Archive of Our Own ^beta

To Ash and Dust

The bar is old and dusty--rundown, like almost everything is these days. They’ve shoved the chairs and tables onto the outskirts and erected the cage in the middle and technically, the bar in the corner is still operational but that’s not why people come here.

People come here for the fights. People come here for the promise of making the right bets. People come here because what else are they going to do? The nuclear bombs didn’t end the world like science always promised they would--no, they fucked it up and then left it limping.

But that was ten years ago now. People have gotten used to it. To the disease and the lack of food and the darkness that only goes away for a few hours a day.

The building has a second story walkway that wraps around the inside. Most people who come to the fights stay down near the action or by the bar, but Derek’s favorite place to watch is from up here. People don’t talk as much up on the second floor. They don’t talk and he has space to breathe and the fact that the noise is ever so slightly softer up here means that he can focus on watching.

And every cage-fighter knows that studying your opponents is important. Sure, maybe the reckless ones won’t bother but they also won’t ever be one of the best.

Derek isn’t one of the best--not yet--but he’s certainly not reckless. He has Laura and Cora relying on him.

“You think he’s cheating?” Laura says, sliding up next to him. She has her eyes on the fight down below and there is no question which one she is asking about. Most people think that Red--named for his pre-fight sweatshirt, not his hair--is cheating somehow.

“No,” Derek says, relaxing and leaning forward. People think Red is cheating because he is an Omega. Most the fighters are Betas. Fewer Alphas risk it since to lose would be to reveal your pack as weak. There are no other Omegas.

And no humans, obviously. When the world went to shit, staying hidden became out of the question. The reveal wasn’t as big a deal as everyone thought it would be--with so many people dead, the ratio suddenly made werewolves practically common. And once humans realized the full extent of their powers? Well, then werewolf-only cagefighting just made sense. The hits were harder, the punches faster, and your favorites could heal themselves and fight every night if they wanted to.

“No?” Laura repeats, her voice a lilting tease. He glances up from the fight to see her smiling at him. It’s nice to see, even if it’s at his expense.

“I think he’s just better,” Derek says.

He’s telling the truth. Red might be an Omega, evidenced by the fact that he doesn’t heal very fast and he never shifts during fights (hell, his eyes don’t really seem to flash), but he is good. He is quick on his feet and quicker with his punches and he might be too thin compared to all the other fighters but whatever he does is working for him. He wins about half his fights. Which isn’t bad for a young Omega.

“Better than you?” Laura asks.

Derek shrugs, but despite what he just said he can’t help but think that Red can’t be that good. He’s an Omega. Derek is a Beta who also acts as enforcer for his pack.

“Probably not.”

“He beat one of the Terrells last week,” Laura tells him. “People who bet on him were ecstatic. Apparently the odds were four-to-one against.”

“The Terrells all fight the same,” Derek says. It looks like Red is going to beat this opponent. As Derek watches, he somehow skips around her and lands two good punches to her kidneys. “Raw power and not much else.”

From what Derek has seen, you need skill to beat Red. He is too good at ducking away from wild swings and using an opponent's weight against him and you may manage to land a few hits on him, but Red is one of the most stubborn fighters Derek has ever seen. And he’s including himself in that statement.

“You think you could beat him?” Laura asks and she is very careful with this. Careful to usually wait until Derek decides to fight, careful never to push him into something he doesn’t want, careful careful careful because when she asks, Derek always says yes.

Fighters get paid, after all. $200 for the first fight; $300 for the second. $100 bonus if you win.

And that’s not counting what your pack can make if they bet on you.

“You want me to?” Derek asks. He hadn’t been planning on fighting tonight, but only because he doesn’t quite have the itch yet, not because he couldn’t. His last one had been five days ago.

“If you want, yeah,” Laura replies and that’s as close as she will get to asking.

“He’s going to win this one,” Derek says. “I’ll ask him if he’s up for it.”

“I’ll go get Cora,” Laura says. “She won’t want to miss it.”

Derek nods and Laura moves and it’s only ten more minutes before Red is declared the winner. Derek waits another five before heading down because there’s always a rush of adrenaline after you win a fight--adrenaline and people trying to congratulate you (mostly for winning them money) and he wants to make sure Red isn’t pressured to accepting a second fight.

By the time he goes down, the next round of fighters are in the ring and the crowd has moved off. Red is standing alone but for another man, about his age. Both are grinning at each other. They don’t notice Derek until he is practically on top of them.

“--so sweet,” the other man is saying. “Seriously, I’ve never even--”

“Scott,” Red says, seeing Derek. “Hold up.”

Red steps away from his friend’s embrace and collects himself. Christ, Omegas really do heal slowly. There is an open cut above his eye that is still bleeding.

“Hey, Hale, right?” Red asks.

Derek nods. Fighters don’t really go by their first name but he’s never bothered with a nickname. Plus, he is the only Hale fighting so it works out.

“How can I help you?”

“Would you like a fight?” Derek asks, politely. Some people challenge others by insulting them and goading them into it. Derek has never seen the point.

Red blinks at him, looking a bit surprised and his friend frowns, mouth open, probably ready to tell him no but—

“Sure,” Red says. “Tonight?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I mean, it won’t be fair because I haven’t fought yet but I’ll tell them to set it last. Gives you a chance to recover.”

“Stiles,” the friends starts. “Why don’t—”

“That’s fine,” Red--Stiles?--says, reaching out a hand to shake. His knuckles haven’t healed yet either. “They’ll give me great odds to beat.”

His voice is all teasing confidence without being cocky and Derek finds himself smiling back.

“That’s assuming you beat them,” he says, entirely without the aggression of other fighters. “My money’s not on you.”

“You wound me,” Red says, voice still light. “Such an insult demands satisfaction. I’ll see you in the ring.”

“You already agreed to fight,” Derek says. He’s no longer sure what this is. It’s certainly not taunting.

“Ah, but now I fight for pride,” Red replies. “Pride, honor, and virtue—my favorite things!”

Derek can’t help it. He laughs and Red does a complicated little bow and then winces on the way up.

“C’mon,” Scott says, nodding politely to Derek even though he still doesn’t seem happy. “If you’re going to do this, let’s go get you ready.”

Red waves to Derek one last time and then lets himself be dragged away—towards outside instead of in the old kitchen that had been converted to a locker room for the fighters. But everyone knows that Red claims being around so many Betas and Alphas is uncomfortable for him, so Derek doesn’t question it.

He doesn’t question the warm feeling building in his gut either. He doesn’t have the time.

*^*^*^

It’s late by the time they enter the ring to fight. Generally, if you want to sign up to fight, you just sign up and the match-ups are random, so they save the ‘duels’ (as they call them) for last. It means that the audience of mostly humans is drunk and pumped-up and the roar that rises as Derek enters the ring isn’t really for him.

The roar that hits when Red enters the ring might be for him, though. He’s popular, it’s his second fight of the night, and he can work the crowd in a way that Derek doesn’t. People love watching him even if they won’t necessarily bet on him.

Red makes a show of it, of carefully unzipping his red sweatshirt to reveal a loose tank top, of shaking himself loose even though all the real stretching happens well before entering the ring. He even goes so far as to fix one of his hand wrappings, taking his time like he hasn’t a care in the world. Derek just tries to ignore him. He swings his shoulders a few times himself and then settles down to pretend to listen to the rules.

They are always the same. Some of the fouls are from the UFC fights of Before: no biting or spitting or hits to the groin and stuff like that, but most of the other regulations have been done away with. You can hold the chain link fence if you want to. No one cares about weight division or if you don’t bother with mouthwear.

There are no rounds. No scoring system. The match is over when someone is unconscious or someone taps out.

Derek nods when the ref stops speaking and raises his fists.

“Are you sure about this?” Red taunts, grinning at him. A lot of fighters do that before starting. Derek doesn’t usually waste the breath. “You could give up now, if you want.”

Of course, Red’s taunts sound more like teasing and he is smiling in a way that invites Derek to join him.

Derek rolls his eyes but he’s not annoyed.

It must show in his face because this time Red laughs outright.

The ref steps back and blows a whistle and the fight starts.

Derek has watched Red for a long time now. He knows not to go out swinging wildly. That’s what a lot of other fighters do. That’s how Red gets them right at the start.

Instead Derek waits. He waits and makes Red come to him and their first clash is hesitant feelers on both their parts, or at least, Derek thinks that’s what it is, but then Red’s leg comes flying out of nowhere and Derek barely blocks it and—

Fights are always a blur. This one is no different.

At one point, Derek gets Red in a solid hold but just as quickly there is a pressure against his the base of his spine (the heel of Red’s foot probably) that doesn’t let up until he is forced to let go. Dimly he remembers that Red is always breaking out of holds. Derek had never managed to quite see how he did it before (he must be really flexible) and he can’t really tell now but the end result is the same.

Derek skips back and tells himself to try something else.

Though before he can think of another plan, Red slides into his space and christ, he is fast. He gets two jabs to Derek’s side and when Derek twists to shield himself, his right hand is suddenly lashing out and catching Derek in the chin.

And it must have been harder than Derek thought because when he leans back, blinks, and refocuses, there are two Reds in front of him. He blinks again, shaking his head to try to clear his vision and the Reds—both of them—are already moving so Derek takes a risk and picks one.

It is the wrong one. He gets a knee to the chin and another hard hit to the face for his mistake.

He growls a little and he knows his eyes flash, even though it is considered bad form to fully shift during a match. Claws cut through hand wrapping and Alpha claws inflict unfair damage.

Still, he lets himself feel the anger bubbling at the surface of his skin and refocuses and well, Omegas heal slower so he fakes a high kick and then instead angles it down to where Red had been kicked earlier that night. Maybe that’s not totally fair, but the way that Red is grinning at him is a little distracting and not fair either.

His instinct was right.

Red gasps and tries to tuck and roll away and Derek lets him, taking the chance to catch his own breath, but there’s a stiffness in Red’s movements that wasn’t there before and Derek thinks he has him.

Derek uses his extra weight and leans in, crowding Red against the fence and Red gets his hands up, protects his face, but instead of getting frustrated by that or going for a hold, Derek just contents himself with bashes against his forearms and then lifting his leg for a hard kick to his side when Red finally tries to lean away.

The crowd is screaming.

Derek doesn’t let that rush him. He waits and stays calm until he can trip up Red and land a few more punches, waits until he knows Red must be exhausted before going for another hold. This time, Red isn’t able to squirm away in time and Derek doesn’t try to hurt him (even if he will heal in a second) but he keeps the pressure on his arm unrelenting and--

“Stop! Stop!” the ref yells, loud enough that Derek can hear it. “He’s tapped!”

Derek drops him immediately and steps away, the ref jumping between them and blocking Derek’s view since sometimes werewolves can still be a little keyed up after a fight. Derek is breathing hard but he is only trying to look over to make sure Red is okay.

Still, he stops trying and relaxes and smiles, just a little bit, when his hand is lifted into the air.

*^*^*^

It had been a good fight and the crowd of people who want to talk to Derek afterwards reflects that. Laura is smiling as she starts collecting her winnings and Cora jumps into ribs that haven’t quite managed to heal themselves yet and Derek remembers to at least nod at his fans because that’s part of the game. He shakes hands and tries to smile and the whole time, there is an itch at the back of his mind telling him to go find Red.

Because he doesn’t think that Red cheated. He thinks Red is better than anyone realized. He thinks it was a near, near thing that he won. He thinks that the fight was one of the most exciting ones he’s had in the past year.

He just… he isn’t quite sure that something strange didn’t happen during the fight. He has always been good at figuring out what his opponent is doing or trying to do and there are moments in his fight with Red that he can’t quite figure out.

Red must be even more flexible than he thought. And much stronger. There’s no other explanation for how he managed to break some of Derek’s holds on him so easily. He wants to find him.

Maybe just to offer him a “Good fight.” Maybe to ask questions. Maybe to make sure he’s okay. Maybe just to see his eyes up close again.

The noise of everyone starts grating on him but it’s when he takes a deep breath to calm down that he catches it. The scent of Red’s blood. He latches on easily and grunts at Laura that he’s going to go clean up and follows.

It leads to the outside before suddenly cutting over. And there is a storage closet back here that Derek has never seen anyone use, but the scent of Red is stronger and suddenly it makes sense that Red wouldn’t go outside to clean up. He’d come here.

Derek glances around to make sure no one is paying attention (they aren’t; it’s the end of the night and the drinks have been flowing freely as they always are) and then pushes open the door.

There’s a bench in the middle of the small room, but both Red and his friend Scott jump to their feet immediately. They look panicked. They smell worse.

“Hey,” Derek says, confused by their reaction. He doubts even the owners would care that Red is using this storage unit as his personal locker room. The kid has made them enough money that he could probably live here and they wouldn’t mind. “Sorry, it’s just me.”

He figured that that would calm them.

It does not.

“Fuck,” Red breathes, sound desperate and he crumples to the bench again, one hand curling into a fist as his breathing gets more ragged.

“Hey!” Scott says, striding forward. He’s blocking Derek’s view. “Hey, great fight. Uh, can we meet you outside in a minute? It’s—it’s a werewolf thing. After a fight, he hates being around other werewolves.”

Scott tries to move him then and it’s instinct for Derek to resist, his eyes flashing as he does and--

And Scott’s eyes flash back at him. Red.

He is a werewolf.

Not just that, he’s an Alpha.

This makes no sense. If he and Red are so close, then why hasn’t Scott just accepted him into his pack? No one wants to be an Omega.

“You’re a werewolf,” Derek says. “Why aren’t you leaving?”

“Well, I—” Scott seems to be at a loss. “I’m different. I’ve known him for years.”

Derek tries to peer around him but Scott steps in his way.

“Sc—Scott,” Red mumbles and he sounds… out of it. Drugged almost. And he shouldn’t. He’s a werewolf. No matter how hard Derek hit him, it’s been long enough that he shouldn’t be loopy anymore.

“Leave,” Scott says, but it’s easy to ignore him. Red sounds hurt. Derek is a fighter but there are rules. He doesn’t try to actually hurt people.

So Derek puts an arm out, slides around Scott, and steps forward to Red. Red is still sitting on the bench so Derek crouches down.

And then stumbles back. Horrified.

“Scott?” Red asks, blinking up at Derek and it’s no surprise that he asks the question because Red is covered in bruises. One eye that Derek hit is swollen shut and he has to blink away blood from the other because the cut above his eyebrow from the first fight is still there and bleeding again and that’s to say nothing of the old bruises and scabs that mar his face.

There is a scar running down the length of his left temple. Healed over now but not faded and it doesn’t make any sense.

No werewolf should ever look like that.

That is… Red is a human. Derek realizes it and it must show on his face because Red’s eyes finally focus on him and he goes impossibly more pale.

“Fuck,” he says again. “Fuck, shit, don’t. This—”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Scott says, rushing over even though it’s too late. “It’s just… an Omega thing. He’s a werewolf.”

“That,” Derek says, gesturing helplessly to Red’s face. “That is not an Omega thing.” Derek has known Omegas before. They don’t heal as fast and they are not as strong but they still heal.

They certainly don’t scar. Not like that.

“Wait,” Stiles says. The panic seems to be focusing him at least. “Wait, just—” He takes a breath and there’s a prickle of something along the back of Derek’s neck and then suddenly he looks fine again.

Well, not completely fine. There is still dried blood on his face. But the scar and the bruises are gone and he tosses Derek a friendly grin for good measure.

“There, see,” Scott says.

Derek stares. Red grins a little more. Scott tries to push him out the door. Derek doesn’t move.

Red… flickers. In between heartbeats all the bruises come back and there’s a prickling on the back of Derek’s neck again and Red’s mouth twists as if he is exerting energy.

Then it’s gone. It stays gone this time.

“Fuck,” he says, taking a breath that turns into a gasp. “Fuck, I can’t hold it.”

“Can’t hold what?” Derek demands. “What’s going on here?”

Dammit, it looks like he just beat up a human. Or something. This ring is werewolves only for a reason. He hadn’t even pretended to pull any of his punches.

“Okay,” Scott says. “Okay, just calm down. We can explain. Stiles is a—”

“Don’t you dare tell me werewolf,” Derek growls.

“It’s a condition?” Scott tries.

“Oh, fuck it,” Red says. “I’m not a werewolf. I’m an Emissary.”

Derek blinks. Emissaries had been reduced to rumors even before the world basically ended. He thinks his mother had heard of them at one point, but no one had them and, frankly, he isn’t even sure what that means.

“And my name is Stiles,” he adds. “Just so you know.”

He stops there as if that’s all the explanation Derek needs. Next to him, Scott nods unhelpfully.

“What the hell is an Emissary?” he asks, voice rising. Scott waves a hand at him to keep it down. Stiles winces.

“It basically means I can pull a few magic tricks. A lot are vision based. Like making you see two of me for a second. Or creating a glamour so it looks like I’ve healed like a werewolf would.”

Something inside Derek goes very cold. “But you… you don’t heal faster.”

Stiles smiles ruefully at him. His face is a mess of bruises. “No.”

“Super strength?” Derek asks, more agitated than he thinks he should be. “Super speed? Super anything?”

“Well, I like to think—” Stiles starts. Scott glares at him. “Not really.”

“What the hell?” Derek says, barely remembering to keep his voice down. “You can’t fight here! This is—”

“Stop,” Stiles orders. “Human cagefights are a dime a dozen. They’re everywhere. Most places don’t even bother to pay their fighters. This one does. It’s good money.”

“You aren’t a werewolf,” Derek says. “You’re going to get killed.”

“I’m not a human either,” Stiles says, shrugging. “That makes it my choice.”

This is Derek’s first extended conversation with Stiles, but he recognizes the stubborn set of his jaw from watching him fight. He’s never been the best at arguing anyway and he won’t win this and Stiles will keep fighting and getting hurt and the thought makes him furious.

“You,” Derek whirls on Scott, anger transferring over to him. “You’re an Alpha. Why aren’t you fighting?”

The accusation hits--he sees the flicker in Scott’s eyes--but suddenly Stiles is up and apparently he doesn’t have super strength but he pushes back Derek as if he does.

“Because it’s my decision,” he says, glaring. “I’m the one who wants to do it. And… we tried it. Scott is terrible.”

The last part twists up into a tease and just like that, Stiles’ flash of anger is gone.

“I keep telling you I could get better,” Scott says, but it comes out a whine more than anything else.

Stiles laughs at him as he sits back down. Carefully. “Scott, you are without a doubt the worst fighter I have ever seen in my life.”

Scott huffs but doesn’t deny it.

“So,” Stiles says as silence settles around them once more. “Are you going to tell?”

Derek should. He knows that. Stiles can claim he is “supernatural” all he wants but at the end of the day, he is a human and no amount of magic tricks can make it otherwise. He’s going to get hurt. He’s going to get killed.

“Look, man,” Stiles says and his voice shifts yet again. This time into his taunting voice that he uses in the ring. “I just need to know if I need to find a new ring to fight at.”

It’s all challenge and brash attitude. It’s Red instead of Stiles.

“No,” Derek says. “No, I won’t tell.”

Scott exhales in relief and Stiles’ grin turns into something genuine.

“Alright,” Stiles replies as if they’ve made some sort of binding agreement. “Thanks, Hale.”

“Derek,” Derek corrects automatically.

“Thanks, Derek,” Stiles repeats and then Scott stumbles forward to shake his hand but also mentions needing to clean up Stiles. Derek gets the message.

He leaves and meets back up with his sisters, says something unintelligible when they ask where he disappeared to, and spends the night wondering why he can’t get the thought of Stiles’ eyes out of his head.

*^*^*^

“You know,” Cora drawls one day a few weeks later. “If you hate him that much, you should just sign up to fight him again.”

Derek blinks, then finally drags his eyes away from the fight—Stiles versus some beta from the Madison pack -- to look at his sister.

“What?” he asks.

“Red,” she says, stepping closer to the railing so she can dangle her arms over it. It’s what Derek is doing. Except he’s leaning forward and focusing as if he can will Stiles to do better, to move faster, to avoid the kick to the stomach that his opponent is currently landing. He winces as Stiles stumbles back and god, he’s human. That could have broken a rib. “If you hate him that much, fight him again.”

It takes another moment for her words to filter through again. He wishes she would just wait until after Stiles’ fight is over to talk to him.

“What are you—?” he starts. And then stops. Stiles has managed to land a punch directly to the man’s cheekbone and is already skipping away.

“You insist we stay for all his fights,” Cora says. “And then you glare and swear the whole time and, look, Der, I know you generally look unhappy with the world but when Red fights you look murderous. You clearly hate him. So fight him again. You won the first time.”

“What?” Derek says, finally catching her drift. “No, I don’t hate—”

Abruptly he remembers who he is talking to and slams his mouth closed.

It’s too late. Cora is already looking at him, eyes slightly squinted, and she’s going to get it. She is Cora. She figures out everything. It takes her the span of thirty seconds and he watches from the corner of his eye as she frowns and then reviews what she just said and puts the pieces together in a different way and--

“You like him!” she croons. Derek wants to walk away but he can’t because Stiles has just taken a hard hit to the jaw and is still straightening to keep going. It’s his second fight of the night. Derek wishes he would just stick to one. He has a chance when he only does one. “Oh my gosh, you liiike him.”

“No, I don’t,” he says, even though that is a stupid move. She is a werewolf. She can hear that he’s lying.

“When did this start?” she asks, practically jumping up and down. “Did he impress you when he almost beat you in that fight? Was it before? Did you go to console him and end up consoling him?”

Little sisters are the worst. Derek’s in particular.

“Stop,” he says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Are you going to say something? Are you going to date? Oh my gosh, after this fight, are you going to go talk to him?”

“No,” Derek says and his voice must be flat and firm enough that it knocks even Cora out of her excited teasing.

“Well, why not?” she says, face twisting into a frown that he knows makes the family resemblance between them stronger. At least, that’s what Laura always says. Derek is positive his frown is not so pouty. “You’re okay-looking, I guess. And you’re both fighters! It’s perfect!”

“That’s not how it works,” Derek says. Below them, Stiles takes three quick jabs to the stomach and misses on a roundhouse kick. He’s tired. Derek can see it in the way he isn’t bobbing on his feet quite as high anymore. He’s going to lose.

Stiles knows it, too. He’s not grinning anymore.

Derek wishes he would just tap out and get it over with. Even though he won’t. He’ll keep fighting.

“Sure it is,” Cora says, still unflappingly chipper. She is not watching the fight. “You like him. He probably likes you. You get together. And then live happily ever after!”

Derek ignores her. He doesn’t know where she gets these ideas. She only lived three years in a world where those things happened. Now, the world is cruel and broken and people don’t fall in love like that. They don’t have the energy.

Stiles’ footwork falls apart. He stumbles and the werewolf grabs him and punches him in the head and it’s over. Stiles lost.

“At least go talk to him,” she says and when Derek looks over she is staring down at the ring. Her voice has gone soft and serious and sad, and it occurs to him that just because she doesn’t remember what the world used to be doesn’t mean she doesn’t know it’s wrong now.

He sighs.

She must sense his weakness.

“C’mon, do it,” she says. “Even if he doesn’t like you. It wouldn’t hurt to have a friend.”

“Ugh,” Derek says, pushing away from the railing. At least he knows where Stiles and Scott get cleaned up after. “Fine.”

Cora’s delighted smile makes it worth it.

Even after two seconds when it goes wicked and he walks away only to hear:

“Give him a kiss for me!”

He knows the tips of his ears are red and he hates it.

*^*^*^

It takes him longer than he would like to get to the back room. It seems like everyone wants to stop him and ask when he’s going to fight again or stop him and challenge him to a fight or stop him and talk about his last fight and he knows that an important part of fighting is making connections but never before has it seemed so exhausting.

He finally makes it through the crowd and then makes sure he isn’t seen as he pushes the door open. He moves silently out of habit more than anything else and for his trouble, he gets a clear view of Stiles before Stiles can realize he’s looking.

Stiles is sitting, head down, blood dripping onto the floor between his knees and the glamour is already off. His hands are bruised and the old scar that runs along his temple is back and he looks tired and human.

“Hey,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles jumps anyway. He jumps and the glamour flickers back into place for a heartbeat before Stiles sees who it is and lets it drop.

“Oh, Derek,” he says, wiping one hand across his mouth. It comes away bloody. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Where’s Scott?” Derek asks instead of answering, coming closer. He grabs a rag that’s sitting on the bench next to Stiles and squats down. Obediently, Stiles tilts his face up so Derek can swipe at it. He’s bleeding in three places this time—a split lip, a cut across his cheekbone, and somewhere in his hairline. The other bruises on his face are older.

“Had to talk to T,” Stiles says, flinching back as Derek pushes the rag onto his cheek. “Something about my cut being betted away. He’ll figure it out and be back to patch me up.”

Derek grunts at that. At least it’s not serious. T is constantly saying that he’s lost a fighter’s pay for the night. He always finds it if you apply the right type of pressure. And despite Scott’s total lack of fighting ability, he has no doubt Scott will find Stiles his money.

Derek doesn’t really know the first thing about human healing, but he wipes away the blood and sweat and holds the compress there when it starts up again. Stiles appears dazed enough to let him do it without any complaint.

“You shouldn’t fight two matches in a night,” Derek finally grunts as he reaches for another cloth. “You always lose the second.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, mouth twitching into a smile only on the left side of his face. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Derek says. “Four out of five times at least.”

“You been watching?” It’s happy and light, somehow. Exactly the way that he remembers Stiles from last time.

“Yes,” Derek admits. Then, “So I know I’m right. Stick to just one fight.”

He glares and Stiles smiles at him.

“You sound like Scott.”

“Scott is smart.”

“C’mon,” Stiles says, shrugging and then wincing. “You know you get paid more for the second fight. And, sure, maybe I lose most of ‘em, but… it’s worth it when I manage to win.”

He’s not wrong. The odds against Stiles are always pretty good, especially if it’s a crowd that hasn’t seen him before. But enough people know him and can do the math that the odds against him on his second round are ridiculous. He must make bank when he pulls out a victory.

“Plus,” Stiles continues, his voice dropping into something more serious. “You know how it is. Sometimes you just… you just need to fight. It’s something real at least.”

Derek looks down and starts wrapping Stiles’ hands.

Because he is right. In a world where most people die of things they’ll never see—of radiation and disease and starvation—sometimes it’s nice to have something to fight. A way you can win.

An outlet.

He can’t disagree so he doesn’t. He doesn’t bring up that Stiles is a human either. That wouldn’t be fair.

“I know,” he says, and turns his attention to Stiles’ hands. Stiles is effective in the ring because he uses both but Derek wishes at least one set of knuckles wasn’t split open and torn. He wishes that his left pinky didn’t look so permanently crooked.

“So,” Stiles says and the laughter is back in his voice. “You’ve been watching all my matches?”

It’s not really a challenge, it’s too light for that, and Derek feels himself smile.

“Please,” he says. “Like you don’t watch mine.”

He knows Stiles does. He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him before every round. Sometimes he can feel them during.

“Just studying your strategy,” Stiles says. “Gotta figure you out so I beat you next time.”

“Psh,” Derek snorts. “There’s not going to be a next time.”

“You’re going to deny me my re-match?” Stiles says, mock affronted. “Why? You afraid you’ll lose?”

“No,” Derek says.

“Sounds like you aaa-ree,” Stiles singsongs and Derek can’t believe this. He’s fallen for a guy who taunts him just like his little sister. “Sounds like you are terrified.”

“Am not,” Derek says and then because this is going to get ridiculous fast if he doesn’t stop it, he adds, “I just never want to fight you again.”

It comes out sincere.

It comes out too sincere. It comes out low and earnest and he hadn’t meant to look up at Stiles’ eyes as he said it but he did somehow.

Stiles blinks and Derek can see the surprise on his face and it stays like that for a while, unchanging, and Derek tells himself he should move. He’s still holding Stiles’ hand. Holding his hand and kneeling in front of him and Stiles is probably one of those guys who is funny and comfortable with everyone without necessarily flirting and—

“Yeah?” Stiles says and his confusion melts into something softer. “You—you don’t want to fight me?”

“No,” Derek says. His eyes are so amber even in this dingy lighting. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, what do you want to do then?” Stiles asks and it’s wrong.

It’s the wrong place for this. Stiles is injured and tired and they are in the back room of a cage-fighting ring. They are surrounded by old chain link fence and broken chairs and layers and layers of dust. The world is gone and most everyone is dead and the people that aren’t are only living because they haven’t figured out how to die yet. This is no time for romance.

It’s the wrong place and the wrong time and, still, when Stiles asks, all Derek can do is rise up on his knees and draw Stiles down and kiss him.

He tries to be gentle because Stiles’ lip is bleeding, but Stiles presses and Derek matches him and it’s not fighting but it’s something just as real.

Derek thinks it might be better.

END.