Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Derek Hale hated parties.

The werewolf never liked the conversations that mingled and merged different guests together. He couldn’t relax with the bodies crammed together, some dancing while others spoke in loud whispers above the music.

Skirmishes, feuds, physical brawls—whatever someone wanted to call them—were preferable for Derek. He could focus on a threat with intention, instead of deducing where the next danger would come from.

Derek’s pulse had ticked up when Stiles laughed, a gaudy laugh that lit a fire in Derek’s chest. Stiles laughed with his whole body, his smile radiantly illuminating any room he was in. And he was always the center of attention for everyone—not just Derek.

But it was Derek’s job to watch him—protect him.

Every string of Derek’s being tied him to Stiles, an anchoring that left him drowning most nights.

Derek felt the anomaly before seeing the men. He couldn’t detect a heartbeat on the figures who moved too fluidly to be natural. There was a strange cadence to them, putting Derek on high alert.

Perhaps it was foolish to follow the three of them, only realizing in the last few seconds that it was likely a plotted trap.

He dispatched them all the same with the same sharp ferocity he had dedicated to protecting Stiles daily.

Derek drew in a shaky breath, collecting himself as he stared at the red liquid staining the porcelain of the sink beneath his bloodied knuckles. He stretched his neck from side to side as he closed his eyes, focusing on the thrum beneath his skin.

He hadn’t given in and shifted during the attack, but he could feel the wolf’s anger barely contained. He drew in a breath, remembering the calm gentleness of Stiles’ hand in that alley, touching the wounds in his back as he healed.

Bergamot.

Dirt.

Marigolds.

Derek snapped his eyes open, looking in the reflection of the mirror as he avoided gazing at the red spark burning his irises.

Stiles was standing in front of the door to the bathroom, his back pressed against the only entrance—and exit.

“I handled it,” Derek roughly uttered as he stood to his full height, releasing his hold on the sink.

“I can see that,” Stiles mumbled as he looked at the bodies around them. He took a step to the side, pushing one of the bodies onto their backs with the point of his shoe. He frowned. “They’re puppets.”

The man had holes where his eyes should have been, a clear indication of a magician’s puppet. He had fought harder when Derek broke his sunglasses, exposing the vulnerability.

Derek washed his hands, watching the blood swirl against the white backdrop. The broken skin of his knuckles stitched together under the sting of water and soap. He ignored the feeling as he snatched several pieces of paper towel to dry his hands.

“Where is Isaac?” Derek chose to change the subject from the dead puppets, throwing the used paper towel into the trash.

Stiles stepped over the puppet he had been looking at to examine another. “He’s watching Jackson,” he replied before squatting down next to the most mangled of the puppets. “If you can call sticking his tongue down his throat watching him.”

Derek released a harsh breath, a curse on the tip of his tongue before Stiles softly chuckled.

“Relax, sour wolf,” Stiles stated as he looked up at him through his eyelashes. “You act like I can’t defend myself.” He looked back at the puppet, pulling the rest of the man’s torn shirt open. His brow furrowed as he examined the symbol.

Stiles was wearing his typical makeup—smudge eyeliner that did little to dissuade Derek from believing Stiles had forgone sleep once again. His nails were painted black, a shimmer of different glitter actively moving through them as the magic pulsed at his fingertips. He wore various charms and wards as earrings, a precaution that put Derek at ease only some of the time.

“So I can retire for the evening.” Derek was being sarcastic, a little pissed off that Stiles wasn’t taking this seriously. Like every other attempt.

Stiles stood, placing his hands on his hips as he took a step over the last puppet, closing the distance between himself and Derek as he looked up. He allowed his eyes to trail over Derek’s form, reaching his hands out to smooth Derek’s shirt and jacket. His hands were like a brand, heating Derek’s skin through his shirt. “I like you here,” he finally stated, looking up at Derek. “Besides, what if some big bad wolf comes along and tries to have his nasty way with me?”

Derek kept his expression neutral. He was used to Stiles’ taunts and jabs. Even used to Stiles’ hands on him. But he would never be able to get used to the idea of someone else being with Stiles. And Stiles knew it no matter how much Derek hid the feeling. “I’m not playing this game,” he finally uttered, his voice low with warning.

Stiles blinked up at Derek. “I’m not playing,” he replied.

“Stiles!”

Stiles sighed, dropping his hands from Derek. He rubbed the back of his neck, turning to look at the door just as Isaac threw it open.

“Oh, Goddess, I’m sorry, I was just—”

“Talking with Jackson?” Stiles smirked as Isaac struggled to take in the state of the bathroom and the fact that Stiles was acknowledging what he had been doing instead of his job.

“I told you to keep an eye on him,” Derek started, choosing to focus on reprimanding Isaac instead of where Stiles had just been touching him. He could still feel Stiles’ fingers pulling at the material of his shirt, just over his ribs. He tried not to think what it would feel like to have Stiles’ nails digging into his skin as he fucked him.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac looked at Stiles. “Really, I am. I just haven’t seen him in a while, and you said you were fine—that you were going to look for Derek and—”

“What if he hadn’t found me?” Derek countered.

“Would you give it a fucking rest?” Stiles bristled at Derek, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at him. “I think I can handle myself in an emergency.”

“Those puppets were here to either hurt you or take you with them,” Derek gestured at the broken and motionless puppets.

“And I am still here!” Stiles snapped.

Isaac nibbled his bottom lip, feeling awkward as he shut the door to prevent others from hearing Derek and Stiles arguing. He was aware of the rumors spreading about them already.

Derek almost bared his fangs at Stiles as his lip curled with a forcefully contained snarl.

“You’re my guard,” Stiles finally stated. “You are guarding me. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t manage on my own.”

A soft knock on the door pulled all their attention away from each other. “Mon trésor, are you there?”

Derek felt his spine go rigid.

Henriette Lefebvre was a socialite sorceress who had meager magic skills of her own, but managed to climb the ladder where necessary to run in the circles Stiles was a part of.

And she was determined, night after night, to get Stiles alone.

It didn’t help that Derek ground his molars every night Stiles had entertained the woman’s fancies, allowing her to push the boundaries of etiquette when it came to touching another person in public.

Stiles sighed, ignoring Derek as he walked over to the door. With a wave of his hand in a dismissive gesture, the bodies of the three puppets disappeared from sight. He had a sickly sweet tone when addressing Henriette in French. He laughed with her, his words returning to English as he promised to spend more time with her.

“But I leave tomorrow evening for home,” Henriette pouted, encircling her arm with Stiles’ as she ignored Isaac and Derek—and the fact that they were blocking the bathroom from use.

“Well, in that case, tonight would be a lovely time for us,” Stiles agreed.

Derek clenched his fists.

Henriette whispered something in Stiles’ ear, her gaze briefly looking at Derek before looking away.

Whatever she said was lost to Derek when he realized she was using her minor magical abilities to hide her words from him and his wolf’s hearing.

Stiles softly laughed when she pulled back. “I suppose,” he smiled at her. He turned to look back at Derek. “I think you can retire for the evening.”

Derek’s entire body stiffened. “Stiles—”

“I’m just agreeing with your earlier assessment,” Stiles stated with a dismissal before looking at Isaac. “You can check up on Jackson. Take the night if you want.”

Stiles took Henriette’s hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. “I’ll be a moment,” he explained to her as he gestured for her to lead the way down the hallway and back to the party.

“Stiles!” Derek snapped as he walked forward. “You can’t be serious.”

Stiles turned to look at Derek. “What? Do you want to be in the room with me while I am intimate with someone?”

Isaac shifted uncomfortably. He barely snuck a look at Derek before looking down at the floor.

Derek wasn’t stupid, he knew any other wolf could sense it on him—it was by some strange miracle that Stiles couldn’t pick up on it. Or maybe he had.

Derek was angry—with jealousy. Territorial possession fueled his spark. He wanted to shift. He wanted to throw Henriette Lefebvre and every other person out of the party.

He wanted Stiles. He always had, since the day they met. And he was a stubborn fool who never gave in.

“You know what,” Derek started, his voice a low whisper. “Go ahead.”

And with that dismissal, Derek walked past Stiles, shoving his shoulder into him.

~*~

“Are you okay?”

Derek felt like he couldn’t breathe, his chest was tight with pain as his whole body tried to fight against the burning agony of the wolfsbane carved into his back.

“Oh, Goddess.” It was a gasp of shock, no doubt the pity and horror Derek could taste through the cold rain.

Derek had crawled from the street to the alleyway after his legs gave out, an attempt to protect himself from any foe chasing him. His mind was hazy, remembering days of torture tearing at his psyche. He had given up when part of the savage cuts in his back tore deeper. He was laying in the rain, allowing the coldness to help soothe his heated body. He was burning up and couldn’t stop the fever.

A soft warmth of light pulsed over Derek’s back, giving him a reprieve to breathe.

“I’m going to take care of you.”

That was the last thing he heard before blacking out.

Derek woke in a bed, his face pressed into an extremely fluffy pillow without lumps. He tried to remember how he got here—aware of his nudity beneath the sheets. He didn’t remember going to bed with someone.

He blinked open his eyes, trying to ignore the sharp blindness of sunlight that hit him. Then he bit back a painful curse when he tried to turn his torso.

Pain shot through his muscles and bones, a fiery agony that Derek only ever experienced in short bursts before his healing combated it.

His back wouldn’t heal like normal because of the wolfsbane the Argents had used.

Kate’s laughter, the knife cutting down deep through the muscle and bone. His own yells of agony were blocked out by the searing pain of the wolfsbane.

Derek dug his fingers into the mattress, evening out his breathing as he allowed his body to collapse back down. He could force himself to move, to find the owner of this perfect bed. But he found himself closing his eyes to get more sleep, despite his ears telling him his rescuer was close by and watching him.

The second time Derek woke, it was to the soft touch of a hand on his bicep. He blinked his eyes, aware of the fire of his Alpha spark burning. He took in the presence of a young man kneeling next to the bed.

“I was worried you were in a coma,” the man noted, a look of relief hitting him. His hair was wild, as if he had messed it up with his hands while he worried.

The young man was beautiful, a softness to his appearance that Derek felt a comfort with.

“How old are you?”

The large amber eyes blinked at Derek, before the young man tilted his head. “I’m twenty,” he answered.

“You look like a kid,” Derek mumbled, his eyes closing against the drain he felt.

“You need to drink something,” the kid persisted.

“Why do you care?” Derek asked as he opened his eyes again.

The kid frowned. “Why wouldn’t I care?”

It was such a simple question.

“I’m a werewolf, you should have left me there,” Derek explained. “Anyone else would have.”

“I don’t care if you were a leprechaun, I wasn’t leaving you in the alley next to my apartment to die,” the kid huffed.

Derek snorted, wincing when his back smarted from the action.

“Here, please drink some water,” the kid pressed, offering up a straw to Derek’s lips.

Derek gave into his request, allowing the straw to slip between his lips. He drank the water until the straw was taken away.

“Thank you,” the kid faintly smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Derek.” Derek closed his eyes, exhausted again.

“Derek,” the kid mumbled his name. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

Derek was falling asleep when he softly uttered, “Thanks, Stiles.” He felt the softness of fingertips brushing his hair back.

The third time Derek woke, it was to arguing.

“Stiles, you know this week is important,” a woman chastised him.

“I know,” Stiles sighed. “But what would you have me do? I wasn’t going to leave him to die.”

“You brought an unknown werewolf into your apartment!” The woman snapped. “Passed your wards. A werewolf , Stiles. He could kill you in a second.”

“He can’t even get up,” Stiles petulantly argued.

“That isn’t the point! You’re about to officially come into your power, to retrieve your mother’s title, and you brought a werewolf under your roof.”

Derek forced himself to get up, ignoring the ache. He wasn’t aware of how long he had been resting while under Stiles’ care, but he was significantly improved compared to the state he was in—and could have been in. His back was sore, aching in the worst way as he stood from the bed. He pulled the sheet from the bed, realizing that he was still naked. He wrapped the sheet around his waist, holding the bunched material in one hand against his hip. He slowly walked towards the voices, pausing every now and again to lean against something for support.

He was dizzy with hunger, a faint pang in his stomach reminding him that he couldn’t remember when he last ate anything.

“Do you honestly think no one is going to have an issue with the next High Mage of Beacon aiding a werewolf loner?”

Derek slowed when he heard those words. High Mage of Beacon .

Claudia Stilinski died when Derek was only twelve. She had been kind to his mother, once, making her easy to remember. And upon the woman’s death, hatred for werewolves increased—the position of High Mage was left empty, to be claimed by her son upon his coming of age.

Derek closed his eyes, feeling stupid for not realizing that Stiles sounded awfully close to Stilinski.

“You make it sound like he is a criminal,” Stiles snapped. “You don’t even know him and you’re allowing a prejudice to color your stance.”

“You don’t know him either, Stiles,” she countered.

Derek leaned against the balcony railing once he reached it, looking down at the two people.

Stiles was standing with his arms crossed, glaring at the redheaded woman across from him. “I’m not kicking him out.”

The redhead was pinching her nose as she released an aggravated sigh.

“I’m almost healed.”

Stiles startled, looking up at where Derek’s voice came from the balcony. He flushed a crimson red, growing from his neck to settle on his cheeks. He darted his eyes away from staring at Derek’s naked chest and the clear furrow of his hips just above the sheet.

The redhead narrowed her eyes at Derek. “Oh, this makes sense now,” she pinned Stiles with a knowing look. “Big injured wolf on your doorstep, you take him in, and act like Mother Nightingale for him—”

“Lydia, stop.” Stiles was already embarrassed, he didn’t need to be further ridiculed in front of Derek.

“I’m not here to cause anyone problems,” Derek started before Lydia could continue. “Stiles was nice enough to help me. I’ll be leaving once I can walk without feeling like a breeze will knock me over.”

Lydia sighed. “You need to leave in three days.”

Stiles glared at Lydia. “This is my apartment, Lydia.”

“And I am protecting you from destroying your title,” Lydia sharply reprimanded Stiles. “Your mother’s title has been waiting for you, and you are risking it.”

“Enough,” Stiles snapped.

A  sharp taste of electricity prickled Derek’s tongue. There was a coolness in the way the air shifted with Stiles’ command.

“I will not play into the idea that a whole species of people are evil,” Stiles evenly stated. “Derek is going to stay until he is better, regardless of when the ceremony takes place.”

Derek figured his rescuer had magic, but to know that someone as unassuming and kind as Stiles could be the next High Mage of Beacon was almost unbelievable.

If not for the response of Stiles’ magic to his anger, Derek would have assumed he was being tricked.

“Be it on your head,” Lydia replied before turning and leaving.

Stiles sighed, taking a moment to pace in circles, muttering to himself. He paused, looking up at Derek. “I’m sorry, you should be in bed.”

Derek tilted his head, eyes watching Stiles. “You’re a mage.”

Stiles released a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “Yes.”

“Can’t say I expected it,” Derek replied. “But thank you.”

Stiles looked at Derek, surprise in his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he answered before blinking as a blush hit his cheeks again. “I, um, I have your clothes—well, I mended your shirt, your jeans only needed a slight patch. Um,” he turned on his heel, putting his back to Derek before turning once more. “I’ll get them for you.”

That was the start of Derek Hale falling madly in love with Stiles Stilinski—the High Mage of Beacon and someone completely unattainable for the lowly likes of a packless Alpha werewolf like him.

~*~

Derek paced in front of the large window overlooking the city. He was agitated, his thoughts racing with each angry reminder that played through his interaction with Stiles.

If Stiles wanted to put himself in danger, Derek didn’t have to save him.

Despite the protection of Stiles being his literal job description.

He lit the mistletoe laced cigarette, indulging in his one vice since before guarding Stiles. He had given it up when Stiles crinkled his nose at him once. A soft, “those will kill you,” was the only thing Derek needed to hear.

He leaned his forehead against a glass pane of the window, allowing the smoke to billow from his nostrils. His back itched, the phantom imprint of Stiles’ hand on his shoulderblade was a reminder of where his loyalty always would lie.

He packaged himself up and handed his entire life over to Stiles as some pathetic thank you—an attempt to feel like he was more than the trash Stiles pulled in from off the street. But it never changed anyone’s opinion of him. It was clear with how some would look at him or even sneer.

The other werewolves were the worst.

Werewolves in general were often snubbed by magic users, but Stiles had started to make an exception with his work. He took on werewolf clients who had benevolent reputations, allowing them grace by proxy.

Those werewolves never paid Derek much attention. While they were pleased to be given access to Stiles, they didn’t enjoy seeing an Alpha werewolf obeying a mage. Even a packless Alpha like Derek.

Packless. Hunted. Tortured. Indentured .

Derek had no one left after the Argents burned his whole family and pack. Tortured and barely alive as he escaped, he had made it by some miracle to the alley outside Stiles’ apartment. And was granted a kindness he had no idea was left in his world.

Stiles had jeopardized everything to give Derek a purpose after saving his life.

And through the years, their relationship changed. There was always a layer of flirtation—of longing that continued to grow between them. Despite Stiles’ familiar touches and stares, Derek never acted on his own desires.

Derek snuffed the end of his cigarette out against the window pane. He watched the rain pelt against the glass, soaking the city streets below. He should have known better than to fall for Stiles Stilinski.

~*~

Stiles focused on twisting the pestle against the mortar, watching as the herbs were crushed into a fine powder. He had his record player blaring louder than usual, a clear indication that he was annoyed and should be avoided.

Isaac had done a good job of that since last night.

Stiles glowered as he poured the powdered herbal mixture into the heated cauldron. He placed a hand on his neck, squeezing out the tired muscles as he waited for the hour glass to tick down. He tried not to think of Derek’s hand being on his neck instead, heat coiling in his stomach at the reminder of the familiar action.

Derek always put a hand on his neck when steering him away from a danger or when guiding him to where he had to go.

Stiles didn’t always pay attention to where he was walking, and Derek had stopped him from walking into traffic more than once.

Stiles dropped his hand to cross his arms, moving to hug himself through his baggy sweater. He didn’t want to think about last night, and the way Derek had just given up. He pushed further than Derek was prepared to call his bluff on—and now he was spending the first Saturday in a long while alone in his apartment without Derek’s presence.

He twisted his body back and forth, wondering if he had bluffed too hard for even Derek’s wolf to catch on. He clearly had no attraction to Henriette—Derek had become the focal point of his obsession for almost a decade.

The record player’s volume lowered.

Stiles’ lips twisted in annoyance as he turned to look. His heart stuttered when he saw Derek standing by the player with his back towards Stiles. He forced himself to turn away from Derek, refusing to be caught looking. He stared at the bubbling wine and marigold mixture.

“Derek,” Isaac uttered in surprise.

“Maintenance said there was going to be blackouts today,” Derek answered Isaac’s clear attempt to converse. “Can you check in with them?”

Isaac’s gaze drifted to Stiles before nodding. “Sure,” he agreed. “Erica said she’d be in around one.”

Derek nodded, turning to look at Stiles.

Isaac drifted out of the room without another word, knowing when it was better to be absent.

Stiles ignored Derek’s presence, even when he closed the space between them.

Derek clenched his teeth when he realized Stiles was going to ignore him. “About last night,” he started.

Stiles scoffed. “What about it?”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “For hells’ sake, Stiles,” he growled under his breath.

“You’re the one who wanted to leave,” Stiles petulantly replied. He was turning thirty in less than a month, and Derek made him feel like a fourteen year old nobody.

“Did you, or did you not, dismiss me?” Derek snapped.

Stiles finally turned to face Derek. “You treat me like I am completely hopeless,” he took a step towards Derek, uncaring that while he had untold depth of magic bursting under his skin, Derek was physically stronger and bigger than him.

Derek had never once hurt him.

“You are hopeless,” Derek snapped.

Stiles reared back, as if he was slapped.

“You allow anyone close enough to slip a knife between your ribs.”

Stiles’ expression fell. “You’re convinced everyone wants to hurt me, Derek.”

“Can you blame me?” Derek turned from Stiles, placing his hands on his hips as he evened his breathing. “Stiles,” he started in a softer tone. “I want you safe,” he finally admitted. “Is it too much to ask that you let people protect you?”

Stiles stepped forward just as he heard the record player switch records. He touched Derek’s forearm, gentle in his gesture. “Derek, you protect me every day.”

Derek remained silent.

The lights flickered some, a response to the storm still raging outside.

“But you also risk yourself to go over the top,” Stiles explained. “Can’t you let me… protect you too?”

Stiles remembered finding Derek in the alley—the way his stomach twisted at the sight of blood mixing with the rain puddles. The carnage that had been inflicted upon Derek’s back, the rags his shirt had been reduced to. He had been scared of whoever could treat another person in such a manner.

It wasn’t until Stiles saw Derek’s eyes burning their Alpha red that he realized Derek was a werewolf. And it suddenly made sense—so many people were cruel towards any shifter, let alone werewolves. Hunters hunted who they claimed were dangerous werewolves, but Stiles knew better than to believe such lies. Hunters wanted to continue their legally sanctioned genocide with the approval of the public and specist laws that were being challenged over the years.

The apartment was suddenly consumed by darkness.

“Fucking blackouts,” Derek muttered.

Stiles saw the way Derek’s irises were glowing red to enable him to see in the dark. He rolled his eyes, turning to look at the candles he had stationed for this purpose. He willed them to light, watching as fires flickered to life on their wicks.

“The storms have been getting worse,” Stiles noted, releasing his hold on Derek’s arm. He realized that Derek wasn’t going to answer his request. He wrinkled his nose when he felt the tinge of mistletoe. “Are you smoking again?”

Derek at least had the decency to look bashful, even in the small amount of light the candles provided. “I had one.”

“Derek,” Stiles snapped at him. “You know those things do a lot of harm to your lungs.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I heal after a while, Stiles.”

Stiles huffed in annoyance as he turned back to the cauldron. He waved a hand, extinguishing the fire before snatching a phial. “I swear, you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I have you to worry about,” Derek answered.

Stiles set the phial down once it was filled. He looked at Derek. “And what if part of looking after me meant you had to look after yourself?”

Derek turned his head to observe Stiles. He wanted to pull on the front of Stiles’ baggy sweater—pull him straight into his body. He wanted to bite down on the exposed curve of Stiles’ shoulder. He wanted to wreck Stiles’ well bitten bottom lip.

“One mistletoe cigarette won’t kill me, Stiles,” Derek finally stated as he pulled his gaze away from Stiles.

“Derek, please,” Stiles softly started. “I’m tired of dancing around this.”

“Around what?” Derek pretended he didn’t know.

Stiles’ expression was pinched. “You were pissed off that I went somewhere with Henriette.”

“I have nothing to say about who you sleep with,” Derek answered.

Stiles released a sharp cry of annoyance. “You are unbelievable!” He wanted to shove Derek. “And for your information, I didn’t sleep with anyone last night. But I guess that isn’t any of your business, right?”

Derek was about to stop Stiles from baiting him when he heard it.

The door silently opened, and a human walked into Stiles’ apartment, unwelcomed and unannounced.

Derek grabbed Stiles, spinning their bodies to put himself between Stiles and danger.

Stiles grabbed the back of Derek’s jacket, pressing his body against Derek’s back when he felt Derek’s arm pressing him close. He remained silent, knowing Derek had a reason. And then he felt it—an intruder’s presence brushing up against his wards.

Derek walked them backwards, away from the door and the soft illuminating light.

Stiles took a chance, knowing the person was human, when he extinguished all the candles. He knew Derek could see in the dark fine, willing his own eyes to take in the darkness. He had yet to perfect his own spell for dark vision, only able to see a few feet around himself.

Derek’s grip on Stiles tightened briefly before he swayed some.

Stiles tightened his grip on Derek, wide eyes looking up at Derek. He still couldn’t tell where the intruder was, but his priority had shifted to Derek immediately.

And then Stiles realized what the smell was under the scent of his own herbs.

Wolfsbane.

Aerosolized wolfsbane.

Derek had been breathing it in for gods knew how long.

Derek couldn’t stop the cough that refused to remain down, tasting blood.

Stiles reacted, lighting every single candle, forcing them to burn brighter than any light. He saw the black-clad intruder freeze at the sudden spotlight. He grabbed Derek, yanking him against his chest when the person charged them.

Violet flooded Stiles’ irises as he threw his free hand out at the person, using a heavy dose of electrified magic to hit them square in the chest. He didn’t care when the person screamed in pain even after they landed through the shelves. He helped Derek to the ground as Derek continued to cough and almost convulse. “Derek!” He tried to get his attention, laying him onto his side as Derek spit up more blood.

Stiles looked at the intruder when they tried to stand. “What did you do?”

The person laughed. “Wolfsbane in the vents,” the man spat back at Stiles. “He’ll be dead in another few minutes.”

Stiles thought about Isaac, hoping he hadn’t breathed it in too much before leaving. He turned towards the windows, willing the window pane to shatter. He held the shards from falling with ease as he guided Derek towards the floor-to-ceiling gap that allowed in the rain and fresh air.

Stiles waited until Derek stopped coughing, his hand coaxing soft reassuring circles into Derek’s back as his healing magic pulsed through Derek’s body and worked on healing his lungs. He wasn’t looking at the intruder when the foolish human tried to attack him. He didn’t bother turning his head as he sent the shards of glass hurling into their body. He ignored the cries of agony and pain, knowing the intruder would live long enough for information to be extracted.

His priority was Derek.

“Stiles!”

Stiles turned to look at Isaac running in, a hand over his mouth and nose as he coughed. “Isaac, get out! There is wolfsbane—”

“I know, we caught someone tampering with the vents,” Isaac quickly explained. “There shouldn’t be much left.” He was momentarily stunned to see Derek on the ground. He looked at the intruder who had glass embedded all throughout their body.

“Get them out of here,” Stiles instructed him. “Derek’s hurt.”

More of Stiles’ guards, human and shifter alike, had converged now that there was a clear indication that the High Mage of Beacon had been attacked in his own apartment.

Stiles didn’t care about the implications or how anyone else would react to such news. He was focused on Derek.

After a minor incantation of wind, airing out the apartment was easy. Isaac confirmed with multiple sniffs that there was no lingering wolfsbane.

It wasn’t until he helped Stiles carry Derek to the bedroom that Stiles noticed Derek’s skin was burning.

“Oh, Goddess,” Isaac muttered when he looked at his own hands burning now. “He has wolfsbane all over him.”

Stiles didn’t hesitate to start stripping Derek the moment he got him into the shower. He thought how strange it was that he had become accustomed to doing this to Derek, though none of those times were how he had hoped they would go. He quickly turned on the shower, uncaring if he soaked Derek’s clothes.

“Wash your hands with the bar of soap next to the sink—it voids medicinal mixtures and should get rid of lingering wolfsbane,” Stiles instructed Isaac. He was speaking hurriedly, focused on removing Derek’s clothes.

Stiles worked with speed to get Derek clean, knowing Derek’s healing factor wouldn’t kick in until the wolfsbane was gone.

“Is he going to be okay?” Isaac’s voice was small, uncertain.

“I’ve taken care of him before when wolfsbane was involved,” Stiles offered, pulling his gaze from Derek to look at Isaac. He saw the fear of uncertainty in Isaac’s features.

Derek had been much like an older brother to Isaac, pulling him out from an abusive Alpha to work for Stiles.

“Isaac,” Stiles softly spoke. “I’m not going to let anything happen to him, I promise.”

Isaac looked at Stiles before nodding in understanding.

“Do you still have access to Derek’s place?”

Derek had let Isaac stay with him when first working for Stiles.

“Yeah,” Isaac confirmed.

“Take someone with you, and be careful,” Stiles explained as he washed Derek’s hair. He couldn’t ignore the fact that despite his unconscious state, Derek still looked pained. “I need spare clothes for him—mine won’t fit him.”

Isaac hesitated. “You think you weren’t the target?”

“I think they waited until Derek got here to use the wolfsbane,” Stiles corrected him. “Which means they wanted him out of the way.”

Isaac waited a beat. “Don’t you need me to help move him?”

Stiles released a short laugh. “I got him in bed before by myself.”

Isaac arched an eyebrow.

A soft wheeze of a scoff left Derek. “Barely,” he grumbled under his breath as he opened his eyes. He realized he was naked before looking at Stiles and Isaac. “Do I want to know?” He was still in pain, unable to even think clearly.

Stiles smiled. “You were covered in wolfsbane.”

Derek grimaced, moving to get up. He immediately fell back, his strength gone.

“Don’t push yourself,” Stiles instructed him.

“I’ll go get your clothes,” Isaac offered, feeling a little bit more relieved that Derek was at least talking.

Derek coughed against the sharpness in his lungs. “Stiles, where’s—”

“I put several shards of window pane through their limbs,” Stiles stated in a matter of fact way as he forced Derek to lean his head back, using the shower head to rinse out Derek’s hair. “I swear to the Goddess, Derek, if you don’t stop getting poisoned by wolfsbane,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Seems to be a hazard of mine,” Derek uttered as he closed his eyes.

After a near thorough washing, Derek’s skin stopped burning. He had no idea how he had been in contact with wolfsbane diluted enough for a delayed reaction.

“It’s raining out,” Stiles stated as he turned the water off, retrieving a towel from the cabinet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever was behind this threw water contaminated with wolfsbane on you.”

Derek couldn’t truly rule anything out, let alone something as insane sounding as that. He stood on his own, swaying some before his shoulder loudly collided with the shower wall.

“Derek!” Stiles snapped at him. He wrapped the towel around Derek’s waist, slotting himself beneath Derek’s arm. “Stop being a stubborn ass,” he huffed, pulling on Derek to step out of the shower.

He realized how hurt Derek must have been when the only response he received was a soft grumble.

Derek was unsteady as he allowed Stiles to support him. His steps were unsure as they reached the bed. He felt better now that he was sitting, barely able to hold his eyes open despite how hard he tried.

Stiles was using another towel to dry Derek’s hair. “Do you feel any burning?” He was examining the still pink tint to some part of Derek’s skin as he dried Derek’s shoulders and chest.

Derek shook his head. “No,” he softly uttered. “I feel like I was hit by a truck,” he offered.

Stiles faintly smiled at that as he knelt in front of Derek. He dried Derek’s feet and legs.

“I’m supposed to take care of you,” Derek started.

“Shut up,” Stiles stated with no heat. He looked up at Derek. “When are you going to get it that I like taking care of you too?”

Derek weakly shook his head. “I’m not good enough, Stiles.”

Stiles’ features sunk. “Don’t I get to decide that?” He stood, dropping the towel he had been using to help move the blanket. “Just… get in bed, Derek. We can talk later.”

Derek remembered touching Stiles’ wrist. “I should have died that night we met.”

“Not when I have anything to do with it,” Stiles replied.

~*~

Derek awoke to an extreme warmth pressed against his back. He blinked, his entire body aching with exhaustion.

Stiles tightened his hold on Derek’s waist, snuggling his face into Derek’s shoulder blades.

Derek knew Stiles was healing him, even in their sleep. He remembered Stiles doing this when he almost lost his arm in a car accident caused by a kidnapping attempt on Stiles’ twenty-first birthday. It didn’t matter how many times Derek told Stiles his arm was mending, slowly but surely.

Stiles had made Derek sleep over and proceeded to plaster himself to Derek’s side. He had been healing Derek the whole night, throughout his sleep.

Derek told himself it was Stiles that made him stay that night. But he didn’t argue, taking the opportunity to fall asleep next to the mage.

“Stiles.”

Stiles grumbled, burrowing his face into Derek more. “No.”

“Stiles, I need to pee.”

Stiles spoke his displeasure at having to let Derek go, even as he loosened his hold. “Can you walk?”

Derek ignored the pang of want that hit him when he saw Stiles’ messy hair and sleep addled features. “I’m healed.”

Stiles gave a sour expression at that. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he answered with a yawn before flopping back onto the bed. He pulled the pillow that Derek had been using against his chest, pressing his face into it.

Derek ignored his desire to reach a hand out and run his fingers through Stiles’ hair. He stood, realizing too late that his towel had come off under the sheets. He huffed, uncaring about his own nudity as he walked to the bathroom. “Did Isaac get my clothes?”

He turned his head when Stiles didn’t answer, catching Stiles staring at his ass.

“Um, yeah,” Stiles quickly stated when he realized he had been caught, turning in the bed to face the other way as he got tangled in the sheets. “I’ll go get them.”

Derek found Stiles down in the kitchen after dressing in the neat pile of clothes that were left on the bed in Stiles’ absence.

Stiles placed a cup of tea near Derek, nothing spoken between them despite the full understanding that Stiles knew exactly how Derek liked his tea for a reason—Derek was the only guard who had slept in Stiles’ apartment, and it happened countless times for them to understand each other’s morning routines.

Derek took the offered cup, moving to sit on the barstool at the island. “Have they identified the intruder?”

Stiles was focused on buttering toast. “Not that I know of,” he yawned, pressing his face into the crook of his arm.

“You need sleep,” Derek noted.

Stiles shook his head. “I am fine.”

“Stiles,” Derek pressed. “How long did you watch me sleep before you crawled in next to me to heal me?” He could see the faint blush resting on the tips of Stiles’ ears even when he was ignored.

“I have coffee,” Stiles gestured towards his already nearly empty coffee mug.

“I’ll look into the person, you can sleep.”

Stiles dropped the butter knife onto the plate with a loud annoyance. He turned to face Derek. “I know when I am sleepy, Derek.” He folded his arms over his chest.

“Says the guy who looks like a raccoon with how exhausted he is,” Derek deadpanned.

Stiles softly glowered at Derek. He knew he looked exhausted. “A cute raccoon,” he argued.

“A cute raccoon,” Derek echoed in agreement.

Stiles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I need to finish some requisitions,” he finally admitted.

“You’re the High Mage of Beacon,” Derek answered. “You’re allowed to delay things a day.”

Stiles sighed, grabbing the plate of toast. He placed it on the counter between them. He grabbed a slice, nibbling on it. “Tell me you won’t look into it by yourself.”

Derek watched Stiles carefully. “I won’t look into it by myself, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay.” He looked at Derek, his gaze flickering over Derek’s clothes. “You should wear henleys more often.”

Derek arched an eyebrow at him as he drank his tea.

“You’re attractive in suits,” Stiles answered. “But they make you stand out.”

Derek snorted. “And I’m ugly in henleys?”

Stiles shook his head. “Still pretty,” he muffled as he walked away with his toast dangling from between his lips. He was aware of Derek’s eyes lingering on him.

~*~

Stiles busied himself with reading another ancient tome he had pulled up from another forgotten tomb. He was translating it from sight when he heard Derek’s voice greeting Boyd. He tucked the book away with ease, knowing that Boyd likely had more information about what happened last night. And if no one was more the wiser about his attempts to increase the strength of his wards against those attempting to harm werewolves with mistletoe… well, he wouldn’t admit it to Derek or any other in his employ.

Boyd paused when he saw Stiles. “Isaac gave me a brief overview.”

Stiles’ eyes traveled over to Derek, watching as the man purposely didn’t look at him. “Did anyone talk to our attacker?”

Boyd shook his head. “He killed himself.”

Stiles startled at the news, realizing for a brief moment that Derek didn’t react.

“Apparently, belladona.”

Stiles closed his eyes, releasing a harsh sigh as he pinched his brow. “So another mage is involved, likely.”

“Puppets, aerosolized wolfsbane, and belladona,” Derek noted the past incidents they had endured in the last few days. “Someone is determined.”

Stiles paced a little. “Is Isaac okay?” He asked Boyd, trying to focus on more than the imminent reality that he was being targeted.

“He is,” Boyd answered, though he glanced at Derek briefly. “He was worried about Derek.”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “I’ll talk to him,” he offered.

“That would involve you finally relaxing,” Stiles uttered, looking at Derek.

Derek ignored Stiles as he dropped his arms from across his chest. “I’ll be back in a bit, keep an eye on him,” he instructed Boyd.

Stiles narrowed his eyes after Derek.

“Do you want to cancel tonight?” Boyd asked Stiles, ignoring once more whatever was going on between Derek and him.

Stiles huffed out in annoyance. “No.” He wasn’t being unreasonable, something he was sure Derek would accuse him of being. Whoever was after him had invaded his personal space—had attacked him in his home. He was going to lure every last conspirator out, starting with the easiest ones to fool.

Chapter Text

“Don’t get lost gawking at Jackson,” Derek stated as he parted ways with Isaac.

Isaac sputtered, turning red as he shot a heatless glare towards Derek’s back.

Derek was glad he spoke to Isaac about the attack, catching the Beta’s worried scent as soon as he laid eyes on him. He hadn’t planned on acting like an Alpha to Isaac, but it seemed to just happen naturally despite his best attempts to avoid it. He was hopeful their conversation brought Isaac some sense of relief, though he could feel the Beta staring at him more often over the last few weeks.

Derek followed behind Stiles, taking a much closer stance than he normally did when shadowing him. He wanted to be prepared, aware that he had been taken off guard twice now. It wasn’t normal for Derek to miss an incoming threat, and it agitated him that he failed.

Twice.

There was a particular mage taking up too much space in Derek’s mind, and he worried it was clouding his senses.

And Derek had gotten into another fight with Stiles about tonight. They hadn’t managed to lure out any more attacks or even someone willing to take credit for the attack on Stiles. That sat unwell with Derek when Stiles kept putting himself out there for anyone to target.

“It’s my birthday, Derek.”

Stiles had said those words so softly, as if he was doubtful Derek would give him this. He always disliked his birthdays, and the big thirtieth wasn’t any different. Truthfully, Stiles probably would have been happy at home, surrounded by the others.

But how pathetic you have to pay for people to be around you . Stiles ignored those thoughts for so long, but he never fully accepted that anyone wanted anything more from him than what his magic could do.

Or that he paid them. Or offered protection.

Even Derek fell into that category.

Stiles stopped abruptly, allowing Derek to walk into his back. He hid his faint smile when Derek’s hands gripped his hips, a steadying guiding weight to prevent him from falling forward.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked over the pulsing music. He knew he would have a headache before the night was through—if the music didn’t cause his ears to ring, the flashing lights would make him nauseous.

“I really don’t want to talk to him,” Stiles answered Derek’s question, turning around to face him. He looked around them, a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, distract me,” he noted as he pulled Derek onto the dancefloor with him. He was glad Derek wasn’t wearing his suit, appearing to be just another dancer in a club among the sea of writhing bodies. But Stiles got to have Derek to himself—even if it was only a distraction.

Derek was clad in casual attire. His tight, silver tapered pants hugged his thighs; his black button down shirt had been expertly tucked into his pants and secured under his belt. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up, his forearms displayed—much to Stiles’ particular enjoyment.

Derek kept his arm around Stiles, allowing him to move them through the other dancers. His gaze caught the person Stiles was avoiding, a spike of jealousy hitting him.

Jealousy of another werewolf. Another Alpha.

Of someone who thought he had a right to offer Stiles even one night of a rut once upon a time.

Derek was lucky he hadn’t been in his own rut, knowing he would have challenged the Alpha before Stiles had the chance to laugh out his rejection.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, pulling his body close as he swayed with the thrumming music. He brushed his body against Derek’s, his hips grazing Derek’s thigh. He pressed up on the balls of his feet, whispering loud enough for Derek to hear over the noise, “You can smile, sourwolf. It is my birthday.”

Derek’s hands tightened into fists against the small of Stiles’ back, his arm circled around Stiles, pulling him in when he saw the Alpha had recognized Stiles. “He’s coming over here.”

Stiles sighed, pressing his face against Derek’s collarbone. He loved being able to do this with Derek. He tipped his head up, his breath whispering over Derek’s throat. “He’s not the only one who can’t take a hint.” His words were soft under the music’s beat, a vulnerable tinge seeping into his voice.

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist even tighter, hauling Stiles up against his body as he slipped his thigh between Stiles’ legs.

Stiles released a surprised gasp as his hands gripped at Derek’s shoulders to steady himself. He looked up at Derek, unsurprised to find Derek was in a glaring stand off with the other Alpha. His heart dropped some, realizing that Derek was just physically putting distance between them and the invading threat. He wanted to roll his eyes when he saw the other Alpha’s grandstanding.

“Not interested,” Stiles loudly announced to the Alpha over the music, knowing he was heard when the man’s chest puffed. “Clearly,” he gestured towards Derek. He rolled his eyes at whatever silent argument both Alphas were having, leaning into Derek as he pressed a hand over Derek’s chest—his fingers slipped between the unbuttoned fabric pulled tight over Derek’s chest. He pressed his lips to a spot just below Derek’s jaw, his heart skipping a beat when the claw of Derek’s thumb pressed just over his pants and through his lace shirt. He looked over at the other Alpha, purposefully tilting his head to nibble on Derek’s earlobe.

Stiles knew Derek was partially shifted, feeling the way his muscles tensed and the pinprick of claws—the heavy breathing of Derek’s chest against his palm. He was convinced Derek would snap if the Alpha took a step closer. “Hey,” he whispered into Derek’s ear. He reached his hand up from Derek’s chest, hand cupping Derek’s jaw as he guided Derek’s head to turn and look at him. He blinked a few times when he saw Derek’s Alpha spark.

Derek rarely allowed his Alpha spark out, and Stiles had seen the spark for the first time when Derek pulled an incubus’s hand off of Stiles.

Stiles had been frozen, completely out of his element at his first solstice introduction. He hid himself in a private room to catch his breath, a weight lifting from him when he heard the door opening. He thought it was Derek, realizing he forgot to tell him he was fleeing the ballroom. He had wanted it to be Derek, come to tell him it would be alright and help him avoid another panic attack.

Instead, an incubus intent on sampling Stiles’ magic had come to speak with him. Well, to stick his hand down Stiles’ pants.

Derek explained later that he had heard Stiles’ heartbeat—the erratic fear making Derek barge into the room like a battering ram, the door nearly thrown off the hinges. Stiles had pulled Derek back from making an incident by grabbing him around the waist after Derek slammed the incubus against the wall, claws almost embedded in the creature’s throat.

The thing about Derek was that Stiles never felt afraid. He only felt a lingering presence of want that left his magic warm and fuzzy.

And while Alpha sparks were meant to threaten and grandstand, Stiles felt comforted by Derek’s.

Stiles was aware of how cold his hands were against Derek’s cheek. “Did I cross a line?”

Derek barely shook his head. “No.”

Stiles took Derek’s hand, guiding him to follow. He carved their way through the dance floor, putting space between them and the offending Alpha. He pushed into the hallway leading to the backrooms.

Stiles released a soft noise of surprise when he was pushed up against the wall. He pressed back into the hard body bracketing him, aware of the open palm pressed low against his abdomen.

Stiles would have been scared if his magic didn’t recognize Derek. He reached a hand back to bury in Derek’s hair.

“Stiles,” Derek growled against the curve of Stiles’ neck. He pressed his nose into Stiles’ skin, breathing in his scent as he struggled pulling back. He knew it was foolish to let his Alpha spark flare so close to Stiles—he wanted to claim.

“Derek, as much as I am enjoying this,” Stiles panted, his head leaning forward against the wall as his thoughts spun with want when Derek’s thigh pressed between his legs. He released a gasp of pleasure when he felt Derek’s teeth bite through his shirt, leaving a bruising mark over his shoulder blade. They were headed well beyond any foreplay he could have considered. “I really don’t want someone looking at us.” He made a faint noise of surprise when he was suddenly released, slumping against the wall to catch his breath. He turned his head to look at Derek.

Derek was pressed against the wall opposite, his nails digging into the concrete. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing heavy as he tried to catch his breath to count backwards. He needed to pull his wolf back.

“Derek,” Stiles started.

“You need to get Isaac to take you home,” Derek roughly uttered, tilting his head down.

Stiles was quiet for a beat as he stared at Derek. “I don’t understand,” he finally admitted.

“Stiles, I was about to fuck you,” Derek snapped, finally looking up at Stiles. He could feel the red bleed in his irises refusing to retreat.

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “Do you really not want me?” His voice was small, vulnerable with uncertainty as his hands fidgeted. He was nervous, and he knew Derek could smell it on him.

“That’s not the point,” Derek answered.

Stiles looked at Derek. “If you want me, and I want you, what does it matter?”

Derek closed his eyes against the burn. “Stiles, we can never be together.” He felt the hurt crack through Stiles’ nerves.

“Okay,” Stiles sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’ll get Isaac to take me home.” His voice was shaky despite his agreement to Derek’s earlier request. “Take what time you need.” He abruptly rushed towards the entrance they had just used, rushing back towards the dancefloor. He didn’t want Derek to know he was crying.

Derek waited until he knew Stiles was far away before he slammed his fist back into the concrete behind him. He felt the crack of the wall, aware that he damaged it to the point that some concrete crumbled down and dusted his hand and boots.

“ I’m taking Stiles home ,” Isaac spoke into the radio that crackled in Derek’s ear.

Stiles was not only a mage—he was the High Mage of Beacon. Stiles was leagues above Derek, above any werewolf, and no amount of desire on either their behalf would change that.

~*~

Derek was going to break his own hands if his knuckles turned any whiter.

“Calm down, DerBear,” Erica uttered low enough that only he could pick it up.

“Shut up,” Derek snapped at her. There were enough werewolves in attendance that he didn’t want any of them hearing whatever ribbing banter Erica was about to say. It was the whole reason they had foregone radio communications.

Stiles was wearing his traditional High Mage garb.

Well, less than his traditional High Mage garb. He was wearing the high collared translucent robes, which did nothing to hide the nudity of his torso. A golden circlet with draped chains and gems adorned his head. He was wearing more of his makeup than usual, accenting his features, though he did nothing to hide his beauty marks. He wore a red nail polish, something close in shade to Derek’s Alpha spark—something that had burrowed deep into Derek’s mind and refused to die after Stiles held his hand up to Derek’s eyes asking if it was a close match.

Point made, Derek wanted to snap at Stiles.

He could still see the remnants of his teeth marks on Stiles’ shoulderblade.

Stiles spoke with a number of visitors, all of those in attendance had come to pay respects or ask favors of him before the solstice.

But Stiles kept looking over his shoulder, pretending to sweep the room when he was really only looking at Derek. He frowned when he saw that Isaac was talking to Derek in hushed words.

Isaac was considerably paler than he usually was, his eyes dashing around wildly as if he was looking for an exit. He calmed some when Derek placed a hand on the back of his neck. He reluctantly allowed Erica to escort him out after Derek released him.

Stiles caught the way Erica glared at someone before she disappeared with Isaac. He excused himself when he saw that Derek was approaching him for the first time that night. “Is Isaac okay?” He immediately asked when Derek was close enough. He didn’t care whatever was wrong between him and Derek, he was worried about the Beta.

Derek faintly shook his head. “An Alpha who…” He clenched his teeth, his anger clearly plastered across his features when Stiles touched his arm. “He saw an Alpha who used to beat him—with his former Alpha’s permission.”

Stiles felt his own anger grow. “Who?” He turned his head to look around.

“Erica is bringing Isaac to her and Boyd’s place,” Derek explained. “I gave them both the night.”

“Of course,” Stiles agreed. “But Derek—”

“You can’t insult the Alpha, Stiles,” Derek warned him, knowing why he asked who it was that caused Isaac such distress.

“Like hell I can’t,” Stiles incredulously stated. “I can deny helping anyone I want to.”

“Alphas are allowed to treat Betas like that,” Derek lowly corrected Stiles.

Stiles leaned back from Derek in surprise. “You’ve never done that,” he argued.

Derek shook his head, releasing a pent up scoff. “I’m packless, Stiles. Even if I did act like that, I don’t have Betas to abuse.”

“You don’t abuse Isaac,” Stiles corrected him. “Erica, Boyd, Jackson.”

Derek refused to look at Stiles.

“I don’t care if you don’t see yourself as their Alpha, they see you as theirs,” Stiles pressed. “And if I want to reject someone—”

“It will be seen as you doing so for Isaac,” Derek fastly interrupted Stiles.

Stiles arched his eyebrows when Derek didn’t elaborate. “So?”

“Your reputation as a werewolf lover is already well known,” Derek warned.

Stiles’ brow furrowed. “I thought you knew I didn’t care if people think that is a bad thing.”

“You’re targeted enough as it is—”

“Derek,” Stiles sharply cut Derek off. “I thought I made myself clear when I saved you,” he started, pressing in closer to Derek. “I won’t brush broad strokes for a whole species, but I will not help individuals when they have horrific reputations. And I can do that.”

Derek looked at Stiles. “Because you’re the High Mage of Beacon?”

Stiles released a laugh of disbelief. “No, because I am strong enough not just as the High Mage. I’ll defend those that matter to me, whether I have a title or not.” He looked down at his hands, where his mother’s rings graced his fingers. “It’s what my mother did, and what I’ll always continue to do.” He took Derek’s hand. “I’ll protect those that matter to me.”

“Stiles,” Derek warned him, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He couldn’t stop himself when it came to Stiles, just like last weekend. “People are looking.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles argued. “How long is it going to take you to realize I never cared? Only you seem to.” He dropped his hold on Derek, turning to put space between them.

“High Mage Stilinski.”

Derek went rigid, trying to hide his reaction. He saw Stiles’ gaze flicker over him briefly.

Ennis. The Alpha that beat Isaac on such a regular basis, the Beta still flinched if Derek ever raised his voice.

“Alpha…?” Stiles raised his eyebrow, waiting for the Alpha to introduce himself and his partner.

“Ennis,” the large man gave Stiles a predatory smile before gesturing towards his partner. “This is Kali.”

Stiles nodded, forcing a smile.

Derek wanted to curse—Stiles knew. Stiles was too smart and would piece it all together.

“We were hoping to have a moment to discuss something with you,” Ennis continued.

“Certainly,” Stiles agreed. “Why don’t we speak in private,” he waved around them. “It’s so loud here.”

Derek almost grabbed Stiles’ arm.

Stiles looked at Derek. “Think Parrish can handle things on the floor?”

Derek realized that Stiles was inviting him to join.

Ennis clearly grew unhappy with Stiles inviting Derek.

Go ahead, dig your grave deeper, Derek wanted to tell him as he glared at the other Alpha.

Stiles never reacted kindly when someone showed their distaste for Derek, or anyone else in his employ. He protected his people.

“This is a sensitive subject,” Ennis started.

“And you think I should be alone with two Alpha werewolves?” Stiles questioned as he looked at Ennis.

Ennis forced a smile, wrapping an arm around Kali. “Of course not.”

Derek knew Stiles was playing into the belief that while mages were powerful, they still oftentimes were physically weak. He didn’t pity Ennis or Kali for not realizing that Stiles was the threat in any room he entered.

~*~

“We were surprised to hear you favor werewolves,” Ennis commented as he looked around the room.

Stiles kept his greeting room relatively simplistic. Nothing more than chairs and a few lights that helped to accent the color of the drapes around the windows. Visitors usually appeared disappointed by the lack of grandeur of it all.

Stiles simply blinked, waiting for Ennis to continue. He was aware of Derek next to him, likely preparing to jump in front of him if one of the others attacked.

“It was obvious when seeing your guards,” Kali added.

“Is there a point or are you simply noting what you’ve seen?” Stiles did his best to not sound bored. He wanted to bring a fireball down on Ennis’s head, but refrained from acting rashly.

Ennis forced a toothy smile. “We are looking for packless Alphas.”

Derek did his best not to freeze.

Stiles’ face was a calm facade of indifference. “Why?”

“Do we need a reason?” Kali questioned, appearing to grow annoyed with Stiles’ attitude.

“Yes,” Stiles simply stated. “If you are unwilling to tell me, then you don’t require my help. I like to know what my spells are used for.”

“We are looking to unite them,” Ennis admitted. “Give them a purpose—packless Alphas tend to have more strength. It’s a quirk, of sorts, really,” he relaxed into his chair, his eyes flickering over to Derek. “When Betas die, they tend to lose their lifespark to their Alpha, regardless of the method of death.”

Derek’s claws were elongating, sensing a threat lingering in the air.

“Packless Alphas are rare, they usually will move on to another pack, create new packbonds to replace the old,” Kali continued where Ennis finished.

Stiles noticed that Ennis was staring at Derek now.

“But sometimes they don’t, which means they are aimlessly roaming when they could be giving their strength to a new pack,” Ennis finished. He looked at Stiles, dropping his attention from Derek. “You have a packless Alpha as your bodyguard, and you never wondered what happened to his pack?”

Stiles refused to look at Derek, keeping Ennis’s gaze. “You don’t know what I know,” he flatly informed Ennis. “And furthermore, I will not be helping you locate Alphas who wish to be left alone.”

Kali snarled at Stiles as she stood.

Derek’s hackles rose, a growl emitting from his chest as his eyes bled red.

Stiles, for his part, didn’t react.

“Easy,” Ennis smiled as if he was amused when he placated Kali into sitting. “We’re not going to take anyone against their will. We just want to offer them an opportunity to unite. Give them a purpose—give them a pack without having to worry about leading again.” He looked at Derek. “It’s not easy failing your pack and then trying to rebuild. Is it, Hale?”

“Get out of my building.”

Ennis and Kali looked at Stiles.

Derek’s Alpha spark receded, comforted by the sharp smell of bergamot, dirt, and marigolds.

Stiles’ magic had flourished to life in the room, drenching the once warm and welcoming space into complete dread.

Stiles’ irises were completely violet, his eyes narrowing as he stood. “I will not stand for insults to be thrown at those considered under my protection and household. And I will not stand for your pathetic attempts to coerce and bully Alphas suffering from loss into making rash decisions. Leave my space, and do not come back.”

Kali was about to speak when Stiles glared at her.

“I wouldn’t push me,” Stiles warned. “I’ve killed fools for less.”

Derek wasn’t surprised when Ennis and Kali took a moment to calculate the risk before leaving without any ceremony. There was no show of respect as they stormed out.

Stiles huffed. “The fucking nerve ,” he angrily snapped once the door was closed. “Like Alphas are collectibles or something.”

Derek sighed, his wolf calming now that he was alone with Stiles. “They likely aren’t alone,” he offered.

“I can’t believe they would force people to join them because they want a powerful pack,” Stiles paced as he spoke, his anger palpable in his magic.

“It wouldn’t feel like forcing at first,” Derek corrected Stiles.

Stiles’ pacing slowed to a stop as he looked at Derek. “What do you mean?”

Derek pinched his brow. “When… when a pack dies, if an Alpha is left… we mourn,” he forced himself to look up at Stiles. “We mourn what we lost—what we were. We mourn our guilt.”

Stiles’ expression softened. “Even when it isn’t your fault?”

Derek nodded. “It never goes away. But in the beginning… that grief is enough to drive the most rational Alpha mad. They would be susceptible to anyone telling them their pain could be eased. But even with new bonds, even with ones that are chosen…”

Stiles quietly asked, “Is that why you keep the others at a distance? Because those bonds are so difficult to recreate?”

Derek gently shook his head. “I don’t want to risk losing those bonds again.” He looked at Stiles. “It’s agony, Stiles. The worst pain you can imagine, and there is no remedy for it. There is no spell or salve you can make that will help. It’s… indescribable. The only pain worse than losing a pack is losing one’s mate. And I count myself lucky that I’ve never felt the latter.”

Stiles allowed a silence to settle over them before he asked, “What helped you? After you lost your pack?”

Derek drew in a heavy breath through his nose, focusing on the comfort of Stiles’ scent before he answered. “You.”

Stiles stared at Derek for a beat before taking a step closer, reaching out to take his hand.

Derek allowed Stiles to take his hand, swaying a little closer to him in the process.

“ Derek! ”

Derek lurched from Stiles, dropping his hand immediately as he reached for his own communicator.

“ Derek, get to the lobby now! Isaac is shifted! ” Erica yelled through the communicator.

“I’m coming!” Derek radioed back as he headed for the door. “Stay here, Stiles!” He shouted behind him as he rushed through the mass of people.

If Isaac was shifted in the lobby, it could create a plethora of poor public relations for Stiles and his entire employee base—of which, most were werewolves.

Derek didn’t bother with the elevator, taking the stairwell. He descended the steps multiple at a time, ignoring the pang in his knees whenever he practically leapt an entire series of steps.

“Stay away from him!” Erica’s shout was loud enough for Derek to hear when he shoved through the stairwell’s door to the lobby.

Isaac was crouched, huddled into a ball as he rocked back and forth with his hands covering his head. Erica was standing as a barrier between Isaac and none other than Ennis.

“Everyone needs to leave,” Derek demanded with an authoritative voice, hoping the bystanders would take the hint that they needed to vacate the lobby or risk worse. His stomach felt unsettled when he saw the number of cell phones recording the incident. He didn’t bother being kind when he shoved more than one of the onlookers as he reached Isaac.

“Isaac,” Derek softly spoke his voice, pulling his hand back in the last second before he touched him. He remembered how Isaac flinched when Derek first put a hand on his shoulder. If Isaac was triggered because of Ennis, touching him now would only make matters worse.

“Go away, go away, go away,” Isaac continued to repeat, his words lisping through his fangs.

“Isaac, it’s Derek,” Derek continued to speak in a soothed tone.

“I’ll stick my stiletto up your fucking ass!” Erica shouted at Ennis after he took a step closer.

Derek knew she likely was barely containing her Beta spark. If Derek was protective of Isaac, Erica was hostile to anyone who upset the other Beta.

“Alpha Ennis, Alpha Kali,” Derek gruffly addressed them formally as he stood up. He was another obstacle now between the two Alphas and Isaac. He heard the whimper escape Isaac when Ennis’s name was mentioned. “The High Mage requested that you leave,” he reminded them of Stiles’ warning.

Ennis scoffed. “We’re in the lobby, Hale.”

Kali smiled. “He just wanted to say hello to an old friend.”

Isaac didn’t hide his cry as his chest heaved. “Go away, go away!”

“Leave.” Derek stood his ground when Ennis didn’t move. He knew the cameras were recording. He knew this would cause an incident. But he knew he couldn’t abandon Isaac.

“I think not,” Ennis countered as he stepped forward. “What are you going to do without your master around?”

Derek clenched his jaw.

“I’m surprised he let your leash out this long.”

Bergamot. Dirt. Marigolds.

Derek closed his eyes in resignation.

“I told you to get out of my building!”

Erica froze, her initial move to claw at Ennis’s eyes died as she stepped back, looking at the elevator to see Stiles.

Stiles marched forward, giving a wide enough berth from Isaac as he moved in front of Derek. He offered out a placating hand to Erica, glad she understood his gesture and moved to check on Isaac. He glared at Ennis and Kali. “I want you gone, never to touch foot in a place my wards grace. You spit on my hospitality once, and now you attack one of my people.”

“He’s a fragile Beta,” Ennis remarked with a sneer. “You should put him in his place before he gets you killed.”

Derek didn’t have time to protest Stiles’ magic.

Stiles lifted his arm, and with a flick of his wrist his magic sent Kali and Ennis bodily flying out the lobby’s doors. He spoke under his breath, rearranging the wards to prevent the two from ever re-entering the building. He turned, pausing when he saw the phones directed at him. He shook his head, his magic making quick work of erasing the devices’ content—he felt it was a fitting punishment for people who would rather gawk than help.

Derek turned to Isaac, watching as Erica coaxed him out of tearing his claws into his scalp.

Erica looked up at Derek, her eyes wet with unshed tears. The look of a Beta begging her Alpha for help.

Derek knelt beside them, reaching a hand out to touch Isaac’s neck.

Isaac’s body immediately stiffened before loosening at Derek’s touch. His hands fell from his head, his words no longer on a pleaful repeat of gibberish as he fell silent.

“You’re okay,” Derek gently spoke low enough that only Isaac and Erica heard him. “You’re safe. You’re… you’re with your pack.”

Isaac shook for a different reason, a fresh wave of tears hitting him as Erica hugged him tightly.

“Isaac,” Stiles softly stated his name. “I want you to stay here for the night.”

Isaac weakly nodded despite keeping his face hidden in Erica’s shoulder.

~*~

Isaac was sleeping in the guest room, Erica climbing into bed beside him as she waited for Boyd to arrive. His shaking had subsided as Erica curled her body around him.

“Would he feel better with you there?” Stiles asked Derek, aware that some people were still whispering about how he had left his own party. In pursuit of a werewolf.

“No,” Derek simply offered Stiles. “Betas seek their Alpha’s approval, but in times of high stress, the comfort of other Betas is better for them.” He gently gestured his head towards the stairs where Boyd just entered.

Stiles watched as Boyd didn’t bother edging around the crowd, instead making a direct walk towards the guest bedrooms. The crowd parted for the man who walked with a clear mission.

“Erica and Boyd will be able to help him the most,” Derek simply stated.

Stiles nodded. He waited a beat before saying, “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

Derek didn’t reply.

“I know you told me to stay—”

“And you didn’t,” Derek cut Stiles off. He was aware that people were around them, but he was allowing Stiles to speak his mind—as Stiles always did.

“I knew something was wrong,” Stiles countered. “And I wasn’t going to stand by.”

“What Lydia told you all those years ago was correct,” Derek finally stated. He was surprised Stiles went quiet at his words. “Your title is worth more than a handful of werewolves. And if you keep showing these sympathies, you’re going to lose it.”

Stiles turned, pinning Derek with a glare. “If you think, for one second, that someone could take my title away, or make me sacrifice those that matter to me… you know nothing about me then.” He stormed away from Derek, heading over to the refreshment table.

Derek released a heavy breath, turning his sights back to the others in attendance. He didn’t know how to make Stiles understand the danger he placed himself in—and any werewolf who was lucky enough to be given Stiles’ sympathies.

Memories of the hunters still plagued many of Derek’s nights, a constant reminder that he lived in a world where people could legally justify the torture and subsequent murder of others.

As long as the murderers wore the badges of hunters, and their victims were shifters.

Derek would never forget the feeling of Kate’s nails digging into his skin; the fruity aroma of her perfume tinged with the sharp smoke of gunpowder.

Kate enjoyed pain, and Derek was her primary focus during those endless nights. She enjoyed his pain, her soft laughter carved into Derek’s memory when the hunters methodically killed each and every pack member, making Derek watch.

Stiles never knew what horrors lurked in the alleys and even the forests around them. He was such an optimist, and Derek prayed to never know the day that was torn from him.

~*~

Stiles was alone for most of his day, aware of the others lingering throughout the apartment per their usual routes.

For the week’s entirety, Stiles tried not to fret over Isaac. He didn’t want to treat him differently, but give him any space or time he needed.

Derek, on the other hand, gave Stiles a wide berth with his absence.

Stiles pretended that it didn’t bother him, and that Derek’s absence went unnoticed.

It was Boyd who slightly grimaced when telling Stiles that Derek would need about a week’s break from work.

“He can tell me that himself,” Stiles tried not to snap at Boyd, knowing it wasn’t the Beta’s fault that Derek was as cuddly as a cactus.

“Uh, about that,” Boyd muttered, lifting a hand to the back of his neck in a beat of awkward silence.

Stiles looked at Boyd over his alchemic vials. “What?”

“He…” Boyd grimaced. “He’s having his rut, okay?”

Stiles blinked at Boyd. He tried to think the last time he knew Derek experienced his rut. “Oh, well, okay,” he mumbled, feeling a flush hit him at the thought of Derek’s rut. “He’s never needed time off before.”

Boyd scrunched his nose. “It’s different for all Alphas. And no rut is the same. It usually depends too if they have a mate or not.”

Stiles looked at Boyd. “Derek doesn’t have a mate.”

Then Stiles felt foolish. Did Derek have a mate?

Boyd shook his head. “He doesn’t.”

Stiles stared down at his vials. “Did he?” He remembered Derek's confession from the party, that he hadn't felt that pain of loss, but it didn't mean they hadn't separated—if that was even possible for a werewolf to handle.

Boyd looked at Stiles. “Not that I know of.” He was careful what he mentioned about Derek’s personal life—even he didn’t know a great deal, but he was confident he had known more about Derek than the Alpha had ever intended. And when Derek texted him that morning to tell him to explain his absence… well, Boyd was confident there wasn’t another person Derek was willing to admit vulnerability to.

“I’ll message him,” Stiles offered. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Boyd nodded, grateful to be finished with that conversation as he watched Stiles pick his phone up from beside the cauldron.

Take all the time you need .

Stiles sent the text and placed his phone face down. He at least would be a little less distracted without Derek lingering around—though his thoughts continued to think of Derek and his rut, which left Stiles with several miscalculated ingredients mixed resulting in several potions thrown out.

~*~

Derek was beyond agitated when he returned to work, and not entirely positive his rut had broken completely. The moment he smelt Stiles, heat settled in his gut. It churned Derek’s stomach to realize that his suspicions were correct.

He was scenting his wolf’s chosen mate.

And his wolf had, foolishly, chosen Stiles.

Derek forced his eyes shut, his fists clenched as he fought back his Alpha spark. He repeated inwardly that Stiles was off-limits, not that his wolf cared for any type of reason.

It saw Stiles at their weakest moment for the sanctuary he was, and it never let go—it never allowed Derek to let go of that fact either.

“Derek?”

Derek’s eyes snapped open at Stiles’ sleep-adled voice. He looked up onto the balconied landing above him, taking in Stiles’ appearance.

Stiles was soft looking, standing in his pajamas with a blanket wrapped around him. Despite how cold he was when waking, he never put any socks or slippers on. His hair was a mess from how much he rolled around in his sleep. He blinked down at Derek, offering a warm smile to him. “I hope you feel better.”

Derek clenched his jaw tightly. He wanted to groan with the want that spiked hard through his gut. He wanted to take the stairs two at a time. He wanted to grab Stiles and kiss him. He wanted to carry him back to his bed, and not leave for days.

“I do,” Derek chose to grumble in response. “Sorry if things fell sideways while I was gone.”

Stiles gently shook his head. “Nope,” he drew out the word. “Just boring without your bickering.”

Derek didn’t have it in him to respond.

“I’ll be down after I shower,” Stiles offered as he turned his back on Derek to trudge back into his bedroom.

Derek didn’t need to be thinking of Stiles, naked and wet in the shower upstairs. And yet, it was all he thought about while trying to make himself a cup of tea in the kitchen.

“Are you sure that you’re okay?” Stiles asked once he joined Derek in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the carafe Derek brewed.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Derek questioned in return, keeping his eyes on the opposite side of the kitchen.

“Because you look like you’re going to snap,” Stiles mused. “Are you sure you don’t need more time?”

“I’m fine,” Derek gruffly answered. He knew it wouldn’t get better the longer he was away, hoping that the closer he was to Stiles with denying himself, the faster his wolf would realize Stiles wasn’t an option.

Stiles didn’t help the situation by closing the space between them. He reached a free hand from his mug, touching Derek’s forearm in a tender gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry—about the party,” he explained. “I’m not going to say more on the matter, but I am sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m not sorry for defending Isaac, though.”

Derek firmly nodded his head, immediately aware of the softness of Stiles’ hand against his inflamed skin. “Thank you for understanding.”

Stiles offered a soft smile to him.

Derek told himself he could handle this. And he had been dead wrong.

“I made a mistake,” Derek forcefully uttered as he turned from Stiles’ touch and placed his mug of tea down.

Stiles furrowed his brow in confusion. “I don’t—”

“I need to leave,” Derek curtly explained, practically fleeing from Stiles.

“Derek, hold on,” Stiles called after him, rushing to catch up. “Don’t run away, just talk to me,” he pressed as he ran in front of Derek to block his path.

“Stiles,” Derek growled. “I need you to move.”

Stiles frowned at that. “No,” he answered. “You have been avoiding me—I apologized for not listening to you at the party, but I don’t get why—”

“Because you started my rut!” Derek snapped. He snarled at himself, his hands burying in his hair as he paced in an attempt to stop staring at Stiles’ bare throat.

Stiles clamped his mouth shut, staring at Derek.

“I haven’t been able to think about anything but you—of how much I want to protect you. Of how I want to provide for you. That I want to care for you. I couldn’t sleep all this last week, just thoughts of you. And I can’t do this, Stiles. I can’t be around you and want you but know I can’t have you.”

Stiles physically stopped Derek by finally stepping in the way of his pacing. His hands grabbed Derek’s biceps. “Breathe,” he softly instructed Derek. “Derek, it’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” Derek answered, staring at Stiles.

“Yes, it is, because I want you, too,” Stiles replied. “And I don’t care what anyone else thinks. And I don’t care if I need to give up my title because my power doesn’t come from that. It’s a formality, Derek, more of a benefit for them than me.” He reached his hands up to hold Derek’s face, preventing the werewolf from looking away. He brushed his thumbs in soothing circles over Derek’s cheekbones. “Listen to me, please,” he gently instructed Derek. “I want you.” He allowed his words to sink in before continuing, “I’ve wanted you since the day you nearly tore that incubus’s hand off for assaulting me.”

Derek felt the red bleeding into his irises.

“I’ve been a pain in your ass,” Stiles noted. “And part of it is because I never knew how to flirt with you—but I never wanted you to feel obligated either.” He dropped his hand from Derek, pulling his sleeves down to hide his hands as he fidgeted. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be around, and that I am always in danger. And I’m a clutz.”

Derek took a step closer to Stiles, closing the space between them. “Stiles,” he started, touching his thumb and index finger to Stiles’ chin. He could see his claws, aware of their presence as he avoided injuring Stiles.

Stiles blinked up at Derek.

“I am beneath you—I always will be,” Derek explained.

Stiles gently shook his head. “I don’t care about what others think.”

Derek swiped the pad of his thumb beneath Stiles’ lower lip.

“I know you’re scared to have anyone new to care about,” Stiles gently pressed the old wound of Derek’s former pack. “But I’m scared, too, Derek.” His voice teetered off with vulnerability. “I don’t want a target painted on your back because of me—but you suffer that every day. And I… I want to take care of you, too.”

Derek kissed Stiles, drawing his lips in for a timid taste.

Stiles leaned in when Derek pulled back, chasing Derek’s lips.

“You’re my chosen mate,” Derek spoke the words he had dreaded speaking aloud for much longer than the past week.

Stiles blinked at Derek. “Your…”

“Our wolves choose,” Derek pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of Stiles’ lips, faintly smirking when Stiles turned into the kiss.

Stiles nodded, partially understanding. “Well, tell it thank you,” he answered. “And I accept, if you do.” He released a gasp of surprise when Derek turned them, his back colliding with the wall before being caged in by Derek.

Stiles’ hands immediately grabbed at Derek’s ribs, pulling him in close as they shared another kiss.

Hungry—starving.

The wolf wanted to devour Stiles.

Derek lifted Stiles with ease, pleased with Stiles’ hands in his hair and legs wrapped around his waist. He was in danger of fucking Stiles in the entrance of his apartment, and Stiles didn’t seem to care.

“Stiles, I brought—oh, fuck, my eyes!” Isaac yelled as he dropped his bag of bagels, slapping a hand over his eyes.

Derek dropped Stiles immediately back to the ground, pressing a few inches of space between their bodies as his hands planted like pistons into the wall by Stiles’ shoulders. He closed his eyes as he caught his breathing. His hackles were up before he realized it was Isaac, and he had barely pulled his wolf back from snarling at the poor Beta.

“Isaac, it’s okay,” Stiles stated in a calm voice. He reached a hand up to cup Derek’s cheek in his own palm, his eyes focused on Isaac. “Sorry, it just happened and…” he offered a charming smile. “Well, it’s new. Why don’t you take the day and let everyone else know?”

Isaac nodded quickly. “Sorry, Derek,” he offered as he pulled the door closed.

“It’s okay, Isaac,” Derek called after him, still not opening his eyes. He knew the Beta was aware what a mistake it was to enter a room during an Alpha’s rut—but it wasn’t Isaac’s fault that Derek’s rut chose to not die without Stiles’ hands on him.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked once they were alone again, turning his attention back to Derek.

“I’ll be okay once I have you in bed.”

~*~

“So.”

Derek kept his eyes shut, relieved that for the first time in days his brain wasn’t fogged with lust. He softly grumbled to let Stiles know he was listening, his hand still trailing up and down Stiles’ bare spine.

“Are you going to stop being a sour wolf about the others being your pack?”

Derek opened his eyes to look down at Stiles.

Stiles tilted his head to the side, a mock aura of innocence about him as he offered a shy smile to Derek. He propped his chin on his hand over Derek’s chest.

“The Argents took everything from me,” Derek answered, allowing his head to fall back onto the pillow as he looked up at Stiles’ ceiling. He watched the illusion Stiles had magicked into the ceiling, his eyes tracing the moving galaxies and stars. “Is it so hard for you to believe that I wouldn’t want to risk that again?”

Stiles kissed the center of Derek’s sternum before moving up to kiss his clavicle. He trailed kisses up Derek’s throat and jaw before placing a kiss to Derek’s lips as he straddled him. “I remember what you told me,” he admitted. “About the grief of losing Betas—a mate.”

Derek involuntarily tightened his hold on Stiles.

“I’m not going to let that happen to you—never again,” Stiles promised as he brushed Derek’s hair back from his forehead.

“I’d go feral if something happened to you,” Derek admitted.

Stiles sadly smiled at Derek. “I’m afraid I’d burn the world if someone took you from me.” He kissed him again.

Derek buried his hand in Stiles’ hair, anchoring him as he deepened their kiss. His fingers twisted in Stiles’ hair.

Stiles shifted to straddle Derek completely, his thighs housing Derek’s hips. He ran his fingers through Derek’s beard as he gently nibbled on Derek’s lower lip. “Spend the day with me,” he pressed a last kiss to Derek’s lips before sitting up, his open palms caressed over Derek’s chest. “You, me, the bed.” He flexed his hips when Derek’s hands settled on his thighs.

“I’d have to be mad to refuse that request,” Derek agreed, reaching one hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek.

~*~

“Oh, fuck, Isaac wasn’t kidding,” Erica grimaced as she placed a hand over her nose.

“We’re in here,” Stiles called to Erica. “And clothed,” he added as an after thought.

“Thank fuck,” Erica mumbled as she entered the kitchen. She side-eyed Derek and Stiles, lingering in the doorway. She kept her gaze on Derek, hesitating to enter the room.

“He’s harmless,” Stiles stated as he placed a mug of tea in front of Derek.

Derek gave a heatless glare to Stiles.

Erica flickered her gaze over Derek and saw that he was dressed in his usual suit attire, looking as if he was ready for any other day of work.

“Is Isaac alright?” Derek asked Erica before he lifted the mug to his lips.

“Yeah, he is more startled at having seen you pin Stiles to the wall,” Erica offered.

Stiles snorted. “We were fully clothed,” he explained as he sat down next to Derek.

Derek reached his hand down to touch the inner curve of Stiles’ knee, his hand moving to linger on Stiles’ thigh. He needed to be touching Stiles, regardless of their proximity.

“So, what is the plan for today?” Erica asked as she arched her eyebrow in question. “Because I want to leave before clothes start flying.”

“My rut is over,” Derek replied, setting his mug down as he looked at Erica.

“Okay, doesn’t mean you aren’t going to jump Stiles,” Erica wearily stated.

Stiles laughed into his coffee.

“I just need to be near him,” Derek stated, sounding annoyed that he had to explain himself once more.

“You won’t take off someone’s head if they hold his hand too long?” Erica asked, sounding skeptical of Derek.

Stiles placed his hand over Derek’s, threading their fingers together. “We are at an understanding that, while I can defend myself, if Derek asks me to do something for safety reasons, I will comply as much as I can.”

Erica’s skeptical look turned to Stiles now. “You’re going to listen to Derek giving you orders?”

“I listened fine yesterday,” Stiles mused as he set his coffee down.

Erica snorted as Derek sighed. “I’ll be down by the car,” she announced her departure, giving them space.

Derek stood, easily buttoning his jacket. He leaned against the island, placing a kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I’m going to check with the venue for tonight,” he offered.

“Okay.” Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek’s tie, pulling him in for another kiss. “I’ll see you tonight.”

~*~

Stiles was wrong.

He was so wrong.

Stiles’ entire body pulsed with his rage, his veins burning with magic.

“Stiles,” Isaac called his name, a tinge of concern evident in his voice.

Stiles was on the floor, his hands clawing down at the ornate carpet beneath him. He remembered Derek covering him with his body when the first shots were fired. His breathing was ragged, recalling how Derek’s body jolted and spasmed with the voltage of the taser hitting him. He felt Derek’s strength leech away, Derek’s body pressing down on Stiles with each convulsion.

He felt Derek bleed on him, knowing that at least one of the bullets had found a target.

Derek fought, ferociously, against the attackers. But the attackers were there for a werewolf, not a mage.

Stiles had been so wrong.

Derek was the target, afterall.

Stiles remembered the burn of the taser’s voltage hitting him in his spine when he managed to kill the first attacker. Derek’s weight had been lifted off of him, despite his best attempt to grab him.

Derek’s grip was loosen as they were torn away from one another.

“Seven dead,” Boyd’s voice confirmed through the radio as he tried to maintain some sort of order, but Stiles could hear the worry in the normally stoic Beta’s words.

Someone attacked Stiles, in the middle of a public gathering, and took Derek—in front of so many onlookers.

Stiles stood, aware of Isaac’s presence as the Beta swayed towards him. He allowed Isaac to support him.

Magic pulsed around Stiles, a clear indicator of his rage as he evened out his breathing. “Are any of them alive?”

Erica was busy turning over another motionless body, halting as she looked up at Stiles. “I don’t think Derek was concerned with sparing any,” she noted by kicking the man whose tactical gear was torn apart in bloodied claw strikes.

“Names,” Stiles gruffly uttered as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Their names. Their occupations. Their connections.” He felt the violet dye of his magic swirling in his irises. He was going to detonate a hole the size of a football field in the city if he didn’t calm himself.

Someone hurt Derek. Someone took him.

And they made the mistake of leaving Stiles breathing.

Derek may have been the target, but Stiles was the threat they should have neutralized.

Chapter Text

Derek knew he was drugged.

His limbs were weighted despite the restraints around his wrists, his arms kept above his head. Pins and needles pulsed through his muscles as his nerves tried to grow used to the angle. With the way the metal burned his skin with each small struggle he managed, he assumed the metal was infused with wolfsbane. His clothes had been removed long ago, some small part of his mind recalling the tear of material against a knife’s blade.

He hadn’t lost his body heat despite his nudity. Though Derek wasn’t certain he didn’t have a fever as a cold chill crept up his spine.

A cold pattern of metal touched the heat of his skin in a criss-cross pattern. He was strapped to a chainlinked fence.

That part was familiar.

The small part of his memory from before Stiles—from a lifetime ago.

Before he escaped.

Before he found Stiles.

When all Derek wanted was to die from the pain of grief.

Derek allowed his body to be slack against the restraints, accepting that while his skin would tear and bleed from the wolfsbane, he would ultimately heal. He was too tired from the electricity that burned through him—the mistletoe that had been thrown in his face as he covered Stiles’ body.

Stiles.

He remembered Stiles pulling him to the side at the start of the gala, an exchange of kisses in privacy—Stiles’ laughter at Derek’s soft scowl.

“Know that I’ll just be thinking of you the whole night,” Stiles had promised Derek before slipping out of his hold to rejoin the party.

Someone had tased Stiles when they pulled Derek’s heavy form off him. But not before Stiles tore a man’s throat out with a blast of magic.

Derek knew now, without a doubt, that he had been mistaken. Stiles was never the intended target of the attacks—he was. It gave him hope that Stiles was safe.

Derek ignored the sound of a cell door opening, allowing his head to hang. Whatever the hunters wanted, it would likely still end with his torture and ultimate death.

The thump of boots approached in a familiar gait.

Derek’s jaw clenched tight despite his attempts to remain lax. He’d never forget the sound.

“Hello, handsome.”

Derek allowed his eyes to slip closed, his tongue heavy as he barely whispered her name, “Kate.”

Slender fingers slipped through his hair, nothing like the comfort Stiles’ caress gave. He weakly tilted his head away from her hand, a flinch of rejection.

Kate roughly grasped Derek’s hair, twisting her fingers as a petty reminder that he was under her control. She forced Derek’s face up, her other hand slapping his cheek. “Open your eyes.”

Derek blinked his heavy eyelids open. His vision was blurry from whatever they had dosed him with. He realized, after a beat, that their surroundings were different than last time. They were in a cement room, no window light suggesting that he was underground this time. There was a cell door, all metal bars, that led to what looked like a hallway.

Derek hoped there were no other cells, housing other victims.

“No grandstanding Alpha bullshit?” Kate smirked, taunting him when she didn’t see any remnants of the familiar red.

“Untie me, and I’ll show you,” Derek huffed despite how weak he felt. He knew she could call his empty threat.

Kate scoffed. “Oh, baby,” she mockingly used the term of endearment as she dug her nails into his scalp. She enjoyed the way the muscle in Derek’s jaw twitched under the gesture. “I didn’t risk bringing down the whole magic consortium on me just to waste our time together.”

“You attacked the High Mage of Beacon,” Derek growled at her.

Kate’s eyes sparkled with interest. “I knew you had a thing for him when you threw yourself on top of him,” she commented with a smile. “I don’t know if I’d say I’m jealous.” She allowed her gaze to drop, looking over Derek’s body. “But you look good—filled out in all the right places.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” Derek retorted. He ignored the queasiness in his stomach at the way Kate’s eyes roamed over him.

Kate smacked Derek again, making sure to catch his cheekbone with her ring—her wolfsbane ring.

Derek closed his eyes at the pain that rattled through his skull, his brain feeling heavy with the sudden jolt.

“That’s what happens when a fucking animal attacks a human,” Kate seethed.

Derek dared to glare up at her.

Kate had a scar down the entirety of her cheek, the remnants of three parallel marks—claw marks—trailing down her jaw and into her neck.

It was a shame Derek hadn’t dug deep enough into her throat to kill her.

Derek was fifteen when he first met Kate, and he thought she hung the moon. He fell for each morsel of attention she gave him, lapping up all her carnal touches and honeyed words. He didn’t know better, and she knew that.

She seduced a kid, and bided her time until he was a matured Alpha.

An Alpha with a pack.

And then she stole Derek’s whole world.

“I can’t be blamed for all the attacks, you know?” Kate offered. She rolled her eyes. “They tried it themselves, using some idiot mage who hired people that almost killed you. Amateurs.” She tapped her fingers against Derek’s throat. “Almost made you throw up a lung, and then what use would you have been to them? No, they finally called in a professional.”

Derek didn’t reply. There was a reason Kate was telling him all of this—she never expected him to leave here.

“That’s the problem these days, people aren’t willing to bide their time,” Kate commented. “I had to wait years for you. I thought that old bitch was never going to die.”

Derek was unable to stop his flinch at the reference to his mother.

Talia Hale had never trusted Kate, and had died without reconciliation with her only son. Derek had only assumed Talia’s status of Alpha for less than a moon cycle before Kate enacted her plan.

“Stiles is going to tear you apart,” Derek finally stated, daring to glare at Kate.

Kate smiled, a tinge of unhinged laughter in her eyes. She pulled her hand away from Derek, taking a step back. “So the rumors are true: the High Mage of Beacon is a dog lover.”

Derek kept quiet as he watched Kate.

Kate took her time, walking over to a table next to Derek’s restraints. She picked up a few of the wires, acting as if she was having a difficult time deciding what to do.

Derek knew her games—he knew she already had decided just what to do to him before even walking into his cell.

“Father had some inventive plans for you back then,” Kate announced as she turned to sit in the chair, her hand poised with one end of the jumper cables hovering near the battery.

Derek didn’t tense, refusing to move. He remembered this part.

The verbal taunts. The electrocution that answered even when Derek didn’t speak.

“You know, I told him I didn’t want to lose my favorite part of you,” Kate smirked as her eyes flickered below Derek’s abdomen. “It’d be a waste.”

A soft, defiant huff left Derek. “I’m surprised it didn’t shrivel up and die because of you.”

Derek decided that Kate’s glare was worth the electric shock.

~*~

Stiles remained sitting, his fingers digging down into the armchair as he watched a finely dressed Christopher Argent take the seat across from him.

Chris Argent was an attractive older man who had walked a fine line between the magic and mundane. He had started off as the son of the head of the most prominent hunter coalition in the States. And then he appeared to distance himself as he established his own arms business.

And Peter Hale was the only reason Chris Argent was even sitting in front of Stiles to begin with.

Peter was estranged from Derek in several ways—one of them being that he never stayed in Beacon long enough to have more than a passing dinner with Derek. The older Beta claimed there were too many memories, preferring to spend his time traveling elsewhere.

But when Stiles pressed on every connection he had, searching for the one connection each attacker had, Peter Hale was the one who reached back.

More importantly, Peter pressed Chris to meet with Stiles—much to Chris’s dismay despite Peter’s promises.

Chris turned his wrist to inspect his watch. “Do I bother offering an apology that you likely won’t accept?” He started when he realized that Stiles wasn’t going to start the conversation the mage had summoned him for.

“Depends,” Stiles replied. His voice was rough, unused for the days that had passed since Derek’s abduction. Each night was restless, and Stiles had nearly foregone sleep entirely. He knew his exhaustion was showing, but he hoped he looked more angry than tired.

“On?” Chris pressed. He was aware of the Beta behind Stiles, watching as she stared daggers at him over Stiles’ shoulder. He was also aware of the two Betas at his own back. He had hoped it was a sign of goodwill on his behalf to arrive alone.

“On what you’re going to tell me,” Stiles elaborated. “On why a man would lace my ventilation system with aerosolized wolfsbane. Why did a man you previously hired attack me at a gala and take someone very important to me.” He felt the tension in his nails as they dug down into his chair. His magic crackled under his fingertips. If he wasn’t careful, he knew he was going to release his anger in a magic laced flare of force.

“Their names?” Chris asked, relieved to know that Stiles was talking to him because of those incidents.

“That matters, because?”

Chris knew Stiles was playing him for information, and he admired the younger man. “Because you’re likely talking about men someone in my organization hired,” he finally stated. “Men I have been trying to weed out for some time for still having connections to my father.”

Stiles slowly arched an eyebrow at Chris.

“I would have to be either stupid, or suicidal to think attacking the High Mage of Beacon was a good idea,” Chris finally stated the obvious.

“Or think you’re too powerful to touch.”

“No one is too powerful for you to reach, Stiles,” Chris countered.

Stiles’ eye twitched at Chris’ words.

“I am none of those,” Chris admitted. He looked down at his pant leg, picking at an imaginary stray thread. “I have a dinner scheduled, so I would like to resolve this.”

“Peter can wait,” Stiles answered Chris, uncaring if the man knew he had been keeping tabs on them. “After all, those men took his nephew.”

The muscle in Chris’s jaw twitched. “That’s why Peter made me take this,” he sighed, annoyed that Peter hadn’t just told him.

No, Peter doesn’t ever admit why he wants a favor granted, not when his mouth is busy doing the convincing with more than just words.

Stiles took the folder containing the identities of their attackers, placing it on the table between him and Chris. He slid the folder closer to Chris. “I want Derek.”

Chris slowly reached a hand up to take the folder, aware of the larger of the two male Betas behind him taking a step closer. He slid the folder off the desk, flipping it open to look at the papers within. His brow furrowed. He didn’t find himself caring if his confusion was worn for all to see. “There is a mistake, these aren’t my men,” he offered as he flipped through each paper.

“Argent Corps hired them,” Stiles replied.

“Argent Corps was run by my father,” Chris answered. “I used one of these men in the past, over a decade ago.” He dropped the folder back onto the desk. “Kate runs the business now. You’ve got the wrong Argent.”

“No,” Stiles shook his head. “I have the correct one—the one who will tell me where my Alpha is.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, carefully watching Stiles. “ Your Alpha?”

Stiles wordlessly pulled on the collar of his shirt, revealing more of his pale throat.

Chris blinked as his brain caught up.

A series of teeth—fangs had marked Stiles’ throat, just above the dip of his clavicle. They weren’t jagged with a rushed frenzy like Chris had seen in the past with defensive scarring from werewolves. These markings were surgical in nature—the maker in control of their actions and Stiles a willing participant.

A mating mark.

“You mated with an Alpha werewolf,” Chris blankly stated Stiles’ voiceless confession.

Stiles released his collar.

“And someone was stupid enough to take him,” Chris concluded.

“Your family was stupid enough to take him,” Stiles corrected Chris. He stood, leaning his hands against the desk. “Your sister tortured him for over a year after killing his whole pack,” he lowly stated. “She kept her life because of a cruel, specist law that prevented Derek from seeking retribution. And now, I want to know where she took him. Because every second I go without an answer is another second he endures her monstrosity.”

Chris stood, fixing the lapels of his jacket as he took his time buttoning them together. “I think I know where to start,” he finally offered.

Because out of every Argent, Chris wasn’t stupid enough to piss off the High Mage of Beacon, let alone Stiles Stilinski.

~*~

Derek drifted in and out of consciousness.

Every time he moved in his sleep, the metal shackles cut into his wrists and tore away the scabbing. He jolted with each reminder that he was back in the hellhole he thought he had escaped.

When he had ended up in that alley outside Stiles’ apartment, he had wanted to die. There was nothing keeping him alive except the desire to piss Kate off.

And then Stiles showed up.

Stiles’ angelic face had filled with worry as he pulled Derek’s broken body out of the gutter and spent days nursing him.

Derek’s whole world tilted and turned from a void into revolving around Stiles.

Erica, Boyd, Isaac. Even Jackson, despite the Beta’s insistence he was only there for Isaac.

Derek had, without meaning to, recreated a pack. And he now had a mate.

He counted himself lucky that this time none of them were in danger.

Freezing water splashed over Derek, waking him out of his wandering thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking away the droplets as he waited for some type of pain to follow. He couldn’t trust that Kate hadn’t laced it with something.

“Oh, baby, I hate to see you filthy,” Kate mused as she harshly brushed a towel over Derek’s face. “I have some people interested in an Alpha, you know.” She gripped Derek’s hair, forcing his head back against his holdings. “I should clean you up.”

Derek felt the give in the chainlink fence, part of him wondering if he could force the interlaced metal in minor ways until it finally gave. It wouldn’t solve his grogginess or the wolfsbane laced shackles. But he could possibly run if he timed it right.

Back to Stiles.

“I never really saw the appeal of an Alpha—you’re too bossy,” Kate sighed. She lifted her hand to hold Derek’s chin, nails digging in as she turned his head from side to side. “Though, you probably would make some cute kids.”

“You’ve already raped me, Kate,” Derek flatly stated. He felt the way Kate’s hand spasmed.

“No, I didn’t,” Kate denied.

“I was fifteen,” Derek answered. “You groomed a child.”

Kate didn’t slap Derek this time. She punched him.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Kate seethed.

Derek winced when she punched his ribs. They had cracked the last time, and he didn’t have enough time to heal them. One was definitely broken if the sharp wheeze in his chest was anything to go by.

“Keep lying to yourself,” Derek bit out.

Kate shoved Derek’s head back, releasing her hold on him. “You really are useless,” she uttered with contempt. “Why they’d want a worthless Alpha to join their ranks is beyond me.”

Derek blinked, looking at Kate’s back as she walked away from him. “You’re working for Ennis?”

Kate turned on her heel, her long blond hair bouncing against her shoulder. “I don’t work for dogs—but money is money.”

“Stiles won’t let this go,” Derek threatened her as she slammed the bars into place.

Kate looked at Derek through the cell’s bars. “He’ll never find you,” she taunted as she leaned against the bars, a sick smile on her face. “And when I’m through with you, you won’t want him to.”

~*~

“Stiles.”

Stiles disliked how Deaton spoke his name. It was a terseness that the man used when he prepared to dismiss something he didn’t wish to deal with.

Fuck that .

“While we appreciate your impassioned plea to deal with what has traversed,” Deaton artfully dressed up his rejection as if he cared. “Perhaps your werewolf guard broke some law the hunters felt fit to correct.”

“Deaton, that isn’t fair,” Lydia argued.

Stiles hadn’t expected Lydia to put her hand up in the middle of Stiles’ explanation to her this morning and simply say she supported his actions. It was the most immediate support Lydia had ever given him, no full explanation needed, nor one of her lengthy rebuttals that Stiles was insane.

“To blame hunters—”

“Katherine Argent targeted Derek when he was fifteen,” Stiles snapped, forcing a quiet among the group. While he knew some would argue that Alpha werewolves matured faster than others, they wouldn’t argue the obvious—Derek was a child when Kate went after him.

“She manipulated and groomed him,” Stiles continued, pinning each mage with a glare. “She waited for him to build a pack, and then slaughtered them for her own sick pleasure. She burned his family alive, and tortured what was left of his pack in front of him. And when he escaped her and the other hunters, no one gave him the justice he deserved because the Argents cited an archaic, specist law that gives them the right to hurt innocent people because they are werewolves. Perhaps we forget that mages faced a similar persecution in the past from the witch hunters.”

Deaton drummed his fingers against the table as he observed the others.

Stiles looked at the older man. “I am not declaring war on all hunters.” Yet.

“Katherine Argent should be questioned,” Lydia proposed, knowing that it would sound more reasonable a request coming from her than Stiles.

“Chris Argent has testified already that the men who attacked me were employed by his family,” Stiles added. “And make no mistake, even though Derek may have been their target, they attacked me multiple times. And Derek saved me.”

Deaton looked displeased by Stiles’ impassioned plea appearing to sway others.

“Aren’t you biased?”

Stiles looked at Julia Blake. He tried not to glare, but he had never liked the woman’s manipulations in the past.

“You’re involved with the Alpha, are you not?” Julia simply questioned, a false smile on her lips.

“The same way you are involved with Alpha Kali?” Stiles retorted. He felt a cruel pleasure at the way Julia’s smile faltered. “Involved with the Alphas attempting to steal other Alphas? Didn’t they come to you after I rejected them for such madness?”

“I don’t need to explain my relations,” Julia remarked with annoyance.

“Neither do I,” Stiles seethed. “Whatever I do, is my business.”

“As the High Mage of Beacon,” Deaton started.

“I’m not letting Derek fuck me in front of anyone,” Stiles snapped, uncaring when some shifted uncomfortably. “So it is no one’s business except ours.”

“If you show signs of favoring werewolves—”

“I have always favored anyone with pure and good intentions,” Stiles retorted. He released a harsh breath. “Support me in my endeavor or not, I was not asking for your permission to hunt down a psychopath.” He stood, shoving his chair back. “I was doing you a courtesy of warning you: I will be hunting Katherine Argent down.” His heart beat heavy as he added, “And save my mate.”

~*~

Derek didn’t know how long had passed since Kate’s last threat. His bones were still mending, his body kept on the brink of consciousness as whatever mixture Kate routinely injected him with worked against his healing factor. He had tried to tilt his head enough to see the IV that had been tapped into his forearm. The liquid was a noxious purple, reminding Derek of the wolfsbane his family used in burial ceremonies. Whatever it was, it dripped into Derek’s veins at an agonizingly slow pace, keeping him on the edge of lucidness.

He had noticed that Kate was the only person he saw constantly, leading him to believe she either worked alone now that she achieved her goal, or she didn’t trust Derek not to use another’s stupidity to escape.

Derek remembered the guard he killed before escaping. The man was stupid enough to think taking a selfie with a tortured, partially restrained, Alpha showed some sort of strength. He had dug his claws through the man’s jaw, tearing it off to be forgotten next to his broken phone.

Derek knew Kate wouldn’t afford him the same chance. It was probably why she kept him a constant breath away from death.

His skin stitched together slowly, a constant notion of tugging and reforming at an agonizingly low pace, only to be torn open again by Kate not too long after.

Derek wondered if he would have scars after this—he never knew what it meant to have scars or callouses, but he had seen the burnmarks on Peter’s arm. He knew it was possible for a werewolf to be scarred regardless of their healing.

“Did you get to fuck him yet?”

Derek’s head jerked up, waking up from his slip into blackness. He looked up to see Kate sitting in the chair by the battery. He hadn’t heard her enter.

His senses were slipping.

His body was accepting defeat.

Death.

He let his head hang, ignoring Kate.

“Right you wouldn’t do that to him by admitting it aloud,” Kate sighed, leaning back in the chair as she looked up at the cement ceiling. “You wouldn’t taint his name—his title, with your filth. The last Alpha of what was once the greatest and most influential pack in North America.” She laughed at Derek’s solemn expression. “Some fucked up world that let’s me get away with this.”

Derek ground his molars.

“Kind of funny, you’re allowed to protect anyone,” Kate scoffed. “Well, I guess that’s what werewolves are good for, your strength and senses.” She tapped her hands against the rungs of the chair in a bored manner. “Healing factor when the average idiot doesn’t know your weaknesses.” She sat up, leaning her forearms against her knees as she observed Derek. “But watch out if a werewolf wants a mage.”

Derek didn’t bother reacting when Kate stood.

“He’s been asking about you,” Kate stated.

Derek hated himself for looking up—for allowing her to see that any mention of Stiles could still affect him. It gave Kate the last thing he wanted to hand her. His hope.

“He’s stopped taking clients,” Kate continued. “He even pulled my brother into this mess.” She leaned against the chainlink fence, her arm propped next to Derek’s shoulder as she pressed her weight in close. “It left me wondering, how far is a mage going to go for a mangy dog?”

Derek didn’t reply, merely glared at her.

“I’m curious… did you share a rut with him?”

Derek flinched at Kate’s smile.

“Now, those were all you,” Kate continued, placing her hand on Derek’s abdomen. She allowed her fingers to trail to his naked hip, her thumb moving closer to the base of Derek’s cock. “I’m just glad I can’t get pregnant—imagine the horror of having to carry one of your kind to term. I’d kill myself first.”

Derek forced himself not to react. Had he, at one point in his life, wanted a family with Kate? Yes. He wouldn’t deny that part of himself. He wasn’t the one to blame for what Kate did to him.

Stiles made that truth possible for Derek to accept.

“Did that little dog brain think you could get Stiles pregnant?” Kate cruelly laughed as she flicked Derek’s temple. “I wonder what all the others in the magic consortium would think about their precious High Mage of Beacon slumming it with a pet.”

Derek swallowed the dryness in his throat before trying to speak. “What will the consortium do… when they find out you attacked the High Mage of Beacon?”

“They’ll blame you,” Kate shrugged off the thought. “They hate werewolves more than anyone, really.” She twirled a lock of Derek’s hair between her fingers in an absent-minded way. “Think about it—they have all the power. They could have protected your species by now. Instead, they allow hunters to slay you with prejudice.” She pulled on the small lock of hair to drive her point home. “And if they find out you’ve been fucking your ward…” A smile crossed her face. “Well, they might just take his title away.”

Derek used what little strength he had to pull his head away from Kate, robbing her fingers of his hair. “He’s too powerful for them to do that.”

Kate chuckled as she pushed away, turning her back on Derek as she went over to the battery. “There are always more mages waiting to take his place.”

Derek refused to argue with her. How often had he warned Stiles of the repercussions, and he refused to believe Stiles’ reassurances?

“I was thinking,” Kate started, turning on her heel to look at Derek. “I never did try burning you.”

Derek felt his hands involuntarily spasm.

“My brother came to see me,” Kate explained as she picked up an instrument Derek hadn’t seen earlier.

A blow torch.

Kate laughed as she fastened the blow torch’s tubing and mechanisms. “And he had the nerve to bring your uncle with him.” She turned her full body towards Derek. “And I saw the scars—” She reached her free hand up to tap her forearm, the exact same spot some of Peter’s scars were the most prominent. “That reminded me that I never tried burning you with anything. It can’t be healed away, can it?”

Derek tightened his fists as he gave a hard tug on his restraint. Nothing moved.

“I won’t touch your face,” Kate offered as she stepped closer. “I was thinking I could leave my mark on you this time, just in case you get away again. What if you forget me again?” She smiled. “It’ll give Stiles a reminder of who you really belong to.”

“He’ll rip your throat out,” Derek threatened.

Kate shrugged her shoulders. “We’ll see,” she answered as the blow torch ignited to life.

~*~

Stiles, to his credit, only obliterated the door.

The metal groaned and yawned before the sudden shattering of pieces. He watched as the material disbursed under his dismissal. He heard the impact of the shards meeting their targets of flesh, ignoring the sounds of pain as he allowed the Betas to enter before him.

He had been reluctant to listen to Peter, at first wondering if the man was telling him the truth. But he had seen how on edge Peter had been when telling him that he scented Derek on Kate—Chris’s touch appeared to be the only thing that grounded Peter as he spoke.

“She has him, all you have to do is track her and you’ll find him.”

Peter had rubbed at his burn marks more than before as he explained the situation to Stiles. He was on edge from being in Beacon longer than he would deem appropriate. There was a reason Peter stayed in New York City for most of the year—post traumatic stress.

Peter actually looked ashamed when he admitted that he couldn’t follow Kate when Stiles asked.

Some part of Stiles understood that.

Stiles had Boyd and Isaac track Kate, and this was where she led them on two separate nights.

Stiles had enough waiting. He was going to tear the truth from Katherine Argent, one way or another.

Stiles hadn’t been expecting to stumble in his tracks when finding the cellblock. He stared in horror at the number of cells that lined the row. He had no idea Kate had so many prisoners. He felt the others hesitate. “Boyd,” he started. He knew Boyd had the most experience with mundane healing.

“Get the cells open and we can help them,” Boyd offered.

“Derek’s in one of these,” Stiles felt his breath catch.

“Stiles,” Erica touched Stiles’ arm, bringing his focus back to the moment. “Get the cells open and we can help everyone—Derek included.”

Stiles focused, making sure not to allow any explosions or shrapnel to fly towards the victims. He looked up when he heard the radio crackle. It was easy to break the fastenings holding the catwalk in place. He didn’t flinch when the guard yelled as he fell.

Stiles forced himself to move once the cells flung open. He ran, his magic thrumming the closer he got to the cell at the end of the row. He knew it was Derek’s—his magic guiding him to Derek’s spark.

Stiles would always hate himself for hesitating—for being frozen in fear as he took in the sight of the cell before him. Derek’s name sharply gasped from his throat, his hands spasming as he rushed forward to Derek’s maimed and tortured body.

Derek wasn’t responsive.

He had burn marks across his abdomen, letters carved deep to a white char of skin— good boy .

Stiles’ hands cradled Derek’s head as he spoke. “Please, Derek,” he was speaking hurriedly as he checked for Derek’s pulse. He was screaming for help before he could act. His shaking hands were quick to pull the IV from Derek’s arm. He channeled his healing magic, focused on the worst of the wounds across Derek’s body.

Boyd was beside Stiles, reaching up to tear at the shackles. He recoiled when the metal left a kiss of a burn against his fingertips. “It’s laced with wolfsbane.”

Stiles grabbed Boyd’s hands before the Beta could reach for the shackles a second time. “Hold him,” he instructed Boyd instead. He reached up to the shackles when Boyd was bracing Derek’s weight. He shattered the lock, prying the metal open. He clenched his jaw when he saw the open sores around Derek’s wrists.

Stiles tore his long jacket off, placing it around Derek’s shoulders as Boyd got a better hold on him. “Don’t let Isaac see him,” his voice weakly uttered when Boyd looked at him. He remembered the little information Isaac had given them about his past—the abuse he suffered from a cruel and uncaring Alpha.

And seeing Derek—the one who saved him—like this could shatter something in Isaac.

Boyd sternly nodded his head, making sure that Derek was mostly covered. While Stiles and Derek had almost the same broadness in the shoulders, Derek was clearly the larger of the two—it would have to make do.

Stiles snatched the bag the IV was attached to, following after Boyd as he carried Derek out of the cell. He torched the cell without looking back. He was going to find Kate Argent, and inflict every pain she had on those she caged.

He was over being the peacekeeper as the High Mage. He was going to make a stance that no one could ignore.

~*~

Derek remembered being cold as his body accepted the searing pain of the fire burning through his skin. He wasn’t cold now, a furnace of warmth curled against his side.

Derek forced his eyes open, realizing his arms were no longer above his head. He stared up at the magical galaxy hovering above him—shooting stars flashed across the ceiling as planets turned and stars reached equilibrium.

Derek knew this magic show. He had watched Stiles spend hours creating the expansive and lifelike scene that served as his ambience to sleep.

Derek drew in a breath, wincing at the pain that suddenly blossomed across his wrists. He lifted his arm, consciously aware of just how heavy his limbs felt. He held his arm up high enough to see the still healing skin.

There was scabbed scarring on his wrists, the healed skin still pink and red in areas that the wolfsbane had eaten away. He was healing, just at a much slower rate than usual. He wasn’t surprised by such a result. He didn’t want to look down at his stomach, aware that even though there was no pain, it didn’t mean he wasn’t scarred.

Peter had spoken about the pain of being burned only once. He had drunk enough wolfsbane laced whiskey to speak about it without recoiling at the memory.

“It went from the worst pain I felt, to nothing. It cut the feeling away.”

A soft snuffle sounded next to Derek’s shoulder.

Derek allowed his head to lull to the side, catching sight of unruly auburn hair, and the slender fingers clutching at the duvet covering Derek’s naked body.

Derek shouldn’t have been surprised that the heat he had been feeling was Stiles’ magic. He slowly tilted his body, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he reached his arm across his chest to brush his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

Stiles pushed his head into Derek’s open palm. He slowly blinked, looking up at Derek. He jerked upwards when he realized Derek was awake, his eyes wide with surprise. “You’re awake,” he spoke the words as if he wasn’t sure he was actually awake.

“I just woke up,” Derek offered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Water?”

Stiles scrambled out of bed, cautious to avoid hitting Derek. He moved to the nightstand, taking the stopper out of a jug as he poured water for Derek into a glass with a straw. He brought the glass to Derek, offering up the straw for Derek to use.

Derek slowly arched an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t fight me on it,” Stiles firmly countered whatever Derek could argue.

Derek acquiesced to Stiles, using the straw as he curled his body slightly.

Pain radiated through him, but he did his best to not react. For Stiles’ sake.

“You should stay in bed,” Stiles started as he set the glass down once Derek relaxed into the bed. “Your injuries were bad.”

“I know,” Derek agreed.

Stiles hugged his stomach with one arm as he started to chew on his other arm’s thumb nail. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Derek thought about Stiles’ question, turning his head to look back up at the ceiling. He had thought of nothing but Stiles for most of his waking hours. But his biggest fear had been Stiles seeing him like this.

 “He’ll never find you. And when I’m through with you, you won’t want him to.”

Kate had managed to get inside his head after all.

“How did you find me?”

Stiles dropped his hand away from his mouth. “Chris Argent—some of the men that attacked us worked for Argent Corps. It turned out Chris had a lead that it was Kate, and … Peter helped.”

Derek looked at Stiles, his brow furrowed at the mention of Peter.

“Peter went with Chris to see Kate. He told me he could scent you on her,” Stiles explained.

Derek drew in a deep breath—what he could call a deep breath in his current state. “Chris shouldn’t have put Peter in that situation.”

“Peter said he volunteered,” Stiles offered.

“Of course he’d volunteer if his mate suggested it,” Derek growled.

Stiles released a heavy breath. “I thought that may have been the case. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Derek stated. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was referring to. All of it.

Stiles swayed some, clearly anxious as the silence settled between them. He wanted to touch Derek—to hold him close. He wanted to kiss him; to tell him how worried he had been.

He wanted to tell Derek he loved him.

“We’re working on helping the others,” Stiles softly offered instead.

Derek’s brow furrowed again as he looked at Stiles. “Others?”

The color dropped from Stiles’ features. “There was a whole block of cells,” his voice was small, wishing he wouldn’t have to hurt Derek with this.

Derek was watching Stiles when he started to pace back and forth by the bed.

Stiles ran a hand through his hair. “There were so many others there—Kate was torturing them, or … selling them.” His face scrunched up in repulsion. “It took Danny some time to decode her hard drives but we’re tracking down every person she ever held in that place.” He stopped, facing the bed. “Chris is helping us to track her down—he’s assumed control over Argent Corps now that law enforcement is involved.”

Derek blinked, unsure how he felt. “I’m tired.” It wasn’t what he really wanted to say, but it was too much. He wasn’t the only person Kate had hurt. He didn’t deserve Stiles’ attention more than the others.

“Derek,” Stiles softly said his name—like he did the first time they had sex.

In this room. In this bed, Derek’s traitorous thoughts reminded him.

“I know you’re probably busy,” Derek roughly stated.

“I’m not busy when it comes to you,” Stiles countered before Derek could continue. He moved to kneel on the bed, hovering over Derek. “I’d stay in this bed with you forever if I thought you wouldn’t feel guilty about it.”

Derek faintly smiled when Stiles reached up to touch his cheek. He didn’t know what he looked like—how many bruises or cuts his body was trying to heal.

“She hurt you, Derek,” Stiles whispered, his thumb brushing under Derek’s cheekbone. “And when I saw you—”

“I didn’t want you to see that,” Derek’s voice broke.

“I understood, for just a fraction in that moment, of what it would be like to lose you,” Stiles shakily admitted as he pressed his forehead to Derek’s. “And I never felt such horror as I did.” He reached a hand up to grip at his own throat as he leaned back. He was comforting himself with the weight. “I’m going to kill her, Derek. I’m going to tear her apart with a fire hotter than the sun. And I’ll make it slow.”

Stiles was crying with each word he spoke.

Derek forced himself to sit up, ignoring the pain and Stiles’ attempt to bar him from moving. He pulled Stiles into his arms, pressing his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck as he breathed deep the scent of his mate.

Stiles’ magic pulsed through Derek, a warming comfort against the pain as Stiles’ arms wrapped around Derek. His palms flattened against Derek’s back, his fingers gripping tightly at Derek’s skin.

“She couldn’t break me, Stiles,” Derek spoke as he pressed a kiss to Stiles’ pulsepoint. “You’re the only one that could do that.” He pulled back, reaching a hand up to palm Stiles’ cheek. “You’re the only one who can destroy me. Only you.”

Stiles tried to even his breathing, to stop the tears that had overwhelmed him after days of not knowing if Derek would live or die in their bed. He had nearly depleted the entirety of Beacon’s ley lines before ultimately pulling back and allowing them to heal. He allowed his hands to drop to Derek’s ribs, avoiding the bandaging he had worked hard to clean and replace daily.

“I can never let you go, Derek,” Stiles weakly admitted his fault. He dropped his gaze. “I think my magic would detonate if you left me.”

Derek pressed a kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

And then Derek felt the pull of tape on his stomach. Stiles’ hand had accidentally brushed it.

Derek pulled back from Stiles, looking down at his abdomen finally.

A large white compress of bandage had been taped across his abs, visible now that the blankets had pooled in his lap.

A nausea hit Derek at the realization that Kate had burned him. He didn’t imagine it.

“I’ve been healing …” Stiles stopped when he felt how still Derek was. “Derek. I can heal it.”

Derek tore his hands from Stiles, feeling his claws elongating. He was angry. Ashamed. Scared. “What did she do?”

Stiles clenched his jaw tightly. “Derek—”

“I don’t want to look at it, Stiles,” Derek almost snapped. He lifted his heavy hand to his face, trying to calm himself. “Just— what the fuck did she burn into me?”

Stiles was quiet for a beat before whispering, “Good boy.”

Derek released a harsh, cruel laugh that sounded closer to a whimper. He was crying now, tears dropping from his eyes without his permission. “She burned me. She finally got her wish to burn me.”

Stiles cautiously reached his hand out, taking Derek’s in his own. He didn’t recoil or flinch at Derek’s claws. Just as he didn’t flinch at the red glow of Derek’s irises. “I’m healing you,” he firmly stated. “I’ve already healed some of your muscles, Derek.” He reached his other hand up to wipe away Derek’s tears. “The skin will heal— I will heal you.”

Derek was still staring down at the bandage.

Stiles reached both hands up to cup Derek’s face. He forced Derek to look at him. “Derek,” he sternly spoke his name to get through the pain of whatever Derek’s brain lingered on. “I am healing you,” he firmly stated.

Derek was numb as he leaned into Stiles.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Stiles spoke the words gently. “I’m taking care of you.”

Derek curled himself until his head was in Stiles’ lap, allowing himself to fall asleep to the soft brush of Stiles’ fingers through his hair and the comfort of Stiles’ magic healing his wounds.

He didn’t feel the pain anymore.

Stiles burned that feeling away, leaving nothing but his love in its absence.

Chapter Text

Stiles simply blinked at the other mages in attendance.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Stiles looked at Deaton. “You want me to defend my actions of stopping a kidnapper and torturer of innocent people?” He made sure to sound completely scandalized by Deaton’s line of questioning. He was pleased to see how uncomfortable it made Deaton.

“Katherine Argent—”

“Is a dead woman,” Stiles simply stated. He could feel the silence more than hear it.

“You’re threatening to murder a hunter.”

Stiles was tired of people. He wanted to be home with Derek. “I am formally explaining to you that I am forfeiting my title as High Mage, effective immediately, and I will be pursuing justice against Katherine Argent for kidnapping and torturing my mate simply because he is an Alpha werewolf.”

The room burst into noise now.

Stiles didn’t care as he turned his back on the consortium. He was tired of playing by their rules and the expectation placed on him by polite society. He could do much more for those placed on the bottom of the hierarchy without his title. He knew he would still have clients who came to him for assistance.

Stiles meant what he told Derek—he was the best not because of his title, but because of his magic. And the consortium knew that.

It was time the hunters started to fear being hunted.

~*~

Derek ignored looking in the mirror—an action he had started performing daily. If he started covering the mirrors, Stiles would catch on immediately. And he didn’t want Stiles to know that he had a repulsion to his own reflection.

It was easier with clothes on, hiding the still healing marks Kate had left.

But looking in the mirror without a shirt on had become taboo.

It didn’t matter how hard he tried to hide it, he was certain Stiles knew.

The mirrors no longer remained defogged from the steam of the shower.

There also was the strange disappearance of more than one mirror from downstairs, and the way Isaac avoided Derek’s questions suggested Stiles’ involvement.

Derek looked down at the cuff of his button-down shirt, working the cufflink into place as he ignored the pink skin where his shackles had restrained him.

They were the first wounds to heal completely.

Derek refused to look at his stomach, aware that his top layers of skin hadn’t been replaced by any new tissue. Stiles worked tirelessly, and some of it had returned. But the burn was likely impossible to erase completely.

Derek tried to think of the plan for the day instead, buttoning his jacket as he exited the bathroom and headed for the stairs.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Lydia’s voice traveled up through the apartment.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Stiles stated in a distracted tone.

Derek looked over the balcony railing. He saw Stiles reading a tome and twisting his finger in a circle to keep a spoon stirring his tea. He smiled—Stiles didn’t have to perform the movement for his magic to stir the tea, but it kept him focused.

“Did you do it for him?” Lydia asked.

Stiles stopped his finger from moving, the spoon still spinning as he looked up at Lydia and pinned her with an annoyed expression. “I did it for me, Lydia.”

Lydia wasn’t fazed by the fire in Stiles’ eyes. “They’re blaming him.”

Derek felt the familiar lick of guilt churn his stomach.

“I don’t give a fuck what they think,” Stiles scoffed as he slammed the tome shut. “But here is the truth, and you can relay it to them: I love Derek Hale. A monster hurt him once, and they—along with the law—did nothing. He tried to move on, and that same monster came back into his life and hurt him again. The difference is that this time, he has me. And I made the decision that I will not be their puppet and pretend to care about maintaining order and peace, when too many of them look down their noses at suffering. So, no, I didn’t do it for him, I did it because I hate myself for not being able to protect those like him before they are hurt.”

Lydia smiled. “Bravo, Stiles,” she stated in a proud tone. “I can’t wait to see what you accomplish.”

Stiles shook his head. “You could join me.”

Lydia laughed. “I’ll give you a rain check. Maybe,” she added as she walked towards the door to see herself out.

Stiles released a soft sigh when he heard the door shut, reaching a hand up to massage his neck.

“You mean it.”

Stiles startled, looking up to Derek’s spot by the balcony’s railing—where he first saw him standing in his apartment all those years ago. He blushed, for different reasons this time. “I’m sorry, I meant to tell you that I was rescinding my title.”

Derek tilted his head. “Do you get to keep the robes?”

Stiles faintly laughed, smiling up at Derek. “Those are all mine.”

Derek allowed himself to smile some. “I love you too.”

Stiles blinked, his heart beating faster. And then he realized that during his speech to Lydia, he had admitted his feelings. He had said, plain and simple, that he loved Derek. “Oh my… the first time I said it aloud wasn’t to you!” His face grew redder by the second as he hid behind his hands. “I am such a— I can’t believe I did that!”

Derek softly smiled as he moved towards the stairs.

Stiles was pacing and loudly cursing at himself—in Latin—for being an idiot, when Derek reached him. He stopped when Derek took a hold of his arms, swaying on his feet from the loss of momentum. “No,” he muttered when Derek pulled his hands away from his face. His face was hot with shame as he looked down to Derek’s exposed collarbone. He loved when Derek left the top buttons of his shirt open, making it easier to see his throat and part of his upper chest.

And chest hair.

“I was here to hear it,” Derek offered. He still looked too amused for Stiles’ liking.

“You got to say it directly to me first, and I wanted to say it,” Stiles huffed.

“You already did,” Derek answered.

Stiles’ heartbeat quickened.

“In all the ways you care for me, you say it every day, Stiles,” Derek explained, lifting one of Stiles’ hands to his lips. He kissed Stiles’ fingertips.

Stiles blinked at Derek. “You’re… insanely romantic.”

Derek smirked at that. “I know.”

Stiles groaned before kissing Derek. “I love you, Derek Hale,” he stated between kisses.

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles, his hand a heavy weight of reassurance on Stiles’ neck. “I love you, Stiles Stilinski.” Derek left a lingering kiss on Stiles’ lips before adding, “Even though you’re not the High Mage of Beacon anymore.”

Stiles snorted, gripping Derek’s biceps to steady himself. “Just wait until you see what I do without that title, sour wolf.”

~*~

Derek would argue that Stiles was more popular than ever now that he was no longer hindered by the magic consortium’s rules and regulations.

And there may not have been a single being alive who could stop him.

Except Derek.

Derek was the voice of reason, pulling Stiles away from an endless list of growing requests from new clients. He also stopped Stiles from killing more than one Alpha, and mage, and hunter, alike.

It didn’t mean that their relationship had returned to normal in the slightest.

Intimacy still came at a price for Derek now, his instincts screaming at him to never rescind any type of vulnerability—even to his mate.

And so, sex was, at times, difficult for Derek. He didn’t want to take his shirt off most nights, and sometimes if Stiles’ hand lingered in sleep over Derek’s abdomen, he would need to get out of bed and walk the apartment to calm down.

“You never have to touch me again,” Stiles had offered. “And if you never want me to touch you again… that’s okay, Derek. I’d like you to talk to someone about what happened but… not because I am trying to force you to do this.”

Patient, loving, kind Stiles.

That was who Derek spent his nights with.

His days were filled with a confident brat of a mage who needed to be reminded that safety was a good precaution to have. His nights were spent wrapped around the gentle, easily swayed human who allowed Derek to leave any mark he wanted.

Derek was curled around Stiles, pressing his face into Stiles’ shoulderblade as they cuddled. “Can you cover it?”

Derek wasn’t sure why he suddenly asked it, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Kate had violated him with the sole intent of marking him.

Stiles gently pressed back into Derek’s chest, turning his head over his shoulder to look at him. “Cover?” He was sleepy, but trying to understand Derek’s question regardless.

“The burns.” Derek didn’t want to say the words or even Kate’s name. He just wanted Stiles to know how his thoughts were plagued.

Stiles seemed to sober from sleep as he shifted his body to face Derek completely. He kept his arms pressed against Derek’s chest, folded up between them as his fingers caressed over Derek’s collarbone. They were sharing the same pillow, sharing the same breath. “How do you want me to cover them?”

Derek closed his eyes, pulling in a deep breath before forcing himself to look at Stiles. “With your mark. Something that can only mean you.”

Stiles’ features softened as he leaned forward to kiss Derek. He slipped one arm from between them, wrapping his grip around Derek’s back to hold him close. He pushed his hand into Derek’s hair. “Our mark,” he whispered against Derek’s lips. “We’ll wear our mark,” his voice reassured Derek.

~*~

The design was intricate—the rune like shapes were of an old archaic language spoken between shifters and druids in ancient times.

Stiles had spent the early years of his life decoding and deciphering tomes with his mother. These were words shaped into a type of flower, something Stiles had first encountered in an unconfirmed tome at auction. And then again when he saw the tomb in person.

The werewolf and druid had been part of a well-known pack at one point, only to separate for unknown reasons. They had lived long and prosperously along the outskirts of the packs. They had loved each other, buried in the same tomb at the werewolf’s insistence.

The man had willingly gone to the grave with his beloved.

The tomb was sealed with marriage runes—unbreakable vows.

Those were the words Stiles wished to share with Derek.

~*~

Stiles had almost blacked out when getting the tattoo. Sensibly, he knew the location of the tattoo, while significant to him and Derek, was not ideal for the one and only tattoo he would be getting. He had hidden his face when possible in Derek’s shoulder, his face scrunched in pain whenever the buzzing of the needle gun preceded the sharp hot sting of the needle inking his skin. He knew he didn’t have it as bad as Derek, not when he became aware of the Alpha syphoning his pain away towards the end of the tattoo.

The runes covered the side of Stiles’ neck that didn’t bear Derek’s mating mark, dipping down towards his clavicle and near the softer part of his throat.

Derek had allowed only Stiles to draw the design on his stomach. The skin had healed, but the burned scarring was still visible. And it was going to be a challenge letting the tattoo artist even touch his stomach with the needle.

Stiles stood beside Derek, his own hands and arms cradling Derek’s head to keep him from looking at his stomach as the Alpha kept his arm firmly encircling Stiles’ waist. He spoke soothing words to Derek whenever he tensed or refused to take a break, aware of the way Derek’s clenched grip at the small of his back had claws caressing his skin.

Love. Dedication. Protection.

The runes were their shared vows.

~*~

Stiles blinked at the woman in front of him.

Katherine Argent left cruelty and trauma in her wake—leaving a world of agony for her survivors.

And she seems so pathetic and small to Stiles now.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Kate seethed at Stiles.

Stiles looked down at his pantleg, pulling at a nonexistent string. “No, I won’t,” he sighed as he bent his leg to cross them. “I haven’t been the High Mage for almost six years now,” he added as an afterthought, looking up at the ceiling of the abandoned warehouse they had tracked Kate to. “I’m allowed, as a private citizen, to seek penance for what was done to my husband.” He allowed his gaze to drop to Kate, allowing his disgust for her to show. “You’ve just been a difficult rat to find.”

“Husband?” Kate sneered at Stiles. “So you married the dog.”

Stiles tilted his head, allowing his magic to heat the metal of Kate’s shackles.

Kate yelled in pain as the metal burned her wrists.

“That’s a fraction of what you’ve done to shifters,” Stiles stated as he allowed the metal to cool. “I kept you alive at my husband’s request.”

“So what? Are you going to let the dog tear my throat out?” Kate attempted to bait Stiles into reacting. “With his teeth?”

“His teeth belong to me,” Stiles countered, an edge of tired annoyance in his voice. He tapped at the exposed skin of his throat, where Derek’s mate mark was bared for anyone to see. “And he won’t be dealing with you.”

“I left my own mark on him,” Kate boasted, clearly still crazed enough to smirk. “Scared the big Alpha into hiding behind his pathetic mage master.”

Stiles stood, walking over to kick Kate—the sole of his boot connecting with her stomach. Exactly where she had burned Derek. He moved into a squatted position over Kate’s dry-heaving form. He waited until the gagging passed, grabbing a fistful of her blond hair to wrench her head back. He forced her to look at him as he spoke. “No, he’s busy picking up our son from school.”

Nathan was only three years old when he had been orphaned—his parents brutally murdered by hunters. He needed a home, and Stiles and Derek were ready to open theirs, hearts included. Nathan was only seven now, and he had become their whole world.

Derek had been quiet when Stiles told him he had found Kate last night.

Stiles, to his credit, waited until they got Nathan tucked into bed.

Derek didn’t have an immediate response, simply retiring to their bedroom before taking a shower. He was standing under the water, his gaze staring vacantly at the shower wall when Stiles slipped his arms around Derek’s waist.

“I don’t want her to hurt anyone else.” That was all Derek could say about the matter. And Stiles promised him— “She won’t. I won’t let her, Derek.”

Stiles released his hold on Kate as he stood. “I don’t feel like missing dinner,” he sighed as he turned to look at the Betas. “And you didn’t just anger me, you know,” he looked over his shoulder at Kate. His magic was too powerful for her—it would be too quick. “They love Derek, too. And like me, they hold a grudge.”

Stiles turned his back on Kate, walking by Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. He gave his nod of approval to them.

Not every single one of Kate’s victims would have the justice they deserved—but they could rest easy knowing the monster had been killed.

~*~

Derek was cooking dinner when Stiles returned to their home.

Stiles knew he couldn’t sneak up on Derek, but was happy knowing the Alpha humored his attempts.

Derek stopped stirring the sauce when Stiles’ arms circled his waist. He blinked a few times, conscious of the way Stiles’ hands rested on his abdomen—over their shared vows.

“I missed you,” Stiles spoke against Derek’s clothed shoulder. He partially groaned, “You shouldn’t be allowed to look so attractive in dad sweaters.”

Derek couldn’t help his soft laugh. He turned in Stiles’ arms, facing him.

Derek was wearing the sweater Nathan had picked out for his last birthday present. It was a soft beige sweater with a cabled pattern. The collar dipped enough to expose his collarbone.

Stiles pressed his face into Derek’s throat, gingerly placing a chaste kiss to the curve of Derek’s jaw.

Derek hugged Stiles tightly, understanding that he was comforting him in that moment of realization that the hunt was over.

“I kept my promise,” Stiles confirmed as he pulled back to look at Derek.

Derek lifted his hands to cradle Stiles’ face, finally bringing their lips together in a kiss.

Slowly—tenderly, a thanks passing from one to the other.

They parted for Derek’s soft, “I love you.”

Stiles kissed Derek’s forehead before letting Derek nose at the rune marks over his throat. “I love you, sourwolf.”

They stayed like that until the water began to boil in the pot on the stove, a reminder to Derek that he had been busy cooking pasta before Stiles returned.

“You know, I could have done that faster,” Stiles stated when Derek parted from their embrace.

“Sometimes, I can make dinner without magic,” Derek mused. He focused on the uncooked pasta, situating it into the pot when he heard Nathan’s rushed footsteps barreling towards the kitchen.

“Dad!” Nathan sounded surprised to see Stiles. He ran over and tackled Stiles, nearly tumbling them both over.

“Remember, dad is fragile,” Derek reminded Nathan.

Nathan was still coming into his strength as an Alpha, and he forgot he was stronger than the average human.

Derek knew it would be a challenge to help steer Nathan in the right direction—that much was evident when he almost bit a person in the grocery store for being rude to Stiles.

Stiles was both Derek and Nathan’s weak points. They both wanted to protect him—and Stiles humored Nathan more than Derek.

“Sorry,” Nathan softly laughed as he looked up at Stiles. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, kiddo,” Stiles answered as he hugged their son. He placed a kiss into Nathan’s hair. “Sorry I was gone for a while.”

“It felt like months.”

“It was three days, Nate,” Derek commented.

“You said it felt like years,” Nathan replied to Derek.

“Years, huh?” Stiles smiled as he looked at Derek, a teasing glint in his eye.

“Yeah, it was quiet,” Derek deadpanned, though Stiles could see the red tint on the tips of Derek’s ears.

“Well, I’m home for a long time,” Stiles announced. “I just hope you don’t get sick of me.”

“Never!” Nathan announced. “Oh, I need to show you my book report!” He released his hold on Stiles to run to his room.

Derek stood next to the counter, his arms crossed over his chest as he listened to the water return to a boil.

“What’s going on in your head?” Stiles asked as he broke the silence Nathan had left in his wake.

“You mean it,” Derek simply uttered, looking up at Stiles.

Stiles tilted his head.

“You’re going to be home for a while,” Derek explained.

Stiles faintly smiled at Derek. “You better get used to magic in the kitchen, because I’m going to be home a hell of a lot more.”

Derek found himself matching Stiles’ smile, dropping his arms from across his chest as Stiles closed the space between them.

“My reason for war is over,” Stiles explained as he tucked his head against Derek’s shoulder, his cheek resting against Derek’s collarbone. He looked at Derek’s neck, listening to his pulse point thrumming steadily. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not ready to do it again to protect you—Nathan, too.”

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles. “Si vis pacem para bellum?”

If you want peace prepare for war.

“Who taught you Latin?” Stiles playfully jested.

“Nathan,” Derek sighed.

Stiles tensed before pulling back to look at Derek. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t do a book report on one of my tomes—”

“You left it in the living room.”

“He’s seven!”

“And you taught him how to read Latin, what did you expect?”

“Not to read the Latin, Derek!”

“I got an A!” Nathan announced as he swept into the kitchen, holding aloft a stapled packet with his handwriting. “The teacher didn’t know what I was talking about, but he said that I did a good job identifying the key concepts.” He smiled up at Stiles as he held out the paper.

Derek released Stiles to let him look at the words that he had no idea how to translate.

Stiles took the paper with ease, looking over Nathan’s adorable penmanship. He tried not to note that it looked like his own. He tilted his head as he read a Latin phrase.

“I promise I didn’t singe the carpet when I read it,” Nathan offered when Stiles was quiet.

Derek froze, processing Nathan’s words before turning and looking at Stiles. “Singe the carpet?”

Stiles looked at Derek before allowing his eyes to drop to Nathan. “Buddy.”

“Yeah?” Nathan looked unsure with both his fathers’ attention directed at him.

“This is for fire,” Stiles confirmed what Nathan had said. “But what do you mean you read it and ‘didn’t singe the carpet’?”

Nathan opened his mouth then closed it. His brows furrowed as he tried to think of the answer. He finally shrugged his shoulders. “I read it, and fire was in my hand.”

Stiles stared at Nathan.

“You can…” Derek looked at Stiles, waiting for his husband to deny that their son had used a magical incantation. “Nate, you have magic?”

Nathan shrugged his shoulders again. “I don’t know—it isn’t like daddy’s, but when I read out of the tome, I was able to do some of it.”

Stiles was still too quiet for Derek’s liking. He blinked a few times before uttering, “Holy shit.”

“Stiles!”

“Derek, our werewolf son conjured magic from one of my ancient tomes, I think I get a pass on swearing,” Stiles countered. “But we should definitely figure out what type of magic,” he continued before Derek couldn’t make any type of argument. He reached his hand out to Nathan. “Come on, kiddo, we have some experiments to run.”

Nathan smiled as he took Stiles’ hand. He loved it when Stiles let him help with the experiments—it usually meant sparkles or swirls of colorful lights. “Like daddy’s werewolf practice?”

Stiles made an audible laugh, knowing Derek could hear him as he walked them out of the kitchen. “Even better!”

Despite being left alone in the room, Derek felt for the first time, an edge of calm. He drew in a breath as he listened to Stiles and Nathan. Despite what life held for all of them, it seemed that they had entered a relative peace.

They became the eye in each other’s storms, and for the first time, Derek wasn’t scared of what the future held.