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So, the thing about Stiles is that he has moles. He’s always had moles. There’re lots of them, big, little, clustered, far apart, they cover every inch of his body. He tried counting them once when he was twelve, marking each one as he went, but then it got complicated and there were mirrors involved when Scott wasn’t willing to help out in the hard to reach areas. But at 17 they’ve long since lost any fascination for him, so much so he forgets they’re there at all most of the time. It’s only when he meets someone new, and their eyes linger a little off to the left of his mouth, or someone pointedly pokes along his arm to get his attention that he remembers they’re there, and that not everyone has them.
He’s sharing an awkward shirtless conversation with Derek one evening when he’s reminded of them once again. Derek has his shirt on for once, it’s Stiles half naked this time, but not by choice, caught half way into bed as Derek tumbled in through his window. Stiles had clutched his arms over his bare chest in a scandalized manner, regretting the jump shot he’d used to get his balled up shirt into the laundry basket immediately.
“I don’t have time for whatever crisis of modesty you’re having,” Derek said firmly, setting the book down heavily over Stiles’ abandoned homework, “You need to look at this right now.”
This turned out to be a thick tome full of almanac data including lunar cycles that could perhaps directly correlate to the recent bout of supernatural activity Beacon Hills has been subject to. They’re not sure if it’s witches or fairies or preteens out in the woods with sparklers and pen knives but it is serious and Derek’s been growing antsy at the idea of something unknown encroaching on his territory.
So Stiles tries to make sense of the dusty old pages right then, comparing them to the dates of events, logged in his phone while Derek hovers over his shoulder. Things are actually starting to make sense, Stiles muttering to himself about how he wishes he could highlight the yellowed paper without feeling like he was desecrating history in helpful neon colours, when Derek’s palm lands hot and heavy on his spine.
He’s shoved somewhat ungracefully and pinned face first into the book, Derek leaning over him further to snatch up something off of his desk with his other hand.
“Okay, not that I don’t appreciate the man-handling but I wasn’t actually going to highlight your book, relaa-ah” the cold nib of a felt tip touched his shoulder, tracing quick straight lines. He hears the snap of a cap being put back and then his blue highlighter lands beside his face on the next page.
Derek pulls his hand back and by the time Stiles sits up bewildered, he’s already half way out the window.
“What-” he tries to look over at his shoulder as he stands, but he can’t see much, a little blue, he’s turning in a neat circle before he realizes what he’s doing and stops to make sure Derek actually left and didn’t witness that spectacular bit of tail chasing. Confirming he’s totally alone, he locks the window suspiciously and then heads to his bathroom across the hall. If he sits up on the edge of the sink and kind of hunches he can clearly see the blue lines connecting a random set of twelve moles.
It doesn’t particularly look like anything significant, a demented spoon or a horse leg maybe if he squints. He’s no stranger to playing connect the dots on his own skin but from Derek this was seriously weird behavior.
He hadn’t even stuck around to get Stiles’ verdict about the dates and the book, just turned tail before he was forced to explain himself. Stiles clutches at the blue lines, watching the fingerprints rise up white and then red on his skin through the mirror. Was this a wolf thing? A weird Derek thing? A sudden urge to reminisce about childhood colouring books?
Stiles has a hard time believing Derek has ever been a child, he was probably born with stubble and fangs - he pauses on that thought realizing it’s actually likely true, werewolves man.
In any case it’s no excuse for using others as your personal indecipherable doodle canvas. He’s wetting a cloth in preparation to scrub it off but frowns at himself in the mirror before he actually can. He darts back into his room and returns to the mirror with his phone in hand. Taking a picture of his reflection twisted around unnaturally reminds him far too much of teenage girl’s profile pictures and he catches himself making stupid duck faces before he can stop.
He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, why it’s so necessary, but it can’t hurt to have evidence of whatever this is, whatever it means if anything at all.
He stares at the small illuminated screen of his phone later, lying in bed far closer to morning than he’d originally intended. His shoulder still feels vaguely raw from washing and he vows to pester Derek about it at the next opportunity he gets.
--
The next opportunity never arrives. Sure he sees Derek, is thrown and pushed and yelled at by Derek, but there’s really no moment to get a word in edgewise - seriously, Stiles knows a thing or two about jamming words into spaces where there is legitimately no room.
It’s just that the little threat, the territory encroachment? That turned out to be a bit more serious than they’d originally imagined, like dealing with an entire group (pack? herd? coven??) of Sasquatch moving through the woods around Beacon Hills.
At first Stiles had been overjoyed at the prospect of Big Foot, Scott, c’mon dude, Big Foot trumps werewolf any day of the week! But then sunk in the reality of the situation - and the fact that there was more than one and there was no reasoning with a supernatural animal-thing driven purely by instinct and meteoric activity. They’d never been in this area before, or, so their rag-tag teen wolf-pack assumed going on Derek’s hazy smoke-filled memories and the fact that the Sheriff’s department had never had this many reports of missing dogs and vandalized trees before.
So it was their job to stake out the woods the night of the largest meteor shower and wave flares about to scare off the bulk of their furry friends from the town. Stiles was actually fairly bored, waving his flare lazily and seeing absolutely zero action when in the distance the pained snarl of a wolf rose up, followed by several howls.
He barely has time to be worried for everyone else before multiple sets of glowing green eyes are peering out between the trees at him. He waves his flare a little more vigorously, suddenly painfully aware how alone and how very human he is. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, holding the flare between him and the steadily approaching eyes - oh, large, large bodies materializing now as well.
Scott of course doesn’t pick up his frantic call - probably too busy having epic werewolf vs big foot(s) wrestling matches but Stiles really would have preferred him bored and ready to backup. Yes, backup, not rescue because he totally has this under control -- and oh my god that one is growling, is that a growl or a purr?
He doesn’t particularly aim to stick around and find out, instead whirling and running just as a large hairy arm reaches out for him. Then it’s all crashing through the forest in the dark; tree limbs snapping at his face and arms while his feet struggle to keep him upright on the uneven terrain. He’s just feeling the hot sour breath of one fanning across the back of his neck, his hip and side stinging sharp and bright as it takes a swipe - and then he’s behind shoved out of the way. A much louder, and angrier snarl fills up the resulting empty darkness.
He doesn’t remember after that, but he wakes in Derek’s dank mockery of a hide out, head pounding, his whole body feeling like one huge bruise.
“Don’t move.”
Derek.
“Wasn’t gonna.” he slurs, clacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth and licking outward at the gritty dirt taste there, “What happened?”
“You hit your head pretty hard when you fell.” He’s gruff, and leans over Stiles, holding his head still with surprising gentleness, “You’re going to be fine,” He pulls back but then all of his previously earned gentle points are immediately revoked when he rakes Stiles across the side.
“Ow! Ow ow, what are you doing?” he tries to squirm away, but then everything hurts even more and he moans pitifully.
“Stop moving.” one of Derek’s hands pins his hip, “One of them scratched you, I’m just checking to see if it’s stopped bleeding yet.”
“Oh god. Am I going to turn into a yeti?”
“Sasquatch.”
“Whatever, dude!”
“Humans can’t be turned into Sasquatch, you’re going to be fine.” Derek says with an air of I already told you this why aren’t you listening to me. Stiles rolls his eyes at that but it hurts and he’s cold and whatever pile of newspapers Derek seems to be using for a mattress is uncomfortable. His life is the worst, it really is.
“Where’s Scott?” He asks finally trying to collect his thoughts enough to maybe sit up, think about getting home before his dad has a chance to find his bedroom empty.
“Making sure the last of the Sasquatch are clear of the town.” Derek stands - skyscraper tall for a moment and then moves out of Stiles’ field of vision. Something soft and grey hits him in the face before he can even ponder what he’s supposed to do now. He pulls the bundle off of his face and sees that it’s a shirt, one of Derek’s by the size.
“Put that on, you need to go home.”
He sits up slowly, realizing the reason he’s so cold is because of his lack of shirt when he’d so recently had two. Well that’s not true, they’re both still pitifully hanging off his arms and clinging forlornly to one shoulder but it’s clear they’ve seen better wholer days.
“Hey, I liked these!” he calls out to where ever Derek disappeared to and works on shrugging out of the mess of plaid and bloodstained cotton. Sometimes when he twists his side twinges; when he looks down he sees the scratches that wrap around his hip and side look a little gnarly but they’re shallow, like a really large cat decided to play mouse with him.
He lets Derek’s shirt fall over him shapelessly, like the whole thing is saying meh after spending its days usually clinging to all sorts of werewolf muscle. He shuffles to his feet and then Derek is back, silent as the ninja he slashed through on that poor awesome shirt, and escorting him to his Jeep. No really, there’s elbow gripping and shoving when Stiles doesn’t move fast enough for Derek’s liking.
“Do you want your dad to call half the county looking for you?”
“Ow, watch it, not all of us have super miraculous werewolf healing powers.” he’s opening the passenger door before he really realizes and then hangs his head in horrified humiliation realizing Derek is going to drive him home in his own car.
“Get in.” Derek is already turning the key and slamming the door and Stiles figures he doesn’t have the time or the energy to argue about this now so he merely buckles his seatbelt from the opposite direction and tries to forget about how wrong this whole thing is.
He makes it about five seconds onto the road before he’s berating Derek’s driving and and handling of his baby. Derek’s face takes on that intensely white shade of shut the fuck up before I rip your head off - but Stiles knows its all for show now, or he wouldn’t have spent the time and effort making sure he wasn’t concussed or Sasquatch chow.
Soon enough the Jeep is meticulously re-parked where he’d left it at the beginning of the night and Stiles is snatching his keys back and shimmying up the drain pipe outside his bedroom window. He’s too old for this, he keeps repeating to himself as he tumbles through his window and seriously considers just going to sleep right there on the floor, one foot still hanging out on the sill.
In the end it’s only the fact that it would look entirely too suspicious to any casual onlooker that makes him drag himself to his bed and sprawl atop it, asleep before he can even finish his thought about how this is so much better than Derek’s newspaper.
It is literally two hours later when his alarm blares cheerily and he startles so badly he flails to the ground, whimpering in pain.
He thinks about smashing the stupid little clock but it is a school day and he is its ultimate master in telling it to remind him of that. So, he drags himself across the hall to his bathroom and swings the taps to start up the warm water that might perhaps make him feel human again. He’s seriously doubting Derek’s authority and knowledge when it comes to Sasquatch scratches, because right now he feels about as rough as a supernatural creature that lives in the woods.
He pulls the shirt - ugh still Derek’s shirt - up and off, making a face at himself in the mirror and then startling as he notices a slash of rust red-brown under his arm. He backs up and turns slightly to see in the mirror his entire side, where there, across his ribs is the same shape Derek drew on him before - connecting a new set of twelve moles. It’s less neat this time, clearly drawn with a finger and ugh gross his own blood, but it’s a very distinctive shape.
Then he’s fumbling for his phone out of his pocket and checking the picture from before anyway. It’s definitely the same shape and definitely becoming a must do immediately for real on his list of things to talk to Derek about.
He snaps another picture and then sets his phone aside and starts his day anew.
--
It’s funny, hanging out around werewolves and dealing with stuff like Sasquatch and hunters on a semi regular basis it makes one kind of forget about normal stuff, real stuff. Stuff like the fact Stiles is still just a high school student and actually regularly has a lot of homework to do.
He has essays to write on existentialism, World War I timelines to study and that stoichiometry isn’t just going to do itself you know. So, he takes a small break from gnashing teeth and bloody shirts and broody werewolves drawing weird mole-involved symbols on him with his own blood and focuses on school. It’s devastatingly normal, and nice, and boring. When he’s finished his homework, he surfs the internet, he plays video games, he pretends for a while that he is a normal teenager.
Sometimes though, he gets the feeling that even though Scott is the werewolf and Stiles is the human, Scott is doing a much better job at being ‘normal’. That is until he calls in half panic because the hunters - also known as his girlfriend’s family - want to speak with him, privately and he needs someone to make sure he comes out of their house, period.
So now Stiles is backup, sitting in the Jeep and tapping his fingers along with the radio and trying to focus on his worn little copy of The Stranger. He’s pointedly not thinking about how useless he is in this situation as anything other than a getaway car when the passenger door opens and he jumps about a foot, rocking the Jeep on its shocks.
He’d like to say he’s surprised that it’s Derek who claims the passenger seat, shoving his notes aside into a messy pile, but he’s not.
“Dude! What are you doing?” Stiles checks his mirrors reflexively and then eyes the Argent’s front door, still firmly shut.
“Keeping an eye on pack business. This is my territory, I need to know what’s going on.” Derek leans so he can have an unobstructed view of the front of the house as well, and then settles back in the seat.
There’s a beat or two of silence, Stiles’ eyes darting back and forth over the dash, his hands, Derek’s profile, for once he’s speechless. Not to say Derek has robbed him of speech, but there are currently so many things in his head that he wants to say in this one moment, they’re all fighting each other for dominance in his brain instead of mamboing down to his mouth.
“Do you know what’s happening in there?” Derek supplies the start of the conversation for once, mouth quirking in a way Stiles is hesitant to define in regular smile or smirk parameters.
“No, nope, not at all. Scott got a call, freaked out, called me, backup,” he outlines, even going so far as to throw up a thumb and pointer-finger gun in Derek’s direction for utmost clarity. Derek quirks an eyebrow at it, and Stiles quickly folds his hand back into a fist and lets it drop.
“So he didn’t say anything about the hunters changing the Sasquatch migratory path?”
“Wait, the hunters did what?” Stiles turns bodily now, facing Derek completely, watching him fold his leather jacketed arms across his chest, jaw tensing unhappily.
“I think. I don’t know, but they’ve been acting strangely. Like they’re trying to figure out pack borderlines.” his eyes flash to the house and Stiles looks over his shoulder with him, there’s still no movement.
“Well that would explain why Big Foot and Co. just suddenly decided to come through town after eons of sticking to coniferous forests only.” He pauses, thinking, trying to work out their motivations, the hunters are usually only preoccupied with supernatural creatures that endanger humanity - but by moving the Sasquatch, they put Beacon Hills directly in the path of these potentially dangerous animals.
Unfortunately there’s nothing to be done now but wait and find out what Scott has to tell them.
His stomach chooses that moment to put out a loud complaint about the amount of time he’s spent waiting there and the complete lack of foresight he had to bring snacks with him. Scott’s probably been invited for another awkward family dinner now that he thinks about it and it’s going to be at least another hour before he can even think about getting something to eat.
He sighs and slouches in his seat, tossing The Stranger aside and drumming his fingers impatiently against the wheel, trying not to fantasize about food or acknowledge Derek’s now amused air. He doesn’t have to take such pleasure in Stiles’ misery, it’s totally his fault Stiles is even sitting here, if it weren’t for werewolves -
He pauses.
“Hey, open the glovebox I think I have some cookies in there.” he would do it himself, just lean over and pop the hatch but he likes all his limbs exactly as they are, whole and attached to his body. Never let it be said Stiles doesn’t respect personal bubble issues.
“Why do you keep cookies in your glove box?” Derek makes absolutely no move to open the small compartment, in fact, looks at it like it’s about to start belching moldy year-old cookies on to him. Stiles frowns at his immaturity and leans over, one hand still on the wheel. He gave Derek his chance to avoid crossing the streams.
“Because,” he flips the clasp, “I figured out early on that being a werewolf involves unfortunate amounts of blood loss. So I thought it might be a good idea to pack some sugary snacks instead of having my best friend and first line of defense swooning manfully all over my passenger seat.” He’s just retrieved his prize, a small sleeve of oatmeal raisin cookies when Derek grabs his wrist.
“Hey - ah!” he’s pulled even further into Derek’s space and his sleeve is being shoved up his arm, baring his pale mostly hairless inner forearm for his inspection. “I swear I’m not a follower of the dark lord,” he tries a joke, but Derek just tightens his grip on Stiles’ wrist and reaches for Stiles’ abandoned homework with his free hand. He comes back with an abandoned ball-point pen and switches his hands around quickly, freeing his right for writing.
Then, before Stiles can protest again he’s drawing, a frown firmly settled between his brows and curling up in the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t look happy about this, and Stiles looks down to see the last strokes of a familiar symbol being connected between his moles once again. This one is smaller than the others, but the same none the less. When he’s finished Derek flings the pen away like it’s personally offended him.
“Wh-Um” He stares at the expanse of his arm between them, the cookies crinkling sadly where he still held them captive over Derek’s lap. When Derek doesn’t appear to have any inclination to let him go or say anything about what he’s just done again Stiles purses his lips and squirms a bit in his seat, leaning towards him to get more comfortable.
“Are we going to talk about...this?” he asks without making eye contact, sometimes Derek is like a wild animal, scratch that, most of the time he’s like a wild animal. He needs wary handlers and the occasional coaxing to go along with your stupid human schemes. There is however no reply, no inhuman growls, no sighs, nothing at all, Derek merely leans forward himself, like he’s trying to get a better look at the symbol.
“You know, my dad likes to say, once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern.” He pauses, thoughtfully, looking at his arm as well, ink blue and dark, lines smooth between brown dots, “What does it mean?”
Derek moves again then, hand sliding from his wrist up, thumb slipping over the tender skin, tracing the path again with the blunt edge of his nail. Stiles stifles a shiver at that, and focuses as Derek shakes his head, almost jostling Stiles with how close they are.
“I don’t know.” he huffs at last and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“You have to know, you’re the one drawing it over and over.” he yanks his arm back and the moment overflows with tension and snaps - Derek reeling back into the side of the car in slow motion. He’s crossing his arms again and looking for all the world like Stiles was the one who’d given him an unsatisfactory answer.
Scott chooses that unfortunate moment to knock on the window and startle Stiles again.
He sighs at Scott’s frown when he looks over Stiles’ shoulder at Derek, but rolls down his window anyway.
“What’s he doing here?” he asks and Stiles shrugs exaggeratedly.
“I don’t know man he followed me home,” he leans in like he has a secret, “but I don’t want to keep him.” he mock whispers and can practically feel Derek’s eyes rolling behind him.
“What did they tell you?” Derek asks impatiently, making Scott press his lips together uncomfortably, running his hands over the Jeep’s window frame.
“Nothing, the usual, they want us to mind our own business, threats to make us mind our own business.” he looks over his shoulder at a slow passing car.
“They should have taken this up with me.” Derek says, expression dark. Stiles looks back and forth between them and purses his lips in thought.
“But this is good isn’t it? I mean, it proves they have something to do with our recent furry tourists...” he picks at the steering wheel and gives Scott a half smile when he nods along enthusiastically. Derek merely grumbles and climbs out of Stiles’ car, making room for Scott to dart around and reclaim the passenger seat.
The lights of the Camaro flash in Stiles’ rearview as Derek pulls away from the curb, roaring off down the street. Scott grabs his seatbelt as Stiles starts the Jeep’s engine.
“What’s his problem?”
“I honestly have no idea, man. Cookie?”
--
The next time Stiles sees Derek he’s lurking away in his bedroom like waiting for teenage boys to come in dropping their lacrosse gear and tugging off their sweaty shirts is a regular occurrence in his life. It’s Derek though, so, yeah. It still doesn’t stop him from almost fatally injuring himself trying to get out the tangle of clothes around his arms and neck when Derek startles him though.
“You should really try to be more aware of your surroundings.”
When he’s finally wrestled his way free he can’t do much more than stare at Derek acutely aware of his racing heart, blotchy cheeks, and general musk of unwashed boy.
“Is there a reason you’re here or is this like a fire drill kind of thing - always vigilant!”
“The hunters have admitted to changing the path of the Sasquatch, they’re trying to keep them to pack protected territories only.” Derek stays close to the dresser avoiding the open doorway. He knows Stiles’ father isn’t around, but curiously keeps to the safe spaces anyway.
“That was stupid of them. What do they think we can do, Bah Ram Ewe them into politely avoiding Beacon Hills?” Stiles swipes his abandoned shirt from the floor and wipes over his face, trying to get the worst of the sweat and grease there.
“It’s not about us, It’s about them, instead of spreading their forces over larger territories they’re corralling supernatural beings into being under their supervision.”
“Everyone under one big happy roof.” Stiles shrugs it doesn’t sound that terrible and if it made trigger happy hunters sleep a little better at night then who was he to argue with them. The hunters weren’t bad people, not when they followed their own moral codes and rules - rules that were there for very understandable reasons.
“Except it’s not, it goes against nature, and needlessly puts humans in danger, which last I checked they were against.” Derek explodes, taking a step forward, making Stiles reflexively step back raising his hands up between them passively.
“Woah why are you taking this out on me, dude, go talk to the Argents if you’re so upset.” he pushes past Derek then, dropping his shirt in the hamper and pulling at the top drawer of his dresser to get some sweats and a clean tee for after his shower.
Derek is quiet for a long moment, and Stiles roots through his drawer for an unnecessarily long period of time waiting out the pause.
“I just came from there. They didn’t believe me.”
“Well no one did get hurt. Besides, it’s only a twice a year kind of thing, and the ‘Squatch usually actively avoid humanity right so-” Stiles is just turning back to the conversation, arms full of clothes but Derek is right there behind him.
“You got hurt.”
His hand reaches out, hovering over Stiles’ hip where the vivid red lines of the scratch are finally turning pink and fading away completely. He doesn’t know what to say, fingers curling into the soft bunch of his bundle of clothing.
“I’m...me.” he settles on finally, rolling his eyes quickly when Derek’s eyebrows start to quirk a no shit back at him, “I mean, I know about this stuff, I was out that night because I chose to be, I’m not an innocent bystander.”
“You’re still a human who they’re trying to protect.”
Stiles clamps his mouth shut at that and half darts half pushes around Derek once again. He’s angry. After all this time, after being considered part of the pack or whatever it is they are, he’s still just the human needing protection - babysitting.
“Whatever dude. Is this all you wanted getting all up to date on what’s going on or were you here for willing evidence of poor hapless human mauling.” He reaches the door, “Or did you need another session of connect the dots?” It’s meant as a taunt a throw away comment but the way the energy changes in the room Stiles can tell he’s hit home on something.
After the last episode in the Jeep he spent hours googling, scratching at his forearm and scrolling through symbol indexes. There was nothing more frustrating than being unable to find a starting point for research, it’s not like he could just type in why is my local alpha werewolf sporadically drawing the same symbol on me again and again. Instead he ended up reading pages of wolf-behavioral markers and being thankful Derek hadn’t started just peeing on him.
When wolves gave him no clues, he turned toward the more human side, maybe this was a Derek thing more than a werewolf thing. Mostly all it turned up was a lot of Yahoo answers about people with really possessive significant others and/or really dickish roommates with access to permanent markers.
Now Derek is looking at him blankly. He’s not guarded or annoyed or angry, he’s just empty and staring back. Stiles heaves a sigh, twisting his doorknob back and forth without opening it.
“You’re never going to stop doing it are you? It’s some kind of impulsive marking thing?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Stiles can tell Derek still isn’t telling him everything but sighs again anyway. Maybe Derek doesn’t quite know what he’s doing either. He leaves the door for his desk and picks up a permanent marker of his own.
“Make it count.”
--
It’s only the day after his and Derek’s surprising moment of whatever, consensual marking up that Stiles finds himself getting ready for lacrosse practice wearily. Not because of Derek, no, that was only mentally fatiguing, but because he and Scott literally just spent the previous day fooling around trying to improve their footwork and really see what Scott could do with his wolfy powers.
He dragged at the thought of more practice, two days in a row just wasn’t fair and so Stiles was one of the last still changing, Scott lacing up his cleats on the bench beside him. He’s just tugging his shirt up and off, and why are shirts so heavy anyway when there’s a pause in chatter behind him. He’s just trying to figure out how the sight of his pale skinny backside could be disturbing them now when Isaac pipes up.
“Why do you have a huge drawing of Lupus on your back?”
Stiles freezes and then heaves the greatest of sighs. He’d forgotten about that, Derek had taken his instructions to make it count a little too much to heart and the resulting symbol sprawled shoulder to shoulder down practically to his hips. It was the same as all the other had been though, somehow in all the speckles that covered his unfortunate hide, Derek managed to make it work.
“It’s nothing just a thing, a -wait Lupus what did you say?” Stiles tugs his shirt off with renewed vigor and turns to face Isaac and then turns again to show him his back, but looks at him over his shoulder, “You know what this is?”
“Yeah, it’s Lupus.”
“Like the disease?” Scott looks suitably horrified.
“No, the constellation, the wolf.” Isaac smiles bright and amused at Scott who nods in relieved understanding, sweeping his confused gaze over Stiles’ back again. Stiles however is having a mild mental breakdown that now, just when he’s made his peace with being Derek’s doodle pad for the foreseeable future he’s finally getting his answers from Isaac of all people.
“Why, dude, why do you know what this is. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been trying to figure this out?” he snaps with exasperation and relief and new blooming confusion.
“I know because the wolf constellation is beside Centaurus, Lupus being taken by him to the altar as an offering, a- a sacrifice. Later it was changed to have Abraham taking his son Isaac as the sacrifice.” Isaac says plainly, leaning against his crosse in a bored manner. He tilts his head at Stiles’ open mouth, but Stiles can’t be bothered to mind his facial expressions this is a revelation this is- this is...
“I have to talk to Derek.” He scrambles to shove his limbs back into his shirt.
“What? Man we have practice in like two minutes!” Scott protests even as Stiles is shoving pads back into his locker and gathering up his backpack.
“Did Derek draw that?” Isaac asks with a frown, but Stiles ignores him, clanging his locker door shut and leaping over the bench for the exit, uncaring he’s still wearing his lacrosse shorts instead of his jeans.
“Cover for me!” he waves haphazardly over his shoulder and then books it down the hall and out of school. It’s only when he hits the seat of his Jeep that he has absolutely no idea where Derek is right now. He deflates marginally but figures Derek is a creature of habit, he’s likely in one of two places and if he isn’t he soon will be.
Stiles has no luck in the seriously very creepy abandoned warehouse/rail car area, and so he boots across down as quickly as possible, the quiet of the forest closing in around the road a welcome distraction from his racing thoughts, pulse, and vehicle.
He actually gives a small whoop when he turns down the lane that leads to the old Hale house and finds Derek’s Camaro parked in its usual space out front. The Jeep skids a little across the leaves when he slams on the brakes but he’s too busy untangling himself from his seatbelt and stumbling out the door to care.
Derek appears, silent as always, off to one corner of the dilapidated porch, his brow is furrowed per usual and Stiles marches towards him.
“LUPUS?” his hands are out encompassing the wide expanse of his never ending confusion and frustration when it came to Derek, “That’s what you’ve been drawing all over me? Lupus?!” Stiles stops before the porch, his head bent back slightly to look up at Derek who rubs his fingertips together thoughtfully- his palms are black and covered in soot, he’s obviously been doing something with the house.
“Yes.” he says simply and Stiles lets his mouth drop open jerking his shoulders and hands out again.
“You couldn’t have told me that? Oh, Stiles, by the way, I’ve been drawing the wolf constellation all over you for weeks, because I have like a thing about it, maybe I’m comparing you to a weak little sacrifice-” he’s cut off from his -if he may say so- stellar impression by Derek vaulting over the charred rail to land squarely in front of him.
“It’s not like that.” he says sharply stepping forward so once again Stiles takes an according step back. He seems to realize what he’s doing, intimidating, and folds his dirty hands into fists at his side, taking a deep breath and leveling a calm look at Stiles, “It doesn’t have to do with that, sacrifice.” he shakes his head once.
“Well,” Stiles swallows hesitantly now, eyes darting around the clearing, “What does it have to do with then?”
“You. When I said I didn’t know what it meant, I meant it.” Derek reaches out and grabs his wrist shoving his hoodie’s sleeve up to expose the place where he’d penned in the mark before. His fingers leave black smudges everywhere they go.
“It’s your skin, your moles. It’s everywhere, your shoulder, your back, your ribs. There’s a set on your hip too.” He exhales heavily through his nose, and Stiles wonders when they got so close together, Derek’s grip on his arm tight.
“And here.”
Stiles recoils a little as Derek’s free hand comes up to his neck, fingers tracing the same mark, small this time, just under his jaw, over where his pulse is hammering.
“Lupus.” Stiles says hesitantly, drawing Derek’s attention back to his face, eyes sharp.
“The wolf.” he agrees.
“But, I mean, that has to mean someth-” it’s Derek’s mouth this time that interrupts him, landing on his, his sooty hand curling around the back of Stiles’ neck to keep him there unable to pull away, or know what to do at all but fall into the kiss. It’s not skilled - or so Stiles assumes, but he’s trying, and it’s good and firm and Derek’s nose is kind of smushing into his a bit, but there’s an edge of desperation to it all that makes it worth it.
They pull back somewhat simultaneously, but not far, Stiles couldn’t if he wanted to, and he can feel his cheeks burning with more than just the sting of cold air around them. He licks his lips.
“So, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” He tries for a shrug, quirking one side of his mouth up, “Nope, all in our heads. It’s just-”
“Stiles.” Derek breathes, pressing their foreheads together, “Shut up.”
--
+1
Luckily, the marking thing tapers off after whatever this mutually exclusive touching, kissing, tingly in the pants feelings was between them starts up. It’s both the most natural, expected thing in the world and also the hardest, most frustrating and surprising. It’s out of left field, and yet, sometimes Stiles feels like it’s been forever in the making.
Being handed unrestricted access to Stiles’ skin seems to settle Derek’s curiosity. He makes a few more connect the dots one very memorable and enjoyable Saturday afternoon, but after that he doesn’t seem to require to do it quite so literally.
Stiles is not complaining though, in fact, he is doing the opposite of complaining at the moment - well not really he actually is complaining-
“What- what are you doing.” He shudders out another breath as Derek’s fingers trail up his inner thigh, leisurely, sedated, too slowly. Derek doesn’t reply, merely scrapes his chin - beard and all - against Stiles’ knee, rough hot prickles and smooth cool fingertips.
“It’s not rocket science.” He can’t look down, not now, not at Derek, not perched between his legs at the end of his tiny, ridiculous bed. He studies the ceiling intently, swallowing again and again, he can feel every last air current in his bedroom - and when did it get so breezy in here?
“Don’t rush me,” is Derek’s reply, low and said into the flesh of his thigh, breath a hot tease straight up to his groin. Stiles is trying, and mostly failing, to keep from panting when he realizes Derek has been fixated on this one spot for a while and levers himself up onto his elbows.
He shudders at the image, he knew he shouldn’t have looked, it’s perfect, better than perfect but shakes his leg a little to get Derek’s attention.
“Do you need a marker?” he asks when green eyes flick lazily towards him.
“No.” He turns back to Stiles’ thigh, “You don’t have any moles right here.” He skims his lips along the area and Stiles’ abdomen jumps at the sensation. “It’s completely unblemished, unmarked.”
“O-okay?” He tilts his hips hopefully, one apparently perfect part of him isn’t going to ruin the whole main event is it? Derek quirks an eyebrow at him all the warning he gets before teeth are sinking into the meat of Stiles’ thigh and he’s sucking up a vivid mark to mar the surface of his skin.
He squirms against the sensation, panting sensitive little ah’s when Derek finally lets go of his flesh.
“That wasn’t the kind of sucking I had in mind.” Stiles groans pitifully, but it changes key sharply as Derek finally, finally moves up to get with the prescheduled program - seemingly satisfied with a mark entirely of his own doing.