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Stiles only drinks tea when he has time to make it properly, with loose tea leaves and his mother's ugly handmade pot she made in some college pottery class. He doesn't have the time for it now. That's the pack's fault, Derek's fault; it's been a long summer and a longer winter, and Stiles lives on Starbucks and energy drinks and soda when he thinks he can get away with it. Mostly he drinks black coffee brewed at home or in Derek's kind of shitty apartment. Derek's apartment is less shitty than his coffee maker, which is so old and useless that you have to pour hot water into the tank to make sure it brews properly. Stiles can get a pretty good pot of coffee out of it, but nobody else can.
Derek only knows about Stiles' mom's teapot and how he used to make tea because he'd heard Stiles' dad say, a little wistfully, "You don't use your mom's tea set very much any more," and Stiles had gotten that look on his face that Derek hates the most and said, "I just don't have time, Dad."
"I could get you some more tea," said his dad, smelling sad and anxious all at once. "I have to go to SanFran next week anyway. I could stop by the place and get you --"
"I'm fine, Dad," says Stiles, and the next day when Derek comes in the room to get him to deal with the lich's ghouls, he's wrapping up the pot and cups tenderly in white tissue paper and taping newspaper and a final layer of butcher paper around the bundles, setting them into a cardboard box filled with packing peanuts.
"Oh," he says. "That's a pretty -- it looks --"
"Mom made it. I don't want it to get ruined the next time a stoned wolf goes crazy in the living room," says Stiles, and it's nice of him to pretend he was worried that Scott or one of the betas was going to get drugged up on wolfsbane again and not Derek; that Derek wasn't going to be the one to break the cups with their blue-green and brown glaze and shatter the spout of the pot and crush the wobbly lid with the uneven knob under his feet. He sets the last cup down, snugging it down next to a bundle labeled SUGAR, and gets up. "D'you need something?"
"Erica found something," says Derek, "she thinks it's the nest." Erica is a really good tracker now, even better than Boyd, and she's better than any of the male betas about staying away from trouble, not trying to take something on without backup. Boyd doesn't like it when she goes out by herself to track, but he never says anything about it. He's a good kid, Boyd, and will be a better man.
"Great," says Stiles wearily, "And it's almost new moon."
Derek lifts one shoulder in a shrug, because who can help the moon? It's not going to go great no matter what they try, but they've got to get rid of this thing, and soon, before things that are bad turn for the worse. The lich is strongest during the new moon and Derek and the other wolves are nearly as human as they ever are, their powers weakened with the moon's waning. Stiles and Lydia are going to have to do most of the work tonight, and Derek doesn't like it.
"The sooner we get going, the sooner we all die horribly," says Stiles, closing the flaps of the box and taping them securely. He writes MOM'S TEASET in very slightly uncertain capitals, in the writing of someone who types more than he uses a pen, on the side with a broad Sharpie. He picks up the box and carries it to the hall closet, pushing past crosses and muddy sweatshirts with BEACON HILLS POLICE DEPT CARES FOR THE CURE printed on them over the crossed lavender ribbon, stepping over hiking boots and broken umbrellas. He sets it carefully on the short shelf on the side of the closet, next to a box that smells like dust and old tinsel, labeled CHRISTMAS in handwriting Derek doesn't recognize. He takes a step back as Stiles untangles himself from a heavy winter jacket and a child-sized fishing pole, and waits for Stiles to fish out a pair of hiking boots and a navy jacket, worn around the zipper and hems.
"All right," says Stiles, sitting down to pull on the boots. "Let's go."
The lich is waiting for them, of course, the smell of ice and wrongness, with a hollow angry face and too many teeth. It paces around the box that holds its soul like an angry lion in a cage, waiting for them to come near enough to attack.They don't look straight into its eyes but Derek gets the impression that they are just as horrible.The lich is nothing but hunger. Stiles swings his staff up and says, "I am tired of this bullshit."
"Really?" says Lydia, flipping her hair, and breaking off the top of a bottle of something that smells bitter like mistletoe. "I never would have guessed."
Derek and the others spread out behind them, Erica and Boyd circling around and snapping at the ghouls protecting their creator, ripping off their heads. When Stiles whistles they throw the glass bulbs that Lydia filled with holy water and mountain ash toward the main group, and the ghouls shriek in bitter fury, herded toward the rest of the wolves while Stiles and Lydia concentrate on the lich.
Stiles' staff is made out of oak from the old Hale homestead. Derek's dad had cut it down a year before the fire, and Derek had found it lying in the old cabin, just waiting for someone to get back and bring it home. He doesn't think the Argents know where the homestead is, because Derek never thought to tell Kate about it and she never asked him about it. Maybe Chris or Gerard knew about it, but it never smells like hunters up there. Sometimes he gets a whiff of hikers up there, but they only stay there long enough to have lunch and admire the ruins of the cabin. He'd given the wood to Stiles and Stiles had spent a month or two planing it down, carving runes into it. He finished by capping it in iron, top and bottom, with silver wire wound over it in intricate patterns. It smells nice, in a way Derek can't explain; the bitter tannin of the oak and the nose-tickling sensation of the silver mixes in with the blood-rusty smell of iron into something organic, steady. It smells solid.
The ghouls shatter when Stiles swings the staff through them, falling to pieces that dissolve into foul smelling dust. Lydia stabs one through the eye and it explodes, screaming.
"Get the fucking tin!" shouts Stiles, lurching away from a ghoul, much too close to him for Derek's comfort. The lich is circling the tin box, glaring at the wolves who get too near it. They're afraid to get too close to it. Everybody remembers what happened to Jackson and how long it took for Stiles and Lydia to heal him, but they have to destroy the box. Stiles swings his staff around in a wide arc and smashes the lich's side. For a frozen breathless moment everything seems to slow down, as the lich stares at Stiles and then at the heavy oak staff crushing through its side, and then it hisses and reaches for Stiles.
Derek breaks free of his horror and roars, rushing toward the lich. He feels, distantly, ghouls trying to attack him, their horrible broken mouths stretched wide to bite and tear at him. He shakes them off like the nothings that they are. He sees nothing but red, feels nothing but rage. He's just able to ride the swelling tide of bloodlust to know not to touch the lich, to go toward the box that smells of wrongness and crush it beneath his boots as the lich touches Stiles.
Stiles screams, dropping his staff, but the lich is screaming too, a cold thin sound of rage. Stiles stumbles back and Scott catches him as the lich turns impotently to Derek and reaches out, trying to claw at him even as it dissolves finally into dust. The ghouls shriek and gibber as the power of their creator leaves them, dissolving finally into foul patches on the ground.
The silence, when it comes, is absolute.
Derek instinctively grinds his foot down on the crushed silver container -- there's a sound like crushing bone, dry, terrible -- to make sure it's destroyed completely, even as Lydia shoves Scott aside to rip at the sleeve of Stiles' shirt where the lich had touched him.
"Get the kit!" she snarls at him, and Scott shakes himself like he's waking up from a nightmare and runs for the Jeep, half a mile away. He comes back and almost has to catch himself on a tree to stop his momentum, dropping the box beside Lydia. She flings it open and begins to compound a salve with rapid precision. Derek smells mountain ash, holly, some sort of ground rock, and the strangely sweet savor of holy water.
"Boyd," says Derek, his voice hoarse, "burn it." Boyd nods and touches Erica, and they go to gather wood. Isaac lopes back to the cars and returns with a can of gasoline, clever boy, and the three of them begin to build a fire around the horrible crushed thing as Derek moves slowly, slowly toward Stiles. He falls to his knees at Stiles' other side, reaching out and hesitating before he touches Stiles.
"Stupid," says Lydia, "get over here."
Derek wants to growl at her for that but she's pretty much grabbed his hand and smacked it down on Stiles' shoulder, where she's ripped the shirt away from his shoulder and chest. He closes his eyes and concentrates, feels the sick-hot flow of pain being drawn from Stiles into his own body. It doesn't feel nice, exactly. It actually hurts like hell. But it feels good in a way Derek has never been able to express, like a rush, like when he'd had the tattoo done and the pain had transformed into something hot and shivery and floating. Endorphins, Stiles would say. Evolution's a fucking miracle, dude. It's something he could get addicted to, watching the black lines of pain draw up his arm, away from someone else, intimate like a secret.
Lydia smears the completed salve over the wound on Stiles' side and Stiles arches up, his back a tight line of pain. Derek holds him down, a low growl vibrating in his throat. Stiles grabs Derek's forearm and holds it tight, tight enough to be painful even to a werewolf, and Derek curls over him and holds on, the growl dying down to a whimper, begging Stiles to be all right. Lydia is chanting in some language that Derek doesn't know, and spits out a final gravelly syllable as Derek hears and smells the fire blazing up around the box.
It's instinct to pull Stiles into his arms then, to huddle over him and hold him as close as he can as the fire spits and makes unearthly sounds, turning colors that no fire was ever meant to burn. Lydia lets out a deep breath and stands up.
"Salt," says Stiles, with absurd clarity.
"Idiot," says Lydia, as she picks up one of the ziplocks of sea salt and stands up. Derek shifts his weight, pulls Stiles up into his lap, and watches as Lydia shakes the salt over the blackening box. It seems to melt when the grains of salt hit it, but maybe that's just a trick of the light. The betas and Scott stand around the fire with Lydia, watching it; their eyes reflect the flames brightly.
"Ow," says Stiles, after a little while. The fire is dying down, and the box is melted down into a black lump that Lydia is poking at with a stick, turning it over carefully to make sure it's melted evenly, as if it was a marshmallow she's roasting. It smells like rusty tin and a little like tar. Derek's glad Lydia doesn't have the smelling ability of a werewolf. She looks like a cat smelling something bad as it is. "Ow, fucking hell, that really -- let's not do that again, okay?"
Scott turns his head and half-runs, half-falls toward Stiles, reaching out toward him. "Dude," he says urgently.
"Dude," says Stiles.
Derek rolls his eyes.
"I think I'm okay now," says Stiles, cautiously. Scott offers him his hand and Stiles stands up -- or tries to; he wavers alarmingly and Derek is up behind him, catching hold of his weight as he staggers. "Ugh, God, this is the worst," complains Stiles.
No, it's not, thinks Derek, surprising himself with the anger in his own thought. He doesn't say anything though, just wraps one arm around Stiles' waist and braces him up. Stiles smells like sweat and blood and the arcid edge of adrenaline. Derek wants to put his mouth on his shoulder, not to bite, just to fit his jaw around the solid muscle and feel it, make Stiles know he's there. He's not an animal though, not really a wolf, so he bends his head enough to feel the heat of Stiles' skin on his cheek, smells him to make sure there's no off-note of internal injury, and says, "No, this is not the worst."
"Fair," says Stiles, and then, "are you literally smelling my ear, doesn't that smell like earwax?"
"You don't have earwax," says Derek, because Stiles just naturally makes conversations like that happen.
"Oh my god," says Stiles, "do you -- you actually know what --"
Derek doesn't dignify that with an answer. Instead he says, "If I let go of your lead ass is it going to fall again?"
"No, I don't think so," says Stiles, and so Derek lets him go -- and then catches him again as Stiles staggers, hard. "Or maybe yes? Oh my God. There's like three of Lydia right now."
"Wow, that must be a dream come true," says Derek, and fuck it, Stiles isn't going to get any less wobbly without a night's rest, so he swings him up in a fireman's carry and starts toward the cars. Stiles flails, or tries to, but Derek just holds tighter and says, "You want to be carried like a princess? I can make Erica carry you like a princess, if you want."
"No," says Stiles, "I'm fine, this is great, I've given up dignity for Lent, keep on trucking."
"Lent is over," says Derek. "Lent was over two weeks ago." Stiles should know, because Stiles spent Easter Monday going from store to store and collecting sale candy just like he had on February 15, and when Erica had gone to pick him up for pizza she had found him sitting in front of a pile that covered their entire kitchen table, beaming at it.
"It will never not be funny to me that you know this shit," says Stiles, and then, "I'm going to take a little nap, okay? Is that okay? Good night."
"Good night," sighs Derek. He lets himself press his cheek against Stiles' hair, just for a minute, and pretends he doesn't see the look that Lydia gives him.
When they get back to Stiles' house, the police cruiser is there and so is Stiles' father, standing on the porch not quite caressing his shotgun. He's wearing his ordinary clothes but he's still got his sidearm on, and Derek can smell a faint tinge of wolfsbane in the air. He comes down the steps and to Derek's car, looking in the window anxiously. His jaw clenches when he sees Stiles slumped in the front seat. "What happened?" he says.
"Lich wound," says Derek. "It's treated already, he just needs rest." He gets out of the car and the Sheriff opens the passenger door, bending over Stiles and touching his face, the bandage that Lydia had put on the wound, his neck and wrist. Derek looks away until Stiles' father straightens again. The Sheriff's face is drawn and old looking, worn out. This is why Stiles had fought to keep his father from knowing anything, Derek knows, but he can't help but think that Stiles' father would rather know to worry than lose faith in Stiles, or have Stiles draw away from him. "I can take him upstairs, sir, he's pretty out of it right now," he says. "Scott's gonna bring the Jeep back tomorrow. We had to -- take some stuff somewhere."
"All right," says the Sheriff, and stands aside to let Derek unbuckle Stiles and draw him carefully into his arms, lifting him up so his head rests on Derek's shoulder. Stiles is heavy, unnaturally still in his arms. Derek finds he doesn't really care about the weight as long as he can hear the steady thump of Stiles' heart, as long as he can feel Stiles breathing against him. He doesn't walk slow or anything. That would be stupid. But he takes his time and makes sure that he doesn't brush up against the doors or the walls, and when he sets Stiles down on his bed he does it as gently as he can. He turns to see the Sheriff watching him closely.
Derek looks down and away, baring his throat politely. "He should be all right in a few days," he says. "I -- Lydia treated it."
"Hmm," says Stiles's father, and then, "Why don't you come downstairs and have something to drink, son, you look a little worn. I'll get him changed if you'll start the kettle for us."
It's not quite an invitation. It's not quite an order, either, but Derek knows better than to refuse. He resists the urge to look at Stiles again, and just turns and goes downstairs. When he gets to the kitchen he feels tired suddenly; like the adrenaline of the fight has just drained out of him at once. He braces his hands on the sink and stares at nothing for a long, long minute, before shaking himself and picking up the electric kettle. He rinses it out and fills it with cold, fresh water, and plugs it back in. Then he hesitates, because he can smell where the tea bags are, and where the cocoa is, and he's seen Stiles take out the mugs enough to know where they're kept -- but should he get out the tea or cocoa? Or the mugs? He doesn't want to open the refrigerator and get out the milk, either. The sugar is on the counter in an old glass jar. The entire room smells like both the Stilinskis and a little like they forgot to take the compost out in time for collection this week. There's takeout menus held by magnets on the fridge and a basket of fruit on the counter. Derek can't remember living in such an ordinary, human place very clearly now. He knows he did once, that he might some day again, but the thought of it is strange.
He hears Stiles' dad moving down the hall upstairs, stopping by his room before he comes down the stairs slowly. He looks even more tired than he had before as he enters the kitchen. His face is drawn with worry and his mouth is set in a thin, unhappy line.
"He's asleep," says the Sheriff, moving toward the cupboard. "Sit down, Hale, you look like hell."
Derek sits down while Stiles' father moves around and gets mugs out. He takes the one that looks like it was painted by childish hands and Derek gets the one with the hideous fake Native American art with double wolves, one howling, and one standing looking at nothing that Stiles had bought because he is actually the worst person Derek knows. When the kettle clicks off he pours water into them both and brings over the box of tea bags for Derek to chose the one he'd like.
Derek pours the sugar in the cup and dunks the tea bag into his cup a couple of times while the Sheriff turns around and reaches for a plastic box in one of the cupboards. It's labeled WEREWOLF CHOW >:) on the side.
"He thinks he's so funny," says Derek, like it's been punched out of him. Stiles knows they don't like it when he makes fun of them like that. They're creatures of the night. He shouldn't -- Stiles shouldn't -- some day another pack is going to come in and find out that Stiles bought Scott a sparkly pink camo collar and shit is going to go down about it.
Derek's going to stand over Stiles after they get done dealing with it and he's going to tell him he told him so, at length and with copious illustrations.
"It's a little funny," argues the Sheriff, reaching in for a handful of the mini-graham crackers. They're shaped like little rabbits and this time around Stiles went for the mixed flavor box, so Derek and Stiles' dad silently divide the flavors into chocolate chip, cocoa, and honey graham and pass the ones they don't like to the other. "The face you guys make is actually pretty hilarious."
Derek eats a tiny graham cracker and they sit in silence for a while, before the Sheriff says, "What happened, exactly?"
Derek doesn't know if the Sheriff is talking about his life or the events of the night or what, so he settles for saying, "Someone raised a lich. Lydia's looking into it, but they're probably dead now."
There's another moment of silence and then Stiles' dad, says, wonderingly, "Why would you --"
"I don't know," says Derek, because all of them had spent fifteen minutes just staring at each other in baffled horror when they'd found out. "They're very powerful."
"And someone just --" the Sheriff shakes his head. "Every time you think you've reached the limit of human stupidity."
Derek grunts instead of answering. The warmth of the tea is spreading through his body and the sugar is giving his body just enough energy to heal the last of his wounds. All that's left is a distant, dull muscle ache. He should finish his tea and go home to the loft. The thought hurts, dully; he wants to sleep in a safe place, a place with packmates breathing nearby and sharing the necessity of keeping watch. The Stilinski house smells safe, feels safe, like the loft doesn't. He blinks twice, trying to wake up. "Sorry," he says. "I should --"
"Hmm," says Stiles' father, giving him a look so shockingly like the ones Stiles gives Derek sometimes that Derek stares at him, taken aback. "You know what, son, we've got a pretty good spare bed, and I don't think I want to see you driving right now."
"Oh, I couldn't --" begins Derek.
"Not a suggestion, Hale," says the Sheriff, and holds out his hand. "Keys."
His tone is so alpha-like that Derek finds himself passing the keys over before he realizes what's happening.
"You can have those back in the morning," says the Sheriff. "After breakfast."
"Yes, sir," sighs Derek. He could probably take them from the Sheriff easily, but the Sheriff is right, even Derek would have a hard time driving now. And it's nice, natural, to obey an alpha that he trusts.
Stiles' dad picks up their cups and takes them to the sink, and puts the graham crackers away. "Get some sleep, Hale."
Derek stands up, says, "Goodnight, Sheriff," and makes his slow way upstairs. Somehow or another he's here enough to need his own toothbrush, which is a horrible neon pink because Stiles is, again, the worst person Derek knows. It's a small luxury, having all the things he needs to wash up after a fight, but it's one he wholeheartedly appreciates.
When he finishes washing up, he means to go straight to the spare room, which smells like paper and dust and very slightly of old perfume, especially near the desk, but he realizes that he won't sleep if he doesn't check on Stiles first. Stiles' dad is back in his room, moving around quietly; he probably won't notice if Derek creeps into Stiles' room, just for a minute. He might even understand. Anyway, it's not like Derek's gonna stand there watching Stiles sleep all night.
Stiles is lying curled up half-hedgehog on his good side. His eyes are closed but there's a little frown of distress on his brow. Derek hates it. He goes to the bed and lays his hand gently on the skin of Stiles' forearm, pulling pain away. It's not as intense as it was earlier, but Stiles' face relaxes, and then he blinks up at Derek, his eyes gleaming from under his dark lashes. "Hey," he slurs. "You still here?"
Derek gives up on trying to pretend he's not hovering over Stiles like a loser and sinks to his haunches. "Your dad took my keys until I sleep eight hours."
"Good," says Stiles. "Y'look pretty tired." He yawns and Derek makes a face at his breath. "Don't make that face."
"What face?" says Derek. "The 'your breath smells like skunk butt' face?"
"Well that face too," says Stiles, and flails his hand in Derek's direction, smacking his cheek and catching his pinky finger in Derek's nose. Derek jerks back and glares at him. "I mean the 'everything is my fault' face, though."
Derek looks away. He hates it when Stiles looks into him, like he's trying to hide and Stiles just walks behind his screen and stands next to him, looking at everything Derek thought he's hidden so carefully.
"Hey," says Stiles, and this time he manages to catch Derek's ear and tug it gently. "Everything turned out good, all right? Nobody's dead. Jackson got hurt worse than I did, dude. Stop making that face with your face. It's going to freeze like that."
"No it's not," says Derek, because Stiles is a genius at bringing out his inner twelve year old. He takes his hand off Stiles' arm and sighs. "Someday it's not going to turn out good. You're gonna --".
"I'm not gonna die," says Stiles. "I'll die the day after you do, peacefully, in my sleep."
"You can't promise that," says Derek.
"Watch me," says Stiles. Derek knows Stiles. He's stubborn and tough and touchy about not being taken seriously. He believes that Stiles would outlive every one of them, and die the next day, just to prove that he could do it. "I'm not going to leave you guys."
Derek sighs, puts his head down on mattress beside Stiles' arm. Stiles smells healthier already, less tainted. "Can you make tea for breakfast?" he says.
"Yeah," says Stiles, and puts his hand on Derek's head, his warm long fingers scratching gently through Derek's scalp. "Yeah, we can do that."