Chapter Text
Derek Hale hated parties.
The werewolf never liked the conversations that mingled and merged different guests together. He couldn’t relax with the bodies crammed together, some dancing while others spoke in loud whispers above the music.
Skirmishes, feuds, physical brawls—whatever someone wanted to call them—were preferable for Derek. He could focus on a threat with intention, instead of deducing where the next danger would come from.
Derek’s pulse had ticked up when Stiles laughed, a gaudy laugh that lit a fire in Derek’s chest. Stiles laughed with his whole body, his smile radiantly illuminating any room he was in. And he was always the center of attention for everyone—not just Derek.
But it was Derek’s job to watch him—protect him.
Every string of Derek’s being tied him to Stiles, an anchoring that left him drowning most nights.
Derek felt the anomaly before seeing the men. He couldn’t detect a heartbeat on the figures who moved too fluidly to be natural. There was a strange cadence to them, putting Derek on high alert.
Perhaps it was foolish to follow the three of them, only realizing in the last few seconds that it was likely a plotted trap.
He dispatched them all the same with the same sharp ferocity he had dedicated to protecting Stiles daily.
Derek drew in a shaky breath, collecting himself as he stared at the red liquid staining the porcelain of the sink beneath his bloodied knuckles. He stretched his neck from side to side as he closed his eyes, focusing on the thrum beneath his skin.
He hadn’t given in and shifted during the attack, but he could feel the wolf’s anger barely contained. He drew in a breath, remembering the calm gentleness of Stiles’ hand in that alley, touching the wounds in his back as he healed.
Bergamot.
Dirt.
Marigolds.
Derek snapped his eyes open, looking in the reflection of the mirror as he avoided gazing at the red spark burning his irises.
Stiles was standing in front of the door to the bathroom, his back pressed against the only entrance—and exit.
“I handled it,” Derek roughly uttered as he stood to his full height, releasing his hold on the sink.
“I can see that,” Stiles mumbled as he looked at the bodies around them. He took a step to the side, pushing one of the bodies onto their backs with the point of his shoe. He frowned. “They’re puppets.”
The man had holes where his eyes should have been, a clear indication of a magician’s puppet. He had fought harder when Derek broke his sunglasses, exposing the vulnerability.
Derek washed his hands, watching the blood swirl against the white backdrop. The broken skin of his knuckles stitched together under the sting of water and soap. He ignored the feeling as he snatched several pieces of paper towel to dry his hands.
“Where is Isaac?” Derek chose to change the subject from the dead puppets, throwing the used paper towel into the trash.
Stiles stepped over the puppet he had been looking at to examine another. “He’s watching Jackson,” he replied before squatting down next to the most mangled of the puppets. “If you can call sticking his tongue down his throat watching him.”
Derek released a harsh breath, a curse on the tip of his tongue before Stiles softly chuckled.
“Relax, sour wolf,” Stiles stated as he looked up at him through his eyelashes. “You act like I can’t defend myself.” He looked back at the puppet, pulling the rest of the man’s torn shirt open. His brow furrowed as he examined the symbol.
Stiles was wearing his typical makeup—smudge eyeliner that did little to dissuade Derek from believing Stiles had forgone sleep once again. His nails were painted black, a shimmer of different glitter actively moving through them as the magic pulsed at his fingertips. He wore various charms and wards as earrings, a precaution that put Derek at ease only some of the time.
“So I can retire for the evening.” Derek was being sarcastic, a little pissed off that Stiles wasn’t taking this seriously. Like every other attempt.
Stiles stood, placing his hands on his hips as he took a step over the last puppet, closing the distance between himself and Derek as he looked up. He allowed his eyes to trail over Derek’s form, reaching his hands out to smooth Derek’s shirt and jacket. His hands were like a brand, heating Derek’s skin through his shirt. “I like you here,” he finally stated, looking up at Derek. “Besides, what if some big bad wolf comes along and tries to have his nasty way with me?”
Derek kept his expression neutral. He was used to Stiles’ taunts and jabs. Even used to Stiles’ hands on him. But he would never be able to get used to the idea of someone else being with Stiles. And Stiles knew it no matter how much Derek hid the feeling. “I’m not playing this game,” he finally uttered, his voice low with warning.
Stiles blinked up at Derek. “I’m not playing,” he replied.
“Stiles!”
Stiles sighed, dropping his hands from Derek. He rubbed the back of his neck, turning to look at the door just as Isaac threw it open.
“Oh, Goddess, I’m sorry, I was just—”
“Talking with Jackson?” Stiles smirked as Isaac struggled to take in the state of the bathroom and the fact that Stiles was acknowledging what he had been doing instead of his job.
“I told you to keep an eye on him,” Derek started, choosing to focus on reprimanding Isaac instead of where Stiles had just been touching him. He could still feel Stiles’ fingers pulling at the material of his shirt, just over his ribs. He tried not to think what it would feel like to have Stiles’ nails digging into his skin as he fucked him.
“I’m sorry,” Isaac looked at Stiles. “Really, I am. I just haven’t seen him in a while, and you said you were fine—that you were going to look for Derek and—”
“What if he hadn’t found me?” Derek countered.
“Would you give it a fucking rest?” Stiles bristled at Derek, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at him. “I think I can handle myself in an emergency.”
“Those puppets were here to either hurt you or take you with them,” Derek gestured at the broken and motionless puppets.
“And I am still here!” Stiles snapped.
Isaac nibbled his bottom lip, feeling awkward as he shut the door to prevent others from hearing Derek and Stiles arguing. He was aware of the rumors spreading about them already.
Derek almost bared his fangs at Stiles as his lip curled with a forcefully contained snarl.
“You’re my guard,” Stiles finally stated. “You are guarding me. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t manage on my own.”
A soft knock on the door pulled all their attention away from each other. “Mon trésor, are you there?”
Derek felt his spine go rigid.
Henriette Lefebvre was a socialite sorceress who had meager magic skills of her own, but managed to climb the ladder where necessary to run in the circles Stiles was a part of.
And she was determined, night after night, to get Stiles alone.
It didn’t help that Derek ground his molars every night Stiles had entertained the woman’s fancies, allowing her to push the boundaries of etiquette when it came to touching another person in public.
Stiles sighed, ignoring Derek as he walked over to the door. With a wave of his hand in a dismissive gesture, the bodies of the three puppets disappeared from sight. He had a sickly sweet tone when addressing Henriette in French. He laughed with her, his words returning to English as he promised to spend more time with her.
“But I leave tomorrow evening for home,” Henriette pouted, encircling her arm with Stiles’ as she ignored Isaac and Derek—and the fact that they were blocking the bathroom from use.
“Well, in that case, tonight would be a lovely time for us,” Stiles agreed.
Derek clenched his fists.
Henriette whispered something in Stiles’ ear, her gaze briefly looking at Derek before looking away.
Whatever she said was lost to Derek when he realized she was using her minor magical abilities to hide her words from him and his wolf’s hearing.
Stiles softly laughed when she pulled back. “I suppose,” he smiled at her. He turned to look back at Derek. “I think you can retire for the evening.”
Derek’s entire body stiffened. “Stiles—”
“I’m just agreeing with your earlier assessment,” Stiles stated with a dismissal before looking at Isaac. “You can check up on Jackson. Take the night if you want.”
Stiles took Henriette’s hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. “I’ll be a moment,” he explained to her as he gestured for her to lead the way down the hallway and back to the party.
“Stiles!” Derek snapped as he walked forward. “You can’t be serious.”
Stiles turned to look at Derek. “What? Do you want to be in the room with me while I am intimate with someone?”
Isaac shifted uncomfortably. He barely snuck a look at Derek before looking down at the floor.
Derek wasn’t stupid, he knew any other wolf could sense it on him—it was by some strange miracle that Stiles couldn’t pick up on it. Or maybe he had.
Derek was angry—with jealousy. Territorial possession fueled his spark. He wanted to shift. He wanted to throw Henriette Lefebvre and every other person out of the party.
He wanted Stiles. He always had, since the day they met. And he was a stubborn fool who never gave in.
“You know what,” Derek started, his voice a low whisper. “Go ahead.”
And with that dismissal, Derek walked past Stiles, shoving his shoulder into him.
~*~
“Are you okay?”
Derek felt like he couldn’t breathe, his chest was tight with pain as his whole body tried to fight against the burning agony of the wolfsbane carved into his back.
“Oh, Goddess.” It was a gasp of shock, no doubt the pity and horror Derek could taste through the cold rain.
Derek had crawled from the street to the alleyway after his legs gave out, an attempt to protect himself from any foe chasing him. His mind was hazy, remembering days of torture tearing at his psyche. He had given up when part of the savage cuts in his back tore deeper. He was laying in the rain, allowing the coldness to help soothe his heated body. He was burning up and couldn’t stop the fever.
A soft warmth of light pulsed over Derek’s back, giving him a reprieve to breathe.
“I’m going to take care of you.”
That was the last thing he heard before blacking out.
Derek woke in a bed, his face pressed into an extremely fluffy pillow without lumps. He tried to remember how he got here—aware of his nudity beneath the sheets. He didn’t remember going to bed with someone.
He blinked open his eyes, trying to ignore the sharp blindness of sunlight that hit him. Then he bit back a painful curse when he tried to turn his torso.
Pain shot through his muscles and bones, a fiery agony that Derek only ever experienced in short bursts before his healing combated it.
His back wouldn’t heal like normal because of the wolfsbane the Argents had used.
Kate’s laughter, the knife cutting down deep through the muscle and bone. His own yells of agony were blocked out by the searing pain of the wolfsbane.
Derek dug his fingers into the mattress, evening out his breathing as he allowed his body to collapse back down. He could force himself to move, to find the owner of this perfect bed. But he found himself closing his eyes to get more sleep, despite his ears telling him his rescuer was close by and watching him.
The second time Derek woke, it was to the soft touch of a hand on his bicep. He blinked his eyes, aware of the fire of his Alpha spark burning. He took in the presence of a young man kneeling next to the bed.
“I was worried you were in a coma,” the man noted, a look of relief hitting him. His hair was wild, as if he had messed it up with his hands while he worried.
The young man was beautiful, a softness to his appearance that Derek felt a comfort with.
“How old are you?”
The large amber eyes blinked at Derek, before the young man tilted his head. “I’m twenty,” he answered.
“You look like a kid,” Derek mumbled, his eyes closing against the drain he felt.
“You need to drink something,” the kid persisted.
“Why do you care?” Derek asked as he opened his eyes again.
The kid frowned. “Why wouldn’t I care?”
It was such a simple question.
“I’m a werewolf, you should have left me there,” Derek explained. “Anyone else would have.”
“I don’t care if you were a leprechaun, I wasn’t leaving you in the alley next to my apartment to die,” the kid huffed.
Derek snorted, wincing when his back smarted from the action.
“Here, please drink some water,” the kid pressed, offering up a straw to Derek’s lips.
Derek gave into his request, allowing the straw to slip between his lips. He drank the water until the straw was taken away.
“Thank you,” the kid faintly smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Derek.” Derek closed his eyes, exhausted again.
“Derek,” the kid mumbled his name. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”
Derek was falling asleep when he softly uttered, “Thanks, Stiles.” He felt the softness of fingertips brushing his hair back.
The third time Derek woke, it was to arguing.
“Stiles, you know this week is important,” a woman chastised him.
“I know,” Stiles sighed. “But what would you have me do? I wasn’t going to leave him to die.”
“You brought an unknown werewolf into your apartment!” The woman snapped. “Passed your wards. A werewolf , Stiles. He could kill you in a second.”
“He can’t even get up,” Stiles petulantly argued.
“That isn’t the point! You’re about to officially come into your power, to retrieve your mother’s title, and you brought a werewolf under your roof.”
Derek forced himself to get up, ignoring the ache. He wasn’t aware of how long he had been resting while under Stiles’ care, but he was significantly improved compared to the state he was in—and could have been in. His back was sore, aching in the worst way as he stood from the bed. He pulled the sheet from the bed, realizing that he was still naked. He wrapped the sheet around his waist, holding the bunched material in one hand against his hip. He slowly walked towards the voices, pausing every now and again to lean against something for support.
He was dizzy with hunger, a faint pang in his stomach reminding him that he couldn’t remember when he last ate anything.
“Do you honestly think no one is going to have an issue with the next High Mage of Beacon aiding a werewolf loner?”
Derek slowed when he heard those words. High Mage of Beacon .
Claudia Stilinski died when Derek was only twelve. She had been kind to his mother, once, making her easy to remember. And upon the woman’s death, hatred for werewolves increased—the position of High Mage was left empty, to be claimed by her son upon his coming of age.
Derek closed his eyes, feeling stupid for not realizing that Stiles sounded awfully close to Stilinski.
“You make it sound like he is a criminal,” Stiles snapped. “You don’t even know him and you’re allowing a prejudice to color your stance.”
“You don’t know him either, Stiles,” she countered.
Derek leaned against the balcony railing once he reached it, looking down at the two people.
Stiles was standing with his arms crossed, glaring at the redheaded woman across from him. “I’m not kicking him out.”
The redhead was pinching her nose as she released an aggravated sigh.
“I’m almost healed.”
Stiles startled, looking up at where Derek’s voice came from the balcony. He flushed a crimson red, growing from his neck to settle on his cheeks. He darted his eyes away from staring at Derek’s naked chest and the clear furrow of his hips just above the sheet.
The redhead narrowed her eyes at Derek. “Oh, this makes sense now,” she pinned Stiles with a knowing look. “Big injured wolf on your doorstep, you take him in, and act like Mother Nightingale for him—”
“Lydia, stop.” Stiles was already embarrassed, he didn’t need to be further ridiculed in front of Derek.
“I’m not here to cause anyone problems,” Derek started before Lydia could continue. “Stiles was nice enough to help me. I’ll be leaving once I can walk without feeling like a breeze will knock me over.”
Lydia sighed. “You need to leave in three days.”
Stiles glared at Lydia. “This is my apartment, Lydia.”
“And I am protecting you from destroying your title,” Lydia sharply reprimanded Stiles. “Your mother’s title has been waiting for you, and you are risking it.”
“Enough,” Stiles snapped.
A sharp taste of electricity prickled Derek’s tongue. There was a coolness in the way the air shifted with Stiles’ command.
“I will not play into the idea that a whole species of people are evil,” Stiles evenly stated. “Derek is going to stay until he is better, regardless of when the ceremony takes place.”
Derek figured his rescuer had magic, but to know that someone as unassuming and kind as Stiles could be the next High Mage of Beacon was almost unbelievable.
If not for the response of Stiles’ magic to his anger, Derek would have assumed he was being tricked.
“Be it on your head,” Lydia replied before turning and leaving.
Stiles sighed, taking a moment to pace in circles, muttering to himself. He paused, looking up at Derek. “I’m sorry, you should be in bed.”
Derek tilted his head, eyes watching Stiles. “You’re a mage.”
Stiles released a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “Yes.”
“Can’t say I expected it,” Derek replied. “But thank you.”
Stiles looked at Derek, surprise in his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he answered before blinking as a blush hit his cheeks again. “I, um, I have your clothes—well, I mended your shirt, your jeans only needed a slight patch. Um,” he turned on his heel, putting his back to Derek before turning once more. “I’ll get them for you.”
That was the start of Derek Hale falling madly in love with Stiles Stilinski—the High Mage of Beacon and someone completely unattainable for the lowly likes of a packless Alpha werewolf like him.
~*~
Derek paced in front of the large window overlooking the city. He was agitated, his thoughts racing with each angry reminder that played through his interaction with Stiles.
If Stiles wanted to put himself in danger, Derek didn’t have to save him.
Despite the protection of Stiles being his literal job description.
He lit the mistletoe laced cigarette, indulging in his one vice since before guarding Stiles. He had given it up when Stiles crinkled his nose at him once. A soft, “those will kill you,” was the only thing Derek needed to hear.
He leaned his forehead against a glass pane of the window, allowing the smoke to billow from his nostrils. His back itched, the phantom imprint of Stiles’ hand on his shoulderblade was a reminder of where his loyalty always would lie.
He packaged himself up and handed his entire life over to Stiles as some pathetic thank you—an attempt to feel like he was more than the trash Stiles pulled in from off the street. But it never changed anyone’s opinion of him. It was clear with how some would look at him or even sneer.
The other werewolves were the worst.
Werewolves in general were often snubbed by magic users, but Stiles had started to make an exception with his work. He took on werewolf clients who had benevolent reputations, allowing them grace by proxy.
Those werewolves never paid Derek much attention. While they were pleased to be given access to Stiles, they didn’t enjoy seeing an Alpha werewolf obeying a mage. Even a packless Alpha like Derek.
Packless. Hunted. Tortured. Indentured .
Derek had no one left after the Argents burned his whole family and pack. Tortured and barely alive as he escaped, he had made it by some miracle to the alley outside Stiles’ apartment. And was granted a kindness he had no idea was left in his world.
Stiles had jeopardized everything to give Derek a purpose after saving his life.
And through the years, their relationship changed. There was always a layer of flirtation—of longing that continued to grow between them. Despite Stiles’ familiar touches and stares, Derek never acted on his own desires.
Derek snuffed the end of his cigarette out against the window pane. He watched the rain pelt against the glass, soaking the city streets below. He should have known better than to fall for Stiles Stilinski.
~*~
Stiles focused on twisting the pestle against the mortar, watching as the herbs were crushed into a fine powder. He had his record player blaring louder than usual, a clear indication that he was annoyed and should be avoided.
Isaac had done a good job of that since last night.
Stiles glowered as he poured the powdered herbal mixture into the heated cauldron. He placed a hand on his neck, squeezing out the tired muscles as he waited for the hour glass to tick down. He tried not to think of Derek’s hand being on his neck instead, heat coiling in his stomach at the reminder of the familiar action.
Derek always put a hand on his neck when steering him away from a danger or when guiding him to where he had to go.
Stiles didn’t always pay attention to where he was walking, and Derek had stopped him from walking into traffic more than once.
Stiles dropped his hand to cross his arms, moving to hug himself through his baggy sweater. He didn’t want to think about last night, and the way Derek had just given up. He pushed further than Derek was prepared to call his bluff on—and now he was spending the first Saturday in a long while alone in his apartment without Derek’s presence.
He twisted his body back and forth, wondering if he had bluffed too hard for even Derek’s wolf to catch on. He clearly had no attraction to Henriette—Derek had become the focal point of his obsession for almost a decade.
The record player’s volume lowered.
Stiles’ lips twisted in annoyance as he turned to look. His heart stuttered when he saw Derek standing by the player with his back towards Stiles. He forced himself to turn away from Derek, refusing to be caught looking. He stared at the bubbling wine and marigold mixture.
“Derek,” Isaac uttered in surprise.
“Maintenance said there was going to be blackouts today,” Derek answered Isaac’s clear attempt to converse. “Can you check in with them?”
Isaac’s gaze drifted to Stiles before nodding. “Sure,” he agreed. “Erica said she’d be in around one.”
Derek nodded, turning to look at Stiles.
Isaac drifted out of the room without another word, knowing when it was better to be absent.
Stiles ignored Derek’s presence, even when he closed the space between them.
Derek clenched his teeth when he realized Stiles was going to ignore him. “About last night,” he started.
Stiles scoffed. “What about it?”
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “For hells’ sake, Stiles,” he growled under his breath.
“You’re the one who wanted to leave,” Stiles petulantly replied. He was turning thirty in less than a month, and Derek made him feel like a fourteen year old nobody.
“Did you, or did you not, dismiss me?” Derek snapped.
Stiles finally turned to face Derek. “You treat me like I am completely hopeless,” he took a step towards Derek, uncaring that while he had untold depth of magic bursting under his skin, Derek was physically stronger and bigger than him.
Derek had never once hurt him.
“You are hopeless,” Derek snapped.
Stiles reared back, as if he was slapped.
“You allow anyone close enough to slip a knife between your ribs.”
Stiles’ expression fell. “You’re convinced everyone wants to hurt me, Derek.”
“Can you blame me?” Derek turned from Stiles, placing his hands on his hips as he evened his breathing. “Stiles,” he started in a softer tone. “I want you safe,” he finally admitted. “Is it too much to ask that you let people protect you?”
Stiles stepped forward just as he heard the record player switch records. He touched Derek’s forearm, gentle in his gesture. “Derek, you protect me every day.”
Derek remained silent.
The lights flickered some, a response to the storm still raging outside.
“But you also risk yourself to go over the top,” Stiles explained. “Can’t you let me… protect you too?”
Stiles remembered finding Derek in the alley—the way his stomach twisted at the sight of blood mixing with the rain puddles. The carnage that had been inflicted upon Derek’s back, the rags his shirt had been reduced to. He had been scared of whoever could treat another person in such a manner.
It wasn’t until Stiles saw Derek’s eyes burning their Alpha red that he realized Derek was a werewolf. And it suddenly made sense—so many people were cruel towards any shifter, let alone werewolves. Hunters hunted who they claimed were dangerous werewolves, but Stiles knew better than to believe such lies. Hunters wanted to continue their legally sanctioned genocide with the approval of the public and specist laws that were being challenged over the years.
The apartment was suddenly consumed by darkness.
“Fucking blackouts,” Derek muttered.
Stiles saw the way Derek’s irises were glowing red to enable him to see in the dark. He rolled his eyes, turning to look at the candles he had stationed for this purpose. He willed them to light, watching as fires flickered to life on their wicks.
“The storms have been getting worse,” Stiles noted, releasing his hold on Derek’s arm. He realized that Derek wasn’t going to answer his request. He wrinkled his nose when he felt the tinge of mistletoe. “Are you smoking again?”
Derek at least had the decency to look bashful, even in the small amount of light the candles provided. “I had one.”
“Derek,” Stiles snapped at him. “You know those things do a lot of harm to your lungs.”
Derek rolled his eyes. “I heal after a while, Stiles.”
Stiles huffed in annoyance as he turned back to the cauldron. He waved a hand, extinguishing the fire before snatching a phial. “I swear, you don’t take care of yourself.”
“I have you to worry about,” Derek answered.
Stiles set the phial down once it was filled. He looked at Derek. “And what if part of looking after me meant you had to look after yourself?”
Derek turned his head to observe Stiles. He wanted to pull on the front of Stiles’ baggy sweater—pull him straight into his body. He wanted to bite down on the exposed curve of Stiles’ shoulder. He wanted to wreck Stiles’ well bitten bottom lip.
“One mistletoe cigarette won’t kill me, Stiles,” Derek finally stated as he pulled his gaze away from Stiles.
“Derek, please,” Stiles softly started. “I’m tired of dancing around this.”
“Around what?” Derek pretended he didn’t know.
Stiles’ expression was pinched. “You were pissed off that I went somewhere with Henriette.”
“I have nothing to say about who you sleep with,” Derek answered.
Stiles released a sharp cry of annoyance. “You are unbelievable!” He wanted to shove Derek. “And for your information, I didn’t sleep with anyone last night. But I guess that isn’t any of your business, right?”
Derek was about to stop Stiles from baiting him when he heard it.
The door silently opened, and a human walked into Stiles’ apartment, unwelcomed and unannounced.
Derek grabbed Stiles, spinning their bodies to put himself between Stiles and danger.
Stiles grabbed the back of Derek’s jacket, pressing his body against Derek’s back when he felt Derek’s arm pressing him close. He remained silent, knowing Derek had a reason. And then he felt it—an intruder’s presence brushing up against his wards.
Derek walked them backwards, away from the door and the soft illuminating light.
Stiles took a chance, knowing the person was human, when he extinguished all the candles. He knew Derek could see in the dark fine, willing his own eyes to take in the darkness. He had yet to perfect his own spell for dark vision, only able to see a few feet around himself.
Derek’s grip on Stiles tightened briefly before he swayed some.
Stiles tightened his grip on Derek, wide eyes looking up at Derek. He still couldn’t tell where the intruder was, but his priority had shifted to Derek immediately.
And then Stiles realized what the smell was under the scent of his own herbs.
Wolfsbane.
Aerosolized wolfsbane.
Derek had been breathing it in for gods knew how long.
Derek couldn’t stop the cough that refused to remain down, tasting blood.
Stiles reacted, lighting every single candle, forcing them to burn brighter than any light. He saw the black-clad intruder freeze at the sudden spotlight. He grabbed Derek, yanking him against his chest when the person charged them.
Violet flooded Stiles’ irises as he threw his free hand out at the person, using a heavy dose of electrified magic to hit them square in the chest. He didn’t care when the person screamed in pain even after they landed through the shelves. He helped Derek to the ground as Derek continued to cough and almost convulse. “Derek!” He tried to get his attention, laying him onto his side as Derek spit up more blood.
Stiles looked at the intruder when they tried to stand. “What did you do?”
The person laughed. “Wolfsbane in the vents,” the man spat back at Stiles. “He’ll be dead in another few minutes.”
Stiles thought about Isaac, hoping he hadn’t breathed it in too much before leaving. He turned towards the windows, willing the window pane to shatter. He held the shards from falling with ease as he guided Derek towards the floor-to-ceiling gap that allowed in the rain and fresh air.
Stiles waited until Derek stopped coughing, his hand coaxing soft reassuring circles into Derek’s back as his healing magic pulsed through Derek’s body and worked on healing his lungs. He wasn’t looking at the intruder when the foolish human tried to attack him. He didn’t bother turning his head as he sent the shards of glass hurling into their body. He ignored the cries of agony and pain, knowing the intruder would live long enough for information to be extracted.
His priority was Derek.
“Stiles!”
Stiles turned to look at Isaac running in, a hand over his mouth and nose as he coughed. “Isaac, get out! There is wolfsbane—”
“I know, we caught someone tampering with the vents,” Isaac quickly explained. “There shouldn’t be much left.” He was momentarily stunned to see Derek on the ground. He looked at the intruder who had glass embedded all throughout their body.
“Get them out of here,” Stiles instructed him. “Derek’s hurt.”
More of Stiles’ guards, human and shifter alike, had converged now that there was a clear indication that the High Mage of Beacon had been attacked in his own apartment.
Stiles didn’t care about the implications or how anyone else would react to such news. He was focused on Derek.
After a minor incantation of wind, airing out the apartment was easy. Isaac confirmed with multiple sniffs that there was no lingering wolfsbane.
It wasn’t until he helped Stiles carry Derek to the bedroom that Stiles noticed Derek’s skin was burning.
“Oh, Goddess,” Isaac muttered when he looked at his own hands burning now. “He has wolfsbane all over him.”
Stiles didn’t hesitate to start stripping Derek the moment he got him into the shower. He thought how strange it was that he had become accustomed to doing this to Derek, though none of those times were how he had hoped they would go. He quickly turned on the shower, uncaring if he soaked Derek’s clothes.
“Wash your hands with the bar of soap next to the sink—it voids medicinal mixtures and should get rid of lingering wolfsbane,” Stiles instructed Isaac. He was speaking hurriedly, focused on removing Derek’s clothes.
Stiles worked with speed to get Derek clean, knowing Derek’s healing factor wouldn’t kick in until the wolfsbane was gone.
“Is he going to be okay?” Isaac’s voice was small, uncertain.
“I’ve taken care of him before when wolfsbane was involved,” Stiles offered, pulling his gaze from Derek to look at Isaac. He saw the fear of uncertainty in Isaac’s features.
Derek had been much like an older brother to Isaac, pulling him out from an abusive Alpha to work for Stiles.
“Isaac,” Stiles softly spoke. “I’m not going to let anything happen to him, I promise.”
Isaac looked at Stiles before nodding in understanding.
“Do you still have access to Derek’s place?”
Derek had let Isaac stay with him when first working for Stiles.
“Yeah,” Isaac confirmed.
“Take someone with you, and be careful,” Stiles explained as he washed Derek’s hair. He couldn’t ignore the fact that despite his unconscious state, Derek still looked pained. “I need spare clothes for him—mine won’t fit him.”
Isaac hesitated. “You think you weren’t the target?”
“I think they waited until Derek got here to use the wolfsbane,” Stiles corrected him. “Which means they wanted him out of the way.”
Isaac waited a beat. “Don’t you need me to help move him?”
Stiles released a short laugh. “I got him in bed before by myself.”
Isaac arched an eyebrow.
A soft wheeze of a scoff left Derek. “Barely,” he grumbled under his breath as he opened his eyes. He realized he was naked before looking at Stiles and Isaac. “Do I want to know?” He was still in pain, unable to even think clearly.
Stiles smiled. “You were covered in wolfsbane.”
Derek grimaced, moving to get up. He immediately fell back, his strength gone.
“Don’t push yourself,” Stiles instructed him.
“I’ll go get your clothes,” Isaac offered, feeling a little bit more relieved that Derek was at least talking.
Derek coughed against the sharpness in his lungs. “Stiles, where’s—”
“I put several shards of window pane through their limbs,” Stiles stated in a matter of fact way as he forced Derek to lean his head back, using the shower head to rinse out Derek’s hair. “I swear to the Goddess, Derek, if you don’t stop getting poisoned by wolfsbane,” he grumbled under his breath.
“Seems to be a hazard of mine,” Derek uttered as he closed his eyes.
After a near thorough washing, Derek’s skin stopped burning. He had no idea how he had been in contact with wolfsbane diluted enough for a delayed reaction.
“It’s raining out,” Stiles stated as he turned the water off, retrieving a towel from the cabinet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever was behind this threw water contaminated with wolfsbane on you.”
Derek couldn’t truly rule anything out, let alone something as insane sounding as that. He stood on his own, swaying some before his shoulder loudly collided with the shower wall.
“Derek!” Stiles snapped at him. He wrapped the towel around Derek’s waist, slotting himself beneath Derek’s arm. “Stop being a stubborn ass,” he huffed, pulling on Derek to step out of the shower.
He realized how hurt Derek must have been when the only response he received was a soft grumble.
Derek was unsteady as he allowed Stiles to support him. His steps were unsure as they reached the bed. He felt better now that he was sitting, barely able to hold his eyes open despite how hard he tried.
Stiles was using another towel to dry Derek’s hair. “Do you feel any burning?” He was examining the still pink tint to some part of Derek’s skin as he dried Derek’s shoulders and chest.
Derek shook his head. “No,” he softly uttered. “I feel like I was hit by a truck,” he offered.
Stiles faintly smiled at that as he knelt in front of Derek. He dried Derek’s feet and legs.
“I’m supposed to take care of you,” Derek started.
“Shut up,” Stiles stated with no heat. He looked up at Derek. “When are you going to get it that I like taking care of you too?”
Derek weakly shook his head. “I’m not good enough, Stiles.”
Stiles’ features sunk. “Don’t I get to decide that?” He stood, dropping the towel he had been using to help move the blanket. “Just… get in bed, Derek. We can talk later.”
Derek remembered touching Stiles’ wrist. “I should have died that night we met.”
“Not when I have anything to do with it,” Stiles replied.
~*~
Derek awoke to an extreme warmth pressed against his back. He blinked, his entire body aching with exhaustion.
Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s waist, snuggling his face into Derek’s shoulder blades.
Derek knew Stiles was healing him, even in their sleep. He remembered Stiles doing this when he almost lost his arm in a car accident caused by a kidnapping attempt on Stiles’ twenty-first birthday. It didn’t matter how many times Derek told Stiles his arm was mending, slowly but surely.
Stiles had made Derek sleep over and proceeded to plaster himself to Derek’s side. He had been healing Derek the whole night, throughout his sleep.
Derek told himself it was Stiles that made him stay that night. But he didn’t argue, taking the opportunity to fall asleep next to the mage.
“Stiles.”
Stiles grumbled, burrowing his face into Derek more. “No.”
“Stiles, I need to pee.”
Stiles spoke his displeasure at having to let Derek go, even as he loosened his hold. “Can you walk?”
Derek ignored the pang of want that hit him when he saw Stiles’ messy hair and sleep addled features. “I’m healed.”
Stiles gave a sour expression at that. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he answered with a yawn before flopping back onto the bed. He pulled the pillow that Derek had been using against his chest, pressing his face into it.
Derek ignored his desire to reach a hand out and run his fingers through Stiles’ hair. He stood, realizing too late that his towel had come off under the sheets. He huffed, uncaring about his own nudity as he walked to the bathroom. “Did Isaac get my clothes?”
He turned his head when Stiles didn’t answer, catching Stiles staring at his ass.
“Um, yeah,” Stiles quickly stated when he realized he had been caught, turning in the bed to face the other way as he got tangled in the sheets. “I’ll go get them.”
Derek found Stiles down in the kitchen after dressing in the neat pile of clothes that were left on the bed in Stiles’ absence.
Stiles placed a cup of tea near Derek, nothing spoken between them despite the full understanding that Stiles knew exactly how Derek liked his tea for a reason—Derek was the only guard who had slept in Stiles’ apartment, and it happened countless times for them to understand each other’s morning routines.
Derek took the offered cup, moving to sit on the barstool at the island. “Have they identified the intruder?”
Stiles was focused on buttering toast. “Not that I know of,” he yawned, pressing his face into the crook of his arm.
“You need sleep,” Derek noted.
Stiles shook his head. “I am fine.”
“Stiles,” Derek pressed. “How long did you watch me sleep before you crawled in next to me to heal me?” He could see the faint blush resting on the tips of Stiles’ ears even when he was ignored.
“I have coffee,” Stiles gestured towards his already nearly empty coffee mug.
“I’ll look into the person, you can sleep.”
Stiles dropped the butter knife onto the plate with a loud annoyance. He turned to face Derek. “I know when I am sleepy, Derek.” He folded his arms over his chest.
“Says the guy who looks like a raccoon with how exhausted he is,” Derek deadpanned.
Stiles softly glowered at Derek. He knew he looked exhausted. “A cute raccoon,” he argued.
“A cute raccoon,” Derek echoed in agreement.
Stiles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I need to finish some requisitions,” he finally admitted.
“You’re the High Mage of Beacon,” Derek answered. “You’re allowed to delay things a day.”
Stiles sighed, grabbing the plate of toast. He placed it on the counter between them. He grabbed a slice, nibbling on it. “Tell me you won’t look into it by yourself.”
Derek watched Stiles carefully. “I won’t look into it by myself, Stiles.”
Stiles nodded. “Okay.” He looked at Derek, his gaze flickering over Derek’s clothes. “You should wear henleys more often.”
Derek arched an eyebrow at him as he drank his tea.
“You’re attractive in suits,” Stiles answered. “But they make you stand out.”
Derek snorted. “And I’m ugly in henleys?”
Stiles shook his head. “Still pretty,” he muffled as he walked away with his toast dangling from between his lips. He was aware of Derek’s eyes lingering on him.
~*~
Stiles busied himself with reading another ancient tome he had pulled up from another forgotten tomb. He was translating it from sight when he heard Derek’s voice greeting Boyd. He tucked the book away with ease, knowing that Boyd likely had more information about what happened last night. And if no one was more the wiser about his attempts to increase the strength of his wards against those attempting to harm werewolves with mistletoe… well, he wouldn’t admit it to Derek or any other in his employ.
Boyd paused when he saw Stiles. “Isaac gave me a brief overview.”
Stiles’ eyes traveled over to Derek, watching as the man purposely didn’t look at him. “Did anyone talk to our attacker?”
Boyd shook his head. “He killed himself.”
Stiles startled at the news, realizing for a brief moment that Derek didn’t react.
“Apparently, belladona.”
Stiles closed his eyes, releasing a harsh sigh as he pinched his brow. “So another mage is involved, likely.”
“Puppets, aerosolized wolfsbane, and belladona,” Derek noted the past incidents they had endured in the last few days. “Someone is determined.”
Stiles paced a little. “Is Isaac okay?” He asked Boyd, trying to focus on more than the imminent reality that he was being targeted.
“He is,” Boyd answered, though he glanced at Derek briefly. “He was worried about Derek.”
Derek’s brow furrowed. “I’ll talk to him,” he offered.
“That would involve you finally relaxing,” Stiles uttered, looking at Derek.
Derek ignored Stiles as he dropped his arms from across his chest. “I’ll be back in a bit, keep an eye on him,” he instructed Boyd.
Stiles narrowed his eyes after Derek.
“Do you want to cancel tonight?” Boyd asked Stiles, ignoring once more whatever was going on between Derek and him.
Stiles huffed out in annoyance. “No.” He wasn’t being unreasonable, something he was sure Derek would accuse him of being. Whoever was after him had invaded his personal space—had attacked him in his home. He was going to lure every last conspirator out, starting with the easiest ones to fool.