Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Derek knows there’s a problem is when he hears Cage the Elephant’s Sabertooth Tiger and automatically thinks of Stiles. There’s no reason Stilinski should ever casually pop into his mind. If it has to do with finding Scott, searching the internet, or hiding somewhere, sure; but those are important things, moments where survival is paramount. Hanging out in the library -- seriously, some days are just boring, and the library has free internet, unlike the burnt-out shack he lives in. Though he can’t use their computers to do anything related to his actual life for fear someone will notice. Anyway. So. Hanging out in the library, listening to Pandora, is not a time when soft, buzzed brown hair, milk-pale skin, bobbling hands and empty threats should tread on his time. But the words pour into his earbuds, backed by a discordant, driving beat, and Derek can see a smile spreading on a perfectly shaped, annoyingly mobile mouth.

Stiles would probably even drum the air, jamming out, then spend the next half an hour lamenting that it’s the story of his life and all he spends his time doing is running away from pissed-off wolves and fearing for his health, blithely ignoring the irritated were sitting right next to him.

He learned more about the human than he realized in those hours they spent together in the Jeep.

Derek quietly downloads the song onto his iPhone, then spends the rest of the day listening to anything else.

The second time in his life that Stiles is ever really, bone-deep terrified is in the pool. When the idea had occurred to him, to follow Derek down into the water, there’d been no time to consider his options or be afraid. Well, any more afraid than he was already feeling at the sight of an overgrown lizard-dude and a paralyzed alpha wolf. But two hours is a long time. Long enough for the adrenaline to seep away, drowned out by the water and the burn in his bones. His muscles thread with an electric trembling that he knows Derek can sense as their heads bob like wayward buoys. Neither of them talk about it, which isn’t Stiles’s standard operating procedure. However, it’s hard to get words past the snarl of fear sitting deep in his ribcage, sending his head snapping around with every click of scale on tile.

“You should try jogging.”

He sounds so pissed when he says it and they haven’t talked for so long that Stiles can’t comprehend Derek’s words at first. Before he even understands the sentence, his mouth is already replying. “How do you jog in water? I swear I’m kicking my legs, we’d be sinking otherwise, dude. “ Confused, Stiles starts pumping them faster, trying to imitate a jog instead of the out-and-in frog move he was doing before. They immediately start to sink, so it is a wrenching minute or two, full of cursing and water-logged apologies, until Derek can explain.

“No, you idiot. I meant you should start jogging.” Stiles hefts Derek a little higher, inadvertently squeezing his chest; the next words come out a bit breathless and strange. “Increase lung capacity. Make you. More athletic. Less of a loser.”

Mr. Lizard chooses that moment to reappear from the shadows and slink toward the edge, the snick of sound alerting Stiles; he spins both of them, Manzilla hisses, and they continue their sodden stand-off.

“I object to the word loser! If anything, I’m a dyed in the wool klutz. And I’m athletic! I mean, I’m doing a decent job of holding your ass afloat. Not that you appreciate it.”

Derek sarcastically spits out a mini-mouthful of water and stares at Stiles.

“Mostly afloat.” While he jokes, terror inches a little further up his chest, settling hot and heavy over his heart. He wants to live. That’s a thought that runs through his mind a lot these days as he’s threatened with imminent pain and/or death, shoved into walls, doors, and the occasional locker, hemmed in between deluded ex-burn unit victims and their psychotic nurses, or otherwise staring his doom in the face. But this is more. This is the fear he felt when Scott was lost, mauled in the woods; when Lydia was broken, slashed and bloody, on the football field. Sour and dark, it tastes something like the day they knew his mother wasn’t going to make it.

Stiles croaks when he realizes he’s worried Derek is going to die.

Then he bobbles Derek again, trying to play off the weird noise and even weirder realization; the alpha in turn gets pissy, and Stiles is forced to admit, “Okay, I don’t think I can do this much longer.”

His phone is so close to the edge of the pool. Yeah, it’s out of the actual water, but not far out. If he could just call Scott he could get them both out of there. He could get out of there and go talk to Lydia and pretend that the realization he somehow cares for Derek Freaking Hale never happened.

“Don’t even think about it.” Derek spots what Stiles is staring at and rejects the entire idea.

“Can’t you trust me just this once?” His lungs are burning, his limbs are burning, his entire body is burning and it’s half exhaustion and half fear, and that fear is half for the situation and half for the realization, and Stiles is becoming the definition of overwhelmed. So he snaps. “I’m the one keeping you alive, have you noticed that?”

But Derek comes right back, not giving an inch. “And when the paralysis wears off, who’s going to be able to fight that thing, you or me?”

His legs can’t take much more abuse; neither can his heart. They’re bobbing even more, water in and out of their mouths, their eyes. “Don’t you think that’s why I’ve been holding you up the past two hours?”

“If you don’t trust me, I don’t trust you.” Derek’s words are harsh. Harsh and accurate. Derek has saved Stiles more than he’s hurt him, Stiles recognizes that, but there’s always the threat of pain, sometimes outrightly made. It’s hard to build trust on that.

But then, it’s also hard not to trust the person who’s saved your ass when you’re saving their ass, too.

“You need me to survive, which is why you’re not letting me go.”

Caught up in his own mind, on reflection between the phone and the earlier words and the trust and wow how much his legs burn and how Scott is probably off getting his freak on while Stiles drowns, no big deal, Lizard McLizardpants and just -- everything, Derek’s simple sentence clears every last thought out of Stiles’s head.

His mouth gapes open but -- pool water.

It’s just -- he needs Derek to survive. He needs Derek to fight the lizard, to get them out of the stupid pool that reeks like chlorine and unwashed feet. He’s probably drunk a gallon of teenager pee without knowing it. And he may have contributed to the problem just a little around minute seventy-four. But more than that, more than all of that, the pee and pool and even the Lizard, the realization that he isn’t just afraid for himself, that he gives an actual shit about Derek Hale, tells him that he needs Derek to survive.

And he’ll have to deal with whatever that actually means later.

Moving quickly, Stiles slides his shoulder out from under Derek’s armpit and lets him splash into the water. He launches himself toward the edge of the pool while his own name, screamed from the alpha wolf’s lips, echoes around him.

The third time Derek hits Stiles in the face, it’s absolutely necessary. Not that he’s ever punched Stiles when he didn’t have to. Though Stiles might argue the point. But the fact there’s some kind of demented wicked witch running around and she seems weirdly obsessed with the awkward teen makes it more unavoidable than normal. So, after a long and pointless argument, Derek drops him with one blow and, ignoring Scott’s protests and Jackson’s snickering, places him on the mattress that resides on the floor of what used to be his room. Then he locks the door from the outside. He’d installed a deadbolt for just this eventuality.

He slips back in later, after the witch has been dealt with, Scott has disappeared with Allison, Jackson with Lydia, and the rest of the pack to the shell of a house they’re building away from the burnt husk of what used to be his family home. Derek had promised to join them, but he couldn’t leave Stiles unconscious on his bed.

Derek moves to the mattress and nudges it with his boot. Stiles rouses a little, shifting from the stiff position in which he’d been placed to sprawl across the mattress, arms and legs going everywhere. Derek barely manages to hold himself back from making sure Stiles has only two of each. He tries nudging the mattress again. This time, Stiles just mumbles, brow furrowing, before he slides back into sleep.

Dropping to sit on the floor next to him, Derek sighs, head hanging between bent knees. Fighting is grueling; not just because of its physicality, but because of the change. The others don’t realize what it’s like to not only accept the alpha into yourself but then try to control it, to channel it so you don’t become like the one before you who let it further corrupt his mind. Laura had talked about being the alpha very rarely, but enough so that Derek knew to be wary of the strength. Still, he’d needed it. He accepted his decision. He stills does.

That doesn’t wash away the stress of letting that much power rip through him.

“You look tired.”

Stiles’s voice is hazed, glossy with what Derek fears is a concussion. The sleepy smile he sends Derek’s way after the alpha drops his arms and stares pretty much confirms it. Then his eyelids sink down, ebon line of lashes stark against his skin.

“Don’t fall back asleep. Stiles.” Gripping his shoulder, Derek shakes, determined to wake him.

Hands coming up to thwart Derek’s attempts, Stiles frowns, eyes still closed, the movement stretching his skin. “Ow. Ow, ow, ow, leave me alone, my face hurts.” His eyes snap open, locked to Derek’s, and he asks, “Why does my face hurt? And my jaw, why does my jaw hurt? Why does it feel like someone punched … You hit me! In the face! You hit me in the face!”

Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he settles for his usual standby and says nothing.

Scrabbling up to a sitting position, Stiles’s eyes go loopy with the movement and he grips his head to settle it, left hand coming dangerously close to knocking into the spot Derek had to hit. He ends up with his skull leaning against the wall, gaze hot and angry. “If I didn’t feel like I was going to throw up and die, I’d be so mad at you right now.”

Derek turns his face away. They sit quietly for a minute, maybe more.

“Tell me no one is dead. Except maybe the witch, that’d be cool.” She’d already gotten Stiles to drink a possession potion once, something that essentially made him her slave until it wore off. She hadn’t been quick enough ordering him to gulp down another one, circumstance and a wolf pack getting in her way; but Stiles didn’t have fond memories of the time spent trapped in his body, his own will subject to hers.

“We took care of it. Everyone’s okay.”

“Good, good, good. Let me just get a deep breath here, let my head settle, and my stomach, not feeling like passing out, got it all together, and -- what in the hell, man?! You had to freaking hit me to get your point across?” Stiles doesn’t move anything but his eyes, but that is enough. Derek feels pinned, hunted. So he strikes back.

“You never listen! You run around thinking you’re as indestructible as we are when that’s obviously not true!” Derek spins, still sitting, to face Stiles, feeling the alpha rise to pace just under the surface.

“You don’t think I know I’m human? I’m eighteen now, asshat; I’ve kind of assumed I’m human for most of that time. And if I ever forgot, I had some stupid supernatural thing running around throwing it in my face. But I’ve been a part of all this for two years! I’ve earned the right to be possessed or bait or wormfood or whatever I want to be!” The argument is sapping what remains of Stiles’s energy; Derek can see his breathing grow labored, his face flush.

“You can’t be bait, Stiles! Backup. Not bait.”

“Backup! Right, backup, because that’s an option. You never need backup anymore, not now that you’ve got pack and everyone’s getting along. Thought I was pack but apparently not.” The last is said in a mumble they both know Derek will hear.

He slams the flat of his hand into the wall, shaking the structure, sending clouds of dust into the air. “You are pack, Stiles! But that means you listen, follow orders; you don’t just toss yourself into the middle of whatever mess we’re dealing with that week.”

“I wasn’t going to just toss myself into it! I had a plan, she wanted me, we all know it, so I had a plan. Why is that so bad?”

“Because you were going to be bait.”

“And why can’t I be bait?”

Derek slides closer, halfway onto the mattress, his body casting out waves of heat as he leans in toward Stiles, who doesn’t move away. “Because. You’re too easily broken.”

Stiles looks stunned, then turns his head toward Derek’s, his mouth fascinating the alpha. “That’s crap and you know it. I’ve been around this for years. This is how it goes. Something crazy shows up and we deal with it. However we have to.” He waits until Derek’s eyes flick up to his, the red growing in their depths. “You can’t keep me out of it.”

“I can.” The words come out in a low, rolling growl.

Stiles’s tongue flashes as he licks his bottom lip. Derek watches the movement avidly, entranced by the slick of spit left behind. “Why would you want to?”

Derek leans in just a little closer. It’s so close, this thing they’ve both avoided, this thing that he’s ignored. The tension, the heat, he can already taste Stiles on his tongue, a ghost of what’s within his grasp.

“Holy shit! They do totally want to bone!”

They scramble away from one another, Derek landing on his feet while Stiles grows discombobulated again and faceplants on the mattress, groan holding more than a hint of shame. Erica and Isaac smirk at them from the doorway, Boyd, Danny, and the others crowded into the hall behind them. Derek can’t believe he didn’t hear or smell them coming; he was too caught up in Stiles, in this thing he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to successfully push all the way down again.

But he can, at least, for the night. “I’m leaving. Isaac, call Scott and make sure he gets Stiles back to his house. And don’t let him sleep.”

With that, he shoves through his pack and heads for the stairs; but Derek can’t resist one look back. He times it perfectly to see Stiles just before his face turns toward to the wall. There's something like sadness, or maybe just resignation, written on his features.

Derek hunches his shoulders and escapes.

The fourth time they almost kiss, Stiles doesn’t even bother to hide his boner. He figures if Derek can’t handle it, let him say something. At least it would put an end to the awkward whatever-the-hell-they’re-doing that’s stretched out over the past two and a half years. Four and a half, if he’s being honest. So he lays back on his bed, the same one that’s been his for forever; the sheets smell vaguely of sweat and Gain, which makes him think of his mom -- the detergent part, not the sweat part -- because his dad has just kept buying an exact copy of the box that was sitting on top of the washer when she died. Once, after two days of sucking in the smell and never actually sleeping, he searched an online thesaurus, trying to figure out exactly how it made him feel. He settled on bittersweet, though wistful was a close second.

Derek is seated at the end of the mattress, and Stiles can’t help but consider how many times they’ve done this. Not the -- not just the almost kissing, but the sitting in his room, fighting or researching or hiding out. This hasn’t been his day-to-day home in a while; that title goes to the apartment he shares with Scott and Allison. But it will always own a piece of him. And he’s beginning to come to terms with the fact Derek Hale will, too.

“Is it healing?” They’d been in a fight that had left them scattered, everyone to their separate corners and Jackson to the hospital. But they’d all checked in. Somehow Derek and Stiles had ended up together at Stiles’s father’s house, Derek’s shirt off and ribcage sliced open, all the way to the bone. Stiles had insisted on staunching the blood, trying to wrap gauze around it, which had left him too close to Derek’s skin, which had led to the almost kissing and the Derek refusing to look at him and the maudlin reflections and the stupid questions.

“Of course it’s healing.” And, naturally, also led to the lovely, growling, are-you-a-moron-ha-why-am-I-even-asking-the-question tone in Derek’s voice.

“Good. Glad to see your superhuman powers are still intact.” Stiles swallows, loud and hard. “I hope Jackson’s are, too. I mean, did you see when he got hit? That was brain matter, right?” Derek doesn’t respond. “That’s what you say, you don’t say I saw his skull fly off and his insides shoot all over, you say brain matter, clinical, it’s better that way. I think I learned that on CSI.”

“Allison said he would be fine.” Derek’s voice cuts through the rambling, not inviting future discussion. Stiles watches as his fists clench tight on his thighs, knuckles straining white and hard, bone through skin. He hates this. He knows Derek hates this. When they're together, there's no relaxing, no unwinding; instead there's just a constant build-up of tension that eventually explodes in their faces. They’re in an endless loop, pulled together but unable to close the circle.

They sit in silence that fills with everything they aren’t saying until Stiles feels smothered by it.

“I know what your tattoo means.” He has no idea why he says it, except he’s been staring at Derek’s back, and it’s there, and why not.

The alpha’s head slowly turns toward him, eyes shielded.

“Triskelion, right? Celtic. It can mean a lot of different things. Anything with a triad meaning, like past-present-future, or mother-father-child.”

Derek shrugs, which sends Stiles up toward him, suddenly sitting, suddenly intent. It’s not a game anymore. Not just something to say. Stiles knows what it means. He knows.

“But for you it’s more, isn’t it? It’s who you are. Who the pack was. What you have to remember them by. It’s kind of like the cycles of the moon, it could mean that, and maybe that’s one of its meanings. But it’s not the right one. The real one.”

Derek leans forward, face set and hard. Stiles can’t tell if he’s angry and wants him to shut up or is just listening really, really intently. But there’s no way he’s going to stop now. There’s no possible way. “The real cycle is birth, death, rebirth, isn’t it? You die as a human and come back as a were.” Derek’s brows lower, but Stiles doesn’t care. He comes closer, licks his lips, inhales hard. Sweat and Gain and aging wood; dark, freshly turned soil and bergamot; the herbaceous scent of tea; the tinny bite of blood; the smells of his room, the smells of him, of Derek. “But you got stuck. Or you think you did. They died and you died, and some part of you has moved on and formed a pack, but you didn’t rebirth yourself. You don’t think you deserve it because it’s your fault they died, so you’ll build a pack to remember them by but that’s it, just remember them, not live yourself. And you shoved it into your skin so you’d never forget. You’ll never forget and you won’t move on and you are such a freaking asshole, Derek, because you’re alive, you jerk, you’re alive.”

Derek’s mouth is on his, finally fucking on his, and Stiles leaps at the chance, at the taste, opening his lips to nip and lick at Derek’s; he snarls but doesn’t give an inch, pushes back, and their eyes are both open and Stiles can see the rich, ripe crimson building around Derek’s pupils, swirling around them, and there’s the first slip of fang along his lower lip, teasing, and his eyes slam closed. The flavor of Derek is strangely sweet, like cherries dripping dark chocolate, and it takes over Stiles’s mouth as does Derek’s tongue, thrusting and twisting. Stiles sucks on it, sucks it in, and Derek’s hand grips Stiles’s thigh, nails elongating just enough to prick, just enough that Stiles can feel it through the denim of his jeans. The heat of Derek’s bare torso is right fucking there, burning straight into Stiles’s skin, and he groans, long and low, the sound trapped between them.

Derek suddenly pulls away.

“No, nope, don’t -- ” Stiles follows Derek’s mouth, chasing it, and yanks him back in with a palm to the nape of his neck.

“Stiles.”

His own name is hot against his lips, and he smiles, just a little, finally letting go but only enough so that their foreheads can lean together, noses brushing. Stiles breathes. He just breathes, his body relaxing; he can scent Derek in the air even more strongly now, and it makes him so fucking happy he can’t stand it.

“You’d better be stoked about this, Hale, thoroughly excited, or else I’m going to ineffectually but pointedly punch you in the face.” Stiles’s warning lacks bite, but Derek’s lips slide against his anyway.

“Stoked isn’t the word.” Their mouths are so close he can feel the vibration of Derek’s voice in his chest, warming him.

“Then what is?”

There’s a moment, a beat, and suddenly everything inside of him is corkscrewed and confused. He sits back, reluctant; but if there’s going to be pain, well, he doesn’t need to be so close to it.

“No, Stiles -- ” Derek reaches out for him. His hand doesn’t quite make it and sits instead on the rumpled sheets. “Afraid.” He forces it out, the word snapping off at the end.

“What?” He almost can’t comprehend the concept. “About -- about what? What people’ll think? Because Lydia told me two years ago I was a moron for not jumping your bones already, which was so weird to hear someone say out loud, especially Lydia Freaking Martin, that I just said something about having to pee and ran away, but she was totally right. But I mean people support this, support us or -- people like us, not that we’re like something, but I mean -- what?”

“You know me.” Derek studies his fingers, which have returned to normal, perfect and smooth, no nicks or scars marring the surface. “I mean, somehow, without even -- you really know me. No one’s really known me since -- since them. Since my family.” His head turns, one of those sudden, sharp movements he always uses to pin Stiles down with the strength of his eyes; this time is no different. “I didn’t want this, to fucking feel this for someone, to even -- you mean something, and you know me. And I know you. We could hurt each other.” Stiles can feel his head slowly nodding, like he agrees, though he’s already formulating an argument. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Derek shrugs, fighting against his own vulnerability. “And I don’t want you to hurt me. So yeah. I’m afraid.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens, closes. Then, in a rush of movement, all elbows and knees and a wide, silly grin, he throws himself at Derek. “Wow, you have reached epic new levels of stupid,” he says with a laugh, seated in Derek’s lap. “I mean, legendary. Scott-level. I’m impressed.”

The alpha’s brows lower, dark and dangerous. “What?”

“I’ll hurt you? You’ll hurt me? We’ve been circling around this for almost five freaking years, Derek. Obviously we’re scared or we would’ve done something about it by now. But we just did do something. Or whatever. My point is, it’s happened. It’s here. Now’s the time. Carpe some diem. Shut your fang-hole and go for it. Maybe this is nothing, so then it won’t hurt; but maybe it’s something, and then it might hurt, but it might also be stupendously amazing.” He smacks their foreheads together, almost like he’s conking some sense into Derek. “Don’t you want stupendously amazing?”

Derek hesitates, frowns. Stiles feels like all the waiting of the past years has prepared him for just this moment. And it’s going to pay off. He knows it is, he knows it is, he knows it -- “Yeah,” Derek answers. “Yeah. I do.”

“So can’t you trust me? By now? And just -- just give this a freaking try?”

“But what if -- “

“Be brave, Wolf Man.”

Derek inhales, long and slow and quiet. Stiles waits. Then brings his hand up, skating it over the curve of Derek’s ear, then down, along his shoulder, to the warm heart of his back, fingers hitting dead center on the triskelion tattoo. “Just try, Derek. Can’t you -- can’t you please try?”

Derek studies him; Stiles leaves himself open, eyes wide. He doesn’t know what Derek reads there but it seems to satisfy him. “Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

Stiles's fist punches into the air. "Score one for Stilinski!"

The sweet, dimpled smile that stretches across Derek’s face is the coolest, most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen.

The fifth time Stiles says, “I love you!”, he actually shouts it across a crowded parking lot where the entire pack has gathered to see Derek off on his annual trip to New York. Derek sighs, beating his head against the chrome door frame of Boyd’s SUV. Boyd laughs and pats him on the shoulder, hard. “Just say it back, man. No one’s going to care.”

Derek stares at him.

“Wow, you totally haven’t said it. Erica!” She’s nearby, standing with Isaac. “Fearless leader hasn’t told his boyfriend he loves him.”

“Are you kidding?” She blinks at Derek, surprised. “Dating for a year, don’t see one without the other, and he hasn’t said it back? Stiles, say it isn’t so.”

Stiles sighs dramatically, hand rising to cover his heart. “Oh, I’m afraid it is. See, wittle alpha-walfa is actually a big scaredy-waredy wolf.” Derek’s eyes strike his across the expanse of pavement and cars, but Stiles just grins. “Can’t say three little words.”

"Stiles, I'm appalled you've allowed him to treat you this way." Of course Lydia has to put in her two cents, seated next to Allison on the hood of Jackson's car, eyes wide with mock incredulity.

"It really is kind of sad." Allison, more serious, gives Stiles a pitying smile, then slides her hand into Scott's; he's standing next to her, and had been talking to Jackson, but the conversation swirling around him snags his focus, sending the space between his eyebrows into that worried little valley Derek hates because it always means some kind of interfering do-goodery is about to take place.

And, sure enough -- "You'd tell us if he wasn't treating you right, wouldn't you, Stiles?" Scott asks. "I know he's our alpha, but you can still tell us."

As Stiles's grin grows wider, Lydia's eyes roll. "Stop being so dramatic, you two. Stiles is obviously happy. He just deserves to hear someone who loves him say it out loud."

“Yeah, come on, Derek, just tell him,” Jackson says, strolling across the parking lot to take hold of Derek's arm and try to thrust him forward, toward Stiles. He's still rarely anyone's champion, but any opportunity to poke fun at their leader, he's right there.

The rest of the pack joins in, jeering and laughing, spurring him to action. Slowly, a chant starts up, a dozen-odd voices rising. “Say it, say it, say it, say it, say it -- “

Never one to shy away from a challenge, Derek stalks across the space, not stopping until he has Stiles backed up against the Jeep, boxed in by his outstretched arms. “Stiles.”

The reckless jerk smirks. “Derek.”

He leans in, chest flush against Stiles’s, mouth right next to his ear; he lifts his leg up, presses, gives Stiles a little something to think about. Stiles groans and Derek smiles, drawing the moment out, the voices of his pack still rising around him, whoops and howls and catcalls piercing the air. He can hear the joy in them, feel it in his chest, know it by the smile arcing across his face. All because of this kid, this stupid, silly kid, this beautiful man who tripped into his life and never quite managed to stumble back out.

Derek lets his lips drift, teasing Stiles’s ear, his voice whisper-soft. “I love you.” Each word comes out like a sentence; each sentence takes an hour to say. But god, it feels so fucking good to get it out.

Stiles laughs, head tossed back, neck exposed. When his eyes come down to meet Derek’s, they’re bright and happy, like sunlight sparkling through warm, sweet tea. He leans in, butts his forehead up against the alpha's. “Derek.”

“Stiles.”

“I know.”