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"...escaped from the reservation. He may be armed and dangerous, so the county police are asking everyone to stay inside, lock doors and windows, and remain vigilant. A curfew has been imposed in Beacon Hills, Sanctuary, and Burbank..."
Derek sighed and thoughtfully swirled his glass of wine. Another young werewolf couldn't endure the confinement conditions and had taken off. The story always ended the same way: weakened by daily sedatives, the teen wouldn't get far. They'd catch him, and at best, they'd execute him on the spot. At worst, they'd return him to the reservation, and after prolonged torture, which the administration stubbornly referred to as "interrogation", they'd administer a lethal dose of aconite. The young man would die in agony.
There was a clang in the yard, followed by another, then a deafening crunch as if someone was breaking through a live hedge.
Derek rolled his eyes, set the wine glass on the intricately carved wooden table, and reluctantly rose from his chair. He walked to the safe where he kept his hunting rifle.
The list of things he might find outside was short: more threats written on the walls of his cottage, shreds of toilet paper hanging from the roof, or a dead dog on the porch. That was about it. The imagination of radical humanists – as these aggressively inclined townsfolk called themselves – wasn't particularly creative.
Throughout his years of practicing law, Derek had made many enemies, mainly among those advocating for the complete extermination of werewolves. Such people were irritated by the mere fact that someone defended lycanthropes in court and publicly advocated for granting them equal rights with humans. Fortunately, the majority of Americans were neutral towards werewolves, but there were enough opponents of interspecies integration that Derek had to learn to defend himself.
He turned on the yard lights and cautiously stepped onto the porch, holding the rifle so that the stock pressed against his shoulder, ready to fire if necessary. From a distance, he could hear the barking of dogs (the police were combing the city for the fugitive), but otherwise, the familiar night silence prevailed, only broken by the chirping of cicadas.
However, Derek could sense that someone was lurking nearby, waiting.
"This is private property," he sternly stated, scanning the yard blindly. "If you leave now, I won't call the police."
Predictably, there was no response. But the spirea bush to the right of the driveway rustled. Derek quickly approached it, using the muzzle of the rifle to push away a branch hanging to the ground — and froze.
From the darkness, two eyes blazed at him, glowing like molten gold.
It took Derek a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the garden lamps, but soon enough, he could make out the figure of a slender teenager curled around the trunk.
"You're the escaped werewolf," he stated, rather than asked.
The boy remained silent, eyeing Derek warily, but Derek made no further attempts to engage him in conversation, simply observing his uninvited guest. Upon closer inspection, the teenager was painfully thin and gangly, a dirty T-shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, torn in two places, exposing pale skin smeared with blood.
The barking of the dogs was now much closer than before, just a few houses away from Derek's cottage. The boy flinched, his fearful eyes darting toward the road. He attempted to stand, but his leg trembled, and with a hiss of pain, he fell back down. His ankle was twisted at an unsettling angle.
"Please, don't turn me in," he whispered, avoiding Derek's gaze.
"The dogs will pick up your scent immediately anyway," Derek responded tersely.
"Yes, but…" the boy faltered, casting a hopeful look at the house door, where a welcoming electric light shone through the glass panel.
"In your current state, you won't get far," Derek shook his head. "When did you last eat? And even if you manage to slip away now, how long do you plan on running from your pursuers? Your entire life?"
— "Anything's better than life in the reservation," the boy snapped back, glaring at Derek from under his eyebrows.
To the right, on the road leading to the house, people were approaching. They were blinded by the distant, shining flashlights, and Derek couldn't count how many there were, but judging by the sound of footsteps, there were at least three pursuers. Frantic German shepherds pulled them forward on tarp leashes.
"Please," the teenager whispered, bowing his head. As if that could save him from the keen noses of the trailing hounds.
"Mr. Hale," one of the pursuers addressed Derek as the group drew level with his house. The hounds growled and tugged at their leashes, trying to rush onto the lawn. "We're looking for a runaway werewolf. He's a skinny teenager with short-cut hair, a bit shorter than you."
"He's here," Derek calmly said, hearing the boy below whimper faintly.
"Oh!" the man exclaimed, taking a step forward. "In that case, we'll take him and leave you be."
"Officer, turn off the flashlight," Derek said irritably, turning to the man whose face he still couldn't see because of the blinding light. "I have the right to know who I'm speaking to."
The man muttered something under his breath but switched off the flashlight nonetheless.
"Officer Johnson, sir," he introduced himself. "And these," the policeman pointed to the two other men standing on the road, "are Officer Highlight and Frank McKenzie from the security service of the Beacon county reservation."
"Good," Derek responded coldly. "This werewolf is on my property and has officially asked for my protection."
Officer Johnson frowned, then looked around at his colleagues, confused.
"This werewolf, Stiles, belongs to the state," Frank McKenzie declared sternly, stepping onto the lawn and moving towards Derek and the werewolf hiding under the spirea bush. "And you can't…"
"Mr. McKenzie, I advise you to stop right now," Derek interrupted. "I did not grant you permission to search my home."
Frank froze, glaring at Derek with hatred from under his bushy eyebrows. He held back the shepherd that had started to move forward, but he didn't step off the lawn.
"You're well aware," Derek continued calmly, "that a werewolf seeking protection temporarily comes under the custody of their potential guardian. Until a corresponding court decision is issued."
"Sir, I don't know what game you're playing," Frank said slowly, glancing at the teenager curled up on the ground, "but I can guarantee you: if you don't hand over that mangy mutt to us right now, you're in for big trouble."
"Golden words, Mr. McKenzie," Derek raised an eyebrow. "I hope you're prepared to repeat them louder and on record."
Frank frowned and added, somewhat uncertainly:
"A request for protection must be made officially. Until then, this werewolf is state property and should be..."
"Do you perhaps have any documents on hand that confirm his identity, as well as a certificate of ownership?"
Frank McKenzie stared at Derek with his mouth agape but then smirked nastily.
"Well, I've heard you, sir. Wait for us; we'll be back soon."
Reluctantly, he stepped off the lawn, dragging the hound with him, and stopped to converse quietly with his colleagues.
Meanwhile, Derek grabbed the werewolf by the arm and pulled him up.
"Let's go inside," he said in a firm tone. "It'll be safer there."
Under the disapproving stares of the officers, he helped the boy limp to the porch. As soon as they were inside, Derek slammed the door and locked it securely.
"Alright," he sighed, rubbing his nose bridge tiredly. "Now I'll call a friend who lives a block away. He'll help us quickly process all the necessary documents, but you need to sign them."
The boy looked at him suspiciously.
"This guardianship..." he began hesitantly. "You don't expect me to be your slave, do you?"
Derek gave a faint smile.
"Guardianship is just a formality that will help get the government off your back and buy us some time. We'll decide what to do next afterward."
The boy hesitated, clearly reluctant to quickly trust Derek's words.
"You'll get in trouble... Why would you want to do this?"
"I'm a lawyer who defends the rights of werewolves," Derek shrugged. "As the title suggests, trouble is my specialty."
"Yes, but... I'm nobody to you."
Derek looked at him intently.
"I've been fighting xenophobia all my life," he said slowly. "I don't need any special reasons to do that. The world around us has gone mad, and I'm doing what I can to restore some sanity. Don't think I'm some altruist. I'm just one of many."
The boy was silent for a moment but then, as if making a decision, extended his hand to Derek.
"My name's Stiles. Stiles Stilinski."
"Derek Hale," Derek replied with a smile, shaking Stiles' hand, who widened his eyes in surprise.
"The Derek Hale?"
"Yes," Derek nodded modestly.
"You helped Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd! It was all over the news last year!"
"Yes, they were my clients. Good kids. But for now, we need to get down to business, Stiles. We can chat later."
The werewolf nodded and obediently limped after Derek into the kitchen.
* * *
After they finally managed to dismiss the disgruntled officers and sleepy Jackson Whittemore, who helped swiftly draft and notarize a statement, had gone home, Derek led Stiles into the guest room and sat him down on the bed.
"We need to properly fix your ankle," he explained, kneeling before him and taking an elastic bandage from a first-aid kit. "Otherwise, it will heal incorrectly and will have to be broken again."
He began the task, and for a while, Stiles silently watched the movement of Derek's skilled hands.
"What's going to happen to me now?" he finally asked.
"Well, first we need to get your health back on track," Derek said, lightly tapping on Stiles' leg. "If you weren't so weak, the fracture would have healed an hour ago. I think with proper food and no sedatives, you'll recover quickly."
"But what happens after?"
Derek looked up at him.
"You'll have a choice, Stiles. I can help you find a real guardian, if you want, or move to another country where the laws against werewolves aren't so strict."
"I'd like to be a lawyer, like you," Stiles admitted quietly. "What you did today... it was really cool."
Derek gently stroked his leg and smiled warmly.
"There are many ways to fight for your rights. You don't necessarily need a license for that, Stiles. If you want to learn, I can help. My colleagues and I could definitely use the help of a smart werewolf."
"Yes, I'd really like that."
Stiles gazed intently into his eyes, and after a moment, Derek awkwardly coughed and looked away.
"Well, we can discuss that tomorrow. For now, you need a good sleep. The room is all yours, if you want to watch TV – feel free to turn it on."
Stiles looked around anxiously.
"The whole room, just for me?" he asked in surprise.
"Of course," Derek smiled. "Get used to freedom, Stiles. If you need anything, I'll be in my bedroom."
He left, closing the door behind him, missing the nervous glance that Stiles shot his way.
* * *
Derek woke up suddenly. He groped for his phone on the bedside table and brought it close to his bleary eyes. The clock showed five minutes to four in the morning, leaving him with almost three hours of sleep left. He couldn't understand what woke him.
Until he heard a soft click of claws on the wooden floor.
The mattress dipped, and a thin, red wolf with a bandaged hind leg jumped onto the bed. Seeing that Derek was awake and watching him, the wolf opened his eyes wide in fright, comically perked up his ears, and then turned, clearly intending to flee without a backward glance.
"Stiles," Derek called out. The wolf looked back, appearing incredibly guilty in the way only dogs can.
"Not used to sleeping alone in a big room, huh?" Derek guessed, and Stiles whined, seemingly confirming his words.
"It's okay. You can sleep here if you want," Derek said reassuringly.
Stepping gingerly, eyes still fixed on Derek, Stiles moved closer to the middle of the bed and lay down, hesitantly resting his head on Derek's thigh.
Trying not to make sudden movements, Derek stroked the big furry head.
The wolf blissfully closed his eyes.
Derek smiled. His intuition told him he and Stiles would get along perfectly. After all, freedom didn't always mean loneliness.
A werewolf could be free and still be part of a pack.