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It's an ordinary Wednesday when Stiles gets the picture. Just a text to his phone with the words, 'what have you got on this,' not even any punctuation and yeah, Stiles knows what it is, or at least he thinks he does. He's heard Scott describe it once or twice. It's the weird triskelion that appeared overnight on the Hale house front door after they took down Jackson (and then fixed him) and lost Gerard in the process. He fumes silently for a moment at the nerve – the nerve – of Derek waiting all this time to ask him if he has any input.
Well, luckily for Derek, he just so happened to come across some references to it on the internet. While looking for other things. Completely unrelated, and very important things that had nothing to do with werewolves or stubborn members of the Hale family that might not realise how badly they needed his help. Sort of professionally.
He looks at the binder laying out on his desk, overflowing with printed pages and examples, his notes hastily scribbled in the margins of most of them. So he's had some spare time on his hands lately, what with the whole kanima situation being resolved and Scott snubbing him to spend time with his new wolfy BFF. It's no big deal.
He sends a text back to Derek. I'll look into it.
Stiles lets a few days go by, because hell, it's already been a month, what's the big rush? When Derek lifts the sash and crawls into his window on Sunday night, he's not even that startled. Ok, so a little startled, and yes, it's entirely possible he was surfing for porn and some warning would have been great actually, but whatever. This is his life now. He's learned to roll with it.
He closes his browser with a snap of the mouse and spins around in his chair. “Hey Miguel, old buddy, old pal. How's things with the pack? Nice to see you, by the way, man I bet we have a lot to catch up on.” Derek narrows his eyes and leans against the sill, arms crossing over his chest. “Then again,” Stiles says, mainly to himself. “Maybe not.”
“Did you look into it?” Derek asks, and man, wouldn't it be nice if just once, a werewolf could start a civilized conversation with a remark about the weather?
“Great night out there, don't you think?” Stiles asks, because apparently he's not just content with trouble finding him anymore, he's actively encouraging it. “Downright balmy, in fact.”
“Did you,” Derek asks again. “Look into it?”
“Yeah, all right,” Stiles admits, pulling the binder off a shelf and tossing it at Derek. Several pages flutter out and he leaves them there, scattered across the floor. “I looked into it.”
Derek hefts the binder, takes in the pages covered in scribble at his feet. “Do you ever sleep?” he asks, which, ok, was not what Stiles was expecting from this conversation.
"Not really,” he admits, turning back to the computer. Derek collects the loose pages and sits down on Stiles' bed to leaf through them, and that's wonderful, really just fantastic, because Stiles doesn't need any personal space. No time to himself whatsoever. Sure, barge on in, stay a while.
After several minutes of papers shuffling and pages turning behind him, Stiles pulls out his English book because clearly, Derek isn't planning on leaving anytime soon. After that, he moves on to Spanish exercises, answering the occasional question from the direction of the bed. And yes, once in Spanish before his brain cottoned on to the fact that the question had been asked in extremely poor and choppy English and he has to repeat himself. As the sky starts to lighten, he yawns a bit and starts in on some thrilling Chemistry review when suddenly Derek wants to talk about his theories.
“Finished the book?” Stiles asks. “The plot twist is – there is no plot twist.” Derek just stares at him blankly. “Ok, fine, I don't know how much of that is actually worth a damn, since they're probably not from Sicily or the Isle of Man or Ancient Greece but there are actually three of them, right? That's what Boyd and Erica said?”
Derek nods. “And I know how much you guys love working together, so I figure, if three Alphas have joined ranks, and announced their presence by kidnapping two of ours -” Derek's eyes flare red and Stiles hastily corrects himself. “Ok, fine, two of yours, setting them loose as some kind of messed up 'warning,' and tagged your house in the meantime to add insult to injury, they're here for a specific reason and it's got a time limit. Wait a minute,” Stiles asks, thinking through his words. “They didn't tag Boyd and Erica, did they? No catch-and-release going on here?”
Derek cracks his neck and manages to make it sound menacing. “This is not some show on the Discovery Channel, Stiles.”
“I'm well aware of that, thank you very much. If it were, you'd probably look a lot more like Bear Grylls,” Stiles hears himself saying and immediately regrets it. He decides to blame it on sleep deprivation and settles for clearing his throat.
“So that's all you've got?” Derek asks, and Stiles has never wanted to punch a werewolf in throat more than he does in this moment.
“No, that's not all I've got, did you read that thing at all?” Stiles raises his hands in exasperation and proceeds to count on his fingers. “One, they didn't decide to work together on their own, and two, there's a larger plan afoot or maybe just a Whedonesque villain lurking in the woods, at this point I wouldn't be surprised. Three, they're big smarmypants Alphas so they don't trust each other and I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts they've got weak points you can exploit to make them turn on each other.” Derek glares up at him from the bed and Stiles is not moved, not one bit. “But they're not tourists, ok, they're a war party, and things tend to get messy when you put those two words together in the same sentence.”
He opens his mouth to continue, but that's when his alarm goes off beside the bed. Derek jumps half a foot in the air and growls at it and jesus, if that isn't the funniest thing Stiles has seen in – possibly ever.
“Calm down, Cujo,” he sputters out, still laughing, and reaches across the bed to shut it off. That's when it hits him: he just stuck his entire arm between a ferocious creature of the night and the object that startled it. He pulls back slowly, turning his head to see if his hand's about to be bitten off. Derek – perfectly ordinary, nothing wolfy about him Derek - is examining a page in the binder with singular focus, and Stiles lets out the breath he's been holding.
“Right,” Stiles mutters. “I'm gonna go take a shower, and all of my fresh clothes live in here, so -”
“A lot of your dirty clothes live here, too,” Derek grumbles with an exaggerated sniff.
“If you didn't like it,” Stiles fires back. “You didn't have to keep me up all night!” Derek looks up from the binder, his expression somewhere between surprised and confounded.
“You said you weren't going to sleep,” he counters and Stiles actually hauls out a facepalm. Because really? Really?
“Yeah, I was pretty much kidding about that,” he explains, very patiently, he thinks, and really, who should have to explain that? To a werewolf? In their bed? Stiles blinks, his brain grinding to a halt at the sudden swerve his thoughts had taken entirely without his permission. They did that pretty often, actually, just not, you know, in that particular direction. In Derek's direction. Ok, so sometimes they swerved to Derek's direction but he'd spent a considerable amount of time blocking access to that road and erasing it from his mental map. Stiles rubs his eyes and grabs the towel from behind his door, intent on heading for the shower.
“You could have just asked me to leave,” Derek says, calmly and rationally, and of course he could have. Why didn't he think of that? Stiles just shakes his head and opens the door. “And I wouldn't have bitten you,” Derek mutters after him, setting the binder down on the bed and climbing out over the roof.
Derek's waiting for him after school on Tuesday, lurking against the side of the building like it's in any way appropriate to just step out of the shadows and give someone a jolt like that. Which he totally isn't, in any way, Stiles thinks as he steps back onto the sidewalk. Not jolted at all. “Derek,” he acknowledges, warily.
“You printed out ten pages on the Gorgons,” he says, apropos of nothing, and Stiles plays along.
“It was more like fifteen,” Stiles corrects him. “I remember that essay.”
Derek stops walking for a moment, then catches back up. “Fine,” he says. “Fifteen. My question is why?”
Stiles stops in the middle of the sidewalk and raises an eyebrow. “Looks like somebody should have done the take home reading,” he chastises, and if looks could kill, he'd be smote dead right on the spot.
“It wasn't mine,” Derek growls. “So I didn't take it.”
“God, that is so like you,” Stiles observes. “I put together a three inch binder's worth of research on the graffiti someone left on your door, so I must want to keep it all to myself.” He shoves Derek hard in the chest with one hand, somewhat amazed when Derek actually staggers backward a pace. Derek seems more than a little surprised himself.
“Look,” Stiles says, continuing his path toward the parking lot. “I know a lot about horror movies, ok?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Derek asks, running a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Only everything,” Stiles sighs. “I've done my homework on folklore and fairy tales and ghost stories, all right? That's where everything comes from. And Medusa? All Ray Harryhausen, snakes coming out of her head, like -” he gestures with his hands, making hissing noises. Derek stares, and other students walking past give them a few feet of leeway on either side.
“I'm not a fairy tale,” Derek argues.
“Yeah, thanks for that update, Prince Charming,” Stiles replies. “I had managed to notice that with my keen powers of observation. Did you miss out on those movies as a kid? Clash of the Titans? Jason and the Argonauts?”
“I doubt I missed much,” Derek assures him. “I did make it through Bullfinch's Mythology, so I think I'll be able to keep up.”
“Right, well,” Stiles continues. “My point is that everywhere else that funky triskelion shows up, there's a severed head in the center, which a lot of people think is supposed to be Medusa. And that's people who write books, not just, you know, your average Reddit contributor.”
Derek looks unimpressed, and Stiles soldiers on. “Perseus stuck Medusa's head on his shield, right? To turn his enemies to stone? And the Greeks were serious fanboys when it came to their epics, so they started painting Gorgon heads on their shields, to show how fierce they were and strike fear into the hearts of their enemies, etc, etc.” He flings his hands out to the side and narrowly avoids smacking a fellow student in the face. “I'd imagine that's a little tricky to recreate for on-the-fly graffiti, unless you're Banksy, and I'm pretty sure Banksy's not a werewolf. Though I guess I could be wrong about that. Are there wererats?”
“Stiles!” Derek's patience was actually fraying with each word he spoke.
“ - so they simplified and used a triangle. Three sides, three branches, three Alphas. But the point remains, they're trying to show you how badass they are. By, er, hiding in the woods somewhere and spray painting your house.”
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Derek states as they finally reach Stiles' ride.
“What?” Stiles actually takes a step backwards. “It makes perfect sense! All right, Mr. 'I've-read-Bullfinch's', which is totally outdated by the way, why was Medusa all scaly and snakified in the first place?”
“Because she was a monster and heroes always need more monsters to slay?” Derek answers, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone.
“Nope,” Stiles counters, rocking back on his heels with a self-satisfied grin. “She did the nasty with Poseidon in the temple of Athena, and if mythology has taught us anything, it's to not piss off your seriously fickle and ill-tempered deities.”
“Is this going anywhere?” Derek sighs, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. He leans warily against the hood of the Jeep, as if concerned it might collapse beneath him.
“Patience, young padawan,” Stiles replies, earning a fierce glare in return. “Medusa was punished. Cast out. She lived in a cave and turned everything she looked at to stone, which might seem like a really cool superpower until you actually think about it.” Stiles shrugs. “If I were a war party of werewolf ninjas looking to strike from the shadows with great vengeance and furious anger, I'd consider making Medusa my poster child to get my point across.”
“You actually just used all of those words in the same sentence,” Derek notes, his flat tone conveying little surprise. “Why am I even talking to you?”
“Because you've got nothing.” Stiles says, crossing his arms. “Or maybe because you're bored, I don't freaking know. But if you keep climbing in my window and stalking me at school, people are gonna start talking, man. Just saying.”
The Jeep squeals as Derek lunges forward, grabs Stiles by the collar of his t-shirt and pushes him back against the driver's side door. “If Medusa was a symbol of punishment,” he growls, “what are you suggesting I need to be punished for, exactly?”
Stiles frowns and flicks the lapel of Derek's jacket. “Do I have to do all the heavy lifting in this relationship?” he asks, and Derek makes sure the back of his head connects with the window this time. “Ok, first, ouch,” Stiles complains. “And second, I don't know, maybe they connected the kanima back to you? That one was kind of on you, dude.”
Derek takes a step back, his hands still fisted in Stiles' t-shirt. Guilt drags his face down as he processes Stiles' hypothesis. “Then what are they waiting for?” he asks, more subdued.
“Do I look like some kind of Alpha-whisperer to you?” Stiles throws back. “How in the hell should I know? Maybe they saw that you had that situation well under control and peaced out. And by you, here, I kind of mean Lydia, but whatever.”
Derek just rolls his eyes. “They're still here. I've smelled them.”
“Of course you have,” Stiles replies, sagging back against his car door. Derek lets go of his shirt and smooths down the wrinkles absentmindedly.
“You did get some sleep last night, right?” Derek asks, sounding almost concerned, and that throws Stiles for a minute.
“I managed a couple of hours,” he confesses. “It's a lot easier to sleep when there's not a giant werewolf taking up your entire bed.” And oh god, now he's actually gone and said that out loud and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “That's not – I mean -” he stammers. “Can we just strike that from the record, please?” He squints at Derek, biting his lip.
“I'd rather we did,” Derek agrees, turning around. Stiles pulls out his keys and opens the door, shaking his head. A light punch connects with his shoulder, and he looks back to see Derek still standing there, a bit awkwardly. “I never said thanks,” he mumbles. “For the research.”
Stiles blinks, keys dangling from his hand. “Um, you're welcome?” Derek nods once and walks away and Stiles knows, is absolutely certain that wasn't the most awkward conversation of his life, but he's still glad it's over.
Stiles pulls up to the old Hale house in his Jeep, looking awkwardly around as he climbs down from the car. He knows coming here might not be the best idea he's ever had, particularly since Derek didn't say where exactly he'd smelled the Alpha pack hanging around, but the continued lack of rage-filled confrontations and werewolf bloodletting makes Stiles think he sort of meant generally. Around. And besides, he's only seen a tiny, pixelated photo of this thing anyway, since Derek's phone is either complete crap, or the guy has no idea how file compression actually works. He wants to see the triskelion up close because of reasons, ok? Besides, maybe seeing it in situ will actually grant him some giant insight he'd previously missed. Hey, it could happen.
He puts on something that passes for swagger and crosses the yard, looking back and forth and ok, behind him too, as if it's no big deal. Just a creepy old abandoned house in the middle of the woods. Where he's snooping around. Alone. With a pack of crazed Alpha werewolves on the loose. You know, just his life. He climbs the stairs and there it is, in all it's – well, he can't really say glory. On the street art scale of one to ten, this one's about a two, and that's being generous. He's leaning in close to examine the triangle in the middle when the door opens suddenly inward and he has to flail to maintain anything approaching balance.
Derek grabs his arm and steadies him, dragging Stiles over the threshold. “What are you doing out here?” he asks, glancing around the yard.
“Getting a better look at your mystery graffiti,” Stiles justifies.
“I sent you a photo,” Derek replies, confounded.
“Riiight,” Stiles answers, “a very small, grainy photo from which I've done all my research thus far. I sort of thought maybe seeing it up close and personal might spur some grand insight?” He attempts a grin, but it ends up looking more like a grimace.
“Do you ever stop and examine your own logic?” Derek asks, still holding onto his arm.
“You have no idea how often,” Stiles confesses. “Ok, so maybe I was bored and this sounded like a good idea at the time?”
Derek shakes his head. “Fine, look all you want. But I'm heading back into town before it gets dark, and you're coming with me.”
“Oh, I am, am I?” Stiles counters. “'Cause I didn't see your Camaro out there in the yard. Good luck kidnapping me on foot.”
“I could,” Derek growls, “If I wanted to.”
“I'm pretty squirmy,” Stiles mentions, slightly terrified. “And way more trouble than I'm worth. Trust me, it would be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.”
Derek's frown slowly dissolves into helpless laughter, and after a moment, Stiles joins in. “I'm sorry,” he gasps. “My mom used to read me that book and I just – it stuck.”
“Yeah,” Derek answers. “Mine, too.” They stare at each other for just a beat too long before Derek drops Stiles' arm reflexively and Stiles turns back to the symbol painted on the door. He focuses on the harsh lines, the sharp angles, and tries to think about anything but sitting on the side of his mother's hospital bed while she read the worn and dog eared book over and over, making him laugh in spite of himself. Of the way his father's eyes were red while he watched them through the rectangular window, and the time he asked his dad if maybe, everything really might be better for his mom if they just moved to Australia.
The way his father held him tight and told him no.
Stiles sketches the symbol down in a notebook, sometimes tracing, sometimes freehanding a bit, and Derek watches quietly from the staircase. He wonders why it still holds his weight. After all the house has been through, after all that was left of his family was one miserable, nearly accidental Alpha trying to make it work and his father's brother, whom he had already had to kill once. Why should this pillar remain? And yet stubbornly, it refuses to give.
A warm wind rustles through the trees, sending a flood of dead leaves across the porch. A few slide through the open door and skitter across the floorboards, bringing with them a rush of familiar scents. For a moment, the smell of early summer blots out the stench of rotting wood and ashes and carries with it something else, something strange and familiar all at once. He watches Stiles, and doesn't think about anything.
A late Wednesday evening finds the pack gathered in their usual haunt, which has only grown more damp and humid with the seasonable weather. Stiles thinks it's beginning to smell a bit like wet dog as well, but isn't stupid enough to bring that up. He's attempting to share his considerable research on the Alpha Pack's graffiti of choice, but it would help a lot of his audience was listening. Or even pretending to listen.
Jackson's playing with a tennis ball – and seriously, a tennis ball, did everyone have to take their stereotypes so literally – throwing it up in the air and catching it, and he knows that's going to end in tears. He's pretty sure Boyd's got a book over there in the corner, and Erica might as well be painting her nails. Isaac's playing with Scott's hair and – ok, that's new, but maybe it's just a werewolf thing. A really, really affectionate werewolf thing. He soldiers on with his findings, because at least as long as Derek's still over there glaring at his pack, he's not actually ripping Stiles' throat out.
“ - Greek warriors painted them on their shields to show they meant business, and actually- this is cool – ok, so kind of worrisome, actually, but still cool - Sicilian armies would use it to stake their claim when they conquered new territory.” Stiles nods, his grin slipping in the face of a less than entertained audience. “You just have no sense of history, do you?” he trails off, punching his palm with a loose fist. “Ok, fine, well I think we can all agree that the pointy arrows on the legs mean very bad -” he stops in mid-sentence as Jackson's tennis ball finally ricochets off the ceiling with a taut snap and Stiles actually ducks, covering his face with his sleeve. Jackson laughs at his own antics, while Derek catches it an inch above Stiles' head and throws it angrily across the room.
Peter slinks around an open doorway and catches it, raising an eyebrow at his nephew.
“Ok, you know what?” Stiles continues sharply after brushing himself off. “No one cares what I think, and I'm actually pretty used to that, but since I didn't find it painted on my door? I'm really not the one that has to worry about who these weirdos are and why they're here.”
“Maybe not,” Boyd acknowledges, glancing up from his book. “But you haven't told us any of those things, anyway.”
“Maybe they just use that symbol because there are three of them,” Erica suggests, examining a handful of split ends.
“I think that's probably oversimplifying,” Stiles argues, his mouth open to continue when Peter finally decides to speak up.
“You're both right,” he says, leaning casually against the wall. He nods to Stiles, smiles approvingly at his conclusions, and Stiles just scratches one leg with the other, awkwardly balanced. The last thing he wants from Peter is approval. Well, all right, so that's several notches down from maiming and killing, but still high on the list. When Peter sends a focused glance around the room, however, the pack's attention follows in its wake.
“You said you didn't know what it meant,” Derek snaps, and Peter holds up his hand, still curled around the yellow ball.
“And I didn't, at the time, but I did remember seeing it once before. In a book your father had, before the fire, of course.” Derek's jaw twitches, but he holds his tongue to listen. “Alphas don't play well with others. If three of them are working together, they're doing it for a very specific reason. If I remember correctly, the pointed triskelion is usually intended as a warning.”
Stiles throws his hands up. “No one ever listens to me. That's exactly what I said earlier -”
“And I listened,” Derek assures him, his tone adding now please shut up. “But Peter's memory just confirms the theory.” Stiles glares back at him, but wisely remains silent.
“There was a story in that book,” Peter continued, “concerning a rogue alpha in Potsdam around the turn of the last century. He prowled about at night, turning unwary citizens into slavering monsters to serve his whims, and was marked for death by the Brandenburg Council.” His gaze lingers pointedly on Boyd, Erica, Isaac and Jackson in turn as he speaks, returning to Derek with a smirk. “But I suppose it could just be a coincidence.”
Derek meets Peter gaze for gaze over the heads of the pack. “We're done here,” he announces, and they scatter. Erica, Boyd and Jackson vanish up the stairs, and Isaac ducks through a small door behind the rail car after elbowing Scott in the side with a wink. Scott lingers a moment, as if suddenly startled awake, before throwing his backpack over his shoulder and following the others. “You too, Stiles,” Derek warns, eyes still locked with Peter as Stiles gives a dramatic huff and gathers up his notes. He mutters to himself on his way out, the words undeserving and ungrateful featuring prominently in his monologue.
Stiles spends a long and entirely undeserved period of detention alone after school on Thursday that he will swear to his grave was actually Scott's fault. He knows he should be studying his chemistry notes, but just ends up flipping through his binder on the triskelion again for an hour straight. There's something bugging him about the Medusa symbolism, something he can't quite puzzle out, until it finally clicks, like the first time he'd figured out how Ravage and Soundwave actually fit together. When the hour's up, Stiles flees the building like he's trying out for track and heads home to do some serious Googling to make sure he's on the right wavelength. He's absolutely certain he's headed the right way, makes all the correct turns as if on autopilot, but somehow ends up at the train depot instead. He seriously considers buying a GPS for a moment before giving up and heading inside, Google and all its dubious answers be damned.
“Look,” Stiles states, taking the stairs down into the rail station two at a time. “I know you probably don't want my opinion, but -” Derek looks up at him from where he's sprawled out in the doorway of a rail car, holding a finger to his lips. He closes his eyes and tilts his head, listening. Eventually he nods, looking back up at Stiles and motioning him down the rest of the stairs.
“You're right,” Derek replies. “I probably don't, but I know I want Peter to hear it even less.”
“That,” Stiles agrees. “That is very good thinking, considering what I have to say.”
Derek looks almost amused for a moment, sitting up on the edge of the platform. “All right, out with it.”
“Ok, here's the thing,” Stiles begins, kicking a crate over with his foot and sitting down. “Peter told that story last night to intimidate you and the pack, right?” Derek's eyes flash red and Stiles holds out his hands. “Seriously, dude, just the messenger here, all right?” Derek huffs a bit and Stiles continues. “But even if he didn't just make it up to begin with, which I'm not ruling out, don't you think it kind of sounds more like him than you?”
Derek tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. Stiles is pretty sure he gets it, but decides to spell it out anyway. “The only one around here who turned someone without their permission is Peter. You asked Erica, Isaac and Boyd, and hell, Jackson practically begged for it, right?” Derek nods. “Yeah, well Scott didn't.”
Derek stares at the ground, as if that's somehow his fault, too. “And I know, ok,” Stiles continues. “I know you did everything you could for Scott.” He's rocked back and forth a bit on the edge of the crate, unintentionally scooting it forward. “I know he didn't always want your help and sometimes he's an ungrateful little bastard, but he's basically a good guy. Wolf. A good wolf, I guess.”
“Your point being?” Derek asks, sounding wearied.
“My point being that the Alpha pack is probably here for Peter, not you. And I'm sorry, I know he's family, but I'm actually pretty ok with that.” Derek's shoulders sag, and he nods in reluctant agreement. “But what if they come for Scott, too?” Stiles asks. “What if they let Boyd and Erica go not as a warning, but because they chose the bite? And maybe I'm reading too much into this whole thing -”
“That would be a first,” Derek smirks, and Stiles scoffs.
“Rude,” he throws back, before carrying on with his train of thought. “I've just been thinking more about Medusa.” He twists his sneaker against the concrete, choosing his words carefully. “It was a pretty unfair punishment, when you consider that Olympians just took whatever they wanted, wherever and whenever, but Athena didn't care about the circumstances. Even as the goddess of Justice, she couldn't punish another god, but she could and did punish Medusa for breaking a rule. That kind of makes Medusa a poster child for victims, too, in a way.” Stiles' voice grows soft over the last few words, his mouth twisting up around them. “What if they're using that symbol because they're here to right an injustice?”
“You're saying we should be working with them?” Derek questions, nearly choking on his own disbelief.
“Not exactly,” Stiles replies. “I mean this is all just conjecture, right? I'm only wondering if Peter might have had the same idea.”
Derek's eyes widen as the possibility sinks in. “Shit,” he says, rising to his feet. “You think he called them here? Told them I was the one who bit Scott?”
“How should I know?” Stiles throws back, his arms out in a full-body shrug. “I don't know all your weird werewolf rules.”
“My father was an Alpha,” Derek says, his gaze far away. “He was well-known, and respected. It's possible Peter could have used the family connection to call in a favor, if he wanted to cover up his own mistake.”
“You think Scott was a mistake?” Stiles asks quietly.
“At first?” Derek muses, his eyes regaining their focus as he turns back to Stiles. “I honestly did. I don't think that anymore, but he should have been given the choice.”
“Knowing Scott, he probably would have said yes anyway,” Stiles admits. “He was even dorkier than I am, back then. Totally a lost cause. And coming from me, that's really saying something.”
“You're not a lost cause,” Derek retorts.
“Hello,” Stiles says, dragging out the vowels. “Have you seen me?” And then – it's the strangest thing – Derek actually smiles.
“Yes, Stiles,” he replies. “I've seen you.” And Stiles doesn't quite know what to say to that so he doesn't say anything, just looks away uncomfortably. “You have to promise me you'll stay out of this,” Derek says, his tone taking a sudden turn. “Whatever the fallout, you'll let me handle it.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” Stiles asks, incredulous. “What am I, your personal reference librarian? You just use me until you get all the information you need and then sideline me? 'Cause let me tell you, I've spent most of my life on the sidelines, ok, and I'm freaking sick of it!”
“Stiles -”
“This is my fight too, whether you like it or not!” Stiles stubbornly stands his ground, fists clenched at his sides.
“This is going to get ugly,” Derek says, rising to his feet to tower over Stiles, and he knows he should be afraid of this, knows it somewhere deep down in his bones, but he isn't.
“You think I haven't seen ugly?” Stiles counters, and he's almost shouting as he stands up to meet Derek. “I watched her die, and it was slow and terrible and you're the only person I know who understands what that's like. You're not keeping me away from this, and I don't care what you think.”
“Yes you do,” Derek answers, “and I won't just stand back and watch you get hurt.”
“You don't have to protect me!” Stiles asserts, and yeah, now he's yelling. He thinks yelling is probably called for.
“I won't watch you die for this!” Derek shouts back, suddenly in his personal space and Stiles refuses to back down. “Don't you understand I can't lose anyone else?”
“You're not going to lose me,” Stiles says, eyes wide as his voice falls to nearly a whisper. “I won't let you.” When Derek grabs him by his shirt and pulls him close, he closes his eyes, tilting his head up, ready for anything. When Derek kisses him, hard and furious, Stiles realizes he could never be ready for this, no matter how much he wants it. He kisses back, hesitant at first, because hell, he doesn't know what he's doing, but really, he never does, so he just keeps at it. Derek's lips, taut and stretched too thin across his teeth at first gradually soften to move against Stiles' mouth, and oh god, if that isn't the best thing ever. Stiles lets his hands wander to Derek's chest, then slide down to his hips, making frantic tapping gestures against a patch of exposed skin just above his belt. Derek makes a soft noise, his lips traveling to his cheek, his neck and god, Stiles doesn't even know how long he's wanted this. He wants it now, and that's all that matters.
“Stiles,” Derek breathes against his skin. “I can't,” and “Yes, yes you can,” Stiles argues, tangling his fingers in Derek's hair and pulling him up so they're face to face. “I want you to.”
Derek lets go of his shirt, pushing him away. 'I know you do,' he sighs. 'I've known it for too long and that's – look, I never meant to keep you up all night, but I asked you one simple question and then you had all this research, printed out and organized and fuck, you colored coded the damn thing and – and your bed smelled nice so I just. I just stayed. I didn't realize I wasn't welcome.'
Stiles looks up at him, blood still struggling its way up to his brain to take in what Derek's just said. 'My bed smelled nice,' he repeats numbly.
'Yes,' Derek spits out viciously. 'But I didn't mean to keep you awake, and I'm sorry.'
'It wouldn't be the first time,' Stiles answers wryly, a blush rising from his neck to color his cheeks.
Derek pointedly ignores his response. 'Then you showed up at my house and I could smell you coming all the way across the lawn but you didn't know, and god, I didn't know what to think so I just -'
'Bullied me until the conversation shifted towards childrens' books?' Stiles suggests, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile. Derek lefts out a short huff of what might have been laughter from anyone else.
'Yes,' Derek answers, finally. 'Because it felt right having you there. The reason didn't even matter. What kind of person deliberately puts someone they – puts a human in very real danger just because it brought back memories that weren't entirely awful? Because it sort of, for a moment,' he turns away, pacing half a circle before stopping, his shoulders sinking beneath the weight of realization. 'It felt like it might be home again?'
Stiles stares back at him, watches Derek lower his head in – embarrassment? Shock? Stiles honestly can't tell. He walks forward slowly, the way he might approach a wounded animal, and brushes the back of Derek's hand. 'Look,' he says. 'I'm going to help you figure this out, whether you want me in on it or not. Short of killing me, which I get the distinct impression you don't actually want to do, you can't stop me. Trust me, I am very determined when I want to be, and I have about two months worth of Adderall stashed in my room, so if you think you can cut me out after dragging me in this far, you are wrong. W, r, o, n, g, incorrect, pal.'
Derek turns back to him and sighs. 'All right, fine.'
'That's it?' Stiles asks, incredulous. 'It's fine?'
'Take it or leave it,' Derek throws back, and turns his back, marching straight into the broken down rail car that has somehow managed to become his home. Stiles heads sullenly back up the stairs, wishing his lips would stop tingling, wishes his heart would stop beating entirely so Derek couldn't hear its rapid, inconsistent rhythm. It was thoroughly inconvenient, Stiles decided, this entire human thing, and undignified besides even at the best of times.
He manages to sit through one more day of class, his right leg bobbing up and down until Danny actually steps on his foot to make it stop. 'What?' he asks, mystified, and Danny just sighs, turning back around in his seat. His pencil taps out the rhythm to a Led Zeppelin tune instead and someone else in the class crumples of a piece of notebook paper and throws it at his head. 'Dude!' he shouts, gathering it up and attempting to find out where to aim it in retaliation, when Mr. Harris makes a slow turn from the review notes scribbled across the blackboard and stares him down.
'Apparently, Mr. Stilinski,' he intones mildly. 'You didn't learn anything from our last after school special, so I'm afraid you'll be spending this afternoon with me once again.' Stiles rests his head against his desk with a little too much force, sending a resounding crack across the room. Scott leans over far out of his chair to grab him by the shoulder.
'Dude,' he whispers, a little too loudly. 'Are you ok?' Stiles lifts his head and rubs the red mark on his forehead.
'Yeah, yeah,' Stiles answers. 'Just another self-inflicted concussion. You know me, I'll bounce right back.'
'Seriously,' Scott asks, and now the entire class is watching. Mr. Harris snaps a piece of chalk in half and throws one end at Scott, who reflexively catches it in mid-air to murmurs of approval throughout the room.
'I'll be seeing you after the final bell also, Mr. McCall,' Harris spits, his face red as a beet, glasses fogging up in humiliation.
Stiles endures the ensuing hour of detention sniping back and forth with Scott until they decide to separate themselves for the remainder of their imprisonment. Scott's jibe about Derek's scent still won't leave his mind, not even after their hour's up and he climbs hastily into his Jeep before Scott can even think of asking for a ride. Besides, Stiles thinks bitterly, he's probably too busy racing off for another 'study session' with his BFF/secret boyfriend.
Exams come and go, and if Stiles doesn't ace them all, well, he manages well enough, considering how much of his dedicated study time had been devoted to solving werewolf problems. As if it wasn't always, he thinks glumly, collecting the remnants of his notes and study guides and shoving them up on a shelf. The summer begins, and after several invitations from Scott, Stiles finally gives in and kicks his pants at Super Smash Bros enough times to sooth the minor irritation of Scott's less-than-subtle insinuations. They have a few sleepovers, and eat the usual amount of unhealthy junk food, but Stiles can't help but notice Isaac's absence. He makes the mistake of asking about it once, and nearly gets hit in the head by a flying controller.
'Jeez,' he fires back. 'I didn't know it was a sore subject, all right? Forget about it.'
Scott nods, and they chug a few red bulls before playing war games late into the night, teaming up to annihilate their competition. Scott always rushes in headlong to charge the enemy and capture their flag, but it's Stiles who scores more points in the end by effectively sniping the other team from a defensible position and allowing the final strike in the first place. It's...kind of nice, being back in Scott's good graces, but Stiles can't ignore the lingering thoughts gnawing at the back of his brain. It's been weeks since they've had any sign of the Alpha pack, in graffiti or otherwise, and it's making him nervous. It's also been a long time since Derek's climbed through his bedroom window, and even though he knows exactly why, it's still a bitter disappointment.
Despite Derek's lack of contact, Stiles continues researching the symbol, and when his last grasp at sources runs dry, he starts digging for information on Alphas. Most of what he can find on the internet is pure conjecture, but he does stumble across a few preserved PDFs (and thank you, Google Books, because he's certain no library within a hundred mile radius, or hell, even on the continent would have the actual knowledge he's searching for.) He still doesn't turn up much, but when he does, he leaves messages on Derek's cell phone and hopes he gets them. Hopes he listens to them, even though Stiles' name shows up on his call list. It's not much, just some vague mentions of conclaves and tribunals that sound a lot like what Peter had casually mentioned at their last pack meeting with his usual melodramatic flair for the menacing, but it does confirm the existence of at least three located throughout the former territories that now comprise Canada, and rumors of some that may have moved farther south to keep up with human expansion across the west. He doesn't know if any of it will be helpful, but it's all he's got, and if he doesn't get some sleep soon, Stiles thinks he might actually die.
May turns into June, and one night Stiles hears a hesitant tapping at his window glass. He's sprawled across his bed in his pajamas, which amount to track shorts and a ratty old t-shirt he's had since the fourth grade, rereading his way through the Silmarillion for probably the fifth time. He looks up, trying to be annoyed, but only succeeding in looking resigned.
He opens the sill and lets Derek climb in, refusing to step back once he's inside. 'You know, my dad's going to be at work half the night,' Stiles comments. 'You could have used the front door like a civilized person. Wolf. A civilized wolf.'
'We don't come in civilized,' Derek retorts. 'And besides, this was just – easier.'
'Oh,' Stiles comments with a smirk. 'You'd rather climb directly onto my balcony and serenade me with entreaties for help. How romantic.'
'Shut up,' Derek mutters, pushing him out of the way. 'Look, I just – I came here to apologize, all right?'
Stiles manages to pull off looking stunned. 'Really? The big bad alpha just crawled into my bed room to apologize for completely disregarding my worth as a member of the team? That's almost sweet.'
'God,' Derek grumbles, throwing out his hands to his sides. 'You never make anything easy, do you?'
'I could make a lot of things pretty easy for you,' Stiles shoots back before he has time to actually process the words leaving his mouth. 'I mean – dammit, just – forget that I said that, ok, abort, delete, restart in safe mode.' He covers his face with his hands and sits back down on the bed, mortified.
Derek looks at him, really looks at him, and Stiles can see it through the spaces between his fingers. 'You're not worthless. You're a lot braver than you give yourself credit for. And – and I – the pack needs you right now, all right?'
'You do?' Stiles asks, lowering his hands and looking up. Derek takes half a step forward and corrects himself, jamming his hands down into his pockets.
'Yes,' he answers. 'They disrespected you, and I'm sorry. You've done a hell of a job coming up with all that information, and granted, I'm not sure I understand even half of it, but what you said the other day makes sense. A lot of sense.' Stiles nods slowly, wrapping his hands around the mattress to keep them from moving. 'And I got your messages about the other Alpha packs out there. If they stick to their codes, then there's only one reason they're in town. To punish someone for turning an unwilling human.'
'Peter,' Stiles answers immediately. Derek tilts his head, raising his eyebrows.
'Or me, depending on what he's told them. If he's told them anything. You may have noticed it's practically impossible to get a straight answer out of my uncle.' Stiles nods, frowning, refraining from adding the words 'mysteriously undead uncle' to Derek's statement.
'That's another reason I came here, actually.' Derek continues. 'I didn't want Peter to overhear. If we're right about this, the pack has to take him by surprise and confront him. We'll have the advantage in numbers. It's the only way.'
'And are you going to let me in on this surprise interrogation?' Stiles asks hopefully, already knowing the answer before it leaves Derek's mouth.
'Hell, no,' he all but shouts. 'You're going to stay put, where you're safe and I don't have to worry about you getting hurt.'
'I thought you just said I was valuable -' Stiles begins, but Derek cuts him off.
'You are!' he retorts. 'But you're not a wolf, and if it comes to a fight, you'll just be collateral damage.'
Stiles greets his statement with uncharacteristic silence, and it stretches out between them for far too long. 'Collateral damage,' he mutters. 'Great. So I'm useful when you need someone to think for you, but when shit really goes down, I'd only get in the way. That really clears things up for me, Derek.'
Derek heaves a sigh, but Stiles keeps talking. 'You know, I've handled myself pretty well over the last year with with this whole 'my best friend got bitten by a werewolf' situation. In fact, if it hadn't been for three humans last fall, you never would have been able to take Peter down in the first place.'
'One of them was a hunter,' Derek reminds him.
'Yeah, and one of them was me,' Stiles asserts, standing up, his fists clenched. 'I deliberately drove into danger to help set that bitch on fire. I made him an easy target. And did I ever get the slightest thanks from you? No. So why don't you just see yourself out the way you came in.' Stiles settles back against the pillows and reopens his book, aggressively not reading the words on the page.
Derek doesn't leave, not at first, just stands by the window watching Stiles eyes skim down the same page over and over. 'Thank you,' he says quietly, and Stiles slightly inclines his head in acknowledgment. Eventually, Derek reopens the sash and climbs back through, disappearing into the night.
Not a week later, Stiles gets a call in the middle of the night. He knows it's a full moon, even in his drowsy state of mind, because at this point, he knows more about lunar cycles and werewolf lore than he does about how to keep his Jeep running. He answers it, his voice hoarse and full of sleep until he hears the fear in Derek's voice.
'It's Scott,' Derek says, his words strained. 'The Alphas made an attack on the house. I need you.' Stiles hangs up without a word and finds a pair of pants, struggling into his sneakers before his mind fully processes the implications. The Alpha pack. Scott. He'd been wrong; they weren't using Medusa as a symbol for injustice, they weren't out to protect a victim. They were here to destroy a mistake. Leave it to an entire pack of Alphas with severely inflated egos to misinterpret mythology.
He's in his car, the house locked up tight behind him before the fog of sleep finally clears and he realizes what Derek's just asked him to do. Drive straight into danger. To help. That thought carries him all the way to the edge of town and down the long drive to the Hale property, where he sees most of the pack huddled on the front steps of the dilapidated house. Jackson and Peter are missing, but he eventually notices them scouting the periphery of the property and wishes it made him feel any safer.
Then Isaac and Derek are lifting Scott's torn and bleeding body into his backseat and Stiles doesn't say a word about the upholstery, or why he always seems to end up with wounded were-creatures in his backseat. He just drives back across town as fast as he can, once Derek barks out their destination. Deaton's already prepared when they arrive, and Stiles can't stop staring at the vicious wounds covering Scott's body. The vet has to all but shove him out the door to the examination room, and Derek's quick on his heels, muttering insults under his breath.
'Wait out here, my ass,' Derek grumbles, a growl invading his tone, and Stiles almost picks a chair across the waiting room out of some misguided sense of self-preservation. He settles in next to Derek instead, waiting for Derek to move seats, or at least lean away from him, but he doesn't. He's a comfortable warmth in the unnerving silence of the room, and Stiles is grateful, even if he doesn't voice his thoughts aloud.
An hour passes, and Stiles has flipped through every issue of Pet Fancy in the waiting room before giving in to sleep. He leans his head back against the wall, and in his half-awake miasma, he imagines he feels Derek's arm wrap protectively around him.
He wakes to the sound of voices, and sees Dr. Deaton framed in the rectangle of light. He also realizes belatedly that he's been asleep on Derek's chest, as a deep rumble rises from beneath the Alpha's ribs and stirs him to an uncomfortable sort of half-wakefulness. Well. That was certainly a surprise. Stiles feigns sleep again, and lets Derek gently push him back upright, certain that Derek can tell he's at least partially awake. They're going to have to talk about that later, unless Derek decides to shove him up against a wall and threaten him into silence. Actually, Stiles thinks, that wouldn't be so terrible after all, and the tiny, portion of his brain that's still functioning shuts down that line of thinking like a door slamming in his face.
Stiles hears approximately half of their huddled conversation in the hallway, before Derek looks back at him with a sharp upward nod. He stretches his legs and disentangles himself from the chair, following them back to the exam room, where Scott and Isaac are both fast asleep. Stiles' jaw drops, watching the scene before him. He's seen a lot of things over the past year, but nothing like the flow of shared energy that's currently pulsing back and forth between the two wolves. He wants to ask about it, wants to ask about a lot of things, but Deaton and Derek are busy waking them up and shuffling the pair of them back outside. Stiles grabs his keys and follows, assuming the role of getaway driver without complaint.
Once they've dropped Scott back off at his house, Isaac deciding to stay and play nursemaid, that just leaves Stiles and Derek in his Jeep. 'Well,' Stiles offers. 'Back to the moldy train depot of fun and excitement for you? I mean, technically you could just run there, it might even be faster...'
'No,' Derek answers. 'I mean, yes, back to the station, but I need you with me.'
Stiles blinks, certain that he hadn't heard correctly. 'You need me...for what, exactly?'
Derek carefully pulls a velvet bag out from his pocket, holding it by the silver cord tying it closed. He hands it over to Stiles, who hesitantly opens it and instantly wishes he hadn't as the smell wafts out into the air. 'Mountain Ash?' he asks, incredulous. 'You stole this from Deaton's office?' Derek shrugs. 'What the heck do you need Mountain Ash for at this time of night?'
'I need it because I sent the pack back to the station, including Peter. If he's there – and I can't guarantee that he will be, but if he is – I'm going to corner him in the back room. There's only one exit. You are going to seal the boundary with that dust so he can't get out and I am going to have a long overdue discussion with my uncle.'
'Whoa, wait a minute,' Stiles fires off. 'If I put up a barrier across the door, you won't be able to get out, either.'
Derek nods. 'That's the plan.'
'No,' Stiles answers, shaking his head. 'No way. That is the dumbest idea I've heard since Stan Lee announced Avengers vs. X-Men, and I will not be a part of that level of fiasco.'
Derek stares him down, and Stiles just stares right back. 'I have to distract him,' Derek asserts, 'and you know as well as I do that it won't work if Erica or Boyd try to do it.'
'Yeah,' Stiles mutters. 'But I still don't understand why.'
'Look, you're the one who wanted to be included in pack business, all right?' Derek attempts to rationalize, the gruff tone in his voice giving away his anger. 'You don't want to stand on the sidelines anymore? This is your chance.'
Stiles looks away, staring out the window with his chin in his hand. Derek covers his other hand with his own where it rests on the steering wheel, and Stiles tries not to react, knowing that his heart has already been racing for at least five minutes, so maybe Derek wouldn't cotton on to just how much that simple touch could affect him. 'I need you, Stiles,' he says quietly. 'You're all I've got right now, and I know I can count on you to have my back.'
'Yeah,' Stiles mutters, shifting the Jeep into gear. 'Let's just hope you don't need it.'
They pull up outside the entrance to the depot, and Derek gets out first, telling Stiles to hang back for a few minutes. Stiles hides the powdered ash in his pocket, and leans back against the alley, giving Derek a solid ten minutes that feel like an hour before slowly, quietly descending the top few stairs. Boyd and Erica are huddled together on a pile of mattresses inside a rail car, and he motions for them to be quiet when they look up. He can hear Derek pacing across the large concrete hall, his footsteps echoing in tandem with someone else's. The conversation is low, and appears calm, as if Derek were simply giving Peter the sitrep on Scott's situation.
He makes his way across the room, ducking behind columns and piles of training equipment, managing to both stay out of direct line of sight and not trip over a single thing in his process. Stiles gives himself a congratulatory pat on the back before sidling over to the partially open doorway and starting to lay down a thick layer of dust, beginning with the least visible side and forcing himself not to pause when he crosses the space open to the room beyond.
'Oh,' Peter's voice rings out, loud in the stillness. 'Oh, there's my clever boy. Wondered when you'd show up, Stilinski. My nephew's only been reeking of you for weeks.'
Stiles hears an angry growl, followed by the sound of a body striking the far wall. Stiles risks a glance around the corner to reassure himself that it's Peter, and not Derek in a compromising situation. He's not disappointed; Derek holds his uncle a good foot above the floor, his claws wrapped tightly about Peter's neck.
'You sent them, didn't you?' Derek growls around his fangs, while Peter laughs quietly to himself.
'Who on earth could you be possibly be talking about?' Peter asks, seemingly not affected in the slightest by the grip around his throat.
'The Alpha pack. You contacted a tribunal, told them that I turned Scott against his will instead of you, and that's why they're here. That's why they nearly ripped a teenaged boy to shreds tonight, instead of sticking your head on a pike.'
Peter's expression shifts, the humorous mask dropping away like a poorly fitting garment. 'Of course I did, you little shit. Did you really think you can lead this ragtag group of pups you call a pack?' Derek knees him solidly in the groin and he buckles in pain. 'They need a proper leader,' Peter continues, his voice low and choked with pain. 'A proper Alpha, and you can't tell me you think you rate. I can smell your fear, I'd know that scent from a mile away. I know how much of a failure you are, and the really amazing thing is that you agree with me!'
Derek roars, baring his fangs, and even Stiles takes a step back, outside the room. Peter spares a mocking glance his way before continuing. 'You'll never have what it takes, Derek. What Laura had, in spades. You're just not cut out to be a leader - not like me.' Stiles watches in horror as Peter drops his human mask as effortlessly as he'd discarded his sense of humor. His eyes glow a brilliant yellow in the darkness as he jams his claws deep into Derek's sides, eliciting a howl of pain. Stiles cries out, and Erica and Boyd rush over to the open doorway before stopping, eyeing the line of sand warily.
'Stiles,' Erica whispers. 'What did you do?'
'Yes, Stiles,' Peter says with mock sympathy. 'What have you done to your poor friend Derek? Now he's trapped with no way out.' He heaves a put upon sigh. 'I suppose you'll all just have to watch me tear him to pieces in front of you.' Peter smiles, and rips his claws back out, tearing flesh and muscle with them, but Derek's ready. He draws back and makes a vicious, four-clawed strike across Peter's throat before he can raise his arms up to block the attack. Peter falls to his knees, momentarily hobbled by the sheer amount of blood spilling out below his jawline.
Derek kicks him in the chest, sending him sprawling to the floor, and bends over him, one knee pressed firmly against his chest. Peter's arms and legs flail wildly, claws kicking out at anything they can reach, and Derek's chest takes several more slices before Derek finishes what he came to do. Stiles watches him carve a sigil into the side of Peter's face, two interlocking spirals, followed by a vicious diagonal slash through them both. Peter's eyes widen, and he struggles to sit back up, claws stretching out for Derek's throat.
He pulls back out of reach and looks to Stiles, holding out one hand. Stiles tosses him the bag with what's left of the powdered ash, and Derek kicks Peter back down to the floor, his head connecting against the concrete with a bone-jarring crunch. Derek pours the remaining granules into the wound, watching as the skin crackles and peels, searing the symbol in deep. 'Good luck explaining that to your tribunal,' he mutters, staggering to his feet as Peter's body goes limp. He backs away, approaching the line of ash unsteadily.
'It's ok, Stiles,' he manages, blood spilling out from a myriad of deep wounds. 'You can open the barrier now.' Stiles focuses on the line and it parts, unaided by any physical gesture, and Derek stumbles through. Stiles catches him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his face into Derek's chest. Boyd wraps an arm around his shoulders, Erica supporting him from the other side, and together they stumble across the station to an empty car.
'What do we do with him,' Boyd asks, and Derek shakes his head. 'Give me a minute,' he mumbles, trying to catch his breath. Stiles drags a mattress from another car and lays it down between the seats, while Boyd and Erica lay him down. Stiles is shaking and furious, his fists clenched at his sides, but he remains terrifyingly silent.
Derek looks up at his packmates, blood oozing from his wounds and down onto the material below. 'You need to get him out of here,' Derek tells them. 'I'd do it myself, but -'
'The hell you will,' Stiles startles him by saying, his voice eerily calm and level. 'You aren't going anywhere or doing a damn thing until you heal those wounds.'
Derek's eyes flash red for an instant, annoyed at being given a direct order by a human, but it's Stiles, after all, and after a moment, he feels his indignation subside. 'He'll be out cold for hours,' Derek explains while Boyd and Erica look at one another anxiously. 'I just poured mountain ash into an ancient sigil, the oldest kind of magic I can still remember from before – before everything.' Boyd nods silently, waiting for him to gather the breath to continue, and Erica kneels to grasp his hand. 'It marks him irrevocably as a traitor to his kind. The Alpha pack will feel it, and assume it's me. When they find him? I'm hoping the problem solves itself.'
'All right,' Erica says, rising to her feet. 'Sounds like we've got some work to do.'
'Can we, ah,' Boyd asks, hesitantly. 'Can we borrow your car?' Derek glares up angrily, and Stiles tosses them his keys, instead. 'Use mine, the backseat's already covered in blood. A little more isn't going to make much difference at this point.'
Derek shoots him a grateful look before collapsing back against the mattress, his eyes beginning to slide shut. 'Hey,' Stiles objects, flicking the side of his face. 'Don't you pass out on me. Not right now.' Erica smirks and takes Boyd's hand, leading him across the station. Stiles watches them gingerly step over the line of ash and retrieve Peter's limp form before heading out the back.
Once they're gone, Derek reaches out for Stiles, pulls him down beside him on the mattress. 'Thank you,' he whispers. 'For showing up. For helping. I think I'd probably be dead right now without you.'
'Don't say stupid shit like that,' Stiles admonishes him, helping to peel off his white tank top and examine the damage below. The broken ribs are already beginning to set, but the marks across his skin are still ugly, oozing deep, red pools of blood. 'I don't suppose you've got some kind of super special werewolf first aid kid around here, do you?' he asks, half-joking.
'I'll be fine,' Derek insists. 'I just – just need to sleep for a while, is all.' His voice is already fading, half lost to unconsciousness and the healing that Stiles hopes will follow.
'D'you, I mean – is it ok if I stay? Here? At least until Boyd and Erica get back? Because otherwise I'd have to borrow your car, and trust me, you do not want to know what my father would say if I left Derek Hale's ride parked in the driveway.'
Derek summons up the energy for a laugh that winds up sounding more like a hacking cough, but Stiles gets the general idea. 'You're not driving my car, Stiles,' he manages, his tone managing to sound humorous and somewhat menacing at the same time, and man, Stiles has got to figure out how to do that. 'Actually, you're not going anywhere,' Derek mumbles, pressing his face against Stiles' neck and oh, Stiles thinks. Oh, a guy could really get used to this.
'God, you smell so good,' Derek whispers against his skin, and Stiles knows he couldn't have heard him right – could he?
'Yeah, well,' Stiles stammers out. 'You smell like blood and wet dog, but since this old mattress is pretty comfortable and all, what with the mold and the very likely possibility of burrowing insects, I think I'll stick around. You know. For a little while.'
'You really know how to flatter a guy,' Derek mumbles before dropping off, one arm slung around Stiles' waist, his face still pressed beneath Stiles' jaw. He doesn't sleep; he can't sleep, not with Derek pressed so close against him, smelling him, feeling the warmth of him. Stiles reaches out, tracing lightly along the lines that mar Derek's chest, wishing he could heal them in an instant. Stiles watches as time passes between them, and the lines do begin to disappear, one by one, leaving only the faint imprint of scars behind. He knows by morning all trace of them will be gone.
His brain won't shut down, and he knows it was stupid to agree to Derek's plan, knows that it could have gone down an entirely different way, and they'd all be stuck with sly Uncle Peter trapped in an underground room, wheedling and cajoling his way out over Derek's cold, unmoving corpse. The thought makes him shiver, which turns into a shake, and Stiles wraps his arms tighter around Derek, running one hand through his hair while the other skims down his left arm. God, he'd risked his life for this, and that was putting it mildly, when he didn't even know what this actually was.
His father would have his head when he drove home in the morning, unless he could convince him that Scott's mom pulled the short straw and got stuck with a night shift, and they'd spent the entire night drinking sodas and watching old monster movies. Right now, though, a lecture from his father is the farthest thing from Stiles' mind as he listens to Derek's breathing, slow and even, his ear pressed against Derek's chest.
He doesn't know what's going to happen in the morning, and right now, Stiles honestly doesn't care. If Derek pulls away once his head clears, one he realizes that he spent the night cuddling with a seventeen year old kid – granted, a kid who's risked life and limb more times than he can count to save Derek's stupid, if perfectly sculpted ass. He figures it's worth the risk, worth the hurt, because honestly it wouldn't be the first time he's been disappointed.
All that matters in Stiles' mind as he gradually drifts off to sleep, Derek's steady, pulsing heartbeat echoing beneath him, is that he's here now, that he'll always be here, even if Derek decides he doesn't want him. This entire ridiculous situation had been predicated upon mistake after mistake, and Stiles swears to himself that he'll spend as much time as it takes to convince Derek that this isn't one of them.