Chapter 1: 1
Chapter Text
"They call him The Hale Hound," Jimmy said with a nervous glance around the room. As if the Hale Hound appears when summoned, like some demon. "Worse than the Viper Boys, they say. He just killed some banker. Ripped his throat clear out. It was his fifteenth kill."
Stiles rolled his eyes. There was nothing Jimmy loved more than to flap his gums. He told more tall tales than what was his fair share.
Even if he was only talking to a mostly empty room. Out of the 12 tables in the middle of the room, only four of them were filled. Still, those four tables were making enough ruckus to wake the dead.
The floor was coated in a layer of sand the patrons had tracked in from the desert that surrounded the town. The walls filled with paintings Lydia had commissioned because she said “they would increase libido.” Stiles knew better than to argue with Lydia; especially after all these years.
Stiles leaned against the inside of the bar. He watched as Jimmy had gone from a conspiratorial whisper to a loud thunder.
“They say the blood still stains the walls.”
Stiles bit his cheek to keep from saying anything. At least Jimmy was focused on the other men at his table instead of Stiles. He preferred to be left to his own devices. He continued to pretend to wipe at a spot on the counter. It was only noon. They hadn’t had any real traffic in the bordello. A regular day.
Stiles didn’t expect many customers until the fall of dusk filled the townspeople with enough mischief and lust that it overrode their inhibitions. It didn’t take long. He was of the opinion that people were just looking for an excuse to fuck and suck their way through the bordello.
Stiles didn’t blame them, some of the others, well. He knew intimately how they satisfied the patrons. It was how Lydia stayed dripped in luxury.
The thunder of hooves silenced the rumble of the bordello. A cloud of dust and sand flew high in the air announcing the arrival of someone – or maybe even a gang of someones. Someones like the Viper Boys. Stiles hoped that whatever damage the Viper Boys did this time would leave enough money in the patron’s pockets.
Stiles was so close to having enough to finally get out of Beacon’s End. And the last thing he needed was damned Deucalion and his ilk in here stirring up trouble.
Stiles managed to keep one wary eye on the approaching dust cloud. It was just one man, one horse. He was coming in at a swift pace, as if he would blow right through the town.
The man was bundled from whatever cold wind he stirred while he was riding.
He dismounted fluidly, easily. Stiles felt the stirring of something in his loins. Was that the stirrings of a long dead piety? The man could convert anyone to the church surely.
A single look confirmed him as a seraph of whatever god was kind enough to create him. Or perhaps cruel enough. Stiles knew the longings the man stirred in his loins were anything but saintly.
The man’s clothes were fine. A chain glinted where it hung between his hip and his breast pocket. The chain spat a dazzling light back into Stiles’ eyes. He squinted in an attempt to maintain his sights on the man.
As if he knew he held an audience captive, he turned and glared into the window of the bordello. His eyes were angry, lips wretched into a frown. Stiles flinched back then chided his own ridiculousness. The man would not be able to see in through the windows, especially at high noon.
The man shifted, which forced the chain to glint more viciously. Stiles blinked against the glare. When he looked again, the man was gone and his horse had buried it’s head in the water trough in front of the saloon.
“Stiles,” Lydia said, too close. Stiles leaped a foot in the air, banging his knee on the bar in the process and drawing more than a few stares.
“I need you to go over to Dr. Deaton and get medicine for Samantha.”
“Deaton is all the way across town,” Stiles whined. He should have known it wouldn't help. It never did.
“Or, you can go upstairs with Nort and I’ll send Heather in your place.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, but dutifully made his way to the back of the house.
"Hurry!" Lydia called from the front of the house. "Old Man Grindle is feeling a storm in his hip."
Stiles just grabbed his jacket from the hook and headed for the door that led to the desert. The wooden slats of the floor creaked a bit underfoot. It used to feel ominous. Each creak feeling like another weight added to his moral character. He didn’t have much moral character to speak of anymore. He hadn’t had such a luxury since that April six years ago.
The wind whistled through his jacket. Stiles pulled it to.
Go to a happy place. Stiles just needed to go to a happy place. That’s what Heather said got her through. These days only two things sparked delight in Stiles:
One; being whisked away on the back of some horse that runs so fast Stiles would fall off if he didn’t hold on. And while riding off into the desert, Stiles would fling his middle finger back at the town that didn’t care to give him anything but pain and suffering.
And, two, which happened to be Stiles’ favorite, being the last one standing over the mass grave this town would become once everyone of these cowards died.
Violent? Yes. Effective? Certainly.
Stiles let himself into Dr. Deaton’s apothecary. The dusty windows didn’t let much light into the space, but Deaton never seemed to care. He never seemed to clean the windows.
The walls were lined with shelves of color jars, with all kinds of labels boosting to cure illness.
“Deaton?” Stiles called. He emerged from the mysterious void of the back. Apron tied tight around his waist.
“Mr. Stilinski. What can I do for you?” Deaton wiped his hands clean against a dishcloth.
“Samantha is sick. Lydia said you would know what to give her?”
“I do.” Deaton looked for a moment longer at Stiles. Stiles shifted under his gaze.
“Can you go get it?” It was always like this with Deaton. A struggle to get the simplest tasks done. Deaton shrugged and turned to his overburden shelves.
“I admit, I am shocked that you are here, Mr. Stilinski."
"Where else would I be?" Stiles shrugged, even as his heart began to pound and his hands grew damp.
"I would have thought you would leave this place much earlier than this.” Deaton picked up a vial and set it back down.
“Yeah, well.” The wind was starting to bite against the windowpanes.
“You’ve never seemed to be the kind of person who needed help to get what he wanted. So, what are you waiting for?”
“You don’t even know me.” Stiles frowned. The wind started to scream through the chimney in the backroom.
“I’ve known you for a long time, Stiles.” Deaton’s voice was soft, calming even. Or it would have been calming if what he was saying didn’t make Stiles want to knock all the vials from the shelves.
“Don’t bother. Just give me what I came for and can the rest.” Stiles glared at Deaton’s back. The Doctor only riffled placidly through the vials. He plucked one from the shelf and set it on the counter.
“I only want you to-”
“Send Lydia the bill.” Stiles snapped. He snatched the vial from the countertop. Deaton didn’t try to stop Stiles from flinging open the door or storming from the room.
The wind whipped the world into a frenzy. If Stiles was quick, he could still make it back to the bordello. It wasn’t far. Stiles clenched the vile in his hand and rushed into the storm.
Better buried in sand than trapped and forced to listen to Deaton. Who did he even think he was? The first of the sand leapt up in front of him. He was losing visibility quickly.
Deaton didn’t even try when Stiles’ father was shot down. Didn’t bother when Stiles had no choice but to join Lydia’s lineup. No one did anything. Just stood off to the side and looked on with pitying eyes.
Stiles’ hands ached where he was gripping the vile in his hand.
Stiles couldn’t figure where he was. He was being nettled by burning sands. A sand whipped into an enraged beast by the wind. Stiles stumbled against the wall of sand. He had been walking in this direction. Stiles was sure of that. The wind and sand pressed down heavier than a boulder.
He couldn’t see through the dust storm stirring up around him. Squinting barely prevented the sand and dust from stinging his face and eyes. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself the small vile in his hand. The bordello had to be this way.
He was a fool not to take the warnings of Old Man Grindle’s hip more seriously.
The wind tugged him this way and that. At times it was all he could do to remain anchored to the ground.
When he heard the quick beat of hooves, he dropped heavily to the shifting ground and ducked his head between the lapels of his jacket. The storm was loud. The dust particles were bruising.
Each bit of dust carried on the wind needled into any bare skin it could touch. Stiles squinted through the debris.
The horse reared over Stiles. It’s massive hooves swinging through the browned air. The whinny was soft in comparison with the howl of the wind. Stiles ducked his head tighter.
He would be crushed. And before he could even get out of this putrid fester of a town.
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut against the pain being trampled by a horse would surely bring. The dust stung at his eyelids.
He was lifted. Sat on the firm curve of a saddle before he heard a “yah!” The rhythmic jostle of the horse alerted him to the fact that they were flitting across the land. Stiles shoved the vile into his coat then wrapped his arms around the midsection of the stranger. Stiles clung to the man like lint on a wool coat. He could feel the press of the vial where he secured it inside of his jacket, a cool reassuring pressure.
It wasn’t long before the sounds of the dust trickled down to a muffled howl. Stiles didn’t need to wipe his eyes free of the dust to know that they were inside some building. A sense of relief flooded Stiles.
Stiles felt the person extract them-self from Stiles’ arms before lifting Stiles from the horse and standing him on the ground.
Stiles used one hand to wipe the dust from his eyes. Or he would have, if the sand staining his skin wasn't just adding more sand to coat his face. The other person swayed Stiles' hands from his face. a cool, soft press of a silk cloth wiped the sand from his cheeks, his brow, and, finally, his eyes. The cloth left trails of blazing heat across Stiles’ cheeks.
When Stiles could open his eyes again, he had to resist the urge to pass his sandy hands over his eyes. His eyes landed on the other person, and h is gravel-laden breath caught in his chest.
It was the man from before. Stiles gaped. Stiles had been right.
If god were real, this man would have been his seraph. Floating gently near God's feet, easily the favorite.
Or perhaps, this man was Satan, if the look of rage on his face was anything to go on. Cast from the heavens and forced to walk the earth with mere mortals.
How unjust.
Somewhere outside of the barn, the howl of the sandstorm lowered itself to nothing but a dull breeze. The storm had ended.
Stiles’ mouth was dry, and getting drier with each millisecond that passed that Stiles failed to rip his eyes from this man.
“Stay out of my way,” the man’s voice was gruff, probably rough from the sand. Stiles jerked back, his mouth clicking closed. Before Stiles could say anything, the man turned on his heels and walked his horse out of the barn. His spurs clinked dully with each step. Ass shifted seductively with each clink.
Chapter Text
It didn’t take long for Stiles to make his decision. He rushed out of the barn following the man’s trail as quickly as he could. Stiles blinked in the fading light. The man moved fast. He was nowhere to be found. The only clue where he had gone was the gently swaying door to the boarding house.
Stiles followed what he thought to be Derek’s footsteps into the boarding house. Stiles stopped once to brush a hand over the mane of the rescue horse. To the stallion, he gave a small murmur of thanks before he continued up the bowing wooden steps.
Candles strained to light the interior of the boarding house. Stiles had heard tell of a man who had invented something called a "light bulb." Was said to be able to light up whole buildings without the danger of fire. Stiles wasn’t inclined to believe it. Not until he saw this magic non-fire with his own eyes. And he would. One day.
The object of Stiles's current search was sat at the edge of the bar. The sand glittered along his shoulders in the candlelight. His hat was pulled low, but not low enough that Stiles couldn’t make out the brush of stubble along his jaw or the pretty curves of his lips as they caressed the glass he was drinking from.
He looked up. His brows lowered into a glare even as his eyes devoured Stiles. The man’s eyes skated over Stiles’s face, down his neck, over his shoulders, and his chest where Stiles was still clutching his jacket close. When the man was done with his inspection, his eyes, so clearly full of secrets, met Stiles’s again. Just for a second before he turned away again.
Stiles blinked. That’s the fastest he’s ever angered someone. Usually, he was allowed a few sentences before such judgment.
Still, he owed his rescuer thanks. And Stiles was nothing if not polite. That is why Stiles walked with forced casual steps to the patron. It was not a matter of curiosity, but propriety. And a touch of selfishness. Stiles knew a mark when he saw one, and this man was sure to be the one to get Stiles out of this cursed little town.
Stiles placed his forearm against the bar and leaned into the man’s space, until the man was forced to lean back or find the entirety of his side pressed into Stiles’ chest.
“Howdy.” Stiles smiled even as his heart kicked up the pace. “Thanks for the rescue,” Stiles continued. The man glared at Stiles some more.
“We don’t get many gentlemen like you in town,” Stiles tried again. The man didn’t even open his mouth. “What’s got you traveling all alone?”
It was a rude question, but Stiles needed – something, anything. Even if that thing was a “mind your own business.”
Regardless of the impropriety of the question, the man refused to speak. Stiles’ hands were sweating under the weight of the man’s stare.
Stiles wasn’t interested in this man, to be clear. He wasn’t drawn to the way his fingers curled around his glass. He wasn’t trapped in the way his shoulders lined his shirt. And he absolutely was not enraptured in the gleam of his belt buckle or anything beneath it.
“The silent type. More satisfying when I pull it out of you.” Stiles winked in a refusal to let his nerves show. “Let me guess. You’re … Logan! The oil baron, come here to tell Old Man Gridle that the parcel of land he’s holding onto is worth millions in black gold.”
Nothing.
“Okay. You’re Dean; a forty-niner who got rich on his last excursion to California. I’m sorry to tell you, Dean, I’m not fond of men who mistreat the natives.” Somehow, the glare got more intense. It had to be the eyebrows.
“Go away.”
“He speaks! I must be getting close. You are… Peter! The banker. Oh! The bank robber, and you’ve just finished a heist and are hiding from the law.” Stiles watched as the man’s eyes went panicked.
“Stay away from me,” The man growled, pushing back from the bar. Stiles reached across the wooden edge of the bar to grab at the man’s wrist before he could rush from the room.
“Wait.” Stiles was nearly yelling. Rushing to get the words out. “I won’t tell anyone about your bank heist, Peter. You don’t have to-“
“Derek.” The man stopped staring at where Stiles was holding onto him long enough to look at Stiles.
“What?” Stiles blinked.
“It’s – Don’t call me Peter. My name is Derek.”
“Derek, then,” Stiles smiled and released Derek’s arm. “You don’t have to go.”
Whatever loquacious spirit had flooded Derek had vanished. He seemed to shake himself briefly before slamming his drink back. He turned on his heel and moved from the room at just too fast a pace to be a walk. “Nice talking to you, Derek!” Stiles called at his back.
Stiles was rewarded with one final glare before Derek disappeared up the stairs.
“Stiles, there you are.” Jordan appeared from the back of the bar. His brown shirt bloomed from his waist where the apron tied it down. “Lydia is out looking for you.”
Stiles groaned.
“Here,” the brown liquid sloshed as Jordan set it against the wood of the bar. “then go face your madam.”
“Thanks,” The brandy left trails of fire down his throat and settled as an ember in his gut. Stiles closed his eyes and leaned into the sting.
“Be careful out there. Word is that the Hale Hound was spotted only two towns over. Some guy was gutted. He – just be careful, Stiles.”
Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Too little, too late Jordan.
“The Hale Hound couldn’t do anything to me that this town hasn’t already done.” Stiles turned on his heeled and walked out of the boarding house.
Stiles needed to get out of this town and quickly, and Derek was his best chance to do it. But first, he needed to get this medicine back to Lydia.
At times, the livery of the bordello rang too loudly in Stiles’ ears and ate at his peace. Other times the drink filled him with enough liquid heat to melt him through the floor. Today, he was halfway to the ground.
“You talk with too much mustard, Henry.” Lydia called with a genial laugh. Stiles laughed too. He knew how to play the game, and even at high noon with half a bottle of liquor swirling in his gut. The doors of the bordello announced another patron. Stiles heart jumped in his chest.
Sweet Donny strolled in. Knocking the dust from his boots with each step. Stiles sighed.
It had been this way for much of the day. Stiles jumped whenever a dark figured passed by the bordello windows. Whenever someone entered the bordello. Stiles stiffened, heart thundering, on high alert, until he recognized that the form wasn’t Derek.
Then came the exception. Derek stepped out of the doors of the boarding house and into the overcast day. Stiles’s breath caught as he watched Derek’s dark form shift under his long coat. Gone were the clothes of Derek the gentleman. Now, he was dressed in a wool winter coat buttoned to his waist. The bulk of his chest causing the fabric to ripple in odd ways. The ends of the coat billowed behind him as he hastened down the stairs from the boarding house and to the barn where his horse was. Stiles knocked back a shot of bourbon.
Now or never.
“I’m taking off!” Stiles called to Lydia as he rushed to the back of the kitchens of the bordello. He didn’t bother going too far. He reached under the cabinet where he stashed his spare pants.
“Right now? It’s the middle of the day, Stiles,” Lydia said from the doorway.
“Which is why it’s fine. There’s no one here anyway.” Stiles pulled the frilly skirt off and let it pool on the floor. His jeans scratched against his legs as he pulled them on.
“Stiles, whatever you are doing-”
“I’ll be right back.” Stiles called over his shoulder as he rushed from the back door of the bordello. He ignored Lydia as he rushed to catch up with Derek. The cold air wrapped around Stiles without hesitation. His breath fogged the air in front of his lips.
He pressed on to the barn. The wind whistled through his jacked once more as he pushed open the doors. Derek stood at the stall in the back, equipping his horse for wherever he was going next. His hands stalled briefly as Stiles shut the door behind himself.
“Fancy running into you here.” Stiles said as he saddled Lydia’s horse. He could see her face pinched in anger already. He was going to owe her so much for this. Derek just grunted in response. His hands moved faster.
“Where are we heading today?” Stiles asked. That did it.
“ We are going nowhere. I am leaving.” Derek did not turn to face Stiles, but his shoulders remained stiff. Stiles pouted and hands fiddling with the buckles on the saddle.
“Leaving Beacon’s End?” Stiles asked, but Derek only ignored him. He didn’t have any of the bags he came into town with. “No, not leaving… Wherever you are going I suppose I could postpone my plans to come with you.”
“You will not.” Derek growled. Stiles was not above admitting the way it washed over him left him short of breath. Set lust rolling through his core. Stiles bent over to check the straps around the horse’s chest.
“You are new around these parts. It can be dangerous. I’ll protect you. I happen to be an excellent rider and an even better shooter,” Stiles had barely gotten the words out before he was pressed against the stall wall. The broad of Derek’s chest and the steel of his arms were caging Stiles in. The simmer of arousal turned into a full boil. The horses whinnied from somewhere behind Derek.
“If you wanted me pressed against you, all you had to do was ask.” Stiles smirked. He couldn’t stop the pound of his heart or the twitch of his hips. Seeking a bit of friction where the meat of Derek’s thigh pressed against Stiles’ crotch. If the light hadn’t been so low, Stiles would have sworn he saw a flash of color burn through Derek’s irises. Or if he were severely drunk.
As it was, Stiles was just light on his feet. Not drunk. And there was barely any light to be sure of any color changes.
Derek’s head dropped against Stiles’ shoulder. The cool air and his warm breath swirled over the junction of Stiles neck. Stiles bit his lip to hold in the moan. He knew what he looked like: his hands fisted along Derek’s waistband. Their bodies pressed close.
This, with a man painters would sell their hands just to look at. A man who smelled like pine forests tinged with sweat.
Stiles could feel every plane of Derek’s body where they were pressed together. The inhales of his chest. The slant of Derek’s hips. The six-shooter digging into Stiles’ thigh.
Stiles gave an experimental wiggle. His cock grazed Derek’s thigh, zings of arousal coursed through Stiles. The six-shooter grew firmer against Stiles’ thigh.
“Is that your gun or are you just happy to see me?” A spark of arousal burned through Stiles. Derek's teeth pulled at the skin just under Stiles's jaw. Stiles could not contain his moan.
“Do you ever shut up?” Derek murmured; the vibrations ricocheting against Stiles's insides.
“You can try.” Stiles wiggled his hips again. Please. Please let him try. Stiles begged silently. He would beg aloud, too. If he had to.
The liquor took hold of his hands. Stiles’ hands moved until they rested on the small of Derek’s back. They dripped down to the upper curve of Derek’s ass. Stiles wasn’t sure if that was the nip of teeth on his neck, but his hips jerked again.
The cold air took Derek’s spot against Stiles. Stiles blinked at the sudden change. He looked around the room. Derek had crossed back to his mare.
“Don’t follow me.” Derek swung into the saddle with an ease that did nothing to quench the heat piling in Stiles’ gut or the swell of his cock. Fuck. He roughly pressed the heel of his hand against his erection. Derek tracked the movement with his eyes before he spurred his horse out of the barn.
Stiles’s fingers felt clumsy and slow as he finished saddling Lydia’s horse. Derek was going to be a harder mark than anticipated. He was attracted to Stiles, this much was obvious. Most men would have acted on that attraction by now. Perhaps, he was ashamed because Stiles was a fallen angel.
But, there was no way for Derek to know that. Stiles hadn’t been wearing the skirts when they first met in person. And Derek hadn’t been in the bordello, at least not when Stiles had been there. So, there was no way he knew about Stiles’ lack of virtue.
Perhaps, he was ashamed of his desire because he was on his way to meet with his beau. That would explain his unwillingness even to speak to Stiles. He hated to admit it, but Stiles burned with jealousy for whoever had managed to capture Derek’s attentions. Stiles felt a tear of frustration as he swung to sit in the saddle.
Perhaps, if he had been less curious all those years ago, he would have had the normal kind of life that would have naturally attached him to someone like Derek.
Married to some loyal gentleman. That kind of life was beyond Stiles now. He was too wise. Too understanding about the darkest corners of this world.
“You still haven’t said where we are going.” Stiles said when he managed to catch up enough to ride side by side with Derek. He ignored Stiles and spurred his horse into a quick canter. The bag at his side banging into the side of the saddle. Lydia’s horse easily kept pace.
The snow started coming down in big chunky flakes.
“If you tell me where we’re going, I can protect you easier. You know there are bandits in these hills.”
Derek gave a single grunt from his mount. Stiles thought it sounded a lot like permission to continue.
“You’ve probably never heard of the Viper Boys. They’re our own little terror. They think themselves so big and tough ever since they – killed. Well, they’re the reason we don’t have a sheriff in this town. And the townspeople themselves. They’re selfish cowards. You can’t trust them.”
“And I can trust you?”
“Of course,” Stiles gave Derek his best winning smile. Snow swirled between them. Derek’s eyes lingered on Stiles for a beat before he looked back at the beaten path in the sand. “I’m the most trustworthy man you’ll meet for three towns over. Uh huh. There’s no doubt about it. Just last week, I returned a man’s missing wallet.” This wasn’t exactly true, and judging by the way Derek looked over at Stiles with an arched eyebrow, he knew it too.
“Well, I gave it back, eventually.” Stiles was fucking this up. He should pretend to simper and fawn. Pretend to need Derek. Stroke his ego and his cock until he couldn’t imagine leaving Stiles here on his own. Instead, Stiles was confessing to stealing.
“This is the example meant to inspire my trust in you?” Derek asked, the snow kicking up around them. Stiles could make out the thin line of mirth in his voice. The timber of his laughter. Derek didn’t seem to mind? It was a world shifting thought.
It would be a relief not to have to pretend to be some helpless waif. A familiar cactus caught Stiles’s eye through the snowfall. This cactus was Stiles’ favorite because it looked like a lightning strike. He could recognize it anywhere.
“This is the way to New Heights. Are we going there? What is your business there? You still haven’t told me where we're going. What are we doing? Something dangerous? Or something boring? You really are a bank thief, aren’t you?”
“Shut up.” Derek said it softly, the words barely cut through the increasing snow for Stiles to make out. Stiles could barely see Derek. He wasn't sure when, but his world had descended into shades of fuzzy white.
“Derek?” Stiles called into the snow. Derek appeared before him. He didn’t seem phased by the snow or the cold. Though it pelted him in equal measure to Stiles. And Stiles had to shrink into his coat against the wind. Stiles tried not to wonder how long it would be before the cold stole their toes and fingers.
"We should stop!" Stiles fumbled the compass from his pocket. There was a little cabin that he and his father would visit when Stiles was too young to make the trek to New Heights all in one day. Stiles could only hear Derek's muffled response as the wind carried most of his words away.
It took longer than Stiles remembered. The snow was a frequent enemy. It stuck in his eyelashes and attempted to blind him. Stiles had to backtrack more than once. He was almost ready to call it quits, suggest they find some cave to huddle in, when the outline of the cabin made itself visible through the filter of snow.
Derek trailed behind Stiles, slowly. When he pulled the door too, finally stopping the torrent of snow and cold, an answering rush and thump sounded from outside. Derek’s eyes went wide. He turned to push on the door. Stiles did not train his eyes on Derek’s calf as it flexed beneath his pant leg.
“It’s blocked.”
“No.” Derek pressed. It moved just slightly under his hands, but didn’t open more than an inch. Not enough space for either of them to squeeze through.
"We'll just stay here for the night, and someone will come dig us out." Stiles said. Derek moved across the room quickly. He pulled at the windows. Opened other doors.
"It's not so bad. I've been told I'm great company." Stiles watched as he paced the floor investigating any way out of the small cabin. Never lingering for long in any one spot. His eyes were wild when he turned finally back to Stiles.
When Stiles was 7, his father had taken him to the traveling circus. Stiles had begged to go to the circus for years. And this year, it was his father's attempt at a distraction from his mother's recent death. Stiles had snuck off that day. Wandered through the big-tops on his own. He scurried to avoid the mindless pushing of the people around him. He found himself behind a tent being watched and watching a lion patrol the limits of its cage. Waiting for any deficiency in the metal to make itself known, so he could escape.
If the lion escaped it would kill him, Stiles had no confusion about that. Now, he watched Derek stride back and forth.
“It must have been blocked by the snow drift from the rooftop,” Stiles shrugged. “I'll start a fire, since we will be stuck for the night.”
“Stuck? No. We can’t be.” Derek had taken to inspecting the window again. Stiles went to his knees in front of the fireplace and the small stockpile of firewood. It wouldn’t last them long. They would have to be careful about how much wood they used.
“The snow drift from the room has blocked us in. We're trapped until someone realizes we are missing and comes to get us out. Or the snow melts." Stiles tossed a casual glance over his shoulder as the first ember caught flame.
"Wait! Don’t!” Stiles called, too late. Derek had pried the window open. Snow fell in a thick stream into the room. It rushed with a dulled roar. And it didn’t stop.
Not when Derek leaped back, not when the window shattered in on itself. Not until the snow moved halfway across the room and piled itself at Stiles’ feet. The wind howled through the shards of glass that was once a window.
“Great. You broke the window. Anyone ever tell you not to open a window during a snowstorm?” Stiles gestured to the window. The temperature in the room was falling drastically. “That’s why.”
The wind tickled at the ember. Stiles used his body to shield any new flame from the wind's aggression. He was already feeling the cold seep into each of the joints in his feet. Stiles sighed as he glanced at their already timid collection of firewood. Stiles pulled his coat closer around his body. His fingers were clumsy as he tried to encourage the ember to a full flame. Derek’s cheeks had gone red from the bracing chill.
The fire was a controlled smolder when Stiles looked at Derek again. Derek was trying his best to become one with the shadows in the furthest corner from Stiles.
When Stiles’ eyes connected with Derek’s, his eyes went even more tameless. They darted around the room; always coming back to Stiles.
Stiles took a step towards Derek. He tensed in the corner, and, for a moment, the wind transformed into a growl. It was gone before Stiles could think too much of it. He had to deal with Derek. Who clearly wanted to be as far away from Stiles as possible. Stiles’ hands went up - placating.
“I know there’s probably a million others you would rather be stuck here with, but it's not so bad. You should come sit by the fire. I won't try anything. Like in the barn. Completely platonic that's me. Never-mind the fact you’ll freeze over there.” Stiles gestured to the nearby window that was still howling and spitting snow. Stiles slid a foot forward. His right foot never lifted from the floorboards. His approach glacier slow.
“Derek?” Stiles was sure that Derek’s eyes changed color - a quick flash of his normal stoic green eyes to red. Stiles's stuttered footstep matched his heartbeat. Stiles couldn’t resist leaning in closer.
“What was that? Your - your eyes?” Stiles couldn’t stop himself from getting closer. Couldn’t stop himself from studying every inch of Derek’s face. And it was changing before Stiles’ eyes. It was something unnatural, rippling into something vulgar and terrifying.
“Derek? What is going on? What’s happening to your face?” Stiles lifted a hand to touch, to verify the reality that his eyes were reporting to his brain. The creature standing where Derek had been just moments before growled with a display of viciously sharp teeth.
Those had not been there before.
Stiles had the distinct idea that if he reached out, Derek wouldn’t hesitate to bite down on whatever body part of Stiles’s was the closest. Adrenalin blasted through Stiles like a stick of dynamite. His fingers hovered less than a foot away from Derek’s face.
Derek gripped Stiles’ wrist and pulled him close. The world spun as Derek turned to press Stiles into that dark corner he had just vacated. Derek’s face, presumably still hairy and warped, was pressed into Stiles’ shoulder. The prick of something sharp alerted Stiles to how precarious his position.
Stiles’ heart pounded like a machine gun in his chest. Stiles still had his revolver on his hip, but it wouldn’t do him any good. They were too close. And Derek was fast. Stiles wouldn’t get it out of his holster before this creature ripped him to shreds.
They were cast in iron, frozen to the spot. Derek’s hot puffs of air were coasting over Stiles’ neck. The fury of the window forgotten long before.
“Uh? Derek?” There was only snuffling in response. Stiles tried to push away, but to no avail. Derek’s arms were steel bars. Derek made a noise when Stiles pushed. Heart wrenching and vulnerable. Stiles couldn’t stand it, so he stopped pushing. Just stood still as he could, which was not very still. Derek ran his face across Stiles’s shoulder, he pressed his hands over every part of Stiles's ass and back, curled his fingers around Stiles' neck.
Stiles was deeply aware of his hard on pressing against Derek. He shouldn’t be so turned on by this strong and fast beast. He shouldn’t want to feel the press of those sharp teeth as he cums on Derek’s cock. Did it get as hairy and big as the rest of him? Would Derek fuck Stiles with his face distorted and stroke viciously animalistic?
Stiles’s cock was throbbing for answers.
It was like Derek was waking up from a slumber, when he started to release Stiles. Slowly, his arms unlocked from their circuit up and down Stiles’s body. Derek’s cheek stopped rubbing a beard burn into the junction of Stiles’ neck. He was sure he could feel a bit of wet there. If Stiles didn’t know better he would think that Derek had licked him.
Derek’s head rose from its resting spot. He was looking at Stiles, now. His eyes still blazing that unnatural red, but his face back to its human appearance.
"What are you?" Stiles whispered around the wind of the storm and their mingled puffs of breath.