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Stiles woke engulfed by an opaque fog and found the bed beside him cold. On the other side of his head his phone incessantly played Carry on My Wayward Son. Crap. He reached over and tapped his thumb to answer, “Hello?”
“Stiles.” One word and about thirteen different emotions and soft accusations.
“Dad.” He draped an arm over his eyes and listed a few lies in his mind. “I know I forgot to call last night. I sta--”
“At Scott’s. I know, I called last night and Scott said he’d give you the message. You were ... in the shower? Stiles,” his dad sighed and the familiar weight of guilt and deceit settled in his chest. He imagined his father standing in the kitchen, still in uniform, with the phone to his ear and his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “Damnit, Stiles. I need to know where you are. You can’t--”
“I know, Dad. I forgo--”
“After those kids at the lacrosse game last seas--”
Stiles bunched his hand into a fist and cut in before his father could continue, “I’m sorry. I,” he swallowed around the lie and unclenched his jaw, “We got into a marathon last night then passed out.”
He felt more in the pause that followed than there should be and felt the palpable shift. His father’s look would be disappointed but willing to keep the rouse up. Because it was Stiles. “So who’s winning?”
“Scott,” he answered quickly, “But I’m just getting him into a false sense of security. You know? Then make my move.”
“Always the way,” the Sheriff chuckled quietly then breathed through his teeth. “You’re okay, right?” Stiles bit his lips tight. Even blind he needed to close the world and his eyes for a moment. Too much in one question.
“Yeah. Yeah, Dad. Totally fine. Harris just gave me a hard time this week and I just needed to shoot computer-simulated terrorists with questionable morals.” His father huffed a laugh at that, “But I’ll see you tomorrow night, right?”
“I...I have night duty.”
Consciously Stiles relaxed his hand. “Right. Of course. So Monday then.” He squeezed his eyes tight beneath the weight of his arm. “Look, Dad, Scott’s waking up and we’re about to--”
“Yeah, yeah. Go defend your men, son. I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad. Be safe out there.” He slid his thumb to end the call then threw the phone as hard as he could from where he lay against Derek’s pillows. Then waited for the crack of plastic, metal, and disappointment.
“How would you have explained a broken phone?” Derek asked somewhere from his right. He heard the distinct sound of his phone sliding and flipping in Derek’s hand.
“The same way I’ll explain the cuts and bruises.” When Derek didn’t ask, he sat up and looked to where Derek’s voice had been. He took a breath and began. “Scott and I took a break from playing Call of Duty and went for a run in the preserve; and before you ask, we ran in the preserve because it’s a harder path than running on a track or the road and we want to keep fit for lacrosse next season.
“While we were running I got distracted by something on the ground which, naturally, ended up being trash. While distracted I slid on some leaves down the side of a hill. Scott brought be back to his house where Mrs. McCall patched me up, gave me a lecture about curiosity and clumsiness, then went to work,” he sighed and raised his hands palms up. “Which explains the cuts, visible bruises -- because my father will not be seeing me shirtless anytime soon to see the not visible ones, and my now-not-broken phone.”
“You’re getting better,” he felt the bed dip beside him.
“No,” Stiles shook his head, he looked down to where he knew his hands were and where he saw greyed white. “I’m really not. Instead of seeing a bright white everything, I see fog soup. I can’t see anything.”
“I barely heard the lie,” Derek continued over him.
Stiles laughed wetly against his raised fist. “Yeah. Good. Great. I can now lie to the cops when I commit my next felony. Oh wait.”
“Come on,” Derek gripped him by the shoulder and lifted him up. “Breakfast.”
“The most important meal of the day for man and wolf. And better than talking about lying to the police. Or my Dad who happens to be the police,” Stiles snapped then shook his head. As they walked back through the hallway he couldn’t help but trail his fingers along the wall; he felt the bottoms of two picture frames and the rim of a rounded, smooth wooden table. Three things that hadn’t even made the top ten on his list of things he’d find in Derek Hale’s apartment; not that he had a list of things he’d find in the apartment he didn’t even know about until last night.
As they neared what had to be the kitchen, the smell of eggs and bacon warmed the air and Stiles groaned in hungered lust. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook.”
“You know very little about me,” Derek replied as he shoved Stiles into a seat.
“So tell me something while you eat the incredibly smelling food that I can’t see and thus cannot possibly begin to eat.” He heard a plate thunk on the table in front of him and he inhaled deeply: egg, tomato, peppers, and ... hot sauce? “Can all werewolves cook or is this a Derek thing? I mean, it makes sense. When something starts burning you’d smell it, right? Werewolf scenting? Then why does Scott still burn the popcorn?”
“Because he’s an idiot and doesn’t listen to his senses,” Derek said from beside him. “Open your mouth, Stiles.”
Stiles smirked, “You know, I always thought mmgrng,” he choked around the fork and the egg. It tasted better than it smelled, if possible. There was definitely butter and cheese in the mix as well. And that made it slightly divine.
He murmured a thank you after he swallowed then slid his fingers over Derek’s and felt Derek tense. He took the fork and fumbled his other hand towards the plate. Slowly, he ate and listened to Derek move around behind him. Was Derek purposely moving loudly?
He thought back to the previous night to the explosion and the hunter, to the feel of the hunter’s hand at his neck and felt nausea swim in his belly. It wasn’t fair, he wanted to say. Instead he huffed and finished his eggs and bacon -- no toast -- and pushed the plate aside and said, “It wasn’t my fault.”
After a beat of silence Stiles stood and held his hands before him, then began to walk away from where the refrigerator whirred in the corner and moved away from the kitchen. His legs shook with disorientation and nerves. Please don’t let there be a wall. Or a sharp table.
“No one thinks it was your fault. Hunters don’t need a reason to--” then Derek released a breath. “What are you doing?”
“You avoided my question about cooking. I’m snooping. And I’m not useless.” Stiles stilled then took a breath that trembled. “I just wanted that said. Even if I am the one saying it.”
“You’re temporarily blind Stiles,” Derek spoke quietly and slowly in his ear, and Stiles jerked but kept his hands out in front of him. He hadn’t heard Derek move, hadn’t felt the air around him change. “You’re not useless,” Derek pulled back, “An idiot with too much access to Google and the local library, maybe. But not useless.”
“Good, I’ll accept that. A straight-A idiot who likes the internet and what it can offer a normal, teenaged boy. Then to answer your question, I’m feeling things,” to prove the point he ran his hand over the back of a cloth sofa and grazed the top of a pillow; satin trim with tassels. Huh. He walked further and steadied the lamp he bumped into with a start, and with fumbling hands. “Thanks for the warning.”
He didn’t need his eyesight to see the smirk on Derek’s face, “You’re the one who’s feeling things.”
“Just trying to learn something beyond leather jackets and the muscle car. And breakfast skills. And satin pillows with tassels. I bet the pillow’s purple and the tassels gold.” Derek snorted and Stiles heard him move. “Are you purposely moving so I can hear?”
“You’re the one the with heightened senses,” Derek pointed out, avoiding the question, then Stiles heard the shift of fabric and figured Derek was watching him explore. A shiver of realization made him stumble over his feet: No one else had been here, no one but Derek. And Derek was watching him, letting him, explore and touch. He licked his lips anxiously.
“So, why help me? Still taking in strays?” he spoke over his shoulder then hummed when he reached the -- Holy God -- the huge huge huge TV. “Wow.”
“Because the hunters know where Scott lives. Everyone in town knows where he lives. And the Alpha Pack has been too quiet lately.” Stiles hummed again and toyed with the next question. Why bring him here and not his ‘pack’? Why here and not the depot?
He turned around and walked, arms stretched out, until he touched another chair. Clearly by the lack of heat and hair, it was not the one Derek was watching him from. He felt his way, Hello Table, to sit down. Hopefully across from Derek and he looked directly in front of him, then swallowed and felt sweat dampen his neck.
“Another question?” At the silence he continued. “You’re being very open right now or more open than usual. Why?”
“Is that your question?”
“No.”
“Because you make more noise when you’re not talking. Somehow.”
“Why haven’t you offered me The Bite?” Yeah, capital tee and bee. And immediately he wanted to cover his mouth and whisper he was kidding. He was kidding, right? No. Yes. God.
“Why would I?”
“Because ... Scott?” His palms were beginning to sweat and, God, he wanted to see Derek. Or, actually, to look away. Emphasis on look. Stupid questions. “Peter suggested that--”
“Peter offered?” Derek asked quietly, with a trace of something Stiles didn’t want to think about right then. He’d moved but Stiles couldn’t see -- or hear -- to where. He couldn’t answer, his throat suddenly dry, and he didn’t trust his voice not to shake so he nodded twice. “When?”
“When ...when the Argents had you in the basement.” His voice shook and he couldn’t stop it from lowering to a whisper. He remembered that night: Kate, the realization of what Kate was doing to Derek, to what happened to the Hales, exactly, and Peter. And fire. Scott’s hope of a cure.
“But you said no,” Derek asked from somewhere to the right, bringing him back to the present. He nodded then thought if Derek was walking around, he might not be looking at Stiles.
“Yeah. I said no. I didn’t want it.”
“So why ask for it?” Derek was behind him now. God, stalking him? Circling? Maybe this wasn’t a trust thing. Maybe this was a prey thing. Maybe Derek was lulling him into a moment of submission. He turned his face to where Derek had spoken.
“Not from Peter. I didn’t, don’t, want to be like him.”
“Why ask now, Stiles?” Derek was in front of him. Sitting on the table? He turned and flexed his hands on the arms of the chair.
“I didn’t,” he licked his lips and swallowed. God. “I asked why you didn’t offer. I didn’t ask for it. I mean, it makes sense though. I’m a good investment.” He sucked in a breath and let the stream of thought out. Because, damnit, he needed to know. Freakin’ werewolves. They messed with his head more than Harris on a good day. One minute you’re trusted, one minute you aren’t worthy of a stupid bite.
“Okay. Look at the plus side. I’ve been helping Scott from the beginning. So I know all the tricks of the wolf, ha ha. If I was bitten I’d be more likely to convince him to join your pack. Which you want. Or I could guilt him into it. I could possibly wear him down now, but as a new werewolf? Totally. And he’d need someone to help him -- colossally lost Luke that he is -- and, I mean, I helped him control the anger before and figured out the--”
“You don’t need it, Stiles,” Derek breathed out and he felt the breath on his face; clearly Derek was sitting on the edge of the table. “Isaac asked me. His father was a,” he paused and Stiles moved closer to the edge of the chair. “a terror. Erica’s body physically terrorized her and doctors couldn’t help.”
“Like Gerard,” and he was proud that he didn’t choke on the name.
“No, not like Argent. Boyd was ... he is stronger as a person, as a man, in a pack.”
“He needs family.” Stiles breathed into the silence. He almost thought Derek had moved when he felt Derek’s leg against brush his.
“I think,” Derek stopped and Stiles was sure he heard him lick his lips, “I think you would appreciate the bite more. That you’d be able to handle the change.” But.
“But.”
“But you’re stronger as a human. You don’t need the bite.”
Stiles laughed and threw his head back, leaned back against the chair. “Stronger as human?” He raised an eyebrow and waved his hand in front of his face, then down his midsection. “Clearly.”
Derek grabbed one of Stiles’s hand and stilled the movement. Their hands shook. “This,” his squeezed, “doesn’t make you weak. Hunters don’t make you weak.”
“We will have to agree to disagree.” Stiles paused and curled his fingers, then released and smirked. “I’d be a good alpha, though.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Derek let go but Stiles didn’t hear him move, he still felt the warmth from where Derek’s leg was beside his.
“You need someone to challenge. And to fix others. You’re too damned curious to let things happen. An alpha doesn’t fix his betas and he doesn’t go searching for dead bodies in the woods. An alpha teaches and leads. An alpha rises above the betas because he is strong, he is smart, and he is a leader. He is not consumed by power but doesn’t shy from the gift he’s been given.” Stiles wondered if Derek was still talking to him or reciting something else.
“I can lead,” Stiles countered.
“Not yet, not when you run into a situation like last night; where hunters outnumber your pack and where a trap has been set that is meant to hurt you. Not when I know you would run back into the woods looking for,” Derek paused, “things.” Laura.
He heard Derek’s voice move, then the sound of shoes on hard flooring. He hadn’t even noticed the difference before. The kitchen was hard, where he was sitting was carpet. He flinched when something wet touched his eyes. “It’s a salve.”
“It smells like--”
“I don’t care. Deaton said it would help.”
“Ah. So Dr. Deaton has your home digits. You know they say that the home--”
“My cell,” Derek ground out, “Scott called him this morning. It should speed the healing process. Ignore the smell. I am.”
He felt Derek’s hands, his fingers, press lightly on the cloth over his eyes. He breathed through his nose and leaned into the touch, then felt Derek’s hands take his weight and cup his face; felt the heel of Derek’s hands support his chin.
“Why haven’t you brought Isaac and Peter here?” he whispered. The question had been burning in his mind, echoing behind everything else.
“Because it was Laura’s,” Derek answered quietly after a moment. “And I’m not ready to bring Peter here.”
Stiles swallowed and slid his hands from Derek’s elbows, over skin, to his wrists and paused. He felt the beat there, then moved his fingers over Derek’s to replace them. They stayed like that, both holding the damp cloth, for a moment until Derek slid his hands away. When Stiles heard him in the kitchen area, he leaned back in the chair.
His life seemed to orbit around Laura Hale: searching for her body, or half of it; chasing after the alpha-uncle who killed her; his best friend was dating-not-dating the niece of the woman who had started this hunter/werewolf Argent/Hale war; and now he was sitting in her apartment with her brother. He sighed and wondered what she was like, this woman who he seemed to be haunting.
He heard Derek walking around and waited. “Deaton said to leave it on for half an hour.”
“Great.” After a minute, while Derek ran water in the sink, Stile mumbled, “I don’t like the guy.”
“Join the club,” Derek muttered back.
Stiles huffed a laugh as he felt his reality tilt; whether he wanted it or not something had changed from last night to today. From before their exchange with the hunters to today in Laura Hale’s living room.
“Derek?”
Silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything,” Derek said from not the kitchen, but not near him.
“Both other people, humans, did.”
Derek didn’t reply but, Stiles leaned back and felt for the table to prop his legs up, he didn’t expect one. And wasn’t that the real realization? He was starting to know what to expect from Mr. Man-Of-Few-Words-And-Fewer-Friends.