Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So that's my excuse

These what I tell myself so...

Intoxicate me!

You're gonna be the death of me!

Intoxicate Me – Himalayas

Deaton was wearing an orthopedic boot. And as shocking as it might sound, that wasn’t even his biggest concern.

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles said, squinting his eyes – and eyebrows. And mouth. Actually, his whole face scrunched up. “You wanted to go on a Druid expedition. In the middle of the forest. To pick a flower. During the perigee of the blue moon? During THE blue moon?”

Deaton’s gaze changed very little.

“Well, I hadn't gotten to that part yet,” he said calmly. “But yes, Stiles. I was ready to leave within the hour… if it weren’t for this unfortunate mishap.”

Everyone looked again at the walking boot on his foot. Knee-high, warm, heavy. Not exactly convenient for someone planning to walk in the woods at night. Especially considering this night would be in Beacon Hills, not Sunnyvale.

Scott made his usual confused face.

“But what’s the flower for?”

Deaton leaned his crutches against the operating table. The sun was setting through the satin glass window, tinting the veterinary clinic in orange. A “Closed” sign hung outside the door.

“Depends on what it's used for,” he replied. “The flower is an ingredient.”

Stiles and Scott exchanged a quick glance.

“Okay, you already said this... ingredient has something to do with the moon turning blue,” Isaac started, cautious. He was leaning against a cabinet next to Derek. “But why does this happen?”

“It's just a name, the moon doesn't turn blue for real.” Stiles cut in. And since no one stopped him, he kept going. “A full lunar cycle is about 29 days long. But since the year has 365 days, sometimes you get thirteen full moons instead of twelve. Sure, depending on the lunation cycle and if the full moon happens in the first 3 days of the month. Which is a little hard to happen,”

He paused – for the simple need to breathe – and waved with one hand.

“That means that a blue moon is just an extra full moon in the same month. Kind of rare — shows up every two or three years. And about twelve times stronger than a normal full moon.”

Five pairs of eyes stared at him blankly. Lydia even stopped filing one of her nails.

“Thank you, Neil deGrasse Tyson. But I was asking about why this happens to the flower.” Isaac said flatly.

Stiles' neck jerked back.

“Oh.” He blurted out. Didn't sound very embarrassed.

Most of the attention shifted back to Deaton. Derek kept staring at him, silently, with that usual unreadable expression. Stiles retracted his shoulders, making an awkward chin-tilt in the universal language of what the hell are you looking at?

Derek's unreadable face turned the other way.

“In Celtic mythology the blue moon is the ideal period to get in touch with the beings of nature. Make offerings, ask for guidance.  Some people use it for rituals to open their perception and the third eye in search of answers about the future,” Deaton explained. It was impressive how he had that didactic ability to pass on a big amount of information in a short time, as if he were just listing ingredients for a smoothie. Easy peasy.

Or maybe it really was easy, considering that Deaton is a Druid. And Druids are sort of responsible for teaching, guiding, and kick-starting other people’s empty heads into thinking. Or something like that.

“The blue moon is considered the Matriarch, the mother of transformations,” Deaton went on, voice steady and reassuring. “If the flower is picked the right way tonight, maybe it will harness some of the power. And every ritual that we are eventually forced to do can have the benefit of the blue moon, even if it has already passed. Luck, positive karma. Things that we need to happen manifesting quickly. It's basically like... playing poker and having a wild card.”

There was a solid second of silence.

“Sounds useful.” Derek muttered.

Deaton nodded.

“I've been researching this for a few months now. It's not urgent, and I can’t guarantee it’ll work exactly as I said. The bottom line is that it needs to be harvested today so I can analyze it,”

He paused. From his place, Derek thought they were finally getting to the real reason they’d been called to the clinic.

“I can't go into the woods with this ankle. It would be a great help if one of you could get the flower instead of me.” He asked, looking around the room.

Everyone looked back at him.

That’s new. Deaton didn't ask for favors. He was usually the guy with the solution, not the one who needed help.

“I would go...” Scott shrugged awkwardly. “But I don't think it's a good idea for me to be out during the full moon.”

Isaac nodded seriously.

“Same here,” he added, wrapping his arms around himself in a way that looked more like he was hugging himself than crossing his arms. “I could hurt someone.”

Everyone fell into understanding silence. Of Derek's Betas, Isaac was the most controlled. Erica and Boyd had already been feeling the moon’s pull since yesterday. And even though none of them were in “kill mode” anymore, if a werewolf said they didn't feel safe to be outside, it was better to believe them.

Lydia adjusted her posture.

“I’ve got a study group ‘til nine. Math,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. Didn’t quite pull it off.

Because Deaton had already done a lot for them. Not returning any favor seemed just too ungrateful.

“I can go,” Stiles offered, to no one's surprise.

“I will.” Derek said at the same time, to everyone's surprise.

Their voices clashing was weird. They glanced at each other in discomfort. The rest of the room turned toward them, heads tilting almost in sync.

It definitely didn’t feel like the best idea. Stiles and Derek weren’t exactly famous for getting along — 99% of their interactions ended in bickering. The group could already picture it: full moon, sarcasm, insults, tension. Some threats tossed in by an increasingly impatient Derek.

Yeah. Not a great combo.

That’s more or less what everyone was thinking. But no one said it.

Because it just seemed stupid too. Those disagreements weren't – apparently, in theory – a reason big enough to justify saying no to Deaton. So everyone just silently agreed to ignore the matter. Teamwork. It was kind of impressive.

“I appreciate it,” Deaton sighed. “I wouldn't want either of you going into the woods alone anyway,”

He made a face as he stood, limping over to a corner of the room. Seconds later, Deaton returned limping and dropped a canvas backpack on the surgical table. Something heavy rattled when it hit the metal surface.

“These are the supplies I had prepared for tonight. There's a flashlight, and a map of the preserve. I marked the flower location, It's near a stream. You two will need to be careful to get there, the path is a little tricky,” Deaton pointed on the map. “I recommend starting from the old forest watch station. It’s about a fifty-minute walk. Best case scenario.”

Stiles' lips frowned.

“Loving the optimism. Very motivational.”

Deaton continued, unfazed.

“The flower’s name is Lobelia Erinus. The variety you’re looking for is called Lobelia-blue, but it’s also known as Blue Moon. It’s not rare, the important thing is when it grew. The problem is that Lobelia Erinus is toxic, so you’ll need to follow my instructions and use this...”

He unzipped the backpack further and took out a stone pestle and mortar.

Derek tightened his eyebrows.

“A garlic press?”

“It's for grinding the flower.” Deaton replied simply, placing the stone set on the table. “One of you will remove the plant by the root, and recite a Celtic incantation that serves as a conductor. A channel to the energy of the blue moon. Meanwhile, the flower needs to be placed here and burned.”

He lifted a refillable lighter from God knows where. A lit lighter.

“It's not so enigmatic as it sounds.” Deaton endorsed. “Burning it neutralizes the toxicity. The ashes get ground up into a powder. Almost a dust,” He rubbed his fingers together as if suggesting a texture. “That’s the ingredient you’ll bring me.”

He looked at them almost as if expecting a “positive”.

Stiles' legs shifted on the other side of the table.

“Huh, are we sure this’ll work if we’re the ones doing it?” His voice came out uncertain. Well. He hadn’t exactly pictured doing a full-on Celtic ritual to get the job done. In his head it was more like, yank the flower out of the ground, toss it in a plastic bag, and boom — mission accomplished.

Stiles gestured with his whole arm.

“I mean, as far as I know neither of us is a Druid master or anything. It might not have the same effect, you know, to sync up with the moon juice or whatever.”

Deaton stared at him calmly.

“I don't see why not.” He said. “You’ve already made a far more complex incantation work before, and under much worse conditions. Don’t you remember that?”

Derek remembered, but stayed quiet.

Stiles squirmed a little, timid at the memory — that night outside the rave, with the fairy dust. He didn’t say anything either.

“Well,” Deaton sighed. He urgently needed to get that ankle up. “You two should head out soon. It’s getting dark.”

Chapter Text

You say you got the touch

I think you talk too much

'Cause I swear I make you blush

But I won't get flattered 'cause it doesn't even matter

You think you know so much

But I think you're out of touch

I don't wanna be next to you

I can't stand a single thing you do

The Touch - Welshly Arms

Stiles put Deaton's backpack on the front seat of the Jeep like it was packed with grenades and the pins were halfway out.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Scott asked with a pained expression. They were outside the clinic, an and the late afternoon sky bled tangerine into violet.

“Nope.” Stiles shrugged. “But it's not like I haven't gotten into weird stuff with Derek before. This is just another episode in the ‘What Could Possibly Go Wrong?’ series.”

He shut the driver's door with a POW that made Scott flinch. All his senses were oversensitive due the blue moon – any louder sound made his temples pulse with the early signs of a headache.

“That's not what I meant,” Scott rubbed his forehead. “I'm more worried about you. It’s two full moons in one month, Stiles. Even Derek must be feeling it,”

“Scott, Derek’s irritable by default, okay?” Stiles argued. Then, after a self-reflective pause. “Right, he does scare the crap out of me. But the worst he’s ever done is threaten me with those werewolf switchblades you all have for fingers, and I’m still here. So, yeah, life moves on.”

They rounded the Jeep. A Porsche sped down the street, blasting Michael Jackson’s You Got Me Workin’ Day and Night like it was on a mission.

“Besides, nothing’s gonna top the trauma of holding you down while Derek blowtorched you,” Stiles shook his face. “Seriously Scott, I still get chills from that. Disturbs my sleep at night.”

Scott laughed.

“But the result looks cool,” he commented, looking at the two dark bands around his arm.

Stiles grimaced. “Glad that being burned alive was worth it for you, because I still hate this tattoo,” He climbed into the car. Scott just smiled, like he either found Stiles funny or didn’t take his hatred seriously. Probably both.

“You gonna be back late?”

“Probably after midnight,” Stiles buckled his seatbelt. Derek had already gone ahead to check on the Betas. Isaac was in charge for the full moon.

Stiles had to admit that his pack had an interesting dynamic, despite the whole excruciating screaming, iron chains and live rabid animals thing. Practically an Ozzy Osbourne show in the 80's.

“Derek said he’ll meet me at the preserve entrance. Until we get there, go up the trail, get the flower, head back. Four hours minimum.” Stiles thanked the universe that his dad had night shift at the station. “Midnight if we’re lucky.”

“I think the worst of the moon’s effect will be over by then. I can meet you after,” Scott offered.

“What about your mom?”

He shrugged. “Work.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows.

“I'm beginning to think that our parents leave us unsupervised too much.” He closed the driver's door. Scott gave a half-smile.

“Honestly? I need the distraction. Allison gets back from training with her dad this week.”

Stiles paused for a second.

“You okay with that?” He frowned sympathetically. Well aware about the complicated plot of that story.

Scott made that vague, shoulder-lifted expression that every person who is still recovering from a broken heart makes.

“Yeah,”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa – no tragic face, alright? I need you functional in case Derek decides to send me to the afterlife by the end of the night.”

Scott laughed under his breath.

“He’d take us both down, no question.”

“Exactly. So no brooding, Romeo. Later.”

“Alright,” Scott sighed, seeming less despondent when looked around. “See you later then,”

“Try not to hunt any neighborhood pets, Mascott,” Stiles teased, starting the Jeep.

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Scott called over his shoulder as he walked down the street.

Stiles smirked in the driver’s seat. Definitely shaping up to be a long night.

|

Stiles sat on the Jeep’s hood. The road had turned dark, with zillions of stars scattered on the horizon.

And Derek was over half an hour late.

Right, Stiles was impatient. And a little anxious. Anxious to start climbing the trail at once, anxious about the magic spell he needed to do with the flower, and anxious about the inescapable amount of hours he still had to spend with Derek Hale.

He had no idea how the two of them were going to interact all that time. In the best case scenario he could imagine a very long and uncomfortable ride, which was not very encouraging. It already seemed a little problematic when they were with the others, alone then - don't know. It was just weird.

Even after all the supernatural trouble they got into together, Stiles didn't think he and Derek could consider themselves friends. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what they were. “Allies” seemed too impersonal, “enemies” too dramatic. They had saved each other's lives more than once, but couldn’t manage a five-sentence dialogue without insulting each other at the end.

So yeah – weird.

He glanced around. The night was clearer than usual. He could make out the silhouette of the pines, engulfed in that bluish night hue. The moon was huge.

And nothing blue. Zero. It looked like a normal full moon, although some kind of supernatural intuition in the back of his brain warned: this is different.

He’d read about blue moons mythology before. Nothing too in-depth, just Internet stuff. The term had come to mean something rare – impossible, even. He remembered seeing something about romance, too. Old legends saying the blue moon made people fall in love. Even Deaton made a vague comment about it before they left the clinic.

Total crap, obviously. But who was he to judge legends invented more than 500 years ago.

“What are you looking at?” A not very cheerful voice came from behind his back.

Stiles flinched so hard he slid off the hood, his feet hitting the ground in an unbalanced clash. Derek just kept staring, all arched eyebrows and serious eyes, as if he had been standing beside the Jeep the whole time. Looked like a fucking statue.

Stiles put a hand on his chest.

“You’re late. And now you’re trying to give me a heart attack?”

“I was with the Betas,” Derek retorted. “You get scared too easily.”

“And that's easy to say when you sneak up like a horror movie extra,” Stiles muttered, circling the Jeep to grab the backpack.

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Let’s just get this over with,”

He grumbled, sounding almost tired. And for once, Stiles skipped the sarcasm.

Maybe this comment had something to do with the wolf being late. Maybe.

“I've studied the map for a while. There should be some old markers on the trail. Nothing very readable, probably,” he said, awkwardly slinging the backpack on one shoulder, map and flashlight in hand. He offered the flashlight to Derek. “But I think it might help us have less trouble in following the trail. Here.”

Derek just stared blankly at him.

Stiles raised his eyebrows.

“What, you are waiting for a written invitation? Just take it,” He shook his arm and a second later shoved the flashlight into Derek's palm.

The wolf took it grudgingly.

“I don’t need this.”

“Yeah, well, fantastic for you and your werewolf skills, but I do.” Stiles replied with an obvious tone, adjusting the backpack, “you’re officially my seeing-eye wolf tonight.”

Bolt from the blue, Derek didn’t reply. They left the road and stepped into the preserve. The trail was narrow, overgrown. And it must have been much wider in the past, because they were definitely walking too close.

Minutes passed in silence. Awkward, oppressive silence. The kind that magnifies the forest in size.

“So... how Erica and Boyd are handling this blue moon thing?” Stiles asked, dodging a thorny bush.

Derek took a beat. “Agitated.”

Stiles nodded. No follow-up. Derek kept pointing the flashlight forward, his shoulder accidentally bumping into Stiles' as they walked. The awkward silence came again. And it took the boy a full minute to realize just how nervous he was.

“Scott said he’ll meet us here later. Once the moon thing dies down,” Stiles said for no reason. “I don't think we'll return until around midnight. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Derek answered. Just that.

Stiles let out an annoyed snort. “And this is me remembering why I usually talk for both of us.”

Derek frowned at him.

“But I'm talking.”

“With admirable effort,” Stiles remarked. He would have laughed at the revolted expression Derek made if he had been looking up.

“Oh, I'm sorry for not being more... extroverted.” Derek replied, forcibly pushing a twig out of the way. And with a tone of not feeling sorry for anything either.

“Your problem isn't introversion, it's moodiness. Shine that over here, I can't see the map,” Stiles squinted his eyes.

“Not much to see, there's only one trail,” Derek directed the beam of white light in one motion. Stiles grimaced from the sudden brightness.

“Yeah, and a pretty bad one from what I can tell,” He murmured, pausing to locate their spot in the mess of lines.

“Deaton said the trail was going to be difficult,” Derek said, nudging his back. “Don’t stop walking. At this rate we won’t reach the stream until morning.”

“He drew an X with a pen here,” Stiles said, stepping over a cluster of rocks with the grace of a cat still learning how to use its legs. “Think that’s where the flower is?”

“It's near the water?” Derek moved closer to look.

“Could be the old forest watch house too, this map only shows the new tower,” a slightly guilty expression flashed across the Stiles' face. Then returned and camped over there. “I forgot to ask.”

Derek rolled his eyes again. “Of course you did.”

Stiles looked offended. Just a little.

“Very impressive,” he said with a curl of his lips, heavy with irony, as he scanned the mess of wild plants, trying hard to spot any lost trail markers. “If I’m that predictable, why didn’t you ask?”

“You grabbed the backpack before I even saw the map.” Derek shot back, his tone edged with irritation.

Stiles opened his mouth to reply – thinking he finally saw a sign – then tripped. A tree root sent him lurching forward, and he would’ve gone face-first into the dirt if Derek hadn’t reacted fast.

“Do you ever watch where you’re going?” He questioned rudely after holding his arm. Stiles staggered without much balance.

“I can't see in the dark like you, you big sourwo-”

“You're so focused on the map, you’re forgetting to look where you're walking.” Derek cut in, his strong hand still gripping Stiles’ elbow. Holding it, really. And Stiles fumbled with the backpack, but certainly not because of that.

"Oh, yeah, sorry for not wanting us to get lost in the woods in the middle of the night," Stiles said sarcastically, trying to ignore the conflicting feeling and walk like he didn't have two left feet.

Derek grunted. “We’re not getting lost.” He nudged Stiles forward, like he didn’t trust him to walk without supervision. Which wasn’t entirely untrue. Because in Derek's eyes, Stiles was the kind of boy who cut himself with paper.

And of course Stiles caught on to the intention behind the move – prompting a full-blown cacophony of indignant protests, frantic hand gestures and lots of sarcasm.

It's like everything Stiles does. Histrionic.

“We're not getting lost.” Repeated Derek, whose patience was still attached to him, but only by the end of a long and rather frayed thread. “Keep walking.”

And it kind of worked, for a while. Long minutes passed with Derek pointing the flashlight and Stiles in control of the “turn here, turn there—oops, no, wait, it’s over here”. He kept rambling about how useful signs would be. Everything would be easier, actually, if the logical part of his brain ceased to say that any sign would’ve been swallowed by the vegetation long ago.

And Stiles definitely didn't notice, but behind him Derek had already rotated his shoulders three times in a row. He was uneasy. Distracted.

The energy of the blue moon was different from what he was used to with other full moons. It was silent. Not in the quiet way, it was – scrutinizing. Watchful. He felt surrounded by it, and Derek hated feeling surrounded like that by anything unseen.

He thought about the Betas. Isaac probably wouldn’t have any problems, as long as he stayed enclosed and had purpose. He had one order: take care of the others. And the others were under control when Derek left. Isaac would be fine.

The problem was him, and that boy who constantly tested the limits of his common sense. He couldn't fully explain what about Stiles annoyed him so much. Maybe it was his personality, maybe his scent, or maybe it was that endless tendency to stick his nose into every risk he could spot.

Derek really tried not to get angry, but his attention was split between Stiles’ non-stop chatter and a faint noise he heard inside the forest. He was looking to the other side when Stiles suddenly stopped, and his chest slammed into Stiles' back with a thud that nearly knocked him over again.

Both tensed instantly. Physical contact between them was always awkward.

“Fuck- why did you stop now?!” Derek shouted, trying to pull away (because somehow the boy’s touch always seemed like a strange test of his self-control).

“To enjoy the night air, what do you think? There's a gorge here!” Stiles exclaimed, trying to do the same thing: pissed that Derek was practically a wall, Derek pissed about hitting him. One pissed at the other. Meanwhile the gorge wasn't a gorge. It was a gully of four meters at the most.

Derek's grumpy expression deepened.

“It's just circumvent.” But instead his tone suggested “you're an idiot and this is an exaggeration,”

“Congratulations, genius. That's what I just told you,” Stiles shifted his chest away from Derek's; the tight bush space only allowed a few inches. “You know, for a werewolf you have a pretty bad ear.”

“I'd listen better if you talked less.” Derek countered, shooting him a look.

“I'd talk less if you said something.” Stiles snapped, staring back.

The air snapped into one of those tense silences, their gazes frozen, neither willing to break first. Like hell Stiles was about to admit that Derek’s complete lack of words made him nervous. Nope. So he just pushed his face forward, hyper-aware of Derek practically breathing down his neck.

He looked at the map, then the trail, then back at the map. Map. Trail. Map. Again.

“Oh, no.” He let out. “No no no. Tell me I'm wrong. Please.”

“What?” Derek asked.

“Typical. The stream’s over there. And us? Here. With that in the middle,” he groaned, pointing emphatically at the gully. “There’s no going around,”

The wolf’s scowl stayed the same.

Derek didn’t answer – just lifted his head from the map and scanned the darkness, as if searching for something.

“There’s a log crossing about five meters ahead.” He said.

Stiles' jaw dropped.

“Do I look like a freaking gymnast to you?” He exasperated. Derek closed his eyes, silently begging any higher power – or lower one, he wasn’t picky – for patience.

“It's the fastest way across,” He went with reason.

Stiles gave a dissatisfied grunt.

“And the fastest route to a hospital, for sure.” He scanned the darkness like it might jump out at him.

Derek let out a deep sigh.

“If you'd just accept the bite, we wouldn't have this kind of problem anymore.” He muttered, unreadable.

Stiles’ heart flipped upside down. He widened his eyes and jerked his head around like the wolf had totally lost it. Saying he was caught off guard was a massive understatement.

“And complete your team of misfit teenage werewolves? Uh – no thanks, I’m good just like this,” Stiles shot down fast, really fast. Shock in his face. Like, Derek couldn’t be serious. Right?

To his frustration, he said nothing.

“You’ll still have to cross that log,” Derek said, voice flat like a shrug. Then he pushed past the bushes and walked ahead.

Trying to ignore what just happened, Stiles grumbled and – very begrudgingly – followed him.

The log was solid. So far so good. It was wide enough to walk on and not rotten, which was excellent. But it still spanned a four-meter “gorge” that looked like the mouth of hell. Or Tartarus, if you’re into mythology.

Seriously, he couldn’t even see the bottom straight down. And to make things easier, Derek had already crossed over and was looking at him with more impatience than ever.

“Stiles,” Derek said, tightening his grip on the flashlight. “Just walk.”

“No kidding,” Stiles retorted nervously, his hands twitching like a runner at the starting line. The map now tucked in the backpack. “Thought I could just fly over it,”

Derek huffed, twisting his chin.

“So what's the problem?”

“I don't want to fall! That's the problem!” Stiles protested, fidgeting on his feet. He barely had the coordination to walk on a trail, let alone on a log. “It’s easy for you to say, just standing there, watching, safe. I’m the one who has to cross.”

Derek almost felt his right eye twitch.

“And you want me to come get you?” he asked, confused.

Stiles looked insulted.

“Considering you’d probably just throw me down there? Hell no!”

The wolf growled, annoyed. Then he gathered momentum and leapt over the gully like he’d done five minutes earlier. Stiles hunched his shoulders tensely as Derek landed beside him with superhuman speed. Derek’s hand pressed on his shoulder – just once, since he never seemed keen on touching Stiles for too long – and in one swift motion got him up on the log with both feet.

“Walk.” The sharp voice felt like a smack to the back of Stiles’ head. Hard to argue with that.

Stiles swallowed dryly – as if he had any other option – and started walking. Slowly, hesitantly, and with knees that felt more like hinges than cartilage. Living the dream, really.

“If I fall, I'll haunt you for the rest of your life,” Stiles muttered, barely loud enough to hear. He took another shaky step, biting his lower lip and clenching his fists like it’d help him keep his balance.

If we’re being precise, he was really trying to focus to get more balance. It was kind of nerve-wracking not having anything to hold onto. And Derek walking right behind him with that annoyingly unshakable confidence wasn’t helping at all.

Okay. It didn't have to be so hard, did it? He locked his eyes on the log, just the log, and forced himself not to think about the menacing darkness below him. A darkness that probably promised a broken tibia. Or a nasty sprain. But yeah, he wasn’t thinking about that.

Then he realized – strangely enough – that Derek hadn’t rushed him once. Maybe it was because every muscle in Stiles’ body was tense. Maybe it was because he noticed Stiles had been holding his breath since he took his first step. Whatever the reason, his silence never settled Stiles’ nerves.

Especially not with Derek being so close.

Suddenly, and “suddenly” was usually how it went, Stiles' restless tendency began to break his concentration. In one fell swoop, nervousness overcame his rational goal to stay balanced. His ADHD was winning, the urge to finish this thing as quickly as possible was increasing, and Stiles felt sure he was moving too slowly.

Not a millisecond after his body decided to hurry on its own, Stiles’ sneakers slipped on a patch of moss and slid sideways of the log. His heart froze in shock – he got that horrible feeling of almost falling – and then Derek steadied him up. Quick as a flash.

“You've already passed the halfway point. Don't rush.” Derek said. He’d held his arm so tightly that Stiles could still feel the pressure even after he let go.

Stiles nodded with quiet, uneven gasps.

“Sorry,” he whispered nervously, his heart still hammering. Derek frowned. Stiles felt Derek’s hand linger almost softly on his shoulder. Unusual, to say the least.

“You're more distracted than usual,” Derek noted as they started walking again.

“Because I've already tripped twice?” Stiles replied quietly, sounding a little frustrated. Or embarrassed. Maybe both.

“That too,” Derek answered, his voice unexpectedly calm.

That tone made Stiles awkward. He clamped his mouth shut as he kept walking. And felt that explaining would be fair, since Derek had just saved him from a broken bone.

“I didn't take my ADHD meds,” Stiles spoke up. “It would take too long to drive home.”

There was no response for a second. Then Derek let out a simple “hm” and went quiet again. His hand hovered near Stiles’ shoulder – too far to touch, close enough to feel. Weird, too.

About a dozen years later, the walk ended. Stiles jumped down from the log and took several aimless steps as soon as he hit the hard ground, chasing the feeling of standing on something solid and safe. He took a deep breath. As deep as his lungs would allow, in fact.

Derek walked past him with the flashlight still on. Stiles rested both hands on his hips and looked up.

“We’ve gotta cross that log again, don’t we?” he asked with a breath. Up above, the constellation of Corvus stood out.

“Yes,” Derek simplified. Stiles could feel his eyes on him.

“Fantastic,” He let out a breath, inflating his cheeks, and looked away from the sky. The forest opened up a bit there, almost like the edge of a clearing. “Can't we really look for another way later?”

“Only if you want to waste another two hours to come back,” Derek replied, now scanning a spot in the dark. The sound of running water echoed from ahead. “Stream’s over there.”

He pointed to a spot that looked just like the rest.

“Are you sure? I don't see anything,” Stiles replied, sounding annoyingly innocent.

Derek looked at him unblinkingly.

“I'm sure, because I can hear it,” He explained like he was dealing with an idiot. Not the first time, by far.

Stiles shrugged, his hands still on his hips.

“How would I know? Ten minutes ago you didn't hear me warning you about this gully...”

Of course he kept talking. And naturally, Derek rolled his eyes – fifth time tonight.

“It was better when you kept quiet.” He huffed and strode ahead.

Chapter Text

If imma be honest I can’t help but to stay

Yeah, I’m losing my balance

Got me running into circles around you

To please you I do what I need to

So pardon my manners

Just something about you turns me to a savage

Whethan – Savage (feat. Flux Pavilion & MAX)

They walk. Stiles feels like it’s been hours.

Like… seriously, it feels like hours. All he can hear are Derek’s annoyed sighs – and of course he’s impatient and not talking, but knowing that doesn’t exactly help. Not even a little. Not like Stiles was about to bother making a point.

He nibbled the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his wavering focus on the map and not on the furrowed brow of the wolf walking beside him. No joke. Derek was mute. Like… beyond standard Derek Hale mute. And Stiles was legit losing his mind over the complete lack of communication.

No need to ask if he’d thought up theories, he had. The biggest one? Full moon influence. The other? Derek was just straight-up pissed at him, which, honestly, was a possibility. A huge possibility, considering Stiles was pretty damn sure that spending time in the woods with him had to be unbearable for Derek.

Yeah. It wasn’t being wonderful for him either, trust that.

And inches from his shoulder, Derek was holding the flashlight with stress. Fact. Just not (and read this through gritted teeth) exactly for the reasons Stiles thought.

The part of him that was just wolf, the part of him that was all claws and fangs and instinct, was stirring that night. Not in a violent way. Not threateningly, just... movement. Which was annoying on its own. Derek chose to think that the questionable feeling was being caused by the full moon, even if he wasn’t sure.

He could feel the boy’s “silent” restlessness. It came to his senses mixed with the pull of the blue moon, tugging at his eyes and ears like a sticky, annoying magnet. His attention drifted to Stiles when he wasn’t looking. And this wasn’t good.

Because the reaction was too involuntary. Derek’s eyes moved on their own, heavy with focus, he didn’t even realize where they’d landed until he was already staring. And instantly he forced his head to the other side, not even disguising the automatic huff of anger and – he’d tear out the throat of anyone who suggested it – embarrassment for staring Stiles’ agitated movements.

No, not agitated. Stiles was always agitated. It was more like... nervousness. And Derek didn’t know how to read it, much less deal with it. That only made him more irritable too. He hated not understanding things.

Stiles stopped out of nowhere, frowning down at the map. And Derek almost growled when he turned to face him – because they’d been walking down the stream for about twenty minutes, and there was only one logical reason for that look.

“We’re lost.” He said. Whether it was a question or an accusation was up for debate.

Stiles denied, but denied doubtfully.

“We’re not lost...” He glanced around. “Are we?”

Derek gave him a deadly stare, all sour, and Stiles didn’t even need a second to interpret it. He looked at Derek, then somewhere over his shoulder – and suddenly broke into a huge grin. Totally unnecessary, in Derek’s opinion.

“No, we’re not,” Stiles said.

Derek followed his gaze. The clearing was sky-open, and even if it hadn’t been he wouldn’t have difficulty to see the bush on the other side of the stream. A heap of indigo blue flowers near the bank. Vibrant blue in a supernatural way, if you paid attention.

Derek raised his eyebrows. He didn’t say anything, but his expression came very close to surprised relief. Stiles, on the other hand, actually celebrated.

Two minutes later they were on the other side of the bank. The stream ran in the middle of a pile of rocks. And it was extremely shallow, that to Derek’s ears the sound of the current was more irritating than relaxing. Too light. They didn’t even come close to getting wet while crossing.

Not that Derek was complaining, he was just annoyed.

Stiles pulled something else out of the backpack, lining up the items they’d need on the grass. He was probably thinking about something serious, because he’d kept his mouth shut for the last five minutes. Derek assessed the terrain, soon returning to observe the Lobelia Erinus bush adjacent to the bank.

Well, observing wasn’t exactly what he was doing. It was more like staring with suspicion. But Derek always reacted this way with anything unfamiliar that came into his life, so the feeling was nothing new.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the schism. His gaze wandered, picking up details. There was something almost mystical about the clearing now, with the silence, the full moon shining on the stream and the blue flowers detaching from the dark. It sounded too lyrical when he put it that way, honestly – dismissing the fact that the flowers left the air thick with a sweet smell of dew and pollen that made Derek’s nose itch.

The wind stirred the flowers again. That thing really didn’t seem very trustworthy to him.

Two meters ahead, with one knee sunk into the ground, Stiles began to emit a series of wheezes and self-directed instructions. Something about the flower being rich in anthocyanin. He seemed to be talking to himself, which happened a lot. Yet (against his will) Derek was paying attention.

Only not attention to what he was saying, Derek was paying attention to him.

Clothes. He doesn’t know why he noticed the clothes. Sweatshirt, baggy jeans, a century-old All Star. Nothing special, just the same old. (And no, Derek wouldn’t even comment on the fact that he knew it was the same old). But his expressionless gaze lingered a little too long on the folds the fabric made, for some reason.

Stiles curved his mouth – in that considerably distractive way – long fingers testing the lighter, only to switch tasks a second later when he remembered to grab something else from the backpack. All this with a continuous use of unconnected words. The personification of neurasthenia.

Derek wanted to growl. A garlic press, a lighter. And a Stiles. He didn’t know which was worse.

It was kind of unbelievable. Everything about that boy, externally and internally, was the physical manifestation of distraction all the time. It must’ve had some kind of influence on the environment, because it made Derek distracted too.

And he put the blame on the position, completely on the position. Because Stiles was crouched down, and most of the time Derek saw more hair than face, so of course he looked. Not that it was the first time, it wasn’t. The point was that he looked.

When Stiles showed up at his old house complaining about Scott and tattoos, Derek had noticed how much his hair had grown over the vacation. Something in his jaw had gotten more defined too. Little things that made him lose a lot of his developing teenage features. And apparently that was a pain in Derek’s ass, because it kept pulling his attention, for who knows why.

As if sensing the wolf’s gaze, Stiles fiddled with his topknot in the same way he would brush away a tuft of dust. It had a very similar effect, because the movement literally pulled Derek’s focus off him.

Derek closed his face and looked away. What the hell did he have to do with the boy’s hair anyway?

Of course Stiles raised his eyes from the ground when he noticed the movement.

“What?”

“What what?” Derek shook his face defensively.

Stiles raised his eyebrows, but shrugged and went back to what he was doing.

Because he is focused. Very focused. And that means that in the beginning he ignored Derek’s judgmental eyebrows making wordless dialogues at him. It was a fucking inherent behavior – Derek Hale and the five different emotions he could convey just by wrinkling his forehead. He did it all the time (and maybe it was a weak spot for Stiles, but no one needed to know).

Only it was impossible not to notice that tonight the stares felt a little worse. And there’s no way Stiles would ever be able to memorize those Druid codes Deaton had given him if this kept up.

“Look,” Stiles rubbed his eyes. “I can’t... I don’t know, smell emotions like you. But I swear I can feel your stress from here,”

Derek stared at him as if that stress peak had just increased.

“And you wanted me to be cheerful?” He questioned. Stiles swatted a bug away with his hand.

“Less angry? Absolutely,” He replied, waving the sheet of paper around. “Your sourwolf mood is getting in my way here,”

Derek took a deep breath through his nose to ignore the pun. He didn’t answer.

They exchanged silence looks for a moment, as always. Stiles let out a heavy sigh. He could feel some of the irritation in himself too. Aside from the anxiety gnawing at his nerves.

“Seriously, Derek. Have you seen this?” Stiles spoke in a far less aggressive and much more nervous tone this time. “My argument is totally justified,”

Derek took the paper.

“Runes?” He asked, surprised. Not because he’d expected anything different, but because he hadn’t seen anything besides the instructions. He looked at Stiles. “Did you memorize the translation?”

“Wasn’t the hard part...” Stiles replied, groping the leaves of the bush in search of the stem. The thing didn’t even move when he pulled it. “Few vowels, lots of consonants. Kinda sounded like my baptismal name,”

He scoffed at his own nerves, but his voice had an uneasy tone.

It was simple, in theory: pull the sapling out by the root. Recite the runes. Drop the whole flower into the mortar. Recite the runes. Put on fire. Repeat the runes. And grind with the pestle. Super simple. So why was that little voice in his head screaming that everything was going to go wrong?

“It won’t.” Derek said suddenly.

“What?” Stiles was distracted – only now realizing he must’ve voiced that last part out loud. Not surprising, honestly.

“It won’t go wrong,” Derek repeated. “If Deaton didn’t think you could handle it, he wouldn’t have let you try.”

And... okay. Maybe Stiles was a little flabbergasted. That was probably the second time Derek had been nice to him today – maybe in his whole life – and he definitely didn’t have the brainpower to think about it right now.

“Yeah, alright, big guy. Bring that werewolf super strength here. The root is stuck,” he deflected.

And there’s no telling whether Derek growled because of the nickname or because he was going to have to touch Lobelia Erinus – Stiles didn’t care.

But Derek didn’t yank the flower out like Stiles expected. He dropped to one knee, put the flashlight on the ground and loosened the soil around the root in a stupidly careful way. One hand held the stem, the other pushed the dirt aside in a rough, patient motion. The flower came free like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And meanwhile, Stiles just stood there and watched. Derek handed him the flower in silence. Which Stiles returned, because he was too stunned to come up with anything better.

Maybe they stared at each other a bit too long, because Stiles felt uncomfortable when he finally forced his gaze away from Derek’s unreadable eyes. He preferred to turn his focus back to the ritual. Safe ground. Much better.

Stiles picked up the lighter with unsteady fingers, repositioning himself to begin. It didn’t take Derek long to return to his original stance: one hand in his leather jacket pocket, the other pointing the flashlight. Stiles figured this was his “waiting pose”, and he probably wouldn’t move again until the ritual was done.

Classic Derek. Lemon-sucking face and full-on stalker energy.

Stiles sighed with his mouth closed as he faced the paper again. And the flowers. And the mortar. He took another deep breath, glanced at the moon, and ran through the steps in his head. For a ritual that meant so much, it all felt oddly simple. He caught himself drifting and shook it off. He just needed to focus. And get the spell right. Nothing complicated.

He placed the flower into the mortar, and that’s when he suddenly remembered the bumper sticker on the back of that car. The one with Einstein’s quote: Imagination is more important than knowledge.

He knelt on the ground, he and Derek exchanged a quick glance.

Imagination over knowledge.

The refillable lighter lit with a click. Stiles closed his eyes and began to speak the runes.

And something inside Derek’s backbone shivered and twisted. had the suspicion it wasn’t just the enchantment – but chose to ignore the feeling anyway. Stiles opened his eyes again, gaze dropping as he set the flower on fire. A dry, heavy scent rose in the air. Dulcified.

And instantly, the flames touching the Lobelia Erinus turned blue.

Indigo light illuminated the boy’s face like the flower was made of neon. Stiles turned his wrist, the bones in his hand jumping with the force that he dented the root. His voice continued all the while, low and steady. Foreign words slipping across his tongue with unnerving ease.

It was such a stark contrast to the nerves from earlier, but Derek wasn’t surprised. He’d seen Stiles in control before. It was exactly like that. Always left him with the same frustrating curiosity.

In the other hand, Stiles kept his focus razor-sharp to avoid a premature celebration. He repeated the runes and crushed the flower again and again. The motion with the pestle slowly smothered the fire. And magically, all that remained of the burned plant was a blue substance more velvety than sand. You know powdered paint? Same thing.

Stiles drew in a deeper breath as the spell ended, suddenly aware that his lungs felt emptier than they should. He dropped the pestle and put his hands on his thighs. A current of electricity running through his fingertips and a light pressure deep in his brain, against his skull. As if he’d spent the whole last minute upside down. He had to close his eyes again.

And somehow Stiles knew this was magic’s aftermath, its residue still running through his veins. It would probably fade soon, but it was unusual as hell.

“You okay?” Derek asked. Stiles nodded back.

“I’m good...” he laughed. “Holy crap, it worked. I can’t even believe it worked,”

He could swear a smile almost appeared on Derek’s face.

“I told you.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and reached for the empty flask to put in the blue powder.

“Are you really going to come with the I told you speech?”

“It’s not a speech,”

“It sounds like a speech,”

“I said literally one phrase,” Derek answered, but for the first time in the night there was something different about the atmosphere between them. Stiles used a funnel that came in the backpack to put the dust into the little glass flask.

“Well, sourwolf… speeches start with a phrase,” he shrugged as he stood up, not hiding the teasing smile.

Derek rolled his eyes, refusing to let the meaningless smile show.

“I’m not starting one,”

Stiles snorted a laugh, stuffing things back into Deaton’s backpack. He tucked the flask with the blue powder into the smaller front pocket (still couldn't believe that part had actually worked, but hey – who’s complaining?), then slung the backpack over his shoulder.

“You keep the flashlight,” he delegated. Which was another way of saying “I know you remember the way back and let’s face it, I get lost in parking lots.”

Derek caught that part too.

“Gonna need my help to cross the log again?” He teased as they started walking. And though his face stayed as serious as ever, Stiles caught a bit of humor in his voice.

“I didn’t need help,” he protested. “You volunteered of your own free will.”

“You were stuck for ten minutes.” Derek stated with a cocky tone.

Stiles immediately let out a shriek of indignation. “It was only five minutes! Tops. And I had a damn good reason to stay right where I was,”

Derek snorted what sounded like a laugh. He didn’t answer – not that he needed to. Stiles kept talking most of the time as they walked up the path. They crossed the stream closer to the clearing this time, near the log. That’s when Derek thought he heard a strange sound coming from the forest.

“Stiles,” he said, staring into the dark as he tried to listen past the boy’s voice.

“...and maybe this will be useful for...” Stiles didn’t listen. And Derek heard the noise again, more clear this time. He didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t sound natural.

“Stiles.” Derek called out a little louder.

“...and I know Deaton always talks about...” Stiles’ voice drifted off in the opposite direction. Derek finally pinpointed the noise – it was coming from the right. Something solid. Solid and deliberate.

An loud alert went off in his brain.

“Shh! Shut up!” Derek whispered and stopped walking, the abrupt movement making a furrow in the ground. And he knows that if it were any other night, Stiles’ voice wouldn’t drown out the noise that set Derek’s senses on high alert. But blame the moon, Stiles’ nonstop talking, or the unease he’d felt all evening – by the time Derek identified the sound, it was already too late.

And Stiles was right there, completely oblivious.

“You know, you seriously don’t have to do this every time you disagree with me...” he turned ready to start a fight, but then noticed the wolf’s posture. Shoulders high. Eyes staring at a fixed point in the forest.

The first sign of apprehension flashed in Stiles’ chest.

“What’s happening?” he asked. Derek turned off the flashlight quickly.

“Hunters.”

Stiles’ eyes widened.

“And you’re only telling me this now?” he asked in a stage whisper. The wolf craned his neck dryly in his direction. If looks could kill, Stiles would already be on the autopsy table.

But they didn’t have much time, because at that exact moment Stiles heard footsteps approaching too. The hunters were even closer than he’d imagined. The wolf caught their scent on the breeze, a mix of carbon and grease he’d recognize anywhere. Probably that group knew Chris Argent wasn’t in town and decided to try their luck on the full moon.

Stiles clenched his teeth. Suddenly all that dark seemed very threatening.

They started to back away.

“What do we do?” he whispered, unconsciously moving closer to Derek, a bad urgency scratching the air around them. A twig snapped further ahead, voices approaching too fast. Fuck-fuck-fuck, how did they get so close?

Derek clenched his jaw, his shoulder scraping against Stiles’ as they took another step back.

“Run.” He spoke just as the bushes out front shook. A woman not far away shouted something like “I found a trail!”

Stiles’ heart exploded. His hand shot out to grab Derek’s arm, only to let go a second later – like he realized he shouldn’t be reaching for safety there. But Derek knew the hunters weren’t going to stop and ask who was human or not. They were just going to shoot. And he had to get Stiles out of there.

So he lifted the arm Stiles had touched and grabbed the boy’s wrist, yanking him back. They let go once they started running.

And shit, they really ran. With gunshots ringing in their ears, screams behind their backs and uncoordinated steps (in Stiles’ case). The boy slammed into a tree when an arrow shot by the hunters hit him, getting stuck in the backpack. He didn’t stop to reflect how close it had come to his shoulder and just kept running when Derek pulled him back up – even though his chest was burning from lack of air and a deep ache flared in his ribs.

Derek focused on getting Stiles to keep pace and finding a safe place before his lungs got too overloaded. It should be objective and even routinary.

Except that Derek was pissed. He should’ve heard the hunters coming a mile away, he’d been trained for this kind of thing his whole life. So why the hell was his brain acting like he was running from danger with an inexperienced teenager for the first time?

Then it hit him. This was the first time. Because he was with Stiles, the human, defenseless except for his mouth – who, unlike him, couldn’t have sensed the hunters coming.

And in an ambiguous way this only made Derek even angrier.

After excruciating minutes of running, arbitrary turns, and a bit of luck, they finally managed to lose the group. The shouting had faded so much it was almost hard to believe that all they could hear now was the buzz of insects and their own ragged breathing. Their footsteps grew lighter as their pace slowed, but the urgency still clung to them.

Of course, Derek recovered much faster. Being out in the open wasn’t safe, and he doubted they were anywhere near the path back to Stiles’ Jeep. The smartest move now was to find a place to hide, at least for the time being.

Eyes squinting into the dark, they scanned their surroundings as they slowed to a jog. That’s when they spotted a cabin several meters to the left. It looked like the old forest watch station, abandoned since its deactivation years ago, which meant it was almost certainly abandoned. They ran for it like moths flying to the light.

Derek kicked the door open as soon as they climbed the steps, slamming it shut behind Stiles once he was inside. He couldn't hear the hunters anymore, and the only relevant scent he could smell was the boy’s, so that group had probably stayed a mile behind them. Good. He could deal with the frustration now.

The cabin was dark and dusty, but it felt as secure as a bunker. Maybe it was the sealed windows or the bookcase Derek was dragging in front of the door that gave that illusion of safety—either way, it didn’t matter. Stiles bent over, hands on his knees, gulping for air. His heart was beating in a deep, rhythmic thump thump - thump thump that seemed mixed with that sharp sting in his lungs.

Definitely worse than lacrosse training.

“Fuck, Derek...” he said, the sound of breathlessness rumbling in the Derek’s ears. Stiles wasn’t too sure what he wanted to express, but his voice went straight into the wolf’s brain just the same. Didn’t help much with the irritation either.

Derek suppressed the involuntary urge to growl and locked the door tight. As a precaution? Yes. For distraction? Mostly.

“Can you see any of them outside?” Stiles moved closer when he noticed Derek looking through a crack in the window.

“No,” Derek replied. And Stiles almost looked relieved – until something crossed his mind and made his eyes widen.

“Oh my God, the flask,” he blurted out, yanking the backpack off his shoulder. The arrow was still lodged in the side. “Flask, flask, flask... Where’s the flask...”

Stiles struggled a bit with his fingers’ coordination, but managed to slide the zipper and open the small front pocket. The flask with the blue powder was still there.

Except that now the glass had a crack in it. A very visible crack.

Stiles’ jaw dropped. He didn’t even know when it had happened, it could have been because of the arrow, or the time he had bumped into the tree, or in any other moment. He had no idea.

Stiles raised his eyes to Derek with clear concern.

“Uhh...” he ran his tongue over his lips nervously. “Do you remember if Deaton mentioned the consequences of-”

“Stiles.” The name came out between teeth. His mouth closed with a snap. “What did you do.”

It wasn’t a question. Stiles suddenly felt very offended.

“Me? ME?” he pointed at his own chest, the flask jiggling with his hand. “What about the other fifteen hunters shooting at us, you just suddenly forgotten about that?”

“If I forgot?” Derek turned fully toward him. “You know what would’ve happened if they hit you?”

Stiles snorted an involuntary and humorless laugh.

“They sort of did,” he said, indicating the backpack lying on the ground.

Something in Derek’s eyes burned like ice in the Arctic.

“You don’t get it,” he shook his head, his voice filled with barely contained frustration. “Doesn’t matter if you’re human. Hunters shoot to kill. We just got lucky.”

“Do you really think I don’t know that?” Stiles sounded exasperated now, speeding up the speech. The little flask heated up and vibrated in his hand. Neither of them noticed. “You’re the wolf, Derek. What would they have done with you, uh? Let you go as a sign of their good will?”

Derek did a bad job of hiding the growl this time.

“I should have heard them coming long before,” he said it more to himself than to the boy, his gaze shifting to an abandoned couch in the corner of the cabin. Anger without direction made his fists clench before his mind even registered the movement. “But it’s hard to hear anything when you don’t stop talking.”

Stiles’ heartbeat increased – adrenaline from the run was still pumping, but there was more to it than that.

“So now it’s my fault?” he questioned. Not entirely away from breathless, tongue licking the shape of his mouth again. Derek didn’t relax. Him or the wolf inside him, whatever. Same thing.

“And whose else would it be?” the answer came harsh. Rough. It was a lie, but the boy’s chest boiled immediately.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “the Alpha who should be the first to notice this kind of thing, maybe.” Stiles’ voice hissed. The flask swaying with the movement of his shoulders. And he’s looking right into the Derek’s eyes, but mostly because he’s determined to not let his vision fall in another place.

A muscle jumped in Derek’s jaw. And he felt again – just like always – that blistering burn in his stomach about Stiles. It felt a lot like anger. It felt like something else too.

That’s when the discussion got worse.

Because it was always like this. Every time they got close, it ended up the same way. Stiles staring at him, talking back, messing with his eardrums, messing with his head, messing with his ability to just tune it all out. And Derek would tell him to shut up. Derek would want to make him shut up.

Voices rose and pierced the cabin walls. The provocations kept coming, words as pointed as pins. The urge to advance on the boy throbbed in Derek’s temples, but he ignored it. It was just irritation. In that Stiles was good. Was great.

And they were so busy arguing, they didn’t notice the crack in the glass beginning to widen.

The flask wobbled unsteadily on Stiles’ arm as he gestured, swinging in all directions. One more movement, and Derek’s searing gaze clashed more closely with Stiles’ angry one – the furious way they both spoke had more electricity than hate, the line of sight between them more intense than aggressive. The color of the blue powder grew deeper, the energy in the room stretched tight like a high-voltage wire. And if either of them had been thinking more clearly, they would’ve realized that something very fragile was being tossed around in that room. Something dangerously close to falling.

The glass vibrated unsteadily again. They stepped forward, Derek saying something rude; the boy’s hand holding the flask drifting up to point a finger at him.

And for some reason, the moment it got between Stiles’ and Derek’s chest, the glass shattered.