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He shouldn’t be out tonight, Stiles knew that. It was a full moon and he was only a fragile human, but he’d gotten stuck late at work and there was nothing for it. He couldn’t sleep in the lab, after all. So now he was walking home along the dark streets and carefully monitoring for the closest Moon Shelter.
People had known about werewolves for a decade now, but rather than growing less afraid, every passing year seemed to bring heightened police precautions and greater prejudices. Revealing one’s identity as a werewolf had become akin to coming out in the ‘50s and it simply wasn’t done. In exchange for staying hidden, the government had passed legislation allowing werewolves sole access to public forests on the full moon. The Moon Shelters were constructed of mountain ash and spread regularly throughout the cities so any unfortunate soul caught out on the full moon had a place to hide should they encounter an out-of-control werewolf.
Tonight, Stiles was apparently one of those unfortunate souls.
“Shit.” He breathed quietly as he began rounding a corner and spotted two fully shifted werewolves fighting with one another. They stood directly between him and the closest shelter and the next closest was a full quarter mile behind him. He would never make it in time if they heard him, so he edged quietly down a stairwell that opened into a public restroom. Just as he retreated towards the stalls in the back, the locked door was ripped off his hinges and his skin crawled at the roar that reverberated off the four concrete walls.
“Shit, shit.” Stiles swore, no longer bothering to be quiet. He backed up against the cold concrete wall behind him, wishing he could phase right through it like Kitty Pryde as the two werewolves ran at him full speed. Pain screamed through his arm as a set of claws raked through his shoulder and he prepared for the next strike when suddenly the werewolves were falling away from him and he slid to the ground in relief. A new werewolf stood with his back to Stiles, posturing aggressively at the rogues who were getting up from where they’d been thrown.
Stiles watched in confusion as the werewolf stood guard over him before growing distracted by the warm, wet feeling coating his arm. He looked down to find his flannel soaked in blood where four gashes ripped through it. A cry ripped from his throat as he pulled the flannel off and he stretched the lacerations, but he finally managed to haphazardly tie the material around his wound to at least somewhat stifle the flow of blood.
His protectors looked down at him briefly when he’d stopped groaning in pain and Stiles gasped when he saw the werewolf wasn’t hiding his true face. The moment was transient, however, as the rogues growled and drew both of their attentions back towards the threat. Stiles watched as his protector reached into a pouch on his belt and produced two syringes. The werewolves lunged haphazardly at him only to each be met by a swiftly dealt punch under the ribs. Stiles grinned as he saw the cleverly positioned syringes break their skin and not moments later they sagged into his (unfairly massive) arms before being laid on the ground. Only when the werewolf grabbed a walkie-talkie from his belt did Stiles notice the official note to his uniform.
“Rogues contained. They can be returned to the Preserve.” His voice was gravely and warm, surprisingly so for his gruff appearance and Stiles’ mouth fell open when he turned around to face him once more. The werewolf’s finely cut jaw was covered in a beautifully thick, short beard and his pale green eyes looked down at Stiles in concern.
“Who are you?” Stiles asked as he used his good arm to take the hand he was offered.
“Agent Hale,” was the short, unhelpful answer.
“No, but like who are you? The syringes and the uniform and the shifting in front of a human thing.”
Hale’s eyebrows rose in amusement and Stiles stared shamelessly at them. “I need to call you an ambulance.” Answered the werewolf, pointedly ignoring the question.
Suddenly four more werewolves in uniform rushed into the bathroom carrying stretchers onto which the unconscious werewolves were strapped.
“What the hell?” Stiles murmured in amazement before he suddenly began swaying on his feet and felt Agent Hale wrap a steadying hand around his good arm.
“I’m calling an ambulance. Now.” He growled sternly.
“Can’t you just take me?” Stiles whined. “It’ll go faster. You seem trustworthy.” That was probably the blood loss talking if he was being honest.
Hale sent a querying glance at the werewolves manning the stretchers and one of them shrugged. “We are here to protect the humans. Don’t see why not.”
“Don’t bleed in my car.” He grumbled.
Stiles lurched painfully into the passenger side of Agent Hale’s beautiful Camaro and proceeded to stare at the beautiful, serious man driving. Only then did his slightly panic addled brain realize the man’s identity.
“You’re Derek Hale! Your family started the Moon Shelter initiative.” Derek grimaced and Stiles realized he’d come to the heart of it. “Your family started all this for you?”
“All of us.” Came Derek’s short reply.
“But what’s with this whole secret agent thing you’ve got going on?” Stiles pressed.
He could hear Derek grind his teeth angrily and Stiles was about to retract his question when he began to answer.
“Rogue werewolves that used to be caught in the cities on this initiative were typically put down by human task forces because the only way they have to fight us is with wolfsbane bullets. I proposed a new task force of werewolves who would be offered amnesty in exchange for helping patrol the streets for rogues on the full moon. We’re better equipped to handle them without killing and then they’re taught control before being released to resume life as usual.”
“That’s so cool!” Stiles exclaimed. “What do you have to do to join? Because my best friend got bitten a few years back and he has really good control but he’s not really sure what he wants to do with his life and I think he’d be really good at this.”
Derek looked over at him, an adorably dumbfounded expression on his face. “You don’t care that he’s a werewolf?”
“Well no. The prejudices are stupid.”
“But you were just attacked.”
“Yeah, and I could easily get mugged at gunpoint any other night of the year. So what? Shit happens.” Stiles couldn’t quite understand the look in Derek’s eyes as he stared forward at the street, but he suddenly wanted to know more about him.
“Is this what you do? Like for a living? Or is it like a moonlighting thing? Pun intended.” Derek snorted and Stiles counted it as a win.
“For some. It’s my life’s work though. I handle pushing through all the legislation, the research, everything.”
“Research?” Stiles whipped his head toward Derek which invariably made him nauseous due to blood loss. They were almost to the hospital so he didn’t say anything. “I’m good at research.”
Derek looked over at him with eyebrows furrowed in alarmed wariness. “You want to help? Werewolves?”
“I explained this already, dude. Scott and me are brothers. I’d do anything to help him.” Not wanting to sound like he was only in this for Scott, he added, “You’re not so bad yourself. I could handle getting to know you better.”
It came out significantly more flirtatious than he had intended and Derek’s cheeks and ears flared bright pink, visible even in the dim street light. He considered backpedaling but he kind of wanted to jump Derek’s bones and get to know him better along the way so he pushed on.
“You know, if you could handle getting to know me better, that is.”
“I could handle that.” Derek replied gruffly, his ears still pink as they pulled up to the emergency room. “Do you have a phone?”
Stiles produced the object without hesitation and Derek worked deftly at the keyboard for a few seconds. “I have to get back to patrol but call me when they release you. I’ll give you a ride home if the moon’s still up.”
“See you later, Sourwolf.” Stiles parted with a dumb grin.