Archive of Our Own

~ * ~

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” Laura says blandly when Cora asks what’s for supper.

“But we had that yesterday!” Cora protests.

“Exactly. Leftovers.”

Derek tunes out his sisters as they begin arguing over variety and quick meals and other droll things he doesn’t care about. Minutes pass as he stares out the window at the surrounding preserve they’ve somehow managed to rent a house in.

“I’m going out,” he says suddenly, grabbing Dad’s old jacket and marching for the front door.

“Derek Sebastian Hale, don’t you dare!” Laura grabs his right arm, jerking him to a stop. “Mom said I’m watching you. And that means you stay where I can see you.”

“I’m almost sixteen,” he counters. “I’m old enough to watch myself.”

Laura moves her hand to his other arm, the one he broke a year before they moved. The one that still hurts because it hasn’t fully healed. She barely touches it, but it makes her point clearly.

He rolls his eyes at her but allows her to slide Dad’s jacket off.

“This sucks,” Cora says. “Why’d we have to move here?”

“Because Mom needed a fresh start after Dad,” Laura says. She gestures toward the kitchen. “Now, let’s go eat. And then we can unpack some stuff so that Mom has it easier when she gets back.”

“When did you turn into Miss Responsible?” Derek asks. “You know, it makes it more difficult for us to behave.”

Laura cuffs the back of his head. “Shut up.”

It’s true, though. Laura used to be the most rebellious of the three of them, always sneaking out and partying. Ever since Dad died, she’s been almost angelic in her behavior, doing everything Mom needs her to. Derek wishes for a lot of things, like that Dad hadn’t been killed by that drunk driver, or that they still lived in New York City, but perhaps most surprising of all, he wishes Laura still felt like she could be herself instead of Mom’s shadow.

Cora pouts and stomps her foot. “I don’t want spaghetti.”

“Neither do I,” Derek says. He digs out his wallet and checks the bills inside. He still has some money left from his paper route in New York. It should be enough to get them all something from the diner downtown that they ate at their first night here. He looks pleadingly at Laura. “Can we get something else tonight? Please?”

Laura sighs. “Fine.” She grabs the keys to her dinky four-door Ford. “But I’m picking the place.”

“Whatever.” Secretly, Derek is pleased. It’s been months since Laura has even entertained the idea of going somewhere. Money’s tight, they all have a bit of trauma when it comes to driving, especially Derek, and they don’t know anyone or anything here.

It all makes for a nerve-wracking experience as Laura drives into town. She stops at a small sandwich shop. Some chain that they haven’t eaten at in forever.

Derek makes a face. “No, thank you,” he says. “I’d rather not.”

“I told you I’d pick the place,” Laura reminds him.

“Can we please go somewhere else?” Cora asks from the backseat.

Laura sighs but pulls out of the spot and starts driving again. They watch buildings pass by until they end up at the diner. “Better?” she asks.

“Much,” Cora says, already halfway out of the car. Derek struggles with his belt for a moment before Laura unbuckles it for him.

“Thanks.”

Laura squeezes his hand.

They don’t talk about how Dad died because he turned the car, trying to minimize the injuries Derek received. They don’t acknowledge that Derek watched Dad die. They just don’t talk about anything really relevant. But Laura doesn’t let Derek lag behind. She keeps his hand in hers as they catch up to Cora and enter the diner.

“We should bring something home for Mom,” Derek says, once they’re seated. “I’m sure she’s sick of spaghetti too.”

Laura picks something off the menu, and when the waiter, some heavily made-up older lady, stops by, she asks if she can get it to-go in addition to their orders.

Then, they sit in silence while they wait for their drinks and then food to arrive.

For all that he’s hungry, as soon as the double bacon cheeseburger is set in front of him, Derek realizes that he can’t eat. He pushes his plate aside.

Laura pauses, half her own burger already gone. Cora isn’t far behind, ketchup smeared across her cheek as she takes another giant bite. “Derek,” Laura says, reproachfully.

“I’m just not hungry,” he lies, hoping she can’t hear his stomach growling from across the table.

Her eyes soften and she sets down her burger. “It’s okay,” she tells him. “No one is mad at you.”

“If you’re not going to eat it, can I have it?” Cora asks, eyeing his food with open hunger.

“No,” Laura answers for him. “You have to finish your own food first. And,” she holds up a finger to forestall Cora’s automatic argument, “if you are still hungry, you can eat the leftover spaghetti.”

They lapse into silence again, and Derek watches a bead of condensation drip down his water glass. Finally, after a few minutes, his sisters finish eating, Mom’s food arrives, already boxed up, and the waiter slaps a takeout box in front of Derek so he can scoop his uneaten burger into it.

Then, Laura heads to the front register to pay while Cora carries Mom’s food and Derek holds his own, waiting by the door for her. Once they’re back in the car, Laura points them toward the Sheriff’s Station.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks.

“Visiting Mom,” Laura says, the ‘duh’ heavily implied.

“Are you sure we’re supposed to?”

Cora pipes up, “I want Mom to eat her food before it gets cold.”

Laura clicks her tongue. “Exactly.

Outnumbered, as always, Derek just sinks down in his seat and waits for Laura to park in the visitor lot next to the building. She unbuckles him again, but he makes no move to follow her.

“Suit yourself,” she says, and leads Cora through the front door.

“Mom’s probably on patrol right now,” Derek says to the empty car. He sighs, setting his takeout box on the dash and opening his door. He steps out, fully intending on not going inside. A cool breeze tickles the back of his neck, making him shiver. He wishes he’d grabbed Dad’s jacket again, but he hadn’t wanted to give Laura any reason to change her mind about driving into town.

He takes a half-step toward the front doors. At the same time, something rustles nearby. Derek pauses, glancing around, trying to see if he can locate the source of the noise. Everything is calm aside from the wind, which seems to be getting stronger and colder.

He decides that he really doesn’t need to go in. Laura and Cora should be done just about now anyway. He climbs back into the car and struggles to buckle his seatbelt.

Laura’s door opens, and he jumps.

“What’s wrong?” Laura asks, eyeing him oddly while Cora noisily climbs into the backseat.

“Nothing,” he says, trying not to sound sullen. “Did you notice the wind?”

Laura nods, climbing in and slamming her door. She reaches over and clicks his belt for him. “I don’t know why it’s so cold. It’s only mid-September.”

“We are in Northern California,” Derek points out, grabbing his food and setting it in his lap. “Maybe it gets colder earlier?”

Laura doesn’t bother to reply, too busy reversing and pulling onto the road.

“How’d Mom like her food?” he asks, and Cora immediately launches into a long-winded story of how Mom had been doing paperwork or training in the back and the Sheriff, “The actual Sheriff,” Cora emphasizes, had gotten her so she could see her kids and get her food.

“She asked us why you didn’t come in,” Laura says quietly. “I told her you weren’t feeling well.”

“Great.” Derek doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but Mom’s been hovering over him because of Dad and his arm, and he really doesn’t want her to worry more about him.

“It was the first thing I thought of,” Laura apologizes. “Anyway, she asked if you’d eaten, and I said I couldn’t prove that you hadn’t.”

“Thanks,” he says and means it.

Laura reaches out blindly and gently socks him in the shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”

~ * ~

Derek wakes up with a dry mouth and a fading nightmare.

He knows what he dreamed about: the accident. But, it had felt different somehow. He can’t remember why though, and the harder he thinks about it, the more it slips away. He sighs and drags himself out of bed.

It’s early, the sun isn’t even up yet although the sky is lightening to the east. He trudges to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, scratches at his barely-there stubble, and turns on the water to warm up for a shower. He goes back to his room to grab some clothes, and then takes as short and hot of a shower as he can stand. The heat burns everywhere but his left arm, and he lets it hang in the water while he scrubs a palm’s worth of shampoo through his hair.

When he’s clean and dry and dressed, he heads downstairs to find Mom sitting at the tiny kitchen table, a mug of coffee in front of her while she stares out the window, watching the sunrise. She startles when he raps on the door frame.

“Oh, baby. You scared me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Derek says, pulling out a chair so he can sit next to her. He leans his head on her shoulder, breathing in her faded perfume and her distinct Mom-smell. She cards her fingers through his damp hair, swirling it one way and then another.

“Your hair is getting long,” she remarks. “Do you want me to schedule a haircut before school starts?”

“I thought school had already started?”

“I meant for you and Cora. Since it’s the middle of the week, you’ll start on Monday.”

Derek thinks of all the first-day haircuts he’d had and decides he really doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of styling his hair in the morning. Right now, it’s long enough that he can just let it flop and it still looks okay.

“Maybe not,” he says. “Revisit around Thanksgiving?”

Mom hums her agreement, sipping at her coffee and making a face at it.

“Cold?”

Wordlessly, she hands him the mug, and he warms it up in the microwave for her. She thanks him by leaving a big, wet kiss on his forehead. She keeps a hand on the back of his head while she pulls back far enough to study him.

“Are you eating enough, baby?”

“Yes.” Lie, his heart thumps traitorously. Mom looks like she can hear it, but then she shakes her head and drinks more coffee.

“I need to go in for some paperwork around 10:00, but I have the afternoon off. We’ll do something fun, I promise.”

“Or we’ll just keep unpacking,” Derek says, pointing at the moving boxes marked with a messy “kitchen” in Laura’s handwriting.

Mom sighs and nods. “Smart.” She taps his nose. “Why are you up so early anyway?”

“Nightmare,” he says. The lines around Mom’s eyes tighten. “I don’t remember it anymore,” he assures her, but she doesn’t look like she believes him.

“I’ll see if I can find a therapist for you,” she says softly. “For all of you.”

Before Derek can respond, Laura and Cora tumble into the kitchen. They’re still in their pajamas with tangled hair, and they are fighting over who gets to use the bathroom first.

Mom claps her hands. “Girls, there’s a bathroom on each floor. Have fun.”

“Can I go explore for a bit?” Derek asks as his sisters run to claim their preferred bathrooms.

“Hmm?”

Derek leans over his mom to kiss her forehead, not as wet as she did to him though. “Can I go explore, outside, for a bit?”

“Don’t go far,” Mom says. “And stay out of the preserve. Sheriff Stilinski says there’s some kind of wild animal in there.”

For some reason, Derek gets a flash of his nightmare, of golden eyes glowing from the depths of a bush. He shakes it off, hugs Mom, and goes to grab his shoes.

Less than a minute later, he’s hopping off the back porch and walking toward the cleared area behind the house. There’s a row of hedges, almost like a natural fence, at the back of the property, and it marks the boundary of the preserve.

Derek glances back at the house, sees no one spying in the windows, and ducks through the hedge into the preserve.

He stands up and breathes deeply.

The dirt and trees and everything smells so clean. He’s still not used to the way there’s no bustling of traffic or sewage stink everywhere. New York City will always have a special place in his heart—he was born there and lived there most of his life—but northern California isn’t so bad, and he maybe doesn’t hate it as much as he did when he learned they were moving here.

Derek finds a thin deer trail and follows it deeper into the preserve. He does his best not to break any branches or leave much of a trace of himself, having had conservation drilled into him at a young age by his dad.

Thinking of his dad makes his chest seize in pain, and he sits down suddenly, eyes flooding with tears. He can hear the agonal breathing of his dad as they lay trapped in the crumpled car, can hear the way he begged his dad not to die. He covers his mouth to stifle his sobs, but it’s no use.

For the first time since Dad’s funeral, Derek cries. It’s ugly, heavy tears soaking his face, mucus dripping from his nose, a deep keening sound working it’s way out of the depths of his body.

A bush next to him rustles, startling him into a hiccup.

“Who’s there?” he calls weakly, scrubbing at his face with his sleeves. He hopes it’s a deer, knows it’s probably not.

The bush stays silent.

Derek wipes his face again and stands up. “I’m going now,” he tells the bush softly. “Please don’t follow me.”

Then, he gingerly picks his way back toward the house, still trying to leave as little trace as possible. He doesn’t hear anything following him.

~ * ~

The rest of the week passes uneventfully as they unpack more of their things, break down boxes to recycle them, and, in the case of Cora and Derek, buy school supplies.

Monday comes all too soon, and Mom is still at work—the night shift—when Derek walks Cora to the bus stop. There’s a group of kids, all different ages, but, almost by mutual agreement, the Hales don’t talk to the kids and the kids don’t talk to the Hales.

On the bus, younger kids sit up front and older kids toward the back. Derek sinks into a seat and squishes himself against the window while another kid, about his age, floppy hair, uneven jaw, and sharp elbows, drops next to him.

“You’re in Stiles’ seat,” he hisses under his breath. Derek doesn’t respond, turning to look out the window instead. The kid digs another sharp elbow in his back. “Seriously,” he growls. “Move!”

“Hey, Scotty, it’s okay.” Derek doesn’t look at the kid that speaks, but he imagines that this is Stiles.

“No, it’s not,” Sharp Elbows Scotty whines. “You’ve sat there every year since middle school. This-this interloper can’t get away stealing your seat.” To emphasize his point, he elbows Derek again, hissing, “Seat stealer,” under his breath.

Derek ignores him.

“Move,” Stiles says, and Derek feels the heat of Scotty disappear before it’s replaced by an even greater heat.

Finally, he turns his head and wishes he hadn’t.

The kid sitting next to him is attractive in a way that Derek hadn’t been aware he liked until last year. His face and arms are speckled with numerous moles, almost like a constellation writ upon his skin. His eyes are amber in the sunlight, catching the glow in a very pleasing way.

He holds out his hand, and Derek shakes it lightly, shocked at how warm and comfortable their hands fit together.

Stiles smiles at him. “I’m Stiles Stilinski.”

“Derek Hale,” Derek whispers.

“Ah, is your mom Talia Hale?”

“Yeah. Your dad is the Sheriff.”

Stiles laughs, and it sounds musical. Or maybe Derek’s just crushing really hard. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want to fall for a boy he doesn’t even know.

“Welcome to Beacon Hills, Derek Hale,” Stiles says. He uses the bus turning a corner to slide into Derek’s side, but then he doesn’t move away.

“Thanks,” Derek says stiffly, focusing on his hands, his feet, anything but the line of heat that is Stiles.

“Shy,” Stiles remarks quietly, nodding.

Derek frowns at that. He’s not shy. Not really. He just has to be comfortable with someone before he shares the deepest parts of himself.

“I’m a sophomore at Beacon Hills High. How about you?”

“Sophomore,” Derek says.

“Cool.” Stiles finally slides away from Derek, and Derek tries not to miss the warmth of him.

“Is it always this cold this time of year?” he asks.

Stiles lifts an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asks slowly. “Like, are you from somewhere warmer and it just feels cold to you?”

Derek shakes his head. “I’m from New York. Yes, it’s been warmer than usual this late in the year, but it just feels like it’s unnaturally cold. I was just wondering if that’s normal.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Unnatural,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No, Derek Hale. It’s not supposed to be this cold. We’re hunting a witch after school. Want to join us?”

Derek frowns again. He’s not sure if Stiles is trying to make a joke or be mean or what. “I’ll have to ask my mom,” he finally decides. “If she says it’s okay, then, yeah, I’ll join your witch hunt.”

“Shake on it.” Stiles shoves his hand under Derek’s nose. Gingerly, Derek does, aware now that their hands don’t seem to fit together right.

He turns to look out the window, and Stiles lets him be. For some reason, it makes Derek’s chest tight.

~ * ~

School is a disaster.

The younger kids get dropped off first, and Cora waves at Derek as she bounces down the steps and waits for the girl she sat next to on the bus to join her so they can walk side by side to the middle school.

When it’s their turn, Derek tries to join the queue, but he keeps being pressed back into the seat. First, by Stiles, and then by Scotty.

It makes him late to the office and late to his first class.

He bows under the weight of all the eyes on him as he slips into the classroom. Derek wants to be anywhere else but here, especially when he notices that the only open seat is next to Scotty.

“Tardy, Mr. Hale,” the teacher announces in a droll voice. He reminds Derek of that teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, only younger.

“Sorry,” he says, accepting the slip and sinking down into the seat by Scotty.

Scotty grins at him, and his teeth look sharp. Derek feigns disinterest and pulls out a notebook. He notices that everyone else has a textbook, and he looks up at the teacher to find him in the middle of writing a formula on the blackboard.

“Better luck next time,” Scotty hisses, a sharp elbow to Derek’s back.

Things go downhill from there.

He’s late to every class, and although he shares only two with each Scotty and Stiles, there are a few other kids—two girls and three other guys—that make his classes uncomfortable.

He doesn’t know why they’re picking on him. Maybe it’s his hair? Should he have let his mom schedule a haircut?

By the end of the day, he feels bruised—mostly because of Sharp Elbows Scotty McCall—and just plain tired.

Derek doesn’t bother asking his mom about hanging out with Stiles and his crew, and instead sits in the same seat he did this morning, and rides the bus home. Stiles and Scotty don’t ride the bus in the afternoon. Which is the first bit of luck Derek’s had all day.

He walks Cora back to the house, half-listening as she chatters about her new friend, Alicia.

“Her brother is in your grade,” Cora says, and Derek pauses.

“What’s his name?”

“Vernon. But he likes to be called Boyd. It’s their last name.”

“Boyd,” Derek muses. “Tall, kinda gruff looking?”

“Probably,” Cora says. “I can’t know what he looks like.”

Derek remembers one of the guys from school today, a quiet giant who had followed him wordlessly as he wandered the school during lunchtime. He guesses that was Boyd. He hadn’t been as bad as some of the others. Like, Jackson Whittemore, who had tripped Derek in English class, or Erica Reyes, who intimidated him in gym class.

Stiles had ignored him in their shared class, and for that Derek couldn’t have been more grateful.

Now, though, he wonders what their deal was. Surely, it was more than the fact that he’d stolen Stiles’ seat this morning, right?

He’d done something to offend Stiles, and by extension, his crew. But, he doesn’t know what he did.

He sighs, vowing to put it out of his mind. “Do you want a snack?” he asks Cora.

“Spaghetti?” Cora makes a face.

“Peanut butter toast,” Derek says, and she brightens.

“Yes, please.”

“Start your homework, and I’ll make it. Do you want two slices or four?”

“Three,” Cora decides, skipping to the living room where they’ve set up a folding table until Mom has time to go furniture shopping.

Derek washes his hands, makes Cora’s snack, and then heads up to his room to do his own homework.

Laura is busy in her room, studying for one of her college exams. Thankfully, her classes hadn’t been interrupted by their move across the country. Only because they are fully online.

Derek is bored and wants to bug someone, but he knows better than to annoy Laura when she’s studying. He still has rug burns from the last time she tackled him.

He checks on Cora, but she’s busy texting her new friend Alicia.

With nothing better to do, Derek heads outside and ducks under the hedge to go into the preserve.

He finds the deer trail again and follows it deeper than he had last week. Eventually, he comes to a clearing. There’s a giant tree stump in the center of it, small off-shoots growing out of it. He approaches slowly, hand held up like the stump is some wild animal that he’s trying to pet.

A hum settles in his bones, and he shudders.

Then something bowls into him, knocking him to the ground.

Derek rolls with it, scrambling to get away, to stand up, to run, but the thing hooks claws in the back of his jeans and shirt and throws him toward the stump. He lands awkwardly on his left arm, and he screams as it snaps under his weight.

Black dots dance across his vision as he tries to sit up, and it jars his arm, pain shooting up and down the whole length of it.

He whimpers when something grasps his wrist, claws prickling the skin there, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he won’t have to see the creature that kills him.

Fingers wrap around his wrist, gentle, human. The pain recedes greatly, and his eyes fly open. Stiles kneels in front of him, holding his wrist, black lines running up his own arm.

“What are you doing?” Derek says thickly. His tongue hurts—he must have bitten it earlier.

“Hush,” Stiles says. “How did you find this place?”

“Followed the deer trail,” Derek says. “Now can you answer my question?”

Stiles looks up at him, and Derek recoils. His eyes are fully yellow. His movement shifts his arm, and he curls down over it.

Stiles does not let him go. “Stay still,” he says, not unkindly, running his other hand down Derek’s arm, skirting the obvious break. “This will need medical attention.”

“What are you?” Derek whispers, but he doesn’t try to pull away again. The thing Stiles is doing is making his pain less somehow, and he’s loathe to give it up right now.

Stiles hums and doesn’t answer. Instead, he traces a symbol on Derek’s forearm. There’s no ink, nothing to actually mark him, but Derek feels warmth swell at the spot.

“Are you the witch?” he asks.

Stiles barks a laugh. “No,” he says. “Kinda thought you might be, though.”

“Is that why your crew were such assholes today?”

“What?” Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek. “What do you mean?”

“Pretty sure your buddy Scotty bruised me with how many times he elbowed me. And that Jackass Jock, Jackson? He tripped me. In fact, I think Boyd was the only one who wasn’t actively mean to me.”

He can’t remember what the red-head girl or the blond boy had done, but he knows they hadn’t been kind either.

Stiles sighs. He lets go of Derek’s wrist and stands up. “I’ll talk to them,” he promises. “You won’t have any more trouble from us.”

“Are you riding the bus again tomorrow?”

“Uh, yeah. You?”

Derek shrugs. “Unless I can get my sister to drive us, yeah.”

“You can keep sitting with me,” Stiles offers.

“No thanks,” Derek says, before he can think better of it. “I’m going home now.”

Stiles winces. “Don’t forget to get your arm looked at.”

“This isn’t my first broken arm.” Derek glares at him. Then, he turns his back on Stiles and heads back toward his house.

The closer he gets to home, the more his arm aches, the pain returning in full force as soon as he climbs under the hedge. His eyes are teary as he makes his way up the back steps.

“Laura?” he calls, fumbling with the door. It’s locked. Why is it locked? He knocks loudly, but no one answers him, so he walks around to the front of the house. Laura’s car isn’t in its spot.

For some reason, that simple fact makes the tears fall. Derek sinks into a rocking chair the previous owners of the house had left behind. He cradles his broken arm against his chest and cries because he’s hurt, locked out, and alone.

Once he calms down, he just rocks listlessly. He’ll just wait until someone comes home. Then he’ll go to the ER and get his arm looked at. For now, though, he’s tired from his trek, from being tossed around, from crying. He closes his eyes and lets his thoughts lull him to sleep.

~ * ~

He wakes up when a rough hand shakes his shoulder.

“Time is it?” he mumbles, cracking his eyes open.

A kindly-looking older man smiles down at him. “Hey, son. You gave your family quite a scare.”

Derek moves to sit up, and can’t bite back the cry of pain as his arm is jostled. The man’s face creases in concern.

“I’m okay,” Derek lies, panting through the pain. “It’s just because it was broken a while ago.”

The man takes the wrist of his injured arm and inspects the break. “Son,” he says reproachfully.

It’s then that Derek notices the brown uniform of the Sheriff’s department and the cop car sitting in the driveway. He looks back at the man and then drops his eyes to the gold name tag. Stilinski.

The Sheriff. Stiles’ dad.

“I’m okay,” he repeats, stronger, with more conviction. Sheriff Stilinski barely brushes a thumb over the injury, and Derek curls down, breathing hard.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get you to the hospital. I’ll call your mom and let her know that you’ve been located and where we’re going.”

He grips Derek’s good arm and hauls him up with a strength Derek isn’t sure he should have. He lets the Sheriff lead him to his car, surprised when he is buckled into the front seat instead of the back.

A few minutes later, Sheriff Stilinski sits in the driver’s seat and starts the car. “Your mom and sisters are going to meet us at Beacon Memorial.”

Derek nods, sinking back into the seat. He keeps his arm as immobilized as he can, but he still hisses at the bumps in the road. They make it to the front entrance of the hospital without exchanging any more words, and Mom is already there, ripping open his door almost before the Sheriff can put the car in park.

“Are you okay?” Mom looks like she’s been crying. Behind her, he can see Laura and Cora. Laura’s wringing her hands while Cora looks worried. They haven’t looked like that since Derek woke up in the hospital after the accident.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically. Mom gives him a look. “Well,” he amends, “not fine. My arm is broken again.”

Mom gently helps him out of the car. “Thank you,” she says to the Sheriff. “I’ll be back on shift as soon as I can.”

The Sheriff waves his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I know all about being there for family.” There’s a familiar tightness around his eyes before it smooths away as he smiles at them. “Hopefully you get some good news. And, son?” Derek looks back at him. “Stay out of the preserve.”

Derek doesn’t know how he knew where he’d been, but he nods all the same. He has no intention of ever going back to that tree stump, to where a creature—Stiles?—had attacked him.

Sheriff Stilinski drives away as the Hales slowly make their way into the hospital’s reception area.

~ * ~

Derek gets to stay home the next day, to acclimate to his medication, his mom says. For Laura to keep an eye on him, she doesn’t add, but with the frequency that Laura brings him water or snacks makes it pretty obvious that’s what she’s doing.

“I’m not going to sneak out,” Derek tells her.

“You did before,” Laura shoots back.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t sneak.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No. You just were busy. I didn’t sneak anywhere. I was bored.”

“Well, don’t be,” she snaps. “You keep getting injured and we can’t have that.”

“I don’t mean to,” he says quietly. “It’s not my fault.”

Laura blanches, because she hears it as clearly as Derek knows it: it is his fault. If his dad hadn’t had to worry about Derek in the car, he’d still be here. Derek wouldn’t have had a broken arm. They wouldn’t have had to move to California.

She drops onto the bed, narrowly missing his feet. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to blame you.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, Derek, it’s not. God!” She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, and he realizes that she’s trying to stop herself from crying. “You shouldn’t have to shoulder things that aren’t your fault. I don’t care if it’s you that blames yourself. It’s not right.”

Derek sits up so he can reach out and pat at her knee. “I will be okay,” he promises. “I will.”

She smiles and leans over to hug him, careful of his casted arm. “I love you, Derek.”

“Love you, too.” He yawns suddenly, and she laughs.

“Okay, okay. I’ll let you rest now.” Seriously, she adds, “Call me if you need anything. Okay, Derek? Anything.”

He nods, lying back, eyes slipping closed. He takes a deep breath, hears her close his bedroom door, and then…asleep.

~ * ~

At first, Derek isn’t sure what woke him up. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes, blinking into the dusk of his room. A cool breeze blows across him, gooseflesh rising on his arms. He turns to look at his window, and stares uncomprehendingly at the wide-open glass.

“Sorry for this,” someone says, and Derek whips his head around to find Scotty and Jackson standing next to him. He opens his mouth to shout for Laura or his mom, but they pounce on him and wrestle him down, forcing the air from his lungs, bending his casted arm all wrong. He fights, struggling to break free so he can at least breathe, but Jackson taps his jaw, and it feels like a solid hit. He clings to consciousness for about three seconds before Scotty presses down on his chest and he slips under.

He wakes up with a gasp, sitting up. He looks around, frightened when he realizes that he’s not in his room anymore. In fact, from the hard wood under his butt, he’d guess he’s on the stump.

He climbs off, cradling his aching arm to his aching chest, trying to work out the ache in his jaw. He searches the clearing, but as far as he can tell, he’s alone.

He’s barefoot, dressed in a thin t-shirt and shorts. The wind chills him thoroughly. It cannot be right, this cold. Maybe there really is a witch, and they’re screwing with the weather.

Derek shakes his head, igniting a pounding headache. He breathes through his nose until it abates enough for him to try stumbling back toward his house.

He makes it five steps before something barrels into him, shades of when his arm was re-broken.

“No!” he yells. “Stop it!” He raises his head and comes face to face with an animal he can’t identify. It’s got ridges on its forehead, thick sideburns, and no eyebrows. And glowing yellow eyes. A soft growl to his left lets him know that there’s another creature there.

He risks a peek in his peripheral vision and notices a third creature. This one has red hair.

Derek pushes himself upright as best he can with only one arm. He manages to get to his knees before all three creatures growl and advance.

“No,” he says again. “Bad. Leave me alone.”

Claws prick the back of his neck, and he shivers from more than the cold.

“Poor little Derek Hale,” the creature behind him mocks. And Derek narrows his eyes. The voice is affected, deeper than before, but that is Erica Reyes.

He looks again at the creature in front of him. Scotty. To his left, Jackson. To his right, the red-head, Lydia Martin.

“Where’s Issac and Boyd?” he asks.

“Keeping watch,” Scotty says.

“For Stiles?”

“No, you idiot,” Lydia hisses. “For the witch.”

“Which I am not.”

“It wasn’t cold until you moved here,” Scotty says.

“You’re the common denominator,” Erica adds.

“I’m not,” Derek insists. He shrugs off Erica’s claws and stands up. He wavers on his feet, legs half-asleep, arm throbbing from being jarred, so cold that his teeth won’t stop clicking together, and more than a little pissed off. “I am not a witch,” he says, venomously. “If I was, then I would be trying to resurrect my dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad,” Derek says, a lump forming in his throat. He clears his throat and starts again, “My dad died last summer. I watched him die.”

A flicker of sympathy crosses Lydia’s face, but the others that he can see stay hard. Derek focuses on Scotty, directly in front of him. “If I was a witch,” he says, enunciating as clearly as he can through his chattering teeth, “wouldn’t the first thing I’d try is bringing my dad back to life?”

“Maybe being near the Nemeton inhibits his abilities?” Erica suggests.

Scotty shakes his head. “Stiles once told me that it’s a magnet for magical creatures.” He looks at Derek. “Like witches.”

“I am not a witch.” If he was younger, maybe Cora’s age, he’d stamp his foot. As it is, he settles for glaring at Scotty. “Does Stiles even know that you’ve kidnapped me and brought me here?” He catches the guilty look Scotty and Jackson share. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Listen, I am going home. None of you follow me or I’ll tell my mom about you. She is a deputy, and she won’t stand for your shenanigans.”

“Yeah, well, we know the Sheriff,” Scotty says, a bit desperately, Derek thinks. “And he’ll arrest your ass before you can do anything to us.”

“I don’t want to do anything to you,” Derek says, slowly, hoping that it finally sinks through Scotty’s thick skull. “I want you to leave me alone.”

He pushes past Scotty and starts walking home. He hears the others following him. He spins around and glares at them. They’re all human again, his classmates.

“Stop following me.”

Surprisingly, they stay in the clearing as he heads into the trees. And when he ducks under the hedge, they still aren’t behind him.

He goes up to the backdoor, finds it locked again, and heads around the building to the front porch. The front door is also locked, and neither Mom nor Laura’s cars are parked in front. Derek kicks at a rock and then winces when the rock hurts his foot. Right, no shoes.

He pats at his shorts, but he didn’t have a chance to grab his phone, so he’s stuck here until either everyone comes home or the Sheriff finds him on the porch again.

But, he thinks, maybe his window is still open?

He circles the house again until he finds his bedroom window on the second floor. It’s closed. Great.

He returns to the front porch and slumps into the rocking chair. He pulls his feet up under his legs and his arms into his shirt and waits.

~ * ~

Two hours later, Mom’s deputy cars comes speeding into the driveway, lights flashing, but no siren. She parks and falls out of the car, running up to him and wrapping her arms around him.

“Baby,” she cries into his hair. “Baby, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek says, poking his good arm out so he can hug her back.

“Where did you go?” She pats at his head, his shoulders, tilts his face up and runs a gentle thumb over a bruise on his chin. “What happened?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he says, ducking away from her probing fingers. “I’m okay, I promise.” His arm throbs to let him know he’s lying.

Mom lets him get away with it for all of two minutes before another cop car, the Sheriff’s, pulls in behind hers.

For some reason, Derek doesn’t think he’s going to get away with lying to the Sheriff. He sighs and kicks his legs out. They’re completely numb, which he tells his mom when she tries to get him to stand up. She settles a hand onto his shoulder as the Sheriff climbs the steps and comes to a stop in front of them.

“Son, you keep giving your mother heart attacks.”

“I know, sir.”

“Are you hurt?”

Derek looks up at his mom. “A bit.”

“Where?”

“Mostly my arm. Maybe my feet. My jaw. My head aches a bit too.”

“Anywhere else?”

Derek draws in a deep breath, and his chest protests the inflation of his lungs. “My chest,” he says. “Ribs?”

“Do you know who hurt you?”

Derek shakes his head. It’s already bad enough at school. He doesn’t need Stiles’ crew coming after him for getting them in trouble with the Sheriff.

The Sheriff’s eyes take on a distinctly red hue and he sniffs the air. Mom isn’t looking at him, too busy studying Derek’s face and whatever skin she can touch for injuries. The red glow is gone when she looks to the Sheriff.

He shakes his head sadly. “We’ll have to take evidence from his clothing.”

Mom’s hand tightens on Derek’s shoulder. “Can I stay with him? He’s just fifteen.”

Sheriff Stilinski sucks in a breath, and Derek gets the sense that he’s smelling something at the same time. Like an animal.

Derek starts shaking, and his mom hugs him again.

“Yes,” the Sheriff says. “You can stay with him. He can ride in your car. Bring him down to the Station, and I’ll have a crime scene detective meet you to collect the evidence. You may want to grab him a change of clothes and some shoes.”

Mom nods tightly and sends Derek to her car. He sits in the front seat again and manages to wrangle the belt on before Mom comes back, a bulging plastic grocery bag in hand.

“Ready?” she asks.

“No.” She looks at him with sad eyes, and he offers her a tight smile. “But let’s get it over with.”

~ * ~

The crime scene detective is a kind woman with gentle hands. She introduces herself as Detective Graeme. She photographs Derek as he stands how she wants. Then, she has him take off his shirt and she snaps images of the bruises and cuts that litter his body.

She asks about under his shorts, but he doesn’t think he got hurt there, so she leaves it alone. Then, when she’s done scraping underneath his fingernails and taking swabs of random dirt and grass stains all over his body, she asks him to change into the clothes Mom brought with them and to put his ruined clothes into a paper bag.

She doesn’t watch him as he changes quickly behind his mom, but he knows she’s there and that’s bad enough. His hands shake as he drops the shirt and shorts into her bag. Mom wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him to another room with a table and three chairs. Mom takes one of the chairs and sets it in the corner, sitting down and crossing her legs. Derek sits on the side of the table that has a D-ring attached to it. Detective Graeme takes the remaining seat.

She sets a recorder on the table, a little red light already on. “Please state your full name for the record.”

“Derek Sebastian Hale,” he says clearly.

“And, Derek, how old are you?”

“Almost sixteen,” he says.

“So, fifteen.”

“And ten and a half months.”

Detective Graeme smiles. “So, almost sixteen,” she agrees. Sobering quickly, she asks, “Do you know who took you?”

Derek doesn’t want to answer. His stomach roils at the thought of it. But, he knows, the Sheriff likely already knows who did it. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Please speak up,” Detective Graeme prompts him.

He clears his throat. “Yes, I do know who took me.”

“And who was it?”

Derek shoots a glance at his mom, but she hasn’t moved and her face is set firmly in a pinched mask of pretend-calm. He turns his attention back to the detective.

“It was a few of my classmates,” he says softly, leaning forward so that the recorder can pick up his words.

“And their names?”

Derek opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He tries again, but again, the words stick. He shakes his head. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Mom says suddenly, sharply. “Derek, you have to.”

He shakes his head, embarrassed to find that there are tears in his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry. It’s not worth it to cry about this.

Detective Graeme hands him a tissue. “It’s okay. Whoever it is, we won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

“You can’t stop them,” Derek says, wiping his eyes only for them to immediately flood again. “They won’t stop.”

“Who are they?” Detective Graeme asks sternly.

“My classmates,” Derek chokes out. “Some of my classmates.”

“Which ones?”

He shakes his head again. “Can I just write down their names?” he asks.

Detective Graeme slides a notepad and pen to him. Shakily, trying to be neat, Derek writes down all the names of Stiles’ crew. Except Stiles. Stiles wasn’t there. Stiles didn’t know what they did to him, what they were going to do to him.

“They thought I was a witch,” he says without looking up, sliding the notepad back to Detective Graeme. “They were only trying to protect the town.” He explains as carefully as he can about how he’d been woken up, knocked out, and taken into the preserve. He doesn’t mention the animalistic faces or the way Erica had scratched him with her claws. He talks about the threats they had exchanged and about how he was locked out of his house when he managed to make it home.

After, when he’s done, the room is thick with silence. Derek can’t look up, wipes at his teary eyes. More minutes pass, and then Mom stands up.

“Are we done here?” she asks.

Detective Graeme sighs. “Yes. But don’t go far. We may need to interview you and your son later. Once we’ve interviewed these people.” She grabs the recorder and clicks it off. To Derek, she says, “I am so sorry for what they did to you.”

He nods, accepting her apology at face value. She wasn’t the one who hurt him, who was going to do who knows what to prove that he is a witch.

He stands up when Mom touches his shoulder, blindly following her out into the bullpen.

“Derek,” someone says, and he looks up to find Stiles standing in front of him, worry darkening his eyes. “Are you okay?”

He nods automatically. “I’m fine,” he says, heart thumping at the lie.

Stiles frowns, as if he heard it. But, he nods, letting it go. “See you at school?” he asks softly.

Derek looks at his mom, and she gives a small shake of her head. “Maybe,” he says. “See you later.”

“Was he one of them?” Mom asks in an undertone, and Derek shakes his head. He watches as Stiles goes to his father’s office and raps on the door.

They leave the Sheriff’s Station before he can see if Stiles is let in.

The ride home, in Mom’s actual car, is quiet. Derek is tired and leans his head against the window. All too soon, they arrive at their destination, and Derek stares at the hospital in confusion.

“I want you checked out,” Mom explains, her tone allowing no argument. She unbuckles his seatbelt and helps him out.

“I’m fine,” he tries anyway. “Really. I just want to sleep.” It’s definitely still dark out, but he has a sneaking suspicion that it’s a lot closer to dawn than midnight.

Mom’s mouth is a tight line as she uses the elbow of his good arm to steer him through the emergency room doors.

~ * ~

Derek gets a new cast on his arm, a stretchy bandage wrapped around his ribs, and direct orders to stop fucking up his arm.

“It’s not me,” he mutters mulishly behind the doctor’s back.

He is discharged after about an hour, and it’s well on it’s way to sunrise when he slides into the passenger seat. Mom doesn’t say anything as they drive home. Laura’s car is back, and Derek runs a hand over the hood. Cold.

He shivers, but he’s not still cold. Mom had the foresight to grab a sweatshirt and long pants for him to change into at the Station. And his feet are warm in his socks and shoes.

“I shouldn’t have moved us here,” Mom says as she unlocks the front door. “We should have stayed in New York.”

“Derek!” Laura screams when they walk into the kitchen. Suddenly, he has an arm full of sister. “Where did you go? Why did you go? What happened?” She pulls back so she can study him. “What happened?” she repeats quieter as she takes in his bruised face and different colored cast. “Mom?”

“Stupid kids,” Mom mutters, heading for the coffee pot.

“Can I go shower and then sleep?” Derek asks the room in general. Laura hugs him again before handing him a roll of plastic wrap. He smiles at her, grateful, and takes his leave.

After a quick shower—seriously, it took him longer to wrap and unwrap his cast than it did to wash away the dirt and blood from his “adventure”—he stumbles to his room, bone tired and ready for sleep.

He checks his window first, finding it locked shut. He nods at it, and then face-plants onto his bed. He’s out almost as soon as he lands.

What feels like minutes later, he’s woken by someone shaking his shoulder. He lifts his head and blinks blearily at the figure bending over him.

It’s Mom.

“It’s time for supper,” she says.

“I slept the whole day?” he asks, sitting up and rubbing the gunk out of his eyes. He stands up too quickly and has to sit down because of a blood rush. “Yeah, okay. Supper,” he says, standing up again, more carefully this time.

Mom goes downstairs while he detours to the bathroom to freshen up a little.

When he takes his seat at the folding table, he’s surprised to see spaghetti on everyone’s plates.

“It’s easy,” Mom says when she catches him poking at it. “I think we need easy tonight.”

Secretly, Derek agrees, but he wishes there were other simple dishes that they could have instead of spaghetti.

“Oh, that Stilinski boy stopped by earlier,” Mom says just as Derek takes a bite. He chokes, only slightly, and swallows quickly.

“What did he want?”

“Apparently, he wanted to see you,” Mom says. She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t trust him. I think he was in on the attack.”

“What attack?” Cora asks through a mouthful of noodles.

“You remember we had to take you to Mrs. Henderson’s again?” Laura asks. Cora nods. “That was because Derek went missing again. Only, this time, he was taken.”

“What?!” Cora looks at Derek. “Is that why you slept all day and Mom wouldn’t let me wake you up?”

“Yeah. I guess I was just tired.”

“And no wonder,” Mom says. “Sheriff Stilinski said he was able to track how far into the preserve they took you. Five miles! And you walked all the way home after everything.”

“But, I’m okay.” To the disbelieving stares of his family, he amends, “I will be okay.”

Mom shakes her head. “Yes, I suppose you will be, but I’m still calling your uncle Peter. He can help be another set of eyes in the house to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” All three of them groan. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s my brother, and he has his redeeming qualities.”

“Like what?” Laura asks innocently.

Derek snorts into his water, and Cora giggles.

“Oh, you three. Behave. Peter is coming to live with us, and that is final.”

“Does this mean I can’t go to Mrs. Henderson’s anymore?” Cora asks.

“Well, I’m sure Peter will want a night off every once in a while, so, yes, as long as Mrs. Henderson is okay with looking after you, you can still go to her house.”

“Do I have to go to Mrs. Henderson’s?” Derek asks. He knows Peter is only coming to California because of him. It stands to reason that Peter will be the one who looks after Derek, even on his days off.

Mom chews thoughtfully for a few seconds before nodding. “Yes. When Peter needs a break, and Mrs. Henderson is watching Cora, you will go with her.”

Derek pokes at his spaghetti before forcing himself to take another bite. “Can I go to school tomorrow?”

Mom looks like she’s going to say no, but then Laura pats her hand. “Yes, okay, yeah. You can go to school. And, Derek? If any of those kids try to talk to you, you walk away or tell a teacher. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mom smiles fondly at him. “So, Cora, how has your day gone?”

Cora pushes her empty plate aside and sets her elbows on the table, folding her hands and resting her chin on them. “Alicia and I are partners for the science fair in two months.”

“Wonderful! And will you and Alicia need to meet at each other’s houses for this science fair project?”

“Yeah.”

A sudden thought occurs to Derek, and his stomach drops. Alicia is Boyd’s sister. If Alicia comes to their house, will Boyd come too? He hasn’t done anything overtly to Derek, but he was there, standing guard, when the others accused Derek of being a witch.

“Did you want to invite her over on Friday? Maybe for a sleepover?”

“Mom,” Cora rolls her eyes, “we’re too old for sleepovers.”

“You’re thirteen,” Laura says. “Plenty young enough for a sleepover.”

“Are you going to be here for it?”

“Yes,” Laura says. “Someone has to watch your scrawny butt.”

“Girls,” Mom says, rubbing at her temples. “Okay, Cora, if you want, you can invite Alicia over whether it’s for the afternoon or for a sleepover. I do want to meet her parents first, though.”

“Where am I gonna go if they have a sleepover?” Derek asks. He doesn’t particularly relish the thought of either having to listen to his sister and her friend all night or running into Boyd, no matter how unintentional it will be.

Mom purses her lips. “Do you have any friends yet?”

“Mom,” he complains, “I’m too old for a sleepover!”

“You’re only two years older than me,” Cora points out.

“And you’re the one that said thirteen is too old for a sleepover,” he shoots back.

“Kids, please stop arguing. Derek, friends?”

“No. I haven’t exactly spent much time at school,” he says. Mom sighs heavily at the reminder.

“Laura, you can watch Cora and her friend, but I plan to be home that night, so if you want, you can go out.”

“Do I have to take Derek with me?” Laura asks. “Not that I wouldn’t love to spend time with my favorite brother.”

“I’m your only brother,” Derek growls. “And what if I don’t want to spend time with you?”

“Derek promises to stay upstairs during your sleepover. Okay, Cora?”

“Who says I’m inviting Alicia to a sleepover?” Cora demands. Quieter, she adds, “I’ll ask her tomorrow. If she says yes, then you can set up a meeting with her mom. I’m not sure if she has a dad. She doesn’t talk about him.”

“Okay,” Mom says. “Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too.”

Derek starts clearing the table before Mom can ask. Everyone ate their spaghetti except him. He still has most of a plateful. He scrapes it into a lidded dish, sticks a note with his name on it, and sets it in the fridge. Then, he portions out the rest of the pot into more dishes. Easy grabs for leftovers.

He sets all the dishes in the sink and begins washing them.

“Thank you, baby,” Mom says as she sets up her coffee machine so that there will be a fresh pot in the morning when she gets back from her shift.

“Where’s my pet name?” Laura demands, jokingly.

Mom smiles. “Yes, my sweet?”

Laura laughs and lets Mom tug her into a one-armed hug. “I’m going out,” she says. “To the bowling alley. They had a help wanted sign.”

“And if they don’t have applications?” Mom raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I need to improve my game.” Laura laughs again.

“Bye, Laura,” Derek calls as she stomps to the front door.

“Bye, squirt.”

She hasn’t called him that since he was twelve. He’d had a growth spurt and somehow ended up taller than her, and she’d started calling him “beanpole.” He’s missed being “squirt.”

Mom smiles, seemingly happy that her kids are getting along for the moment. She checks her watch. “I’d better get to work.” She hugs Derek. “Are you going to be okay, baby?”

“I’ll be fine. You can even send Mrs. Henderson over if you think you need to.”

Mom laughs. “I probably will ask if she can check in. And I’ll call on my break. Please don’t go missing again. My heart can’t take it.”

“I won’t,” Derek promises, trying to swallow the hollow feeling it leaves in his throat. He doesn’t think he has much choice of if he goes missing again, all too sure that Stiles’ crew is probably going to come for him especially after he gave their names to Detective Graeme.

Mom blows him a kiss before she leaves, and he locks the door as soon as she gets in her car and drives away.

With the dishes done, Derek turns off the lights downstairs and heads up to his room. He brushes his teeth and changes into a lighter shirt and shorts. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, so he grabs a book to read. He makes it to page ten before he nods off.

~ * ~

Derek wakes up when his window slides open. He sits up, the book falling from his chest to thump onto the floor. The lights are off—someone must have turned them off for him because he’s pretty sure he fell asleep with them on.

There’s a shadow standing in front of the window, staring at Derek with yellow eyes.

“Who’s there?” he asks, already hazarding a guess that it’s one of Stiles’ crew—or Stiles himself.

“Just me,” Stiles says. Derek sags in relief. Not that Stiles sneaking into his room is really any better than Scotty and Jackson.

“Why are you here?”

Stiles steps forward, stoops down, and sets Derek’s abandoned book on his bedside table, flipping on the lamp as well. “I wanted to apologize for my pack’s actions. They meant well, but that doesn’t excuse what they did to you.”

“Did you catch your witch?”

Stiles shakes his head. “We’re no closer to finding the witch than we were last week.”

“So there was no reason for Scotty and Jackson to abduct me,” Derek says flatly. It’s not that he blames Stiles for his friends’ actions, but they must have told him something because he’s here.

“No.” Stiles purses his lips, looking sourly at the floor. He raises his gaze, pinning Derek with it. “I am so sorry for how they’ve treated you.”

“At least you know I’m not a witch,” Derek says, offering a tiny smile that he knows barely curves his lips.

Stiles nods. He blows out a loud breath, running his hands through his hair, buzzed short but growing out. He points at Derek’s bed, and Derek nods, pulling his legs up and curling around his knees.

Stiles sits down with a weary sigh. “I don’t know why they’re treating you so bad. Like, from the beginning. Scott shouldn’t have gotten mad at you when you were in my seat. I mean, it’s not like it’s really my seat.”

“It’s just the seat you’ve sat in since middle school, I remember.”

Derek studies Stiles, head tilted where it’s resting on his knee, his broken arm cradled in the space between his knees and his chest.

“I feel like I’m being measured and found wanting,” Stiles says with a bitter huff of a laugh.

“What did your dad tell you?”

Stiles blinks. “What? When?” He narrows his eyes, but Derek thinks it isn’t in distrust. More like confusion. His face clears. “Oh, at the Station.” Derek nods. “Yeah, he told me that the pack had gone too far. That there would be consequences. And,” Stiles ducks his head, flushing suddenly, “he wanted to know if I had anything to do with why they took you—hurt you.”

“Hey.” Derek sets a hand on Stiles’ leg, and Stiles stares at it like it’s going to bite him. He pulls it back, watching as Stiles’ shoulders hitch up and then drop—in relief? “The detective already knows you didn’t do anything.”

“That’s not true.” Stiles laughs ruefully. “After being ripped a new asshole by my dad, Detective Graeme interrogated me about the list of names you gave her.”

“I didn’t put your name on the list,” Derek says softly. “You weren’t there.”

“But I might as well have been!” Stiles leaps to his feet and begins pacing. “They would have left you alone if I’d told them to.”

Maybe a change of topic will help them both settle? Derek nods toward the open window. “How’d you unlock my window?”

“Unlock?” Stiles inspects the frame, wincing at whatever he sees. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.” He wrestles the window closed, flipping the lock and wincing when it flops loose, useless.

“Great.” Derek climbs off the bed and uses a finger to poke the latch. “I guess it’s okay,” he says. “If you can keep your crew from attacking me again.”

“Pack,” Stiles says. “And, yeah. My dad’s having a talk with each of them. They shouldn’t bother you anymore.”

Derek’s bedroom door flies open, and they both turn to stare at Cora.

She points at them. “Why is there a boy in your room?” she demands.

“No reason,” Derek says, marching toward her, intending to push her away and shut and lock his door. She flicks a look at Stiles, and then draws in a deep breath.

Derek pulls up short. “No,” he begs. “Don’t! Please! I’ll do your chores for a month if you don’t.”

Cora considers before shaking her head and shrieking. “Laura! Derek has a boy in his room!”

Stiles claps his hands over his ears as Cora keeps screaming.

“Shut up, you little brat,” Derek hisses. When she stops to take in more air, he drags her into his room and locks his door. “Why would you do that?”

Cora looks unperturbed, climbing onto his bed. “You know you’re not supposed to have boys in your room.”

“And why not?” Stiles looks between them, his mouth curving into a wicked-looking smirk.

Derek sighs. “I’m not straight. My mom thinks that means I’ll try to have sex with anyone I see.”

“She doesn’t understand bisexuality?” Stiles’ face drops. He’s disappointed, Derek realizes.

“No,” Cora says, almost gleefully. “She understands it just fine. It’s teenagers—Derek specifically—that she doesn’t understand.”

“No?”

Derek ducks his head so he can avoid Stiles’ eyes. He bites his lip. “I’m not exactly obvious when it comes to crushes.”

Cora rolls her eyes, throwing Derek’s pillow at him. It hits him in the chest and falls harmlessly to the floor. “He means,” she says to Stiles, “that he doesn’t tell his crushes that he likes them. He’s still pretty obvious when he’s in love.” She eyes Stiles critically, and Derek’s heart flips, his stomach dropping.

“No,” he says, begs really, but like with her shrieking, she ignores him.

“Derek likes you,” she says. “Like likes you.”

“Cora!” Derek growls.

Before he can do more than chuck his pillow at her, smacking her in the face, his doorknob rattles.

“Derek?” Laura calls. “What was Cora screaming about? Do you really have a boy in your room?”

Wide-eyed, Derek looks to Stiles, who is halfway out the window already.

Cora sighs and goes to open the door for Laura. Derek runs to the window, slamming it shut. He can’t do anything about the broken lock, but maybe Laura won’t notice it?

“It was a teenager,” Cora is telling Laura. “He had short hair and brown eyes.”

Laura narrows her eyes. “Lots of moles?” she asks. Cora nods. “Stilinski’s kid.” She looks around the room. “Where is he now?”

“He jumped out the window,” Cora says, always so helpful. Derek growls at her.

“Was Stilinski in here?” Laura asks, pinning Derek with her best imitation of their mom’s you’d-better-tell-me-everything glare.

“He just wanted to make sure I was okay after the stunt his pack pulled.”

Laura points at him. “Stay here,” she orders. “I’m calling Mom.”

“Why is everyone tattling on me today?” Derek asks his ceiling as Laura and Cora leave. Of course, he doesn’t get an answer.

~ * ~

Mom comes home on her break, sitting all three of them down at the dining table, Derek and Cora on one side, Laura and her on the other.

“What in the ever-loving hell is going on?” she demands.

“Derek had a boy in his room,” Cora says. Derek sinks into his seat under the withering glare Mom gives him.

“It was the Sheriff’s son,” Laura adds helpfully.

“How did he get in?” she asks, voice nothing but ice.

“Probably the same way he left,” Laura says, pining Derek with a not-as-withering glare. “Through the window.”

“The window.” Mom’s eyes narrow. “How did he get in through the window?”

Derek can see the gears turning in Mom’s head. She’s figuring it out, except she can’t. “Um, the lock is broken?” he tries, wincing with the lie.

“It wasn’t when I locked it earlier,” Laura says. She turns to Mom. “I swear, when I locked it after he was taken last time, the latch caught. The window shouldn’t have been able to be opened.”

Mom’s eyes bore into Derek, seeing through him, trying to decipher his mind. “How did the lock break?”

Derek coughs. “Uh, Stiles doesn’t know his own strength?”

“Uh-huh. And I suppose you didn’t help him at all?”

“No,” Derek says and then bites his lip to keep any other words inside. She doesn’t need to know that he was asleep when Stiles first came into the room.

“No?” Mom’s raised eyebrow tells Derek that he’d better get his story straight.

“No,” he repeats, softly. “Like I said, Stiles doesn’t know his own strength. He just wanted to make sure I was okay.” Quieter, he adds, “He apologized for his pack’s actions.”

“Enough.” Mom shakes her head. “I need to get back to work. Derek, you’re in Laura’s room. Laura, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere or let in any strange boys.”

“What are we going to do about the broken lock?” Laura asks.

Mom frowns before nodding toward the box with their tools and hardware. “Take a couple of those long nails and hammer it shut.”

“Fire hazard,” Derek says, and three glares nearly eviscerate him where he sits.

“It’s only a fire hazard if you’re actually in the room,” Laura points out. She stands up, hugs Mom, and tears open the box, digging out the nails and hammer.

Cora also hugs Mom before she scurries upstairs, seemingly content with her hand in this debacle. Mom goes to the kitchen to forage something before she heads back to work. Laura is already upstairs, hammering at the window.

Derek remains seated. He doesn’t feel like drawing attention to himself quite yet. He knows Laura is going to take watching him seriously. Sometimes, he really hates his sisters. But then, he knows, he’d be lost without them.

As much as they antagonize him, he knows they love him and want the best for him.

The front door slams behind Mom, and Derek finally stands up. Tomorrow will be another day. First, he needs to get through the rest of tonight.

~ * ~

In the morning, Laura drives Derek and Cora so that they won’t have to ride the bus, and despite not getting to see Stiles again, Derek is grateful, knowing that Scotty—Scott—would probably have used his back as an elbow rest.

Cora, for her part, is sad because she can’t see Alicia until they get to school. She whines the whole way to the middle school. Derek rolls his eyes at her theatrics.

Before he gets out, Laura grabs his arm. She looks deep into his eyes, unblinking, and Derek’s eyes water as he stares right back.

“Do not go anywhere near those kids,” she says, voice sharp. “The less you interact with them, the less they can hurt you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, twisting until he can release the seatbelt. “I have classes with all of them, Laura. I can’t avoid them all day.”

“Still,” Laura says. “If anything does happen, go straight to the office and let them know.”

“Will do.” He gently shuts her car door, shoulders his backpack, and marches into the school.

For all that he expects to be accosted by Stiles’ pack, none of them do anything. In fact, during gym class with Erica, she runs the other way when he approaches the teacher that she is talking with to give her the note from his doctor excusing him from heavy physical activity.

Stiles seems to be the only one not actively ignoring him. Even Jackson looks afraid when he realizes that he and Derek are in the lunch line next to each other.

When Laura picks him up at the end of the day, she asks without words how his day was, and he shrugs, grinning at the passing scenery.

“I asked Alicia if she can come over tomorrow,” Cora announces when they find Mom sitting at the kitchen table with a cold mug of coffee. “She said she’d ask her mom and call us later.” She looks at Derek before turning back to Mom. “Alicia’s older brother is Vernon.”

“Boyd?” Mom asks, attention snapping onto Cora.

“Yeah.”

She purses her lips, thinking. “Perhaps we’d better not,” she decides. “Vernon might not be allowed near Derek, and I’m sure that will probably go for his sister too.”

Cora whirls on Derek and punches him, just above the cast on his broken arm. He winces. “I hate you,” she says, lowly. “You ruin everything.”

“I didn’t do this,” he argues.

“You’re the reason we’re here,” she says. “You’re the reason Dad is dead.”

“Cora!” Mom snaps. And Cora, eyes filling with tears, runs upstairs. Her door slams, shaking the house.

Derek stands still. It’s not that Cora’s words stunned him. It’s just that they hurt in a way entirely different from when he blames himself for Dad’s death. He tears up, trying to breathe through the sharp pain squeezing his lungs. Mom and Laura both just stare at him.

It’s then that he knows for sure: they all blame him.

He can’t stand it, heart breaking, a flood of tears blinding him as they spill down his face. He starts moving, running for the back door.

He crawls under the hedge, heading into the preserve. He’s crying too hard, running too fast, to pay enough attention to where he’s going, and he trips and stumbles as he keeps moving.

He collapses against the large tree stump, pressing as close to it as he can, sobbing into the bark, hurting from all the words his family doesn’t say until they can’t hold them in anymore.

Derek doesn’t know how long he cries into the stump, but when he’s finally cried out, it’s getting dark and the wind is picking up.

He stands up, scrubbing at his raw eyes and runny nose with the sleeve of his sweater. Then, he turns toward home, knowing that he’d better face whatever is yet to come. Even if it’s more blame. He hiccups as his chest constricts at the thought.

“Hey,” Stiles says, and Derek jumps, falling back against the stump. Stiles steps out from the shadows of the trees. He nods at the stump. “Can you feel its pull?” he asks.

“Pull?” Derek looks at the stump. It’s huge, but overall unremarkable. At least, it is to him. “No?”

Stiles cocks his head to the side, studying Derek like he’s a specimen about to be dissected. “The Nemeton,” he says. “It calls to all magical creatures.”

Derek shakes his head. “It doesn’t call to me,” he says thickly, nose still stuffy from his crying.

“Yes, it does,” Stiles says. “Why else do you keep returning to it?”

Derek frowns, but his head aches, and he’s getting cold even with his sweater. “I need to go home before I worry my mom too much.”

Stiles inhales sharply, his face turning to stone. “Who hurt you?” he growls, voice low, affected. His eyes start glowing, and Derek backs up, only, because he’s already against the stump—the Nemeton—he falls across the top of it.

Stiles stalks forward, and Derek tries to scuttle back, but he can’t get enough traction with just one good arm. Stiles climbs onto the stump, crawls until he’s kneeling over Derek’s body. “Who. Hurt. You?”

Derek shakes his head. “No one,” he says. His heart flutters in his chest, beating way too fast. It makes him dizzy, leaving him open to an attack.

Stiles sits back on his heels. He clenches his hands into fists, eyes shut tight. When he finally opens them again, they’re back to their regular color. “Derek,” he says, plaintively. “Please. Who hurt you?”

“No one hurt me,” Derek insists. “Not physically, anyway.” Stiles growls lowly. “Look, it’s a rough time for us. We’re all missing my dad, and we’re in a new place, and nerves just get frayed, yeah?”

Stiles reaches out, placing his hand on the center of Derek’s chest. He presses lightly, and Derek’s bruised ribs protest. He gasps softly, and Stiles pulls back.

“You aren’t to blame,” he says. “Not for the hurt they give you. Not for the things done to you.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Derek says, trying to keep any bitterness from his voice, “but I am to blame for quite a few things.”

“Like your dad’s death?”

Derek’s heart beats a little faster, but he knows the truth of it. “Exactly.”

“You’re lying to yourself,” Stiles says. He taps Derek’s chest. “Right here. You know the real truth.” He taps again, and Derek feels the flush start. It’s intimate, the way Stiles is leaning over him, breathing the same air as him.

Stiles smiles, leaning closer until their lips are almost touching. “If I tell you that it’s not your fault, that you’re not to blame,” he pauses for a long breath, “will you believe me?”

Derek tries to think about it, but his thoughts are scattered, skittering away the longer Stiles stays near him.

A sudden flare of warmth heats his back, and he tenses as it grows quickly to too hot, too much. Stiles frowns down at him before pulling back.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Hot,” Derek whispers. He shudders, the heat ramping up again, now verging on painful. “Make it stop,” he begs. “Or get me off it.”

Stiles grabs Derek’s wrist, his good arm, and jerks him upright. He keeps tugging and then suddenly, they’re standing a few feet away from the Nemeton, and Derek shivers as the wind cools him down almost instantly.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks, mostly to himself, as he drops Derek’s wrist and moves toward the Nemeton, hands outstretched. “What’s wrong?”

“Why’s there so much heat there?” Derek asks. Stiles glances back at him and shrugs. Then, he slams his hand down onto the stump. He frowns at it, wriggling his fingers.

“Are you sure it was hot?”

“Yes.”

Stiles cocks his head, listening. “Okay, you come touch it.”

“What? Why?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Just do it, Derek.”

For some unspeakable reason, Derek does. He sets his hand next to Stiles’ on the Nemeton. He flinches at the heat, holding his hand as still as he can before it gets to be too much, and he pulls away with a hiss.

His hand is unmarked but is red with the heat. Stiles grabs it, turning it over and tracing a pattern only he can see. “It’s not possible,” he breathes, fingers moving again and again in a tight spiral that feels like a flower about to bloom. “How?”

“How what?” Derek asks. He doesn’t move, lets Stiles keep tracing the symbol. It feels nice, like it’s drawing the heat of the burn from his skin.

“The Nemeton branded you,” Stiles says. He finally lets go of Derek’s hand. Stiles won’t look at him when he says, “It’s my pack’s symbol, our marker for our members.”

There’s still nothing on Derek’s hand, and even the redness has faded. He looks at Stiles, who still won’t meet his eyes. “Do you have the symbol?”

Stiles shakes his head. “We get the symbol marked on us when we turn eighteen, if we want it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry. I know how much this must disgust you, to be drawn into my pack without your consent.”

“I’m not disgusted,” Derek says. Puzzled, yes. Disgusted? Not remotely. “What does it mean that I’ve got your pack’s symbol on me?” He runs his fingers over the same pattern Stiles had traced, but there’s still nothing that he can discern.

“I need to speak to my dad,” Stiles says. He turns and almost too fast to see, he’s gone, back into the trees.

It kinda hurts that Stiles abandoned him here, but Derek rolls his shoulders. He has two working feet and one working arm. He can find his own way home.

The memory of Cora yelling at him makes his insides twist.

Maybe he can head into town? It’s Friday evening. Things should be open, like the bowling alley. Derek likes bowling. And Laura had applied there, so it’s not like Mom won’t know where he is.

Except, she won’t know, a tiny voice inside him protests. She won’t know because Derek didn’t tell her.

He should go home. He should face his family and accept the blame he knows is his. His shoulders hunch, and he wipes at his suddenly burning eyes. He does not want to cry again, damn it!

To distract himself, he starts walking, but instead of turning toward home, he heads deeper into the preserve, farther than he’s ever gone, wanting to see what’s inside, why he needs to stay out. Because, if it’s Stiles and his pack, then he’s not afraid. He’s already dealt with them, creatures, the lot of them, and he’s still standing.

He walks on, head held high, carefully picking his way through the dense brush. He thinks he’s keeping a fairly straight line. The walking keeps him warm enough even as the wind gets harsher and colder. It’s when he stops at the edge of a ravine, something he barely saw in the darkness, that he finally feels the way the wind is cutting through him.

He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself, and he turns, ready to head home at last.

“Well, little one,” a deep voice says, right by his ear. Derek jerks, spinning to his left. He can only just make out a pale face, long white hair, and a silver light flashing where a hand should be. “Boy who runs with wolves. What are you doing in my domain?”

Derek swallows with a dry throat. “Are you the witch?” he chokes out.

The face smiles. “I am.”

“Why is it so cold?”

“Of all the questions,” the witch says, and Derek hears the smile in the voice, “that is what you ask?”

He shrugs. “I’m cold,” he says. “Aren’t you?”

The silver light grows stronger, stops flashing, and Derek can finally see the witch—a tall man with long, loose hair, long lines etched into his face like scars, and the heavy robe he wears. “No, child,” he says. “I am not.”

He lunges, shoving his glowing hand against Derek’s broken arm. The instant cold makes his arm hurt, and he whimpers, trying to pull back.

“Ah-ah, little one. You are mine now.”

Derek brings up his good hand and pushes hard against the witch’s chest. It does nothing. Instead, the witch grabs the hand and turns his palm up before hissing in disgust and tossing it aside. Derek pulls away, the connection broken.

“That’s right,” he says, forcing bravado he doesn’t feel into his voice. “I’ve been marked by the Stilinski pack. You can’t do anything to me.” God, he hopes that’s true.

The witch laughs, a sound as cold as the wind still tearing through the preserve. “Oh, little one. No, the mark means I can hurt you. You are what will bring the Stilinski pack to their knees.” He reaches out again with his glowing hand and catches Derek around the neck.

Mercifully, Derek faints.

~ * ~

He comes to in a dark cave, shoved into a corner, ropes wrapped around his torso. His ankles are bound together. He’s lying on his broken arm, and he bites back a groan, trying to shift into a more comfortable position.

“Ah, little one,” the witch says, nearby.

Derek startles. “Let me go,” he demands, voice wavering. “Please?” he adds, in case the magic words help.

From the wry chuckle the witch gives him, it does nothing more than amuse him.

“‘Please’ he says,” he snorts. “‘Please,’ like the wolves would show more mercy than me.” He snarls suddenly, and the silver light bursts from his hand, the cave brought into sharp relief. Derek squints into the sudden brightness. He watches the silhouette of the witch place an orb of light into a standing torch, the light settling into what amounts to a light bulb.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing this?” the witch repeats. “Boy who runs with wolves, do you not know what it is to be marked by a pack?”

Derek shakes his head.

The smile he gets is sharp and feral. “You are mated to one of the pack.”

“Mated?”

“Are you really so naïve that you don’t realize what your mark means, human?” He hauls Derek upright, jarring his arm enough that a small whimper slips out. “You are mated to one of the wolves. And I will find out which one.”

“How?”

The glee on the witch’s face when he says, “With pain,” makes Derek’s stomach drop.

“My mom is a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department,” he says.

“And the leader of the Stilinski pack is the Sheriff,” the witch responds. “You really think they’re going to rescue you?” He shakes his head. “No one can find this place. I’ve warded it well.”

“But won’t they find it if you torture me?”

“That’s the beauty of it. They won’t find it even with your screams.” He slams his glowing hand onto Derek’s chest, and instead of the pain of cold he’s expecting, fire licks his skin, burning through his sweater and shirt and yet not damaging the material at all. He clenches his teeth, holding in the yell he knows the witch wants. Minutes that feel like hours pass before the witch pulls back, leaving Derek panting and sweating.

“Impressive,” he says. “You’ve already got the strength of the pack. They shouldn’t have accepted you so readily. Humans rarely are, even mated to members.”

Derek leans against the wall, studying the witch through half-lidded eyes. “I’m not mated,” he says, words slurred. He shakes his head, tries again, “I am my own person. I am not mated to anyone.”

“Little one, you have no choice in this. You will be claimed.” He pauses, a mean smile curving his lips. “That is, unless I kill you first.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Derek spits, figuratively, and then literally when the witch just grins at him.

He expects the backhand but not the sudden twist to his broken arm, the cast cracking and falling off as the bones grate against each other. This time, he can’t keep in his cry of pain. Black spots dance in front of his eyes, and he slumps sideways, hoping to pass out. The witch shakes him lightly.

“Ah-ah.” He taps Derek on the nose. “Not yet, little one. First, you must scream.” His hand, the silver one, dips into Derek’s stomach, passing through him like an apparition. The pain that follows it is unlike anything he’s ever felt. It doesn’t even touch the pain he’d been in after the crash.

He’s not aware of screaming, but when the room stops spinning, tilting first one way and then the other, his throat aches, and there is vomit down his front.

Blood rushes in his ears, blocking almost all sound except a long, mournful howl. The howl quiets his blood, and he manages to swing his head around to glare at the witch.

“Here they come!” The witch sounds entirely too gleeful as he pulls Derek to his feet and drags him to the entrance of the cave. “See? They can’t find us.”

Derek watches as first Scott and then Isaac run by the cave without looking at them. He opens his mouth to call out when Erica and Lydia appear, but the witch clamps a hand—thankfully not his magic-infused one—over his mouth.

He hears the howl again, knowing in his bones that it’s Stiles howling for him. He bites the hand over his mouth, drawing blood. He begins hopping, trying to make it out of the cave, but the witch recovers quickly enough to grab him by the ropes around his body.

Because his hands are otherwise occupied, Derek uses the distraction to shout. All the wolves howl in response.

“You fool!” the witch hisses against his ear. “You’ll suffer for that.”

“I thought you wanted me to make noise to draw them here?”

Sheriff Stilinski stops in front of the cave, inhaling deeply. His eyes slide past the entrance but he doesn’t move. “Witch!” he yells. “I know you’re here! You can’t hide forever.”

Stiles joins his dad, eyes also sliding past the cave. His expression is pinched with worry.

“Ah,” the witch breathes. “So, it is the boy of the Sheriff that you are mated to.”

“Told you,” Derek grunts. “Not mated. I’m not anything.”

“You are to him.” He brings up his silvery hand, and Derek knows, this is it. He’s either going to die right here, feet away from rescue, or he’s going to escape. Not much of a choice, if he’s honest.

When the witch plunges his hand toward his chest, probably to pull the same stunt of pushing his hand inside, Derek twists, jerking in his bonds until he falls half out of the cave, still held fast by the witch. Using all his might, he leans harder, slowly dragging the witch with him.

The magic hand briefly flashes outside of the cave before the witch digs in his heels and yanks Derek back inside.

The wolves, all of them, Sheriff Stilinski and his pack, stand in front of the cave. As one, their eyes latch onto Derek held in the witch’s clutches. Derek smiles as the wolves roar and rush into the cave. He falls to the floor as the witch scrambles to run, already caught by the Sheriff.

Stiles kneels next to Derek, claws slicing through the ropes. “Are you okay?” he asks, patting at Derek.

Derek shakes his head. “Not in the slightest.” He lets Stiles haul him to a sitting position, those black lines racing up his arms. “But I will be.”

Stiles pulls him into a tight embrace despite the icky state of him. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers into Derek’s hair. Derek sags against him, letting Stiles hold his weight while he drains his pain. He’s almost floating by the time the Sheriff scoops him up, Stiles’ hand tight around his arm. It’s too dark for him to see, and he thinks that means the witch is incapacitated. Probably dead, if the smell of iron is anything to go by.

“Let’s get you home,” the Sheriff says. “Then we will talk.”

“‘kay,” Derek mumbles, blindly swinging his arm out until Stiles moves his hand to his and squeezes. “‘m not mated,” he adds.

“No,” someone, Stiles maybe, agrees, and sounds a bit sad. “You aren’t.”

“Not yet anyway.”

“Hush, now,” the Sheriff says—Derek can feel the rumble of his chest. “We’re going to run. This will hurt.”

White light explodes in Derek’s eyes as the Sheriff begins hauling ass toward town. He thinks he makes noise, but he can’t be sure, already on his way to passing out.

~ * ~

Mom is sitting by his bedside when he surfaces, her head on her chest, asleep. Derek takes a moment to catalog himself. His arm is in an air cast, there’s an IV in his other arm, and he’s finally warm. He yawns, jaw clicking with how wide it is.

Mom jerks awake. “Baby,” she says, already reaching out to touch him. He smiles sleepily at her.

“No pain,” he says, slurs really.

Mom nods. “That would be the morphine.”

“No one died?” Except the witch, he doesn’t say out loud.

“No.”

“Stiles?”

Mom frowns. “In the waiting room. With his friends.”

Derek yawns again. “Pack,” he mumbles, eyes sliding closed. “It’s his pack.”

He doesn’t hear Mom’s response because he’s already drifting back to sleep.

~ * ~

“With all due respect, sir,” Mom is saying when Derek wakes up again. He keeps his eyes closed, just listening. “I’d rather not. He’s only fifteen!”

“Almost sixteen,” he adds automatically. “That is, if it’s still September.”

“It is.” That’s the Sheriff. Derek opens his eyes. Everything has a hazy quality to it, but he notices Stiles sitting by his bed, hand in his while Mom and the Sheriff stand at the foot of the bed.

“What’s going on?” he whispers to Stiles.

“They’re trying to agree if we can date,” he whispers back.

The mark, Derek thinks. “Is it true that I’m mated to you?”

Stiles shakes his head and then pauses before shrugging. “The mark happened because you are my mate,” he says. “But, it’s not a guarantee. If you don’t want to date me, be with me, then the mark will eventually disappear.” He sighs, lifting Derek’s hand to his lips so he can press a kiss to the invisible mark.

Derek contemplates the way their hands fit together, the way the Nemeton put the mark on his hand, the way the pack, despite their rocky start, has already accepted him. “I think I’d like to try dating,” he says, softly.

Stiles’ face lights up.

“No,” Mom says. “Not until you’re sixteen.”

“But that’s, like, two months from now,” Derek whines. Stiles squeezes his hand and then lets go. Derek frowns at him.

“We can wait,” he says. “It will not be a tribulation for us to wait.”

“Says you,” Derek says petulantly. “Mom, you let Laura date when she was fourteen.”

“And I learned my lesson from that,” she says. “Not until you’re sixteen. And that is final.”

“Can I have a sleepover?” he asks, mischievously, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely not!” Mom looks appalled. “And anyway,” she adds, a slight, mischievous smile on her lips, “aren’t you too old for sleepovers?”

Derek is saved from replying when the door opens and Laura and Cora scurry into the room. Cora launches herself at the bed—on the side of his good arm. “I’m sorry,” she says, plaintive. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry that you ran away because of me.”

Derek shakes his head. “I didn’t run because of you,” he says. “I ran because of me.” He looks to Stiles and then to Mom. “I’ve been blaming myself for Dad’s death.”

“I know,” Mom says sadly. “I wish I had done a better job of reassuring you. It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

Derek nods. The lump of guilt is still there, but it doesn’t feel as heavy.

Laura punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, I thought the doctor gave you strict orders to not keep fucking up your arm?”

“It’s not my fault.” Derek grins at her. “I’m not the one who keeps breaking it.” He taps the air cast. “Waiting for surgery?”

Mom nods. “First, the swelling has to go down. The doctor thinks maybe tomorrow. If,” she stresses, glaring at Stiles and the Sheriff, “no one moves it.”

The Sheriff claps a hand onto Stiles’ shoulder. “No one is going to touch it,” he promises. He glances at his watch and grimaces. “Well, I’d better get back to the Station.” He points at Mom. “Take all the time you need, Talia. Family comes first.”

Then, dragging Stiles by his grip on him, the Sheriff leaves.

Derek settles more firmly into the bed. He smiles at his mother and sisters. “Does Peter still have to move in?” he asks. “Since I’m not likely to be kidnapped again?”

Mom smiles. “Yes. Peter is moving in. He’ll be here in about a week.”

All three Hale children groan.

Mom wags her finger at them. “He’s changed. You’ll see.” She sighs. “If he’s still a bit bratty toward you, let me know and I’ll get him straightened out. But,” she smiles, “he won’t be looking after any of you.” She moves to the bed and leans down to hug Derek before hugging both Laura and Cora. “I trust all of you to take care of yourselves.”

“Mom?” Derek says.

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m glad we moved to Beacon Hills.”

She smiles. “I think so too.” Then, she puts on her stern face, the one that says you’d-better-do-what-I-say. “No boys in your room. Especially not Stiles.”

“Mom,” Derek groans. “We already promised. We’ll wait until I’m sixteen.” He smirks, raising both eyebrows, adding, “Not a day longer.”

Mom sighs, but it’s not her mad-sigh or even her resigned-sigh. It’s her relieved-sigh. “All right. Now, rest. We’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“Hold you to it.”

Then, feeling safe, loved, and at peace, Derek closes his eyes.

He dreams of yellow eyes turning amber, steady hands, and a constellation he wants to map with his mouth.

It’s a good dream.

~ End ~