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-----
Derek circles the warehouse twice before he’s certain Gerard has crawled off to die somewhere. That’s what it smells like, at least.
He heads back inside, ready to go, when Isaac grabs his arm and nods at Stiles’ back.
Derek frowns at Isaac until he lets go.
The Argents have already taken off, their caravan of SUV’s rumbling away from the warehouse. Lydia had found clothes for Jackson somewhere and was coaxing him through a phone call with his parents around the other side of the Jeep. Scott was… Well, Derek couldn’t say that he actually cared too much where Scott was right then.
The entire night had been a blur of confusion. Had they won? It didn’t really feel like it.
“Stiles,” Isaac says.
Stiles turns around, shoulders hunched, face bruised and blotchy. He doesn’t say anything and his face is unusually blank.
Isaac looks significantly between them again, but Derek still doesn’t get it.
“What?”
Isaac’s face reads disappointment for a split second, but he seals it off in the next heartbeat.
“Take his pain,” he whispers. “I can’t do it right now.” He gestures to the still healing knife wounds in his sides, shoulders bent in embarrassment.
Derek looks at Stiles.
He hasn’t done this in a long time. He hasn’t had the need to take away anyone’s pain since he had human family members that tended to bump into things or get headaches after a long day.
Behind him, Derek senses more than hears Peter’s amusement.
“Forgotten how, nephew?”
Derek doesn’t bother to respond. He takes a step towards Stiles, hand outstretched, but when his fingers brush Stiles’ neck, Stiles twitches and takes a step back.
“What?” he asks flatly, eyes shifting over the three of them.
“It’s okay,” Isaac says, soft and reassuring.
Derek nods, intent. He remembers how to do this.
He clamps his hand down on the joint of Stiles’ neck and shoulder.
“Just hold still.”
Stiles does as he’s told, though it seems to be more out of exhaustion than compliance.
Derek closes his eyes for a moment, summoning the right stretch inside of him that can reach around Stiles and soften the places that hurt. The feeling that comes with it is almost euphoric, but twisted--it’s a furious high and then a crashing low that’s always left him feeling like a washcloth that’s been wrung out and hung to dry.
This time though, there’s an extra edge to the sensation, an actual ache that runs from his shins to his nose. He thinks it’s just because it’s been so long, but then he opens his eyes and sees the shocked surprise on Stiles’ face.
Stiles’ unblemished face.
He turns a little and Isaac is looking at him the same way.
Stiles jerks away from his hand, arms flailing wildly. “What now? I can’t handle pain, but you can? What am I? Just some... some stupid...” He keeps waving his arms, mouth tensed to open, but no words come and he just deflates. “Whatever.”
Derek is still confused. He doesn’t get it at all until Peter circles around to look at him in wonder.
He reaches for Derek’s face, but Derek jerks away.
He touches the skin with his own fingers and finds his cheek raw and tender. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and worries at the new split there. The same injuries he had seen just moments ago on Stiles’ face.
Derek looks down at his own hands, expecting to see twisted black veins, but there’s nothing.
“Interesting.” Peter hums. “You have some hidden talents.”
Stiles and Isaac have the same look of confusion on their faces.
“Is that an Alpha thing?” Isaac asks.
Derek doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know that much about ‘Alpha things.’
“Yes and no,” Peter concedes. “When a Beta becomes an Alpha, the energy and power can do incredible things. In some cases, very bad things.”
“Like you?” Stiles asks dryly.
“Worse,” Peter responds with a wink. “Generally, the Alpha power may magnify some undeveloped trait you already had. But Alphas have also been known to acquire powers of telepathy, mind control; a few were even known to act as mediums.” He crosses his arms, studying Derek with a smirk. “Then, there are the healers. You always were such a bleeding heart, Derek.”
“What?” Stiles fidgets, wide awake now that he is healed. “So he can heal anything? Anybody?”
“Anyone he chooses. I’ve never actually met a healer.” Peter turns to Stiles and gives him a mock-sorrowful look. “They don’t tend to live very long.”
Derek runs his tongue over his lip again, urging it to heal. He presses a hand to his chest, where everything feels tight and hot. Was Stiles really feeling this bad before?
He glances up.
Stiles is looking at him closely.
Derek drops his hand from his chest. “We need to go.”
Isaac turns away immediately, following the command, but Peter takes his time, surveying the area and stroking his chin like a comic book villain. Still, he eventually trails after Isaac through the warehouse.
Derek hesitates and he’s not sure why. He doesn’t have anything to say to Stiles. Not really. He glances over the Jeep, to Jackson and Lydia, and then back to Stiles, who’s standing there awkward and alone.
He clears his throat. “You should go home, too.”
Stiles nods jerkily and Derek turns away then, barely catching Stiles’ reply in the echoey expanse of the warehouse.
“Thank you.”
-----
Derek bears Stiles’ bruises for two days. It’s longer than a werewolf should, but not as long as a human would. He spends those days avoiding everyone, driving around town and sleeping in empty parking lots.
Healer.
It’s another label to add to a growing list: traitor, murderer, runaway, orphan. Alpha. Healer. It doesn’t sit right, doesn’t fit him at all. What has he turned into? If his family were alive today, he’s certain they wouldn’t even recognize him anymore.
He rests his head on the steering wheel and closes his eyes, but there’s no comfort in wallowing for him. He’s too good at twisting things so that he can take the blame to ever feel like a victim. So he only stays there for a moment before taking a deep breath and turning the key to start the car.
He guides the Camaro through side streets and crowded neighborhoods until the orange light dings on the dash. He needs gas.
He pulls into the first station he sees, climbs out of the Camaro, and circles around to the gas pump.
There’s an old, half-rusted minivan parked on the other side. Derek can smell the driver before he even sees him.
He’s never liked gas stations, the scents of oil, exhaust, and fuel overwhelming, but this is something else--sickness, most likely cancer. It has a very specific smell.
Derek sets up the gas nozzle and leans back against the Camaro’s trunk while it runs, studying the guy on the other side of the pump.
He’s not that old, maybe around Peter’s age, and even though it’s not cold the guy is hunched into himself, arms crossed. His cheeks are hollow and gray. Inside his van, a little boy chatters to a large gray dog.
Derek thinks, I could fix you. Maybe. He’s not clear on the exact details of his ability. Is there a difference between healing injury and illness?
The guy finishes pumping his gas and turns to place the nozzle back when he fumbles. The nozzle slips from his shaking hands and hits the concrete.
Derek ducks around the gas pump, crouching down beside where the man is kneeling, head hanging.
“You okay?” he asks, mouth moving before he can stop it.
The guy shakes his head.
“Fine.”
He reaches for the fallen gas nozzle, but Derek meets him halfway. He places his hand on the man’s wrist and replaces the nozzle with his other hand. Then he grips tighter and pulls the man to his feet, steadying him.
It’s only three or four seconds of contact total. Derek has never unleashed his healing so hastily before, and it rushes through him like a sour electric shock. Sharp pains echo through his stomach when the connection is broken.
The guy moves away with a shifty glance, sliding into his van and reassuring the boy in the backseat.
Derek stumbles back to the Camaro and jerkily caps off the gas tank before falling into the driver’s seat. He takes deep breaths, his vision wavering into snowy spots. The pain in his stomach is deep and empty, like his insides are being scooped out with a ladle. He opens the car door, leans out and vomits black onto the pavement.
He has to get out, and fast.
He starts the car with shaking hands and peels out.
He can’t go home, can’t risk Peter seeing him like this, or Isaac, or even Scott. He can’t stay out in the streets anymore, not feeling like this, not knowing what’s out there. His choices are pathetically limited.
He parks the Camaro in an alleyway and stumbles, point A to point B, through parking lots, gardens, and lawns until he makes it to the Sheriff’s backdoor.
The sickness is growing in him, like the climax of a thunderous symphony. Luckily, the backdoor is unlocked and he finds the bathroom just in time to throw up again into the toilet.
He slides down against the wall, hands rubbing at his knees. His body feels too hot and too cold in turns. He’s sweating and shaking and the last time he’d felt this bad he’d been dying. The thing in his stomach throbs, grows, twists its way through him. He puts his head down on his knees, hands over his head, and focuses on breathing, slow, in and out.
It goes on.
He doesn’t know how time is passing, but it must be, because the next thing he’s aware of is the bathroom door slamming open into the wall behind it and Stiles’ startled shout.
“Hey! Um, Derek?” There’s a pause and then Stiles’ feet pad softly across the tiled floor. “Hello? Are you... are you okay?”
Derek doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know. When he opens his mouth to speak, he has to lurch forward to the toilet again, sickness heaving its way out.
Stiles steps back. “Oh, dude. Gross. Okay. You’re not okay, then.” He turns and fills a glass of water at the tap and holds it out. When Derek doesn’t take it, he sighs and sets it on the counter. “Is it some kind of poison? Should I call someone?”
Derek swallows carefully, opens his mouth and actually finds some words. “I have cancer.”
Stiles hits the floor so hard his knees crack on the cold tile. He shakes his head. “You what?”
“I cured cancer,” Derek clarifies, hardly believing the words even as he says them.
Stiles slumps back against the cabinet, long limbs sprawled out. His feet bump Derek’s in the cramped space. “Who? Someone I know?”
Derek shakes his head. “No. I... I didn’t know him.”
“You took some random dude’s cancer?”
Derek nods, hand over his mouth, like that will stop the sick feeling in his throat.
“Christ,” Stiles curses. “What’s wrong with you? Why would you do that?”
Derek doesn’t have an answer.
“Are you healing? Is it getting better?” Stiles’ eyes are wide and he sits forward, hand on Derek’s shoe.
“Might take a while.”
“Did he know?”
Derek shakes his head. “He probably won’t notice until his pain meds wear off.”
“How come you didn’t go home?”
Derek closes his eyes and swallows thickly against another stab of nausea. He must look pretty awful, because Stiles’ hand moves to his knee.
“Sorry. Too many questions, right?” He scoffs at himself. “Right. This is just crazy, though. You’re, like, a miracle worker. If you played it right, you could probably be canonized some day. Were any saints werewolves? What about the Long Island Medium, is she a werewolf? She’s got the claws.”
Derek cracks an eye open to see Stiles making a growly face.
At Derek’s raised eyebrow, though, he sits back against the cabinet. “Right. Sorry. Not sure why I’m apologizing, though. This is my house. If you wanted peace and quiet you should have gone to your house. Of course, then you’d have to deal with Peter, so... you can’t go home can you?”
Derek doesn’t answer. He just watches as the emotions and ideas flit across Stiles’ face like a movie screen.
Stiles has never needed any help figuring things out.
“Peter could try to kill you for your Alpha powers when you’re weak like this. That’s why he said healers don’t live very long, isn’t it?”
Derek nods. It’s his instincts that tell him these things, gut feelings that urge him to stay away, even from Isaac and Scott, but Stiles spells it out in plain English. It’s such a relief to be understood that Derek actually relaxes. He lets his head rest back against the wall.
Stiles frowns, face pulled tight. He stands up and holds a hand out to Derek. “C’mon. We have much more comfortable places to sit than on the bathroom floor.”
Derek takes the hand offered and lets himself be led, staggering into the Stilinski living room, where Stiles guides him onto the couch. Before he knows it, he’s lying down, shivering despite the heavy blanket draped over him.
Stiles busies himself getting a bottle of water and a trashcan to set next to the couch. When that’s done, he shoves at Derek’s feet and sits down beside them at the end of the couch. He flips the TV on, turning the volume down low.
Considering that Derek feels like he’s dying, it’s actually kind of cozy and nice. He closes his eyes and drifts.
-----
He wakes to the sound of the front door and heavy footsteps through the hall. Stiles fumbles to turn off the TV and stand up. “Hey, Dad.”
Derek freezes and tries to contain his shivers.
If he’s totally still, maybe the Sheriff won’t see him.
“Derek Hale is sick,” Stiles announces brightly. “And his house is broken so I offered him our un-barbequed couch.”
The Sheriff looks coolly between the two of them. “Kitchen,” he finally says, eyes settling on his son. “Right now.”
“10-4, pops.” Stiles darts over to pat Derek’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
They’re gone for a while, long enough that Derek allows himself to relax again and pull the blanket tight up around his neck. He’s too tired to listen in, but he can imagine how the conversation is going.
If--no, who’s he kidding, when--the Sheriff kicks him out, he’ll have to drag himself all the way back to the Camaro and spend the night in the cramped back seat--a trip he dreads with every bit of energy he has left. So he might as well enjoy this moment while it lasts, curled up on the Stilinski’s soft, warm couch.
When they finally come back, Stiles is cradling a bowl of steaming soup in his palms. He sets it on the coffee table and then sits down on the table beside it. “You can stay.”
The Sheriff stands behind his son, arms crossed. “Don’t think I won’t notice if anything goes missing. I will find it and I will find you. Especially anything valuable,” he says, gaze dropping significantly to his son’s back.
Derek nods. “Of course. Thank you.”
The Sheriff’s face softens. “Just... let us know if you need anything else.” He steps back and runs a hand over his face. “I’ve got to go shower and change. Holler if you need anything,” he says, this time directed at Stiles.
As if Derek would attack him while the Sheriff was right upstairs. Not only does the man believe Derek to be a criminal, but a dumb one on top of it.
When his dad is gone, Stiles picks up the soup and holds it out.
Derek pushes himself up and takes it. He stirs the spoon around in the bowl. It’s chicken noodle and looks homemade.
“You’re not going to eat that are you?” Stiles asks after a moment.
Derek ducks his head. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Stiles leans forward and takes the bowl back. “More for me.” He lifts the spoon to his mouth and takes a huge bite, without even testing the temperature. Derek didn’t know there was an impulsive, reckless way to eat soup, but Stiles has found it.
“Thanks for talking to your dad.”
Stiles shrugs and swallows. “No problem. I figured I owe you for fixing me.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Stiles nods. “Not anymore. Pretty sure we’re even now.”
Derek leans his head back against the arm of the couch. “I’m not keeping score.”
“You’re not keeping score, because I’m totally winning.” Stiles grins.
In spite of himself, Derek smiles. “You just said we were even.”
“And I meant that. Also.” Stiles quirks an eyebrow up. “I underestimated your attention to detail.”
“I’m a werewolf.”
“Exactly. All the werewolves I know are the worst at details.”
Derek shakes his head, certain he should be annoyed instead of amused.
Stiles takes another slurp of soup. “Hungry yet?”
“Not even close.”
“C’mon. When’s the last time you ate anything? Even my dad said--” Stiles stops, like he realizes just how exactly that is the wrong thing to say.
“What,” Derek says.
“Nothing.” Stiles shoves the half-eaten bowl of soup at him again and stands. He shifts nervously. “When my mom was sick, when she couldn’t eat, sometimes it helped if I... I don’t know, started for her? That’s weird, isn’t it? Never mind.”
Stiles bends to take the soup back, but Derek holds out a hand to stop him.
“It’s fine. I’ll try it.”
“You will?” Stiles looks confused, like he doesn’t recognize the person sitting on his couch. “That’s good. Okay, then. Alright. I’ll be upstairs.”
He drifts backwards out of the room, before turning for the stairs.
Derek settles back on the couch. His stomach does feel better now and he’s not sure why it is, but seeing Stiles eat the soup did make him want it a bit more.
He lifts the spoon to his mouth and takes a big bite, savoring the warm broth on his dry tongue. It’s definitely homemade.
He finishes off the rest of the bowl.
-----
The next day, Isaac shows up with Stiles after school. Stiles raises his hands in innocence as soon as they walk in the door.
“It’s not my fault. He smelled you and he promised he wouldn’t try to kill you.”
Despite Stiles’ reassurance, Derek can’t help but be on guard. He pushes the blankets back and sits up on the couch, his feet planted on the floor. Of course, he’s now wearing a loose pair of sweats and a BHPD t-shirt, courtesy of the Sheriff. It doesn’t exactly paint a threatening picture.
Isaac rushes forward and Derek jerks back, not prepared.
Stiles darts toward them, like he could stop him if need be, but Isaac just sits down on the coffee table, facing Derek. His whole body is tense, leaning forward.
“Peter said you had probably died.”
Derek scoffs. “He wishes.”
Isaac still looks concerned. “Are you dying? Stiles said you have cancer. How is that even possible?”
Derek is caught off guard by the honest concern in Isaac’s gaze. He has to look away for a moment and take a deep breath to ground himself. He’d been so caught up in running and hiding for so long that he’d forgotten what pack really meant.
Isaac is the closest thing he has to that now.
The paranoia of being on his own, dealing with Peter, and always watching his back has destroyed the only chance he had at having something like a family again. He has no doubts now that that was why Erica and Boyd had left.
He looks back up at Isaac and reaches out to rest a hand on his knee. “I don’t have cancer. Not really. Not like a human would. When you take on someone’s pain, it’s an exchange of energy, not anything tangible. The healing, it’s the same thing.”
“So, you take the... bad energy?” Isaac frowns, trying to understand.
“Sort of. If I went to the doctor, they wouldn’t be able to see anything wrong. But inside... it’s still there. It’s like...”
“Your body is trying to neutralize the negative energy?” Stiles asks, from the corner of the room.
Derek had forgotten he was still there. He nods at him over Isaac’s shoulder. “Basically.”
“You know a lot about this.”
“It’s a pretty well-told legend for us.”
Isaac seems satisfied with this, though he’s still frowning. “Peter also told me that Alphas who develop special gifts usually turn into omegas.”
Derek nods.
The kid deserves all the facts, after everything they’ve been through.
“It’s too hard to balance this with building a pack. Almost impossible, really. For an Alpha to put themselves into a weak state in front of their Betas... it requires a lot of trust. And most new Betas aren’t very trustworthy.”
Stiles comes over to sit in the armchair beside them. “So, what does that mean?”
Derek rests his head in his hand. He’d been trying so hard not to think about the greater implications of his new gift. All the work he’d done, trying to train and build up the pack, it’s for nothing now.
Not that any of it has turned out so well anyway. His life is nothing if not one epic failure after another.
“I don’t know.”
Isaac’s face crumbles and he looks away.
Derek knows this isn’t what he had promised him. It’s not how he had wanted things to go either.
Boyd and Erica are gone, on their own. Peter would be fine. He’s halfway to being an Omega already, but Isaac... Isaac needs people. Derek can’t just abandon him.
He reaches out to squeeze Isaac’s shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting manner.
“I’m not going to leave you alone. We’ll figure out a way to make this work.”
Isaac nods, serious, and reaches up to grip Derek’s arm. “Okay.”
Derek glances over at Stiles. He looks satisfied, content. When he catches Derek’s eye, he nods.
For the first time in a long time, Derek thinks, maybe he’s doing something right.
-----
Derek spends three nights on the Stilinski couch. He’s never been sick for so long before and he decides on the fourth day that he’s had plenty of rest. Alpha werewolves do not spend entire days in bed, no matter what their condition. Even his mother had been back to her usual self only two days after Derek’s younger brother Patrick had been born.
Mind over matter, Derek decides.
He drags himself up, weak and unsteady, and trudges back to the Camaro while Stiles is at school and the Sheriff at work. The trip there is exhausting, enough so that he immediately crawls into the back seat and falls asleep with his head pillowed on a duffel bag of dirty clothes.
When he wakes up, it’s raining, a steady pattering on the roof. Someone is knocking on the window of the car.
Startled, Derek sits up, but before he can try to get into the front of the car and open the window, the driver’s door pops open and the Sheriff slides into the seat. He huffs and puffs for a minute, brushing water from the brim of his hat.
“It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Damn, I hate this weather.”
Derek stays where he is, halfway sat up. The Sheriff is in his car. Sheriff Stilinski is in his car.
The Sheriff looks at him through the rearview mirror. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” Derek answers automatically.
The Sheriff makes a doubtful noise and glances around the interior of the car. “You living in here?”
“No,” Derek says again. He can’t even focus on the questions. When the Sheriff is in your car, the answer is always no. Deny, deny, deny.
The rain patters steadily on the windshield.
“Listen, I know I wasn’t very welcoming, but... you should come home. To my home.” Stilinski turns in his seat. “I knew your family, Derek, and I don’t understand, but I would like to help. The couch is yours until you’re feeling better.”
Derek nods numbly. He’s not used to kindness. Even less to kindness without ulterior motive.
The Sheriff ducks his head like he gets it. He pushes the car door open and waves before jogging back to his cruiser.
Derek lies back, staring at the roof of the car.
He could stay here, stubborn and miserable, or he could accept the invitation, admit that he’s still not 100%, and return to the couch. With blankets. And TV. And Stiles.
After a while, Derek gets up and drives back to the house. This time, he parks in the driveway.
-----
Stiles makes some kind of chicken and rice thing for dinner. Derek eats as much as he can and then a little more when he sees the glare Stiles sends to the food still left on his plate.
“It’s good,” he offers, stirring through the remaining rice with his fork.
Stiles just nods. “Maybe you should go to the doctor,” he says, chewing slowly.
“I’m not going to a doctor,” Derek shoots back reflexively.
“Not any doctor--Deaton, you know. Find out if everything is okay.” Stiles shrugs.
“It is okay.” Derek sits up straighter, trying not to sound too defensive.
Stiles is human. Not just human, but good, too. He can show concern without looking for weaknesses to exploit.
He tries again. “I mean, I’m getting better. It’s fine.”
“Just a suggestion.”
Derek nods.
The front door opens and Stiles leans back in his chair to shout down the hallway. “Hey, Dad.”
The Sheriff appears in the doorway, looking drawn and damp. “Hey, son.” He tips his head. “Derek.”
Stiles points at the stove and then starts to get up. “There’s chicken. Do you want some?”
The Sheriff waves him back down. “Thanks, but I’m soaked through. I just want a warm shower and then I’m going to hit the hay.”
Stiles sits back down. “Oh. Okay.”
“You need anything?”
Stiles shakes his head. “We’re good.”
“Alright. Have a good night, then.”
As the Sheriff trudges up the stairs, Stiles turns his glare on his own plate, stabbing the chicken over and over again with his fork.
“Everything okay?” Derek asks hesitantly.
“Peachy.” Stiles finally jabs the piece of chicken and shoves it in his mouth, chewing angrily.
Derek frowns.
Why would Stiles be mad about his dad going to sleep? The man worked all day, in the rain no less. But then he thinks of where Stiles would be if he wasn’t here himself.
Stiles would be alone, at the kitchen table, eating a dinner he’d made all by himself.
Derek has spent quite a few meals alone too, but to think of Stiles that way--someone that thrives on company and energy--it’s just sad.
He clears his throat. “Does your dad skip dinner a lot?”
Stiles glances up at him and then away. “Lately. He just works too much. He’s tired all the time.”
Derek knows Stiles well enough by now, to know that he isn’t whining. That’s just not his way.
“You’re worried?” he says, a question, even though he knows he’s right.
Stiles finally cracks. “Yeah. I just... I just worry all the time that he’s going to get sick or something. Something worse.” He tries to smirk. “You don’t even want to know some of the crazy shit I make up in my head.”
Derek pushes his plate away, ignoring Stiles’ pointed look at his unfinished food. “It’s normal.”
Stiles looks at him curiously. “What is?”
“Worrying.” Derek takes a deep breath and barrels forward before he can second guess himself. “After, you know, when it was just Laura and I... I worried a lot. About everything. About her.”
“Did you ever worry that Peter would miraculously heal himself and...” Stiles trails off, looks away.
Derek scoffs. “No. Never.”
Stiles catches his eye, face serious. “I guess it’s true, then. Worrying is pointless.”
“A waste of energy,” Derek agrees slowly. “That’s what she would tell me.”
“Smart girl,” Stiles comments. He stands up and collects their plates and rinses them in the sink. Then he hovers for a moment, unsure. “Um, there’s a game on... if you want to watch?”
Derek has no idea what kind of game, but he nods anyway and follows Stiles into the living room.
It turns out to be a soccer game, which Stiles is wildly into for the first hour. He shouts at the screen and sits on the edge of the cushion while Derek leans back and rests his head on the back of the couch.
A bit into the second half, Stiles sits back next to him.
Then, it turns out that Stiles falls asleep just like he does everything else: suddenly. He’s quiet and his head drops to Derek’s shoulder, and just like that, he’s out.
Derek reaches for the remote and hits the mute button so the noise won’t bother him. Then he sits back and relaxes, with Stiles a warm weight against his side, the silent soccer game flashing across the screen. He thinks back on the Sheriff’s words earlier.
Come home.
He hadn’t felt it then, but now, it feels closer to home than he’s been in a very long time.
-----
Every day, Derek feels a little better, but it takes almost two weeks before he’s back to normal.
He’s embarrassed to admit that he dreads leaving the comfort and warmth of the Stilinski’s house and the casual routine they’ve developed. Stiles cooks, Derek does the dishes, and sometimes the Sheriff eats with them but usually he just goes to bed. He’s grown to hate the tight, worried pinch between Stiles’ eyes when he watches his dad.
On the thirteenth day, Stiles marches into the living room clutching a twenty dollar bill in his fist.
“Let’s go out.”
Derek sets down the book he was reading. “Out where?”
“For dinner. You haven’t left the house in, like, a week.”
Derek wants to argue that, but when he thinks for a second, it’s actually true.
He gets up and grabs his coat off the back of the couch. “Okay.”
“I’m driving,” Stiles calls, halfway out the door already.
-----
Stiles takes them to a diner downtown. It’s busy with the early dinner crowd. Derek scans the room with a raised eyebrow.
Stiles catches him looking and snaps his fingers in his face.
“Stop creeping on the old people.”
“I’m not,” Derek says, even though it’s a lie. He totally is creeping on a restaurant full of geriatrics. “Why did we come here?”
“The food is awesome, but I don’t let my dad eat it anymore. However, we are young and vital and have plenty of time to gorge ourselves on grease and fat.” Stiles lifts his menu up in front of his face and studies it with hyper concentration.
When the waitress comes, Stiles rattles off a long and complicated order.
Derek just tells her he’ll have the same.
The food arrives and Derek is actually pleased with the burgers they get, topped with swiss cheese and mushrooms.
Stiles moans at the first bite. “Oh my god. I’ve missed you so much.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Do you guys need a minute?”
“I’m sorry you don’t appreciate good food the way I do.”
“I appreciate, I just don’t...”
“Emote?” Stiles grins. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
A elderly man sits down at the table next to theirs and Stiles does a double-take, looking over at him. “Sheriff Marseilles?”
The man looks vaguely in their direction, eyes not landing on anything in particular. Derek spots the white and red-tipped cane on the other side of the table.
“Stiles? Is that you?” The man reaches out and Stiles meets him halfway, taking his hand.
“Yeah, it’s me. How are you?”
“I’m old, son. That’s all there is to it.” Marseilles chuckles. “What about you? Staying out of trouble?”
Stiles looks offended. “Always.”
“I’m blind, not dumb.” Marseilles laughs again. “Who’ve you got with you? Not your dad.”
“Oh, no.” Stiles glances back at Derek. He reaches for his hand and guides him to shake Marseilles’. “This is Derek. Derek, this is Sheriff Marseilles. He was the sheriff here before my dad.”
Derek nods. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hale, right?” Marseilles smiles slowly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any Hales around this town. Pun intended.”
Stiles gives a surprised bark of laughter and Derek can see why the two of them might get along.
“It’s not the first time we’ve met, though. I was there with you the night of the fire.”
Derek avoids Stiles’ look of surprise. “I remember.”
“Anyway, best to leave the past in the past. Excuse me, boys. Nature calls.” Marseilles gets to his feet, cane in hand, and shuffles toward the bathrooms.
Derek hunches over his food again, just taking a bite when Stiles claps his hands down onto the table top.
“He has cataracts.”
Derek frowns. “That’s too bad.”
“You can heal him.”
“No.”
Stiles’ face falls. “No? Why not? You can do it.”
“How about, I don’t feel like being blind for the next week?”
“Well, maybe he doesn’t feel like being blind for the rest of his life,” Stiles snaps.
Derek sets his burger down calmly, ignoring the angry eyes directed at him. “I don’t want to.”
“Great. That’s great.” Stiles laughs a little manically. “So you just pick and choose depending on your mood? You’re not God. You can’t just blow him off. He knows you. He knew your family. He’s a good guy.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Derek hisses at him, angry, yet conscious of the crowd around them. “And I do get to choose.”
He takes a deep breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. He’s still boiling mad. He shoves his chair back, gets up, and walks out of the restaurant.
Outside, he can actually breath again. He paces the length of the parking lot five times before Stiles walks out of the restaurant, two Styrofoam boxes in his hands.
“I got your stuff to go,” he says.
Derek takes the boxes from him. “Thanks.”
Stiles bounces on his feet, eyes everywhere but on Derek. “I’m sorry. You were right. It’s your body and your power and all that. I can’t tell you what to do with it.”
“It’s fine,” Derek answers, clipped.
“But, if I could recommend someone to you, it would be Marseilles. He’s got grandkids he’s never even seen.”
Derek shakes his head at Stiles’ persistence. Usually, it’s something he admires. Right now, it’s just grating.
“No.”
“Why not?” Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets, a hint of a whine creeping into his voice.
“Because I’ve just spent two weeks on your couch, completely useless.” Derek rounds on him, because, no, Stiles does not get to bully him into this. “I’m tired of it. I didn’t ask for this.”
Stiles nods. “Fine.”
Derek’s claws have poked holes in the take-out boxes.
“Just one question.”
Derek turns back to Stiles with a growl.
Stiles works his jaw. Under the streetlight, his cheeks look hollow and gray. “I don’t know if you know... My mom died of cancer. So, would you have done it? For her?”
Derek closes his eyes. He always knew Stiles’ mom wasn’t around. He’d been vaguely aware that she had passed. “I didn’t know her.”
“Would you have done it?” Stiles asks again, harder.
Derek shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Stiles throws his hands up, like he wants to hurt something. “Just answer the question.”
Derek’s fingers have gone all the way through the take out containers. He tosses them aside and steps up to Stiles. “If I had known her, if I had been able to, if she would have accepted it... Don’t you see how pointless that is?” He’s breathing hard, ready to run.
Stiles looks at him, mouth set in a straight line. “Yes or no?”
“No.”
Derek regrets it almost immediately, not because he doesn’t mean it, but for the way Stiles’ entire expression closes off.
Stiles takes a sideways step and brings his arm up like he’s going to swing at Derek, but then he just staggers a bit and nods.
“I’m going home.” He points to the road. “You can walk.”
Derek turns away, feeling wrung out and jittery.
He could try to explain that Stiles’ mother was never pack, that there were reasons werewolves don’t normally run around showing their abilities to just anyone, that he made a mistake with the guy at the gas station, that he’s just so tired, but those aren’t things that Stiles would want to hear.
Even less, they’re not things Derek wants to say.
He watches the Jeep’s tail lights disappear down the road, then he takes off through the dark streets.
-----
Derek stays out all night. As he’s roaming, he does his best to think about nothing at all.
He returns to the Stilinski’s late in the morning, when the house is empty. He stands in the living room and stares at the rumpled blankets and pillows on the couch.
Derek will never admit it, but he fell asleep so much easier lying on the couch in the dark, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of Stiles’ heart upstairs than he ever has at the old house, alone.
But, his time here is over. Last night was proof of that. This isn’t his life.
He cleans the kitchen, folds his bedding and tucks it into the closet, mops the floor clean where he’d left muddy footprints when he came in.
He leaves.
-----
Peter is lounging on the front porch when he gets to the house. He doesn’t react to Derek’s presence, lazy eyes tracking his movement from the car to the door. When Derek walks inside, Peter gets up to follow him.
“I’m so glad to see you, Derek. It’s been so long.”
He follows Derek through the rooms. Derek does his best to ignore him while he sets his things down, but Peter slouches into his eye-line along the wall.
“What are your plans now?”
Derek takes a deep breath and turns to face him. “What makes you think I would ever share my plans with you?”
Peter looks hurt. “We’re family. With a gift like yours, it’s reason for celebration, a cause for the family to come together. It’s really too bad your parents couldn’t be around to see it.”
Derek doesn’t hit him, but it’s a near thing.
Peter hums, fingers tapping at his chin. “You know, in our pack, an Alpha like you would have been protected and cared for by the Betas. It’s a shame. Although, I suppose it’s really no use talking about what if’s, don’t you agree?”
Derek turns away, but Peter is infuriating enough to trail him all the way outside.
Derek’s instincts, his anger, wants to shove him away, to hit or scream at him until he shuts up, but it’s Peter. The part of Derek that still takes all the blame for the fire knows that it’s his fault Peter is like this.
So, he sits on the edge of the porch and lets his legs dangle off the side and listens and tries not to react.
“It’s too bad. You’ll never find that now. If you had children of your own, maybe, but we both know that won’t happen. It’s too late for you, partly because you are so young. Tragic.” Peter sits down beside him and swings his feet back and forth like a child. “You know, I could help you.”
Derek scoffs despite himself. “No.”
“We could be a team. My knowledge and experience. Your strength.” Peter shrugs and continues in a teasing tone. “We would be the dream team. Everyone would want to play for the Hales.”
Derek looks at him and for a moment, he can see the Peter of many years past, the one that couldn’t wait to coach his kids in little league and soccer. But, the moment is gone just as quickly as it appears. Peter grins a toothy, exaggerated smile.
“Too bad you didn’t take after your dear uncle. Sociopathy is so much fun.”
Derek is saved from having to reply by the ringing of his phone.
He slides off the porch and ignores the pat of Peter’s hand on his shoulder as he walks away. When he gets his phone out of his pocket, Stiles’ name is flashing across the screen.
Derek hits end to send the call to voicemail. Then, he types out a quick text message; thanks for letting me stay. tell your dad, too
He waits five minutes, but there’s no reply. He tells himself that’s okay, that he has to worry about the pack and rebuilding and strengthening what’s left.
When he turns back to the house, Peter is still sitting on the porch, feet swinging back and forth like the pendulum on a clock.
-----
Stiles calls again later that night, but he must know that Derek isn’t going to answer, because he hangs up after just one ring.
-----
The next day, Isaac shows up after school and they take a walk into the woods. It’s more of a run really, and the game is on when Derek sticks out his foot to trip Isaac. Isaac shoulders him into a tree and Derek retaliates with a gentle kick to the back of Isaac’s knee. Isaac recovers and gets up just to barrel Derek into the dirt.
It’s too much fun to be training, and Derek loses himself in the fresh air and sunlight. He’d forgotten how good it was just to feel good.
By the time they get back to the house, it’s dusk and Isaac’s stomach is growling.
“Dinner?” Derek asks, grabbing his keys and phone.
Isaac follows him toward the car. “Just not pizza.”
“Sure,” Derek agrees, absently checking his phone. He pauses, reading the alert. Eight missed calls. All from Stiles.
Isaac is reading over his shoulder. “That’s weird.” He pulls out his own phone to check it.
Derek is still staring at his phone in confusion when it starts to ring. Stiles. He flips it open without hesitation. “Hello?”
“Derek,” Stiles says. “Derek, you have to come. Please.”
“Where are you?” Derek starts for the car, everything else forgotten.
Isaac follows him, eyes wide.
“The hospital.” Stiles takes a choking, gulping breath.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“No. My dad. He, he’s--are you coming?”
“We’re on the way. Can you talk to Isaac while I drive?” He barely waits for Stiles to answer in the affirmative before shoving the phone at Isaac and throwing the car into drive.
The trip to the hospital is a blur of Isaac’s hushed reassurances and the growling of the Camaro’s engine. Derek is too focused on driving to really listen in, but Stiles isn’t saying much anyway. The sounds of the hospital are the only thing coming through the phone line.
Derek spares a thought wondering where Scott is, or Scott’s mother, or anyone. Stiles can’t be alone, can he?
He parks the car and jogs inside, letting his senses guide him through the halls. When Derek finds him, Stiles is sitting on the floor, phone still pressed to his ear. Scott is next to him, hands clasped together, face creased into worry.
Derek wants to stop. He wants to take Stiles out of there and shake some sense into Scott, but there’s no time. He keeps going, vision narrowed to one thing.
He rounds another corner, steps into a room, up to the bed, and plants his hand on the Sheriff’s forehead.
As the healing rushes through him, he realizes he doesn’t even know what’s wrong, but it doesn’t matter. Energy is all the same and he’d take it no matter what.
Stiles, Scott, and Isaac are crowded together in the doorway, mouths open, but the world has gone quiet.
Derek closes his eyes, feels something in his chest swell, falter, and stutter. He reaches out and steadies himself with his other hand on the bed. In a moment, though, even that isn’t enough. His body feels heavy and he’s dragged down, holding on as long as he can until he’s sure he’s taken all of it.
He lets go.
-----
He drifts.
-----
There are voices around him, hands on his skin, movement and blurry faces. Derek cringes away from them, whines and tries to push them away.
Pack. Family. Familiar, but neither pack nor family.
Everything hurts. Then, nothing at all.
-----
When Derek wakes, he’s in a room he’s never been in before, though he recognizes it immediately. It’s the Sheriff’s bedroom. He’s in the Sheriff’s bed.
It’s dark outside, but the lamp on the nightstand is on dim. His chest aches like his heart has been replaced with a chunk of ice.
Peter is watching him from his perch in a faded green armchair in the corner of the room. When Derek squints at him, he stands and moves to the side of the bed.
“So, he lives after all.”
Derek tries to move, but his limbs feel too heavy. There’s an IV in his arm, tubing under his nose and he doesn’t even recognize the clothes he’s wearing. Everything smells weird and muted. He doesn’t like it.
The blankets are smothering, the tubes are constricting, and he just wants out, out, out.
He shoves the blankets off and yanks the tubing away from his face.
Peter takes a step backwards, hands clasped together. “I would just like to say that I think this is a bad idea.”
Derek spares a moment to glare at him before swinging his feet to the floor. He pushes himself off the bed and promptly crumples to the floor, panting harshly.
“See?” Peter says. “I was right.”
When Derek looks up at him from the carpet, Peter seems a hundred feet tall.
“Do you want a gold star or something?”
Peter chuckles and crouches down beside him.
Derek cringes and leans away, too tired to control the urge.
Peter clicks his tongue. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?”
Peter doesn’t look sorry, only bemused when he replies, “If I was going to, I’d have done it while you were sleeping. Obviously.”
Derek stares down at his arm, where the IV ripped free. It’s bleeding a sluggish trail down to his hand. “So, why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to. I’m a new person. I’ve been reborn. Literally.” Peter shrugs. “Plus, it just seemed too easy.”
The door bangs open behind them. Stiles runs in and drops to his knees beside Derek. “What are you doing? Oh my god.” He turns his head toward the door and opens his mouth wide. “Dad!”
Peter stands up and backs into the corner.
“I’m fine,” Derek says, though he still hasn’t been able to catch his breath. “What... What happened?”
Stiles freezes. “You don’t remember?”
The Sheriff rushes into the room, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. He looks stressed and worried, but healthy. He moves smoothly into a crouch beside them on the floor.
Derek remembers now. What he didn’t know at the time, he realizes now in the ache in his chest, the catch in his breath, the weakness in his limbs. He looks over at the Sheriff. “Your heart?”
The Sheriff looks away and Stiles answers, pronouncing the words like curses. “A heart attack. Stress and diet induced.”
Derek reaches up to grip Stiles’ arm, because that was his worst nightmare come alive, the one thing he’d always worried himself sick about.
“But, it’s okay now.” The Sheriff looks between the two of them. “Stiles told me everything.”
Stiles shifts back onto his heels. “Everything, everything.”
Derek chances a glance at Peter, then turns to the Sheriff. “You’re okay with all this?”
The two Stilinskis share a look and the Sheriff sighs. “Okay is a pretty strong word. I’m... adjusting.”
It’s a lot to take in and Derek lets his head hang, taking slow breaths. He doesn’t even jump when the Sheriff rests a hand on his back.
“Let’s get you back in bed, okay?”
Derek tries to help, but there’s not much he can do.
Peter hovers in the background as Stiles straightens the bed sheets.
Derek looks around the room. The nightstand is crowded with medications and the trashcan is full of syringes and empty IV bags.
“How long?”
“Two days,” the Sheriff answers. “Deaton’s been around--and Melissa, too. She helped us get you out of the hospital, actually.”
Stiles crawls onto the other side of the bed, sitting on his heels, while the Sheriff stands beside him.
Stiles turns to his dad and Derek can’t see the look he gives him, but it prompts the Sheriff to circle the bed and lay his hand on Derek’s shoulder.
“I’m never going to be able to thank you for what you did.”
Derek swallows, eyes drooping against his will. “I didn’t do it for the thanks.”
The Sheriff sighs and takes his hand back. “I’m going to call Deaton, have him come check you out now that you’re awake. Get some rest for now.”
Derek doesn’t even have the energy to agree. He falls asleep, Stiles resting beside him and Peter keeping watch from his chair.
-----
Derek opens his eyes.
Stiles is leaning over him with a washcloth in his hand. When he catches Derek’s eye, he drops his hand and steps back.
“Oh. Hi.”
Derek looks him over. “What are you doing?”
Stiles looks at the washcloth in his hand and then back at Derek. His mouth works like a goldfish’s. “I was washing your face? Deaton said...You’ve been here a few days and you’re kind of... gross?”
Derek feels gross. Sick and sweaty and also... Holy shit.
He closes his eyes. “Stiles?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there... Do I have a...” He gestures somewhere around his waist.
“A tube in your dick?” Stiles says brightly. “Yes. Melissa swore she’d never speak of it. Although, she’s going to have to take it out, I guess. And she did tell me about it. And my dad. And probably Scott.”
Derek opens his eyes and Stiles is staring sympathetically at his crotch.
“Stop looking,” he bites out.
“Right. Sorry.” Stiles shakes his head.
Derek flings the blankets off of himself.
He’s never been like this before, dependent on almost strangers to care for him in the most intimate of ways. He’s been out of it, sure, but not for this long and not like this. He’s done with it. If his car is in the driveway--and it better be--all he has to do is make it down the stairs and out the front door. Once he’s in the car, he’ll be fine.
He’ll go... somewhere.
“What are you doing?” Stiles flails his hands around Derek as he sits up and turns to put his feet on the floor.
“I’m getting up.”
“That didn’t go so well last time, remember? Just hold on a second. Where do you want to go?”
“Out.” Derek scoots himself to the edge of the bed. His feet are bare. Damn. He scans the floor for shoes.
Stiles grabs his shoulders. “Wait. Okay? Just wait. I know this must be really weird for you but you can’t just...”
Derek leans into Stiles’ grip and uses it to his advantage to pull himself up. He’s standing. It doesn’t feel that great, but it doesn’t feel so bad either.
“Alright, so you can. At least let me disconnect you. That would be really uncomfortable. Not that I know, but I can imagine.” Stiles does something with the IV and the other tubing, then tucks the capped off ends into the waist of Derek’s pants. “There. Okay.”
Derek shifts his grip on Stiles’ shoulders, tries to look to see what he did. “Are you a nurse now?”
Stiles slides easily under his shoulder and wraps his arm around Derek’s waist. “I’ve learned a few things here and there.”
The first step is more of a stumbling lurch. Derek grabs for the bed post, but Stiles steadies him before he gets that far.
“By here and there, you mean the internet?”
Stiles snorts. “While that is a wealth of knowledge, no. Not in this case. Melissa showed me and… I used to spend a lot of time at the hospital with my mom.”
They make it to the doorway and Derek plants his hand on the doorframe, panting.
“You’d be a good nurse. Or a doctor. Or anything you want.”
He elbows his way into the hallway and Stiles staggers beside him.
“Was that a compliment? A real one? I’d be good at anything?”
Derek palms the wall as they go, trying not to think about how hard his other hand is gripping Stiles’ shoulder. “You would,” he says, in between breaths. His mouth must be broken, too. “You’re smart. You could do anything.”
Stiles is quiet. Then, he curses when Derek stumbles. He manages to right them, but they run into the wall and knock a framed photo of Stiles’ third grade soccer team to the floor.
Derek looks down the hall and sees they’ve not even gone halfway. It’s too far. He gives up and slides to the floor, forcing Stiles down with him.
Stiles tries to slow them down, catch Derek in his descent, but they just end up tangled together on the rug, arms still around each other’s backs.
Derek looks over at Stiles. There’s only one thing that makes sense anymore. Only one reason that everyone would be trying to help him and he would still feel so weak.
“Am I dying?”
Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Dying? No. Man, you’re healing. You’re healing a freaking heart attack. I’m sure you feel like you’re dying, but I promise you’re not.” Stiles tugs at him and Derek slouches further against his arm.
He can’t decide if he likes that answer or not.
“You saved my dad’s life. The doctors had said that he probably wouldn’t have... They said...” Stiles’ voice cracks and he takes a shaky breath that Derek can feel all the way through his body. “You know, and then you got there and saved him. He’s in better shape than before and you didn’t even hesitate, did you?”
“I didn’t do it for him. I did it for you.” Derek looks over.
Stiles is staring at him in wonder.
“I really want to kiss you right now, but I’m not going to because I think you would take it the wrong way.”
Derek blinks. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“Okay. I knew you would take it the wrong way.” Stiles sighs. “I like you. It’s really hard to see at first, but you’re kind of amazing. That’s why I want to kiss you, not because I owe you a favor.”
Derek tries to hear Stiles’ words, really tries to let them sink in, but he just can’t believe them. There’s no way this kid, with every possibility laid out in front of him for the taking would actually choose Derek.
He says, “Your dad is more important than me. That’s why I did it.”
Stiles blows out a noisy breath. “I didn’t call you so that you could come work your mojo on him. I just wanted you to be there because I was scared. Do you get that?” He studies Derek for a moment and shakes his head. “This is going to take a while, isn’t it?”
“What?”
Stiles leans close to Derek’s ear to whisper, “Convincing you that you’re worth something.”
The stairs creak under heavy feet and Stiles pulls away just as the Sheriff rounds the corner into the hall.
“Hey.” He hurries over and drops down beside them. “What happened? Everybody okay?”
“Just going for a stroll, dad. Thought we’d take a rest here.”
The Sheriff raises an eyebrow at this, but doesn’t question it. He pats Derek’s knee. “If you’re up for it, you’ve got some visitors downstairs.”
Derek squints. “Who?” If it’s not Isaac, it’s probably an Argent ready to shoot him down.
“Your uncle and Isaac. Scott’s here, too,” he adds, glancing at Stiles.
They’re both quiet, watching Derek, until he nods.
It’s time to start practicing this ‘trust’ thing.
Peter and Isaac are here to visit, not to maim. Hopefully.
The walk downstairs is just as awkward as the walk down the hall. The staircase was not built for three men to walk down shoulder to shoulder and by the time they get to the living room, Derek is panting, mouth open, unable to care who sees. The Sheriff helps him sit on the couch while Stiles gets a glass of water from the kitchen.
Derek tilts his head back and drinks the water Stiles gives him and waits for his breath to return to normal.
“Okay?” The Sheriff asks.
Derek nods.
The Sheriff goes out to the kitchen and out the back door. When he comes back, Scott, Peter, and Isaac are with him.
Stiles is hovering next to the couch, arms crossed. Derek sees him tense when Isaac darts past the other two to Derek’s side.
He flings his arms around Derek, huffing into his shoulder.
“I thought you died.”
Derek hugs him back as best as he can. “Not yet.”
Isaac sits next to him on the couch, one hand still on Derek’s arm.
Derek doesn’t realize what he’s doing until the ache starts to seep out of his chest. He pulls his arm away. “You don’t have to do that.”
Isaac takes his arm again, insistent. “I want to.”
Peter steps forward, hovering over them. “You have to let your pack care for you. Although, it seems you’ve been doing that already.” He looks over at Stiles and the Sheriff.
Stiles frowns. “We’re not--”
“Not technically, no,” Peter agrees. “But, being pack is like being long time friends. You become family. Technically.”
Derek knew this, sort of.
For so long, pack had been synonymous with family and while he doesn’t have that now, staying in the Stilinski’s house, it’s the closest he has to family now. They are pack. All of them.
The Sheriff steps in. “I don’t really understand all of this pack business, but you saved my life, and you’ve saved my family, so you’re a part of that now. I consider you my family.” He casts a suspicious look at Peter. “You’re staying here for as long as you like, even after you’re well. We’ll make space. It’s the least I can do.”
Part of Derek wants to argue, to say no, that’s not necessary, and to obsess about the Sheriff’s possible ulterior motives, but the smarter part of him wins out. “Thank you.”
“I suppose that’s my cue to go.” Peter rubs his hands together and raises an eyebrow conspiratorially. “You know where to find me should you reconsider Team Hale.”
Derek smirks, watching as Peter leaves. He supposes he should say something--thanks, or good-bye, or something-- but Peter is too complicated for simple words.
After the front door closes behind him, Stiles clears his throat.
Scott shuffles forward reluctantly, as if on cue, and offers his hand to Derek.
“I’m glad you’re alright, man. I hope we can maybe work together next time there’s an evil grandpa to take down.” He shifts on his feet, glances at Stiles.
Derek clasps his hand. “Of course.”
Scott grins and flops into the armchair beside the couch. “Good. Okay.”
“Melissa is bringing dinner,” the Sheriff announces. “Rice and veggies. I’ll leave you kids alone, but listen for the door, okay, Stiles?”
“Sure.” Stiles sits down carefully on Derek’s other side.
“We all have to eat health food now, because of this,” Scott moans. “Like rabbits. My mom was talking about becoming pagan.”
Stiles chokes. “Vegan, Scott. It’s vegan.”
“I can’t even think straight, dude. I need red meat.”
Isaac chuckles and Derek feels his lips quirk up.
Stiles finds a movie on TV and Derek relaxes, listening to the three of them bickering and badgering the character’s decisions.
He reaches over and touches Stiles fingers where they rest on the couch cushion between them. Without missing a beat, Stiles turns his palm over and curls his fingers around Derek’s.
This is pack.
-----