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There was nothing quite like the feeling of knowing that someone nearly died on your watch because your best friend was getting some. Nothing quite like knowing that someone was counting on you to help them, to save them, but they nearly died regardless because the person they were both counting on nearly didn’t come through.
“What are you doing here?” a gruff voice grunted and his head jerked up, hands clammy and twisting in his lap, eyes wide. He was quiet for once, almost speechless, lips moving but no sound escaping. “Stiles,” the male snapped, dark brows pulling tight in the center, his lips pursed in an angry line, “what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That’s how it started, he supposed.
“Dad,” Stiles whispered, tone urging as he poked his head into his father’s office, trying not to shift in discomfort. His father’s head jerked up, brow furrowing, but he smiled nonetheless, motioning Stiles in. “I have to tell you something.”
“Did something happen?” the concern in the man’s voice warmed his heart, made him feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy as he edged into the room, gingerly sitting down in one of the chairs before his father’s desk.
“Well, no—I mean, you could consider it that, but it’s kind of passed, so it’s kind of no, I think. I’m not sure—um, anyway, I needed to tell you,” he wiped his hands on the denim covering his legs, trying not to shift in his seat, “Derek didn’t do it.”
The Sheriff blinked at him, brows pulling tight at the center, lips pursing and jutting out in confusion. Stiles could hear his own breaths in the silence of the room, the stutter in them as he tried to remain calm.
“Stiles,” he began slowly, lips curling around his name, slow and low like he was trying to think through what he was going to say, “what are you talking about?”
He shifted in his seat, fingers gripping the fabric of his pants in sweaty hands, the guilt that had been seizing him since that night finally soothing a bit with the knowledge that he had told the truth, one of the few times recently. “Derek, at the school—that—that wasn’t his fault; he didn’t go after us like Scott said. I mean, he was there, but it wasn’t him that attacked us. And, I mean, I know me saying he was there sounds really suspicious, and, you know, he’s hot so it kind of sounds like I’m only protecting him because he’s sexy even though he’s way out of my league so it’s not like I have any chance there, but I’m serious. He actually tried to help, but he was hurt. Scott lied. I guess he felt like everyone wanted someone to pin it on and he was the easiest because I remember him getting hurt and with how strong the attacker was we thought he was dead because there was blood and then we were running—but it wasn’t him and I thought you should know.”
His dad shifted in his seat, hand coming up to rub his temples, blowing out a sigh. “So, he’s innocent?”
He nodded his head, a jerky fast movement that was probably the byproduct of his stress and nervousness, and possibly the fact that he had missed taking his Adderall.
“Alright—okay,” his father breathed, eyes pinching closed for a moment before peeking up to look at him. “Thanks for telling me, son. I’ll see what I can do. If we can find the real culprit, I can let him off with no charge; maybe blame Scott’s answer on shock or something. But that’s only if we can find the culprit.”
“Nothing else,” Stiles asked, voice pitching up in slightly panic and fear, leaning forward in his seat slightly.
“I wish there was more I can do, but, Stiles, you guys accused him of murdering his sister and her upper half was buried in the lawn of his old house. Scott just accused him of attacking a group of teenagers and his blood is on the scene of the crime. He’s a suspect, and blamed for it, so he’s currently labeled the culprit.”
“Oh god,” Stiles moaned, scrubbing his hands over his face, trying not to possibly cry at the unfairness that seemed to control Derek’s life. “Okay, alright, um, just please do what you can.”
His father nodded, reaching across the table to let Stiles grasp his hand, fingers pressing tight into the strong grip of his father’s. “I will, Stiles, don’t worry. In the meantime, he should lay low. Doesn’t do wonders for his situation, but it’ll be a lot better than being in prison unjustly.”
“Okay,” he nodded his head, swallowing thickly before standing up and exiting the room, trying to get rid of the heaviness in the pit of his stomach as he dragged his way out of the station.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled when Derek climbed in through his window, staring at his fingers in his lap.
“You are?”
“I should have stopped him—I should have said something to disprove what he said and I didn’t. I told my dad, so he knows you’re innocent. He’s doing what he can, but,” he trailed off, picking at the thread on his jeans. Derek took a few steps further into the room and Stiles chanced a glance up, meeting Derek’s gaze.
“I need a place to stay. My house is being watched.”
“Hunters or police,” Stiles couldn’t help but ask and Derek leveled him with a look that would have made him ash on the bed, but thankfully incineration via serious glaring wasn’t a werewolf power. Which he thought was fortunate for Derek considering his history with fire.
Seriously, the guy’s life was a disaster.
“Both,” he grunted and Stiles nodded, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“You bring some things?”
Derek walked to the window again and dragged in a duffel that looked kind of limp with how little Stiles assumed was in it. It was probably mostly clothes, Stiles guessed. Tight clothes and leather jackets because Derek had a thing for being mysterious.
“Alright,” he nodded, the corners of his lips twitching up in a hesitant smile, though he was still hesitant. Derek simply nodded his head in response, but Stiles couldn’t help but feel like the man was kind of relieved.
When Derek slashed the throat of his uncle, Stiles couldn’t help but be grateful.
It was weakening, the sudden rush of relief he experienced that nearly made his knees buckle.
He could see Scott’s face contorted in rage, but the corners of his lips were fighting to twitch upward and a laugh was building in his throat that he had to choke back, hands shaking.
“How could you? That was the only way for me to be human again, Derek! How could you?”
The older man simply stood in front of the man he had called his uncle, the cold body of the man who was his family—his last living family. And Scott was crying on about an old wives tale that had very little guarantee of actually being able to work.
Hell, Derek had said he had never heard of it working.
There were whole packs that would have uprisings, one of their bitten wolves killing their alpha and that wolf would become the alpha. It was never heard of that they would return to human, according to Derek.
“I’m the alpha now,” Derek muttered, stepping away from Peter’s corpse, turning to look over at Jackson who stood by his side, sweating and pale, quivering in probable fear while Stiles just wanted to cry in relief.
It was over.
But then he wanted to cry at the same time because Derek had to kill his last living family—had once again been left all alone.
But when Derek walked past him, their hands brushed just slightly and Stiles felt it was a promise—a promise that he’d stop by, maybe. Hopefully.
And he had.
And Stiles had cleaned the blood out from underneath his nails and told him his red eyes were just as pretty as his blue ones.
And Derek had grunted, but Stiles knew he had caught the faintest traces of a smile at the corners of his drawn, sad expression.
“Haven’t seen Scott around lately,” the Sheriff commented lightly that morning, but it made Stiles’ stomach twist, made his hands get clammy, made his heart lodge itself in his throat because Scott hadn’t been around.
When was he ever?
Instead he was out enjoying his secret rendezvous with Allison while Stiles was left to sit at home alone, and to muddle through school practically alone because Scott would barely pay attention to him.
He had promised to be better.
But he wasn’t. He was still leaving Stiles behind just because he was getting lucky.
“He’s busy.”
His father cocked an eyebrow, but nodded his head.
It was clear he didn’t believe his words.
Stiles didn’t either.
His body ached.
It hurts in places he was fairly certain shouldn’t hurt.
There were gruesome bruises and cuts covering the entire expanse of his body, but even so the pain he felt in his body couldn’t compare to the pain in his chest. To the pain in his heart as he saw Derek, looking rattled and betrayed, glare at Scott, a small spot of blood on the scruff his beard.
He stumbled to his jeep—to his little Roscoe—pressing his hand against the front door, shoving it open and clambering in, fighting back the winces and whimpers that were fighting to claw their way out of his throat.
He wanted to go home.
He wanted to see his dad.
He wanted curl up on his bed and watch movies and maybe sleep for five years.
He wanted to not remember Scott’s blatant betrayal of trust—trust given to him by a man who had every reason not to trust him.
“My window’s always open,” Stiles muttered as he revved up the engine, driving away before he broke down, before he lost all modicum of composure.
“Did you know?”
He jerked, wincing sharply at the strong burst of pain as he moved too quickly, lifting his head after hurriedly pausing the movie he was watching to turn his attention to the werewolf standing right next to the window, looking like he was ready to beat it at any moment.
“Know what?”
“Did you know Scott’s plan?” Derek hissed, shoulders shaking, muscles coiled tightly.
“What? God, no. I might have a bit of a dubious moral compass, which is funny because you know, dad’s the Sheriff and all that, but no I did not know and if I had, I would have told you because that was messed up on so many levels I can’t even begin to comprehend what made him think it was okay.”
Derek stared at him, long and hard, before nodding, a jerking motion of his chin, before taking a hesitant step further into the room.
“What happened to you?”
Stiles grinned wryly, shrugging a shoulder, fighting back another wince. “Argents—you know the deal,” he muttered, shifting to the side on his bed and patting the mattress. Derek shuffled closer, but didn’t sit. “Sit down.”
“I’d prefer to not get your sheets dirty,” he pointed out and Stiles blinked before scrambling off the bed, shuffling about in his room, rummaging in his drawers until he pulled out a pair of his dad’s old sweatpants and shirt.
“There’s a clean towel in the bathroom—the blue one.”
Derek blinked, but, at Stiles’ insistence, accepted the clothes and shuffled off to the bathroom to clean up.
Morning found Stiles curled around Derek, his chest pressed to the man’s back, his arm slung loosely over his waist. His front was pleasantly warm, making his muscles all loose and relaxed, making his mind fuzzy with sleep, so he curled closer and closed his eyes, falling back asleep.
“Why are you avoiding me?” Scott growled; his hand was a heavy and burning weight on Stiles’ shoulder as he gripped it just a bit too tight and whirled the male around, Stiles just barely fighting back a cry of pain.
He was pretty sure it would bruise.
“What the hell, Scott?”
“Why are you avoiding me?”
He glared, rolling his shoulder, fingers tightening their hold on the strap of his bag. He wanted to scream, to cry out at Scott, to ask him ‘do you realize what you did’ and ‘did you even consider how he would feel’, a silent ‘how I would feel’ clinging to the last statement. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t be.”
Scott frowned, taking a step forward and Stiles instinctively crowded back against his Jeep, already working the door open, flinging his bag into the passenger seat and attempting to clamber in after it, but Scott was grabbing the back of his shirt, hauling him out of the car.
“I’m your best friend,” Scott said, his puppy dog brown eyes boring into Stiles, making his anger soften, but then he remembered the look on Derek’s face that night—how desperate he seemed when he asked Stiles if he knew, if he had betrayed him, too.
And it was with that thought in mind that Stiles gave a mirthless laugh, tearing Scott’s hand off the back of his shirts, straightening them in a movement that was purely habitual, glaring at him with anger not on his own behalf, but on Derek’s. Because Derek let himself trust Scott, welcomed him into his family for the millionth time, and had his awkward sort of kindness spit on.
“Maybe because I was tortured and you never came for me. Maybe because you went on your own and didn’t think about how your actions affect others. Maybe because a man put his trust in you, invited you into his family, and you threw it back in his face!” He was breathing hard by the end, chest heaving as his anger boiled over, his hands shaking. “You know what? Forget it.”
Scrambling into his Jeep, slamming the door shut behind him, he revved the engine, pulling out of the school parking lot, leaving Scott behind, his words still lingering in the air.
Stiles sat next to Derek on the floor of the man’s new home.
It was a loft, bare of anything, but it was freshly clean—the product of three hours of labor and missing school after a panic attack prevented him from actually getting any work done and his father had called in to say he had an appointment so that he could walk home, but home had been quiet and Stiles had been on edge in the seemingly peaceful atmosphere.
So he had texted Derek who had asked him if he wanted to help him clean up his new place.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” Stiles commented, smiling as he looked around, shifting in his spot to look around the room. There were bottles of unscented cleaner littered about and the mops, rags, sponges, and brushes they had used to clean it up.
“It doesn’t, but it needs to air out,” Derek muttered, nose wrinkling in distaste at the smell.
“You can crash in my room till it’s aired out,” Stiles offered, knocking their shoulders together and Derek looked over at him, his expression blank before the corners of his lips twitched up slightly.
It was a magical sight, Derek’s smile.
It was small and hesitant, shy and bright, and it made Stiles’ heart stutter in his chest.
“Thanks.”
Stiles smiled back, leaning close enough to let their shoulders press together, a small laugh bubbling out when he missed and ended up sprawled on the floor.
Derek’s answering snort was just as magical as his smile.
He doesn’t know where Lydia got the idea that he would say yes.
It’s actually a little insulting that she thought he would.
“Why are you so upset?” Derek spoke from where he was in the kitchen, pouring a bag of cheese puffs into a bowl, a six pack of Mountain Dew next to him and he brought both over to the couch, setting them down on the coffee table.
Stiles couldn’t help but smile as Derek sat next to him—not on the other chair available and not on the complete other side of the couch on verge of falling off of it completely. It always made him happy whenever Derek allowed them to be close, didn’t doubt or shove away their friendship—regardless of his, admittedly, good reasons for doing so.
“Lydia,” Stiles muttered, grabbing one of the cans of soda and popping it open, taking a long swig, lips pursing in a way to show his annoyance.
Derek nodded, but there was a small frown on his face. “Why?” he ambled back to the kitchen for the bag of teriyaki pork jerky, cutting it open with a claw as he settled down again, pale eyes focused on Stiles.
It felt weirdly intimate, having Derek’s full attention like that. He wondered if it felt intimate for Derek, too, when their roles were reversed.
“Did she turn you down for prom?”
“What? No—I didn’t ask her,” Stiles muttered, shoving a handful of cheese puffs in his mouth and consequently spending a good few seconds trying to figure out how to bite down without having to swallow some of them whole. Derek looked confused, head cocking to the side, and Stiles held back from making a dog joke at the sight, the corner of his lip still twitching upwards, though, in an attempt to smile.
“You didn’t?”
“No. She asked me—said she ‘might as well’ since I, apparently, don’t have ‘anyone else lining up to do anything with me’. What kind of invite is that?” Stiles fumed, a bit of spit flying from his mouth and Derek cocked one of his intense eyebrows, swiping a hand over his cheek with a sly glance at Stiles who flushed, muttering a soft ‘sorry’. His embarrassment was short lived, though, as he quickly got fired up in indignation once more. “And then, you know what she said to me when I said no?”
“You said no?”
“Of course I said no,” Stiles cried out, huffing angrily, expression furious. “And it’s a good thing I did, too, because you know what she said? She said ‘you’re supposed to say yes’. I’m not supposed to do anything! I can choose what I want to do and I did not want to go to prom with her.”
Derek nodded his head, lips pursed, looking so concentrated on this one thing that it was a bit heartwarming, if Stiles was honest with himself. This was just a dumb problem, but Derek took it like it was the most serious thing in the world. “And did you tell her that?”
Stiles couldn’t help but puff out his chest in pride, grinning. “Yes, I did.” The grin vanished as quickly as it came, replace by a more melancholy look as Stiles looked down at his hands, fingers fiddling with the stitching of the couch, chewing on his lower lip. “And she said I should just say yes because she was being kind enough to pity me because it wasn’t like anyone else was going to ask ‘someone like me’.”
“Someone like you,” Derek echoed and Stiles’ head bobbed in a nod, fingers fiddling more vigorously with the stitching, trying to tear it out of the couch or do something—anything. “Then they’re missing out.”
Stiles blinked at him in surprise, breath catching in his throat.
There was a faint pink to Derek’s cheeks, covered by the scruff that now covered his face, as he turned his attention to the screen, the reason they were hanging out at the moment with so many snacks.
“You pick pretty good movies.”
“Dad, can Derek come over for dinner?” Stiles called down the stairs, spinning around in his computer chair, bare toes scuffing the ground as he spun, knees tucked near his chest.
“Sure,” the man responded. “You cooking, or are we getting take-out?”
“Cooking,” Stiles sang back, tapping away on his phone in response to Derek, informing him that his father was okay with him coming over. It was probably one of the strangest things to have happened to Stiles, if he was honest—his father and Derek getting along, being friends.
It was nice, though.
Erica and Boyd had left Derek’s pack, but after the basement thing with Gerard, they stayed in Beacon Hills, although they defected to Scott’s ‘pack’—even though Scott wasn’t an alpha and he didn’t really know how to treat his friends.
Stiles had firsthand experience with that.
Isaac had also sort of defected to Scott’s pack, for no reason other than the fact that all his friends were there, although Derek hadn’t even been preventing him from hanging out with them or anything. In Isaac’s words, it was only because “being in your pack is sort of like a barrier between me and them”. That had been what Derek had relayed to Stiles later when he showed up in Stiles’ bedroom looking rather distraught over it.
The words from that night still echoed through his head sometimes. Derek’s broken voice whispering “I was never meant to be an alpha; that was Laura’s place, not mine” with such a hollow tone that it broke Stiles’ heart and all his sarcasm had gone out the window as he had enveloped Derek into a tight hug, surprised when Derek returned it just as tightly, whispering reassurances into the silence.
“What are you making?”
His father’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts and he quickly removed himself from his chair and hurried down the stairs, looking about for the ingredients.
“Wiener schnitzel,” Stiles responded, pulling out the platter he had tucked in the fridge with the meat already cleaned, cut, and seasoned.
“That’s German, right?”
Stiles hummed in response, fluttering about the kitchen as his father watched him.
It was when the meat was cooking and the potatoes were boiling that his father spoke again, looking at Stiles curiously. “I noticed Scott hasn’t been coming around here. I thought he was done ditching you for Allison?”
Stiles sighed, rolling his shoulders, turning to lean back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. “He was, for a bit, and then he was doing it again. And now he has his own big group of friends and he hasn’t apologized for doing something shitty and he doesn’t really need me around for anything, so he hasn’t bothered with apologizing or trying to mend our friendship.”
He shrugged helplessly, lips pursing.
“That’s not a smart move on his part,” the Sheriff muttered, shaking his head. “So, who are you going to prom with? You haven’t talk about it once.”
“I’m not going,” he admitted, scuffing his foot against the floor, chewing on his lower lip silently. “Last year wasn’t any fun and I don’t really want to be laughed at, so I’m just going to hang at Derek’s instead. We’re watching Lord of the Rings, so I might sleep over since those movies are long.”
“So long as he doesn’t let you drink or do drugs, I’m fine with anything that goes on over there—I just don’t necessarily want to hear all of it until you’re eighteen.”
“We’re not really that kind of partiers, dad,” Stiles laughed, turning his attention back to the food, his father’s totally believing ‘right’ echoing in his ears—not the sarcasm.
“Was this a good enough replacement for prom?” Derek whispered, face buried in Stiles’ chest, their breathing even as they teetered in that state just before sleep, Stiles’ fingers scratching at Derek’s scalp gently, fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair.
“More than,” Stiles hummed, tugging on the locks slightly.
Derek’s eyes flicked up to meet his and Stiles smiled, corners of his lips twitching up lazily. Stiles was pretty sure Derek’s cheeks flushed a light pink, matching the pink staining Stiles own cheeks as Derek returned to burying his face in Stiles’ chest.
He was also pretty sure that Derek grew the scruff just to hide his blushes.
“Good.”
His leg bounced in impatience, his eyes flicking about, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he rolled his phone between his fingers.
“What are you doing, Stiles?” Scott asked, coming over with his whole ‘pack’, Erica and Boyd with their hands linked, Allison and Lydia talking behind Scott, and Isaac standing next to him, looking mildly uncomfortable, his gaze never meeting Stiles’.
“Waiting,” he responded curtly, pressing the edge of his phone to his teeth, leg jiggling a little harder now.
“Did you get stood up?” Lydia asked, sparing a bit of her attention to ask the question before returning to her conversation with Allison. She was probably still bitter about being turned down by Stiles of all people.
“No,” he muttered, checking the screen of his phone again before returning to gazing out at the road, trying not to work himself into a frenzy.
“Come and hang out with us for a bit,” Scott urged, his eyes pleading. It swayed Stiles for only a few seconds before he was determinedly shaking his head ‘no’, shoulders hunching slightly.
“You never apologized.”
“Stiles, don’t be like that. You know why I had to do what I did.”
“No, Scott, I don’t know, actually,” Stiles hissed and he would have gone on a long rant if it wasn’t for the sound of a familiar engine and he looked over to see the black Camaro pulling up, Derek rolling down the window with one of those easy smiles Stiles had only just started to see come out genuinely.
Derek’s eyes flicked over to them, but ultimately settled on Stiles, his eyebrows doing a weird sort of tilt that Stiles knew was as silent question to his well being. “You ready to go?” Derek asked, obviously feeling the tension and probably smelling the irritation flowing off of Scott that Stiles could practically feel even without werewolf senses.
“Yeah,” Stiles called, grabbing his bag and quickly hurrying over, making sure to dodge Scott’s hand, and sliding into the passenger seat of the car. “Thanks for picking me up,” he mumbled, tossing his bag into the backseat.
A warm hand cupped his cheek as he was turning back around to face Derek and he blinked, staring into pale eyes and he smiled, leaning forward and letting their lips meet softly, his hand coming up to clasp at the fabric of Derek’s shirt just over his shoulder.
It was soft and gentle and held all the reassurances Derek couldn’t say in the presence of those with werewolf hearing.
“Is this okay?” Derek whispered finally as they pulled back, his eyes flicking to look over Stiles’ shoulder quickly and then around, although their faces remained close. “People are staring.”
Stiles grinned, leaning closer, breathing out “good,” letting their lips meet again chastely. “Now, drive. I was promised curly fries.”
“You should be treating me—I’m the one that had to pick you up.”
“Whose fault is it that my poor Roscoe’s in the shop, though?”