Work Text:
Stiles is calling him.
Derek stares at the screen of his phone, and only just remembers to power down his treadmill before he goes tumbling off it.
Derek hasn't seen Stiles in six years. They text infrequently, and Derek suspects Stiles has him some sort of mass text list for generic holiday well-wishes, but he can't even remember the last time they spoke.
And now Stiles is calling him at 3am on a Sunday.
Derek jerks into motion, swipes his thumb to accept the call.
He doesn't get the chance to say hello.
"Oh my god, Derek, I know, okay, I know it's been— and I'm sorry, but I need to tell you something and you can't ask me any questions, okay?"
He's frantic, wheezing, puffing, and it takes Derek a moment to digest his babble. "Stiles, what—"
"I said no questions!" Stiles snaps. A door slams, and his footsteps start to echo over the phone, sneakers slapping against concrete. "Just listen!"
"Say something worth my time and I maybe I will," Derek shoots back.
"I have to do something," he says, voice hushed. There's rustling, a noise like the phone is dragging over Stiles' cheek. "It might be dangerous, but not to anyone but me okay, so don't worry."
Derek sighs. "I don't understand how that's supposed to make me feel better."
"It's supposed to make me feel better," Stiles says grimly. "I just I can't let them get hurt, okay? I need you to promise you'll help me protect them."
"Stiles—"
"Can you just promise?"
"Oh my god, fine, I—"
But there's only a dial tone in his ear.
+
Ten minutes later, Derek is trying to call Stiles back for the fifth time, and still just getting his voicemail. He growls in frustration, goes back to his address book, and scrolls up one name.
"Hello?" Scott answers on the fifth ring, sounding confused. "Derek?"
"When was the last time you spoke to Stiles?" Derek asks.
"Why are you asking me about…" Scott's tone sharpens suddenly. "Derek, what did you do to Stiles?"
Derek rolls his eyes. "Nothing, Scott. He called me, and he sounded weird. Weirder than usual. He said he needed help."
"Why did he call you?" Scott asks blankly, and Derek has to resist the urge to squash his phone in his fist.
"Scott," he says insistently, "where is Stiles?"
"He's in New York, we spoke like three hours ago. Wait, what did he say?"
"Just check on him. I think he might have done something stupid."
Derek hangs up. He stares at his phone for a moment.
He probably shouldn't try and call Stiles again. Scott will need to get through to him. Scott is his alpha, and if anyone can help it's him.
Even though Scott's in California. And Stiles is in New York. And Derek is also in New York.
Derek feels his claws digging into his palms, and reminds himself that New York has a population of over eight million people.
He doesn't sleep at all that night.
+
By 7am the next morning, neither Stiles nor Scott have called him back, and Derek has been on his treadmill since 5.45.
He gives in and calls Stiles. Nothing.
He calls Scott. Nothing.
He has a shower. He makes breakfast. He drives to work.
Nothing nothing nothing.
This is one of the reasons he left Beacon Hills, and why he's stayed away. He hasn't missed the constant, pervading sense of dread and helplessness at all.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he grabs his backpack from the back seat and heads to the staff room first to put his lunch in the fridge. Then he can concentrate on his lessons, and getting through the rest of the day.
But it doesn't work like that, of course. Because as soon as Derek steps into the staff room, his gaze locks directly on Stiles.
Stiles. Stiles, is standing there at the water cooler, right in front of him, grinning at McRobinson, the Physics teacher. He smells different, the base notes of him strange and empty, his scent somehow just less, but his top notes are gut-twistingly familiar, and Derek practically sags with relief. Then he straightens again, stalks up to Stiles and grabs his shoulder.
"Never do that again," he growls, shaking him a little. "Do you think you're funny, being the literal boy who cried wolf?"
Stiles just blinks at him. Derek grits his teeth.
"And what are you doing here? Why didn't you or Scott at least call me and tell what's going on? How did you even know I work here?"
"Woah, okay dude, I think you need to relax," Stiles says placatingly. "I don't know who you think I am, but you've definitely got the wrong guy. And trust me, I would remember if we'd met. Your face is super memorable."
"True," McRobinson says, nodding, looking Derek over with an almost insulting level of matter-of-factness.
Derek ignores him. "Stiles," he says, then glances around and leans in closer. "What happened last night? What did you do?"
Stiles rears back. His eyes narrow, and he glares at Derek's hand on his shoulder.
It's an interaction so familiar, yet so wrong, that Derek's startled into letting go.
"I think you need to take a step back, big guy," Stiles says slowly, pointedly straightening his own shirt.
Derek does, but only because—
The way Stiles is looking at him, it's—
There's absolutely no recognition there. Everything about him, from his heartbeat to his chemosginals to the look in his eyes, registers discomfort, but it's not because Derek is Derek, like it usually is. It's because he has no idea who Derek is.
"Shit," Derek breathes, staring at him.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Sorry to disappoint." He gives him one last strange look before turning back to McRobinson, and Derek staggers away.
He hasn't missed this, being constantly blindsided like this, either.
+
Apparently, Stiles is the new Biology teacher.
He tells his students to call him Stiles, tells them he's new to the area, that he hasn't been teaching long, and he promises he'll be nothing like his own biology teacher, because that guy was a moron.
At least that's what Derek's favourite student, Mina, reports when he asks her to stay back after class and mines her for information.
She also asks if he has a crush on Stiles, because if he does then he'll have to challenge Mr McRobinson to a duel for his affection.
Derek sends her off with instructions to stop reading so much historical romance—because despite her protests, it really doesn't fit into his curriculum—and mock-threats of detention.
+
On his lunch break, Derek hides out in his car and calls Scott again. Then he calls the Sheriff. Then he calls Scott again.
Still. Nothing.
Growling in frustration, he falls back into his seat, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat. Why the hell do the two people in Beacon Hills with the most responsibility never answer their phones?
Derek sighs, chin dropping to his chest. He closes his eyes, rolls his neck and breathes, something he's taught himself to do to just give himself a few moments to settle.
Eventually, he gets too hungry and he makes his way back inside. He passes the front office, where Velma scolds him to clean out his pigeon hole, like she has to every week, and Derek grabs a stack of boring admin crap and drops it onto his desk when he gets back to his classroom.
One envelope slides out from the bottom of the pile, and Derek only notices it because it looks different to the others. The envelope is hand-written, and it's—
Derek's pretty sure he recognises that handwriting, actually.
Derek's pretty sure that's Stiles' handwriting.
He rips the envelope open, but the only thing that's inside is a tiny SD card, so Derek grabs for his phone and carefully pops off the back cover. He doesn't even turn off his phone before yanking the battery out to access the card slot. Sliding the card in, putting his phone back together and waiting for it to reboot takes way too long and Derek is twitching by the time his home screen shows up. He taps on his files app and navigates to the SD card. There's only one thing on it, a video titled 'Derek'.
He presses play.
"Derek! Derek, okay, yeah, I know, I probably could have explained more on the phone but I think they may have been like… tapping my calls? Or maybe scrying? I'm not sure, but it was something evil, I know that much. I just—" There's a noise behind him, and Stiles glances over his shoulder, tucking himself closer into the corner of wherever he is. "I did something. Well, technically, these douchebags tried to do something awful, like huge-scale awful, magic-wise, and I stopped them, and now they're mad at me. And not like, normal levels of Stiles-related frustration, I'm talking like, kill-on-sight mad. Like, would-track-my-magical-signature-from-one-end-of-the-earth-to-the-other mad. Which is why I… I can't go home, not now. I can't let these guys anywhere near my family, and I don't know who else to turn to, and oh my god, this is totally that moment, I'm gonna do it, god…" He trails off, then gets a determined look in his eyes. He takes a breath. "Help me, Derek Hale. You're my only hope." Then he pulls a face, and Derek feels his own face mirror it. "Yeah, that felt really gross, let's never do that again. But I do need your help. I need you to… Okay, I have to disappear. Stiles Stilinski as you know him, more importantly as you smell him, is gonna cease to exist. These guys don't know who I am, my like, name or face, but they can track my magic, so I need to not have any for a while. I know a spell that can do that, but it'll also take my memories, so I need you to look out for me. Just like you used to." He smiles crookedly, sadly, and Derek feels something inside him clench painfully. "I wouldn't do this if I had any other choice." Stiles gazes solemnly into the camera for a moment, like he's staring into Derek's soul, and Derek is just getting uncomfortable with it when he leans back again, grinning. "Don't bother trying to contact anyone in Beacon Hills about this, they don't know. In fact, I kind of maybe used a spell on them too, so they would think everything is fine? I just can't… I'm not losing anyone else, especially not to these guys. I know you'll do the right thing. You always do."
The screen fades to black, the video resets to play from the start again, and Derek stares at his phone.
What. An. Idiot.
How did he manage to speak for so long and not tell Derek anything he needs to know? Like, how long is this going to last? What did Stiles actually do? Who is after him? What did they do? And why Derek, what possible reason could he have had to choose Derek to help him? Sheer proximity? Because Derek is the most expendable of all his allies? However Derek thinks about it, none of it makes sense, but he supposes that probably goes along with Stiles too, since nothing about him makes sense.
And Derek didn't even know Stiles could do such powerful magic. He's heard about Stiles' magical abilities. He knows, intellectually, that Stiles can manipulate magic, but he doesn't have any real clear idea of what that means. Imagining Stiles with a wand a la Harry Potter is a bit much for Derek to handle, but tattoos and runes feel weird too. He's never actually met someone who uses magic for good—emissaries don't really use magic so much as use their own knowledge of the supernatural and of nature, of things that already exist that they can use to their advantage. They don't have the same power as magic users.
But this. This, whatever Stiles has done here, pissing someone off and then manipulating memories and creating a whole new life for himself to protect his family, it's exactly something that Stiles would do. And if he has done it, it means he's much more powerful than Derek ever realised.
+
So, Stiles is trusting Derek with his life.
With the lives of all his friends and family.
Hell, probably with the lives of everyone in Beacon Hills.
But now Stiles has no idea who Derek is, which means if Derek wants to get close enough to him to protect he'll have to…
He'll have to be friendly.
Derek hates Stiles.
And there are no werewolves around to hear a blip in his heartbeat and prove otherwise.
+
The truth is, Derek doesn't really remember how to be friendly. He's cordial with his coworkers, he can chit chat, he can indulge in small talk if he really has to, but he's never seen any of them outside of work, and he doesn't really want to.
He'd sort of fallen into teaching—he had a history degree but no inclination to become a historian, or to do anything in his chosen field. He'd never, not in a million years, imagined himself as a teacher, but he actually, legitimately enjoys it, most of the time. And even if his didn't, his mom had been a teacher, and on some days, when he's feeling particularly sad or lonely, it really helps to be able to feel just that little bit closer to her.
Usually he's fine with his situation. He's not completely alone, he Skypes with Cora. He'd lived with her for a while, after breaking it off with Braeden. He'd stayed for three months, but he'd never felt truly welcome in her pack and eventually decided on moving back to New York and getting his teaching qualification. He'd always liked the city, liked how close he could be to people without having to talk to them. Surrounded, but isolated. Most of all, he liked that it reminded him of Laura, of Laura in the times when she was most alive, and it meant he'd figured out a way to feel close to her, too.
Cora sometimes pesters him about having a significant other, but he doesn't trust anyone enough to date them and he doesn't like casual sex, so he's not too bothered by his single status.
McRobinson has spent the past year trying to get into his pants but he seems to have given up and moved on to Stiles now, which Derek is both grateful for and kind of bitter about. It's only been a few hours and already McRobinson is laughing at every joke Stiles makes, even the unfunny ones (which are most of them). He's trying really hard, but Stiles doesn't seem to be responding other than to be enjoying that getting laughs, like he always does.
Derek would feel sorry for McRobinson if he wasn't so annoying, but as it is McRobinson is just in his way.
Long after the last school bell rings on Stiles' first day, Derek grabs his laptop and shoves it in his backpack, locking up behind him and and hurrying out to the parking lot. He's been keeping an ear out for Stiles—who is just within his hearing range—in the hopes that he would be able to 'accidentally' run into him as they leave, but of course McRobinson is there too, leaning flirtily against Stiles' car (shockingly not a Jeep), his hand on Stiles' bicep.
Taking a fortifying breath, Derek strides over to them and plants himself directly behind McRobinson, crossing his arms. McRobinson keeps prattling on about something Derek doesn't even bother to listen to, and Stiles stares at Derek with one eyebrow raised.
They're silent for just over a minute, watching each other, and McRobinson must have terrible spatial awareness because he doesn't realise Derek's there until Stiles finally says, speaking right over the top of him, "Can I help you?"
McRobinson jumps, and finally looks over his shoulder to see Derek, hopping rapidly sideways. "Hey Derek," he squeaks.
Derek forces a smile. From the look on their faces he's not doing a convincing job of being friendly. Trying to smile wider doesn't work either so he gives up and tries to relax his posture, arms dropping to his sides. "How was your first day?" he asks stiffly.
"Fine." He eyes Derek warily. "Everyone was pretty welcoming. One person in particular."
Derek has to curb an eyeroll as McRobinson puffs up proudly.
"Yeah," Stiles continues, "there was one student, Mina, I think her name was? Really talkative and interested. I think you teach her, right Derek?"
Derek grits his teeth, barely registering as McRobinson deflates and slowly creeps away. "She's always been curious," he says, stepping closer to Stiles. "That's what makes her such a good student."
"Mm hmm," Stiles murmurs, sounding unconvinced. He's quiet as he watches Derek for a few moments, intense in a way he rarely was with Derek back in Beacon Hills, before he suddenly steps back, twirling his car keys around his fingers. "Well, I should go. Home. Go home, where I'm not alone, because my boyfriend will be waiting for me. Did I tell you he's a black belt in taekwondo? And a WWE wrestler. Also he can cook, what a catch right?" he lies, and Derek instantly feels more comfortable.
This Stiles, the Stiles full of shit, he can deal with.
"Sure," he says. "Say hi to him for me."
"Gross." He turns to leave, then whirls back, pointing accusingly. "And don't follow me. You seem like someone who would skulk in the dark like a creep."
Derek doesn't follow him.
He doesn't need to—Stiles drives with his windows open and now that Derek knows his new scent, he can track him anywhere.
+
Derek stakes out Stiles' place as soon as it gets dark. Contrary to his terrible boasting, he does live alone, in a place with huge windows that's surrounded by tall trees on three sides. It only takes an hour or so for Derek to pick the best tree—one that has views into Stiles' bedroom and living room, the two places he seems to spend the most time—and settle in it to wait out the night.
+
The next day, Stiles' only words to him are over the staff room coffee machine at lunch time.
"You look like shit," he says, eyeing Derek suspiciously.
Derek just grunts, and settles in the same tree again that night.
+
On Wednesdays Derek has an off-season training session with the junior lacrosse team. He'd never planned on involving himself in extracurricular activities, but the other teachers kept giving him dirty looks in meetings and this was the only sport left, so Derek finally gave in.
They're a terrible team. They came second last this season. One or two of the players are actually dedicated to the game, but Derek's pretty sure the rest of the players only joined the team to try and look cool and get girls, two of them in particular. Ever since he first saw them they reminded him of Stiles and Scott, and now, watching Rodney wheeze his way through his second lap of the field, his best friend Thomas stumbling beside him with too-long limbs, the comparison is even clearer.
"Come on guys, keep it up!" Derek yells, but it's half-hearted. Everyone else has already finished their lap and have moved on to their warm-down stretches.
There's a snort from behind him, and Derek turns to see Stiles, satchel slung across his chest, hands clenched in the strap. "Is that you being supportive?"
"They don't need support, they need to give up and join the Chess Club," he says.
"You're a terrible coach," Stiles says drily. He wanders over and picks up a crosse, swinging it up in a move that looks practiced and then nearly smacking himself in the face.
Derek hides his amusement. No spell can truly contain Stiles, it seems. Not even one of his own making. "And you're giving me coaching pointers?" A thought occurs to him then, and just to see what Stiles will say, what the spell well make him say, he asks, "Have you ever even played lacrosse before?"
"No way man, I'm far too fragile for this." But he loops the crosse around into two hands, hefting it with a firm grip, fingers slipping into position automatically. He frowns down at his own hands, looking confused. "I mean… Maybe once in high school, I guess?"
Derek raises his eyebrows, about prod him some more, when there's a panicked-sounding "Yo, Mr Hale!" from a few feet away, and something is whizzing through the air towards their heads. Derek is torn for the briefest half-second between letting Stiles get hit and revealing his supernatural reflexes, but before he can make a decision Stiles' crosse shoots out in front of him, and the ball lands neatly in the net.
Stiles gapes in shock, looking from the ball, to Derek, and then back again.
"Sorry!" Rodney yells.
Derek glares at him, and he ducks behind Thomas. Thomas smiles apologetically, and Derek turns back to Stiles. "Maybe you should think about joining the team, they need all the help they can get."
Stiles finally shakes himself out of his shock, passing the crosse back to Derek. "Pass. That was more than enough drama for me. I was actually thinking about joining the Chess Club myself."
"Of course you were," Derek mutters.
"What?" Stiles asks. He looks at Derek with big eyes, irises bright even under the harsh field lights.
"Come to dinner with me," Derek says abruptly, instead. He immediately regrets his decision, but what's done is done.
Stiles frowns, tilting his head. "What?"
"There's a diner on Main. It has great curly fries."
"Just to clarify… I mean, is this you asking me out? Has your whole fee-fi-fo-fum schtick just been some truly emotionally constipated way of pulling my pigtails? Because that's seriously messed up, dude."
Derek sighs, rubbing at his forehead. He should have known this wouldn't be easy, Stiles never makes anything easy. "I just want food. I thought you might want food too. Plus, you're seeing McRobinson, right?"
"Who, Phil? No way man, he tries too hard. He laughs at everly single joke I make, and even I know I'm not that funny." There's a pause as he watches Derek, evaluating him.
"So…" Derek prompts him, shifting uncomfortably.
"Only if you're paying," he says eventually. "Gotta put that coach's salary to good use."
+
"You're not actually stalking me, are you?" Stiles asks, after Derek finishes ordering their food. "You just totally picked all my favourite things."
"Oh I'm definitely stalking you," Derek says calmly, leaning back in their booth. "Yeah, all the time, I have nothing in my life that's better to do than spend all my time watching a high school biology teacher plan lessons and grade papers."
Stiles rolls his eyes, but he grins and changes the subject, so Derek calls it a win.
+
Derek hasn't been on a date in a long time, and he's never had the traditional romcom-esque experience, but dinner with Stiles feels pretty close. They eat, they laugh, there's chemistry, and Derek would be more freaked out by it if he hadn't been guilty of suspecting, all those years ago, that if they had met under different circumstances he and Stiles might have had something.
And here, now, older and possibly wiser, they do.
Stiles may be missing part of himself, and Derek may be hiding part of himself, but they still share their usual banter, and it's fun.
They even bicker over who's going to pay the cheque, despite Stiles' earlier insistence that it would be Derek. Derek still managed to hand over his credit card first, because Stiles can't get his wallet out. He has too many things crammed in his pockets, has to pile them up on the table just to reach his wallet, and Derek's gaze is immediately drawn to a silver pocket watch. It's a strange item for a guy in his mid-twenties to be carrying around, and Derek reaches for it curiously, flipping it upright in the table. In retrospect, he thinks he might have seen Stiles with it before, a flash of silver slipped back into a pocket, a shiny item being flipped through his fingers in yesterday's boring staff meeting. He taps it gently, getting Stiles' attention. "What's this?"
"It was like… my great-grandpa's, I think? My grandpa was kind of a jerk but he wanted it kept in the family, so I have it now." He shrugs, peering over Derek's shoulder distractedly. "It still works, and it's kinda cool, even though I mostly use my phone."
"Why do you carry it with you?" He picks it up, turns it over in his hands. There's something about it that's—
"Hey, you want ice cream? I fuckin' love eating ice cream when it's cold. Okay, I'm gonna get us ice cream, what flavour do you want?" He scrambles up and hurries over to the ice cream counter, leaving Derek at the table.
Derek puts the watch into his own pocket before getting up to follow him.
He'll remember to give it back to Stiles later.
+
Derek forgets about the pocket watch until much later that night, when he's settling into his usual spot in Stiles' tree again. Something digs into his thigh, and he pulls the watch out of his pocket, brushing his fingertips over the intricate swirling pattern carved into the sprung lid. It really is quite beautiful, and Derek can feel the age of it in the heft of it, in the shape and feel of it. He wonders if he should take it back to Stiles, sneak it into his house or just wait until tomorrow to give it back, but then his thumb glances over the button that would pop open the lid—
And Derek's whole body jerks, like he's just been electrocuted, and he nearly falls out of the tree with the strength of it, and somehow there's this weirdly familiar scent, and it smells like Stiles, and magic, and—
And the thing is, when Stiles had said that he wasn't going to be magic anymore, Derek had wondered how. Cloaking your magic is one thing, but getting rid of it entirely is much more complex, requires much more power, and insinuates that you have somewhere to put it. Derek's not sure how it works, but he imagines it's just like being a werewolf—the part of you with that ability, it doesn't just disappear. It's not a physical thing itself, it's more like energy, like part of your soul, and if you were going to try and separate it from yourself you'd probably need something physical to store it in, which means—
Derek stares down at the watch, his chest heaving, the realisation slowly dawning—
It means—
Fuck.
This is… this is Stiles, this is where he's keeping his magic. The scent is Stiles. The watch Derek is holding contains a part of Stiles himself, and Derek can't—
He can't believe Stiles has been just… just carrying this around with him, like it means nothing, like it's not his most precious possession, like it shouldn't be protected at all costs.
Like— shit, like if it isn't opened by the wrong person, by a person with malicious intent, by the people out to hurt him, like they couldn't just— Just kill him.
Derek clamps his hand tightly around the watch. He can't give it back, not now that he knows what it is. He doesn't trust himself with much, but he trusts himself never to let Stiles get hurt, never to put him in danger, and So did Stiles, back when he rang Derek three days ago. If that means protecting this watch, then Derek will do it with all he has.
Someone has to.
+
Derek has only just extricated himself from his car the next morning when he gets a faceful of Stiles.
"Where is it?" he hisses, body radiating with rage. "What the hell have you done with it?"
Derek just looks at him evenly. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Stiles."
"My watch! The pocketwatch! I had it when I was with you, you asked about it, and now I can't find it." He points accusingly at Derek, and Derek can't help the way his hand slips into his pocket and clenches possessively around the watch.
"Why would I take your weird watch, Stiles?"
Stiles deflates, the indignation suddenly draining away, distress taking its place. "Look, I know we don't really know each other and it's probably really weird to you, and I kinda played it off last night, but it means a lot to me. It's been in my family for years and my dad will kill me if he thinks I lost it." He frowns then, and shakes his head jerkily. "I mean, he died like ten years ago, but if he was still alive he'd— Whatever, just— it's mine, and it has sentimental value so if you could like, not steal from me or whatever, then that'd be cool."
"Stiles," Derek says. He wants to reach out for Stiles, to comfort him, but he's supposed to be keeping his distance. He clears his throat, tries his best to sound bored. "Last night was fun but… Why would I ever want anything from you?"
"Wow," he says, looking at Derek disappointedly. "Just… wow."
And even though Derek knows he's doing the right thing, he really has to force himself to stand and watch Stiles walk away.
+
That night, Derek watches Stiles boot up his computer, load The Sims, create a Sim that looks remarkably like Derek, lock him in an empty room and then take away all the doors. And as Sim-Derek slowly dies, Stiles works his way through a whole bag of popcorn and doesn't look remorseful at all.
+
With everything that's going on, Derek totally forgets about the winter formal. It's not until he hears Mina and her friends chatting excitedly about it on Friday morning that he realises it's that night, and he's supposed to be helping chaperone, and he left his tux at home.
He has to rush home at lunch time and get it, but at least it gives him an opportunity to escape the twin glares of Stiles and McRobinson from across the staff room. He doubts McRobinson even knows why he's supposed to be mad, but that hasn't stopped him from sneering and roughly shouldering past Derek every time they pass each other for the last twenty four hours.
He hangs around marking quizzes until five, when he slips into a toilet cubicle and shoves on his tux, barely taking enough time to swap the contents of his pockets over and straighten his hair before heading to the gym. He just wants this day to be done.
Stupidly, it never even occurred to him that Stiles might also be helping out with the formal. Someone obviously talked him into it though, because he's the first person Derek senses as soon as he steps inside. He's up on a step ladder, hanging some snowflake cutouts, being instructed by a tall blonde girl Derek vaguely recognises but has never personally taught. Stiles, of course, looks incredible in his own tux. He's long and lean, shoulders strong and sturdy, bowtie highlighting his long neck.
Derek makes himself look away, spotting Mina moving chairs on the other side of the gym and rushing over to help her.
He manages to spend the next two hours avoiding Stiles, keeping himself busy by foiling the students' illicit fun, which is admittedly one of his favourite past times. He's already confiscated three bottles of alcohol, broken up one almost-fight and interrupted two disturbing couples who were practically having underage sex on the dance floor. Once, he catches Stiles' eye from across the room, and Stiles' gaze briefly flits down Derek's chest and back up, but then he grimaces and turns away, and Derek does the same.
Things seem like they're winding down, with many students having already left, when the shit hits the fan.
Stiles is in the middle of the dance floor, 'dancing' with a group of students to that annoying Mariah Carey Christmas song (which is not endearing in any way), when suddenly, the electricity cuts off.
There's stunned silence for a few moments, some irritated tittering starts up, and then—
An explosion comes from the other end of the gym, and the quiet confusion turns to sheer panic.
Derek's immediate thought is to go to Stiles, but when his enhanced vision kicks in he sees Stiles focusing on helping students, directing them to safety. As a teacher, Derek should probably be doing the same, but as a werewolf, Derek knows his responsibilities lie elsewhere.
Tearing his gaze from Stiles, he grits his teeth and heads towards the danger.
+
As far as Derek can tell, the source of the explosion was the locked equipment room at the back of the gym. The closer he gets, shooing some screaming errant students away as he goes, the stronger the scent of magic gets and Derek growls.
Stiles. These people came for Stiles.
Derek's head jerks with the shift to his beta form, and he stretches his jaw, snapping his fangs in preparation.
Whatever happens, they're not getting him. They'll have to kill Derek first.
The door to the equipment room has been blown outwards, and smoke pours from the gaping chasm, but other than the acrid stench of magic, Derek can't sense anything else. There's nothing, no movement, no heartbeats, no chemosignals. They must be cloaking themselves.
Derek shakes out his fist, flicking his claws out, and is just about to take another step forward when there's a noise behind him and—
He moved purely on reflex, grabbing his assailant's hand and using their own body weight against them, dragging them around and pinning their back to the nearest wall, his forearm braced over their throat.
And then he immediately loosens his grip, because his assailant is Stiles.
Stiles, who is staring at his beta-shift face in horror.
"Well," Derek rasps around his teeth, "that wasn't exactly how I wanted come out to you."
"Come out?" Stiles shrieks. "How— you— what?"
Derek takes a step back, letting his shift melt back into his human features. "I'm a werewolf," he says calmly, deciding the direct approach is best. He is talking to Stiles, after all.
"You're a—" Stiles blinks. He blinks again. "Okay," he says eventually. "I guess werewolves don't cause explosions?"
He shakes his head, then taps his nose. "That was magic. It has a very pungent scent."
Stiles looks dazed. "Magic? And you can sm— Yeah, sure, why not, of course you can, supernaturally enhanced senses, duh." A thought seems to occur to him then, and he stares at Derek in horror. "Wait, can you smell me?"
Dere ensures his smile is extra toothy. "Unfortunately."
Stiles glares. "Yeah, well if scent matches personality then I bet all of my meagre teaching salary that you're sour as hell. Awesome sweet-ass human, broody sour wolf."
Derek sighs. Of course Stiles just said that. Of course. He's about to respond, but then he catches movement out of the corner of his eye and before he's even realised he's doing it he has Stiles backed up against the wall again. The difference is, this time his chest is to Derek's back and Derek is using himself as a shield.
Stiles' heart is beating a million miles an hour, and he smells terrified, but he holds strong and warm against Derek's back, and they watch three human-shaped shadows emerge from the equipment room together.
The one in the middle makes a hand gesture, and suddenly Derek is hit with a barrage of their scents and emotions, all the things they'd been blocking from him before. Anger-frustration-satisfaction-anticipation-bloodlust all run through him, along with a million other things he can't even begin to compute, and he grits his teeth against the onslaught.
"Who are you?" he growls.
They're shrouded in a darkness that seems to permeate them, cowled and hidden, and Derek can't see their faces or make out any distinct features. All he can feel is their power, their desire for revenge. They're pulsating with it, the air heavy and oppressive with it, and Derek knows he doesn't stand a chance against them.
He glances at Stiles. He shouldn't do this—Stiles trusted him, asked him to protect him, and Derek promised he would.
He can only hope that this is the right way to do it.
He takes a breath. "I'm sorry Stiles, but I can't do this by myself. I need you to remember."
Stiles looks at him like he's crazy. "Derek, what are you talking about?"
"Do you trust me?" he murmurs.
"Dude, I don't even know you!"
"Stiles." He turns his head a little, enough to look Stiles directly in the eyes. "I trust you. Do you trust me?"
Stiles gulps. "...Yes."
Before Derek can stop himself, he dives his hand into his pocket and yanks out the pocket watch, thumbing it open, shielding his eyes as the room floods white. The weight against his back disappears as Stiles drops to the ground, unmoving, and the watch shatters as whatever energy was contained within it pours directly back into Stiles.
All three of the shadowy figures scream in unison, and Derek finds himself flying back through the air and slamming against the wall, struggling to breathe as he's pinned there by an invisible vise around his throat.
The figures move closer, almost close enough to Stiles to touch him now, and Derek gurgles, clawing at his neck, watching helplessly, but Stiles still isn't moving, and there's no way Derek is getting out of this hold. In fact, the more he struggles the tighter the band around his throat gets, compressing his airway, constricting the blood flow to his brain, and he's pretty sure he only has about thirty seconds until he's completely unconscious. No longer able to protect himself, or more importantly, protect Stiles.
He tries one last time, lashes out, kicks with all his strength, but the edges of his vision just get dark and—
And then suddenly, he's on the floor, coughing, gasping for breath, groping around for where Stiles' body should be next to him, but then he hears—
"Oh my god, you guys, you never learn do you?"
Stiles.
Stiles has planted himself directly in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, standing strong, and Derek wants to yell at him to go, to run and not look back, but his larynx is still healing and all he can manage is a pathetic wheeze.
"Seriously though, why is it always a high school? I get it, high school is shit for a lot of people, but you've gotta let that go dude. You can't carry that with you through your whole life, trust me, I know. It'll just eat away at you, and not in the fun way." He turns to Derek briefly, and winks.
He winks.
And that's— that's Stiles. The real Stiles, the old Stiles, Derek's Stiles, that's—
Oh, thank fuck.
He turns back to the figures, flicks his wrist, and suddenly they become distinct, individual beings, the shadows fading so quickly it's like they're being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner. What's left is a glaring, balding trio of three middle-aged men, none of whom look even half as terrifying without their intimidating darkness, standing around awkwardly in their shabby black cloaks.
The middle guy snarls, opening his mouth to say something, but before he can Stiles flicks his wrist again, and his mouth slams closed, seemingly without his volition. "Yeah, that's enough of that," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. He steps closer to the men, and all three of them fall to their knees, suddenly looking scared and way, way out of the their depth.
"Wanna know the thing about not using any of your magic in over a week?" He leans in to the nearest man, yanks the hood off his head. "It builds up," he murmurs. "And you know what that means, right?" He ruffles the man's greying tufts of hair, then takes a few steps back, addressing all three of them now, and grins. It's grim, and it's threatening, and it's merciless, and it makes Derek shiver. "That means I have so much power that taking yours will be so easy, I won't even feel it."
And then Stiles snaps his fingers, and all three of the guys slump to the floor, the stench of their active magic disappearing in less than a second.
For a long moment, Derek just stares at the bodies, their weak heartbeats pounding in his ears. He finally turns his gaze to Stiles. "What did you—"
"They're all human now. I stripped them of their magic." He kicks at the closest one's hand. "They don't deserve it."
Derek nods. "I guess not." He staggers to his feet, moving to stand next to Stiles.
"You okay?" Stiles asks.
"Yeah. You?"
He frowns. "You know what, I'm not actually sure," he says, and Derek looks over to see him swaying a little. "Apparently I felt it after all," he admits, then almost topples over.
Derek just catches him, lowering him to the ground, unable to stop the little bubble of panic from bursting in his chest. "Stiles, you idiot, what did you—"
Stiles flails a hand up and clumsily presses his fingers over Derek's mouth. "Shh, too tired. I used like all my power on those jackasses, I have no energy left to be lectured."
Derek bats his hand away, but he can't help dragging the rest of Stiles' body further onto his lap. "I know, that's why you're an idiot! God, Stiles, you—"
Stiles groans. "Dude, seriously, sleeping now, yelling later." And his head flops back, his eyes fluttering closed, and he goes loose in Derek's arms. His heart sounds fine though, so Derek puts it down to him passing out. He's just about to lift him up and carry him to safety when Stiles' head snaps back up again. "Also, that epic move totally reset the spell on Beacon Hills so you're probably gonna get a super-panicked phone call from my dad right about—"
And Derek's phone starts ringing.
Stiles snickers, musters up enough strength to give Derek a smug grin, and then finally, really falls unconscious.
+
Derek can tell when Stiles wakes up, because his heartbeat suddenly goes from deep in drool-inducing REM sleep to fuck why am I awake where am I from one second to the next.
It helps that he also gasps himself awake, shrieks "Where am I?", and nearly falls off Derek's bed.
Derek ducks his head into the bedroom, still holding the still sizzling bacon pan. "You're in my bed. You've been asleep for fifteen hours."
"Well, that's not awkward at all," he says, rubbing his eyes. "Also, please tell me that's for me."
"What, this?" Derek grins, too wide. "I was thinking about eating it in front of you."
Stiles glares at him. "I will murder you with my brain."
Derek snorts. "You won't be doing magic for a fortnight, at least." He ducks back into the kitchen, plates up the food, and brings it into his bedroom, where Stiles is slumped against the headboard.
Derek had called the local Alpha after he'd finished on the phone with the Sheriff, and she'd shown up with half of her pack to help clear things up. Then, once he'd received a lecture of his own from her about the necessity of asking for help earlier, to avoid things like explosions and the very near public demonstration of supernatural creatures trying to kill each other, she'd instructed her betas to take the still-unconscious men away, and her emissary to look Stiles over. The emissary had promised he was okay, but here, in the light of day, over half a day later, Stiles still looks like shit—eye sockets dark, mouth downturned, no tension in his usually thrumming body. It makes Derek feel very unsettled.
Stiles looks up and sees him hovering in the doorway. "Oh my god, I'm fine," Stiles says, patting at the bed next to him.
"I don't care," Derek insists, trying to sound like he really doesn't.
"You care too much. Such is the dichotomy of Derek Hale."
"You see right through me," Derek says dryly. "Only you know the real me. I'm a changed man because of you."
Stiles rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. Derek pads over and hands Stiles his plate before arranging himself next to him. By the time he gets to his own food Stiles' is half gone, but he smells a bit better already so Derek can't hold it against him. They lapse into silence while they eat.
"Why did you come to me?" Derek asks, after a few minutes, unable to hold off on asking his question now that he has the chance. "Because you wanted to protect your family?"
Stiles waits until Derek looks up at him before responding. His voice and eyes are soft, and Derek has to force himself to hold his gaze. "Because I knew you'd help. Because that's what we do, Derek, we help each other. Even when we don't really want to."
"I've never not wanted to help you," Derek admits, before he can stop himself.
Stiles looks like he's holding in another grin, and stuffs a forkful of eggs in his mouth to contain it. When he speaks again he hasn't finished chewing, but that doesn't seem to bother him. "I'm confused. Was that a confession hidden in that double negative? I was just nearly completely drained of my life force, you can't expect to decode Derek-speak in this condition."
"You see right through me," Derek says again, and he thought he was saying it as a joke, but apparently not, because it lacks the sarcastic edge he'd intended on.
"Only because you let me see you," Stiles points out, and Derek just sighs, because it's true. It's always been true. Stiles has seen more of him than anyone left in this world and it's—
It's—
It's a relief, and it's terrifying, and it's exhilarating.
And then Stiles leans closer, his eyes clear and focused, but not determined. There's a difference, Derek knows, and he appreciates it. This way Derek has time to hesitate, to say no.
But Derek doesn't hesitate.
Instead, he leans in, and meets Stiles halfway.
+