back. In the back of his treacherous mind he thinks that High School Stiles would have given his left nut to get Derek this close and this pliant. He resolutely does not think about the way their bodies are slotted together or the heat Derek radiates. “Thanks,” Derek says softly against his neck.
How inconvenient, Stiles thinks.
***