Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's a few months into Stiles' second semester at college when Derek first smells the tears on him.

Things have calmed down significantly, and they're no longer actively at war. The alpha pack moved on, the Nemeton was neutralized, and Stiles had a major hand in both those events. So if Derek wasn't already aware of how razor-sharp and strong Stiles is in times of crisis, he sure is now.

But there's been no crisis for months. Close to a year, now, actually. Everyone is back at school or at work. They're still working on the pack bonds, but getting better, and there's frankly an astounding lack of stress.

And yet, Stiles shows up for the bi-monthly pack meeting at the rebuilt Hale house smelling like tears.

Derek almost focuses his senses on Stiles for more information before he remembers that they're no longer in constant survival mode, and that he was raised better. His mother would have made him weed their entire, massive garden for being that rude. Respecting personal boundaries is a necessity in wolf society, because secrets are so hard to keep, and Derek is aware that he might need to re-learn that after so long of living from one moment to the next. Offending people hasn't exactly been much of a concern for him in the past few years of his life, and it's actually a comfort to know that he's in a place now where it's relevant again, if a little inconvenient.

The betas don't seem to notice anything off, but Derek doesn't expect them to. First of all because they're bitten betas who'll never have senses as good as a born wolf alpha, but also probably because they have their own problems. Entering adult life as traumatized teens is challenging enough in itself without adding pack drama and sensory overload to the mix, so tensions are always running a little high. Which is another reason why Derek wants them all to bond as often as possible, so they can draw on the strength and connection of pack a lot more. But Stiles isn't a beta, so even though he's pack, he'll never have the same benefits from the pack bonds. And while this is no different than any other non-bitten pack member, Derek can't help but worry.

A cursory sniff tells him that the tears aren't fresh, a couple of hours old at least, but there's still a pretty significant salty tang, so Stiles hasn't washed his face since they fell. Derek doesn't smell any immediate pain or sadness on him, and tears from eye irritation or allergies don't carry the same chemo-signals, so he's got nothing. It's not any anniversary regarding Stiles' mom that Derek knows of, and while he's aware that Stiles is prone to worry, especially about his dad, there's nothing new happening lately to upset him more than normal, and as a general rule Stiles isn't the type to cry as an outlet for his emotions, on the rare occasions that he does let himself have an outlet.

In any case, Derek watches him move around the loft, jittery and deathly still in turn, but smiling and joking with the others like always. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

And yet... and yet.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks finally by the end of the night, most of the others having left already.

Stiles snorts, and doesn't even pause in packing up his laptop and gathering up the various items that managed to escape from his backpack over the course of the pack-meeting. “Are you seriously asking me that? You know the answer's no.”

Derek does know. Stiles is most definitely not okay. None of them are, and they're all perfectly aware of it. Boyd and Erica still have nightmares over what they went through with the alpha pack, Isaac will probably always be skittish, an entire childhood of abuse not easily soothed. Scott is still struggling with just being a wolf, never mind the scare of having his mother kidnapped, and Derek... well. The darach events didn't exactly help with his issues, either. But at least Cora and Jackson are doing well in South America and London respectively.

Stiles was never quite the same after his dad was taken, even though it was only temporary. He'd been downright scary in dealing with the alpha pack, pushing his spark abilities to their absolute limits, forcing the alphas to accept that this kind of power wasn't easily broken. And once he and Deaton shut down the Nemeton for good, basically turning off the faucet of weird shit, Derek had hoped that they would all finally have a chance to breathe and rebuild.

And for most of them that did happen.

“I know. But I'm the alpha, and since you're not a beta, I don't get the shortcut to your feelings that I do with the others. So maybe... we should talk.”

Stiles gives him an odd look, and it takes Derek a moment to realize that what Stiles had taken note of was that he'd been spoken of like a pack member. It still baffles Derek how Stiles can keep doubting that he's pack, but he'll probably never stop feeling like turning down the bite was seen as some kind of failing on his part.

“I can actually talk, you know,” Derek grouses, hoping to lighten the mood. And from the way Stiles huffs, he thinks he succeeds.

“Yeah, but I wouldn't want you to, like, sprain something there, big guy.”

“It's not my pain I'm worried about right now, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs, and finally stops packing things. “Look, can we not do this now? I'm... not fine, I'm not gonna lie to your face.”

Derek gives him the hairy eyeball. Not so much because he distrusts Stiles, because it's actually been a long time since he admitted that he's probably always trusted Stiles with his life. But this is a common in-joke with them, and using it stems from a mix of his desire to connect with Stiles enough for him to open up, as well as just plain habit.

“Well not right now,” Stiles argues. “Not after you paid for pizza and got me curly fries from the best place in town, too. Hell, I didn't even know Stacy's delivered.”

“They don't.”

Stiles' face goes through a range of emotions, too fast to pin one down, until he finally settles on something vaguely fond. “You know, you're actually getting pretty good at this whole alpha thing,” he says softly, and damn him, because he might just be devious enough to praise Derek to throw him off. But it sounds sincere, and Derek... didn't even realize how much he needed to hear it until his stomach swoops with the sheer relief of being told he's doing okay.

“Thank you. But for that to be true, we really do need to talk.”

It makes Stiles look torn, and he fiddles nervously with the zipper on his backpack, eyes darting across Derek's face for a long moment before he finally nods. “Okay. But not tonight. Please?”

Derek hears Scott coming back up the stairs, and takes it as a sign that he might as well accept that the conversation is over for now.

“Bro, you ready to go? You're kinda my ride, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, just finding all my shit, you know?”

“Later,” Derek says lightly, making it sound like a greeting. But Stiles catches his eye, and Derek knows he got the meaning across.

“Yeah. Later.”

Chapter Text

To no one's surprise, Stiles chose to stay home and attend Beacon County Community College, rather than accept any of the scholarships that were practically thrown at his head after he graduated from high school, only Lydia's determination and drive keeping him from valedictorian. The sheriff was disappointed that he rejected all those opportunities, but only argued about it for roughly half the summer, before remembering just how stubborn his son could be.

So Stiles comes home every night, makes dinner for two in well-meaning, if not always successful, attempts to watch his dad's cholesterol, does his studying, trains with Deaton to further develop his spark, hangs out with Scott or the pack, and generally seems like he's got his life pretty well organized. But Derek is well aware that appearances can be deceiving, and that they definitely are when it comes to Stiles. He's bordering on drug abuse with his Adderall, and has constant nightmares and anxiety attacks. He's always tense and stressed, and still suffers from crippling insecurity in certain areas. Plus, he might also be dealing with some kind of sexual identity crisis, if the frequent scent of arousal and embarrassment on him is anything to go by, but that's not for Derek to poke his nose into.

The crying, though... Derek can't let that slide. Not something so out of character for Stiles. Especially since it happens again. And again. And yet again.

So a few weeks after the promise to talk later, Derek rolls through Stiles' bedroom window, and is met with an amused huff.

“I thought we were past this, Derek. I've seen you use doors, I know you know how to use them. My dad isn't even home.”

“I know,” Derek says calmly, shrugging off his jacket to make it clear that he'll be staying a while. “But I thought you'd appreciate a nod to the good old days.”

It has the intended effect, and Stiles snorts, even as he keeps on typing whatever he's doing on his laptop. “Appreciate the reminder. Really. Nothing like reminiscing about just how we all damn near died a couple years back. God, we were idiots.”

“Yes. We were. Younger and dumber. But maybe that's why looking back is a good idea. To see how far we've come.”

Stiles finally turns to face him, probably just so he can raise an eyebrow at him. “Wow, you're being freakishly zen these days. Alphas Anonymous support group?”

“Pinterest,” Derek says dryly, because joking is easier. And this also isn't about Derek. Not this time. “We still need to talk.” Stiles' obnoxious groan is expected, and Derek steels himself for the inevitable argument.

“Why do you always pick the worst times?”

“It's not. I checked. You don't have any papers due until Friday, your dad is on a double shift right now, but he'll be home most of the weekend. You don't have plans with anyone in the pack or your dad, and you don't even have an early lecture tomorrow. Now is a perfect time.”

Stiles gawps at him. “I'm a little turned on right now, not gonna lie.”

It's Derek's turn to snort, because Stiles loves to deflect with blatant innuendo, which is an odd contrast to his actual abysmal sexual confidence. But he's only nineteen, there's plenty of time for him to nurture that, no matter his own fatalistic opinion on the subject.

“Take a cold shower, then, because we're gonna talk.”

“I'm serious, this takes me back. Could'ya slam me up against the wall, too, for old times' sake?”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

Derek sighs, because he was prepared for this, sure, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating. “Please, talk to me.”

Stiles gives him a long look, face slowly sliding from its sharp, antagonistic grin into a grimace of annoyance. “I got a better idea. Why don't you just come right out and say it. Whatever it is I've done wrong this time.”

It makes Derek want to pull his hair and scream every time Stiles does this. Turning everything into proof of his uselessness with a quick few words, making a paradox of just how good he is at controlling the conversation, by using it to put himself down. But at least Derek now has some practice at handling Stiles when he's like this, so he manages to not take the bait. “Is everything okay at college?” he asks instead.

Stiles' face twists strangely with surprise. “What?”

“Is someone hurting you, somehow?” Derek barrels on, hoping to not give Stiles an opening to derail the conversation again.

“No! What-”

“Is it something with your spark?”

“No! No, hold on, what's this actually about?!”

“You've been crying, Stiles,” Derek says softly.

He isn't sure what he expected, but the blank face and casual shrug was definitely not it. “Yeah. So?”

“So? So, maybe I'm worried about you!”

In a flash, the annoying little shit routine is back. “Aww, Sourwolf, didn't know you cared.”

Classic deflection. Which means Derek is definitely on to something. “I do, actually.”

He can see Stiles gearing up for another deflection, but he apparently thinks better of it. “Okay. Sure. Let's do the sharing and caring thing.” The words are barbed, but if that's the only way Stiles will open up, Derek will take it. “I cry a lot, Derek. A lot.”

“I'm not sure your definition of a lot is quite the same as mine.”

“Or maybe I'm just better at hiding it,” Stiles mutters, and Derek slumps down to sit on the bed.

“Either way, that just proves that something's up if you're not even hiding it anymore.”

Stiles rubs a weary hand over his face, and Derek is struck by just how much he looks like the sheriff just then.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe the reason I'm not talking about this is because I don't wanna talk about it with you?”

“Then talk to someone else, I don't care. Just... talk.”

“And here I thought you wanted me to shut up.”

Derek huffs out a laugh, because he can't help it. Stiles has a real gift distracting people, especially Derek. “I do. When you won't listen. Which is all the time.”

“That hurts me, Derek, truly,” Stiles says, the words obviously aiming at sarcasm, but coming out flat, like his heart isn't even in it. That actually makes Derek even more concerned.

“Please just tell me,” Derek asks again. “Whatever it is.”

Stiles sighs, world-weary, and Derek feels his heart clench over just how sad he looks. “That's the thing, Derek. It's nothing. No news. Same old shit.”

“But-”

“No, you told me to talk, so I'm talking. Nobody's hurting me. Nothing's up with my spark. College is fine. My dad is fine. We're all fine.”

He doesn't sound convinced. The words fall down between them, slack and without power, like Stiles has said them to himself so many times they've lost any merit they might once have had. He's not lying. But he also obviously has no faith in what he's saying.

“Then why are you crying?” Derek asks, quietly, afraid he'll provoke Stiles into another deflection if he talks too loud.

“Cause I'm tired,” Stiles says, voice rusty like the tears are right there on the edge again. “I'm so fucking tired, Derek. Tired of being afraid all the damn time.” He huffs out a bitter little laugh. “Dad sent me to a therapist a while back. I came back with a piece of paper that says I suffer from anxiety and depression. But there's a flaw in that hypothesis. It assumes I'm scared and sad for no reason. That my constant gut-ripping terror isn't totally warranted, because now that my dad is in on the whole supernatural thing, all it takes is one more suspicious mauling, and he'll be going head first into it, and he'll die.”

Derek doesn't agree, but he lets Stiles speak, because obviously he needs it. He knows Stiles has been struggling with his anxiety, and the ever present sadness every time some small thing reminds him of his mom. But obviously things had gotten more intense along the way, and Derek curses himself for not seeing how bad it's gotten.

“And I'm kinda already grieving, you know? I gotta be ready. For when it happens. So it won't kill me. It still might, I'm not gonna lie. But I kinda like living, actually. For all the scary shit and the endless drama... I kinda still have hope. At least sometimes. I just- I just know that... inevitably? I'll be an orphan.”

For all the therapy Derek has gotten during his lifetime, it never actually seemed to help that much. Not when danger was always very real and very present. It's not easy to grieve and forgive yourself when you're running for your life, or just plain running. But one thing it did teach him was that therapists will never directly argue when you tell them something, no matter how awful or illogical. And, god, Derek wants to argue about this so badly. But that probably wouldn't help matters any.

“What can I do?” he asks instead, hoping his voice fits the words as he pulls them from memory. “How can I help you?”

Stiles laughs. A cold and hollow thing. “That's sweet of you, really. But unless you can tell every single monster out there to go its room, or make my dad retire, and chain him to his easy chair, then I don't think there's anything anyone can really do.”

Derek nods, mostly because he wants Stiles to know he's hearing him. They're still working on how to just communicate, without resorting to petty bickering and sarcasm, never mind how to actually be close, and Derek casts around for something to do. Anything that might help.

“Would... would a hug help?”

This time Stiles' laugh sounds more genuine, and while it wasn't what Derek was going for, he'll take it. “What the hell made you even ask that, Derek?”

He shrugs, a little uncomfortable, but willing to try and explain himself for Stiles' sake. “Well, touch is important for wolves. And I know you hug Scott and your dad. Even Lydia, so you don't seem... against hugging on principle. So I was thinking that maybe I should start hugging you like I do the others. To... strengthen pack bonds and... well, just because hugs are nice.” As awkward as he felt explaining that, it's worth it for how Stiles' whole body softens, a little over-dramatically, because he'll always and forever be a little shit, but still. Still.

“Okay. Alright. Consider this blanket hugging permission in the future, oh alpha mine.” The words are still sarcastic, but there's no blip of his heart. Stiles actually does believe that Derek is his alpha, and that, more than anything, is what makes him get off the bed, and haul Stiles right out of his desk chair and into his arms.

“A little less manhandling next time, maybe,” Stiles mutters, even as he hugs back, hard, with his long, strong arms. “Not that I don't appreciate it, but...”

“Yeah.” Derek nods, chin bumping Stiles' shoulder. “Duly noted.”

Chapter Text

Derek is still working on being a decent alpha. He sits with Boyd for long, quiet hours when he needs to just be with someone. He takes Erica out for shopping or junk food, because when she's struggling she needs to feel a little pampered. He lets Isaac climb into bed with him at least a few times a week, because even being under the same roof isn't enough, and Isaac just needs to be close, sometimes. Scott would rather eat rusty nails than accept comfort from Derek, so all he can do there is give Scott space. He Skypes with Cora and Jackson on a weekly basis, lets Lydia fuss over his wardrobe on the rare occasions she's home from Caltech, and tries his best to work on his own issues as well, though that's probably gonna take a lifetime or two.

But Stiles is difficult. Mostly because they've fallen into a frustrating pattern of bickering one minute, and joking the next, so actually figuring out what he needs is a struggle. Besides, he and Scott seem to have their own little sub-pack going, and Derek had so far assumed that they'd found their comfort there. But considering recent events, this is obviously not true. Scott seems to be doing well, but Stiles... Derek needs to take action, now. And the only thing he can think to do is take Stiles at his word.

John greets Derek warily when he shows up at the Sheriff's Station, and Derek can't blame him for expecting trouble. Experience is a harsh teacher.

“It's nothing dangerous or weird, I promise,” Derek assures him, as John shuts the door to his office behind them for privacy. Because he knows that whatever is important enough to make Derek voluntarily enter the station where he's only known grief or accusation is definitely not for the public to witness.

“But it's bad,” John concludes, as he sits down heavily at his desk, because Derek specifically didn't say it wasn't.

“On a personal level, yes. It's about Stiles.”

John's whole body tenses, even as he stays completely still and focused on Derek. “I'm listening.”

“He's... not doing well.”

“Yeah,” John agrees with a weary sigh. “I know. I wanna help him, but... he doesn't talk to me.”

Derek nods slowly. “He told me you sent him to a therapist.”

“Yeah. Not that I expected it to do much. But what else could I do?”

Derek understands the helplessness. He's not a parent, but he is responsible for the mental well-being of several barely-adults, and feeling their hurt through the pack bonds when there's nothing he can do, or they won't welcome his help? Yeah, Derek gets it.

“There... sorta is something you could do. I don't actually expect you to do it,” Derek hurries to say, because that's not what his aim is. “But you're his father, and I think you need to know.”

“Son,” John says, voice rusty, and Derek's heart clenches, because even though John probably uses that same term on everyone he considers young enough, it still affects him. “You might not realize this, but as aware as I am of my son's flaws, there is nothing- and let me repeat that for emphasis, nothing that I would not do for his well-being. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek says sincerely, because he can't not after being called son by someone so utterly assured of his authority, not just as a county sheriff, but also as a parent. “This... might not be easy to hear, though.”

It's obvious John is steeling himself, a muscle jumping slightly in his cheek as he sets his jaw. “Alright.”

“Stiles... thinks you're gonna die. No, actually- he's expecting it. He's preparing for it.”

John's face remains worryingly blank, but Derek recognizes it for what it is. It's the same thing Derek does every time he's faced with awful news, the exact same way of forcing his emotional response down, down, down, so he can deal with the issue at hand without crumbling.

“But you said there was something I could do?” John says, voice painfully level in a way that speaks of years of practice in dealing with the worst humanity has to offer. “So let's hear it.”

“He said- as a joke, I think, mostly... that he wished you'd retire. So you wouldn't run head first into danger.”

The first hint of emotion from John is a slowly raised eyebrow. “Okay. And you assumed that telling me this wouldn't immediately make me give notice?”

Sometimes Derek forgets that being a sarcastic little shit obviously runs in the Stilinski family. He rubs the bridge of his nose, trying very hard not to give in to that same urge to argue that all Stilinskis apparently bring out in him. “I... dunno what I assumed. I just thought you should know. I'm not very good at this,” he admits in a small voice, because he isn't, and for all the formidable foes he's faced, nothing can quite make him feel small like a father figure can.

John gives him a long look, face still cautiously controlled. “No. No, you're not. But you're trying. And that's good enough,” he says, and it might be his many years as a sheriff or maybe it's just the way he is, but it makes Derek suddenly feel like breaking down sobbing. He swallows it down, though, because this isn't about him, it's about Stiles.

“Can you actually do that? Just retire?”

“I'm over fifty with more than twenty five years of service behind me. I'd be booted in a few years, anyway, that's just the law.”

“He'll hate me for telling you, you know. If you retire.”

“Yeah. We're gonna have to be smart about this.”

Derek huffs before he can stop himself. “Smarter than Stiles? Fat chance.”

There's a small pause, like John is baffled for a second, before he huffs out an amused breath. “Yeah. Good thing I know how his brain works. The key is to distract him from the main issue. Trust me, I raised that kid. If you want him to stay out of the cookie jar, wave something more interesting under his nose.”

“Like what, illegally imported cocoa beans?”

John laughs softly through his nose, and his carefully maintained facade finally drops entirely. “I wish I'd thought of that, actually. But no, we just left clues around the house that peas were secretly really unhealthy, and had been labeled healthy by mistake.”

“How long did that last?”

“About six months. Claudia kept leaving new clues. She was really good at making fake newspaper clippings.”

Derek blinked. “So that's where he gets it from.”

“Chip off the ol' block,” John says, the note of pride clear in his voice, and Derek has to shake his head, because what is wrong with these people.

“So what are you gonna tell him?”

“Oh, I'm not gonna tell him a thing. I'm just gonna set things in motion. The beauty of this is that sheriff is an elected position, and my term is up in about six months. All I need to do is tip the scales.” He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach in a way that's clearly meant to look relaxed and open, but Derek can smell how tense and cautious he still is. Obviously he still doesn't fully trust Derek, but, then again, Derek hasn't actually given him much reason to. “Deputy Hammerstein would probably be a good bet. She's got great marks from the academy, she's got experience, and I know she's aiming for the position eventually.”

The glance John casts Derek makes him feel like sitting up taller all of a sudden, for all the weight behind it. Damn, he's good.

“What she doesn't have is connections. But with the right... endorsements. I think she'd have a great campaign. Great enough for me to graciously bow out early in the race.”

It takes Derek a moment to get where John is going. Directly asking for donations is tricky enough, but for an opposing candidate? Yeah, Derek can't blame John for not even putting words to it. But of course he knows just how wealthy Derek is, no matter how much he tries to not advertise it, and he obviously also knows that Derek would give it all up for his pack if he had to.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think she'll have a great campaign,” Derek agrees, and starts pondering how he can donate anonymously. It would have to be legit, but not too obvious. Maybe he should split it up into several smaller ones. Dammit, what has he gotten himself into?

John offers him some terrible station coffee, and Derek accepts, because he feels like he needs to punish himself slightly for ever getting involved in Stiles Stilinski's life.

Chapter Text

Things don't improve, exactly. Making the arrangements to back Hammerstein is the work of an afternoon, because Derek knows he doesn't have the skills to try and hide it in any way, so he enlists the help of the attorney who handles most of his financial matters.

Stiles is a whole other matter entirely. He seems to accept that Derek is trying to help him, and greets every hug and clap on the shoulder with a knowing grin, but it makes literally no difference otherwise. He still smells of tears every so often, he still shuts Derek out when he asks, or just derails the conversation completely. He's so damn skilled at it, and Derek always falls for it. It's incredibly frustrating.

But life goes on, and all things considered Derek thinks they're all doing pretty well. At least until shit hits the fan.

“Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out?”

Derek stops chopping carrots, but he doesn't turn around. He always has to stay on guard with Stiles, because those clever eyes will see everything if there's even the smallest opening. Stiles is the embodiment of give an inch, take a mile. “No. You're the one who always finds things out, remember?”

Stiles huffs, and Derek decides not to indulge him, for once. He's doing that far too much already, which is how they end up bickering through ninety percent of all their conversations, no matter how hard Derek tries to stay on topic. So he goes back to chopping his carrots, and he knows it makes him look like an asshole. But better him than Stiles' dad. Stiles has already been on shaky ground with his father for too long, and they're just barely patching things up after the whole werewolf reveal. Derek isn't about to get in the way of that. Considering how much of Stiles' mental state depends on his dad, it's better if he's pissed at Derek.

“Do you even know what I'm talking about, Derek?”

“No, but I assume you're gonna tell me,” he says evenly, and moves on to the onions. It's not completely a lie, because he's not entirely sure which part Stiles has caught on to. Derek is aware that he's being a coward about this, and that he could just come clean about the whole thing. But while he'd always choose the martyr's route rather than hurt anyone he cares for, he's still fundamentally selfish about certain things, and the longer he can keep Stiles from hating him, the better.

“Dad told me that he's gonna back out of the election.”

“Ah. That.”

“Yeah, that, Derek,” Stiles snaps. “But even before he told me I knew something was going on. And when I looked into the election contributors, guess who I found backing my dad's competition?”

Derek doesn't bother with any response. There's nothing he can add anyway, so he just quietly keeps making dinner.

“Oh, you did pretty well covering your tracks, Derek, I gotta give you that,” Stiles says, pacing the kitchen as he talks. Accuses. “What I don't get is why you even bothered? Why not just back Hammerstein publicly? I know how much of an asshole you can be when you want to.”

Ouch. Though Derek will admit that it's probably true.

“You already admitted that you aren't dumb enough to think I wouldn't find out. So what is it, Derek? Seriously, what?”

Derek tries to focus on his cooking. He really tries. But something about Stiles always digs under his skin, easy as anything, and he breathes forcibly slow through his nose to keep his temper down.

“So. This is it, then. I don't even deserve an answer, do I?” Stiles snaps.

The knife clangs as Derek tries to put it down gently on the counter, but fails miserably. “Why bother when you've got all the answers already?” he snarls, and immediately hates himself. His knuckles turn white as he clutches the granite countertop, like he could use the grip to get a hold of himself. Not that it works.

Stiles is still pacing behind him, and Derek can feel the frustration and anger rolling off him, like flames licking at Derek's back, pulling at him to fight it with more fire. All the work he's doing, trying to make himself a better and healthier person, it's still happening with baby steps, and it's as if every time Stiles is in the room, all those steps are completely undone. “I literally just told you I didn't, you fucker! One thing I can't figure out, and you throw it in my face! Nice, Derek, real nice!”

“For fuck's sake, Stiles,” Derek groans, trying so hard to make his shoulders unclench, but they feel harder than the granite he's still clinging to. “Can we just, for one single time in our lives, not argue about every tiny thing?”

“You call this tiny?!” Stiles cries. “How deluded are you?! This is literally gonna change my father's entire life!”

“Yes!” Derek yells, finally managing to let go off the counter, though his claws drag marks into it as he whirls around to face Stiles at last. “Yes, it is! I thought that's what you wanted!”

“Newsflash! It wasn't!”

“But you said-!”

“It was a joke, Derek! A fucking joke!” Stiles cries, gesticulating wildly, and Derek has to struggle not to reach out and pin his limbs down, to just keep him still for one goddamn moment. “It was not at any point a realistic option!”

“But it was the only fucking option you gave me, Stiles!”

Stiles slams his palm against the fridge so hard Derek can hear things shift inside of it, and several magnets rain to the floor. “At what point did I ask for your help, Derek?!” he screams, and Derek curls his hands into fists, uncaring of how his claws dig into his palms.

“You shouldn't have to. Ever. That's the point. I'm your alpha, I'm supposed to know-”

“Oh, bullshit! Yes, you're an almighty alpha werewolf, but you're not fucking psychic, Derek! You're not supposed to know everything!”

“But with the betas I can feel-”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't! Have you ever considered that? Huh? That maybe, just maybe, you're not supposed to butt into everyone's lives just because you can feel that they're upset?”

“I'm a wolf, Stiles. I was raised to use my senses like this.”

“But hey, guess what, Derek,” Stiles says, voice going suddenly quiet, unlike his heart, which is hammering so hard it's almost drowning out everything else. “I'm. Human. Don't you get it? I will never be a wolf. I might be pack, but I will never be your beta.”

It hurts. Derek is self aware enough to admit it. But it's unexpected just how much it hurts. Not that he ever truly expected Stiles to want the bite, but... he had hoped. And Derek wasn't even aware of how much he'd hoped for it until this very moment. And he's still not sure why it even matters. He grew up with humans in his pack, it's not a foreign concept to him. And yet, as they stand there in Derek's quiet kitchen, staring each other down, it feels like he's lost something. Something he didn't know he had. Or even wanted. And it's also not the time to reflect on it.

“Regardless,” he says slowly, desperate suddenly to get his point across. “I'm still the alpha. And it's my duty to protect you all. That's just how it is, Stiles. And you know that.”

Stiles' hand clenches slowly, still up against the fridge, his skin dragging against the smooth surface. “I know,” he says, just as slowly. “But humans work differently. We kinda have to. And you know that.”

He nods reluctantly. Because yes, he does know. But perhaps he hadn't wanted to know. “What am I supposed to do then, Stiles?” He feels weak, all of a sudden. Defeated. “I asked you how I could help, and you gave me nothing.”

“And that's what you should have done, Derek. Nothing.” Stiles finally moves away from the fridge, taking a step closer, like Derek isn't taut like a wire, and dripping blood onto the floor from his hands. But Stiles never did seem to care much about danger. “Don't you see?” he asks, voice cracking. “It's not gonna help. Nothing you say or do is gonna make me stop worrying about him, ever.”

Derek feels sick. Sick to his stomach, because everything in him is screaming in protest. Every instinct objecting to Stiles' words, and Derek suddenly can't face him anymore. So he turns to the sink to rinse the blood off his hands. But Stiles just follows him, moves cautiously around him until he can catch Derek's gaze again, leaning against the counter.

“You get that, right?” he asks softly, and, no, Derek doesn't.

“I can't-” he starts, but his voice fails him, and he has to take a few deep breaths before he finds it again. “I can't accept it. I just can't, Stiles. I need to help you. It's what being an alpha is. It's what I am. Do you get that?”

He finally turns his head to meet Stiles' gaze, and it feels like there's something profound happening between them, like the air is crackling with how hard they're both working to meet in the middle. And it's a comfort, frankly, because no matter how much it's like forcing two opposing magnets to meet, it's still more of an attempt than they've ever done. “Tell me what to do,” Derek begs, quietly, afraid that if he speaks too loudly he'll break the spell, and they'll be back to bickering again.

Stiles looks at him long and intently, studying him, but in a way that doesn't feel invasive. It feels like being seen, finally, after a lifetime of only being given cursory glances, and Derek looks back, willing Stiles to understand, to really understand.

“Okay,” he says finally, and Derek can feel his knees almost collapsing under him from sheer relief. “Okay.”

Long arms pull Derek in, and it feels like he's crumbling into the hug, folding in on himself with how much he needs the contact. And he might have been the one to offer Stiles hugs in the first place, but until that moment he hadn't understood that maybe Stiles wasn't the one who needed them.

Chapter Text

Sheriff Stilinski's retirement party turns out to be quite the event, half the town showing up to send him off, which Derek assumes is mostly just a city-wide excuse to get drunk and reminisce about the good ol' days. But Derek is the last person to begrudge anyone a little fun, and even Stiles seems content to let his dad get drunk off his ass and eat his weight in shrimp cocktails and finger foods from every housewife in town for this one night. He has zero sympathy for the several-days-long hangover afterwards, though, and Derek wisely steers clear of the Stilinski household for the duration.

They haven't really talked since the blowout in Derek's kitchen, but while Stiles might be ruthlessly manipulative, and willing to play fast and loose with morals, he never goes back on a direct promise. And he'd promised Derek to tell him how to help. The only stipulation had been for Derek to give him time.

That's good enough for Derek. For now.

As John settles into the lifestyle of the pleasantly retired, life goes on in the pack pretty much the same. Cora is talking about visiting, Lydia is spending at least part of her summer in London with Jackson, and the rest of them still meet twice a month, run together on full moons, and goof around in between.

Derek is feeling optimistic, and he's not quite sure he likes it. Hope has a way of getting crushed for him, and he's aware it's an issue he needs to work on. Maybe it's part of the reason he has such a hard time letting Stiles be. It feels like Stiles is the other shoe waiting to drop.

A shoe does drop, but not the one Derek expects. Because one night, on a non-full-moon pack meeting, Stiles shows up with a grumbling ex-sheriff in tow.

“Sit,” Stiles orders, and from the way John tiredly drops down on the couch next to Boyd, Derek gathers that they've already argued copiously about this.

“Hey kids,” John greets awkwardly, and there's a hilarious moment where the betas all stare at him, before turning their eyes to Derek as one. Derek is torn between the weirdness of it all, and the sheer personal pride of finally having become the kind of alpha they all turn to when they're caught off guard.

“Turn the TV up loud, guys, cause I'm gonna need a word in private with ye mighty alpha here,” Stiles says, dragging Derek towards the door by the elbow. “And don't let Dad eat any junk!” he adds before slamming the door behind him.

“Erica just handed him the Cheetos,” Derek tells him, hearing the unmistakable crinkle of chip bag before the TV volume is dialed up higher.

Stiles groans, and slaps a palm to his face. “Goddammit, Erica. I'm gonna have to have a talk with her. Crushing on a friend's parent like that is just uncool.”

Derek decides not to invite further elaboration on that topic, because he gets the distinct feeling he doesn't want to know. What he does want to know is what's going on. “So-”

“Our parents are pack, too, right?”

The sudden question catches Derek off guard, but he's used to Stiles throwing him curve balls, so he recovers quickly. “In some ways, yeah. They'll always have the protection of the pack, but I don't have any direct authority over them as alpha unless they make the choice to join the pack formally.”

“... I never did that,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed, and Derek rolls his eyes, because of course this is the perfect time for insecurities to rear up.

“You passed my orders to the pack on to Scott long before he got over himself enough to actually join. Meaning that you accepted my authority before he did, even without being connected by the bite.”

“But I argued with you over literally everything!”

“Yeah, and you still do. And that's a good thing. But you also accept my final call, even if you force me to compromise a lot. You've always come to pack meetings as a matter of course, you've worked for and with the pack continuously since the beginning, and frankly I don't get why you ever doubted that you're a solid member of this pack. And a very important one, at that.”

Stiles blinks, like it's actual news to him, and Derek despairs a little bit. Clearly he hasn't been hugging Stiles enough or something. “Huh. Okay, then,” Stiles says awkwardly, and Derek lets it slide, because it looks like Stiles needs a little time to digest that information. “So anyway, if my dad accepted your authority on pack matters, he'd be full on pack, right?”

“Yeah. Is that why he's here? To join the pack?”

“Well...” Stiles grimaces absurdly, and it makes Derek want to snort, because only Stiles makes their lives this ridiculous. “Not... entirely, no. I may have blackmailed and threatened him slightly to get him here.”

Derek shakes his head with a sigh. “Explain.”

“Okay, look, I told you I'd let you know, right? What you can do to help me? And, well... this is it.”

“I can help you by making your father pack?”

“No. Well, yes. I mean.” Stiles groans with frustration, and paces on the porch. “Retired or not, he's always gonna rush into danger, because he's a fucking hero, right, he just can't help himself. But I figure that if he's pack, then... you know, he'll never be alone about it.”

Derek nods, because it makes sense. But there's still one little snag. “But it's not gonna happen if he doesn't want it to. You can't force a pack bond. Even the bite can be refused if you try hard enough.”

“I'll win him over! Just wait, he'll come around.”

“Maybe. But until he does, bringing him here is just awkward for everyone. Especially for him. We're all kids to him, Stiles.”

The defeated slump of Stiles' shoulders makes Derek's heart physically hurt, because he knows. He knows how desperately Stiles wants to protect the people he loves. And he knows the pain of realizing when you can't. “But he's not alone,” he argues, gripping Stiles' limp shoulder with a firm hand. “He'll always be under my protection, because he's pack-adjacent, but also just because he lives in Hale territory. And besides-” he hesitates before deciding that it's worth it. “He's had me on speed dial since he found out about everything.”

Stiles' head whips up, and his eyes widen comically. “What?”

“He's been calling me every other week to ask about cases that felt off, and he made me tell Hammerstein, too, so she wouldn't go in blind. Turned out not to be an issue, though. Apparently she has shifters in her family. Centaurs. Who knew?”

“What?” Stiles says again, mouth slack.

“Stiles,” Derek says, gripping the other shoulder as well to keep Stiles grounded, and to make sure he has his full attention. “He was never alone in this. And he never will be.”

Stiles shakes suddenly under Derek's hands, and the burst of salt in the air is shocking in its intensity. He turns his face away, obviously used to keeping his tears hidden, but Derek isn't about to let him get away with it this time, and pulls him in for a hug so hard he knows he's pushing the limit for Stiles' lungs. But from how hard Stiles clings back it was obviously the right choice, and they stand there in the balmy summer night for a long time, Stiles silently shaking, his tears slowly soaking the shoulder of Derek's henley.

“I'll still worry, you know,” Stiles says wetly against Derek's neck, much later. “About him. About all of you. There's so much danger out there...”

“I know. You wouldn't be you if you didn't.”

“Then why can't you let me be upset about it sometimes?”

And that's the question right there, isn't it? Derek doesn't know the answer. Yes, part of it is his alpha instincts, screaming at him to always try and make things better for his pack. But while he had let the others to come to him when they needed him, Stiles is a different matter. And it's not because he doesn't trust Stiles. Quite the opposite. He trusts Stiles with his life in a way he doesn't think he's had with anyone since Laura.

“I don't know,” he says honestly, and Stiles gives him one last squeeze before finally letting go. He wipes his face on his sleeve, and Derek turns away to gaze out across the driveway, giving him the tiniest illusion of privacy. But barely a second later Stiles is there, close against his side, like he's not entirely ready to give up the last threads of contact from the hug.

“I got a few theories, actually. But you might not be ready to hear them.” He sniffs hard, taking a deep breath of soft summer air, letting it out slowly, a few final shivers leaving his body along with it.

“Not ready? What's that supposed to mean?” Derek knows he's a work in progress, but the idea that he's still too raw to hear whatever Stiles is thinking does smart slightly.

“Not ready as in not ready, Derek, jeez.”

“What, you think I'm gonna break down or freak out? Exactly what point in our lives made you think I wouldn't be able to handle-”

“It's not about handling it, asshole, it's about how maybe you don't want to hear it yet.”

Derek has to let out a frustrated groan at that, because he's really sick of people assuming they know what he wants. “Come on, Stiles-”

“Or maybe I'm wrong!” Stiles rambles on. “You never know, this could be it, the first time – shut up – that I'm actually completely wrong, and maybe I don't wanna risk it!”

The bald-faced lie is enough to make Derek snort, and he just has to shake his head through the rest. “When has that ever stopped you before?”

Stiles slaps a hand on his chest dramatically. “Are you telling me I've been wrong before?! Stab me in the heart, why don't ya!”

“Why would I when words hurt so much more,” Derek snarks, and he almost forgets that they were having a moment until Stiles can't seem to maintain the grin any longer, letting it slide off his face.

“They do, though. Don't they.”

“Yeah.”

A small, wry smile makes it onto Stiles' face, and Derek feels his tension ease with it. “Kinda made my point there for me, big guy.”

Derek has to laugh, because this is true to form. Stiles doesn't even have to give Derek the runaround, he does that perfectly well all by himself. But that doesn't mean Stiles is right, and Derek has never been able to just let things go with Stiles, no matter who's right or wrong. And that's pretty much the core of the problem right there.

“Stiles,” he says, and waits until Stiles' red-rimmed eyes are firmly on him. “Tell me why you think I can't let you hurt.” There's a tickle in the back of Derek's mind, like the more they talk about it, the closer he gets to the solution. But he's just not quite getting there. He needs Stiles to guide him. Just like always.

“Okay. Okay, but please keep in mind that it's just a theory.”

“All right.”

“And, like, don't rip my throat out or anything either, please-”

“Stiles-”

“Okay! Okay, I think... I think maybe there's something... between us. I'm not sure what, exactly. Could be the whole me-possibly-being-a-future-emissary thing, or maybe the new hugging routines have caused some extra special bonding...”

“...but?”

“But... yeah, there's a but. Cause I kinda think maybe it's more than that. But considering all the shit you're still trying to cope with from the last time you got emotionally involved, I'm not sure it's the right time to even open this can of worms.”

One of the more annoying things about Stiles, in Derek's opinion at least, is that he can say a million words without really saying anything concrete. God, the answer is so close Derek can almost taste it, and the fact that it's still out of his reach is frustrating in the extreme.

“What can of worms?”

Stiles groans and flings out his hands in defeat. “Are you really gonna make me say it?”

“Yeah. Because I think I need to hear it,” Derek says honestly, feeling like he'll be left swaying in the wind forever if Stiles doesn't get to the point. There's definitely something here he's just not seeing. But he can sense it, somehow. Vague and intangible. Like smoke through his grasping hands.

What is real, though, is Stiles, solid against Derek's side, and also starting to shake again despite the warm night.

“Please, Stiles. Tell me.”

“I think...” he blows out a hard breath, and Derek can feel him steel himself where their shoulders touch. “I think we're mates.”

Derek blinks slowly, staring at Stiles' unmoving profile. His entire brain feels like it's screeching to a halt, and Stiles can't seem to tear his eyes off a very interesting spot of dirt on the driveway.

“And... I also kinda think that maybe you haven't seen it because you don't want to see it. And I don't blame you, dude, with your history? Makes perfect sense, really.”

All Derek can do is stand there and watch Stiles' lips move as he keeps talking. Because this... this is... yeah, he's got nothing.

“And it's fine! I mean, no, not great, obviously, but what I'm saying is that I don't expect you to, like, accept the bond or whatever, the books all say you can refuse, and I totally get if you'd want to,” Stiles babbles, making Derek's head spin from the sheer number of rapidfire words. “Though, while we're on the subject, I- I guess I should just put it out there that I'd, uh, I'd accept it if you did. But that doesn't mean I'm trying to guilt you into this! I get it, seriously! Even if you weren't five hundred pounds of issues in a two hundred pound bag, who'd wanna be mates with the hyperactive human, you know?”

“Stiles, shut up,” Derek snaps, because he hasn't even gotten around to digesting the fact that they might be mates, never mind the rest of Stiles' word vomit, and hearing him put himself down, like he always does, makes Derek want to shake him.

“Oh, nice, first he begs me to talk, then we're back to shut up, Stiles,” he grumbles, but he's still not looking at Derek at all, and he's tense and still against Derek's arm, and it's all wrong. “It's fine, it's okay, don't worry about it, I never thought you'd want this, especially since you didn't even want to see it in the first place-

“Stiles-!”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, I know, it's always shut up Stiles with you, isn't it, why should this be any different.” He sounds bitter, and Derek feels like he's being pulled in a million different directions, because what is he even supposed to feel about this? “You know what, I think I'm gonna go back inside and give Erica a stern lecture about clogged arteries, and bro codes between pack members,” he says, and begins to back away, still not looking at Derek.

And the moment the last point of contact between them is gone, it all falls into place in Derek's head.

Mate. He has a mate. He never truly thought he'd have one. Someone like him couldn't possibly be that blessed. Mates are precious, and not every wolf gets to have one. And for humans to even be aware when they're a wolf's mate is... well, Derek never even heard of it. But, then again, Stiles is a spark and possibly on the path to become the pack emissary, so if anyone should be able to rock the boat on anything it would be him.

And Derek wants to bash himself in the face repeatedly for not seeing what was happening. His hyper-awareness of Stiles and his mental state. The constant breakdown of communications, Derek's common sense flying right out the window with every tear from Stiles' sad eyes. The tension, the bickering, the give and take, even when they were arguing, and Derek was so deep in his own issues he didn't even realize it.

Stiles' hand is on the doorknob when Derek reaches him, and the door rattles as Stiles' back slams up against it. There's just enough time for Stiles to stare wide-eyed and slack-jawed at Derek, finally looking him in the eye again, before Derek follows his most basic instincts, and surges forward to capture Stiles' lips with his own.

This, Derek's soul sings, this is right. Even as Stiles bites at his lips, and pulls painfully at his hair, because nothing with Stiles is ever easy. It would be wrong if it were, and Derek would never dare believe it. But this is real, painfully so, and he hisses when Stiles flings his arms around him hard enough for their teeth to clack, nicking his lip.

“Sorry, sorry-”

“Shut up.”

“Mmm-okay,” Stiles agrees easily, and Derek curses himself for never realizing it was this simple.

* * *

John hasn't been a sheriff for over fifteen years for nothing, and it doesn't escape his notice when all the werewolves around him suddenly tense, and then slowly start to grin, one by one, after there's a disturbing scuffle outside the door, audible even over the still-loud TV.

“What?” he asks, and the betas share looks back and forth for so long John starts drumming his fingers pointedly on his knee. “Well?”

“I think I should give you a ride home, Mr Stilinski,” Erica says finally. “Looks like Stiles might be spending the night.”

John hates to admit it, but it takes him way too long to put those pieces together. Not that he hadn't had his suspicions, but still. “Oh. Oh. Uhm. Well.”

“Come on,” Erica says with a pat to his closest thigh. “We'll take the Camaro. It's in the garage, so we won't have to disturb the lovebirds on the porch.”

And John might be retired, and officially in the old farts' club, but damn, he's been itching to ride in the Camaro, even if just as a passenger. So he gets up more smoothly than he ever did when he was weighed down by the duties of a sheriff, picks up his jacket, and sweeps out his hand. “Well, in that case. After you, Miss Reyes.”

Stiles does indeed spend the night.

End.