Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The only thing Stiles was ever really sure of these days was that Derek was going to kill him one of these days, and if things didn't start to look up in Beacon Hills he was seriously going to have to consider boarding school for his senior year. If his dad's recent mail was any indication, he was having similar thoughts, but the Sheriff was getting military school brochures, not boarding school. Stiles couldn't really blame him, not with everything that had been going on lately.

Druids, kanima, darach, crazy old men with god complexes, narcissistic werewolves, angry werewolves--Derek. It was a lot for his dad to process. Stiles wasn't helping matters with his recent apprenticeship to Deaton. After all, the McCall pack needed an Emissary now, and Stiles had the knack. A knack that saved some asses when things with the Alpha pack and the darach got really messy. Stiles almost lost his dad, Derek almost lost his sister, Allison almost lost her dad and Scott almost lost his mom. That was a few too many almosts for Stiles' taste. The strain on Stiles' relationship with his dad was starting to get pretty bad.

They weren't even really talking.

Stiles wasn't sure what was worse, being yelled at, or not being yelled at.

His car was still in the shop, so his dad took him to school when it reopened. Even Beacon Hills High took a break when teachers got murdered. All Stiles could hear was the rattle of the heat kick on his dad's squad car, the squeak of the left side break and the occasional crackle of the radio. Stiles held his backpack in his lap and stared down at his hands. Bruises from the big showdown were fading to green, so his knuckles looked like he'd gotten some weird zombie virus, along with his jaw, and a mass of green/purple splotches all over his legs and back from getting thrown around like a fucking rag doll.

The engine shuddered off and Stiles looked up.

"I'll pick you up after school."

"Okay."

Stiles sat there in the front seat for what felt like an hour, but he knew it was about thirty seconds by the beats of his heart. He sighed and opened the door, slipped out and shut it. He stood there while the patrol car roared back to life and his dad drove off.

"Stiles," Scott called. "I didn't expect to see you back so soon. You look like crap."

"Gee, thanks Scott. You'd look this good too if you got used like a chew-toy and didn't have super-werewolf-healing-powers." Stiles shouldered his backpack and grimaced. "Anybody else here?"

“Allison and Lydia came together, Isaac is on his way--I think I saw Ethan with Danny." The twins had switched sides, and Stiles knew that was one of the reasons most of the crew made it out alive. Those two were like a force of nature. A scary, werewolf Transformer. At least they're on our side, Stiles thought.

"Any sign of Derek?" No one had seen him in a couple days, not since Cora ran off into the woods on four legs and Derek ran after her.

Scott shook his head. "No, and I even tried to catch his scent in the woods, but the trail went cold. I'm sure he'll be fine as soon as he finds Cora."

“Right.” Stiles nodded. "Okay. We should get inside."

"Your dad doing okay?" Scott asked as they headed inside.

"I'm not sure." Stiles shrugged. "He's keeping a close eye on me though. I got out to see Deaton a couple times, but that's only because Dad was at work. He kind of took my phone. Sorry."

"It's okay. Just--give him time. Mom took a while to come to terms with all the crazy."

"I know." Walking into school, Stiles couldn't help but think about all the bodies that had piled up in this place. It was like Beacon Hills was a serial killer magnet or something. Maybe there was a secret message on the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign only psychopaths could read or something. He wouldn't be surprised if there was.

"Just, hang in there. It's going to be okay."

"Yeah. Sure."

Scott patted Stiles shoulder awkwardly. Jeeze, Scott's an Alpha, Lydia's a banshee, Allison's a hunter, and for all my "talent" I'm still just a smart mouth on legs with a baseball bat.

"We gotta to go to class," Stiles said.

"Yeah. Any idea who our new English teacher is?"

"Not a one," Stiles replied. "And I don't care, just so long as they have an actual degree and aren't trying to murder all of my friends."

"You wouldn't think that would have to be part of the qualifications for an English teacher."

"You'd think." Stiles paused just inside the doorway to the classroom and turned right back around again.

"Mr. Stilinski, take a seat please."

Stiles looked at Scott. "What did I just say? I mean come on."

Peter Hale stood at the chalkboard, looking more put together than usual in a suit and tie, chalk in one hand and a copy of Tolstoy in the other.

"Mr. McCall, you need to take a seat as well."

Stiles looked back at Peter and sighed. "I was really hoping for that Mrs. Weaver." Mrs. Weaver being the ancient substitute who slept through most classes and gave reading assignments she forgot about the next day. "Or even, I don't know, Darth Vader."

Peter raised his eyebrow. "I think you'll find I'm a very capable teacher, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles rolled his eyes and found a seat next to Scott. The rest of this year was going to be just as murderous as the start, wasn't it?

***

"You look better," Allison remarked at lunch.

Stiles shrugged. "I guess."

"Well, at least you don't have to try an accessorize a lavender cast," Lydia countered, waving her left arm in the air, clad in its thick lavender cast. "I mean, they should have slip covers or something, I do not have enough clothes in my wardrobe to match this color."

"You could go shopping," Allison suggested.

"True." Lydia pursed her perfect glossy red lips. "Mom does owe me some guilt shopping."

"Cora's not here," Isaac remarked. "Anyone heard from Derek?"

The ladies shook their heads.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Stiles said. "I mean, it's Derek." He's going to fine. It’s not like I said horrible things to him in the heat of the moment. It’s not like I’m worried he might actually tear my throat out with his teeth.

Scott gave him a look. It was the look Scott had been giving him for the last few months every time Stiles said Derek’s name.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Nothing.” Scott shook his head.

Lydia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please, somebody just come out and say it already.” She looked around the table which was suddenly full of teenagers looking at their own hands, except for Stiles, who just looked confused.

Lydia put her hands down on the table and sighed in exasperation. “Fine. I’ll tell him.” She looked Stiles in the eyes. “Stiles, it’s clear to anyone with eyes that you have a thing for Derek.”

Stiles coughed. “What?”

“Come on man,” Isaac said. “The last time you were in the same room together I thought we were all going to have to leave because you were going to jump him. I mean, you punched him instead, but still.” Isaac shrugged. “It’s like watching a National Geographic special.”

Allison took a huge bite out of her apple and refused comment.

Stiles just sat there, mouth open. After struggling, mouth opening and closing, for a few moments, he responded, “Are you all out of your minds? I mean—Derek is like—that’s like Han Solo getting together with Luke. No, it’s like Chewbacca getting with Luke. I mean, really? There’s nothing there. You guys are all insane. Insane. Insane.” Stiles stood up. “I have to go—do something.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what exactly he had to do, but he ignored Scott calling after him as he wandered away from the lunch table and into the hallway. I do not like Derek. Derek was a big angry man with violent tendencies. I hate him. Stiles decided. That’s all there is to it.

His wandering had led him all the way to the gym, the big empty gymnasium.

“Dammit. My friends have clearly lost their minds.” He threw his hands up and sat down next to the bleachers. This was not how he’d expected his first day back to go.

***

“How was school?” Stiles’ dad asked when he got into the car.

“Fine.”

And there was silence for the car ride home. His dad was still on duty, so Stiles was left to his own devices, but given that he was grounded for the foreseeable future while his dad processed the whole werewolf/darach situation, Stiles decided it would be best if he walked to the vet’s office and talked to Deaton.

Because how much more trouble could he really get in?

The typically cagey veterinarian/druidic emissary was in the back doing inventory when Stiles arrived. He looked up from his clipboard and smiled. “Stiles, it’s good to see you. You look better.”

“I guess. So, my dad’s at work until seven, teach me Obi-wan.” He leaned onto the metal exam table in the small tiled treatment room adjacent to the stock room.

“I do have something for you to read,” Deaton admitted. He put the clipboard down and headed back into the treatment room, picking up a fabric wrapped bundle from the rolling cart usually covered in surgical equipment. He set the bundle down in front of Stiles. “It’s very old, so be careful with it.”

Stiles frowned and undid the knot on the top of the bundle, peeling the fabric away to reveal a brown leather bound book. The front was inlaid with bone forming the four-fold knot the darach had used in her rituals.

“This book is the history of the druids so far as they were emissaries to the packs,” Deaton explained. “It’s in Old Gaelic, but I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“There’s always Google Translate,” Stiles muttered. “Am I supposed to read the whole thing?” He raised his eyebrows. The book was thicker than War and Peace.

“Yes. When you’re done reading this, we can move on.”

“Okay then.” Stiles wrapped the book back up and stuffed it into his backpack with some difficulty. “So—all of my friends think I’m going to start dating Derek Hale. Or jumping his bones. Or something. Is it possible the school water supply is full of hallucinogens?”

Deaton laughed. “It’s not, I checked.”

“Then they’re all going crazy.”

“Well, Stiles, you’ve all just gone through a very traumatic experience. I’m sure it will all blow over.” Deaton clapped him on the shoulder. “Get going then, you’ve got a lot of translating to do.”

“Right. Great.” Maybe a couple more Adderall will help me get this done. “See you later.”

Stiles walked home, considering how little he’d accomplished that day and the giant book of secrets in his backpack. At least he was getting answers now. Some answers anyway. He still wasn’t totally sure he understood what was up with the darach besides revenge.

He’d gotten back to his house when he remembered that he now had to deal with Peter Hale everyday and groaned.

It was so time to get a bit drunk. He dropped the bag in his bedroom and got out the bottle of vodka he’d been saving for when Scott got dumped again and unscrewed the top, breaking the seal with a hard twist and taking a drink. He wrinkled his nose and made a face.

“This is just…awful.” He took another drink anyway and sat down on his bed with a thud. “Screw it.”

Stiles had only been drunk once before, when Allison first dumped Scott, but this was different. He’d been drinking with someone. Now he was alone drinking on his bed and that was all shades of pathetic. So he kept drinking, forgetting that his dad was going to be home for dinner, forgetting about his stupid friends and stupid sourwolf Derek and the stupid darach and all the people that got killed. Like Heather, like Erica, like Boyd. He didn’t really care much about Mr. Harris, but that was no reason not to drink to his memory.

It was dark in his room, and Stiles was drunk when his dad came home. “Stiles? Hey, I got pizza.”

Stiles didn’t answer. The bottle sat next to his foot. He felt worse than he had when he started drinking. Not like last time. Last time he’d felt warm and a bit sappy, now he just felt like there was a dark pit opening up inside of him.

“Stiles?” There were footsteps on the stairs as his dad came up to his bedroom door and knocked.

“Stiles?” The door opened and the light came on. “Hey, I got pizza.”

Stiles turned to look at his dad. “Ok.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” He walked over to his son, and was hit with the smell of alcohol. He leaned down and picked up the bottle. “What the hell is this?”

“The kids call it hooch,” Stiles muttered.

“I know what this is,” he gestured with the bottle. “I’m asking what you’re doing with it.”

“Getting drunk. I thought that was obvious.”

“I don’t—you’re grounded.”

“I’m already grounded.”

“Well now you’re double-grounded. You have school and you have home. When I work late, your ass is at the station, if I work really late, I’ll hire a babysitter.”

“What? I don’t need a babysitter, Dad.”

“Really?” He held up the bottle again. “Right. Don’t think this means you aren’t going to school tomorrow. I don’t care if you have the hangover from hell.” He walked out of the room, slamming the door shut.

Stiles sank down, head in his hands and shook. Everything is so fucked up. He couldn’t fix his relationship with his dad before. He couldn’t fix it now either. He couldn’t fix anything. What was the point of being an emissary anyway?

I only get in the way.

***

Stiles did have a hangover the next day, and coped with it by wearing sunglasses and ignoring everyone. His friends seemed to think it was in response to what had happened at lunch the other day, and didn’t press him.

But there was still English with Peter-murdering-psychopath-Hale. Yay. He spent most of his time doodling in the margins of his notes, which were mostly just a list of ways to get out of English class and/or murder Peter.

So of course Peter decided to call on him.

“Mr. Stilinski, are you paying attention? I asked you a question.”

Stiles considered for a moment. “Vodka?” Tolstoy was Russian, maybe the answer was vodka. Stiles didn’t really care one way or another, but he’d try.

“No, Mr. Stilinski, the answer is not vodka.”

“Maybe it should have been.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “I think you need more time to read your assignment, how about detention?”

“No thank you.”

“I’ll see you after school then.”

Great. This was really going to help the whole Dad situation.

Scott gave him a sympathetic look and Stiles went back to his doodling. What a fan-fucking-tastic day.

***

“So, Stiles,” Peter stared at him. “You look better. Recover from your hangover?”

“Is there anything your wolfy-powers don’t tell you?” Stiles replied.

“I don’t need wolf powers to recognize a hangover when I see one,” Peter replied.

“You know you look like a Bond villain with that goatee, right? It’s hard to take you seriously.” Stiles sat down at a desk in the front row. “So, you really want me to read Tolstoy for half an hour?”

“Yes. However, I also thought you might like to tell everyone that Derek and Cora are safe and sound. She finally changed back and Derek has her at home.”

“Good.”

Peter set the copy of War and Peace down on Stiles’ desk. “Now, read. The danger is over. Be a teenager and try to pretend I’m just your English teacher.”

Stiles sighed. The rest of this year was just going to fly by, wasn’t it?

Derek is okay. Cora’s okay.

Stiles ignored the sensation of weight being lifted off his shoulders. I have no feelings for Derek. None.

***

His dad was working late, so Stiles was stuck reading Tolstoy at the station for a couple hours. He was calling it a defense. As long as he kept up in English, Peter wouldn’t disrupt his life. Hopefully.

Being in the station reminded him that Tara was dead. Not the greatest feeling in the world. He couldn’t leave though, that would just piss his dad off more, and Stiles was pretty sure he’d done enough damage to their relationship for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t help think about the motel, when Scott was high on wolfsbane talking about how it would have been better if he was nobody. Stiles was feeling a little like that. He’d been damaged before the werewolves returned to Beacon Hills.

The anniversary of his mother’s death was mocking him as it drew closer. Like he needed a reminder of more death and destruction. Like he needed a reminder that deep down, or maybe not so deep down, he felt responsible for her death. He felt responsible for not saving Heather, or Tara. For being the kid who always found the bodies.

Even though we won…all those people died.

And all his friends could talk about was him liking Derek-fucking-Hale. Was he the only one being torn apart by grief? Why was the aftermath so much worse than the battle? It just wasn’t fair. Things were supposed to get better. They just—weren’t.

***

Derek hadn’t seen the remnants of his pack since he got Cora back home. It was just Isaac, and he was more part of Scott’s pack now than Derek’s. He had Peter, but Peter was…Peter. Cora was still coping with her new power and Derek was still trying to cope with Boyd and Erica—and the fact that he seemed to be a magnet for psychopaths. He’d been used, over and over again.

So when Stiles saw him for the first time since all of that went down, he was surprised to see the guy looking pretty good, all things considered. Then, Stiles was pretty much the only one still sporting any signs of injury—except for Lydia of course—so there was that. Stiles was just sitting outside the station waiting for his dad when Derek showed up, looking gloomy and broody as usual in a leather jacket and jeans that were probably the envy of all other jeans because they were on Derek Hale.

I am not thinking about Derek Hale’s ass. Stiles shook his head. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Derek returned.

“So, I heard your sister is okay.”

“Yeah, she’s doing really well. I hear you’re becoming a druid.”

“Only you could say that with a straight face,” Stiles muttered. “I don’t know. Deaton says I’ve got the talent.”

Derek looked straight in the eyes, and for a moment, Stiles forgot to breath.

“Be careful, Stiles. It’s really easy to play the what if game, when you lose people. Don’t do what I did. Okay?” Derek stood there for a moment, shrugged and then walked off.

Stiles blinked. What the hell was that?

“Stiles, come on,” his dad shouted.

“Coming!”

What the hell was that? From Derek Hale of all people?

Stiles sighed. I survived the week, I can survive the next one. I don’t need advice from Derek Hale to do that.

Fucking Derek Hale.

Chapter Text

Stiles took a shower that night, and found himself inexplicably thinking about Derek Hale again. That was not a safe place. Nope. Danny was safe, even Lydia, because they were moderately attainable. Derek wasn't attainable. Stiles screamed at the guy, punched him in the face and said—well, he said things. Stiles wouldn’t want to even talk to himself again if he’d said what he’d said to himself…that didn’t make sense.

But then Derek came up to him and—gave him advice? That was weird right? That was definitely weird.

“No, Little Stiles, it’s not okay to stand to attention over Derek-freakin’-Hale, so stop it.” That wasn’t stopping anything. Stiles took matters into his own hands eventually and let the evidence of his attraction go down the drain with the suds from his shampoo. He rested his hands against the shower wall and stared at his bruises for a long moment. “I am so fucked up. Seriously.” Stiles shut the water off with a vicious twist and clambered out of the shower, throwing his towel over his head before wiping off the bathroom mirror to see if he needed to shave.

He wrinkled his nose at the sight of his face. God, I even look like a smart-ass. Stiles wiped the towel through his hair and went to wrap it around his waist when he noticed something—off. There were the typical bruises that were fading, yes but… There, over his navel, was a handprint shaped mark in vibrant, startling indigo.

“What the fuck?”

He blinked, and the mark was gone.

“I’m seeing things,” he reassured himself. “Seeing things.” Stiles shook his head, sending droplets of water all over the bathroom. “Great.”

Stiles was pretty sure hallucinations were something he should mention to Deaton, or his dad, or Scott or possibly Lydia, but for some reason—some part of him was whispering Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

Instead of analyzing this oddity, Stiles went to bed. He had enough shit to deal with without wondering if his inner voice was developing a complex.

***

The next morning Stiles got dressed and checked himself for the handprint, but it wasn’t there. Hallucination. He reminded himself before going down stairs for a bowl of cereal. His dad was drinking coffee, looking at the newspaper with a critical eye when Stiles came in and disturbed the silence with the jangling of cereal into a ceramic bowl.

His dad put the paper down and looked at him, really looked at him. “You know I’m just—I’m just really worried about you. Right?”

Stiles looked at his dad. Finally. They could have the conversation they should have had right after the dust up except—Stiles opened his mouth, and for the first time he could remember, he couldn’t find words. He managed to grunt awkwardly and then dug into his cereal. As he took the first bite, he could swear he felt a hand pressing against his navel, just for a moment.

Then the sensation was gone, and so was his urge to speak to his dad.

The sheriff picked up the newspaper and grimaced. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. We—I know we haven’t talked. We need to talk. Okay? Maybe after school?”

Stiles grunted again.

“Okay then.” John finished his coffee and sighed, turning away from his son with a confused look.

The car ride to school was just as quiet as the last and every time Stiles thought he might speak, he felt that same pressure again. Not real, he thought. Hallucination.

Because his life is already like Halloween on crack, he’s willing to buy into that for at least a few days. At least.

***

Stiles was still in denial about the strange blue handprint that appears on his stomach when Derek decided to call a meeting. Stiles only agreed to go because Deaton seemed to think it’s important and for some reason he’s the only person Stiles doesn’t feel completely insane around these days. Every second with his friends made his skin itch and being around his dad—it’s like a sour taste in his mouth that just won’t go away.

Derek’s loft having been destroyed, the Hale family now occupied a three bedroom apartment downtown. Stiles thought it was Derek’s way of keeping an eye on Peter, because that guy was pretty much villainy on two legs.

Derek is sex on two legs, Stile’s subconscious butted in. Shut up you. Great, now he was talking to himself. Thinking to himself. Whatever.

“Stiles? Are you paying attention?”

Stiles shook his head and looked up from the coffee table which held two copies of National Geographic and a few water stains. Derek was looking at him like he always did, with disdain and a glower. “Yeah, something, something, togetherness.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Not even close.”

“I think someone forgot his Adderall today,” Lydia remarked while touching up her lipstick.

“I did not,” Stiles protested. Actually, come to think of it, he had. Huh.

“Try to pay attention,” Derek admonished. “We held off the most recent threat, but we’re vulnerable now. Even with four alphas in this territory, there’s still the possibility something worse can come along. We have to be ready.” He looked at Stiles very sharply. “How’s the emissary training going?”

“Fine.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I don’t know, because you’re a total douchebag?” Stiles shrugged.

Derek raised an eyebrow.

Stiles looked around and realized that everyone was staring at him. The twins, Lydia, Scott, Allison, Peter, Cora, Isaac, Danny—everybody. Stiles squirmed in his seat. “What? Jesus, take a picture guys. I can’t be that interesting.”

“You’re acting weird,” Scott said. “I mean, weirder than usual.”

“I’m not acting weird.” He made a face and sunk back into the couch.

“You’re acting weird,” Peter said, deadpanned.

“Yeah,” Cora said. “I haven’t known you all that long and even I think you’re weirder than usual.”

“Gee, thanks.” He felt that pressure again on his navel and that sour taste came up again. “Look, I’m sure this little Rebel Alliance meeting doesn’t really need me. I’m just the chew toy, remember? I’ll see you guys later.” Stiles lurched up from his seat and headed for the door, only to find the solid wall that was Derek standing in front of him, arm outstretched and braced.

“You are acting weird, Stiles,” Derek said. He looked concerned.

Stiles’ stomach knotted and his heart beat went wild. “No I’m not. Are you going to move?”

Derek narrowed his eyes and stared for a very long twenty beats of Stiles’ heart before he moved. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

Did he look disappointed? Stiles wasn’t sure, but he ignored the feeling of guilt that nearly overwhelmed the sour taste and walked out the door. There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing.

He wasn’t so convinced of that when, walking out of the apartment building he tasted blood at the back of his mouth and felt something warm dripping from his nose. He reached up and found his nose was bleeding. He didn’t have any tissues, but he found a forgotten napkin stuffed in his back pocket and balled it up to stop the flow.

There was a moment of dizziness and Stiles found the ground rushing up to meet him as his heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t fainting, but it felt like he was falling into himself. Like his mind was sinking deep into a dark pit and all he could see was a blue hand coming at him. It was a woman’s hand.

His last thought before the darkness climbed over his head was, I don’t want to be in a horror movie.

***

When Stiles came too, he found himself at the back of a gas station, holding a can of spray paint. There was paint on his fingers. It was blue. He looked up at the gas station wall. He’d painted a spiral on the wall. He had no idea how he’d gotten to the gas station, or where the paint came from. What the hell?

He was just starting to get a grip on where he was when he heard a car door slam behind him and saw the reflection of red and blue lights against the mostly white wall of the gas station. He turned around, gripping the can tighter for a moment before throwing it away from him spastically. Like that was going to make him look less suspicious.

His dad got out of the car, eyebrows raised as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me you aren’t resorting to vandalism now?”

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Get in the car, Stiles. I’ll talk to the gas station owner.”

“Yes, sir.” Stiles wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it scared him. It really scared him. He didn’t really process it when his dad took him home, or even the stony silence when they walked into the house.

“What the hell is going on with you, Stiles?” His dad put his keys down on the table and turned to look at him. “You won’t talk to me, you don’t even ask to go out with your friends anymore. You just sit in your room and brood. Now you’re vandalizing gas stations with that symbol? You have to talk to me Stiles!”

He wanted to, he did, but… he just felt that pressure all over again, and the taste came back. He managed to stutter out, “I—I—I’m sorry.” That was it. That was all he managed to get out.

John shook his head. “When you want to resume being the kid I raised, you let me know. Go to your room.”

Stiles went, because he couldn’t stand to see his dad’s disappointed face anymore. He didn’t know what was happening to him, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. There’s nothing wrong. A voice whispered. You’re just fucked up. Just a stupid fuck up.

Why did that voice have to sound like his mom?

He sat down on his bed, not bothering with the lights. “What’s wrong with me?”

***

After the first blackout, it happened twice more over the course of a week. The second and third time, no one caught him vandalizing anything, because the buildings were empty this time but…Stiles didn’t know how much more he could take. He avoided everyone and just plain stopped going to school. He didn’t know what he did when he blacked out, what if he started hurting people? What if it became more than just vandalism? He didn’t know what to do.

Stiles wanted to tell someone what was going on, but he couldn’t. The strange blue hand wouldn’t let him say a word to anyone.

And then he blacked out a fourth time, except this time, when he woke, he knew something was different. Something had changed. Something…something broke. Stiles went to school the day after he came out of the fourth black out. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. He felt invisible. He no longer felt any compulsion to talk to his friends. He didn’t want to talk at all. He wasn’t sure what he wanted really, but he knew he had to go to school, he had to be as normal as possible.

He didn’t want to attract attention. Except he was attracting attention. His friends were half-convinced he was suffering post-traumatic stress, his father was more than half convinced and Stiles swore every time he turned around he felt eyes on him. The only time he really felt anything like himself was when he sat in front of his computer and dug into translating the book Deaton gave him.
It wasn’t all words either, there were also pictures. Lots of pictures actually, and when he stumbled across that spiral, he took pause. The werewolves meaning was vendetta, but the druids had a different meaning for the spiral. Initiation. Journey. Was this strange blue hand all just a part of him becoming a druid? Maybe. He should ask Deaton but… the thought slipped away and he found himself focusing back on the book, Deaton washed from his mind.

Druid history was fascinating, though Google was proving to have less than stellar translation services in regards to sentence structure, but it wasn’t like Stiles had any friends who spoke Old Gaelic, not even Lydia. How long as it been since I spoke to Lydia?

Just like with Deaton though, the thought slipped away.

Stiles pushed his notes away. Journey. Initiation. Sure. This was all just growing pains. Everything would level out on its own. His friends were just overreacting. There was nothing wrong. He was just changing. Scott changed, Allison changed, Lydia changed. Hell, Danny was a fucking werewolf now. Why couldn’t Stiles change too?

Stiles was just changing. He wasn’t the scared kid from last year, he was going to be a druid. Have real power. Just like Scott. Just like everybody else and no one was going to toss him around like a rag doll ever again. No one was going to hurt him again. No one.

***

The internal change in Stiles was dramatic, and Stiles was always dramatic, and took that change to his wardrobe as well. He was tired of being looked at like a kid. He wasn’t a kid anymore. People had to see that. He showed up at school in a red dress shirt, black slacks and vest and hair slicked back. He even moved differently. He didn’t want to be the flailing awkward kid anymore. He wanted to be dangerous. He wanted to show everyone he could take care of himself.

Lydia raised her eyebrows when she saw Stiles walk into English. “Who taught you how to dress yourself all of a sudden?”

He shrugged. “Thought I’d try something new.”

She pursed her lips. “Looks good.”

“Thanks.” He managed a smile, but unlike his typical smiles which ranged from sly to sweet, this one was downright predatory.

Lydia frowned and then brushed it off with her typical air of indifference but when Stiles’ back was turned she shot a look at Scott who frowned and looked at Allison. The three shared a look of concern but Stiles didn’t notice. Peter was staring at him but Stiles only stared back and flashed that smile before winking. Peter raised an eyebrow and turned to the blackboard.

Stiles opened up War and Peace and started drawing spirals in the margins. Over and over again, spiral after spiral.

Journey. Initiation. Growth. Stiles repeated the words under his breath like a mantra. Everything was going his way. Now he just needed a hot date. A really hot date he could shove in the faces of all those people who snickered at him for being the sheriff’s son, or geeky or weird. Plus, he hadn’t had to take his Adderall in days. He felt more focused than he ever had in his life.

He felt great. What had he been so worried about anyway? There was nothing to be worried about.

After school he finally got his Jeep back out of the shop and while his new sense of style clashed with the powder blue Jeep, he was just happy to have a piece of his freedom back. After a couple days of being studious and well dressed, his dad took it as a new leaf and eased up on the whole surveillance. He drove himself to and from school and even hung out a bit with his friends. He kept going to Deaton for druid lessons.
Deaton took Stiles style change in stride, and seemed pleased the teenager was putting forth more effort in his lessons. It would be years before Stiles was anywhere near Deaton’s own level, but Stiles consumed knowledge like a sponge. He wanted to know everything and he wanted to know it now.

He learned his first real spell; fire starting. He couldn’t start a big fire, but even a small spark was enough. He was just leaving the veterinary clinic when Derek approached him. Stiles had gone out through the back, and missed seeing Derek’s Camaro parked on the street out front.

“So, Lydia said you were dressing differently.” Derek looked Stiles up and down like he was assessing the damage. “I’d say there’s more to it than that though. You smell different.”

“It’s called cologne.”

“No, that’s not it.” Derek shook his head and slowly approached Stiles, backing him against the wall, putting his arms on either side of the teenager to keep him from going anywhere. Derek leaned in and sniffed Stiles neck. “It’s something else.”

Stiles was having lots of conflicting sensations all at once. At the forefront was anger, how dare Derek corner him like this? And…sniff him? That was just weird. Then there was the other part of him saying This is really hot and wouldn’t it be nice if he licked my neck?

“What then?”

“I’m not sure.” Derek took another sniff and then tugged the buttons of Stiles’ shirt open, popping some of the buttons clean off as he did so.

“Hey!”

“Shut up.” He pulled open the shirt and then tugged Stiles’ undershirt out from his pants and looked at the young man’s stomach intently. He leaned down and sniffed. “It’s just—there’s something wrong.”

“You’re delusional.” There was nothing there to look at except the last green vestiges of bruises and a few moles. “And this is weird. Like really weird. Like if anyone saw us this would require a lot of explaining.”

Derek pulled away from him and without blinking grabbed Stiles by the back of the neck. “You’ve been acting weird, Stiles.”

“I’m not acting weird. I’m fine. Everybody changes when they get older. I’m just—growing up. Get used to it.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Growing up means acting like a grown up, not an asshole.”

“Oh, so I’m acting like an ass hole? I suppose you would know then wouldn’t you?”

Derek growled and gripped Stiles more tightly and pulled him close. “What the hell is going on with you, Stiles?”

For a moment, that question knocked something loose that was buried under all that self-assurance and the spiral floating like a barrier at the back of his mind between Old Stiles and New Stiles. He looked at Derek and whimpered, “I don’t know. Derek. I don’t know.”

Derek’s expression softened when he saw the fear on Stiles face. “Stiles?”

Just as quick as the moment came though, it passed. “Just let me go, now.” Stiles counted to three before using his new found skill—he set Derek’s shirt front on fire. The man released him quickly in order to put out the fire. Stiles used the opportunity to make a run for his Jeep.

But Derek was a werewolf and his hand closed back onto the back of Stiles neck before he slammed the slender young man into the side of his Jeep a bit more viciously than he might have had Stiles punched him rather than set him on fire.

Pain overrode New Stiles long enough for Old Stiles to gasp out, “Help me, Derek.”

Derek let go of Stiles and turned him around, looking him in the eyes and again seeing a scared kid. “Stiles?”

“I’m scared, Derek. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Derek swallowed his anger as best he could. “I’m going to help you, Stiles. I promise.” He looked down for a moment, and there it was again, the bright blue hand print over Stiles’ navel. Derek frowned and touched the mark. “What’s this?”

“Stiles? What the hell is going on here?” Sheriff Stilinski interrupted and New Stiles came back in a rush as he pushed Derek away.

“Dad. This isn’t what it looks like.”

Derek straightened and looked at the sheriff. “It really isn’t. Sheriff, there’s something wrong with Stiles. Something really wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Derek.” Stiles straightened out his clothes. The commotion had drawn Deaton to the back door, and Stiles wondered briefly if hadn’t called the Sheriff.

Derek shook his head. “You just asked me for help, Stiles. Don’t you remember?”

“No I didn’t.” Stiles shook his head. “If anyone’s gone off the deep end here, it’s you. Dad, I’m going to go home. See you there?”

“Sure, Stiles.”

Stiles climbed in his Jeep and drove off, Deaton, John and Derek watching. Derek looked at Deaton and quirked an eyebrow. “I can’t be the only one who thinks there’s something wrong with him.”

Deaton frowned. “Stiles…is not himself,” the man agreed.

“Well, not really but he’s better than he was a few weeks ago. I mean—I thought…I don’t know what to think. He hasn’t been himself. I can’t argue with that.” John shook his head.

“Just for a moment back there, he was Stiles again. The annoying, mile-a-minute Stiles and he was scared. Really scared.” Derek took a deep breath. “There was a blue handprint on his stomach. It was there and then it was gone. It was small, a woman’s hand maybe.”

Deaton frowned. “I’ll have to do some research, but I have a horrible feeling this all connects back to our friend the darach.”

Derek shook his head. “She’s dead.”

“So was Peter,” Deaton reminded him. Deaton looked at John. “Keep a close eye on Stiles in the meantime.”

“I will too,” Derek said. “We all should.”

“Do you really think that woman is hurting my son from beyond the grave?” John asked, still somewhat skeptical.

“I truly hope not,” Deaton replied. “But in this town…we should be prepared for anything.”

Derek silently agreed with that assessment and looked the way Stiles had gone. “I have to talk to the pack. I’ll make sure Stiles goes straight home, Sheriff.”

“Uh—thanks, Derek.”

Derek nodded and headed for his Camaro. He hoped this wasn’t more of the darach’s handiwork but…he couldn’t shake the sound of Stiles’ voice as he asked for help. He was terrified. There had to be something Derek could do to help him.

There just had to be.

Chapter Text

The Beacon Hills Reserve was quieter than Derek liked. Just like when the Alphas came, when the darach came—it was far too quiet. Even the crickets were quiet. Derek was pretty sure Stiles had been all over the woods over the past few weeks. His scent was everywhere. A spicy, clean clothes and tea-tree shampoo smell. These days though, there was a sweet/sour scent underneath, like apple pie going bad. Rotting.

He had Scott and Isaac with him, running down other trails. The twins were with Danny, the full moon being a day or so away, no one wanted the new member of the family hurting anyone. Lydia and Allison had opted to help Deaton do research, and Derek was just happy not to have either woman underfoot. Allison’s father could only complicate things and Lydia…She complained far too much when she was out in the wilderness.

That, and Derek was pretty sure the girl didn’t own any practical shoes.

Derek followed an older trail, a few days old at least, around his family’s property and down to the druid tree. Not a huge surprise there, but the sour smell was strongest here. He looked around and found evidence of candles and bits of herbs. What the hell had Stiles been doing? Or worse, what if it wasn’t Stiles at all?

Derek was damn sure he couldn’t take losing anyone else. Sure, Stiles irritated the hell out of him, but the kid had proved more than once that he was part of the Pack. He wasn’t afraid to stand up for himself. Derek respected that. The first drops of rain fell as he emerged from the cellar.

It had rained on him over the summer many times, and Derek didn’t mind. There was one night though, when the rain came down in buckets and he’d taken shelter in the shell of his family home—and found Stiles there.

The kid had been soaking wet, stripped down to his jeans with his t-shirt and hoodie draped over some broken furniture while he fiddled with his phone. Derek thought it was only fair that he saw Stiles half-dressed, given that the kid had used him as bait to get Danny to do what he wanted.

Derek whistled like a construction worker and Stiles jumped up, arms flailing.

“Derek! Damn it.”

Derek couldn’t help smirking. “Stiles. What are you doing out here?”

“Uh…I’m not trying to find Boyd and Erica if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Derek frowned. “Are you serious? You’re looking for Boyd and Erica?”

“Look, Isaac told me about the Alpha pack, so it’s not like I’m out here running blind or anything.”

Derek gave him a look of mixed disbelief and irritation. “You want to get yourself killed? Is that it? If your dad knew you were out here, I’m pretty sure we’d all be in trouble.”

“Well, he doesn’t know so stop worrying.”

“Right, because I shouldn’t worry about the seventeen-year-old kid running around the forest where an entire pack of Alphas has already abducted two other teenagers—and they were werewolves.” Derek looked over Stiles. “You need to stop.”

“You should know me well enough by now to know I won’t.”

“You’ll stop, or I’ll make you stop.”

Stiles squared his shoulders. “Oh yeah, sourwolf? You lay a single claw on me and I’ll tell Scott about the Alpha pack.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? And ruin his summer of improvement? You really want to do that?”

“Uh…”

“That’s what I thought.” Derek shook his head. “Stay out of it.”

“No.”

“I’m not asking, Stiles.”

“And I’m not staying out of it. You aren’t my Alpha, Derek.”

Derek growled.

“Ooh—big scary werewolf.” Stiles waved his hands in the air. “Erica is my friend and Boyd—well he’s Erica’s friend. I have to help find them, okay?”

Derek took a deep breath and grabbed Stiles by the shoulder and then the neck and shoved him into the nearest wall, face-first. “You will stay out of this.”

Stiles muttered something Derek didn’t quite catch.

“What was that?”

“I said, you’re delusional.”

“Oh, I am? Hmm.” Derek considered his options. He didn’t want to break any bones, because that might attract attention from Scott or the Sheriff, and he didn’t want to leave visible bruises for the same reason. He couldn’t treat Stiles like a wolf, but he could treat him like a stupid kid. A solution came to mind that might leave bruises, but wouldn’t be visible and should serve as a constant reminder of who exactly was in charge in this relationship.

The couch was in enough repair to be sat on. Derek dragged Stiles by the neck, the teenager complaining the whole while and not realizing Derek’s intention until the muscled werewolf had him pinned over the arm of the couch.

“You might think there’s nothing I could possibly do to make you stop, Stiles, but you’re wrong.” Derek pulled his arm back and brought his hand down onto Stiles jean-clad ass with a resounding smack.

“Derek! Let me go.”

“Stay out of the woods and I’ll stop.” Derek hit him again, a bit harder. “All you have to say is, I promise I’ll stay out of the woods, Derek.”

“Screw you.”

Derek cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. “I can do this for hours you know.” He struck twice more in rapid succession.

“Stop, Derek, stop!”

“You know what you have to say, Stiles.”

Stiles took four more before he finally spat out, “I promise I’ll stay out of the woods, Derek.”

Derek stopped and pulled Stiles to his feet. The teenager was uneasy on his feet, his face flushed red as he got himself under control for a brief moment before taking a swing at Derek. The werewolf dodged the clumsy attempt with a side step. Stiles shook his head.

“That was…I haven’t…I’m not a child, Derek! You can’t just do whatever you want!”

“I’m the Alpha.”

“Not mine!”

Derek took one step forward, and Stiles instinctively took a step back. “Really?”

Stiles swallowed. “I hate you.”

Derek noted the rain had stopped when the sound of it striking the roof ended. “Rain’s stopped, go home Stiles. If I see you in the woods again I can promise you’ll get a repeat of today, only twice as painful. Are we clear?”

Stiles nodded quickly.

Derek raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, we’re clear.”

Derek shook his head clear of the memory. He could still remember the way Stiles had looked, more muscular than he’d expected, no doubt from lacrosse. The moles that dotted along his face and neck continued down his shoulders and back. Derek remembered a girl in school calling them angel kisses. Derek couldn’t imagine an angel would kiss that little devil that many times.

Or maybe they had, hoping to keep him out of trouble. It sure didn’t work. Whatever their origin, the marks made a pattern against all the soft pale skin. Stiles had smelled like soap and rain and green things that day. Something in Derek had wanted to see the rest of Stiles as well. See if those angel’s kisses trailed down the boy’s hips and legs—but he hadn’t given into that urge.

He wasn’t even sure where the urge came from. His current, overriding urge was to protect Stiles. He wasn’t going to lose any more of his pack, even unwilling members of his pack. No matter how gruff he might be, how cruel his actions might seem, he cared very much for these kids. They weren’t really kids anymore though, Derek knew that. He wished he could have kept them all out of it, but… It was too late for that. Now all he could do was make sure they were prepared for the next thing that came their way.

But first, he had to help Stiles.

Scott came jogging up to him out of the rain, some mud on his shoes and the cuffs of his jeans. “Stiles' scent goes all over the place. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern but… I don’t know. Something feels wrong.”

“The birds are silent.”

“Like a storm is coming, yeah.” Scott nodded. “Where’s Isaac?”

“Still out there I guess,” Derek waved at the woods, “we’ll head for the rendezvous point and wait for him.”

“You don’t—you don’t think this has anything to do with the darach, do you? I mean…she’s dead.”

“I don’t know, Scott. I really hope not.”

How could they defeat something that was already dead?

***

Meanwhile, the research wasn’t going particularly well. Lydia was on the task of translating anything in a language no one but academics spoke anymore while Allison sorted things into “definitely nothing” and “possibly something”, as Lydia tossed them to her. Deaton kept bringing things up from his basement.

Neither girl had ever been to Deaton’s house, but it was nice. An innocuous single story brick with a fenced yard—mountain ash fencing—and a broad front porch. There were flowers planted in the front that looked suspiciously like wolfsbane amongst the petunias.

“So, Derek thinks he saw a weird blue handprint on Stiles stomach—never mind what Derek was doing taking Stiles' clothes off—and we’re stuck looking through every musty book Deaton has?” Lydia complained.

“I heard that,” Deaton said, arms full of more musty books. He put them down on the table in front of Lydia. “Keep looking. Besides, Derek isn’t the only one who saw it.”

Allison sighed. “And it’s not like Stiles hasn’t changed dramatically.”

“You were practically psychopathic after your mother died,” Lydia remarked. “It could be stress.”

“Stress, right. Stressed Stiles gets more talkative when he’s stressed. He’s gotten cold. He’s gotten—I mean look at the way he’s dressing,” Allison said.

“He looks good,” Lydia replied. “But I see your point.”

“Putting aside Stiles' fashion sense,” Deaton interjected, “have we found anything?”

“Not yet,” Lydia said.

“What are we even looking for?” Allison asked. “I mean, a blue handprint isn’t exactly a smoking gun.”

“We’ll find something. This is for Stiles.” Lydia opened up the next book. “We’ll find something.”

No one wanted to think about what would happen if they didn’t.

***

“I mean, he’s always been kind of a weird kid but he’s never…I just don’t understand what’s going on.” John stared at his hands. He’d come over to Melissa’s to see if Stiles was with Scott and ended up at the kitchen table with her over coffee.

“Whatever is going on with Stiles, the best people are on it, John. Well, the best people we know anyway. His friends won’t stop until they figure out what’s wrong. Just—don’t give up. He’s going to need you now more than ever.”

John took a deep breath. “What if this—what if this is something magic? I can’t fix that, Melissa. I’m not a werewolf or a druid. I’m just his dad.”

“Just his dad? There’s no just, John.” Melissa put her hand over his. “Be there for him, he’s a fighter. No matter what’s going on. Magic. Teenage rebellion. Identity crisis…we’ll figure it out. I know it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Scott came in through the kitchen door, leaving his muddy shoes outside on the porch. “Mr. Stilinski. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Stiles. He’s with you, right?”

Scott’s eyes went a bit wide. “No…haven’t seen him all day. I thought he was at home.” He went back onto the porch and started to put his shoes back on. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

“I’m going with you.” John stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Could you stay here? In case he decides to show up?” he asked Melissa.

“Of course. I’ll call Lydia, maybe she’s seen him?”

“Maybe.” John didn’t sound convinced. “Come on Scott.”

As they headed for the Sheriff’s car, Scott sent a mass text to the pack, if Stiles was missing, he wasn’t taking any chances—all hands on deck.

***

Stiles, meanwhile, was oblivious to the concern of his friends. He stood outside the abandoned building he’d most recently vandalized. He was experimenting with the fire spell. Not a big deal in an abandoned building, but Stiles had plans and four five-gallon containers of gasoline. He spread the fuel around the building, and once he had it to his satisfaction—he set the fire. Stiles felt a bit strange, standing outside a burning building just—watching. He wondered if there was a spell that would let him walk through the fire. He wondered what it would feel like inside the building as it burned up.

A very dark little corner of his mind wondered if maybe he should have set an occupied building on fire.

I did this. He smiled. I have power.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been watching the fire when he heard someone shouting his name. More than one someone.

He turned away from the fire reluctantly and spotted Scott, his dad, Derek and Isaac all coming toward him with various stages of panic/disbelief/concern on their faces. Stiles blinked slowly and raised his eyebrows as they approached.

“Hi guys,” he said with a wave. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve been looking for you for hours,” Scott said. “Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

“I didn’t feel like it,” Stiles replied.

“How did the fire start?” John asked.

“I started it,” Stiles admitted blandly. “It got big.”

“You started the fire?” His dad repeated it, disbelief all over his face.

“Well yeah.” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. “What? It’s abandoned. No one’s using it. I wanted to see how fast it would burn.”

Everyone was staring at him.

Derek could smell that sour/rot stronger than ever.

“I think we need to lock him up someplace,” Derek said. “Sheriff? For his own safety.”

John swallowed but then nodded. “You have someplace in mind?”

“Yeah, I do.” Derek reached out and grabbed Stiles by his favorite handle, the back of the neck. “Come on, Stiles.”

“Hey, let me go!”

“Call the fire department, Scott,” John said. “Derek and I will take care of Stiles and call you later.”

“Yes, sir,” Scott said. Isaac nodded.

Stiles struggled, and his dad handcuffed him before putting him in the back of his patrol car.

“Well? Where are we taking him?” John looked to Derek.

Derek sighed. “The woods. There’s a place…it was used to hold werewolves. It should be able to hold Stiles.”

“All right.”

“Why are you okay with this?”

“Because if we take him to the station, people will ask questions and…I don’t want anyone asking questions,” John replied. “There’s something really wrong with my son, isn’t there?”

“It’s not him, Sheriff. I—I think something else is in control. Whatever it is, it’s not Stiles.”

“I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or not.”

Derek couldn’t agree more. Inside the patrol car, Stiles smiled wickedly. They thought they could hold him? Well, they were in for nasty surprise. It was time to stop playing. Time for the endgame.

Chapter Text

Stiles couldn’t keep the smile off his face, even after he’d been locked in a dank underground bunker. The smile was unnerving, and as soon as they had him secure, the pack convened, leaving Isaac on first watch at the door.

Allison had made an executive decision and called her father.

“So, Stiles set fire to a building and you suspect he’s been possessed?” Chris asked.

“Or cursed,” Lydia added.

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“The smell,” Derek said. “And a strange blue hand print on his stomach. Well, and the crazy smile, the change in personality.” He shook his head. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes, It was like he was two different people.”

“I’ll admit, Stiles doesn’t seem like the type to set random fires,” Chris said.

“Exactly, Stiles is much more likely to put super glue on the bottom of your shoes,” Lydia said.

Scott nodded. “Stiles isn’t destructive. Not intentionally.”

“I think I should take a look at him,” Deaton said. “Now that we have him contained. There are some things I can try. A few tests. Perhaps we can get some sort of answer.”

“These tests won’t hurt him, will they?” John asked.

“Most likely, no.”

“That’s not exactly filling me with confidence.”

Deaton shrugged.

“Guys!” Isaac shouted, running into the room and skidding to a stop. “Uh—I don’t know what happened, but Stiles is gone.”

“What?” Derek pushed passed Isaac and ran for the room where they’d put Stiles. The room was empty, the door open from Isaac checking in on Stiles. Derek took a deep breath through his nose. “Find him.”

There werewolves mobilized in moments, each taking a sniff and then rushing out after the scent. The humans followed right after. Derek was sure Stiles couldn’t have gotten very far, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain. The group spread out. Derek ran up ahead, trusting the others to flank their target. Stiles wouldn’t run.

Derek’s heart pounded as the terrible suspicion kept circling. This has to do with the darach. What other explanation was there?

Stiles made his way to the cliffs high above Beacon Hills, admiring the view. Sitting down on one of the boulders near the edge, Stiles crept closer and closer to the edge to glance down over the side. It was high. Very high.

He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, his pupils dilated.

“What am I doing here?” he said aloud. He couldn’t remember coming here. He noticed how close he was to the edge and scrambled back hastily. After a moment of panic he pulled out his cell phone and checked it. “Over thirty missed calls.” He looked at the date. “That can’t be right.”

“Stiles! Stiles, don’t move!” Derek shouted.

“Derek?” Stiles turned around to look for him. He spotted the man just a little ways down from him, climbing up as fast as he could. “Derek, how did I get here?”

“Stiles?” Derek took a deep breath, the sour scent was gone. “Stiles, what’s the last thing you remember?” He stopped just shy of the boulder Stiles was perched on.

“Uhm. Coming home from school? No. Was I at Deaton’s?” He shook his head. “I—I was at Deaton’s but…that was a dream. I think.”

“That wasn’t a dream, Stiles.” Derek held out a hand. “Come on, let’s get you down from there.”

“What’s going on, Derek?”

“I don’t know, but we need to get you down from there, okay?”

Stiles reached out, ready to take Derek’s hand—and then stopped. His eyes went wide and Derek froze. Stiles eyes, normally brown, were slowly changing—to blue. Not the blue of a werewolf’s eyes, but an icy blue just like the darach’s.
Stiles pulled his hand away and laughed. “Sorry, Derek. You can’t save him.”

Stiles stood up.

“Let him go!” Derek vaulted up onto the boulder, but Stiles was precariously close to the edge now and all doubt of what was happening had left him. Somehow, the darach had left a part of herself behind, and that piece had attached itself to Stiles. Had possessed Stiles.

Stiles/Darach shook his head. “No. You’re going to lose something you love. That’s my curse to you, Derek. I’m strong enough to make him do anything I want now.” The predator’s smile stretched across Stiles’ face. “This is my endgame.” Stiles pitched himself over the edge of the cliff. Derek didn’t even hesitate, he jumped after.

***

The others found Derek and Stiles some time later. Derek had managed to grab hold of Stiles and landed back first, Stiles in arms. It hurt, but at least Stiles wasn’t dead.

Sheriff Stilinski picked up his son, who at least for now seemed to be unconscious while the others helped Derek.

“He jumped…” Derek muttered. “He’s. He’s possessed by the darach. I saw it. Somehow she…she left a piece behind.”

While that revelation sunk in, the unconscious Stiles was trapped inside his own mind. Inside a nightmare world built by the darach. A nightmare filled with his friends’ corpses and a monster that wouldn’t stop chasing him. A monster with no face.

“Let’s get you all back into town,” Chris said. “We’ll just have to keep someone in the room with Stiles at all times until we can figure out how to get the darach out of him.”

“I’m going to need some help,” Derek said. “I can’t drive like this.” He indicated his healing left wrist, broken in the fall.

“I’ll drive,” Scott said. “Isaac?”

“I’ll come with.”

“The rest of us will go with Sheriff Stilinski,” Deaton said. “Come on. Lydia, Allison, we need to pick up some books on the way. I might have an idea.”

There were nods as everyone split off into groups and headed back toward town. All the while, the faceless monster chased Stiles through the never-ending halls of a nightmarish maze that look suspiciously like Beacon Hills High.

Stiles was running through the halls in his nightmare. He could hear the running steps of the thing pursuing him. His heart pounded terribly in his ears. The monster howled and Stiles kept running. The hall widened out and Stiles found himself in the pool.

Out of the darkness overhead he saw glowing yellow eyes as the kanima came down the wall. Stiles turned around to go back the way he came but the faceless thing was there. Stiles was trapped.

***

They took Stiles home and put him to bed. Melissa joined the group there to watch the still unconscious teenager.

“He’s not waking up,” John said. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

Melissa sighed. “His pulse is strong. We should get him to the hospital.”

“That would be ill-advised,” Deaton said. “The hospital won’t know what to do for him. Lydia, hand me that green jar from my bag please. Allison, light two of those beeswax candles,”

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“Just a test. With any luck, it will give us an idea of how to proceed from here. It won’t hurt him.”

The sheriff nodded and went out to the hallway to pace.

Scott and Isaac had managed to get Derek onto the downstairs couch.

“You don’t—this can’t be the darach,” Scott muttered in Derek’s direction. “She’s dead.”

“If I had another explanation, I would be happier,” Derek replied. “Deaton should figure out what’s going on soon, I hope, and then we can fix it. We’ll get Stiles back, Scott.” We have to get him back. The fall had taken a lot out of Derek, more than he’d care to admit and after a few minutes he fell asleep.

Back upstairs, Deaton finished his experiment. His expression was uncertain. “I need to do some reading. I should have some kind of answer by morning. Just keep an eye on him, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

John stopped Deaton just outside his son’s room. “You can fix him, right?”

“I’m going to do everything I can, Sheriff. I promise.”

“All right.”

It was going to be a long night.

***

Derek woke up as the sun rose, feeling more like he’d gotten into a bar fight the night before than having jumped off a cliff. With a lurch, he got up off the couch, ignoring Isaac and Scott asleep in the two armchairs, and went upstairs to check on Stiles. Sheriff Stilinksi was asleep in the chair next to his son’s bed. Stiles was awake, sitting against the wall with arms around his knees.

“Stiles?” Derek whispered.

He looked up. His eyes were red, like he’d been crying. “Hey, Derek,” he replied softly. “You look worse than I feel.”

Derek shook his head. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I—did I jump off the cliff?”Stiles frowned. “Did you jump after me?”

Derek sat down on the bed and put a hand on Stiles shoulder. “You’d be dead if I hadn’t.”

Stiles swallowed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did.” Derek looked away for a moment and then back up. “You’re Scott’s best friend. You—you saved all of us. You saved me. I couldn’t just let you die.”

“Is that the only reason?” Stiles looked Derek in the eyes.

“No.” Derek took a deep breath and slowly moved his hand from Stiles’ shoulder to his hand and squeezed gently.

“What’s happening to me?”

“I think the darach has somehow possessed you. Some part of her that got left behind.” Unconsciously, almost, Derek ran his thumb back and forth over the back of Stiles’ hand. “We’re going to fix it. I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Derek never thought he’d see the day when Stiles looked at a loss for words, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. Sure, Stiles was irritating and nosy and should be voted most likely to get himself killed but—he’d saved Derek’s life more than once. It was more than that though. Stiles—Stiles had become important to Derek in a way he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit to anyone. Least of all Stiles.

Except he might lose him to the darach, and if that happened… He didn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t comfort the kid. He knew it was stupid even as he was doing it, but he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned in and carefully brushed his lips against Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles’ eyes widened and he turned, meeting Derek’s lips with his own.

John shifted in his chair, muttering in his sleep, and Derek nearly jumped out of his skin. He glanced over at the still sleeping man and breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to think about what the sheriff might do to him…

“You kissed me,” Stiles whispered.

“Uh, yeah.” Derek looked back at Stiles. “Sorry—I don’t know what came over me.”

“No—I mean, it’s okay.” Stiles reached out and put a hand on Derek’s arm. “It was—I didn’t—it’s okay.” He managed a shadow of a smile. “I liked it.”

His dad shifted again and Stiles pulled his hand away. “What do we do now?”

“We’re waiting for Deaton to come back. He’ll have something for us.”

“Okay.”

Derek started to say something but was interrupted by an unwelcome sound—a banshee’s wail. Derek got up from the bed with a start and hurried back downstairs. Isaac and Scott were up and already heading for the front door.

“I really hope no one’s dead,” Scott said.

Derek really hoped the darach hadn’t killed anyone. He hesitated at the front door, debating about leaving Stiles alone—but the sheriff was still here. Derek took a breath. I won’t be gone long, he reasoned. I’ll be back soon.

***

The werewolves of Beacon Hills converged to find Lydia standing outside the building Stiles had set fire to.

“Oh no,” Derek whispered. Had someone been inside when it was set fire? “Lydia, did you find a body?”

The strawberry blonde beauty turned toward the werewolves, looking a touch disheveled. “No, but—I have that same feeling from before. There’s something here.”

“Well, spread out and look people.”

Derek turned. “Peter. Decided to show up at last?”

“While I don’t share your attachment to Stiles, I am highly devoted to self-preservation. The banshee is wailing again. I was concerned.”

“Right.” Derek rolled his eyes and turned back to the building. Ethan and Aiden and showed up with Danny in tow and the boys were starting to search the burned out building.

“I’m surprised Allison isn’t here,” Derek looked at Lydia. “You guys didn’t spend the night?”

Lydia made a face. “You might be attached to Stiles’ hip, but I am not attached to Allison’s.”

Derek grimaced and Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen? I feel like something happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Uh huh.” She didn’t look convinced.

“Has anyone found anything yet?” Derek walked away from Lydia and into the wreckage with the others, stepping underneath the hazard tape the fire department had left behind.

There were negative, and sarcastic, responses from the teenagers. Peter came to stand next to Lydia. “You’re looking lovely this morning.”

Lydia glanced at Peter and wrinkled her nose. “Aren’t you a little old to be hitting on teenage girls, Peter? Oh, right, I forgot, you think you’re the prettiest one in every room. I hate to break it to you, but I’m much prettier than you.”

Peter smiled, but said nothing.

The werewolves searched thoroughly, but there was no trace of a body. “It’s possible someone could have burned to ash,” Danny said. “If the fire got hot enough, and given that some of this metal is melted, I’d say it could have.”

“That’s a pleasant thought,” Isaac said.

“We should get back to Stiles,” Scott said. “Maybe Deaton is there now.”

Derek nodded. “All right. Do you three mind sticking with Lydia?” He pointed out the twins and Danny.

“That’s not a problem,” Danny replied.

“Good. Call if you find any bodies.”

Derek very much hoped they didn’t find any bodies. He knew too well what it felt like to be used to kill someone, he didn’t want Stiles to go through that.

When they got back to the Stilinksi residence, John was on the front porch with Melissa—with an ice pack pressed to his head.

“Mom, what happened?” Scott asked.

“My son’s eyes turned blue,” John said. “Then he hit me over the head with his lacrosse stick.”

“Fuck,” Derek snarled. “How long ago was that?”

“Ten minutes maybe?”

“Scott, Isaac, stay here in case Stiles comes back.”

Derek didn’t wait to see what they would say and hurried off toward the sour scent of the darach possessed Stiles. Next time, they were tying him down. If you get to him in time. Derek shook off the hovering doubt and ran faster.

Chapter Text

Derek showed up at the Stilinksi residence with Stiles slung over his shoulder. The teenager was sporting a bloody lip, and Derek had gagged him with his own shirt, but was otherwise unharmed.

“What happened?” John demanded as Derek came up the porch steps.

“He tried to shoot me, I believe this is yours.” Derek pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and handed it over.

“How did he even get this? It's my spare, I had it in a lock box.”

“I don't know,” Derek shrugged, “But he's got good aim. Almost took my head off.”

The Sheriff shrugged, “He goes to the range with me sometimes. Let's get him back upstairs.”

“I hope you have your handcuffs,” Derek said.

John held them out. “I'm not taking any chances.”

“Good.”

Derek followed him upstairs and they put Stiles back in bed, handcuffed to the headboard. Derek was determined not to lose Stiles again. Or lose Stiles at all.

Deaton was waiting for them when they came back downstairs, along with the rest of the gang. There wasn't really room for everyone in the living room but Allison had taken a seat in Scott's lap, against her father's wishes Derek was betting from the look on Chris' face. Cora had dragged Peter along, for what reason Derek could not imagine.

“So, do you have an answer to our problem?” Derek asked.

Deaton nodded. “From what I can tell, the curse was placed on Stiles near to the darach's death. She must have touched him, that blue handprint some of us have seen is the physical manifestation of that touch. She put a part of herself into Stiles—a part with only one purpose.”

“What's that?” John asked.

“Kill the person it inhabits. If left unchecked, the curse will take Stiles' life. We've seen it make one attempt already. The rest—it's all a matter of subsuming Stiles' personality, his spirit, until the curse has full control.”

“There has to be something we can do. There's something we can do?” Derek stared at Deaton.

“Someone has to take the curse—an alpha to be more specific. I have to warn you though, whomever takes the curse from Stiles will likely die.”

“I'll do it,” Scott said.

“No, I got him into this.” Derek shook his head. “I'm doing it. What do I have to do?”

Deaton looked from one alpha to the other. “Whoever does this must place their hand over the original site of infection. Then I will transfer the curse.”

“There's no question of who's doing it,” Scott said. “Stiles is my best friend, Derek.”

“You can't do this,” Cora added. “You can't just leave me with Peter.”

“I won't let him lose you, Scott. Cora—I'm sorry.” Derek looked at Aiden and Ethan, raising his eyebrows. They took the hint and grabbed Scott, Derek and Deaton headed upstairs. John followed closely behind while the others tangled with Cora.

Derek pulled up Stiles's shirt and placed his hand over Stiles' navel. His skin was soft, just like the last time he'd had him half-naked. Of course, Derek might have enjoyed that encounter more than Stiles had. In fact, he was pretty damn sure he had. Variations of their rainy day spat had made their way into Derek's dreams of late. He was pretty sure he didn't want anyone knowing about that.

He was also certain that he would never tell anyone the precise details of what had occurred when he went to retrieve Stiles.

Derek had cornered Stiles just outside the Beacon Hills Preserve parking lot at the ranger station. He been holding the gun to the underside of his chin, the predatory smile on his face again.

“I thought you'd never show up...” The darach blue was back in Stiles' eyes. “I want you to be here when he dies, you see.”

“You won't take Stiles away from, you won't take anyone else away from me. Do you understand?”

“I can pull this trigger far faster than you can get to me, Derek.”

Derek too a deep breath, “I guess we'll find out, won't we?” He'd noticed there was a pattern to when Stiles overcame the darach's influence—pain. It seemed that there was still some overriding piece of self-preservation instinct that brought Stiles out of the darach's control. So instead of trying to pull the gun out of his hand, Derek balled up a fist and punched Stiles' in the face.

For a moment, Stiles eyes went back to their normal brown. The moment was enough to allow him time to make a grab for the gun. It went off, firing into the air before Derek got the weapon under his control. The darach screamed and tried to wrench the gun back but Derek pushed it out of reach, and with a reluctant look, grabbed Stiles around the neck, cutting off air flow until he passed out.

Derek didn't want anyone to know how close Stiles had come to splattering his brains all over the ranger station.

“Are you ready Derek?” Deaton asked, bringing him back to the situation at hand.

Derek looked down at Stiles and tried to put every inch of the kid into memory. His fluffy bed hair, the moles scattered over his face, those soft lips...gangly limbs and large expressive hands. Surprisingly muscular shoulders. Derek didn't think he was ever going to see Stiles again. He wasn't going to survive pulling the curse out of him.

“Derek?” Deaton nudged.

He couldn't kiss Stiles with the Sheriff in the room, so he settled for taking the kid's hand in his free one. “Do it.”

***

Stiles felt like he was swimming. He didn't particularly care for swimming since the pool incident,so he started to thrash. As he thrashed, he felt someone grab his shoulders.

“Stiles, Stiles it's okay.”

He stopped moving and opened his eyes. His dad was holding his shoulders. Deaton was standing next to his bed. Cora and Scott were in the doorway—and it looked like a full house behind them.

“Uh—what happened?” Stiles sat up and spotted Derek on the floor. He didn't look good. He looked worse than he had after being shot by wolfsbane filled bullets, if that was possible. “Derek?”

Stiles tried to get down, and found himself handcuffed to the headboard. “What the hell?” His dad undid the cuff and Stiles slid off his bed and onto the floor in a graceless sprawl to land next to Derek.

“Derek? Are you okay?”

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles. “Not really.”

“What's going on? Deaton?” Stiles asked again.

“You were poisoned by the darach. Derek took the poison away but—it's killing him.”

“What the hell did you do that for?” Stiles smacked Derek's shoulder with more force than he ought have.

“Duh,” Derek whispered. He reached out and took Stiles' hand. “Stupid.”

Stiles swallowed. “I hate you.”

“No you don't.”

Stiles took a staggered breath. “Maybe not.”

Derek's breathing was becoming more labored. “I'm sorry—about this summer. I just wanted to protect you. You always get yourself into trouble.”

Stiles shook his head. “It's okay. You—you don't have to apologize. The bruises went away eventually. I slept on my stomach. It was cool.”

Derek laughed and then started to cough.

“You have to do something,” Stiles said to Deaton. “There has to be something you can do.”

“I'm sorry, Stiles, a death curse is not something you can push aside. There's nothing I can do.”

“He can't die...he can't.” Stiles gripped Derek's hand tight. “You can't die.”

Derek's eyes fluttered closed and his chest moved up once again and down and then—nothing.

Stiles screamed, Cora fell to her knees and the wail of the banshee was heard throughout the house. Stiles pulled Derek up into his lap and wrapped his arms tight around his shoulders. “No, no, no...”

“Stiles, there's nothing we can do.” His dad tried to pull him away, but Stiles shrugged him off and gripped Derek tighter.

He can't be dead, Stiles thought. He can't be dead.

***

Deaton spoke words Derek didn't understand. Old words that had long since been forgotten by mankind. The blue hand print appeared again on Stiles' stomach, just under Derek's own hand. Derek swallowed his own fear and thought about Stiles. Just about Stiles. Stupid, annoying, irritating Stiles who wasn't afraid of him, who didn't blame him. Who didn't let him blame himself. Stiles, the stupid kid he...

The blue color bled away from Stiles and onto Derek's hand, leaching into his veins and climbing up toward his heart. He could feel the sourness of the darach as it climbed inside of him.

I'll miss you Stiles.

***

Stiles took a deep breath and hit Derek's shoulder as hard as he could. “You can't be dead, sourwolf. You can't be dead. I refuse to let you be dead!” He didn't care about his audience. It was just him and Derek. Derek, who was lying there, getting colder by the second. I have power too. I can save him. What impulse drove him, he wasn't sure. Grief, anger, magic—stupidity—Stiles leaned over Derek and kissed him.

It wasn't a very good looking kiss, not like ones in movies or TV. It was a desperate kiss with tears falling and Stiles' body shaking as he tried to ward off a panic attack. The darach can't win.

Stiles kissed Derek's lips, his cheeks, his forehead. He hugged him tight and cried.

Deaton knelt down next to Stiles and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Stiles, I said there was nothing I could do. But, there might be something you can do.”

“What? Anything.”

“Tell him how you feel, Stiles.” Deaton smiled gently. “Tell the truth.”

Stiles looked back at Derek's lifeless face. “I—love you, Derek-freaking-Hale. You can't die. We have to go on double dates with Scott and Allison. We have to go to clubs with Danny. We have to use stupid pet names for each other and win each other prizes at the carnival too big to fit in your stupid car. We have to go for coffee and you have to watch the Star Wars trilogy with me and get grilled by my dad and...you can't die. I love you.”

It was like a dam broke inside of Stiles. He felt the confidence he'd had when he'd made the mountain ash circle continue when he ran out. Felt the same power he'd had when he stopped the darach. It was light and fluttery and warm. He took a deep breath and again, he pressed his lips against Derek's and breathed that light, fluttery power into the werewolf.

Please. Please live.

Chapter Text

Derek wasn't sure why he wasn't dead, except his face was wet and all he could smell was Stiles. Spicy, sweaty Stiles with no sour undertones at all. It took him some time to get his eyes open. The first thing he saw was Stiles, lips pressed against his own. Slowly, feeling weaker than he would admit, he brought his hand up and stroked Stiles’ hair.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin, Derek put his arms around him before Stiles could flail around too much. “Derek?”

“Hey, Red.” Derek managed a smile. “You brought me back.”

“Yeah, I guess I did. Wait—Red?”

“I’m the Big Bad Wolf, after all. I think I heard something about stupid pet names, right?”

Stiles shook his head. “You were dead. You shouldn’t have heard that.”

Derek shrugged. “Well I did.”

Stiles went to get up and found Derek was still holding tight. “Uh, Derek?”

“Sorry.” He didn’t let go, but looked at the doorway where his sister stood. “See, I didn’t leave you, Cora.”

“Idiot,” she huffed.

“As happy as I am that no one is dead here,” Sheriff Stilinski started, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with—whatever this is.”

Stiles looked at Derek, who finally unwrapped his arms from the teenager. John helped his son stand and Deaton and Cora helped Derek up.

Scott pushed into the room. “Stiles, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Scott. I promise.” Stiles smiled. “Just a little tired.”

Scott sighed. “Don’t—don’t do that to me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m possessed by an evil druid.”

The awkwardness of the situation was diffused a bit when Stiles' stomach growled loudly. He grimaced. “Uh—I guess I haven’t eaten in a while.”

“I’ll order pizza,” John said.

“And I’ll take a look at the boys here,” Deaton added. “Melissa?”

“Sure. Everyone else should head downstairs.” Melissa eyed the teenagers—and Peter. “Wait for the pizza.”

Once they had the room cleared out, Deaton looked Derek over while Melissa took care of Stiles.

“A few scrapes and bruises,” she remarked. “You’ll survive.”

“So long as my looks survive. I have to have something to fall back on when sarcasm fails.”

Derek snorted. “Right.”

“You’ll be fine.” Melissa smiled. “How’s our other patient?”

Deaton smiled. “I think Derek will recover.” Deaton looked at Derek pointedly. “If he stays out of fights and rests for the next few days.”

Derek shrugged. “I’ll try.”

Deaton sighed. “I’ll take what assurances I can. Melissa, why don’t we go down and check on the pizza order?”

Melissa took the not so subtle hint and looked from Stiles to Derek. “You boys stay out of trouble.”

When the door closed Stiles finally turned back to Derek. “So, my dad did not look happy.”

“Stiles, I was a murder suspect—twice—I’m not exactly a pillar of the community.”

“Wow. I can’t believe you just admitted that.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “My point, is that your dad is never going to be totally okay with…whatever this is.”

“He’ll warm up eventually. He doesn’t even know about that time you were in my room shirtless.”

“I knew you were looking.” Derek smirked.

“Just like I know you were looking the whole time you had me over that couch.”

“Sometimes I think I should’ve done more while I had you over that couch…”

Stiles flushed. “That was not one of my shining moments.”

“Or mine, to be fair.”

“Maybe I—maybe I had it coming a little bit. I mean, I didn’t know what I was doing. I could’ve gotten killed and you—”

Derek slid down from the far side of the bed and grabbed Stiles by the back of the neck, but this time the only thing on his mind was kissing Stiles properly to shut him up. Stiles would have argued with the technique, but he was having trouble remembering small details just then, like his favorite flavor of ice cream--and his name. Derek’s lips were firm and soft, and the roughness of his hand covering the whole of Stiles’ neck. After a moment Stiles reached up and put his hand in Derek’s hair. It was slightly sticky, product and sweat, but Stiles couldn’t have cared less.

Derek growled softly and pulled away to kiss Stiles’ jawbone, and then moved his hand to kiss the soft skin between jaw and neck, grazing his teeth over the skin to draw a muffled moan from Stiles’ lips.

“Fuck, Derek…”

“Not the right place,” Derek whispered next to Stiles’ ear in a rumble that made Stiles shiver. “But I promise.”

“Derek-fucking-Hale…you better keep that promise.”

“I will, as soon as we can find someplace where your father won’t find us and shoot me.”

“We might have to get a hotel room, under a false name, in a town a hundred miles away…” Stiles frowned. “It will totally be worth it though.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, if we get another evil druid, I won’t end up as a virgin sacrifice!”

Derek snorted. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, Stiles.” He kissed Stiles’ neck again. “I can’t promise I won’t leave marks.”

Stiles swallowed. “You always leave marks.”

“This time,” he murmured, “I’ll leave marks with my teeth.”

Stiles shivered again. “I’ll find a hotel.”

“Stiles!” his dad shouted. “Pizza!”

“We should get down there before he comes up here and shoots you.”

Derek pulled away. “All right.” He gently ran a finger down Stiles’ jaw. “You and me, soon.”

Stiles was sort of hoping if he got Derek alone long enough he’d be able to work up the courage to say three little words now that Derek was conscious. He was also hoping for reciprocation. Stiles wasn’t completely sure when fear had become loathing and loathing had become liking and liking and most definitely become…love, but it had. He couldn’t ignore that.

It was all just a matter of time now. Time, preparation and…stealth.

Epilogue

Time, preparation and stealth found Stiles and Derek in a hotel for the weekend fifty miles from Beacon Hills. Scott was covering for Stiles with his dad given all the times Stiles had covered for him over the years. Not that Stiles thought his dad totally believed Scott, but he’d turned off his phone to prevent GPS tracking and Derek checked into the hotel under a different name.

It seemed like a lot to go through but Stiles wasn’t going to take any chances.

“This room is huge, Derek.” Stiles looked around the suite. “Do we need a suite this big?”

Derek gave him a look. “Well, I was thinking we could start on the couch…and the smaller rooms don’t have couches.”

Stiles flushed. “The couch?”

“You heard me.” Derek smiled. “Shirt off, over the arm of the couch.”

“Um…Derek, you know I’m not one of those people that finds pain a turn on…”

Derek raised his eyebrows and stared.

After a long moment, Stiles stripped off his shirt. “I swear, if you have some weird fetish I am going to rethink this whole thing.” Stiles put his hands on the arm of the couch. “Seriously.”

Derek came up behind Stiles and placed his hands on Stiles’ hips and kissed the join of neck to shoulder. Stiles made a soft sound and Derek took the cue and started to use his teeth, making good on his promise to mark Stiles. The bruise wouldn’t show up for a while, but Derek knew they would be there after the red faded away.

He ran his hands forward from Stiles’ hips to his stomach, moving one hand up and with the other unbuttoning the fly to Stiles jeans and running his hand over the skin just under the edge of Stiles’ boxer shorts.

Other than small pleased sounds, Stiles was quiet and Derek was delighted to have found another way to shut the kid up.

With Derek pressed against him, Stiles could feel the hard lines of Derek’s muscular chest, the roughness of his hands as he ran them over Stiles’ chest and the sensitive skin under the waistband of his underwear. He considered the last time he’d been half bent over a couch with Derek, and decided this was definitely an improvement—though admittedly he hadn’t been entirely truthful about his reactions to pain. The teeth-grazing hickey forming on shoulder had hurt—but the sensation had set his nerves firing in other ways. He wasn't about to admit to Derek that he'd jerked off when he got home and that thinking about that day made him hard. Not yet anyway. Those sort of things were third or fourth sexy time talking points.

Derek was cautious with his teeth, but not so cautious with his nails. He slowly raked Stiles’ chest, drawing five light red lines down the pale skin. Stiles moaned and Derek dipped his other hand lower into Stiles’ boxer shorts until his hand closed around a half-hard Little Stiles.

Derek grinned. “Someone’s excited. What was that about not having a thing for pain?”

“Scratches and a hickey do not count Derek Hale,” Stiles breathed.

“Oh?” Derek pulled his hand out of Stiles pants and grabbed the band of Stiles jeans and tugged them down, leaving the boxers in place. “Let’s test that theory.”

“Derek…”

Derek took a long moment before pulling down Stiles’ boxer shorts, and was unsurprised to find more moles dotting his pale skin. He slapped Stiles’ ass.

“Derek…”

He slapped it again and peered over Stiles’ shoulder. “Your mouth says no, but your dick says otherwise.”

“Dicks don’t talk,” Stiles muttered. He couldn't help the twitch of a smile that crept over him when Derek slapped his ass again though.

“Says you,” Derek kissed the other side of Stiles neck, leaving a second mark identical to the first before spinning Stiles around and kissing him on the lips, biting down on his lower lip gently. With a gentle push, he sent Stiles tumbling over the arm of the couch to land on his back on the cushions. Derek followed after sliding Stiles’ jeans and boxers and shoes off and tossing them to the floor.

“Why am I the only one that’s naked?” Stiles muttered in between kisses.

“I paid for the room,” Derek replied.

“That doesn’t not make any—” Derek shut him up with another kiss and an aggressive thrust of his hips, catching Stiles’ hard dick against the fabric of his jeans. “Oh—god.”

“My name is Derek.”

“Ass-hole.”

Derek sat up and pulled of his shirt, tossing it the floor. “Oh?”

“Sure, make me feel inadequate with your underwear model muscles.”

“You aren’t inadequate.” Derek slipped off the couch and pulled Stiles into a sitting position. “I like you just the way you are.” He pushed Stiles’ legs apart and kissed the inside of his thighs, leaving a trail of teeth impressions. Stiles watched half in awe and half disbelief as Derek-fucking-Hale put his hand around Stiles’ dick and ran a thumb over the head.

“Oh my god…”

“I told you, my name is Derek, try to remember that when you come.”

Stiles wasn’t at all sure how to take that, but then Derek slid his hand down and started in with his tongue and teeth and Stiles was thankful for the reminder, as he wasn’t even sure he was going to remember his own name by the end of this.

Stiles came faster than he would have liked, but Derek didn’t seem to mind at all, moving up to kiss Stiles after. Derek tasted salty…

“I hope you’re ready for round two…” Derek said darkly. “The bed still needs to be broken in, don’t you think?”

“Uh—yes?”

Derek stood up and picked up Stiles like a bride going over the altar and carried him to the bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

When Derek finally stripped down, Stiles took a very long look at Derek’s…physique. “Oh my god.”

“Derek, Stiles. It’s Derek.”

Stiles tried very hard to remember that when Derek took it upon himself to prove how much he cared for Stiles not once, or twice but three times throughout the evening. Tangled up in sheets and wrapped up in Derek’s arms, Stiles felt like he’d just played two lacrosse games back to back, he wanted a shower but he also didn’t want to leave the enclosure of Derek’s arms.

A bit sleepily, Derek nuzzled the back of his neck. “I love you, Stiles,” he said.

Stiles felt a warm tingle right down to his core. “I love you too, Derek.”

Now I just have to keep my dad from shooting my boyfriend, become an awesome druid and graduate from high school. Stiles wasn’t totally sure he could accomplish the former, but he was going to try his best.

He wasn’t going to let anyone hurt his Big Bad Sourwolf.

“You should get a tattoo,” Derek mumbled after a moment.

“Oh? Of what?”

“I have a couple ideas.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows, but he couldn’t see Derek’s face. “I’m not getting Property of Derek Hale, tattooed on my ass, just so we’re clear.”

Derek laughed. “Nothing that obvious.”

Somehow, Stiles wasn’t so sure about that.

***

“So,” Lydia filed her nails with precision while they waited for everyone to get lunch and join them. “How was your weekend with Derek?” She gave him a knowing look. Stiles hadn’t sit down normally once since he’d been back, very suspicious.

“Good. You know. Good.”

“Uh huh…you boys spend the whole in bed or did you get out and see the city?”

“We went out one night.” Stiles blushed. “It was…fun?”

“And what exactly did you do?”

“I got a tattoo,” he admitted.

“You got a tattoo.” Lydia raised her eyebrows and put down the nail file. “What is it?”

“Well, Derek picked it out.”

“Please tell me he wasn’t so tasteless as to have his name put on your ass or anything?”

“No, of course not.”

Stiles avoided looking her directly in the eyes. No, he didn’t have Derek’s name tattooed on his ass. The tattoo in question was on the left side of his lower back. To say it wasn’t proprietary would be a lie though.

“Spill, Stilinski.” Lydia stared him down.

“You’ll just have to wait until it heals, Lydia.” Stiles shrugged. “Or live without knowing.”

“Knowing what?” Allison and Scott sat down at the lunch table.

“Stiles’ got a tattoo,” Lydia replied. “He won’t say what but I think it’s naughty.”

Allison raised her eyebrows. “Oh really?”

“I thought you were afraid of needles,” Scott said.

“To be fair, I was riding high of adrenaline and dopamine at the time,” Stiles replied.

“So what is it then?” Scott asked.

“What’s going on?” Isaac asked, sliding into the seat next to Lydia, followed closely by Aiden, Ethan, Danny and Cora.

“Stiles got a tattoo,” Lydia said again. “And he won’t tell us what it is.”

Stiles groaned and let his head thump down onto the lunch table. I should’ve skipped school today. Really I should have.

***

“Dad, I’m home,” Stiles called as he walked into the house after school. He’d been surprised to see his dad’s squad car sitting in the driveway. They hadn’t really talked about anything that went on while Stiles was possessed by the darach, Stiles was pretty sure his dad wasn’t ever going to talk about it, but things were better. They were talking.

His dad was in the kitchen.

“I thought you worked tonight,” Stiles said.

“I’m on lunch. I didn’t get to see you last night when you got in.”

“Sorry about that, you were asleep and I didn’t want to bother you.” Stiles sat down, gingerly, at the kitchen table.

“Did you have a good time with Derek?”

Stiles flushed. “Uh…”

“I’m a cop, remember?”

“Yeah…but…”

His dad gave him a look and Stiles shut up.

“So, you and Derek Hale huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I want him over for dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I don’t want some punk taking advantage of my son.”

Stiles blushed again. “Thanks, Dad.”

John got up from the table and hugged his son. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Stiles.”

“I promise, Dad.”

“Good. I’ve got to get back to work but I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Okay.”

Things were getting better. Stiles was confident they would continue to get better too. He grabbed a snack and went upstairs to finish unpacking from the trip. As he tossed a few shirts into his laundry hamper a slip of paper fell onto the floor, the tracing for the tattoo.

On first glance, it looked like a wolf howling in silhouette, but closer inspection showed the wolf was made up entirely of letters that spelled out: For Sourwolf.

The End.