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1. Father
One morning when he was 13, Derek asked his mother for the milk in a voice that was three octaves lower than his usual treble. The sound that came out of his mouth startled him so much that he almost missed the wary glance his parents exchanged, and Laura's wide grin.
He cleared his throat. "What?" he said, marvelling a little at the hoarse, croaky sound he was making. "What is it?"
Laura opened her mouth to speak, her eyes shining, and their father growled sharply. His eyes stayed clear, but Laura subsided all the same. "Derek, you and I are going to have to have a talk after school," he said. "Come straight home."
"I always do," said Derek. His voice had risen again, much to his disappointment. His mother smiled at him, her eyes shining and her eyebrows knitting together as if she were trying not to cry.
"Weren't you sleeping in my arms a week ago?" she said. "Weren't you born yesterday?"
Derek shook his head, halfway between amused and annoyed. Why couldn't they just be happy for him? Why did they have to be sad that he was growing up?
After school that day, his father took him down to the basement, where he'd never been allowed to go before. "You know what we do here?" he said, flipping a switch that turned on a set of harsh flourescent lights, brighter than anything they used in the main house.
There were bars hanging from the ceiling, hooks and rings set firmly into the walls. Windows, small ones, with sturdy bars so that he wouldn't be able to climb through them even if he jumped.
"Yes," he said. It wasn't a secret. Laura had started spending time in the basement four years ago, for every full moon at first, then every other full moon, then only once in a while. She hardly ever spent the night there any more. It wasn't necessary. Their mother had always said that Laura was strong, a fast learner, smart in the ways that counted. He wanted to be like her, if he could. But he was a boy. It would be harder for him.
"For girls, the signs are easier to spot," his father said. "For boys, there are subtle hints that puberty is beginning. Body hair, voice changes. When that happens, our kind begin to -- "
"You've given me this talk before," Derek said, interrupting.
His father tilted his head and furrowed his brows. "Oh? Then maybe you can tell me what I said last time?"
Derek looked up at the nearest window. It was still light -- would be for hours yet. "When puberty sets in, the human and the wolf sides of our natures are... they fight. The wolf gets stronger, and on the full moon it takes over." He glanced at his father, whose face was patient and impassive, and took a step towards the wall and the sturdy iron ring, about the height of his waist. "Until we can learn control, which takes practice. So -- so until I learn to keep my wolf side in check, I need to stay here on the full moon." He swallowed. "Chained up, so I can't hurt anyone."
"Not bad," said his father. "You forgot two things, though."
Derek looked up, startled. "What? What did I forget?"
His father stood close to him and laid his hand on Derek's shoulder. Derek felt something in him warming up at the touch, and something else twitching with the urge to fight. It's happening already, he thought, thrilled and frightened at the same time.
"Why else would I chain you up when you're at your strongest?"
Derek listened to the twitch in his bones, and without needing to think about it, said "So that I won't try to challenge you."
The hand on his shoulder squeezed briefly. "Right. Because you're strong, and the moon will make you stronger, but I am still your Alpha. If you challenge me, I'll have to fight you, wound you, and those wounds won't heal quickly."
"I understand," said Derek, and the warmth within him grew. His father was a good Alpha, a kind Alpha, an Alpha who knew what was best for his pack and did not hesitate to carry it out.
"And the other thing," his father said, and he turned Derek around to face him, resting both hands on his shoulders and leaning down so they were eye-to-eye. "What's the worst pain you've ever felt?"
Derek thought about it. "That time I fell off the roof and broke both my legs."
"You shouldn't have been on the roof in the first place," his father said reflexively, frowning the way he always did when Derek brought that incident up. "Anyway," he went on, "to feel your wolf and human sides fighting is worse than that. Much worse. It's a kind of splitting of the soul, as if you'd become two people, unable to stop fighting each other, each one able to feel the other's wounds. And we've found that pain -- real, physical pain -- makes it easier to deal with. It grounds you, keeps the wolf at bay. It's not a long-term solution, but until you learn how to keep your human side to the fore..."
He looked down, and for the first time in his life, Derek saw uncertainty on his father's face. He let his hearing tune in to his father's heartbeat, and heard a slight flurry of faster beats that quickly resolved into the usual steady thump-thump as his father looked up once more and tightened his grip on Derek's shoulders.
"I'm going to have to hurt you," his father said. "Do you understand? It hurts me to do it. If I could get you through this without hurting you, I would. If it were safe to let you run wild in the woods, I'd let you run wild in the woods. Let your wolf go free, and maybe your two selves would meet each other as friends, and your wolf would be no more than a cub, gentle enough to lick your hand."
"Tame?"
His father's eyes flashed red briefly. "No," he said fiercely. "Never tame. Our kind are never tame. We never have been, and we never will be. But maybe, if the woods were big enough..." His eyes went distant for a long breath, and then he shook his head and stared at Derek, his gaze sharp, but not unkind. "But that's not the world we live in. We have to face what's in front of us." He let go of Derek's shoulders and straightened, looking around at the basement. "The next full moon is Sunday," he said. "I'll be there all night. You won't have to go to school on Monday. You'll be exhausted, anyway. Derek..." There it was again: uncertainty, enough to make Derek straighten his spine, pull his shoulders back. Look at me, he thought. Look how strong I am! You don't need to worry about me.
His father smiled and nodded, and Derek felt a blush beginning to rise at the sides of his throat.
"That's my boy," said his father. "That's my little soldier."
An hour before moonrise that Sunday night, Derek went down to the basement by himself. His father followed a minute or two behind, fastened the sturdiest chain to a ring on the wall and locked its cuffs around Derek's wrists, and sat down cross-legged on the floor, half the room's length away from Derek. His heartbeat was firm and slow throughout. When Derek sat down facing his father, he felt calm. He felt ready.
The rest of the night slid through his brain in a nightmarish blur of pain and rage and fever. When he came back to himself, it was early dawn and the flourescent lights were off, dim sunlight streaming through the windows. Derek ached all over, in a way that he had never ached before in his life. His father stood over him, unlocking the cuffs at his wrists, dark circles under his eyes.
"Good boy," he said, stroking one hand over Derek's hair. He took Derek's hands and pulled him upright. Derek's legs were shaking and he wasn't sure he could walk. His father clasped him to his chest and hugged him tight, and Derek closed his eyes and sagged against him, tears leaking from his eyes. "Good boy," said his father. "You're a good boy. My brave boy."
2. Laura
For a second after he heard her scream, he was frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to think. Time stopped for him in that moment, and when it started again it moved faster than before, thoughts spilling over each other in his head:
whywhatLaurawhotellmedangerWHAT
Instinct kicked in and he was moving, following sounds and scents to find Laura, before he was conscious of making a decision. He burst through the door of the principal's office and grabbed her by her upper arms. "Laura, what -- "
Laura was weeping silently, tears streaming from her eyes, leaving black streaks of mascara. She glanced at the principal, who was rising from her desk, saying... something... something Derek didn't care about, didn't want to hear.
Laura angled her face away from the principal and let her eyes flash, briefly. Long enough for Derek to see them flaring red.
He let go of her arms, covered his face with his hands. "Dad?" he whispered, his voice almost inaudible.
"Yes," she said, and her voice was hoarse and rough with tears, shed and unshed. "And Mom, and James, and Tina, and... oh God, Derek, the house, the house is -- "
Derek could feel his nails lengthening. He closed his eyes, dropped his hands to hide them and reached for his anchor: Kate, her smile, her beautiful eyes, the curl of her hair. He clenched his fists, swallowed.
"How?" he said.
There was no question of letting them into the house, not even to get keepsakes, not while the investigation was ongoing; they would disturb the evidence just by being there. They were reduced to standing a hundred yards away and staring at the ruins of what had once been a home.
"They're saying it was -- it was probably an accident," Laura said. Her hand was in his, her claws extended, digging into his flesh. He was grateful for the pain. It kept him from howling.
"You don't believe them," he whispered, quiet enough that only she would hear.
"There are people in the world," she began, her voice trailing away into a choking sound before she could finish. He knew what she was going to say anyway, one of their father's old sayings: There are people in the world who hate people like us, and we must never forget it. We must always be ready to fight.
He let go of her hand. "We have to go," he said. "We can't defend ourselves like this."
He regretted speaking as soon as the words were out of his mouth. It wasn't his decision; he wasn't the Alpha. He lowered his head and added, "I mean -- "
"You're right," Laura said, cutting him off. "We have to go. I'm eighteen, I can take responsibility for you. We'll go... I don't know where. Another state, far away. We -- " She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. "We have money. Mom and Dad's savings. Insurance. We don't even have to pack, there's nothing -- "
Her eyes flashed, and this time it was Derek's turn to take her hand, sink his claws into her, let the pain keep her focus. She nodded, grateful, and whispered (quiet enough that only he could hear) "Tonight we'll go in, get what we can, anything not destroyed, we'll -- anything that would give us away."
"The chains?"
She frowned. "No," she said after a moment. "You don't need them any more, and they're too heavy, too bulky." She pulled her hand out of his and touched his cheek. "From now on we travel light, little soldier."
After dark, they ran through the woods in silence, Laura leading Derek in a roundabout path through the trees until they were close to the house. "You don't have to come," she said.
She was older, she was the Alpha; it was her responsibility. He could leave it to her and she would think no less of him.
"I'm coming anyway," he said, because he would think less of himself.
She nodded gravely, and they ducked under the police tape and crept through the doorway that no longer held a door. "I'll try the stairs," Laura whispered, and Derek replied "I'll check the basement," and didn't mention that under the overwhelming scent of ash he could detect a chemical tang that confirmed her fears. She must have caught it too, and there was nothing they could do about it just then.
In the basement there was nothing but the box of chains, which they weren't going to take, and a lingering scent of burnt flesh that made him sick to his stomach. He swallowed his bile and went up, to the first floor, to see if he could salvage anything -- they weren't there for keepsakes, only for things the investigators wouldn't miss. Things that weren't supposed to be there. The jars of special herbs -- but they were glass, they'd have broken in the heat. The photographs, the ones from when they were kids, before they'd learned to control their eyes, when their mother had insisted they close them so as not to ruin the shot.
He found none of those things. What he did find was a ring, dropped almost casually just beyond the threshold, a little scorched but still recognisable. He'd borrowed money to buy that ring, given it to Kate with a hurried explanation that he didn't mean anything by it, it wasn't an engagement ring or anything crazy like that, it was just that he thought the stones would bring out the color of her eyes.
He crushed the ring in his fist and ran, shifting as he went. When he reached the lake he tossed the twisted lump of metal into the water and howled, and howled, and howled.
He hadn't been able to reach her all day. He'd felt bitter every time he tried her number, and then he'd told himself it didn't matter, she was just busy, she'd come through for him, it didn't mean --
Laura was at his side, eyes glowing red. She growled at him and he let his howls die down, crouched low in submission and shifted back. "I know," she said when they were both human again. "I know," and she pulled him up and hugged him fiercely, and he knew that if he didn't hug her back he'd shake apart into a thousand pieces; and when he did hug her back, he felt like a thief.
But you don't know, he thought.
3. Stiles
They'd been staying in a twin room in a hotel, living out of one suitcase between the two of them. If they could have packed up and run away the morning after checking the house, they would have; but there were forms to fill, insurance companies to placate, eight funerals to arrange. Peter was still alive, barely, and the hospital needed to consult Laura about his care. It was beyond Derek how he could be so badly burned that he hadn't healed straight away and yet still be alive enough to need care. Laura didn't understand it either, and when Derek asked she only shook her head and said, "Maybe it's luck. Maybe it's a miracle. Either way, we are going to keep him alive any way we can. He's all we've got left."
He was waiting in a corridor for her to finish arguing with one of the doctors when a little boy sat down in the chair next to his and started to fidget. Derek stopped listening in to Laura's frustrated questions and the doctor's patient, condescending explanations, and turned to glare at the boy. The boy settled down for a few seconds, then started fidgeting again, swinging his legs and tapping his fingers on the armrests, as if he couldn't help it.
"Quit it," Derek said anyway, not expecting it to help.
"I can't," said the boy, "I didn't take my Adderall. I haven't..." The boy looked around as if to see if someone was listening, then leaned in to whisper. "The script ran out last week. I didn't tell my dad. I didn't want to bother him. My mom..." The boy's eyes grew larger and he blinked rapidly. "Uh. My mom..."
"You don't have to say it," Derek said. He didn't want to talk about his loss; he had an inkling this boy would feel the same.
He seemed to be right: the boy nodded gratefully, cleared his throat, and said "Normally I take it every day, and it keeps me from bouncing off the walls like a pinball, and I do other things, like exercise, I play sports, I run, only lately I haven't had the time and I -- " The boy blinked again and shook his head. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"I don't mind," said Derek.
"My mom is dying," the boy said, and his feet and hands went still. "I don't want to be any trouble, I -- I'm always causing trouble."
Derek had nothing to say to that. He looked the kid over, his twitching fingers, the baggy T-shirt he was wearing, the hair cut so short he was almost bald. He smelled of nervous sweat and peanut butter. "Been eating a lot of sandwiches?" he said.
"Yeah, I can take care of myself," said the boy. "I don't need -- "
"Stiles!" called a voice from the other end of the corridor, and a second later Laura came out of the doctor's office and Derek stood up. "News?" he said, and she shook her head grimly.
"They don't have much hope," she said at a normal volume, adding in an undertone, "I tried to get him moved to a bed near a window, somewhere the moon could shine on him. They can't do it and I couldn't explain why it was important."
"You think it would make a difference?"
Laura shrugged. "It might make him stronger. It couldn't hurt."
Derek was about to speak when he heard his name being mentioned, faint enough that he wouldn't have heard it if he were human. He tuned in, caught the end of a sentence: "...whole family died in a fire, so I hope you weren't bothering him. He's got enough trouble as it is."
Then the boy's voice: "He said he didn't mind."
He glanced down the corridor, casually, trying not to make it look like he'd been listening. The boy was holding the hand of a tired-looking man who had to be his father, and as Derek was looking he turned his head and stared, his eyes very wide and serious. Derek wanted to do something to reassure the boy, make it clear that he really didn't mind, that it had been nice to have a moment of thinking about someone else's problems instead of his own. He raised one hand a little, because he didn't trust his face to form any kind of expression other than the blank mask of grief he'd been wearing since the day of the fire.
The boy's eyes grew, impossibly, wider, and he let go of his father's hand and ran towards Derek. Derek saw it coming, so he didn't flinch when the boy flung his arms around Derek's waist, but raised his own arms and settled them on the boy's shoulders, looking down the corridor at his father and shrugging slightly as if to say don't ask me, I don't get it either.
"I'm sorry," the boy mumbled into Derek's chest, and Derek patted his back.
"I really didn't mind," he said. "It's okay."
"But I'm sorry anyway," said the boy. "For your family."
Derek opened his mouth to speak, and found his voice gone, no sound coming out at all. He closed his eyes. They were prickling with tears, and now was not the time. Not here, in front of strangers, taking comfort he didn't deserve from a child still smarting from his own grief.
He patted the boy's head, cleared his throat and said "Thank you." His voice sounded more or less normal, so he pulled back, bending a little to face the boy head-on. "Go to your father. Take care of him. He's going to need you."
The boy nodded fiercely and ran back down the corridor. Derek straightened and gave the boy's father a steady look. He recognised him now; he'd been at the police station when he and Laura had given their statements. The man nodded at Derek, reassuring, and Derek nodded back before Laura took his arm and drew him away.
"Who was that boy?" she said as they left the hospital.
"I don't know," Derek said. "I didn't catch his name. Anyway, it doesn't matter."
4. Isaac
The night after Isaac's first full moon, Derek heard Isaac coming towards him as he was checking the chest full of restraints he had salvaged from his family home. He flipped the lid closed before Isaac could see what was inside and stood, still with his back to Isaac. "You'll probably never be able to sneak up on me," he said, "so there's not much point in trying."
"I wasn't trying to sneak up on you," said Isaac, and his heart sped up, but not until after he'd finished speaking. He wasn't lying, then. Just nervous.
Derek turned a little. "What is it? Something's bothering you."
"It's not that..." Isaac blew out a breath, bit his lip, then seemed to make a decision. He stepped closer, close enough that Derek could smell traces on his breath of the sweet, milky coffee he'd drunk an hour before.
Derek felt a moment's vertigo when he decoded the look on Isaac's face. Surely not. Surely he wasn't going to --
Isaac's hand came down on Derek's shoulder, fingertips grazing the bare skin of his neck.
"It's not that anything's bothering me," Isaac said, lips quirking a little.
"No," Derek said, blunt, firm, unmistakeable, and he lifted Isaac's hand from his shoulder and let it drop in case there was any room for doubt.
"I - oh," said Isaac, a small closed sound, and Derek sighed and shook his head again.
"I don't want this," he said, "and neither do you."
Isaac flinched away as if Derek had hit him, and Derek cursed mentally; but Isaac didn't move, recovered quickly and looked him in the eye. "You can't actually read minds."
"I don't have to."
"Derek -- "
"I know what wanting looks like," he said, not able to avoid a twist of bitterness in the words. Never mind that it sounded arrogant: it was true. There were too many people who looked at Derek and liked what they saw for him to mistake that yearning in Isaac's eyes for desire.
Isaac dropped his gaze. "You're not my father," he mumbled.
"Thank God for that."
"If you're not -- I mean, we're not -- " Isaac looked up, and now the look in his eyes was pure confusion. "What are we to each other?"
"I'm your Alpha," said Derek, knowing that wasn't what Isaac was asking, not knowing how to answer the real question.
"That's not -- "
"That's how it is. You'll get used to it," he added, turning back.
Isaac touched him again, his shoulderblade this time, a light pressure without the same teasing invitation as before. "Can I at least..."
He trailed off, and Derek could picture his face, the furrow between his brows, the way he'd worry his lip between his teeth. "What," he said flatly, letting his back stiffen.
Isaac stepped closer, until his chest was flush with Derek's back. His arms slid around Derek's waist and he rested his chin on Derek's shoulder, his face turned away so that Derek couldn't read his expression. "I know you're lonely," he murmured. "I get lonely too."
Derek's hands dropped to Isaac's, meaning to pull them off, push Isaac away, but at the last moment he just let them rest there, let the warmth of Isaac's body leach the tension from his back. He stood perfectly still, listening to Isaac's heartbeat and his own, two slow beats, a little off, coming closer together.
He waited for their hearts to beat together once, twice, three times, and then he squeezed Isaac's hands and said, "You need to sleep."
"I'm not going to school tomorrow," said Isaac. "I can't, the police will find me."
"They won't find you here," said Derek, lifting Isaac's hands gently and turning around. "But you still need to sleep."
Isaac nodded. "Thanks," he said, pulling his hands away and tucking them in his armpits. "For, you know. Everything."
Derek nodded, and Isaac loped off. His gait had changed since the bite; his strides were looser, freer, as if he was no longer afraid to take up space.
I did something right, Derek thought.
5. Scott
Hospitals smelled of disinfectant and vomit and urine and sometimes of cancer, and Derek hated them. He wasn't going to leave, though, not until he knew Stiles was out of danger.
The OR was far enough from reception that he had to concentrate to catch what the surgeon was saying. Half of it was medical jargon he didn't understand, and half of the rest was irrelevant chatter about his wife or his kids or his golf handicap. After a frustrating few minutes, Derek stopped paying attention to the words and focused on the heartbeat underneath. If it slowed, if it stopped, if it sped up more than was healthy... there would be nothing he could do about it. But he would know.
It felt right, that he should keep watch that way. It felt like something he should do.
He didn't notice Scott until he was standing in front of Derek, waving a hand in his face. "Dude, didn't you hear me coming? I've been calling for you since -- "
"They're operating," said Derek. Scott's mouth fell open and he tilted his head. Derek could see the very second when Scott heard what Derek was listening to. A moment later he sat down in the chair next to Derek's.
"They're cleaning out the splinters," he said after a minute. "I think -- yeah, I'm right, they've got them all. No signs of infection."
"You know what they're talking about?"
Scott shrugged. "It's hard to tell without seeing it, but... yeah, kind of. Mom's been a nurse for a long time, and Deaton does surgery sometimes. Oh! They're stitching him up."
Derek listened carefully for a tense few minutes, not relaxing until Scott let out a shaky exhale and nodded, saying "He's pulled through. He's going to be fine."
Derek closed his eyes and sank deeper into the chair, rubbing his face with both hands. He was still recovering from the wolfsbane poisoning and the fight that had led to it, a long grind of running and striking and taking cover and waiting with all senses alert.
"Derek?" said Scott, his voice soft and tentative.
"What?"
"You... are you okay?"
Derek lowered his hands. "I'm fine."
"You almost died."
"Meaning I didn't die."
"But you -- " Scott lowered his voice and leaned in closer; a human habit he'd never lost, even when talking to other werewolves. "Mom said you carried Stiles here -- "
"Did you see my car? It was totaled. I had to get him here somehow. An ambulance wouldn't have been fast enough."
"You were poisoned!"
"I dealt with it."
"But you could've -- you didn't stop. You just picked him up and..."
Derek slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his forehead falling into his hands. "He had an arrow in his chest."
He could hear Scott's heart stuttering, his breath going rapid before smoothing out, and then there was a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks," Scott said, and suddenly Derek felt like howling in frustration. He would have walked through fire and ice for Scott, had risked his own life for him more than once, because Scott was his kin whether either of them liked it or not; but Scott had never understood him.
He stood up abruptly and put space between them, letting Scott's hand fall away. "I didn't do it for you," he said.
"I know," said Scott, and his heartbeat and his gaze were steady.
Derek looked away, feeling as if Scott had stripped away a layer of his skin. "Do you?" he murmured, not sure whether it was a question or not.
"Yeah," said Scott, "but I don't think he does. You should tell him." Derek shook his head reflexively and Scott protested, "No, dude, seriously, you -- you have to talk to him. Not now, but when he wakes up. You -- " He broke off, and stood up, facing Derek. "I know Stiles better than anyone does," he said. "And there are things I could tell you that -- that he would totally kill me if I ever told anyone, most of all you, but. You should talk to him. He would... like it if you talked to him."
Derek stared at Scott, hardly daring to believe his own ears. "I -- " He squeezed his eyes tight. This was good news, Stiles was going to be all right, Stiles was -- they'd won, and he was alive and Stiles was alive and --
"Hey -- hey, Derek, it's okay -- "
Scott caught him as he swayed forward, slid his arms around his shoulders and held tight. "It was so close," Derek muttered, "so fucking -- I heard his heart slowing down, it almost -- "
Scott rubbed his back in circles, soothing, comforting. "I know, man. I know."
Derek didn't cry. He wanted to. He thought maybe Scott wouldn't mind, might even like it -- a sign of trust, or whatever. But there was a lake of tears inside him, and he knew that if he let the dam crack, it would burst all at once and leave him weak for days. Instead he held on to Scott, let Scott hold him up until his legs were steady and he didn't feel quite so much as if he were going to shake apart.
"Thank you," he said when he'd pulled back, not looking Scott in the eye.
"No problem. Brother," said Scott.
Derek looked at him then. Scott was smiling. His eyes were bright, as if he, too, had been holding back tears. Derek opened his mouth to speak, and found he had nothing to say. He'd already said thank you, and besides, it wasn't gratitude he felt: just happiness.
Happiness, he thought. My God, no wonder it felt unfamiliar.
"I can give you a ride home? Mom's letting me use the car." Derek glanced in the direction of the room where Stiles was sleeping. "They won't let him have visitors until tomorrow, and... don't you want to talk to him when his dad's not here?" Scott said. Derek nodded. "I'll call you tomorrow, c'mon," Scott said, turning to leave.
Derek followed him out, listening to the sound of Stiles' heart beating, firm and steady and regular. He listened to it until they were far enough away that he couldn't hear it any more.
[end]