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“You can’t possibly be blaming me for this.”
Derek aims a dry look Stiles’ way. It’s an effort with Stiles plastered grudgingly to his chest like this, their arms wrapped around each other while Stiles’ body slowly stops quaking.
“How else should I react when something’s obviously your fault?”
And it had been. Stiles had been the one to discover the clearly magical artifact tucked into an ancient looking box on the clinic’s counter and, not only pick up said artifact, but then startle and shout like he was dying when it snaked into motion, twisting viper-fast around his wrist.
So then maybe Derek had launched himself forward, grabbing Stiles’ arm and giving the artifact a chance to hook around him too, twisting like a figure eight around both their wrists and leaving behind a barely-there brand before dropping, cool and lifeless, to the ground. But at that point, really, what should he have done? Let Stiles stand there screaming while an aggressive magical item made itself a permanent decoration on his arm?
Yes, clearly. But then, hindsight.
Stiles heaves an exasperated breath into Derek’s shirt by way of reply, dropping his death grip on Derek and elbowing at his chest. His quivering’s almost completely stopped.
“Whatever. I’m fine now, I can stand.”
There’s a pull the second Derek lets him go; an almost unconscious urge to chase after, wrap Stiles back up safe in his arms. He leans back on his heels pointedly, doesn’t give in to the tug. Stiles crosses his arms, his head dropped down, and it makes him look small and petulant but Derek figures he’s probably just fighting the same urge Derek is. Working to maintain distance.
“Promise brands,” Deaton had said, looking between them with a sort of frowning scrutiny that seemed to indicate both that he was disappointed in them as well as being eager to study the effects of the magic close up. “An outdated form of engagement ritual, I believe. Used to bind the intended couple physically for a period, to assure the families that they were ready for the commitment of marriage. …Or possibly used for prisoner transport. I hadn’t completed a full analysis.”
At this point, Derek is leaning decidedly toward the latter.
He paces away now, feeling the itch on his wrist tug like a wolfsbane-laced leash with every step. Ignores the hurt sound that punches out of Stiles when he clears five, and takes another few, determinedly, before dropping too tense onto the edge of his couch. He can’t help leaning forward, every line of his body wrought tension. His breaths have already started to go thin.
Stiles hasn’t moved an inch since Derek started walking, his body drawn tight, heartbeat a wild staccato in the air. Derek doesn’t care. Stiles’ bottom lip is sucked in between his teeth, fingers digging white into the sleeves of his red and black flannel, and Derek doesn’t care.
Worrying about Stiles is what had gotten them into this mess in the first place.
The twelve feet between them feels like twelve miles. Not that twelve miles’ distance from Stiles would bother Derek on a normal day. Would probably be a relief. At least then his heartbeat wouldn’t be drumming through Derek’s brain, pounding frantic, insistent, deafening.
He grits out “come here” and Stiles is moving before the words are even finished, crossing the space at an almost-run and dropping onto the couch. He stops just short of actually collapsing on Derek again, dropping his head against the back of the couch with a sigh.
“I hate you so much” slides out, sounding grateful.
Derek grunts a wordless agreement and threads their fingers together. Hears Stiles’ heart skip and start to settle the second they touch.
.-
“I still have school,” Stiles offers, not looking at Derek. Like a declaration thrown out to the universe.
Derek says “ok” because Stiles is clearly expecting him to say something. They’re moving around the thankfully narrow kitchen like an ill-choreographed dance, huffing as their movements bring them into each other’s paths, darting arms out for a reassuring touch the second they stray too far. Stiles tosses him an unimpressed look.
“School,” he repeats. “Where you aren’t? Where you can’t go, because of all the creeper charges that’ll be thrown at you for lurking around, spying on the innocent children?”
Derek debates whether to comment on creeper charges or innocent children, equally ridiculous descriptors in his opinion. But decides to save them both the trouble, and goes with neither.
“So don’t go,” he replies. Feels Stiles’ restless shift through his whole side, and realizes they’ve unconsciously leaned back together. Goddamn curse. Derek steps pointedly away.
“Right, sure,” Stiles is saying. “‘Sorry Mr. Yukimura, have to miss class for who knows how long because my grumpy werewolf pal and I have been cursed by the world’s shittiest Stockholm Syndrome spell and can’t get ten feet from each other without feeling like our skin’s burning off.’” He rolls his eyes at Derek’s mild glance. “Fine, ok. But try telling any other teacher that.”
Derek snorts, grabbing a pair of forks and holding one out.
“It’s Friday,” he reminds Stiles. “If we’re stuck together long enough for it to be an issue, I’ll probably just kill you.”
Stiles’ lips twitch. He takes the fork, sliding Derek’s plate over to him.
“That’ll work.”
.-
“Since you’ll be living together–” Scott starts, and Stiles cuts him off, sputtering into the phone.
“What the– no. Sharing space. Temporarily. Because we have no other choice.”
“Since you’ll be living together temporarily,” Scott amends. “Is there anything you want me to bring over from your place?”
Derek sees Stiles’ eye twitch.
.-
“You make fun of my pillow,” Stiles warns that night, bristling visibly over imagined attacks, “you die. I’m not kidding. I’ve got mountain ash and access to people with wolfsbane.”
Derek eyes the pillow, then Stiles’ tense-set shoulders.
“It’s a pillow,” he deadpans, lifting a brow and waiting for the punchline. Slightly flattened out, scented like Stiles from years of use. Derek’s not sure what there might be to make fun of. But Stiles’ body is already going loose, relief spiking out clear through the air.
“Right,” he replies. “Just a pillow.” There’s a grateful look aimed Derek’s way as he turns to spread the comforter on the floor at the side of the bed. He ignores the way it makes his chest twist, warm and satisfied.
.-
He spends half the night dozing restless on the unyielding floor, drifting in and out of half-formed dreams of snake-like ropes holding him trapped while Stiles whimpers, pained, in the far distance. He can almost convince himself it’s the floor keeping him up – as though he hasn’t spent months at a time sleeping on worse – until there’s a groan from somewhere off above him, a squeak of shifting bedsprings, and a warm body tripping down clumsy onto his chest. His body melts into the contact, relief flooding through him.
That’s it. That’s what he’d needed.
He drifts into a dreamless slumber, rumbling contentedly, while the body nuzzles into his chest with a pleased sigh.
.-
He wakes up in the predawn light to the sensation of lanky limbs splayed out over him, Stiles staring down with lips parted, startled shock coloring his features. He’s straddling Derek’s thighs, palms pressed to the floor on either side of his head.
“I fell asleep on you,” he offers by way of greeting, sounding offended by the whole concept. It’s too early for this, and Derek can’t remember the last time he’s felt this comfortable. It’s just the brands on their wrists, finally stopping their incessant itch now that the spell has what it wants: contact. Derek will have time to feel indignant about that when the sun’s up.
“It’s fine” is what he says now, the words slipping out sleep-rough. His palm drifts up Stiles’ back, rucking fabric in lazy slides. “Go back to sleep.”
“But I…” Stiles starts, his gaze going back toward the bed. His head drops down onto Derek’s chest a moment later though, and he lets out a contented sigh. “Kay.”
He’s lost to the world again seconds later. Derek stares up at the ceiling for a long time, letting the rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat against his chest lull him back slowly toward sleep.
.-
The next time he wakes up, it’s to a dull, distant thump, a sense of blinding panic and a fire burning relentless up his arm. Stiles is whimpering low somewhere in the distance, and Derek nearly trips over his own blankets as he half-crawls, half-stumbles in the direction of the sound. He collides with Stiles partway across the room and practically tackles him with the need to get closer.
“The fuck did you go?” he hisses against Stiles’ neck. Can’t help dragging his nose along it, breathing in deep as the pain starts to fade from his scent. Stiles laughs, clutching back just as desperately.
“Nowhere, obviously.” Stiles’ hand is soothing slow down Derek’s spine, and Derek realizes he’s the one shaking this time. There’s a heavy pause, where Derek can’t bring himself to lean back from Stiles’ shoulder, and then “Ok, so… actually. I was on my way to the bathroom. So how’s that gonna work, big guy?”
.-
They stumble into a decidedly uncomfortable routine after that, keeping carefully inside each other’s space at all times, reaching out to touch every few minutes, every time the bond starts to tug, until it just becomes habit. The morning is wasted on a trip back to Deaton’s (he takes meticulous notes of everything they’ve experienced, offers a shrug and an “I’ll look into it further” in return), and the afternoon is spent almost exclusively on Derek’s couch, Derek reading while Stiles browses his phone, Stiles researching on his laptop while Derek watches the sky, and the ceiling, and Stiles’ intently focused eyes. The couch is under ten feet long, including the arms; a clear, visual symbol of safety from the worst effects of the curse.
Derek gets halfway through spreading the comforter back on the floor that night before Stiles is groaning dramatically, latching an arm around Derek’s wrist and tugging him toward the mattress.
“Don’t even, ok? We’re gonna end up snuggle-festing together anyway; we might as well do it on the bed.”
If Derek goes without argument, and sighs out quiet relief when Stiles’ arms wrap around his waist, well, Derek is almost relieved that he can blame the brand.
Otherwise he might need to start rethinking a few things.
.-
Deaton’s eyebrows startle up curiously the second they step into the clinic, gaze landing on their threaded fingers.
“Don’t even,” Stiles snaps before Derek can so much as summon a warning scowl. “I haven’t had a real shower in four days, ok? Had to call in sick to school this morning, which I’m sure my dad is gonna be thrilled to hear about. Can’t even go to the bathroom without this guy hovering right outside the door listening.” Derek rolls his eyes. Like the lack of privacy doesn’t go both ways. He’d woken up this morning with Stiles starfished all over him, snoring faintly and drooling on his neck. “No one else is living the nightmare, man. You do not get to judgy-eyebrow the hand-holding.”
Deaton just offers one of his indiscernible smiles.
“Not at all,” he says, in a tone that could mean anything. “I’m simply curious. When is the last time either of you have checked your wrists?”
Derek’s brows skate up. Stiles falters out of his indignant bristle next to him.
“…Checked?”
They hadn’t been looking, not really. What would be the point? Deaton hadn’t found a way to remove the brands, and until then they were nothing more than a reminder of something they were both trying (and failing) not to think about.
Stiles makes a movement like he’s going to look down, and decides against it. Derek doesn’t move at all.
“The spell you triggered, Mr. Stilinski and Mr. Hale, is powered largely by the whims and will of the participants.”
Derek blinks at him, waiting.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Deaton continues, “for it to last – and, indeed, for it to take effect in the first place – you both must have, on some level, wished to be bound to each other.”
“I wanted to be thrown into agonizing pain every time I step ten feet from Derek?” Stiles confirms. “I think you need to recheck your translations.”
“Not exactly,” Deaton replies. Derek notices Stiles wincing next to him, and realizes that his grip has tightened to a clearly painful degree. He loosens it, breathing slow. “But can I assume that, at the time the artifact made contact with the both of you, you were glad of Mr. Hale’s proximity?”
Stiles’ brows twitch down.
“I mean… yeah. He was saving me from a magical attacking artifact, so…”
“And Mr. Hale, you wished to be close to Mr. Stilinski in that moment?”
Derek blinks at him.
“Well, I was trying to save him, so… yes.”
Stiles shifts strangely next to him, gaze flashing sharp to Derek and back.
“So you’re saying that the curse was triggered because it thought we wanted it to be triggered, because Derek was trying to save me from the curse?”
“It appears so,” Deaton agrees, and then adds: “And likewise in every moment since.” Derek, who had just started to think he’d been getting a grasp on what was happening, feels thrown again by that. Stiles makes a soft, startled sound, shifting fast suddenly to claw at his sleeve, and looking down. “Like I said, the spell is controlled by the participants’ will. I must say I’m surprised that magic is still in effect. If you truly wished for it to release you, it would have.”
Stiles is staring down at his arm and their joined hands with something like horror in his expression. The brand still stands out, dark and clear, on his wrist.
Derek’s gut clenches sick and inexplicably at Stiles’ expression, and he thinks he would probably be anywhere in the world but here, looking at this, listening to whatever denial Stiles is about to spit out. He drops his hold on Stiles’ hand, and the brand fades.
He’s gone before Stiles or Deaton can say a word.
.-
The loft seems too big and too quiet without Stiles. By the time he’d made it home Derek had already realized how stupid it had been to run. Even if Deaton was right, what did it matter? He had wanted to stay close to Stiles because he’d known it would hurt otherwise. Clearly Stiles had felt the same way, because the magic of the spell had been triggered by both of their desires. If Stiles had wanted to be away from Derek, it would have broken just as surely as it had when Derek had triggered it.
Still, running had made it seem like something more than that.
(It feels like something more than that.)
The loft is too quiet.
Scott comes by to collect Stiles’ things that evening, offering Derek a wary, worried look that tells him too much and nothing at all.
Stiles doesn’t so much as call.
.-
“I’ve never been able to sleep without my pillow,” Stiles says, without preamble, when Derek tugs open the door. “It’s… kind of a thing. I have to bring it with me when I sleep over Scott’s, when Dad and I go on vacation, anything.”
Derek’s eyes flick over his drawn form, arms crossed tight over his chest, bruise-smudged eyes and exhaustion seeping from him. It’s been two days since the clinic, since Derek had slipped his hand out of Stiles’ and run.
“Did Scott leave it here?” he asks, knowing full well he hadn’t. The pillow had been rich with Stiles’ scent; years’ worth of contact seeping straight through until leaning into it had been almost like tucking his head against Stiles, himself. Derek would have noticed if that were still here. Maybe he would have been able to get some sleep.
Stiles gives him a look like he knows Derek knows that.
“These past few nights I’ve had my pillow, my bed, been magic free, and I haven’t slept at all.”
Derek’s arms cross, his fingers wrapping idly around the unmarked space on his wrist that used to hold a brand.
“The whole time I was here,” Stiles adds, gaze skating away and back, searching Derek’s face. “I didn’t sleep on that pillow either.”
It doesn’t make sense, but Derek can’t deny it’s true. He can still feel the ghost of Stiles’ weight over him, his breath warm and damp on his neck. He grits his teeth, his gaze dropping down.
Long fingers circle around his wrist, and Derek leans unconsciously into it.
“Tell me it was just about you jumping to my rescue, man.”
It had been, more or less. But there’s also a reason why Derek and Stiles are always jumping to each other’s rescue. Why Derek had been so tuned into Stiles that he’d been able to react faster than anyone else, than even Scott.
Stiles lets out a faint sigh, his hand starting to drop away. Derek catches it, squeezing gently.
He breathes out “come here” and Stiles’ scent spikes relief. He collapses into Derek’s arms, says “I hate you so much,” and it sounds like a lie.
It feels like a bone-deep burn easing.