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Stiles wakes up late Friday night to three werewolves on his bed. At first he’s groggy and disoriented, and can’t tell what woke him up, but the pressure on his legs and the glinting eyes make it swiftly and painfully obvious.

“Ohmygod, what?” he squeaks in a way that, ideally, would have been slightly more masculine.

“We need to talk,” Erica says, and of course she’s the one sitting on his feet.

“OK. Let’s start with, ‘Why do you hate doors?’ And then we can move on to, ‘It’s 3am,’ and end with, ‘Go away,’” Stiles says, feeling his heartbeat return to its normal being-threatened-by-werewolves rate. He pauses, for a minute, to consider the fact that he has a being-threatened-by-werewolves heart rate now. His life is so delightful.

“About Derek,” clarifies Erica, grinning at him with all of her many teeth. Thankfully, they’re still human teeth.         

“Also Scott,” adds Isaac, in what he clearly thinks is a helpful manner. He’s half-sitting awkwardly against the side of Stiles’ bed, as though he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to be there. Stiles looks up to Boyd, standing lurkily behind them, but Boyd just shrugs semi-apologetically.     

“Um…no? And also, what?” Stiles adds, because it bears repeating. “Is stalking bedrooms like a werewolf sport or something? Because it’s really starting to get excessive. What possible thought process led you all from, ‘Hey, we need to have a chat with our dear distant acquaintance Stiles, who we sometimes try to kill,’ to ‘I know, we’ll sneak into his bedroom and watch him while he sleeps?’”

Boyd finally speaks up. “We didn’t want the others to know we’d talked to you,” he says. “This needs to be private.”

“‘Private’ in the ‘we’re about to kill you and nobody will ever find your body’ sense?”

Erica huffs laughter, and Isaac looks scandalized.

“We need you to repair their special bond,” he blurts out earnestly. “I think Derek is pining.”

“I’m sorry, what,” Stiles says again, at the same moment that Erica hisses at Isaac to shut up. Stiles almost doesn’t notice, because he is now actively trying to suppress all memories of the last ten seconds, as well as the associated images of Derek pining.

“Because he’s been extra angsty lately, and we think it’s because he’s pining,” Isaac clarifies, pointedly ignoring Erica’s dirty looks.

“First of all, how would you even know? Isn’t his face, like, permanently set to Maximum Angst? Second of all, gross. I can promise you, there is absolutely no bonding going on between Scott and Derek. Special or otherwise. If you haven’t noticed, Scott is kinda still all pathetic puppy dog about Allison, even though she hasn’t talked to him in weeks. And Derek is…Derek.” Stiles finishes with a slight flourish, as though delivering the irrefutable conclusion to a mathematical proof.

It’s true that Scott hasn’t talked to Allison since they broke up, or whatever it is they did. Stiles is pretty sure that for the first week, Scott hung around outside her house like a mournful puppy, which was stalkery and disturbing on so many levels. Stiles isn’t sure what made him stop, but he has a private fantasy in which Chris Argent catches Scott lurking under Allison’s window and sprays him with a squirt bottle until he runs away.

It’s been two weeks since then, and Scott still sometimes stares off into the middle distance halfway through conversations, or makes faces when people talk about their petty, childish problems, like nobody else understands his epic heartbreak. It’s freaking annoying.

And speaking of freaking annoying…

“And so, I think we can all agree that you will leave, and I will go back to sleep, and in the morning, we can all pretend this never happened.” Q.E.D.

But Erica’s little noises have become distinctly more scathing, and she bounces on his feet impatiently. Which – ow. Werewolves are heavy.

“They’re not having sex, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Isaac’s eyes go wide. “Gross,” he contributes feelingly. From the slight shaking of the bed, Stiles is pretty sure that Boyd is silently cracking up behind them.

Erica continues: “So, I don’t know how much you and Scott know, but there’s been weird stuff happening in Beacon Hills lately.” Stiles just gives her a disbelieving look.

“I’m shocked,” he deadpans. She ignores him.

“Do you know about the Alpha pack?”

“Those humorless dickbags with the smirky, unnaturally symmetrical faces? Yeah. We’ve met,” Stiles says shortly, because he and Scott’d had a brief and uncomfortable meeting with the Alphas while they were buying snacks at the supermarket one night. The Alphas mostly threw out B-Movie Villain threats at Scott and ignored the alarmed way Stiles was crinkling his bag of Funions. And then they left. Scott got so snitty about werewolves who kept menacing him when he never asked for their creepy attention, that Stiles had to soothe him with Oreos. If you asked him, they could avoid lots of unnecessary confusion if the werewolves in their lives would just share their feelings in complete sentences. But nobody ever asked him.

“Well, they haven’t done anything in weeks. Not since they arrived.” Stiles can hear the nervous, frustrated edge to Erica’s voice. “Derek thinks they’re watching. Assessing his weaknesses. He thinks that when they heard that the Hale territory had an Alpha again, they came to test him. See if he can handle himself.”

Stiles thinks this is a pretty reasonable assumption, considering what the Alphas had done when they’d caught Erica and Boyd running away in the woods before the big kanima fight. Stiles had gotten it from Scott, who’d heard it from Isaac (and oh God, when did their lives turn into a bad teen movie?), that the Alpha pack had hunted them down like it was a game, and when they’d been caught, told them to crawl back to their Alpha. Because he’d need all the help he could get. Which was pretty much par for the course in the vague, meaningless threat department, in Stiles’ opinion.

But Erica, Boyd, and Isaac seem pretty scared of them, and it’s probably in Stiles’ best survival interests if he’s also wary of anything they’re afraid of. So he tries to actually pay attention.

“And if they think Derek can’t handle himself?” Stiles asks, pretty sure he already knows the answer. Erica shrugs helplessly.

“OK, I get it, this all seems pretty standard turf war stuff. So what does Scott have to do with any of it?”

“I told you, they’re assessing his weaknesses. They sent me and Boyd back as a kind of game – they thought it was funny that Derek’s pack was so easily broken.” Erica and Boyd both look miserable and guilty at this admission. “We’ve had to work really hard to convince them otherwise. Derek even sent Peter away for a while, because he was worried he would raise too many questions.”

“So that’s why he hasn’t been creeping around lately. Not like it’s a big loss,” Stiles mutters.

“Peter is Pack,” Isaac admonishes him in what may be the most unenthused voice ever. Stiles almost laughs. “But, well, Scott’s a pretty big weakness.”

“Scott is not—” Stiles squawks.

“Dude, Stiles,” Boyd cuts in. “He’s an unattached werewolf in Derek’s territory. They’re openly in a power struggle with each other. It all pretty much screams, ‘Derek can’t control his pack.’”

“Scott’s not in Derek’s pack,” Stiles says flatly.

“It doesn’t matter what Scott is or isn’t,” Erica says. “It matters what the Alphas believe. And right now, we’re pretty sure they believe that Scott is a pawn they can use against Derek. Get Scott to turn against him. Not like he hasn’t done it before,” she adds pointedly.

“OK, wait a second—”

“Look. Say whatever you want about Derek, but he’s like kittens compared to the Alpha pack. If they see an opening to destroy us, they will take it. And then they’ll be in charge of Beacon Hills, the Argents will see the change in leadership as a threat, and we’ll all be screwed. And also, we’re pretty sure that once they’re done using Scott to sabotage Derek, they’ll kill him. They know he’s difficult to control.”

“Well, OK, that would be bad. That would be very bad. I’d like to come up with a scenario in which my best friend does not get killed. So what’ve you guys got?”

“We think Scott should join Derek’s pack. At least for a little while. Make really nice, be a perfect, uncorruptible pack member. Show an undivided front to the Alphas.”

“OK, that’s probably not so hard,” Stiles says philosophically. “I mean, Derek’s a dick, but I think even Scott can pretend to like him for a little while, especially if it’s for the good cause of getting rid of even bigger dicks.” But for some reason, Erica, Isaac and Boyd still don’t look satisfied.

“OK, but here’s the thing,” Erica continues. “He may have been able to fool Gerard Argent, but these werewolves can literally smell disloyalty. If Scott’s heart isn’t totally in it, they’ll know. Also, whether they like it or not, Derek and Scott are bonded. Derek killed Scott’s Alpha, so now Derek is technically Scott’s Alpha, even though Scott doesn’t want him to be. But their instincts still think he should be. Does that make sense? Humans don’t get this stuff the way we do.”

“No, humans do not,” Stiles agrees. “Because most of this stuff is dumb and overly complicated. But I think I’m kinda on the same page.”

“Anyway, fighting their instincts is really…stressful. That’s the best way I can explain it,” Erica says, making a frustrated noise. “We can all feel it, and the Alphas can probably feel it. It weakens the pack, and it also weakens Derek and Scott, and the Alphas can probably feel that, too.”

“Right, but we’re trying to do the whole ‘show no weakness’ thing. Got it. So basically what you’re saying is that I have to get Scott to join Derek’s pack, and I have to get him to like it. Awesome. And Derek is on board with this?” To his surprise, they all shift around uncomfortably.

“Well, um, Derek doesn’t really know we’re here,” says Isaac. “We kinda…snuck out.”

“So what was his plan gonna be re: showing weakness, getting torn limb from limb by Alphas?” The Betas look even more uncomfortable.

“We’re not…totally sure he has one?” Boyd says.

“But he’s probably working on it really hard,” Isaac rushes to add.

“Of course. So you come to me, because I’m apparently the only person in Beacon Hills who appreciates the value of a well-constructed plan. You guys have good judgment.”

Erica makes a scathing noise, and hurries to correct him. “Derek thinks if he talks to Scott directly, Scott will blow him off.”

“That’s…kind of fair. That is probably exactly what will happen, yeah,” Stiles allows.

“And also, we think Scott hurt his feelings,” Isaac confides, before he’s given death glares by Erica and Boyd. Stiles’ brain freezes, trying unsuccessfully to reconcile the competing concepts of “Derek” and “feelings.”

“Shut up,” Erica growls at Isaac.

“We’re pretty sure Derek is too proud to ask Scott for help, because he fears rejection,” Isaac blurts out.

“Isaac!” Erica snaps, at the same time Boyd says,

“We really need to wean you off those romance novels, dude,” with a world-weary sigh.

“Well, now that I know way too much information about…pretty much everyone involved in this conversation…I kind of see your point about the Alphas. They are weird and scary, and I’d like them to leave quickly. But why do you think that I have any influence over what Scott does? Or Derek, for that matter? The dude can barely stand to be in my presence for, like, five seconds.”

Three pairs of creepy werewolf eyes stare at him like he’s the biggest idiot on the planet.

“You’re the biggest idiot on the planet,” Erica tells him. “For one thing, who else is Scott going to listen to? Us? We’re not exactly super friendly with him ever since we tried to kill Lydia.”

“Yeah, about that—” Stiles starts.

“Also, if Scott comes, Derek won’t turn him away,” Boyd adds quietly, and for no reason at all, Stiles feels suddenly sad.

“Um, fine. OK. I can’t promise anything, because Scott is a stubborn idiot on his best days, and also, I’m still not totally convinced he’s wrong. But I’ll talk to him.” A tension that Stiles hadn’t even realized was in the room suddenly lifts, and Stiles can feel, more than see, the three Betas relax.

“Now will you please go away? Not all of us are nocturnal.” They smile at him as they get up – Boyd’s open and friendly, Isaac’s small and quick – like they’re friends or something. Oh crap, did Stiles just enter into some sort of sketchy nighttime partnership with three unstable werewolves that his best friend hates? Are they going to have to sit at the same table at lunch and swap pudding cups? Is this eventually going to end up biting him in the ass, probably painfully? Unfortunately, Stiles thinks the answer to all three questions is ‘yes.’ Which could be very bad. Well, he amends, pudding cups are actually pretty delicious. If pudding cups are a consequence of this friendship, that might be OK.

Boyd and Isaac clamber out the window, still smiling. Erica goes last, giving him a grin and a not-so-subtle eye-flick before she shuts the window behind her. And that’s when Stiles realizes that he’s been practically naked for this entire conversation.

Perfect.

***

Scott is not happy about Boyd, Erica, and Isaac’s plan. Like, really, really epically not happy. He whines, and kicks things, and stubs his toe, and whines some more. Stiles has to give him Tollhouse cookie dough just to calm him down, and that only really works because then his mouth is too full to complain.

“You’re going to get Salmonella,” Stiles admonishes, but only halfheartedly.

“Um, I have werewolf healing abilities, dude. I’m pretty sure we can’t get Salmonella.”

“Guess you’re gonna find out soon enough,” Stiles mutters direly before scooping up a bit of raw dough with his finger. Why should Scott get to have all the danger, excitement, and chocolatey goodness? “Anyway, you don’t really have a choice.”

“About Salmonella?” Scott asks, eyes wide with confusion.

“No, dumbass, about the pack. I don’t get why you’re so against joining. I mean, yeah, Derek’s broody, and uncommunicative, and unnecessarily violent at times, and he has an evil uncle, and he’s not what you’d call trustworthy…OK, never mind, I totally get why you won’t join.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, licking his fingers miserably.

“But hey, he’s not all bad!” Stiles backtracks. “Remember that time he tried to help you control your transformations? Good times. And remember all those times he came and rescued us from horrible danger? Those were fun, right? And remember that one time he made a joke?”

“Which time?” Scott asks, intrigued.

“You know…that time,” Stiles finishes lamely. “Will you at least go talk to him? You don’t have to commit to anything now.” Scott looks so depressed that Stiles sighs and caves.

“If you go, I’ll let you eat the rest of the cookie dough.”

“…Fine.”

***

The minute Stiles and Scott pull up to the sketchy abandoned train depot that Derek calls home, Scott goes still.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

“Gee Scott, wanna vague that up a little bit?” Stiles snarks.

“Shut up,” Scott grinds out.

“Look, Derek’s Camaro is over there. I’m sure everything’s fi—GAH!” Derek is suddenly looming next to the driver’s side window all shadowy and tall, causing Stiles to flail with surprise and accidentally honk the horn on his Jeep. Derek’s eyes glint red. He yanks open the door and practically hauls Stiles out by the scruff of his neck.

“Why yes, thank you, I love being manhandled in the dark,” Stiles bites out. “I mean…OK, that sounded kinda weird. But I was being sarcastic, obviously. I don’t actually like—”

“Be quiet,” Derek hisses.

“Oh thank God,” Stiles agrees, and Derek shakes him a little bit extra just to drive home the message.

“The Alphas are here,” Scott says, suddenly next to them, eyes glowing and half-wolfed out.

“What are you two doing here?” Derek growls.

“We were coming to talk to you!” Stiles squeaks. “Haven’t seen you in a while, just wanted to say hey. With no ulterior motives. Whatsoever. But you know, clearly you’re busy, so we’ll just—”

“Get behind me,” Derek growls.

“—get behind you, yeah. Wait, why?” Stiles whirls, and realizes that the Alphas have suddenly popped up all around them.

Derek mumbles something that sounds like “Douchecanoe,” which is apparently the name of the Alpha in front. He’s slightly older than the others, with a heavy brow and a slight, ominous-looking smile. He also has an air of being in charge.

“Douchecanoe?” Stiles mouths to Scott, who widens his eyes and shrugs back.

“Derek,” Douchecanoe returns affably. “Having a scuffle with your pack? Anything we can help with?” Derek turns and glares at Scott and Stiles, clearly willing them to stay silent.

“…No.”

“Yeah, it’s all good here,” Stiles speaks up, because he apparently has no survival instincts. “Scott was just coming to hang with Derek. Catch up on pack business, like pack members do. You know Scott and Derek, best buds. BFFs. Just always around each other. All the time. Right Scott?”

“Yeah. All the time,” Scott echoes. Everyone is staring at them. The Alphas seem to be struggling to figure out who Stiles is, which, okay, fair enough. But Derek is looking at them like he just ate one of those chili peppers that’s supposed to give you burns. That’s gratitude for you, Stiles thinks. The strange werewolves clearly decide that Stiles is a mystery best left ignored (which, again, fair enough), and turn their attention back to Derek. They look amused, which isn’t the best sign in the world.

“Fine,” Douchecanoe says with a crooked grin. “We were hoping to talk to Scott alone, but if he’s with his pack,” he emphasizes the word lightly, like it’s a half-joke. “Then we wouldn’t want to interrupt the hanging. See ya later, Derek.”

Derek can barely contain himself until they’re gone before he rounds on Stiles and Scott.

“What,” he says. Stiles has to give him credit. For a guy who only speaks in monosyllables, he sure can infuse them with a lot of meaning. If not punctuation.

“You’re welcome!” Stiles says, because he has a death wish. “We totally just got you out of a really awkward social situation, because we’re awesome!”

“Why would you talk to them?” Derek says furiously, and he’s only looking at Stiles now.

“Um, because that’s what normal people do, when other people are conversing with them? I know the finer points of this concept may escape you, but--”

“They weren’t talking to you.” Derek’s face is drawn and dangerous, his lips thin. Stiles feels like he may have missed something.

“OK, well sorry, dude. Didn’t mean for the lowly human to get in the way of your own little supernatural West Side Story. Just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, next time, don’t.” Derek turns away and stalks toward his Camaro. Stiles and Scott have a brief, silent argument from behind him.

See, he’s the worst, Scott signals with eyebrows raised significantly. Stiles shakes his head and waves his hands.

I don’t care, get over there.

You go.

No way.

Stiles embarks on a graphic pantomime, with one hand as a claw and the other as fangs, of Derek mauling him.

“Fine!” Scott bursts out. “Hey, Derek, wait up!"

“What now, Scott,” Derek growls.

“Um, well, we actually came here for a reason. And that reason was…to talk to you! So can we, like, hang out in your serial killer hideout for a bit?”

“We abandoned it. We’re living somewhere else now,” Derek says, like the admission pains him.

“Oh!” Something dawns on Scott. “That’s what smelled weird! I thought it was the Alphas, but it was your lair. It smelled musty,” he added, wrinkling his nose. Scott may not be the brightest bulb, Stiles decides, but he’s kind of the most adorable. Bulb.

How could Derek resist that face? Apparently, he can’t, because he caves pretty quickly.

“I’ll show you where we’re staying now, if you follow my car,” he sighs, running a resigned hand through his hair.

***

Derek’s new lair may actually be upgraded in Stiles’ mind to words like “place,” and possibly even “apartment.”

“Wow, Derek,” Stiles says admiringly upon entering. “Pack life has domesticated you!” Boyd, sitting on a couch (an actual couch!), laughs and then tries to stifle it when he sees Derek’s face. When Derek had led them to the bad part of town, Stiles wasn’t totally sure what he was getting into, and began to consider the possibility that Derek actually lived in a crate on a dock. But instead, he’d stopped in front of a small, warehouse-y looking building that seemed to primarily house studio space for artists. He showed them into an awesome clangy service elevator, which had opened onto a wide common room with unfinished brick, lots of floor space, and large, bright windows.

“Cool,” Scott agrees feelingly. He flops down on the couch next to Boyd. Stiles sees Erica and Isaac also, playing what looks like a game of Monopoly on the floor.

Derek gets that same pained look on his face that he usually gets whenever he’s forced to interact with Stiles.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“You invited us!” Stiles reminds him brightly.

“Stiles,” Derek growls. His eyebrows turn down warningly. Derek has very expressive eyebrows. Stiles has often noticed this.

“OK, it’s like this,” Stiles says, because Scott looks too engrossed in watching Monopoly to participate. He carefully does not look at Boyd, Erica, or Isaac, but he can feel them listening intently. “We’re kinda freaked about this whole Alpha thing. And Scott feels really bad about how all the kanima stuff went down, right Scott?”

“Yeah. Sorry, dude,” Scott contributes, somewhat unconvincingly. Stiles frowns.

“Anyway, we’ve been thinking a lot about all the nice stuff you’ve done for us since Scott was turned, and how we’re always kind of mean to you, and how it’s possible you may not deserve it.” This isn’t the most flattering speech ever, but it does have the advantage of being true. “And so, um, the conclusion of all this soul-searching is, we’ve decided to join your pack. For real this time.”

“Wait, what?” Scott squawks, choosing the worst moment to finally pay attention. “Stiles, I thought you said we were just gonna talk about it.” Derek thankfully ignores Scott, because he’s suddenly very much in Stiles’ personal space, and giving him an intent look that makes Stiles squirm uncomfortably.

“Both of you?” Derek asks.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—it’s fine if you—I just meant Scott…” Stiles backtracks. He hadn’t really meant anything by it, but clearly Derek is not super into the idea of having a human in his pack, or maybe he just isn’t keen on Stiles. And Stiles knows it’s really important that this all works, so he’s willing to do a lot to keep Derek happy. But Scott, as usual, has to screw it up.

“Yeah. Both of us,” he says, standing up from the couch and challenging Derek to disagree. “Or none of us.” Stiles rolls his eyes at Scott’s inappropriately-timed grand-standing, but he’s also kind of ridiculously touched.

“Is that true?” Derek asks Stiles, and Stiles is again awkwardly aware of Derek’s body, taut and wary, a few inches from his.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Stiles says, and he can’t stop a stupid, soppy grin from spreading over his face. Scott is the best.

“You’ll do what I say,” Derek says. It’s not a question. Scott growls, and Stiles realizes that he needs to step in again before carnage happens.

“OK, well, see Derek, here’s the thing. Scott really wants to join your pack, because he respects you as a leader and stuff. But he’s also Scott. And you know Scott, he goes off and does stupid things sometimes, but it also kind of works for him, right? He’s got this whole idiot savant thing going on, and you never know when you need someone like that.”

“I am right here,” Scott says, and Stiles gives him his best wide-eyed, innocent look before continuing.

“And me, I have a super hard time doing things other people tell me to do. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just my nature. A tragic disability, really.” Throughout this entire speech, Derek is looking more and more like he’s sucking on a lemon. Stiles decides it’s time to get to the point. He sighs.

“Derek, there’s no way in hell we’re gonna do what you say all the time, OK? I’m not even gonna pretend, because I know you’ll catch the lie. But we can promise not to undermine your authority in front of the Alphas, because we get that it would be bad. And we promise to listen to you, and trust you.” Scott makes a small noise, which Stiles valiantly ignores.

“But you also gotta give us a little something to go on, dude. Like, if you have some reason you want us to do something, you can be all, ‘Hey Stiles and Scott, let me share my wisdom with you.’ And we’ll be all, ‘Yes, Obi-Wan. There is much you can teach us.’ What I’m saying is, I’m sure we can all be better about communicating in the future. Right, Scott?” Scott looks mutinous. “Does that seem fair? Because Derek, you know us, and I’m pretty sure that’s the only way any of this is gonna work.”

Stiles examines Derek’s face, which looks thunderous. He’s actually not entirely sure this is going to work any way, because he thinks Derek is a little bit of a control-freak. But he’s banking on Derek being willing to sacrifice a lot to come across as stronger to the Alphas. And if there’s a little pack-bonding instinct on his side too, that wouldn’t hurt.

Apparently, Stiles is right, because after a long pause in which Derek looks like he’s literally having an internal battle, he grits out, “Fine. There’s a pack meeting Monday at 4.”

“Awesome!” Stiles shoots his hands in the air in a well-justified little victory dance. “Do you guys have snacks at these meetings? I totally think there should be snacks.”

Derek looks like he’s getting a headache, but Stiles can see the way Erica’s face has lit up, and Isaac is scootching over to make some room for Stiles on the floor. Boyd gives Stiles a secret smile, and after making sure Derek is looking in the other direction, Stiles winks at him.

“I think that went well,” Stiles says in a low voice to Scott, aware that the whole room can hear him.

“Yeah, I guess. It still feels kind of weird though,” Scott answers furtively.

“I dunno, this isn’t even the weirdest conversation I’ve had this weekend,” Stiles informs the room at large, mostly for the comical looks of sheer panic on the Betas’ faces. He grins evilly at them. “You’re never going to believe who was in my bed last night…”

“And we don’t want to,” Derek suddenly interrupts sharply, looking particularly growly.

“Fine, fine, but it’s a great story, filled with my many impressive romantic exploits.”

Erica squawks indignantly.

“Stiles!” Derek barks. Stiles beams at him unrepentantly. Who knew Derek was such a prude? Maybe this whole pack thing could turn out to be fun after all.

***

Stiles rewards Scott for joining Derek’s pack by dragging him home for dinner. Scott is in the middle of kicking Stiles’ ass at Nacho Mountain – basically Jenga but with more refried beans – when his dad walks in the door and raises an eyebrow.

“Nacho Night?” the Sheriff asks, ruffling Scott’s hair as he passes the kitchen table. “Did something good happen?” Nacho Night is the Official Stilinski Dinner of Birthdays, Going a Week without a Parent-Teacher Conference, and Other Triumphs.

“We just beat Modern Warfare 2, and now we’re celebrating,” Stiles lies easily, grinning up at his dad as Scott slides a trickily curved chip out from the bottom of their shared plate. It snags on a jalapeno at the last minute, but with a sure flick of his wrist, Scott pulls it free and pops it into his mouth.

“Nice!” Stiles says approvingly, as Scott gives his chip a self-satisfied crunch.

“At least you boys are having a productive summer,” the Sheriff says dryly, grabbing a plate and starting to load it with food.

“There’s grilled chicken for you,” Stiles says without looking up from the plate, which he’s twisting around to regard from all angles, frowning in concentration. The Sheriff freezes guiltily, suspending a furtive spoonful of ground beef in the air.

“He’s like a food Jedi,” Scott tells the Sheriff solemnly, pushing the plate of chicken over. The Sheriff grumbles a little as he puts chicken on his nachos, and then douses his plate in guacamole in retaliation.

Stiles gives the plate a judgmental look, and the Sheriff says, “I’m an adult, Stiles.”

“It’s OK. I understand that you need to assert your autonomy by acting out in small ways,” Stiles responds blithely.

Scott laughs until he chokes on a shard of tortilla chip. The Sheriff closes his eyes wearily.

“You--” he points at Scott. “Chew your food. And you--” he points at Stiles. “No more Developmental Psychology textbooks. I’m telling Mrs. Finkel at the library to cut you off.”

“She loves Stiles, though,” Scott says. “She thinks he’s precocious, which I’m pretty sure means ‘more annoying than the rest of his age group.’” He and the Sheriff share commiserating eye rolls, while Stiles grins unrepentantly at them.

“She’d probably bake me the books into a cake, like a shiv to break you out of prison.” There’s a beat as Stiles considers the metaphor. “My ignorance prison,” he finishes, rolling the words around on his tongue with relish.

The Sheriff sighs. “I’m going to eat in the living room. I beg you, do not follow me.”

As he walks out of the kitchen, he hears something that sounds ominously like a landslide of tortilla chips clattering to the ground.

“Crap! I almost had it,” Stiles groans.

“That’s a three-chip penalty, dude,” Scott informs him.

It’s a little later that Stiles and Scott join the Sheriff in the other room, one of them holding a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream and the other holding a communal spoon. Scott is looking both extremely full and extremely self-satisfied. Stiles, on the other hand, throws himself grumpily on the couch, and proceeds to fight dirty as he and Scott struggle for dominion over the center cushion. Scott still wins.

Because he’s a cheater werewolf with cheating werewolf strength, Stiles thinks resentfully, making his limbs go especially sharp for the purposes of “accidentally” bumping into Scott. Scott kicks at him back, but eventually they settle down enough to watch three DVR’d episodes of So You Think You Can Dance, which Stiles will never stop teasing his dad about.

Stiles listens with a sort of contented peacefulness to Scott and his dad seriously discussing whether one of the contestants is too derivative of Britney Spears, and doesn’t even object when Scott starts sneaking his dad ice cream.

Later, Stiles drops Scott off at home, not bothering to wait for Scott to reach his front door before pulling away from the curb. It’s been kind of a busy day, what with being threatened by werewolves, and then being threatened by more werewolves, and making actual life decisions. With consequences and shit.

Stiles is halfway home and doing some serious yawning, when his phone rings and a picture of Scott dressed as the Tenth Doctor from last year’s Halloween pops up on his screen (Stiles had been Rose Tyler).

“Hey buddy, miss me already?” he says into his phone.

“Stiles,” is all Scott says, but it’s his extremely freaked-out voice, so Stiles is already making an illegal U-Turn as he asks, “Scott? What’s going on?”

Scott makes a little squeak of distress.

 “I think the Alphas were in my house?”

Chapter Text

“What?” Stiles shouts into his phone, pressing harder on the accelerator. “Are the Alphas at your house now?”

“No, the scent is a couple hours old,” Scott says. “Just…can you come over?”

“I’m already here,” Stiles assures him, squealing up to the front of Scott’s house and slamming his way through the door and up the stairs. He finds Scott in his bedroom, still holding his phone and staring at something small and furry that’s in a little brown heap on his bedspread. It’s completely motionless, but Stiles still approaches with caution.

And then stops.

“Is that…a dead squirrel?”

“Yeah,” Scott confirms, staring at it miserably. “And my mom just washed these sheets.”

“Dude, this whole Alpha thing is getting really weird,” Stiles tells him. “Like, is this supposed to be a threat or a gift?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, wrinkling his nose.

“There is a fine line between terrorizing and seduction,” Stiles says pensively, and then another thought strikes him.

“And you’re sure it was the Alphas? It wasn’t, like, Derek or anything, right?”

Scott stares at him. “Why would Derek put a dead squirrel in my bed?” he asks flatly.

Stiles flails a shrug. “Ambiguity between terror and seduction? Kinda sounds like Derek, right?” Scott gives him a weird look, and Stiles flushes. “Never mind. It could be a ‘Welcome to the Pack’ thing? Like a goody bag.”

“I’d rather have bubbles and those candy buttons they stick on paper,” Scott says grumpily. Stiles sticks his face closer to the squirrel to look for clues, but the only thing he notices is that it smells really gross.

“But speaking of Derek, I guess we should probably call him,” Scott says, shooting the squirrel little glances out of the corner of his eye, like maybe if he doesn’t look directly at it, it’ll disappear.

“Huh?” Stiles asks, preoccupied with poking the squirrel with the end of Scott’s lacrosse stick.

“Since we’re in his pack now, and stuff,” Scott clarifies. “Maybe he knows why the Alphas did it?”

***

“You were right to call,” Derek tells them gruffly through the speakerphone several minutes later, after enduring both frantic storytelling (Scott) and babbling about rabies (Stiles).

Stiles is so surprised to hear Derek admit that anyone else is right, that he actually shuts up and listens. “The Alphas are testing you. They want you to know that they’ve been in your space, to see what you do. They’re most likely somewhere near, watching your reaction. Calling me should be your first step, as a Beta in an ambiguous situation.”

“Well, actually I called Stiles—” Scott starts, and Derek sighs heavily. Stiles can practically see the glare he’s directing at his phone right now.

“We’ll work on it,” Stiles promises Derek. “But meanwhile…what should we do about Thumper?”

“Thumper was a rabbit, dude,” Scott tells him, which…totally not the point.

“Bag it and throw it in a dumpster. Don’t act like it’s a big deal,” Derek tells them.

“Um…the Alphas are threatening Scott with adorable woodland creatures, so…it’s kinda a big deal,” Stiles says nervously.

“That’s why I said don’t act like it. Is your mom there?”

“No, she’s working all night,” Scott says, sounding relieved. Mrs. McCall may be totally chill, and may have taken the whole werewolf reveal mostly in stride, but Stiles knows that Scott would still prefer to keep her away from most of it. Stiles thumps Scott on the back, and Scott looks at him gratefully.

“Good,” Derek continues. “I’ll sleep at your house tonight. In case they actually intend to follow up on the threat, and to let them know that you’re under my protection. You should sleep somewhere else.”

“But—” Stiles begins.

“I’ll stay with Stiles,” Scott says confidently, but he still looks pale enough that Stiles swallows his myriad questions and objections, and just says, “Duh, of course you will.”

***

Nothing else seems to happen that night. Derek texts the all-clear for Scott to go home, and says vaguely that they’ll talk about it more at the pack meeting. So the next day, Stiles drags Scott out to practice lacrosse on the high school field, to take both of their minds off all the creepy werewolf stuff happening lately.

Scott had gone home to change and grab his lacrosse stuff, so Stiles drives over to the high school alone. The sun is sweltering when he heaves his bag out of his Jeep, and Stiles kind of wishes that he and Scott had decided to play Xbox instead. Scott is already there, throwing balls into the goal and then cheerfully running over to get them. It really doesn’t take much, with Scott.

“Playing fetch, huh?” Stiles asks as he dumps his stuff on the bleachers next to Scott’s.

“Really, dude? Dog jokes?”

Stiles shrugs. Yeah, it’s a little beneath him, but this had been a stressful couple of days.

Once Stiles starts drilling, he mostly forgets about Derek, the Alphas, and the general weirdness surrounding the whole freaking town right now. That’s the nice thing about lacrosse, he’d always thought. It was easy to lose yourself in its rhythm. He and Scott play in relative silence (well, relative for them) until Stiles is almost wrung out with exhaustion.

“OK, break time. I definitely need some water,” Stiles gasps, heading toward the bench. Scott trots after him. They sit on the bench for a while, passing a water bottle back and forth, until they’re interrupted by the sight of two familiar figures crossing the field. Scott’s head shoots up, and they both just stare, until Jackson and Lydia sit down on either side of them, Jackson next to Scott and Lydia next to Stiles. Well this couldn’t be good. They hadn’t seen either Jackson or Lydia since all the kanima drama a few weeks ago (Kanidrama? Dranima? Stiles’ brain helpfully supplies).

“Hey,” Jackson says simply. “So I’m a werewolf now.” Understatement of the century.

“Yeah, we kinda noticed, thanks,” Stiles retorts. Jackson ignores him, his attention fixed on Scott.

“Full moon’s coming up, and, um, I was wondering…”

“Wait,” Stiles interrupts, unable to contain himself. “You’re asking us for help? You hate us, you got my dad fired, and oh yeah – tried to kill us. Which, as your dad could tell you, is actually cause for a restraining order,” Stiles adds with some relish.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Jackson snits at him.

“Yeah, but he’s kinda right,” Scott says. “Why should we help you?”

“I figured you probably want to avoid me killing someone on the full moon. Seeing as you’re usually pretty self-righteous about stuff like that.”

“Wait,” Scott looks confused. “Hasn’t Derek been training you? He’s your Alpha. And see, there are these other Alphas—”

Jackson interrupts him to say, “Derek’s a dick. He stabbed me. With his hands.” Jackson looks primarily traumatized about the hands part.

“Yeah, Derek’s the worst,” Scott agrees happily. And because Scott is way too easy to seduce, he pulls Jackson to his feet and trots to the center of the field, chattering about things like “scent marking” and “when you like a girl…I mean really like her” that make Stiles want to gouge out his own ears. And that’s when Lydia catches his eye.

“So,” she says with an ominous flick of her hair. “We need to talk.” Shit. Shitshitshit.

“Hey, Lydia, yeah, glad to see you. Really happy you weren’t killed by your scary lizard boyfriend, that one time. Not that I know anything about scary lizards. Or the supernatural, you know, in general. But fun times, huh?” Thankfully, Lydia’s icy glare stops his babbling before he can say something even more embarrassing.

“I’m not stupid, Stiles. And Jackson told me about werewolves and kanimas and things. Which I had already kind of figured out, because yeah. Not actually stupid.”

Not stupid, but seriously scary, Stiles thinks but definitely does not say out loud.

“Lydia—” he begins, wondering what he could possibly say next to get himself out of this encounter intact.

“I know it’s dangerous,” she interrupts. “Trust me, you have no idea how well I know.” A shiver passes over her face then, and Stiles suddenly realizes that she’s terrified of something. Has been for a while now, and why has it taken him this long to realize it?

“Jackson?” he asks, ready to run over and punch him, werewolf or no.

“Please,” she scoffs as if the very thought of Jackson being a match for her is insulting. She fixes him with a look. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I want the truth. All of it. I think it’s pretty clear by now that ignorance is no protection. Also, it kind of sucks when all your friends are lying to your face, and don’t even give you the courtesy of lying well.”

Stiles sighs. She’s kind of right. As much as he wants to keep her out of all the Beacon Hills shenanigans that have consumed the last semester of his life, she seems to be in the center of them regardless. So he talks.

Stiles is keeping an eye on Lydia’s face the whole time, watching her eyes get bigger and bigger. When he finally finishes, he wonders what she’ll say.

“Well,” she finally says breathlessly. “That explains a lot.” And then she slaps him. Hard.

“Ow!” Stiles yelps. Again, in only the manliest of fashions. “What the hell was that for? And explains what?”

“You all are actually the biggest group of idiots that I have ever met. I mean, I know Scott is dumb like sand—”

“Hey,” Stiles interjects weakly, and also, Scott can probably hear them. She ignores him and barrels on.

“—but I didn’t expect this from Allison. Or from you. I’m seriously reevaluating my impressions of your intelligence.”

“…You had impressions of my intelligence?” Stiles asks, somewhat incredulously. “That may actually be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

“So not in the mood, Stilinksi. Did it never occur to you, in your heroic rush to protect me from the truth, that I was attacked by a werewolf, had blackouts and hallucinations, and had no idea what was happening to me? That I thought I was crazy? That other people thought I was crazy? Jackson screams at me with no explanation, and suddenly I could have killed everyone on my birthday, and it would all have been avoided if you’d had the courtesy to spend five minutes talking to me instead of rushing off on your little adventures?”

Stiles gapes at her. “OK, what? Back up. Start again about the killing everyone?” And so Lydia does.

“Wow,” Stiles says when she’s done. “That does explain a lot. Also, you’re right, we’re basically the worst friends ever. Like, actually, the worst. I’m so sorry, Lydia.”

Stiles feels a little sick, and a little anxious, and a lot guilty. He’d always prided himself on knowing Lydia better than most people, because they were shallow while his love was true and eternal, obviously.

In 6^th grade, Lydia had won the science fair, and she acted happy, and tossed her head nonchalantly when people congratulated her, but Stiles had known something wasn’t right. That’s when Lydia stopped raising her hand in class and started failing tests. So Stiles didn’t rest until he figured out what was happening, because back then he may have been a little creepy, but he knew there was something that was hurting her and he couldn’t let it go. That’s what you did for the people you loved, he’d thought. Scott had started throwing things at him whenever he said the name Lydia Martin, but he’d figured it out, eventually, by being stubborn and relentless and plain damn annoying.

On the basis of her winning project, she’d been invited to compete in a national science fair in Washington, D.C. Her parents had said no. They had already booked a trip to Aspen for that week, and it’s not like a science fair was something to be proud of. Any kid with no social skills and no real hobbies could win those things, and they thought Lydia was better than that.

Apparently, she was.

Stiles hadn’t been able to let anything go then, when it hadn’t mattered at all. And now that it does…

Lydia’s looking at him now with a slightly worried expression on her face, because he must look like his puppy had just been euthanized. She also looks kind of annoyed that she’s the one being worried in this situation, as the injured party.

Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it. Not on the lacrosse field. Not anywhere. He doesn’t even want to think about it. But his mouth opens and he can’t stop it.

“You almost died. Peter almost killed you, and I was so scared. Every time I looked at you, it would just hurt. I wanted to not care anymore, because caring doesn’t stop people from dying, it just makes everything feel worse. So I pretended everything was OK when it wasn’t, and so it was me that got you hurt. It was my fault.”

Lydia’s face has gone soft, which is a new and slightly unsettling look for her. “Don’t be such a dumbass martyr,” she says, but her heart isn’t in it. “It’s Peter’s fault. Because he’s evil. Remember?”

Stiles laughs a little shakily. It’s kinda true, although he knows that whatever Lydia says, he’s still going to feel responsible for her. He stopped paying attention to her and bad things happened, and he’s not going to do that again. He knows how close she came, and sometimes he just wants to reach out and touch her to make sure she’s still actually there, and not doing some weird Patrick-Swayze-in-Ghost thing, because while it’s very flattering to be the Whoopi Goldberg of that hypothetical scenario, Stiles would just…rather not.

“And anyway,” Lydia interrupts his thoughts, smiling somewhat evilly. “I’m pretty sure we can be even, since it sounds like you’re the ones who are gonna have to deal with the undead murdering psycho I accidentally unleashed on Beacon Hills. So have fun with that.” Stiles grins and flips her off.

“Maybe he’ll stay away?” Stiles says hopefully. “Because he’s having too much fun terrorizing the citizens of Rio, or, like, Mongolia or something?”

Lydia gives Stiles a skeptical look, but before she can answer, Scott and Jackson trot back, both looking flushed and happy. Jackson happy? What is happening to the world? Stiles thinks.

“Hey Stiles, I said we’d help Jackson on his first full moon. We will, right?” As much as hanging out with a werewolf Jackson is not his idea of a good time, Scott looks so pleased with himself, like he just organized a play-date or something, that Stiles just sighs.

“Fine. But you have to go buy the chains this time, since you’re the one who broke the last ones. Every time I go into Home Depot now, the cashier leers at me.”

“Well,” says Lydia, standing up primly and brushing off her skirt. “I think our work here is done. Jackson?”

As Jackson and Lydia turn back to the parking lot, Stiles thinks of something. It’s a little silly, but as long as they’re making bad-friend amends, and before he can think better of it, he calls out, “Hey, Jackson. Sorry for, you know, hitting you with a Jeep.” Jackson turns back around stares at him blankly for a second, until Lydia not-so-subtly kicks his ankle.

“Oh. Um, no problem, Stilinksi. And, you know, sorry for almost killing you with my drippy venom claws.”

“Don’t mention it. See you on the full moon.”

“Yeah, see you. Later, McCall.”

“Also,” Lydia adds, turning her head as she slips her arm in Jackson’s and begins to walk away. “Lie to me again, Stiles, and I will bludgeon you to death with your own fibula.”

Stiles and Scott stare at each other a little helplessly before collecting their lacrosse equipment and heading home.

***

The elevator door to Derek’s apartment clangs open an hour and a half later to show a freshly showered Stiles, Scott, and an enormous box of doughnuts. Because Derek had been distressingly vague about the snack situation.

“Stiles! Scott!” The Betas rush towards them – or more accurately, toward the doughnuts – with squeals of delight.

“We love you, Stiles,” Erica says fervently with half a chocolate cake doughnut already in her mouth.

“Best new pack members ever,” Isaac agrees, and he’s somehow managed to get vanilla icing on his nose before Stiles has even left the elevator. Stiles beams at them. When he puts the box on the counter, Derek sidles up to it and harrumphs.

“There are no jelly ones?” he asks, and if this were anyone but Derek, it would have sounded plaintive.

“You would like jelly doughnuts,” Stiles says contemptuously, licking powdered sugar off his fingers.

“Seriously, dude, who are you?” Scott agrees. Meanwhile, the others are making happy, somewhat feral noises at their doughnuts that are starting to make Stiles concerned.

“Don’t you feed them?” he asks Derek.

“No,” Erica says, humming to her doughnut happily. “He’s the worst. He never feeds us ever. His fridge is totally empty except for gummy vitamins and Sriracha.”

“We usually order delivery, but then he just complains about calling attention to our secret hideout,” Boyd adds grumpily, after a quick glance to see if Derek’s paying attention. Derek is muttering into the doughnuts, but Stiles is pretty sure he’s secretly listening to everything they’re saying.

“Really, Derek? You really think the Dominos delivery guy is gonna turn out to be a vampire or something?” Stiles asks skeptically. Because witnessing Derek get totally badmouthed by the Betas is kind of hilarious.

“You never know,” Derek insists. “We can’t afford to be reckless.” Derek is looking affronted and somewhat betrayed, while the Betas continue to shovel food in their mouths in a way that’s definitely starting to make Stiles uncomfortable. When Scott tries to reach for a sprinkles doughnut and Erica slaps his hand away with a territorial growl, Stiles decides it’s time for action.

 “They’re like your little werewolf puppies, how can you not feed them?” Stiles asks. “You know what, this cannot stand. C’mon, we’re getting groceries.”

“What? No.” Derek says, his brows knitting in confusion and annoyance. Stiles is starting to grow attached to the particular way Derek grits his teeth whenever Stiles talks. It’s like they’re sharing a moment.

“Yep. Trust me, I don’t really want you to come either, but someone has to pay, right?” Since Derek continues to stand there scowling, Stiles raises his keys in the air and shakes them pointedly. Derek doesn’t move. So Stiles shakes them again. Derek’s scowl deepens. So Stiles shakes them one more time. Which, to his eternal surprise, actually works. Derek makes a rumbly noise, but he does actually stalk over to the elevator without further comment. Stiles gapes at him for a second.

“Did I just get Derek Hale to do something? Make a record of this day, guys,” Stiles says to the others, shooting his fist in the air.

“We don’t care,” says Boyd, although it comes out much more like “ee ohn air” through the food in his mouth.

“Bring back ice cream!” Isaac calls after them.

***

The ride to the store is awkward and silent, but Stiles is kinda used to that where Derek is concerned. He mostly spends the drive shooting Derek confused looks, and watching the way the sun glints off other cars and onto Derek’s face. Derek doesn’t seem to notice the light flashing in his eyes, because his face remains expressionless. Stiles is really, absurdly curious about why Derek agreed to go shopping with him, since it’s clearly the last thing he wants to be doing.

“Why—?” Stiles finally bursts out, after holding it in for practically the entire drive.

“To shut you up,” Derek interrupts.

“Oh,” Stiles says, and actually does shut up until he pulls into a parking space near the entrance to the store. It’s pretty quiet at this time of day, so they’re able to roll their cart through the aisles without having to maneuver around too many people. Stiles makes Derek push it.

Stiles keeps up a steady stream of chatter as he dumps things into the cart: “Pasta’s really easy, and I bet carbs are really good for werewolves. We can get some tomato sauce and mushrooms to put in it. Do you like mushrooms? Yeah, you’re right, meatballs would probably be better. Those are in the next aisle though. While we’re here, I’m gonna stock up on some serious canned goods for you guys…”

Derek doesn’t make any indication that he can hear any of Stiles’ monologue, except that his face becomes more pinched and thunderous as the cart gets fuller.

Finally, in the middle of holding up a choice of either Nacho Cheese or Cool Ranch Doritos for Derek’s inspection, Stiles stops.

“OK, what’s up Derek? Do you have something against delicious corn chips?”

Derek scowls at him, cheekbones becoming even more pronounced. Stiles, who can be quiet when he needs to, just waits him out, still holding up the two bags.

“Most of this stuff—” Derek finally grits out, when it’s become clear that the only way they’re going to move forward is through talking. “I didn’t really learn…my sister. Laura. She mostly cooked. For us.”

Well, they weren’t technically complete sentences, but A for effort. Derek is glaring at Stiles like he’s daring him to make fun. Stiles kind of wants to say, “What kind of jerk would make fun of your dead family?” but instead he says,

“Dude, it’s cool. I had to learn to cook after my mom died, because my dad is totally capable of burning water. I mean, it’s not like I’m awesome or anything, but I’ve totally got this. So what, Cool Ranch, you think?” And dumps the Doritos in the cart.

When Derek isn’t looking, Stiles shoots him these half-exasperated looks, because seriously, what kind of crazy person would rather not eat than admit to his pack that he can’t cook? It’s like, not that shameful that you can’t do this one thing, and what, he thought that if he microwaved the Betas too many Hungry Man dinners, they might suss it out? Derek fucking Hale, Ladies and Gentlemen.

But he says all of this in his head. To Derek’s back. When Derek is several aisles over. Because honestly, the whole thing just makes him feel kind of sad and like he wants to pat Derek on the head, and that’s not an emotion he’s used to feeling in reference to Derek. Stiles also feels a little light-headed, because there have been way too many awkward feelings-sharing sessions in the last few days, and did someone put something in the water or what? Also, while Derek is busy scowling at fresh produce like it might eat him, Stiles may or may not sneak into the bakery aisle and stuff four jelly doughnuts into a bag. Because apparently, he is a huge softie.

They make it to the checkout without any more uncomfortable personal revelations, and with a cart stuffed full of what Stiles fully admits is a decidedly teenager-y understanding of balanced food groups. And that’s when disaster strikes, because it turns out his dad is in line in front of them.

“Stiles,” says his dad. He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes look very purposefully toward Derek, at the cart, and then at Stiles.

“Um, hey, Dad. This is Derek,” Stiles says, his brain mentally scrambling for something, anything, to get him out of this encounter un-grounded.

“We’ve met,” Sheriff Stilinski says, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, duh, of course, after the whole—” accusing Derek of murder thing is what Stiles was about to say next, but he manages to stop himself with a little gurgle.

“Dad, you’re buying hamburger meat,” Stiles stalls desperately, falling back on a tried-and-true distraction technique. “You know you’re not supposed to eat red meat!”

“Well,” the Sheriff says slowly, in a way that Stiles knows means trouble. “I was going to grill hamburgers for my son tonight, but it seems that he has other dinner plans.” Again, his eyes flick to Derek, to the cart, and back to Stiles.

“Yeah, um, I’m helping Derek out. With groceries. They’re gonna be super heavy to carry to the car, and you know how much Scott eats, so…”

“Scott?” his dad asks, and Stiles’ face flares red. Shit.

“Yeah, Scott and Derek are kinda friends now. Not like, friend friends, not like good friends because that would be weird, but we’re, uh, helping him move? Yeah, and stock his kitchen and stuff. Cuz he just moved. And needed some help. With moving stuff. Heavy stuff.”

Stiles’ dad gives him a narrow look, like he can tell Stiles is lying. Which is pretty obvious, since Stiles’ lie was absolute shit, and nobody with half a brain would believe it for a second. But Stiles is saved, miraculously, because at that moment the cashier finishes ringing up his dad’s groceries, and is standing there in annoyed expectancy for his dad to pay and move.

So all Sheriff Stilinski can do is sigh and say, “Be back by 10.”

“Awesome. Totally. Will do. And don’t eat all the burgers without me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” his dad says with a small, fond smile as he takes his receipt. Stiles watches carefully for his dad to leave the store before he rounds on Derek.

“That was the least helpful help you’ve ever given!” he bursts out. “Dude, you just stood there. You could’ve said something!”

“Like what, ‘Hey, Sheriff, don’t be alarmed, I don’t have any ill-intentions toward your son, because he and his best friend just joined my werewolf gang?” Derek asks. Stiles stares at him.

“Was that a joke? I didn’t know you made jokes,” Stiles accuses. Derek just looks at him impassively. He feels like he’s learning so much about Derek on this trip, that he may need a day - or maybe like a month or two - to process all of this new and confusing information.

Stiles is almost entirely speechless for the whole ride back.

***

The Betas actually pile onto him when they get back to Derek’s apartment, knocking him back against the elevator and making him drop what he hopes isn’t eggs.

“You’re the best,” says Boyd fervently, and Stiles can’t be sure, but he’s pretty sure Erica just licked him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs. “Obviously, I am the best. I seriously don’t know how you guys survived without me; how have you not gone feral by now?” Derek rumbles a little next to him, and the Betas reluctantly let him go.

“Go on, there’s still a ton of stuff in the Jeep. If you want dinner, you’re going to have to work for it,” Stiles says, shooing all of them – including Scott – back down the elevator. And then he’s struck with a horrible thought.

“Oh God,” he says suddenly. “That just sounded like a total mom thing. Am I the Pack Mom?” he squeaks. Derek is not comforting, because he just glances at Stiles, huffs laughter, and carries his groceries into the kitchen. Stiles follows him, still somewhat horrified.

The kitchen is off the big main room, through an unfinished-looking door set awkwardly in a jagged hole in the brick wall that Stiles really hopes is artistically placed, rather than something Derek had punched. The kitchen is actually fairly modern – the warehouse has clearly been only recently renovated for actual inhabitants – with gleaming silver appliances, an island surrounded by chairs, and stainless steel countertops. It also, unsurprisingly, looks like nobody has been in it since Derek moved in.

Stiles plunks his bags down on the counter and brings some food over to the refrigerator, where he stops dead.

“Holy crap, there really are only vitamins and Sriracha! I thought they were kidding. Derek!” Stiles holds open the refrigerator door accusingly. In addition, there are also three white take-out containers sitting in a row on one of the refrigerator shelves. One reads, “Boyd,” the second, “Isaac,” and the last shows a very elaborate and anatomically correct diagram of what will happen if anyone eats it. Erica’s, then.

“Dietary supplements are healthy,” Derek says, shrugging.

“Dude, they’re Flintstones gummies. What the hell?”

Derek turns away to shove things in the cupboard. His back looks all affronted and spiky, though. Just then the others clomp back in, arms full of more groceries than Stiles could ever hope to carry. Maybe being part of a pack would be good for something. They all start putting things away, knocking into each other and generally being totally annoying.

“So is there, like, actual Pack business to discuss at these meetings?” Scott finally asks, as Stiles bangs around the kitchen looking for pots and saucepans. Derek has those, at least.

“Yeah, like can we please discuss the fact that the Alphas are, like, reenacting the Godfather horse scene in miniature in Scott’s bedroom?” Stiles adds, accidentally sending a stack of pot lids clanging across the floor. Derek scowls and runs a hand over his face.

“They haven’t made a move since then,” he says, and he sounds frustrated. “I think it was just, since they saw us together at the railway depot, they’re assessing the situation. Giving us tests,” Derek spits out, and then sighs. “We can keep tracking them, and try to find out where they’re hiding, but aside from that...” He shrugs.

“But my mom—” Scott starts, wide-eyed. “At least can you do patrols around the house or something?”

“Derek already—” Isaac pipes up, and then cuts himself off with a little choking noise as Derek’s head whips around. Stiles swears he sees a hint of red in Derek’s eyes, metaphorically and literally.

“That’s all,” Derek says flatly, ignoring their looks of collective confusion. “The next thing we need to talk about is Jackson.”

“Well, as long as you aren’t planning on killing him like before, I think you’re right,” Stiles says, humming a bit to himself as he fills a pot with water for pasta.

“Right? About what?” Scott asks. Stiles can’t tell if Scott is wary about Derek’s intentions toward Jackson, or if he’s affronted that Stiles thinks anyone else can be right besides him.

“I assume Derek is talking about the fact that the full moon is coming up, and since apparently someone hasn’t been training him, we have to figure out how to keep him under control. And also, possibly, convince him to join the pack. Because of the whole Alpha thing? Yes?” he asks Derek, popping his head up from where he’s fiddling with the gas stove. Derek kinda just blinks at him like he’s not sure what just happened.

“Yes,” he says finally.

“Have the Alphas contacted him yet?” Boyd asks with interest. Derek shakes his head.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Jackson is so new, they may not know about him, yet. And he hasn’t done anything to directly challenge our pack, so they may believe he’s already in it.” Derek shoots Scott a little look when he says that, and Scott bristles.

“You don’t have to worry about the next full moon, dude. Scott and I are totally on it,” Stiles says loudly, before Scott can use any fighting words. “We’re gonna babysit.”

“OK, but as much as I feel right now that Stiles is an absolute God among men, he’s still human,” Erica butts in. “Wouldn’t you rather have some non-edible help controlling Jackson?”

Stiles nods vigorously. “Actually I like that plan. Let’s all go with Erica’s plan. The not-eating-me plan.”

“Nobody’s going to eat you,” Derek grumbles.

“Yeah, but I actually think Jackson may not be thrilled to see any of us, especially when he’s all wolfed out and ragier than usual. He does hate us,” Boyd says slowly. Stiles realizes unhappily that Boyd may have a point.

“Not to mention, I’d like to keep an eye on you three for at least another full moon,” Derek says. The Betas look indignant.

“Derek, we’d be totally fine!” Erica says.

“I’ve been practicing control so much,” Isaac agrees.

“You have to let us off the leash at some point,” Boyd points out. Derek looks annoyed and helpless, like it really frustrates him to have his authority so easily questioned. Stiles realizes that Derek kinda sucks at this part. The whole, ‘getting people to do what he says’ thing. And so, of course, Derek handles it in totally the wrong way.

“You’re ready when I say so,” he growls, his face becoming wolfish and his eyes glinting a dangerous red. But the Betas’ faces also transform, and they growl back.

“You’ll never say so,” Erica whines, voice a little muffled by her fangs.

“Then you’ll never be ready,” Derek retorts, in a sarcastic imitation of Erica’s voice. “I’m your Alpha—”

“That doesn’t mean you’re always right,” Boyd points out, a little snarl coloring the edges of his words.

“Yes. To you, it does,” Derek growls back, and the Betas look exactly like you’d expect three thwarted teenagers to look. Derek seriously needs to read a parenting book or something, Stiles thinks, rolling his eyes at the stand-off.

“Well this is awkward,” Stiles whispers to Scott. But since Scott is Scott, his solution is to also go wolf-y, and growl at Derek too.

“O-kay.” Stiles claps his hands, and five snarling faces round on him. His hands falter, and he swallows, because that shit is terrifying.          

“Um, so I think Boyd’s right. You guys, if you’re with Jackson, it’ll just make it worse. I know he isn’t best friends with me and Scott, but he’s kind of used to us. He came to us for help, and, like, marginally trusts us. Which I’m pretty sure is not how he feels about any of you.” Stiles gives Derek a pointed look, but Derek is staring furiously off into the middle distance, and doesn’t notice. “Anyway,” Stiles continues. “That means you may as well stay with Derek. I’m sure if you’re really good about control this month, Derek’ll feel much more confident letting you out next month,” Stiles finishes with a placating smile. The Betas tilt their heads towards Derek in a way that still looks uncomfortably like a challenge, but Derek glares at all of them.  And then stalks out of the room without a word.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” Stiles asks, shrugging. Derek is weird.

The mood lightens once Derek is gone, and Stiles chatters happily with the others as he browns meatballs and heats up tomato sauce. It’s only when dinner is ready that Stiles realizes Derek still isn’t back.

“Do you think we should—?” he nods at the direction Derek has gone. Everyone else has a finger on their nose before Stiles has even finished speaking.

“Dammit!” he says feelingly. “I will never win one of those again.” Still muttering about unfair werewolf speed, he goes in search of Derek. Who is, to nobody’s surprise, brooding in the dark.

“Hey, you want food?” Stiles asks. Derek glares at him. “OK, what?”

“You undermined me in front of the rest of the pack,” Derek grits out, a vein jumping in his neck. “Dammit Stiles, you’ve been here for less than 24 hours, and you’re already screwing things up—”          

“Seriously, dude?” And now Stiles is kinda pissed. He thought he and Derek’d had a little moment in the grocery store, or at least some sort of mutual laying-down-of-arms, but he apparently forgot just how big of a dick Derek could be. “You were undermining your own damn authority! They were just gonna be all moody and pissed at you for the whole full moon. How fun would that be to deal with? At least now they feel like you’re being fair with them.”

“I don’t have to be fair,” Derek says contemptuously. “I’m their Alpha."

“Wow, have you, like, never even heard of Machiavelli? Come on, this is Leadership 101. Being arbitrary and douchey doesn’t really inspire respect in followers!”

“I was handling it,” Derek growls, frowning and turning away slightly from Stiles.

“Yeah, by being a douche,” Stiles counters, stepping up close to force Derek to keep looking at him. He’s just angry enough that it’s not scary. “I get the whole traumatic past, emotional constipation thing, but you can’t just jerk people around and not tell them anything and expect them to trust you with their lives!” And OK, maybe this isn’t totally about the Betas anymore, but Stiles also knows he’s right.

“You don’t know anything about it,” Derek says furiously. And yeah. Stiles is standing extremely close to Derek now, so they’re almost touching. Stiles can practically feel the furious tension in Derek’s whole body, can even smell him, like pine trees and fresh air. Is that weird, to smell people? Is this a new being-part-of-a-werewolf-pack thing, because it’s not like he usually goes around noticing people’s smells. But everything around him suddenly feels sharper, like his senses are hyper-aware. Derek is staring at him, his eyes sending, like, laser beams of intenseness into Stiles’. Stiles’ mouth goes dry. This often happens when Derek is glaring at him, but that’s usually because Derek is scary and has him pinned to a wall. This is the first time Stiles notices the way a million different colors are swirled together in Derek’s eyes. Stiles’ breath hitches, and Derek’s eyes dart down to his mouth.

That’s when Stiles realizes abruptly that he’s been staring at Derek’s face for an uncomfortably long time. He probably also forgot to respond to whatever it was Derek just said. Stiles shifts, and self-consciously takes a step back. Derek makes a small, frustrated noise in his throat.

“What gives you the right?” he growls, half turning away again.

“Like it or not – and I guess it’s pretty clear by now that you don’t – I’m in the pack too. If everything goes all dysfunctional and kaplooey, the Alphas come for you and there’s mass slaughter with my best friend in the middle. Can you blame me for wanting to avoid that?” Derek doesn’t answer, just turns more fully away like he doesn’t even want to look at Stiles anymore. Which is totally fine with Stiles. It’s not like he wanted to have this conversation in the first place. He was just trying to be nice and get Derek some dinner. See if Derek gets any pasta now, Stiles thinks resentfully as he whirls around and stomps back into the kitchen.

“Derek’s not hungry,” he says shortly to the others. They’re all sitting around the kitchen peninsula, looking so casual and innocent that he knows they heard every word. He’s ridiculously grateful that they don’t bring it up, except Scott who whispers through a mouthful of spaghetti:

“You were totally right, Stiles. And also badass. Like you were his Sassy Gay Friend. Except less gay,” Scott adds as an afterthought. I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Stiles surprises himself by thinking. I’m pretty sure I just had a super-inappropriate reaction to Derek’s eyes.

“Sometimes we watch movies,” Isaac says suddenly, breaking the awkward silence. “Like, as a pack. We watch movies, and we could watch one now if you wanted?” Stiles’ Grinchy little heart just about explodes at the adorable looks Isaac, Erica, and Boyd are giving him. They are so unsubtle, it’s precious.

“Stiles and I love movies!” Scott agrees happily. “Can we watch something with spies?”

***

Twenty minutes later, he’s squished onto the couch, being snuggled on either side by Isaac and Erica (“Wolves are very tactile creatures,” Isaac had informed him solemnly before vaulting onto the couch next to him), passing around the Chunky Monkey ice cream that he’d brought out as a reward for the emotional upheaval everyone had endured today. They’re watching a movie on the Netflix account that Stiles is pretty sure the Betas bullied Derek into setting up for them.

That’s when Derek finally emerges. Stiles goes still when he sees him, but Derek is carefully not looking in the direction of the couch. He stalks over to the kitchen, and Stiles can see him through the doorway, putting away the remaining groceries in the most passive-aggressive way possible. It’s a masterful performance of package crinkling and cabinet slamming, and Stiles is almost grudgingly impressed.

But then Derek goes suddenly quiet, and Stiles can’t see why until Derek pulls out a white bag that’s leaking strawberry jam. Derek opens his mouth. And closes it. His eyes find Stiles on the sofa, who has to quickly pretend that he wasn’t just staring. When Stiles sneaks another glance at Derek, he’s still holding the bag and looking baffled. It’s like he has no idea what to do with it. Or like he thinks if he stands there and stares at it long enough, it might burst into flames.

“What are these?” he finally asks, over the sound of the movie.

“What do they look like?” Stiles grumbles, not even bothering to raise his voice, since he knows Derek can hear him anyway.

“I don’t understand,” Derek says, and Stiles snaps:

“Christ, Derek, they’re pastries, not a love letter. Eat them or don’t, they were like 5 bucks.” Derek stares at him some more. Stiles can feel the rest of the Pack looking between them, and his face begins to heat up. Pensively, Derek reaches into the bag and pulls out a slightly oozy doughnut. Looking at it like it might still attack, he squelches his teeth into it. Jam goes everywhere, dribbling down his chin, and it’s kind of simultaneously the most disgusting and obscene thing Stiles has ever seen. He can’t help but stare as Derek licks up the jam from around his mouth, his tongue slow and languid like he’s still thinking about something else. He’s still got a bit of jam left on his chin, and Stiles suddenly has this weird, inexplicable urge to lick it off himself. Definitely starting to pick up awkward werewolf instincts, he thinks.

Derek seems to realize the bit of jam he missed, because he rubs his thumb across his chin, smearing red across his jawbone. Stiles suddenly feels like the air has been punched out of him, and oh.

Oh crap. I am ridiculously attracted to my Alpha who maybe, probably, hates me. This can only end badly.

And, because Stiles is a master of suppressing awkward truths, he pays rapt attention to the rest of the movie.

***

After the movie ends, he and Scott are gathering their stuff to leave when Derek sidles up to him. Stiles actually wishes he wouldn’t, because not only is he still kind of mad at Derek, but now he has this whole uncomfortable thing where whenever he looks at Derek, he remembers the way Derek’s eyes look darker when Stiles gets close to him, and the feeling of Derek’s chest breathing almost against his, and how if he’d just moved just a little bit, his whole body would be pressed against Derek’s, their faces close enough to kiss…

It’s all very unnerving. And it’s much harder to deal with the closer Derek gets. So Stiles shies away a little as Derek approaches, and Derek falters, looking uncertain. And then Stiles just feels like a jerk.

“Thanks for the doughnuts,” Derek mumbles. Stiles is pretty sure that in Derek-speak, this is supposed to be an apology.

“Not a big deal,” Stiles says, feeling supremely awkward. He shrugs his bag onto his shoulder and gives everyone a wave before heading toward the door.

“Bye Stiles!” the other Betas yell, Erica and Isaac waving at him furiously. Derek nods his head in, like, an acknowledgement of his departure, maybe? Whatever, that was still one of the nicer gestures Derek has ever made toward him. This is definite progress.

Chapter Text

The next day is the full moon, so about an hour before sunset, Stiles pulls up to Scott’s house in his Jeep, ready to head over to Jackson’s. He’s still not entirely happy about this, and he’s even less happy when Scott comes down the stairs carrying several large boxes.

 “What’re those?” Stiles asks.

“Supplies,” Scott tells him. “You said you didn’t wanna do it, so I went and got some stuff.” Stiles peeks curiously in the boxes.

“Dude. You got a muzzle? Where does someone even get a muzzle?”

Scott goes strangely pink and quickly changes the subject as he finishes emptying the boxes into the trunk.

Scott is acting pretty shifty throughout the drive, and Stiles is getting more and more nervous about hanging out at Jackson’s house all night and having it not be weird, and oh right, he’s also a furry killing machine! This night is going to be awesome.

 Stiles is somewhat relieved that when they arrive at his house, Jackson is waiting at the foot of his driveway so they don’t actually have to ring the doorbell and do an awkward ‘Restraining order? What restraining order?’ dance with his parents.

While carrying fuzzy leopard-print handcuffs.

“You should go around the back,” Jackson says, skipping right past any sort of polite “hello.” “There’s a door that opens straight onto my wing.”

“Your wing?” Scott asks. Jackson just rolls his eyes.

“Are you gonna come in or what?”

They meet Jackson at the back door, their arms full of chains, leather, and lots of things Stiles is trying really hard not to look too closely at. When Jackson sees them, his eyebrows shoot up.

“Look, whatever you’re into—”

“Shut. Up.” Scott growls. “There’s more in the trunk, can you just go get it?”

“Depends. Are these from your private collection?” Jackson smirks.

“Trust me, if they were, no amount of sterilization would compel me to touch them,” Stiles assures him. There’s a beat.

“They’re not, right?” Stiles asks Scott anxiously, and almost drops his armful.

“No! Fine. I Googled where to buy chains and handcuffs, and I may have possibly ended up at…um…asexshop.” He mumbles the last few words, blushing, before he continues quickly: “But then they had everything we needed, and it was actually pretty cheap, and the salespeople were really friendly…”

“Yeah, I bet,” Jackson mutters, rifling through the Jeep’s trunk, and Stiles can’t help it, he cracks up.

“Guys!” Scott yelps, looking wounded. “It was an honest mistake. Anyway, these are super high quality. They have to withstand crazy werewolf strength, remember?” Scott looks earnest and slightly defensive. Jackson, still grabbing things from the trunk, suddenly goes still and Stiles can tell he’s biting his cheek to keep from laughing. He wordlessly holds up a black, spike-studded collar and accompanying leash. Stiles loses it again at the mock innocent look that Jackson gives Scott, shaking the collar just enough for it to clank.

“Am I the only one taking this full moon seriously?” Scott huffs. “Can we please get this stuff upstairs before Jackson turns into a homicidal maniac?”

“OK, Derek. Way to bring the fun,” Stiles grumbles.

“Does that mean we can't go for werewolf walk time?” Jackson asks with a straight face, and shoves past them to lead the way toward his bedroom.

Stiles gapes after him. Did they just have an entire conversation with Jackson in which he was only mildly a dick? And actually kind of funny? Is there some dark supernatural force at work here? If Derek starts singing show tunes about his feelings, Stiles is going to run screaming for Dr. Deaton.

When they walk through Jackson’s door, the first thing Stiles sees is Lydia sitting in a chair playing on her phone. Her eyes travel slowly from Jackson’s collar/leash combo, to Stiles’ handcuffs, to Scott’s chains.

“Hot,” she finally says, and turns back to her phone.

“I hate you all,” Scott grumps, dumping his stuff on the bed.

“Jackson,” Stiles begins, staring at Lydia. “Do you really think—?”

“Don’t start with me,” Lydia says, eyes not leaving her phone. “Scott told Jackson it can help to have someone you lo—” Her mouth wobbles a bit and her eyes flicker unconsciously to Jackson. “—care about. Right, Scott?” Stiles’ heart cracks a little bit, and he kinda wants to give her anything she wants.

“Um,” Scott says intelligently, looking from Stiles to Lydia. “Maybe?”

“Agh, fine! But Jackson has to wear the leash,” Stiles says. Jackson growls at him in a way that is slightly too animal-like for comfort.

“I’m OK with that,” Lydia says, grinning evilly. And she gives Jackson a flat stare that he tries valiantly to return for a good 10 seconds.

“Whatever,” he bitches finally, and stalks the rest of the way into the room.

They spend forever painstakingly binding Jackson’s arms and legs with chains. There isn’t a radiator or anything sturdy in Jackson’s bedroom, but luckily he has a private bathroom with a connecting door, so Lydia handcuffs him to his sink, her face pale and her lips pressed tightly together. Jackson is now starting to look nervous, like he might puke, and he doesn’t even protest or crack a joke when Scott solemnly puts the collar around Jackson’s neck and loops the leash loosely around his own arm.

It extends far enough for Scott to move around the room freely, and since Jackson’s bed has a pretty good view of both the window and the bathroom, that’s where they end up, huddled together in a row and darting strained glances at the progress of the moon.

As it rises, Jackson starts to change. Lydia’s eyes are so wide, Stiles wonders if she’s even seen him in wolf form since the first night he actually turned. Stiles is used to werewolves by now, but even he can’t quite look away. He starts to wonder if Scott’s stupid sex dungeon products are really going to hold, and then he can’t stop thinking about Lydia sitting next to him, totally helpless against Jackson if he gets loose.

It only takes a few seconds for Jackson to make the full transformation, his glowing blue eyes reflecting off the bathroom tile in weird patterns. Jackson whines a bit in the back of his throat, and Stiles can feel Lydia tense up against his left side. He puts his hand around her arm, whether to reassure her or to have a better vantage to yank her out of danger, he’s not totally sure.

Jackson stares at them for a good five seconds. And then he yawns, shifts around a bit, and falls asleep.

Lydia blinks.

“Is that it? Is that all he’s gonna do all night?” she asks. Scott looks bemused.

“Um, I dunno. Usually we get a little more bloodthirsty than that?”

“Could be a trick,” Stiles points out. “To, like, make us drop our guard?”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “We need to stay vigilant.”

***

Three hours later, Jackson still hasn’t moved, and Lydia and Scott are on their 11^th game of Words with Friends. Stiles is also pretty sure he’s fallen asleep at least once. He’s curled up in a little ball on Jackson’s bed, hugging one of Jackson’s pillows. And the sound of Lydia and Scott grumbling at each other is weirdly soothing.

“Really, Scott? You’re playing ‘COT’ again?”

“I don’t have any good letters!”

“Let me see.” Lydia holds her hand out peremptorily, and Scott eyes her suspiciously until she gets impatient and grabs his phone from him. She narrows her eyes at his letters, presses a few keys, and hands the phone back.

“There. Now you’re only losing by a hundred and seven points.”

“Bet that’s not even a real word,” Scott grumbles mutinously.

“Quixotic?” Lydia retorts. “It means ‘naïve and unrealistically optimistic.’ Like you, thinking you could ever beat me.” It’s around then that Stiles falls asleep again, lulled by their voices bickering over whether Lydia’s first ten wins were flukes.

He wakes up to their voices as well, murmuring things he can’t quite catch. Everything feels dark and still, so he thinks it must be late. He turns his head a bit to check on Jackson – still totally unconscious – and then he lies quietly curled around his pillow. He feels warm and still sleepy, and he thinks someone had taken his shoes off while he was asleep. Lydia and Scott are on the bed too, their heads bent together, their brilliant red and dark hair swirling together and catching sparks from the light of Jackson’s bedside lamp.

“I think it is hard, sometimes,” Scott is saying seriously. “A human and a werewolf dating. I can get a lot of information from Allison that she doesn’t have about me – like smelling and hearing things.” Scott looks a little shamefaced when he says that, like he’s remembering some pretty egregious instances of eavesdropping. “But sometimes that can be good, too.”

“No, that makes sense,” Lydia says slowly, looking thoughtfully over at where Jackson is still sleeping.

“But you should talk to Allison more about the human side of things. I just know the wolfy side,” Scott says with a sympathetic nose-wrinkle. Lydia gives him a somewhat terrifying look in return.

“You should talk to Allison,” she says pointedly, like she’s harping on something she’s said before, and Scott gives her a good-humored smile.

“OK, OK, you’ve made your point. I’ll talk to her. I just wanted to give her space, you know?”

“She loves you,” Lydia says, and her voice is small. “You’ve had enough space.” Scott shoots Lydia one of his surprisingly perceptive looks, and pats her a little awkwardly on the shoulder. She looks down at his hand on her sleeve like she’s not quite sure what it’s doing there, but she smiles a little and doesn’t move it.

Stiles shifts slightly, and Lydia stiffens. She glances down at him, notices his open eyes, and gives him a “Busted!” look.

“Oh hey, you’re awake,” Scott says. Stiles yawns.

“Anything yet from the W-O-L-F?” he asks, nodding at Jackson’s prone form. His voice is still kind of scratchy from sleep. Lydia rolls her eyes.

“He’s a werewolf, not a kindergartener. I think he can still spell. Though for some werewolves, maybe that’s not such a given.” Her voice is sarcastic, but not nasty, and she shoves at Scott’s shoulder in a way that Stiles thinks might be half-friendly. Stiles yawns again, and his stomach rumbles.

“OK, if we’re gonna pull an all-nighter like this, I’m pretty sure we need food of some sort. You know. For staying awake,” he tells them.

“Wolves are nocturnal,” Scott says, but he’s looking a lot more alert at the prospect of snacks.

“Apparently not.” Lydia nods at Jackson.

“Figures he’d be crap at werewolves too,” Scott mutters.

“Hey!” Lydia looks adorably defensive. As if Jackson, in his current form, needed defending from anyone. “Anyway, I can show you where the kitchen is.”     

“I guess I’ll stay here with him.” Scott looks doubtfully at Jackson, who snuffles slightly in response.

Stiles is trying really, really hard to be quiet as they sneak down the stairs to the kitchen, which is why he’s already banged into an end table, kicked a large standing vase, and nearly knocked four pictures off the wall.

“Are you serious right now?” Lydia hisses after she barely prevents him from tumbling down the stairs.

“It’s dark,” Stiles hisses back defensively.

“How are you even still alive?” she grumbles, tugging him through a doorway that must be the kitchen, because she flicks on a light. The kitchen is large, bright, and too clean.          

“What do you want to eat?” Lydia asks, poking around inside what looks like an industrial-grade refrigerator.

“Whatever,” Stiles shrugs.

“Here’s half an apple pie,” she announces, her voice muffled by the fact that the entire top half of her body is currently wedged in the refrigerator.

“Lydia, I love you more than life itself,” Stiles announces solemnly. “And also, I need that pie.”

“Do you?” Lydia asks, pulling her head out of the refrigerator and giving him such an oddly serious look that Stiles is pretty sure they’re not talking about pie. “Like, actually?”

“Um,” Stiles says, wondering why all of his innocuous conversations have suddenly started running away with him when he least expects it. He’s about to pull out one of the flippant, articulate, and totally sexy lines that he’s been saving for just such an occasion (and may or may not have practiced in front of the mirror. A lot.), but Lydia’s head is cocked like she’s studying him under a microscope, and it makes Stiles actually think before he speaks.

It should be an easy question to answer. Stiles has loved Lydia since forever, and it’s been such a constant feeling in his life that he’s gotten used to it, like breathing, something he doesn’t have to question. He’s been in love with Lydia for so long, he’s not sure where love ends and other feelings begin. He’s been in love with Lydia for so long, it’s taken him a long time to realize that he’s not actually in love with her.

“Huh,” he says, mostly to himself. “That’s weird.” Lydia nods crisply, like a hypothesis has been confirmed by a neat lab experiment. Sometimes, Stiles is afraid of what would have happened if Lydia had actually gone to that science fair in 6^th grade.

“You like me, but you’re not in love with me,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“I was,” Stiles says, because it’s important for her to know that. “And it’s like, I kind of still am? I think you’re the awesomest girl I know, and you’re super hot and smart and amazing at everything, and it scares the crap out of me whenever I think about anything happening to you, and I think that’s love, but I kind of feel that way about Scott, too. Minus the ‘super hot’ part,” Stiles clarifies.

 “And maybe also the ‘smart’ part,” Lydia laughs.

 “He’s surprisingly cunning,” Stiles informs her, but he’s laughing too. He feels lighter, like something that’s been pushing against him has suddenly been taken off. His feelings for Lydia had been comfortable and safe, and he hadn’t wanted to lose them. Now he realizes he hasn’t, and he feels a little stupid for thinking that Lydia could just be nothing to him, that there was no middle ground between infatuation and indifference.

 “So…pie, you think?” Lydia asks.

 “Definitely pie,” Stiles agrees.

They get back to Jackson’s bedroom with the pie plate. Scott is lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, the leash still suspended in the air between him and the bathroom door. There’s a brief moment of panic when Stiles and Lydia realize they forgot to bring utensils, but only takes a couple of seconds of the pie staring him down before Stiles cracks and pulls off a piece with his hands.

 “Gross. I don’t know where those have been,” Lydia says, even as she sticks her fingers in as well. It quickly becomes disgusting.

The sun is almost up by the time they’re done eating, their fingers covered in pie goo and their eyes slipping closed. Only Scott looks moderately conscious, and even he keeps jerking his head up every few minutes. Lydia rubs her eyes, and accidentally smears pie in them.

“Oh God, this is deeply horrible,” she groans. “I need to wash my hands.” Before Stiles can say anything, she’s hopped off the bed and made a beeline for Jackson’s bathroom sink. Jackson has been so quiet, they’d basically forgotten he was there, and Lydia’s already got the water running before movement on the ground below her draws her attention.

Jackson is awake, and staring right at her.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Hi Jackson.”

“Lydia,” Stiles says, his voice surprisingly calm. It’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to run over to her, but he’s pretty sure sudden movement would be bad right now. “Lydia, come back over here.”

“You don’t say,” Lydia squeaks, and reaches over to turn the sink faucet off. Until now, Jackson has mostly looked confused and wary, but her arm movement seems to set him off, because suddenly he’s surging up against his chains, and Lydia is screaming and tripping backwards, and Stiles is shouting and falling off the bed.

Jackson gets pulled up abruptly by the handcuffs locking him to the sink, and it seems to enrage him, because he roars and tries to fling himself out of them. Scott is there, wolfed out and growling – the werewolf version of telling somebody to calm the fuck down. But Jackson’s eyes are on Lydia, still sprawled frozen on the ground next to him. He roars again and jerks his arms against the handcuffs, his whole body straining against them. The metal creaks warningly.

“Shit Scott, your stupid sex toys aren’t working.” Stiles voice sounds high and panicked, and he’s trying to reach Lydia but his body doesn’t seem to be acting the way it should.

And that’s when Jackson yanks the bathroom sink out of the wall. It tumbles forward with a horrible crash. Since Jackson is still attached to it, the sink screams across the tile floor as he somehow manages to bound, still tied up with chains, towards Lydia. She screams and starts to scrabble backward, Scott is yelling and hauling on the leash still around Jackson’s neck, and Stiles suddenly knows with certainty that none of it will be enough.

And then, somehow, Derek is there. At first, Stiles thinks this is some weird, about-to-be-eaten adrenaline-fueled hallucination. But Derek roars at Jackson, and Stiles is pretty sure he wouldn’t hallucinate such a horrible noise. Jackson stops moving, his eyes sliding toward Derek, suddenly unsure. Derek roars again, and Jackson wilts like he’s just been smacked with a newspaper.

“Get out,” Derek snaps at them through his fangs. Stiles finally manages to pick himself up off the floor – lots of good it does him now – and reaches over for Lydia. Scott grabs her hands and hauls her up, and the two of them practically drag her out the bedroom door.

They’re outside and halfway to Stiles’ Jeep before Lydia seems to break herself out of her shock.

“Jackson?” she asks, biting her lip.

“Derek will take care of him,” Scott assures her. “Werewolves are bonded to their Alphas, so Alphas have a lot of control over them, especially during the full moon. He’s gonna calm Jackson down, and it’s almost morning. Everything will be fine,” Scott soothes her, and Stiles recognizes the voice he uses on animals in the clinic.

“I thought you said it helped,” Lydia said, her mind already working furiously even as her whole body is shaking. “To have someone to ground you. Does that mean he doesn’t—” she chokes. “Doesn’t really love me?"

“No!” Scott says quickly. “Lydia, I don’t know exactly what happened, but sometimes if you have a lot of strong emotions about someone, it can be hard to control. Like, when I danced with Allison for the first time, I nearly wolfed out right in front of her. Now the thought of her keeps me grounded, but at first, it was like – it was just overwhelming to have her there.”

“And you didn’t think to mention all this before we let Lydia stay in the same room as the world’s most unstable werewolf?” Stiles half-yells at him.

“I didn’t know!” Scott says, contrite. He reaches over and holds both of Lydia’s hands in his, and Stiles recognizes the gesture, because it’s the same need to touch that he feels whenever something terrible could have happened, and may possibly have been his fault. “I thought since they’d been together for so long—”

“Well clearly Jackson still has some unresolved issues.” Lydia laughs a little hysterically, and Scott shoots her a concerned look.

“I’m pretty sure ‘Unresolved Issues’ is like, Jackson’s catchphrase,” Stiles points out. “He should tattoo it on his chest, and then anytime anyone is like, ‘Jackson, why are you being such a dick for no reason?’ he can just lift up his shirt and everything will make sense.”

Scott snorts with laughter, and then looks ashamed. “Sorry, Lydia,” he mumbles.

“It’s kind of true,” Lydia says, but the hysterical note is still in her voice. “Jackson is pretty frequently a dick for no reason. And I don’t know why—” her voice is getting perilously close to a sob, and Stiles and Scott give each other panicked looks over her head. Danger, Will Robinson.

“Why don’t we just wait in the Jeep until the sun comes up,” Scott says, petting her shoulder gingerly. Stiles recognizes his animal-in-pain voice again. “And then we can talk to him.”

They all sit huddled together in the back seat, because despite the fact that it’s summer, it still feels kind of cold at 5 am. And also, they’re still pretty freaked out. Stiles’ whole body feels alert and crackling, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to sit still until morning. But it turns out he’s wrong about that, because within about 15 minutes, he’s asleep.

He wakes up to Derek tapping lightly on the window glass. He inhales sharply, still on edge when startled, and it takes him a little bit for his heart rate to calm down. Lydia and Scott are still asleep, because apparently, Scott’s werewolf senses are crap. Lydia is leaning against Scott’s side, her head drooping on his shoulder, and while they’ve been sleeping, Stiles has gotten his hand somehow tangled in her hair and smeared it with apple pie filling. Stiles has already started concocting a story in which that was entirely Scott’s fault.

“It’s over,” Derek says, his eyes on Stiles’ hand. Stiles suddenly feels weirdly self-conscious, and he tries to tug himself free. Lydia moans a little bit, and rolls over onto him.

“We didn’t really sleep last night,” Stiles tells Derek apologetically, through a mouthful of Lydia’s hair. It tastes like apples. “How did you know to come?” he asks Derek, as he struggles to extricate himself from Lydia’s curls, his movements only making her burrow into his chest more determinedly.

“I didn’t. I was just checking on you,” Derek says, watching Stiles’ hands get ever more entangled. He makes a jerky move like he’s about to pull on Stiles’ wrist, and then stops. Derek is so weird.

“Didn’t trust us to handle it, huh?” Stiles asked, and he could be annoyed, but he’s kind of too tired.

“No,” Derek admits.

“Well. Good, I guess,” Stiles yawns. He pats the top of Lydia’s head lightly.

“Lydia? Wake up,” he says softly, because as he’s just learned, thanks to Derek being a huge jerk, getting startled awake is a bitch. She moans again and her eyes open. Stiles can tell she notices Derek, but she doesn’t shift away from Stiles’ shoulder.

“Is Jackson OK?” She glares at Derek like this is all his fault. Which, technically, Stiles supposes it is.

“He’s fine,” Derek says shortly. “It’s safe now.” Lydia sits up and jostles Scott.

“C’mon Scott, we have to go kill Jackson,” she says brightly. Scott’s head shoots up.

“Awesome,” he says feelingly. They all troop back into Jackson’s house and up to his bedroom, which is looking significantly worse-off than when they left. Everything that used to be on a surface is now on the ground, and there’s water going everywhere from the fractured bathroom appliances. Stiles is pretty sure he sees claw marks on the wall.

Jackson is lying on his bed at the center of this whirlwind, and he doesn’t look up when they enter. Lydia rushes over to him.

“You suck and I hate you, and Derek should have eaten you,” Lydia sobs. Jackson reaches up and pulls her down to the bed.

“I know,” he says into her hair. “He probably should have.”

“Well, now this just awkward,” Stiles whispers to Scott and Derek. “Should we…let them have a moment?” Stiles takes a couple of steps out, and Scott moves to follow him, but Derek stays where he is, so then Stiles stops. And now they’re just all part of an indecisive, privacy-violating tableau in the doorway.

“We need to talk,” Derek says, because he has no sense of appropriate timing.

“About what?” Jackson asks warily, sitting up. He’s still wearing the collar, which would have been funny in any other circumstance, and he has a bruise on his face. It hasn’t healed yet, which means Derek must have done it. He also has apple pie filling all down his shirt, which he’s currently studying with some bemusement.

“This can’t happen again. You need to be properly trained,” Derek says, like that’s the end of the conversation. He has an irritating habit of doing that.

“What I need is for you to leave me alone,” Jackson says in his best bitch-voice. Derek closes his eyes like he’s getting a headache.

“If you’re not trained—” he begins slowly, like he’s talking to a four-year-old.

“Scott’s training me,” Jackson says defiantly. “Right, Scott?” Scott looks deeply uncomfortable at this turn of events.

“Um, actually, I think Derek—”

“Are you kidding me?” Jackson bursts out. “You’re siding with him? I thought you hated him! You said he was untrustworthy, and crazy, and power-hungry.” Scott’s face is flushing redder and redder as Jackson Just. Keeps. Talking. Is this what everyone else feels like when Stiles talks? “—And you said his car was too flashy,” Jackson finishes, as though this is the final word on the subject.

“Oh my God,” Stiles bursts out, and hides his face in his hands. He gets pie goo in his eyes, but the stickiness and the stinging is a small price to pay. Jackson seems to finally pick up a modicum of social awareness, because there’s a beat, and then Jackson’s voice:

“Sorry, Derek.” There’s a longer pause, and Stiles manages to blink open his watering eyes to see what’s happening.

“I don’t care what you think of me,” Derek finally says – and OK, even Stiles knows that’s patently untrue, but whatever. Derek looks stern and serious, but Stiles thinks he can see the hurt in Derek’s eyes. “I care that you’re putting others in danger. I’m your Alpha. I can compel a lot from you, although I don’t want to. You need to learn control, and you need to learn to fight, because there are a lot of things that want to kill werewolves. So come with me of your own free will. Or don’t.” Derek’s grin is sinister. See, this is why people find you untrustworthy and crazy, Stiles wants to say, but doesn’t. Scott looks angry, and Stiles knows how he feels about Alpha compulsions, so he doesn’t blame him.

“How come you can’t compel Scott to do stuff?” Jackson asks mutinously.

“Scott has a unique amount of willpower and self-control for a relatively new Beta. Few werewolves are that strong. Somehow, I doubt you’re one of them.” Derek’s grin is getting—there’s no better word for it—wolfish again, but Scott now looks conflicted. Scott is such a sucker for people complimenting him, Stiles thinks fondly. Jackson breaks eye contact with Derek, and looks down at his bed. Which Stiles is pretty sure means Derek has won.

“Can you train humans, too?” interrupts Lydia’s voice suddenly from the bed. She’s been silent and still during this entire conversation, and Stiles forgot she was there. From the way everyone else is staring at her, he’s pretty sure they had, too.

“What?” Derek asks, nonplussed.

 “Humans. Can you train us to fight, like werewolves can?”

“Lydia,” Jackson says, putting a hand on the small of her back. She suddenly looks very young.

“You tried to kill me,” she says, simply and without accusation. Jackson looks like she just punched him. “It’s not a big deal. I’m already over it,” Lydia brushes off his hand, tossing her hair with a shadow of her usual confidence. “But it seems like this stuff happens a lot. Next time, I’m not going to be on the ground waiting for someone to save me. So teach me, if you can. If not, I can teach myself.” She shrugs at Derek, like it doesn’t really matter either way. Derek looks begrudgingly respectful, and Stiles gapes at them both in shock. Even with pie filling all over her hair, face, and arms – like a more apple-y Violet Beauregarde – Lydia is still completely badass. Stiles didn’t think Derek respected anyone.

“I can teach you,” Derek says finally. “Come to the training session tomorrow morning. And you too,” he turns to Stiles.

“Oh, hold on,” Stiles says shakily. “Fighting? Not really my thing. I’m more of the brains of this group, don’t you think?”

“This isn’t a debate,” Derek growls.

“Well considering we’re still debating, I’m pretty sure it is,” Stiles answers back, just to be annoying. Derek glares at him, and gets all up in his personal space. Dude really needs to stop doing that, especially since when Derek gets closer, a scowl on his face that Stiles really shouldn’t find as attractive as he does, Stiles can’t stop his heart from beating faster. He’s really hoping that every werewolf in the room can’t hear it, but he knows they can. Derek, at least, seems to notice, because he stops advancing abruptly and runs his hand through his hair.

“Why are you arguing with me about this?” Derek bursts out, kind of helpless. “Can’t you ever just do what you’re told?” Scott starts laughing at that, and yeah, has Derek even met him? Really.

“No. I can’t,” Stiles retorts. “And I can’t learn to fight. Have you seen me? I’ll just flail around and hurt someone, and then hurt myself, and Lydia will kick my ass, and it’ll be awkward for everyone.”

“That’s actually true,” Lydia puts in helpfully. Jackson wrinkles his nose and nods.

“Fine,” Derek says. Stiles blinks at him, his mouth dropping open. Everyone else in the room stares too.

“What?” Stiles asks unsteadily.

“I said ‘fine.’ Under one condition. Stop being in danger."

Stiles is waiting for a punch line, but it never comes. “Um, Derek? News flash, that’s not really possible. Yeah, I’d like to live a normal, boring, safe life, but somehow things that try to kill me just keep getting in the way.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you at 9am tomorrow,” Derek shoots back. And then he turns around and walks out the door. Stiles is pretty sure he did that just so Stiles couldn’t keep arguing with him. Devious.

“Wait, 9am?” he says, as Derek’s actual words hit him.

“Yeah, that’s so not gonna happen,” Jackson agrees. “Ugh, look at my room. My parents are gonna be so pissed,” he groans.

“Yeah, speaking of that, where are your parents?” Stiles asks, confused. “Things got kinda loud last night. You’d expect they would have run in here, thinking you were getting kidnapped again, and then things would’ve gotten really bad.”

“They’re heavy sleepers,” Jackson says, poker-faced. Stiles, Scott, and even Lydia stare at him. “…And I may have drugged their dinner last night,” Jackson finally confesses. “Turns out to have been a good idea, right?”

There’s a beat.

“I hope it wasn’t in the pie,” is all Lydia says.

Chapter Text

Stiles is grumbling to himself as he yawns his way down the stairs the next day. He hasn’t totally recovered from the sleepless night on the full moon, not to mention getting nearly mauled by his favorite frenemy. It makes 9 AM a time of day he does not want to experience.        

His dad is in the kitchen getting ready to leave for work when Stiles stumbles in.

“Hey, kid. You’re up early,” his dad observes.       

“Ugh, tell me about it. Scott is way too eager about this whole ‘help Stiles make first line’ thing,” Stiles lies. His dad smiles fondly.      

“Don’t work too hard, OK? Remember, it is summer.”     

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs unhappily, starting the microwave. With a practiced motion, the Sheriff pauses the microwave and pulls out Stiles’ bowl of dry Lucky Charms. Stiles groans at the Sheriff’s raised eyebrow.

“It’s so early,” he whines, flailing ineffectually for the milk.      

“Have fun today,” his dad says with a laugh, shrugging on his uniform jacket.      

“Getting beat up for several hours? Yeah, that does sound like fun,” Stiles answers, and only wishes it were a metaphor.

***

He and Scott pull up to Derek’s apartment in the Jeep. They’re only 20 minutes late, which Stiles thinks is pretty good considering. But when the elevator opens, Derek is standing in front of it, his arms akimbo. 

“You’re late,” he barks. 

“Aaah, how are you so awake right now?” Stiles groans. “And so loud?”

“It’s 9:20,” Derek continues, undeterred.

“We had to stop for hot chocolate,” Scott says earnestly, like it had been life-or-death. Which, let’s be honest, it had been. Derek snorts and goes into the kitchen, which is when Stiles realizes the painful awkwardness that is happening in the room around them. The couch, TV, and other furniture have been pushed to the sides of the vast room, and practice mats have been put down on the floor.

But the problem is that Jackson and Lydia are sitting huddled on a mat to one side of the room, following the other werewolves with their eyes. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are sitting on the other end, shifting and fidgeting. And all five of them have now turned desperate eyes on Scott and Stiles, silently begging to be saved. 

Right. They all hate each other, and kind of tried to kill each other, and Jackson and Lydia are probably scared out of their minds. Maybe we should have gotten here earlier, Stiles realizes.

“It’s OK guys,” Scott reassures them. “We brought hot chocolate for you, too.” That seems to have done the trick, because they all perk up significantly. Scott passes out drinks to the Betas, while Stiles goes over and sits companionably next to Jackson and Lydia. He hands them cups out of his cardboard carrier.

“I drink coffee,” Jackson grumbles petulantly, before taking a long pull from the cup. “But I guess this is OK.” Lydia’s hands touch his for a little too long before she takes the cup from him, and Stiles feels even more like a jerk.

“You know Erica, and Boyd, and Isaac, right? They’re really nice. Well, sometimes they’re nice. Sometimes Erica is scary, which I think means you two will get along. Boyd is friendly and says snarky things to Derek sometimes, which we all enjoy. And Isaac likes period romances.” Jackson perks up at that, and then tries to play it off like he hadn’t reacted at all. But everyone had noticed, because Jackson is about as subtle as a velociraptor.

“That one with the hot chicks and Professor McGonagall is OK,” he grunts finally, noticing everyone staring at him.

“Downton Abbey? It’s the best,” Isaac agrees happily. “Have you seen the latest season? The links I found were such shitty quality, I can’t believe they air it late in the US.”

“My parents get it sent from England from their friend at the BBC,” Jackson tells him smugly, and Isaac looks at Jackson like he’s just become the coolest superhero ever. With, like, a badass car and a cape and shit.

“Now back in the real world…” Erica snaps her fingers. But Jackson is moving over to where Isaac is sitting, and Lydia is laughing.

“God, finally, someone else to talk to Jackson about that stupid show. He makes me watch it with him, so he can tell himself that it’s only because his girlfriend is forcing him,” she confides to Stiles in a low voice.

Erica overhears her, though, and says a little tentatively, “I’m surprised you don’t like it, you could totally rock the Lady Mary part.” Stiles thinks this is a paltry apology for trying to kill someone, but Lydia preens and scoots closer to Erica and Boyd. Stiles grins at Scott.

“Our little werewolf family,” he sniffs, brushing away mock tears. Derek walks back into the room, looking a little bemused that pack members are actually talking to each other. He has this expression on his face, like he would kind of prefer that they stop. He perks up when he sees the last cup of hot chocolate in the holder, though, and reaches for it. Stiles slaps his hand away.

“Nuh uh, that one’s mine. You only get hot chocolate when you stop holding training sessions at 9 AM. And also, when you’re nicer to me.”

“I’m always nice to you,” Derek says, affronted, and Stiles laughs so hard he may have perforated a lung. Derek narrows his eyes, and rounds on the rest of the pack.

“Now that everyone is finally here—” he glares at Scott and Stiles “—we can start. Jackson and Scott, you’re gonna start running through the drills that the others have already been practicing. They’ll help you learn it. I’ll work with the humans for a while.”

“Goody,” Stiles murmurs sarcastically, and Lydia laughs. Derek glares.          

“You’re going to start off learning self-defense.”

“Like, saying ‘Stop. Leave me alone?’” Stiles puts out a hand, palm up.

“Or pepper spraying someone and running away?” Lydia contributes.

“No,” Derek continues, undeterred. “You’re going to learn how to fall.”

“Oh awesome!” Stiles says brightly. “I already know that one!”   

“He’s really good at it,” Lydia offers.

Derek is looking more and more like he’s about to lose it. Stiles is glad he’s officially Just Friends with Lydia now, because Stiles may have found the one person in Beacon Hills who’s just as annoying and good at winding up Derek as he is. Clearly, they must become best friends and rule the world and use their powers only for evil.

“You’re going to learn to fall without hurting yourself,” Derek says through gritted teeth.

“Oh, that is harder. I guess you’d better teach us that,” Stiles says innocently.

Lydia gives Derek a narrow look. “Where did you get the idea for this?”

To Stiles’ surprise, Derek gets a distinctly shifty look on his face, and mumbles something about mysterious werewolf training rituals.

“No, I don’t think so,” Lydia interrupts. “You have no idea how to train humans at all, do you? Because you definitely stole this whole ‘falling’ thing from the Alanna books.” There’s a pause, in which Derek flushes and doesn’t answer.

“…Oh my God, you did!” Stiles accuses, and Derek glares at both of them.

“Well, I’m clearly Alanna in this scenario,” Lydia tells Stiles, tossing her red hair pointedly. “But you can be George Cooper if you want,” she allows.

“Really? Cool. Because you know that he and Alanna…” Stiles trails off, making a pointed and somewhat rude gesture with his hands. Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Don’t push it. You may be King of the Rogue, but I can definitely kick your ass.”

“Does this mean we’re also going to learn sword-fighting?” Stiles turns to Derek eagerly. Derek gives them both a long-suffering look, and doesn’t answer.

***

They’ve been practicing falling down for two hours now, and Stiles is fascinated by how something that’s usually so effortless has become so difficult. Because every time he tries to fall, Derek snaps, “No, wrong,” and says something nonsensical like, “Your left foot is too twisted.”

What does that even mean? Lydia figures it out relatively quickly, of course, turning effortlessly as she falls so that she doesn’t hurt herself, and ends up ready to fight again the minute she hits the ground. When Stiles falls, he just ends up all jumbled around his limbs. He’s always thought that’s how you were supposed to do it.

The other werewolves are doing some sort of weird scrimmage on the other side of the room, with rules that Stiles hasn’t been able to figure out. He’s also not sure who’s winning, but it all looks pretty violent and snarly to him.

Derek is now practicing throwing Lydia, so she learns to fall right while in combat. Every so often, Derek glances over at Stiles, grunts “wrong,” and goes back to working with Lydia. After what feels like the millionth time of this, Stiles picks himself off the mat, snaps, “I need some water,” and stalks into the kitchen. If he has to look at Derek’s stupid face for one more second…

And so of course Derek follows him into the kitchen.

“I told you,” Stiles practically shouts at Derek as he fills a glass from the sink. “I told you I would suck at this!”

“You don’t,” Derek says, but it sounds kind of unconvincing. “You’re just overthinking things.”

“Oh, gee, I wonder why, maybe because you keep yelling at me.”

Derek opens his mouth, staring at Stiles, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe,” he finally admits. “Come on.” Derek grabs Stiles’ arm and pulls him back into the main room. Stiles tries to ignore the way warmth is radiating up from where Derek is touching him, and concentrates instead on how much he hates Derek right now. It seems like safer territory.

Once they’re back on the mats, Derek lets go of his arm. Stiles looks down at it stupidly, tripping over his feet a little on his way back to where Lydia is still practicing, and feeling a weird urge to touch his fingers to the place where Derek’s hand had been.

“Stiles,” Derek says from behind him, and Stiles glances back, eyebrows raised.

“Wha—aah!” As he turns, Derek sneaks up, loops a leg around Stiles’ feet, and tugs. Stiles goes flying.

“What the hell, Derek!?” he shouts. But Derek just grins at him. It’s only then that Stiles notices his own position on the ground. His body is protected, and he’s poised to spring back up into the fight. He feels like there’s a warm glow in the center of his chest, and he laughs as he clambers back up. Derek is smiling at him, and not his scary wolf smile, but a proper smile, his eyes crinkling and happy. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s seen Derek smile like that before, and he has a sudden urge to make it his life mission to get Derek to smile like that all the time.

“That was awesome,” he says breathlessly. He knows he’s beaming like an idiot, considering the relative minor-ness of this accomplishment, but he doesn’t care. Something turns darker in Derek’s eyes then, and his mouth goes soft. Stiles blinks up at him, not sure if they’re still sharing their happy moment, or if Derek is already over it.

“Nice job. But your foot placement could still use some work,” Derek says curtly. Guess Derek is over it, then. When Derek turns away, Stiles mutters, “Seems OK to me,” and mimes kicking him.

***

Stiles is supposed to meet Scott at their favorite diner for milkshakes after training with Derek. They’re pretty sure the owner puts crack in them or something, they’re that good. When he arrives, Scott’s bike is chained to a lamppost outside, but the inside of the diner is still mostly empty. Definitely no Scott, Stiles realizes, his mouth going a little dry.

He tries to keep his breath even and avoid panicking as he goes back outside to look up and down the street. With a sense of foreboding, Stiles notices the tiny alley jutting off behind the restaurant. He pokes his head around a dumpster, and sure enough, Scott is there, backed against the wall, wolfed out and looking furious. The Alpha pack is ringed around him.

“—but it won’t last,” Douchecanoe is in the middle of saying with a faux-sympathetic smile.

“It’s really none of your business,” Scott says stubbornly, flinching a little as Douchecanoe glides closer.

“New Alphas are my business,” Douchecanoe responds, smirking a little at Scott’s reaction. “And this new Alpha has proven himself reckless, headstrong, and incompetent at every turn. His own Betas barely trust him, Scott, so I have to ask myself…why would you?”

“I’m one of his Betas too,” Scott says quickly, and Douchecanoe laughs at him.

“Of course you are,” he tells Scott indulgently, putting a sympathetic hand on Scott’s shoulder that Scott shrugs off with a little growl. “Because Derek begged, knowing it would save his pack. That’s how it happened, isn’t it? I would have liked to see that,” Douchecanoe adds thoughtfully.

Scott opens his mouth to argue, but Douchecanoe isn’t done. “It would be stupid to align yourself with him for any other reason, and you’re not stupid, are you, Scott? Like I said, we both know the little coalition he’s building is going to fall apart – probably through Derek’s own distrust and hubris, let’s be honest here – and when that happens, you’re perfectly aware that you, and everyone you care about, will be in danger.”

Scott shoots a worried look in Stiles’ direction, which is the first indication that Scott has noticed him, crouched behind the dumpster and poking his head around, managing to be silent for once in his life. Douchecanoe doesn’t turn around, but he smiles dangerously like he knows what Scott’s looking at. He tilts his head a little bit in Stiles’ direction, and before Stiles can tumble back, one of the other Alphas has him lifted and shoved roughly up against the dumpster. What is up with angry werewolves throwing him in trash receptacles?

“Feel free to join the conversation,” Douchecanoe raises his voice to say politely, although his eyes are still trained on Scott. “It does concern your life, after all. Humans are so…bruisable, don’t you think, Scott? But I’m sure you’re familiar with that, with a human girlfr—”

Scott roars and throws himself at Douchecanoe, but Douchecanoe just laughs and shoves him back against the wall, hard.

“We’ve been watching you for a while now, Scott,” Douchecanoe starts up again, his voice still light, pinning Scott like it’s nothing. “We both know you should have been the Alpha, not Derek. And you still can be."

With that parting shot, Douchecanoe spins on his heel and leaves the alley, the other Alphas falling into line obediently behind him. The one holding Stiles gives him a sadistic grin and a little shake before letting him go.

Stiles falls to the ground with a wheeze. Scott is frozen in place, staring at the opening to the alley like he’s still processing what had happened.

“Well, that’s one more for the ‘squirrel as creepy recruitment offering’ column. And also, ow. I’m getting really sick of being your Lois Lane, dude,” Stiles says, stretching his back and wincing at the bruise he can already feel forming on his spine. “You’re definitely buying me a milkshake to make up for that.”

“Yeah,” Scott says distantly, before he shakes himself out of whatever he’d been thinking.

Later, Stiles is chasing a milkshake straw with his tongue when he thinks to ask, “You aren’t actually gonna listen to those assholes, right?"

Scott slurps on his own milkshake before saying somewhat grumpily, like the admission pains him: “They’re wrong about Derek.”

Stiles stares at Scott in surprise, because actually, he’s pretty sure Scott has used every single one of those adjectives to describe Derek, at some point in the past year.

“Not…all of it,” Scott says, with a little uptick of his mouth, like he knows what Stiles was thinking. “And anyway, I don’t want to be an Alpha. Not yet,” he adds thoughtfully, and Stiles nearly chokes on his straw. But before he can prod that admission further, Scott says, “Do you think we should tell the others?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, thinking about it, and Scott continues: “I think it would just freak them out, right? Make Derek suspicious of my motives?” Stiles reluctantly agrees.

“But I’m going to do something that’ll let Derek know I trust him, and that I’m in it for real,” Scott says confidently, and then won’t tell Stiles any more about it. All he says, cryptically, is that he’s not sure if it’ll work, and that it’s dependent on someone else.

Stiles sighs at Scott’s annoying determination to keep secrets from him – it never ends well, hasn’t Scott realized this by now? – and slurps down the rest of his milkshake.

***

It’s a few days later, when Stiles’ bruises from that first day of training haven’t yet healed, and the new, Alpha-induced bruises are just kind of jumbling on top of the old ones, that he arrives early for training. Scott is borrowing his mom’s car that day, so Stiles arrives alone. He still isn’t sure how he feels about Derek, what with the grumpiness, and the mood swings, and his current fascination with beating Stiles up, but he’s also been occasionally nice, and Stiles figures it never hurts to butter up the guy who’s capable of delivering serious injury during self-defense practice.

Not to mention that Stiles has been thinking about what Scott said, about the Alphas being wrong about Derek, and about needing to prove that you’re part of the pack for real.

So that’s why he’s alone when he walks into Derek’s apartment, carrying a ‘thank you for not killing me out of sheer frustration’ present. He knows the Betas usually sleep here, especially now that it’s summer, so he’s kind of surprised that they’re not around. But it’s just Derek, coming sleepily out of his kitchen in drawstring sweatpants and no shirt, when Stiles clanks open the elevator door.

“Uhhh,” says Stiles when he sees Derek – or more accurately, Derek’s chest. He’s trying to remember how to form words, because Christ, Stiles suddenly wants to bite him all over. This cannot be healthy. “I can um, come back later—” he licks his lips nervously.

“What?” Derek asks, running his hand through his hair and making it stand up in hilarious ways. He yawns.

“Um, I guess I’m early,” Stiles says intelligently. “Like, too early. I meant to be early, obviously, because there was this thing, and I wanted to give it to you, but…yeah, I should definitely come back. At a later date. Time. I’ll just—” he waves a little helplessly at the elevator and goes to press the down button.

“Stiles, what?” Derek asks, clearly still processing things too slowly to catch up properly. “You had something for me?”

“Yeah. Um, for being nice about training, even though I’m about as competent as a toddler. And I said if you were nice I would, and even though training is still at 9 AM, which by the way, we need to have words about—”

“What?” Derek asks, his eyes crinkling with confusion. He yawns again.

“Oh my God, you are really not a morning person, are you?”

Derek seems to wake up enough to glare at him. “Wolves are nocturnal,” he reminds Stiles huffily, if nonsensically.

“Yeah. Nocturnal. Right. OK, I’ll use small words. I—” he points at himself. “Got you—” he points at Derek. “A present.” He pulls it out of his bag and holds it out. It’s a huge container of hot chocolate mix, with seasonally inappropriate drawings of snowmen and reindeer on the package, and Stiles has tied a huge red bow on top. Derek just kind of stares at him and doesn’t take it.

“Um,” Stiles falters. Derek’s gaze moves up to his face.

“What’s it for?” he asks finally.

“Uh, like I said, I feel kind of guilty that I’ve been withholding hot chocolate from you all this time, but seriously dude, 9 in the morning. It’s cruel.”

Derek continues to stare at him.

“If you don’t want it, I mean, maybe you don’t like hot chocolate?” Stiles says, becoming more uncomfortable by the second.

“I do,” Derek says quickly. “Like hot chocolate. But you don’t have to—I know you and Scott don’t really want to be here. And when the Alphas are gone—”

“Oh, dude, is this about what Jackson said the other day?” Stiles laughs uncomfortably. “Jackson was just being a dick, you know him. And yeah, maybe we said those things about you at some point, but you’re kind of an inscrutable guy. We didn’t know you as well.”

“Scott called my car flashy,” Derek says in genuine hurt, and Stiles should’ve known that’s what he’d be really upset about.

“It’s OK, he complains about my car all the time. It’s a sign of affection,” Stiles assures him. Derek, who has seen Stiles’ Jeep, looks unconvinced by this argument. Shut up, Derek, everybody loves my Jeep, Stiles grumbles in his head.

“What I’m saying is, a lot of stuff happened before. But we said we were in the pack, and we’re in it. No take-backs, promise,” Stiles says, sounding a lot more confident about that statement than he feels. Derek still looks suspicious, so Stiles waggles the hot chocolate container in his face.

“Trust me, you had Scott after you said one mildly approving thing about him. And I don’t give food to people I hate.” He goes to press the carton into Derek’s hands, but that just means he’s gotten closer to shirtless Derek, and while this conversation has been serious enough to distract him a little, no way is that gonna last. But Derek closes the gap between them, his expression serious. Stiles licks his lips, and Derek’s eyes dart from the hot chocolate to his face, looking vaguely confused. And Stiles could totally just reach out and touch Derek’s chest right now, and he’s trying really hard not to let his eyes wander, but his resolve can only last so long.

Blinking thoughtfully, Derek takes the chocolatey peace offering out of Stiles’ hands. And seriously, how much longer is he just going to stand there without a shirt, it’s obscene.

“Thanks,” Derek says, looking down and away. “I should probably get ready before the others arrive."

“Yes, OK, good plan!” Stiles squeaks, and Derek gives him a funny look before going to climb up the spiral staircase that leads from the main room to the bedrooms upstairs. Stiles totally does not check out his ass on the way up.

The Betas arrive soon after, and Stiles grumpily wonders why they couldn’t have come sooner, to save him from having the Awkward Conversation of Awkwardness. Apparently, they had gone out to IHOP. Traitors.

Derek comes back downstairs then, and Stiles has to pretend that he wasn’t just having lots of inappropriate thoughts about Derek’s shirtless body until Jackson and Lydia arrive. Scott is last, a little late and looking supremely awkward.

“Can I talk to you?” he mutters to Derek, whose eyebrows shoot up. He glances over to Stiles, but Stiles just shakes his head and makes wild, “no idea” arm gestures. Derek follows Scott into the kitchen. Of course all the werewolves can hear, so they’re concentrating intently on what Derek and Scott are saying, while Lydia and Stiles are reduced to whacking them in the arms and going, “What? What?” over and over.

Finally, Boyd takes pity on them and starts narrating, although maddeningly, he still stops every few seconds to listen.

“Agh, what’s happening?” Stiles bursts out quietly after a particularly agonizing pause.

“They’re talking about Allison,” Boyd whispers. He and Erica have gone suddenly tense. “Scott wants her to come train with us.”

Stiles sighs. He should have known that Scott’s secret plan to win Derek’s affection involved Allison in some way. And, as such, was probably complete crap.

“Well that’s good, she’s super badass with a bow!” Jackson says brightly. Then he registers all of their faces. “That’s…not good?” he falters.

“Really not good,” Isaac assures him. Erica and Boyd press their lips together and don’t say anything. Lydia huffs at Jackson and starts whispering something into his ear. His eyes go wide.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. Really not good.”

“What’s Derek say?” Stiles asks, tugging at Isaac’s arm.

“What you’d expect, pretty much. He’s saying some stuff about how Scott is blind when it comes to Allison, that he’s too young to understand how dangerous she can be, that the Argents are killers…yadda yadda.”

“He thinks Allison is like Kate,” Stiles realizes suddenly, feeling sick.

“Isn’t she?” Erica asks, shivering.

“No!” Stiles and Lydia both say indignantly.

“Wait,” says Jackson. “Who’s Kate?” Lydia starts whispering in his ear again.

“Ooh,” he says. “That explains a lot about that time, with the Molotov Cocktails. And also, Allison is nothing like Kate!” he adds.

“Scott is talking about Allison’s mom now,” Isaac says, interrupting a serious scuffle that has just broken out between Jackson and Erica. They stop and listen for a bit.

“Allison’s mom tried to kill Scott, and Derek turned her into a werewolf and then she killed herself?” Jackson asks, eyes wide. 

“Yep. That happened,” Stiles confirms.          

“Well…that…kind of explains a lot, actually,” Boyd says grudgingly. Erica doesn’t look so sure.

“And Allison didn’t know the part about Scott. She thought Derek bit her mom for no reason,” Stiles whispers to Erica and Boyd.

“Yeah, we just got to that part,” Isaac tells him.

“Scott says he told Allison the truth,” Jackson says, fascinated. Lydia looks inordinately pleased with herself, like she’d been proven right about something. “He says she wants to come apologize. To everyone.” Boyd and Erica look seriously conflicted.          

“Even if you hear her out, you don’t have to accept her apology,” Lydia tells them. “It would be your right. But I know Allison and I’m not blinded by Scott’s puppy love. She’s not a killer. Right, Stiles?”

“Seriously scary, though,” Stiles agrees. Boyd and Erica laugh shakily.

“What’s happening now?” Stiles asks.

“Scott’s begging pretty shamelessly. Derek still doesn’t like it. Scott’s using all the angles. About how she’s a great fighter, about how she can help with the Alphas, about how useful it is to be friends with an Argent…” Boyd fills them in.

“Derek’s getting extra grumpy, which means he’s about to say yes,” Erica adds.

“Scott’s throwing out some threats about how he can’t be in the pack without Allison, because she means everything to him…”

“Yeah, yeah, get to something we haven’t heard a million times,” Stiles mutters.

“He’s saying that she’s the most important thing to him. And he’s only inviting her into the pack because he trusts Derek?” Boyd asks, surprised. Stiles huffs in fond exasperation at Scott’s total lack of subtlety, but something about it seems to work, because two seconds later, Isaac says:

“And here we go…Yep. Derek caved. He says Allison can come by if it’s OK with us. And that he’s not sure if she can train with us until he talks to her first. And that Scott can’t threaten the integrity of the pack every time he has problems with his love life.”

“Yay!” Lydia and Jackson cheer.

“Oh my God, guys, at least try to be subtle,” Scott shouts at them from the kitchen. He and Derek come back. Derek’s nose looks a little flare-y, and his lips are thin. Despite the capitulation, he is really not happy about this.

“Since I’m assuming everyone heard everything…” he begins.

“She can come talk,” Erica says. “But I can’t promise I won’t bite her hand off.” Scott instantly wolfs out, growling menacingly at Erica.

“Enough,” Derek barks, eyes glinting red. “Say if you don’t want her here, but if she comes, you’ll be respectful. Understood?” Erica and Boyd glare at him mutinously for a beat, before they both drop their heads.

“She can come,” Boyd mutters, and stomps over to a practice mat, turning his back on Derek and Scott. Erica follows.

“Well I think this is gonna go well!” Stiles says brightly. Lydia and Isaac start to giggle. Jackson still looks vaguely confused. Scott is frowning at his phone, clearly texting Allison that it’s safe to enter. Derek looks thunderous.

Allison actually does come up a few minutes later, and Stiles realizes she must have been waiting in her car. Her eyes are wide and smudged – it looks like she’s been crying. When she sees Derek, her eyes fill with tears again. She looks helplessly to Scott, who’s next to her in a second. She sees Lydia and Jackson, and it seems to surprise her.

“You guys are…in the pack now?” she asks, unsure.

“Um, not totally sure about our status,” Jackson says with a glance at Derek.

“But yeah, after Jackson became a mammal again, it seemed like the thing to do,” Lydia says. “I’m glad you’re here,” she adds warmly. Allison gives her a watery smile, and turns to Derek.

“I—” she says, and can’t seem to continue. Scott puts an arm around her shoulders. She stares at Derek for a long time, and finally says, “You killed my mom.” Oh God, Stiles thinks. This is going to go so well… But Derek looks at her seriously.

“No. I bit your mother. She killed herself.” Allison’s face goes pale, and she draws a shaky breath.

“It was because of you, though,” she says.

“Yes,” Derek answers simply. She nods, like she’s grateful he said it.

“And you bit her because you were protecting Scott. That’s what Scott said.”

“Yes. She was trying to kill him. I tried to get him out, but she attacked me."

Allison nods again. “That’s what Scott said,” she repeats. She looks lost.

“My family,” she begins, her lip trembling. “They keep doing terrible things. But I love them. Even when I know, I still love them. How does that make sense?” she asks Derek urgently, as though he’ll somehow know the answer.

“It makes sense,” is all he says, face expressionless and eyes intense.

“I thought I could trust them,” Allison continues. “Shouldn’t you be able to trust your family?” she pleads with Derek. His face goes soft.

“You should be able to,” he agrees quietly.

“But I still did things—I tried to kill you. I don’t know how—nobody should have been able to make me do that. I did that.” She pauses, looking like she’s searching for words that won’t come. “There’s nothing I can say, is there?” she finally asks, turning her wide eyes up to Derek’s.

“Say you’re sorry.” Derek’s voice is gentler than Stiles has ever heard it, gentler than Stiles even knew it could be. “And mean it.” Allison’s lip wobbles again.

“I am. I do,” she says, and promptly bursts into tears. Scott is glaring at Derek like this is all Derek’s fault, which, yeah, it technically is, in a weird sort of way. He’s holding Allison protectively against his chest, but Derek reaches over and draws her away, guiding her into the kitchen. Scott looks lost and small without her.

“OK, what just happened?” Jackson asks, the minute Derek and Allison are gone. “I thought you said he thought Allison was Kate?” he accuses the rest of them.

“He did,” Stiles says, realization dawning. “But now he thinks Allison is himself.” Lydia’s eyes widen, and she nods agreement. The others still look lost, though.

“Peter, right?” Lydia asks, looking to Stiles for confirmation. “Derek’s uncle. Derek trusted him? He did stuff that Peter told him to do?”

“Yeah. He did. I think he still does,” Scott speaks up, throat clicking when he swallows. The others are kind of getting it now. Isaac looks impossibly sad, and even Boyd and Erica’s frowns are more thoughtful than murderous.

Allison and Derek come back out of the kitchen. Her nose is red and her makeup has been running, but her eyes are dry. She goes straight for Boyd and Erica. Stiles thinks it’s because if she stops, she’ll lose her nerve.

“I’m really sorry for what I did to you,” she says in an earnest rush. “I know an apology is pretty useless, and maybe nothing will mean anything, but I just want you to know, I want to help you. And the Pack. Scott told me about the Alphas, and I want to help. If it’s OK with you,” she says to them, suddenly unsure. Erica and Boyd look at each other.

“You can help,” Boyd says slowly.

“But I still think you’re cray-cray,” Erica informs her, tossing her head in a fairly accurate impression of Lydia.

“That’s…fair,” Allison tells her dubiously. She turns to Scott.

“So how do these training sessions work?”

Derek ends up training Allison along with Lydia and Stiles in hand-to-hand combat, because as awesome as she is with long-range weapons, she doesn’t have a ton of formal self-defense training. Stiles feels smug about this for a moment, until he remembers that Allison used to do gymnastics. Yeah, turns out? She knows how to fall. She’s got that shit down. To add insult to injury, she promises to take them all out in the woods for archery training later that week. Stiles is pretty sure he secretly hates her.

Stiles can tell that Derek still isn’t totally comfortable with how to treat Allison. Like he wants to snarl at her and pet her all at once. It’s tough to have a cute little Mini-Me running around, who’s all adorable and badass, and once tried to kill you. It really screws with the emotions. Or so Stiles has heard.

The whole thing is just a little awkward, and when Stiles and Derek are both in the kitchen getting water at the same time, Stiles takes the opportunity to say, “So this is a little awkward, huh?” Derek just shrugs.

“Why did you agree to let her come in the first place? I’m surprised Scott’s wheedling actually worked.”

Derek shrugs again. “I’ve told him again and again to stay away from her. He doesn’t listen. If I tried to stop him from seeing her now, he wouldn’t listen. So I thought, if she were here, at least I could keep an eye on her. Stop her before he gets hurt.”

Stiles blinks at him. “That’s actually…really nice. Like, protective.”

“I’m his Alpha. That’s what it means. It’s not all yelling at people, you know,” Derek adds, his lips quirking in a half smile as he glances over to Stiles.

“No, that’s just the fun part, right?” Stiles asks, grinning at him. Derek lets out a surprised laugh at that. “Yeah, you’re so busted,” Stiles teases. “And now I know – you act all scary, but you’re just a huge pushover, aren’t you?”

Derek scowls at him. “I’m really not.” But Stiles just winks at him, thrilled with his new discovery that Derek secretly worries about Scott and schemes to protect him. It’s strangely adorable.

“Sure. Whatever you say,” Stiles laughs.

“Stiles!” Derek looks legitimately wounded that Stiles no longer finds him threatening. Derek is so weird.

“You don’t have to embrace her into the pack, you know,” Stiles tells him abruptly. “She’s not actually you. She might make different choices.” He’s not sure why, because he loves Allison, she’s awesome and funny and probably not actively trying to kill him. So it’s not like he wants to sabotage Allison here, but he’s not gonna lie, it made his heart clench a little to see Derek get all empathetic and shit, and suddenly throw all caution and usual Derek-y paranoia to the wind. Stiles wonders, if Derek is so busy protecting everyone from physical and emotional damage, who is going to protect Derek?

“I know,” Derek says tightly. “But her family is getting smaller. She should have a pack.” Derek is looking off sideways toward the ground, his jaw tight, and Stiles can’t see his full expression. He reaches out, and almost puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder, but he stops halfway. His hand hangs there for a little bit, before he slowly puts it down again. It’s not like they’re friends, not really.

“Anyway,” Derek says, visibly trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like Scott is a terrible judge of character.”

“He hated you,” Stiles reminds him. “It’s entirely possible he still hates you. You made his girlfriend cry.” Derek laughs at that.

“Like I said. Good judge of character,” he grins evilly. Stiles laughs back, loud and surprised. He always forgets that Derek is secretly funny.

***

For the following few weeks before the next full moon, the pack falls into a routine. They come to Derek’s house in the morning and train. Derek is kind of a bitch during this part, especially toward the humans. But now that Stiles knows Derek’s secret fluffy bunny identity, he thinks it’s just because Derek worries about them. Which is dumb, but Derek is kind of dumb.

Everyone has fallen into a somewhat uneasy truce, and as the days go by, Stiles can see all the pack members occasionally forgetting who they’re supposed to hate. When Stiles sees Scott teasing Derek about his abysmal music taste, and Derek actually laughing back, he almost dies from shock. Allison is still a lot quieter than usual when she’s around the werewolves, tense like she’s waiting for them to kick her out. This is fair, because sometimes they look like they want to kick her out. But then she had started teaching Erica how to shoot fire arrows, and now Erica is kind of obsessed with her in a way that maybe should make Scott and Boyd jealous.

In general in the mornings, the werewolves mostly work together, with Derek sometimes spending time correcting their technique or teaching them something more abstract about self-control and their wolfy instincts. But Derek spends most of his time with Stiles, Allison, and Lydia, because let’s be honest, they’re the ones who need the most help. Well, not Lydia or Allison so much as…just Stiles. Allison is obviously a natural. These sorts of skills are in her blood. And they quickly realize that hand-to-hand combat is just another thing Lydia excels at, so Derek alternates between praising the girls and looking despairingly at Stiles’ random flailing. The humans can’t fight all together, because Lydia and Allison just kick Stiles’ ass within two seconds, so Derek mostly lets the girls spar with each other, in order to focus on Stiles.

And Stiles, for his part, pretends his skin doesn’t crackle every time Derek touches him to correct his stance, because that would be incredibly pathetic.

If it were true. Which it isn’t.

“OK, so you have to try to break my grip, got it?” Derek is saying, three and a half weeks after their first lesson. “I’m gonna come onto you from behind. Slowly. And—what?” he stops, annoyed, because Stiles has started cracking up.

“You—you—” he giggles uncontrollably. He knows it’s juvenile. And yet.

“What? What just happened?” Derek turns to Lydia, legitimately confused. Lydia rolls her eyes.

“You made a sexual innuendo, and Stiles is apparently twelve,” she explains. Stiles can see Derek going back over the last two minutes of this conversation, trying to figure out – and there’s the moment he gets it. The look on his face just makes Stiles howl louder. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Derek blush before.

“That wasn’t—I wasn’t—” Derek is incredibly flustered.

“Dude, I know,” Stiles says, gasping for breath. “It’s a joke, chill.” He’s forgotten that Derek gets super uncomfortable whenever sex comes up, and how utterly hilarious it is.

“Right. Funny joke. Can we please get back to the choke-hold now?” Aaaand…Stiles is gone again. But even when he’s finally gotten control of himself somewhat, every time Derek goes in for the hold, Stiles starts giggling. Finally Derek throws up his hands.

“This is pointless. Let me know when you’re serious about learning how to not die.”

“Sorry, dude,” Stiles says, punching him on the shoulder a little. “It’s not my fault your sex face is hilarious. Um, I mean, that face where you’re thinking about sex.” Crap, that doesn’t make it better. “You know…” Stiles guesses turnabout is fair play, because now he’s mortified and Derek looks incredibly amused.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, rolling his eyes in a sort of unwilling fondness. “How’s this terminology? I’m going to try to kill you, and you try not to get killed. OK?”

“I think I can manage that,” Stiles squeaks.

***

Today, Stiles’ dad is working a late shift, and Derek’s paranoia has weakened in the face of constant begging, so they’re getting pizza delivered to the loft. They’re sprawled on the exercise mats, getting drippy tomato sauce all over themselves. Jackson is half-lying in Lydia’s lap, laughing as she tries to feed him pizza and misses. Erica and Boyd are teasing Scott about something, dancing away as he swats at them. Scott finally catches Boyd and tackles him to the ground, pizza going everywhere and Erica squealing. Allison is watching them and laughing brightly. Isaac is leaning on his side, his back pushed against Stiles’ legs.

Stiles learned very quickly that werewolves are incredibly grabby – or said more nicely, that physical touch calms them – and he’s gotten weirdly comfortable with it. He’s noticed that he and Lydia have started doing it as well, in a way that’s probably going to get them in trouble when they start nosing at strangers or something.

He smiles down at Isaac, kneeing him in the back a little so Isaac knows Stiles is paying attention to him. Stiles has also learned that werewolves can get bitchy if they think you’re not as thrilled about cuddling them as they are you. Or maybe it’s just that his pack is absurdly needy, and they constantly compete for attention like children. It doesn’t matter. Stiles kinda thinks they’re awesome for it. He glances up to Derek, still basking in all the happy Pack Vibes.

Derek is sitting by himself, a half-smile on his face as he watches the rest of them. When the pack starts playing, Stiles has noticed that Derek doesn’t really join in. He’s also noticed that the easy way the Betas touch each other doesn’t really apply to Derek – while they’re perfectly happy to drape themselves all over Stiles, there’s an uncomfortable deference between Derek and the Betas, like they’re not entirely sure how they’re supposed to treat him, and he’s not totally sure either.   

Stiles is always kind of sad when he notices this, because it reminds Stiles of how long Derek didn’t have a pack. Having your whole family die in a fire would kind of be a big deal to anyone, but now Stiles has realized it’s an even bigger deal for a werewolf. Impulsively, Stiles catches Derek’s attention and waves him over.          

“What?” Derek asks quietly, his eyes still crinkled in a smile as he comes over.          

“Apparently it’s cuddle time in the Hale household,” Stiles laughs up at him. Derek blinks, and Stiles’ smile falters. Did he, like, break this unspoken rule about how everyone is allowed to cuddle but Alphas, for they must only be broody and alone? Is this one of those hierarchy things he doesn’t understand? But after a beat, Derek lowers himself to sit next to Stiles. His shoulder is warm as he leans into Stiles a little and yeah, maybe Stiles had an ulterior motive. Or two.  

Derek is sitting really carefully and stiffly, like he’s not entirely sure Stiles won’t jerk away suddenly. Well, this is a lot more awkward than it was supposed to be. Isaac nudges against Stiles a little, clearly annoyed that Stiles’ attention has shifted to someone not him. Absently, he puts a hand in Isaac’s hair. Derek’s shoulder is solid against his, and Stiles can feel himself relaxing even more than before. Werewolves are definitely onto something with this whole ‘physical touch to de-stress’ idea. For a while, Stiles was pretty sure Isaac had just made it up.

“I can’t believe this is actually working,” Stiles says to Derek, uncoiled and happy. “Everyone in one pack. I kind of thought Scott would’ve killed you by now.”

Stiles can feel Derek’s laugh through his back. “Pretty sure it would have been me doing the killing,” Derek says.

“I dunno,” Stiles retorts. “Scott is scrappy. I think he can take you. Dude, I can practically feel you rolling your eyes right now.” Derek just laughs at him. Stiles can feel that too.

Chapter Text

After Scott’s run-in at the diner, they don’t see the Alpha pack again for a while. Stiles assumes they’re still lurking out there somewhere, assessing Derek’s pack, or planning some nefarious scheme. Stiles can tell it’s making Derek – who doesn’t even know about the diner encounter – extremely nervous. Derek doesn’t say anything about it, but there’s an air of wariness about him. He takes their training seriously, watching their progress with sharp, worried eyes, even though ‘sparring’ has frequently become ‘screwing around,’ without any immediate threat to hold the Betas’ attention.

While the rest of them do occasionally discuss the Alphas’ whereabouts, idly, like the Alphas are a distant and hypothetical problem, Scott is the only other person who actually seems concerned. He goes quiet and gets a small crinkle between his eyebrows whenever the issue comes up. Stiles isn’t sure exactly what that means.
 
For now, things are quiet, and Stiles tells himself that Derek and Scott are just paranoid. Jackson is actually learning some self-control in preparation for the nearing full moon, Erica and Lydia are starting to go out for coffee, Jackson and Isaac marathon Masterpiece Theater together, Scott and Allison have started making out again (to everyone’s combined delight and disgust, and nobody’s surprise), Boyd and Stiles have almost made it through the newest Halo game playing co-op, and Derek occasionally cracks a smile. In part, this is due to the little contest Stiles now has with himself where he times how long it takes him to make Derek laugh. But that is neither here nor there.

Lydia has gotten in the habit of sending Stiles enigmatic texts like Cancel your plans on Tuesday or Food court – 2pm which had led to an unfortunate incident in which Stiles had gone to the wrong mall and had sat in the food court for an hour, eating Cinnabon after Cinnabon as he and Lydia texted angrily back and forth about how they were each right there, how can you not see me?

And then once they had found each other, Stiles had mostly tripped over bargain racks and dropped expensive designer clothes on the ground as Lydia asked what felt like 50 obscure questions about the pedigree and stitching style of each garment. He understands better now why all mall workers scatter when they see her coming.

Stiles thinks, briefly and wonderingly, about the fact that a few months ago, he would have been overjoyed to be invited on these trips with Lydia – would have carried all her clothes and said awkward things about how beautiful she looked in each outfit she tried on. And how quickly that feeling had turned into a sort of fond exasperation, coupled with a desperate desire to flee.

Today, he had bullied Lydia into stopping in at the Lego Store, where they’d commandeered a Lego play table and worked on building a castle until they’d gotten into a vicious argument about whether the South Wing was architecturally stable, and a 5-year-old in a tiny dinosaur hoodie had run up and smashed it.

They’re still bickering about it, and Lydia is saying dire things about gale force winds, when they arrive at Derek’s for Pack Movie Night.

But Isaac and Jackson are already on the couch watching a movie when they step out of the elevator.

“A&E Pride and Prejudice,” Isaac says to their questioning looks.

“Six hours of perfection,” Jackson adds. Lydia looks outraged.

“Why is it that I can’t get you to watch Bridget Jones’ Diary if I beg, but you’ll watch this even longer, way more boring Colin Firth movie?”

“As if you’d ever beg,” Jackson scoffs, as Isaac simultaneously says, “I would watch Bridget Jones’ Diary!” with big hopeful eyes, and makes room for them on the couch.

“Anyway, it’s totally different,” Jackson adds. “Watch this next scene – the whole time, they’re not gonna say anything important, because social convention prevents it, but watch the way they convey emotion through details and what they don’t say.”

“Sounds boring,” Lydia sighs.

“It’s a compelling examination of the negotiation of romance constrained by etiquette,” Jackson snaps.

“Also Colin Firth is sometimes naked,” Isaac adds brightly.

“Really?” Lydia sits down on the couch, instantly intrigued.

“I guess, there’s those couple scenes where he’s bathing. Those are really important to the narrative, because they highlight the dichotomy between the public and private self—” Jackson starts.

“Mhm, sounds fascinating,” Lydia says, and leans forward to stare at the screen. Stiles comes over and drops onto the couch too, somewhat despite himself. There’s a moment of silence as they all watch the movie, clearly focused on drastically different aspects.

“So this guy—” Stiles says after a few scenes have passed.

“Mr. Darcy,” Isaac supplies, leaning against Stiles’ shoulder comfortably.

“Sure, whatever. So people say things to him, and he kinda stands there giving them meaningful looks until they get confused and go away? But it’s really because of all his suppressed feelings?”

“I guess…”

“So basically, he’s like Derek with sideburns, is what you’re saying.” Jackson gives him a wide-eyed look and Isaac stifles his giggles into his hand.

“You think Derek’s like the romantic lead in one of the most romantic stories ever told?” Jackson asks him incredulously. Stiles’ face flushes.

“Not…in every respect, but they’re both awkward, right, and glare their feelings?”

“Whatever you say, Lizzy Bennet,” Isaac says, and he and Jackson share a private, amused glance.

“Wait, which one is that again?” Stiles asks, feeling uncomfortably like he’s just missed something important.

***

Of course, it’s right around then when things start to go wrong.

For once, Stiles isn’t at Derek’s place. He’s at Scott’s, and the two of them are in the middle of some serious Avatar: The Last Airbender marathoning.  They hear the doorbell ring, and Scott vaults over the couch to go answer it. Stiles hears a loud, dull thud and then Scott’s footsteps speeding up.

“Stiles?” Scott calls, and Stiles can hear the tinge of panic in his voice. Stiles skids on his socks into view of the door, and nearly loses his balance. Scott is staring down helplessly at Boyd, who’s lying in the doorway, as if he fell in when Scott opened the door. He’s holding his chest and wheezing.

“Oh my God, what happened? Why aren’t you healing?” Scott is babbling.

“I…am,” Boyd gets out. “Was worse…before.” Stiles knows he’s just standing there dithering, but suddenly his mind has gone blank. What’s bad enough to hurt a werewolf that much?

“OK, we need to get him to Derek,” Scott says decisively. He puts one arm around Boyd’s shoulders, and Stiles hurries over to grab Boyd’s other side, and together, they haul him up to his feet. Boyd makes a gasping sound that Stiles thinks would have been a pained yell, if he had enough air to yell.

Stiles’ Jeep is parked in the driveway, and they manage to get Boyd in the backseat without all toppling over. His eyes are scrunched closed and he wheezes with every breath. And then Stiles remembers his keys, and he has to dash back into the house for the shoulder bag he’d brought to Scott’s before they can actually go.

Stiles drives a little recklessly, but his blood is pounding in his ears and he feels too dizzy to care if the car creaks a little bit on the turns. It’s only when he slams to a stop at a sudden red light and hears Boyd’s moan behind him that he forces himself to close his eyes for a moment, breathe, and then drive.

Scott is sitting in the backseat with Boyd, talking to him quietly. Stiles is pretty sure he hears Scott narrating the plot of the episode of Avatar they’d been watching, but it seems to be keeping Boyd calm enough for his breath to start evening out, so Stiles isn’t going to judge.

“I think it’s getting better,” Boyd finally rasps out about five minutes away from Derek’s apartment, just as Scott has launched into a convoluted explanation of metal-bending that Stiles is pretty sure is supported by neither the TV show nor actual science.

“And since iron is brown like dirt—oh my God, what happened? Was it the Alphas?” Scott switches with impressive speed from his Calm Voice to his Freakout Voice.

“No,” Boyd says, pausing between words to breathe. “Something else. I’m not sure what. I think it crushed both my lungs.”

“That sucks,” Scott says, which Stiles thinks is something of an understatement.

“How did you get to Scott’s?” Stiles asks.

“I was on my way there anyway. I wanted to return your Spider-Man comics. So I was walking over. And then I got jumped—literally,” Boyd says, frowning a little at the effort of saying so much at once.

“Man, that does suck,” Stiles says. “Especially if anything happened to those comics – they’re mint condition.” From a glance in the rear-view mirror, Stiles can tell that Boyd is raising an eyebrow at him.

“What?” Stiles exclaims. “You’re fine. And you’re a werewolf, you can heal. First editions can’t.”

“I’m touched,” Boyd says, still a little raspy.

When they arrive at Derek’s, Boyd can almost get out and walk into the elevator himself. At this point, he looks mostly shaken rather than in actual pain. He’s leaning heavily on Scott in the elevator, but to Stiles’ ears his breathing is normal again. Nevertheless, when the elevator doors clang open, Derek is half-inside before Stiles realizes he’s there.

“What did you all do?” he asks, voice flat and angry. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but then he sees the helpless way that Derek is getting all up in Boyd’s personal space like he kind of wants to touch him but won’t, so Stiles shuts up. Scott, however, gets a whiny, wounded look on his face. He squawks, “Nothing!” and shoves Derek aside so he can help Boyd onto the couch.

Stiles is left standing in the elevator alone with Derek; Derek, who’s watching Boyd with wide, helpless eyes. Before he realizes he’s done it, Stiles puts his fingers lightly around Derek’s wrist. Probably all that werewolf cuddling finally wearing off on him. Derek’s head whips around and it’s like his eyes are burning into Stiles’, and he suddenly looks so young. Stiles’ face heats up, but he ploughs on because it looks like Derek is about to break something expensive.

“It’s OK. Something attacked him, but he’s OK.”

“It’s not OK,” Derek seethes. “He’s not breathing right. I can hear it.”

“You guys can heal, Drama Wolf,” Stiles says lightly, even as his grip around Derek’s wrist tightens. Derek looks like he’s just going to keep hovering in the elevator all day, so Stiles tugs him into the room. To his surprise, Derek lets himself be pulled easily, more focused on tracking the small movements Boyd is making as he settles onto the couch. As they get closer, Stiles realizes he’s still holding on to Derek’s arm. He lets go abruptly and yanks his hand back, and the sudden movement causes Derek to falter. Derek blinks down at his now bare wrist for a moment, before his eyes rise to meet Stiles’. Stiles can’t read anything in his expression. It’s back to regular grouchy Alpha, and when he asks, “What happened?” it’s like he totally wasn’t just in the middle of a serious, silent freak-out.

“Something big, and really angry.” It’s Boyd who answers. “I was on the sidewalk near Scott’s house, just walking. It came at me from above; I think it had wings. But, like, also fur maybe? It shoved me from behind so I couldn’t see anything else. It was damn heavy though. It kinda trampled me. There were definitely claws involved at some point, too. I remember that because it hurt. And then it was gone, I think in the air again?”

“Not a werewolf then?” Derek asks, his eyebrows having risen steadily throughout Boyd’s entire explanation.

“Why, you know a lot of werewolves who can fly?” Boyd asks sarcastically. Derek growls.

 “If they had jet packs, they could,” Stiles interrupts. “Jet packs would totally work for that, right Scott?”

“Definitely,” Scott agrees. “Jet packs are super-useful in, like, practically any circumstance.”
 
“Man, I wish we had jet packs. We’d be unstoppable. Like, more unstoppable than we are now, because we’d be in the air.” He makes an arc movement with his hands, of the awesome shooting-into-space trajectory they’d take if they were wearing jet packs, his grin wide. “How cool would that be?”

“Can you please be serious for two seconds?” Derek barks.

Stiles feels a moment of hurt, but it barely crosses his face before he’s retorting, “I’m sorry, did your sense of humor crawl into an air duct somewhere and suffocate on its own angst?”

“Stiles, this is important! You need to stop distracting everyone.” Derek is glaring at him, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s being unjustly accused of something, but suddenly all he can focus on is the clench of Derek’s jaw, and the supremely unfair way Derek’s breathing has suddenly gone shallow. The truth is that Derek is the one who’s distracting. All the time. Whenever he’s in the same room, Stiles can feel him there, mouth going dry and hands feeling heavy and clumsy before Stiles has even consciously registered Derek’s presence. It’s annoying. Stiles wishes it would go away.

“I’m…actually not that distracted,” Boyd offers, giving Derek a strange look. Derek just scowls.

“Me neither,” Scott adds. “Well, actually, maybe I am. But I was thinking about jet packs before Stiles said anything. It was, like, an intuitive leap, dude.”

“Call the others,” is all Derek says, before he turns and practically stomps out of the room.

“Well that was weird,” Stiles says into the surprised silence that follows in Derek’s wake. “I’m not crazy, right, guys? That was totally weird? Like, even for Derek, weird?”

“Yeah…” Boyd says slowly, looking at Stiles with a quizzical expression. “Weird.”

“Totally,” Scott echoes.

 “All I know is, I’m pretty sure Derek just managed to make my pain all about him again,” Boyd grumbles, shifting on the couch.

“Eh, what else is new?” Scott asks lightly. But he goes to sit on the couch next to Boyd while he sends mass texts to the rest of the pack. Stiles is almost positive it’s so Boyd can lean against him without having to admit he actually wants to.

Isaac and Erica arrive first, together. Erica flings herself on Boyd with a sob the moment she gets in the door.

“Ow,” Boyd says mildly through her hair, but he strokes her back and doesn’t seem that bothered.

“You should have called me first,” she grumbles, wriggling a little so Boyd is now pressed between her and Scott.

“Sorry,” Boyd says, his hand still against her back.

“There wasn’t really a lot of thought involved,” Stiles offers. “It was mostly, ‘Aah, scary thing! Find thing that’s scarier than Scary Thing.’ Hence Derek.”

 “Yeah, but see, I am scarier,” Erica says, her eyes cold and her mouth widening just slightly.

“Yeah. I can see that,” Stiles says, and walks calmly in a totally non-fleeing manner into the kitchen. He whistles as he starts rifling through the pantry and fridge.
    
Now that Derek has decided that grocery shopping is something he does, he’s gone all-out with the enthusiasm. There’s always a ton of food bursting out of the seams of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Derek’s technique leaves a little to be desired. Stiles is pretty sure Derek’s preferred mode of shopping is to run through the aisles, knocking random things into his cart before skidding to a stop at the checkout counter. This is the only way he can rationalize why Derek would have come home with molasses, a huge leafy head of kale, condensed milk, lasagna noodles, an unpronounceable protein supplement, and one plum in a bag, all on the same trip. So foraging for food in this apartment is always a slightly disturbing adventure.
    
He comes back into the living room with a container of milk – of the non-condensed variety, duh – and a box of Cheez-Its. Isaac reaches for them happily, but Boyd smacks his hand away.
    
“I need to regain my strength,” he insists, mouth already full of Cheez-Its. They all sit on the couch together, drinking milk out of the carton until the others arrive. Jackson and Lydia come next. Jackson gives Boyd a once-over and shrugs.
    
“You look fine to me,” he says, while Lydia starts quizzing Boyd on the details of the creature he saw. She’s pulled out a notebook and pencils and is intently sketching to Boyd’s hesitant description when Allison walks in.
    
“Ugh, my dad picked the worst moment to start paying attention to me,” she complains, stopping by the couch to put her left hand on Boyd’s shoulder and simultaneously steal a handful of Cheez-Its with the right.
    
“Everything OK?” Scott asks, wiping away a milk mustache.
    
“Yeah, but they haven’t covered stuff like ‘kid’s boyfriend is a werewolf and mom died trying to kill him, and then grandfather turned evil and tried to kill everyone’ in Parenting 101. He’s being all awkward.”
    
“Better than lying,” Stiles tells her, and then crunches loudly on a Cheez-It so the moment doesn’t get weird. Allison sighs.
    
“I guess,” she says dubiously.
    
“OK, is this what you saw?” Lydia finally asks Boyd, spinning around her pad of paper with a flourish.
    
“Um…I guess?”
    
“That looks like a Furby,” Jackson says flatly. Stiles is glad Jackson said it so he doesn’t have to. Lydia narrows her eyes in outrage.
    
“He said fur and big ears, but with a beak and claws. That’s what it would look like. Maybe you should try, Jackson,” she hisses.
    
“Yeah, no, that’s pretty good,” Boyd says quickly, clearly hoping to break up the fight. “But maybe, like, the eyes should be a little less…adorable? More homicidal.”
    
“So an Evil Furby,” Jackson says straight-faced. Lydia throws the notepad at him.
    
“It definitely didn’t look like that drawing,” Boyd says quickly the minute Lydia’s stopped paying attention. Isaac raises his eyebrows at him.
    
“I dunno, Boyd, I hear those little guys can be pretty vicious,” Scott laughs.
    
“Shut up. I did not get beaten up by a Furby. It was huge and muscle-y, and—”
    
“Dude, maybe you should have tried rubbing its tummy to placate it,” Stiles contributes. Boyd growls at him, and Stiles passes over the box of Cheez-Its as a peace offering.
    
“And it wasn’t furry all over,” Boyd keeps trying to explain. “Just in parts. And like I said, it had these wings that were feathery, and talons. Like a hawk or something.”
    
“Oh.” Something clicks in Stiles’ mind. “So it was like, half-bird, half-something else? Something with fur?”
    
“Yeah, like I just said,” Boyd grumbles. But now the others are looking at Stiles.
    
“Scott and I spent way too long in a Knights of the Round Table phase in 4th grade,” Stiles explains to them, pulling his laptop out of his bag. “And I got really into heraldry, because I wanted our costumes to be historically accurate…anyway, it was a dark time for everyone. But in conclusion…is this what you saw?” Stiles turns the laptop screen to face everyone. Their eyebrows collectively shoot up.
    
“A griffon? You think Boyd got attacked by a griffon?” Isaac asks.
    
“Half-lion, half-eagle,” Stiles says proudly.
    
“That actually looks right,” Boyd says, grudgingly impressed. “I mean, like I said, I couldn’t really see it, but I think…yeah, maybe?”
    
“What’s a griffon?” Scott asks, looking confused.
    
“It’s a mythical creature; the King of the Beasts. Associated with strength and courage, it’s often depicted on coats of arms and in the statuary of buildings,” Lydia rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed that Stiles had beaten her to the creature identification. “It’s also half-lion, half-eagle,” she repeats grudgingly.
    
 “I win!” Stiles shoots his hands in the air and nearly sends his laptop crashing to the ground.
    
“I suppose, if you’re willing to make poor Boyd’s safety the subject of a competition,” Lydia begins primly.
    
“Huh, griffon, could be,” says a voice behind him. Stiles jumps and whirls around, almost falling out of his chair.

“Why,” is all he says. Derek just frowns at him, and then, without acknowledging Stiles’ totally legitimate complaint, turns to the group as a whole.

“Whatever it is, we need to find this thing. That’s our first priority. We’ll search in groups. Me and Scott, Erica and Boyd, Isaac and Jackson. If you pick up the scent, don’t get closer; text us and we’ll come regroup. If you see it, run away. Is that clear?” He stares down each of the Betas in turn, and waits for them each to slowly, reluctantly nod.

“Humans are on research. Allison, check in your grandfather’s bestiary. And see if there’s anything else at your house about griffons. But I don’t want your dad involved, understand?” She nods her head once, firm and competent. “Stiles and Lydia, work together on this. Remember it’s not a race.” Stiles and Lydia glance at each other.

“Of course not, Derek,” Lydia says with wide innocent eyes, before she mouths, “You’re going down!” behind Derek’s back. Stiles flips her off, which unfortunately, Derek does see.

“Stiles…” he begins dangerously.
    
“I’m taking this so seriously,” Stiles yelps. “I’m a paragon of seriousness. I’m as serious as…something really serious. Infanticide. Thomas Hardy novels. Syphilis.”
    
“Actually, syphilis is completely curable,” Lydia says, because she’s a know-it-all. “So if there’s anything you want to tell us…”

Stiles throws a Cheez-It at her.

***

For the rest of the day, he and Lydia are holed up in Derek’s apartment, both their laptops clattering furiously as they work. Lydia has a massive amount of books, which she’d bullied Isaac and Jackson into picking up from the library for her, spread around her like a fortress. Stiles, meanwhile, is sprawled on the floor inside a halo of snacks.

Lydia has her methods, Stiles has his.

Stiles has also gotten his police scanner out of his Jeep, listening in for any unexplained animal attacks that might come through. But it’s been silent all day.
    
They’ve been in texting contact with Allison, who’s reported no luck, and Lydia looks a little grim as she ties her hair away from her face in a businesslike ponytail.
    
“OK,” she says, after many more hours than Stiles wants to think about. “So I think we’ve got the mythology of these things pretty well-documented. Problem is figuring out which myths are right.”
    
“It stands to reason that the legends with the most accurate physical description are probably also right about the other stuff,” Stiles guesses. “And since that’s pretty much the only thing we know for sure…”
    
“I wouldn’t say ‘for sure,’” Lydia corrects him. “I’m still fairly convinced we’re facing an oversized Furby, Boyd’s sense of pride aside,” she giggles.

“Well, we can research that next. The good thing is, I’m not seeing anything reliable about them being hard to kill. So hopefully they’re just your everyday, run-of-the-mill, oversized mutant animal.”

“What a refreshing change of pace,” Lydia says with a sarcastic twist of her mouth.

“I dunno, with all this Alpha intrigue, I’m looking forward to some nice, simple evisceration,” Stiles answers. Lydia’s smile goes a little evil as she turns back to her computer screen.

“So. Found anything that might explain why it’s here?” Lydia asks.

“Um, well, this source says that griffons really like gold. Do we know of any buried treasure in Beacon Hills? They also symbolize Jesus, apparently? Like, ‘cause they’re divine and terrestrial at the same time. Ooh, maybe it’s the Second Coming! That would be cool.”
    
“Hmph,” Lydia says. “I’m seeing stuff about griffons symbolizing vengeance, and going after people who persecute Christians.”
    
“OK, that does seem more plausible for us,” Stiles admits. “Though I can’t think of any Christians that we’ve been particularly responsible for persecuting.”
    
“Aww, they mate for life, how cute!” Lydia says.
    
“Ugh, no, does that mean there might be two?” Stiles groans. Lydia frowns.
    
“Hm, that’s a good point. There seem to be clear differences between male and female anatomy, so if there are two, we should be able to tell them apart.” And she dives back into the research with a vengeance, flipping through book pages faster than Stiles can see.

***

The others come back a while later, having had no luck.
    
“I didn’t smell anything,” Scott is complaining to Derek as he walks through the door. “Not even where it attacked Boyd!” Derek looks equally grumpy.
    
“We’ll just have to keep looking,” he says.

Scott groans. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Once the rest of the pack is back at the apartment, Stiles and Lydia update them.

“We think it’s a female,” Lydia starts. “Traditionally, they have wings. Male griffons don’t.”

“There were definitely wings,” Boyd grumbles, at the same time that Derek asks, “Is this really important?”

“All knowledge is important,” Lydia says primly. “And anyway, that’s the only concrete thing we’ve been able to figure out, so you’d better appreciate it.” Derek gives her a dark look, and Stiles hurriedly moves the conversation along.

Everyone is a lot more sympathetic to Lydia’s vengeance theory than Stiles’ Jesus one, which Stiles chalks up to a general lack of imagination, and calls them all Pharisees until they make him shut up.

“Maybe this is an ancient, long-forgotten curse on the entire city of Beacon Hills, finally coming to pass,” is Stiles’ next theory. “Maybe there’s an ancient Indian burial ground—”

“There’s not,” Derek interrupts shortly.

“You’re, like, zero fun this close to the full moon, you know,” Stiles informs him. Derek looks kind of like he wants to bite him, and Stiles hides behind Scott until he’s judged it safe.

That evening, Stiles doesn’t stay as late as he usually does, having decided that several hours stuck in Derek’s research-dungeon of an apartment is enough for one day. And so he’s the first to leave, along with Isaac. They’re having an Epic Bro Night, which really means that everyone else has plans with their significant others, and Stiles and Isaac are going to drown their loneliness in Grand Theft Auto and gallons of orange soda.

When they get outside, Isaac goes abruptly tense beside him, his arm shooting out to grab Stiles before he can go any further. It’s just late enough that the sun has mostly set, so the shadows catch at odd angles on Derek’s building and the parking lot is hazy in the half-dark.

“There’s something—” Isaac says, his eyes widening. “Get behind me.”

“What is it?” Stiles says, twisting a little in his grip as he squints into dark corners, looking for whatever caught Isaac’s attention.

“Stiles,” Isaac says with a warning hiss, trying to shove him backwards. “Go back inside.”

“Is it the griffon?” Stiles asks, ducking under his outstretched arm.

“Get inside,” Isaac says again, just as one of the shadows becomes vaguely person-shaped. Isaac goes completely still. One of the Alphas – not Douchecanoe, but one of the others – saunters toward them. He stops in the center of the parking lot, and grins at them both.

“Not a griffon, exactly. Why, were you expecting one? That’s odd. How did a griffon find itself all the way in Beacon Hills, of all places?” the Alpha says, his voice edged with laughter. Isaac growls and moves firmly in front of Stiles, letting his claws lengthen. The Alpha laughs outright then, and lifts his still-human fingers in a fluttering wave before turning and loping away werewolf-style.

Stiles sighs and turns to Isaac. “Wow, when these guys decide to menace, they really commit. How long do you think he was waiting there, just to deliver that one line?” Stiles asks with an impressed shake of his head. “I think they might need a hobby,” he adds, but Isaac doesn’t laugh. He’s still staring at the place where the Alpha used to be, his back rigid and his claws still extended.

“Isaac?” Stiles asks uncertainly. Isaac takes in a loud, gulping breath, and turns to face Stiles, his eyes wide.

 “You should’ve run – I couldn’t have protected you from him—” he says painfully, like it’s a sudden realization, the fact that werewolf powers don’t make you invincible.

“Didn’t ask you to,” Stiles says lightly. But Isaac still looks pale and somewhat horrified, so Stiles thumps him on the back and says, “I think we could’ve taken him. You, with your super-strength and speed, and me, with my witty banter! Between the two of us, we make up, like, one complete action hero!”

Isaac draws in another ragged breath that might be part laugh, and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. And then, more firmly, “yeah.”

***

When Stiles and Isaac get home, his dad’s already there, eating Chinese takeout. There’s a container of lo mein on the counter for Stiles, and he makes a happy noise before digging in. Isaac looks at his own carton of sesame chicken in vague surprise, and says, “Thank you, Mr. Stilinski,” very formally before taking a couple of careful bites.

“Busy day?” Stiles asks his dad, mouth full of noodles.

“Nope,” his dad answers. “Usual stuff.” Stiles frowns, and then too-late remembers that’s supposed to be good news rather than puzzling. It’s not like his dad knows there’s a random attack-griffon flying around that should be, you know, doing some attacking. His dad looks at him quizzically.

“Oh, well, I’m just surprised ‘cause I thought…isn’t this the time of year that we usually get some pretty bad animal attacks?” Stiles blurts out. Isaac chokes on a bite of rice. Let it never be said that Stiles is subtle.

“Not…really?” his dad says, cocking his head at Stiles’ innocent look and Isaac’s red face.

“Huh. Interesting,” Stiles answers, and stuffs some more lo mein in his mouth before he can say anything else stupid.

Stiles texts Lydia a little later, when Isaac has gone home and he’s up in his room getting ready for bed.

To: Lydia –
I think it’s going after specific people

To: Lydia –
Vengeance against Boyd, maybe?

To: Stiles –
What for?

To: Lydia -
??? Also, I think the Alphas are responsible somehow?

To: Stiles –
Wonderful.

Stiles sighs and tries not to think about it too much as he’s falling asleep.

Chapter Text

The next day – three mornings before the full moon, as Stiles knows because he has full moon nights marked in big red Sharpie on his calendar – they find out that it’s not just Boyd the griffon has a problem with.

They’ve renewed their efforts from the day before, the werewolves on patrol and the humans on research. A little after lunch, Jackson stomps in trailing Isaac, who looks concerned.

“We found the griffon. It sucks. Let’s kill it,” Jackson grits out, before he stomps into the kitchen. Stiles can hear him banging things onto the counter and slamming cabinets. They turn to look at Isaac quizzically.

“It scratched his Porsche,” Isaac sighs.

“Ooh, uh oh,” Lydia says, and hurries into the kitchen to calm Jackson down.

“It also scratched us,” Isaac tells Stiles and Allison. “But I think he’s less pissed about that part.”

“Naturally,” Stiles says, quirking his eyebrows at Allison, who can’t help a small grin.

“Are you both OK?” she asks Isaac.

“Yeah, we healed. It hurt though,” Isaac says. “Look what it did to my jeans.” He shows them a painful-looking gash down the fabric on one of his thighs. Although his skin is unbroken now, Stiles still winces in sympathy.

“Derek and the others are coming back,” Isaac says. “It found us when we’d gotten out of the car to fill up the tank, but it couldn’t get a good vantage point with the gas station overhang, so it couldn’t do too much damage.”

“It did enough!” Jackson shouts from the kitchen, and Stiles can hear Lydia talking to him in soothing tones.

“Weird thing is, Scott was right. Even right after, when we knew its scent and everything, we couldn’t follow it. I guess since it’s in the air…” Isaac shrugs.

Lydia comes back into the room, and gives Stiles a significant look.

“Still nothing on the police blotter?” she asks, nodding at the still-quiet radio on Derek’s table.

“You know there hasn’t been,” Stiles answers, and Lydia frowns thoughtfully.

“Huh?” Isaac asks.

“We think the griffon is targeting werewolves, but we’re not sure why,” Lydia explains.

“Only Boyd, and now you and Jackson, have seen it or been hurt by it,” Stiles continues. “Everyone else in Beacon Hills? Nothing. And you’d think people would notice if a huge winged beast was cruising around town.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Allison says thoughtfully. “Except, any idea why?”
    
“None whatsoever,” Lydia admits.

Derek, when he hears about the newest attack and about Stiles and Lydia’s theory, puts the werewolves on house arrest. None of them are happy about it.

“But my mom,” Scott is whining, while Jackson mutters something dire about getting his Porsche fixed.

“This is not up for discussion,” Derek barks. “You’re all staying here.”

“It’s true, you guys, haven’t you ever seen Scooby Doo? You don’t split up if you know the monster’s coming for you,” Stiles tells them earnestly. Erica just growls at him.
    
“You’re only making jokes because Derek said the humans don’t count,” she says resentfully.
    
“Yup!” Stiles answers. “See you guys tomorrow!”

The next day is almost unbearable. Even though they’re allowed to leave, Lydia, Stiles, and Allison still have to spend most of the day in Derek’s apartment, because they’re still trying to figure out how to track a griffon, and maybe also what it wants. And not only is it the day before the full moon, but all the werewolves are cooped up in a tiny apartment. At certain points, Stiles is honestly afraid for his own safety.
    
Even taunting people about how he gets to go outside loses its charm when the werewolves figure out, with a certain savage deviousness, that they can send him on errands. After the third time Jackson makes Stiles go to his house to get a toothbrush, or a book, or a very specific shirt that Stiles is convinced doesn’t actually exist, he complains to Derek. But Derek is entirely unsympathetic. Maybe because Stiles had spent all that time taunting them, but still. It isn’t fair.
    
He goes home that night almost as pissy as the werewolves.

***

The next morning is even worse. They’ve made absolutely no progress with research, and it’s the morning of the full moon, so all the werewolves are extra grumpy and emotional. They’re lolling around Derek’s apartment and snapping half-heartedly at each other. Derek, who at first had used training as a way to let them work off the excess energy of being stuck in one room for 48 hours, has now suspended training because he’s concerned that someone will lose control if they get pushed too far. Even he seems a little ruffled, maybe because of the influence of half a dozen PMS-ing Betas.

“Do you guys want, like, ice cream or chocolate or something? Chocolate’s good for this kind of stuff, right?” he asks Lydia and Allison.

“Shut up, Stiles,” says literally everyone in the room, including the girls, who are rolling their eyes at him.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “You guys suck. Come get me when you’re all fun again.” He grabs his bag and his sweatshirt and clatters out of the house. He may or may not be trying to passive-aggressively make as much noise as possible, in the face of the werewolves’ heightened full moon senses. If he were, though, he’d be rewarded by a collective wince when he “accidentally” slams open the elevator door with a clang.

“Aah, go away!” Jackson whines, putting his hands over his ears. Stiles grins at him savagely and pulls the elevator door shut with a crash.

“I hate you. So. Much.” he hears Jackson say through the door before the elevator starts moving down.

“Same,” Stiles mutters. He’s still slamming things around as he gets into his Jeep, shifting gears a little more violently than he usually would. Werewolves are the worst. Why couldn’t he have normal friends? Like Danny. Maybe he should start befriending Danny, and they can do normal friend things all day and it would be totally awesome.

Stiles is just listing off all the cool things that people who aren’t werewolves can do – play hide-and-go-seek without cheating, go out on full moons, occasionally lose tests of physical strength – when something large and heavy crashes into the top of his Jeep. Stiles curses as the car swerves, squealing, off the road. Luckily it lands in a bush, but Stiles’ seatbelt still jolts painfully against his chest and knocks his breath out of him. And now there is a thing-shaped dent in the Jeep’s roof, and – oh holy hell, what is that!?

It’s in front of the Jeep now. It’s huge and golden and blinding, and at first Stiles thinks he hit his head, because his vision seems blurred. It keeps slipping in and out of focus like an optical illusion. It seems like an eagle, he can see the powerful wings and the beak, and definitely the talons. But then his perspective shifts, and no, it’s definitely some sort of lion, its hind legs poised to spring and tail lashing.

“Shit, you’re a griffon,” Stiles squeaks aloud, still gasping to recover from the seatbelt-shaped punch to the chest. “Shitshitshit, you’re the griffon. You attacked Boyd, and Jackson and Isaac!” He has no idea if the griffon can understand him, but he’s stuck in a little metal box that apparently crumples in the face of danger, so maybe if his voice, like, mildly disconcerts it for a second? That would be good.

The griffon cocks its head at him, and then roars.

“Oh dear God,” Stiles chokes out, and frantically tries to put the Jeep in gear. It whines worryingly before turning over, and Stiles is pretty sure he takes the entire bush with him when he reverses, but he doesn’t care. The car is moving, and that’s what matters. With another roar, the griffon launches itself after him, slamming into the side of the car. It skids a bit, but Stiles manages to keep it on the road.
    
He can see the griffon in his rear-view mirror, its wings spread wide over the entire road and its beak snapping at him as it follows. It seems to have gotten especially pissed that it couldn’t break through the Jeep, so now it’s just chasing him.

Well, that doesn’t actually make it better, because eventually Stiles is pretty sure he’s gonna have to stop driving. There’s a roar in his ears, and at first he doesn’t realize where he’s going – his primary goal is just to get the fuck out of wherever he currently is. But through his panic he notices something familiar, and realizes he’s driving back to Derek’s apartment, the way he came.

And that’s…actually not a terrible plan. Even pissy and lame, the werewolves are still a much better bet for fighting this thing than Stiles. He really wishes this wasn’t all going down right before the full moon, but hey, what can you do?

As he speeds up to Derek’s apartment, he hopes that the werewolves’ heightened senses will pick up the unnatural rattling sounds his Jeep is making and figure out what’s up, but just in case they don’t, he yells “Guys, there’s a big-ass griffon coming your way!” For good measure.

He skids to a stop in Derek’s parking lot and flings himself out of the car. For once, Derek’s stupid training is actually good for something, because the minute he hits the pavement he’s already up and running toward the front door.

He can feel the wind rush behind him as the griffon swoops down, can feel its talons graze his back, but then he’s in the door. The doorway is too small for the griffon, and Stiles pauses a minute to catch his breath in Derek’s foyer as the griffon smashes against the front of the building.

After a particularly alarming creaking noise, which suggests really bad things about the structural integrity of Derek’s entryway, Stiles gasps and punches the elevator door.

“I’m coming up!” Stiles shouts up into the elevator shaft, hoping that the werewolves aren’t stupid enough to be waiting to maul whatever comes out of the elevator the minute the door opens.

They don’t maul him, but they’re all upright and alert, their hackles raised and growling. Stiles recognizes an attack pattern that they’d been practicing in one of their scrimmages earlier this week. When they see Stiles, Derek breaks formation to lunge at him, grab him by the collar, and drag him painfully into the room.

“Are you hurt?” Derek asks harshly, his hands suddenly warm and everywhere, on Stiles’ shoulders, at his side, tilting his chin roughly.

“The griffon,” Stiles gasps, still sucking in breaths harshly. “It’s downstairs. It’s big as fuck, and it crashed my Jeep--”

“Stiles, are you hurt?” Derek interrupts, growling at him, one hand gripping his arm painfully and the other firm on the back of his neck.

“Huh? N-no,” Stiles says, wondering why Derek is focusing on him when there is an enormous fucking griffon about to eat them all. “Dude, are you even listening to me? It’s downstairs. I don’t think it can get up; it was having trouble with the front door. Soon it’s gonna realize the windows, though. That’s where it’ll come in, you know that, right Derek?”

“Yeah, I know,” Derek says shortly, his hands dropping quickly back down to his sides. He rounds on the others, talking low and fast. “I’ll be bait, the first thing it sees. While it’s distracted, Scott and Boyd come from the sides. Erica and Isaac, you’ll be on either side of the window, ready to attack from behind once it’s in the room. Jackson, on the stairs. You wait there. If we need you, or if you have a good vantage point to attack from above, that’s when you join in.”

“Derek, it’s so close to the full moon, I don’t know if I can--” Jackson says shakily.

“You’ll have to,” Derek interrupts, his voice fierce. “But only if we need you, OK Jackson?”

“Yeah, OK,” Jackson agrees, his face still pale and scared.

“What about us?” Stiles asks, and Allison and Lydia nod.

“You three, in the kitchen. Stay there.”

Their response is immediate and loud. “You’re joking,” Lydia bursts out, just as Stiles says, “Like hell we will,” and Allison growls, “Not gonna happen.”

“No. We don’t have time for this. Go in the kitchen, or I will put you there myself.” Derek’s eyes flash and he lets his teeth and claws deliberately lengthen. They open their mouths to keep arguing, but Scott pleads, “Allison,” and Stiles knows the battle is lost.

“Fine!” she says, but she stomps over to the corner to grab her bow first. Derek makes a move toward her, but she rounds on him.

“In case it kills you all and makes it into the impenetrable fortress that is the kitchen, I assume I’m allowed to defend myself?” Her voice is high and a little too loud.

“It’s OK, Allison,” Lydia starts, but she’s glaring at Derek when she says it. “We can just throw cans of baked beans at it until it runs away. Winning plan, everyone. Go team!” She tosses her hair furiously as she stomps into the kitchen, Allison following without another glance back at the others.
    
Stiles is still there, his mouth open, unable to argue but equally unable just leave them. Derek is turned toward him, and it’s only because he’s about to yell at Stiles that when the griffon bursts through the window, the shards of glass fly into his side rather than his face.

And everything suddenly seems to be happening in slow-motion: Derek’s eyes widening in surprise and pain, the others yelling, the glass tinkling to the ground. And suddenly Stiles is halfway across the room, running towards Derek. The griffon appears out of nowhere, planted in front of Derek, it’s beak flashing angrily, and Stiles barely manages not to skid into it. Scott flies at it from the side, crashing into its wing and distracting it long enough for Derek to struggle up and shout, “Stiles, go now!” before rounding on the griffon and swiping down its front in a burst of red that, briefly, solidifies the griffon’s shifting fur and feathers into something clear and solid. Stiles goes.

He dashes into the kitchen, slamming shut the door and leaning against it for good measure.

“Well, griffon’s here,” he says brightly to Lydia and Allison, who are staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Yeah. We kinda got that,” Lydia grumbles at him. She turns to Allison. “So what’s the plan?”

“What?” Stiles asks, mouth dropping open.

“Please, did you really think we were gonna sit here like children?” Lydia scoffs. Stiles grins at her. He loves his friends.

“OK, so Allison has a bow, and we have…we have…” he looks around the room, and comes up triumphant a moment later.

“A frying pan?” Lydia asks dubiously. Allison snorts with laughter.

“Dude, haven’t either of you seen Tangled? Frying pans are totally badass.”

“I know, that’s why I’m laughing, Rapunzel,” Allison grins at him. Stiles sticks his tongue out at her and clutches the frying pan closer.

“OK then,” Lydia says, clearly deciding this discussion isn’t worth it. “Well, what about me? You know that throwing cans thing was just a joke, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s not the worst idea,” Allison says slowly. Lydia sighs.

“I really need to get a flamethrower or something,” she grumbles, collecting cans from the pantry and weighing them in her hand.

“Stiles, check what’s going on outside,” Allison orders. They’ve been hearing crashes, growls, and occasional yelps of pain, but it’s all been jumbled together. Stiles opens the door a crack and peeks outside. Allison stands behind him with her bow ready.

“OK, I can’t really see anything. Oh, there’s the griffon – a little bloody, but still looks like it’s going strong. I think Derek is trying to make it chase him, so the others can attack. And I can’t see them any more. Except Jackson, he’s still watching through the railings on the spiral stairs – shit.”

“What?” Lydia asks quickly.

“He’s jumped down. So that means it’s going pretty badly for us.”

“OK,” Allison says decisively. “We’ll wait until it comes closer. And then we’ll surprise it.”

“Got it,” Lydia says, her mouth set in a grim line, hefting what looks like a can of tuna.

“No, don’t throw that,” Stiles says to her, flapping his hands at the can. “I was gonna make tuna melts later. Do the peaches, nobody likes those.”

“Seriously?” Lydia stares at him. “Fine, whatever.” She switches out the cans.

“OK, OK,” Stiles hisses at them, waving his hands behind him to get their attention. “It’s coming back over. Its back is turned. It’s rearing up and lifting its wing like it’s gonna smack someone…Damn it, Scott’s on the ground.”

“Move,” Allison snaps, sending him sprawling to the floor and yanking open the door in one fluid motion. Now Stiles can see Scott properly, eyes wide and scrabbling to get out of the way of the griffon before its powerful wing comes crashing toward him.

The arrow appears, embedded in the muscle between wing and body, as if it had sprouted from inside the griffon’s feathers. It squawks and falters, spinning clumsily. Allison is already out the door, another arrow notched in her bow, moving faster than the griffon can really track. It almost trips over itself trying to keep her in its sight. The next arrow hits it in the chest.

The arrows are small, and probably feel more like pinpricks than grievous wounds, but it seems to annoy the griffon enough to distract it. Scott is already back up and rushing toward it.

Stiles takes a moment to assess what’s going on in the room, now that he can see it fully. Most of the werewolves are up and moving, just slower than usual. As Stiles watches, the griffon claws a bright line of blood down Erica’s chest, and she crumples. Jackson is still standing, but he’s in the corner nearest to Stiles, biting his lip savagely, struggling not to lose control. And lastly, there’s Derek, who looks the worst of all of them, and is currently moving toward Stiles.

“Don’t--” he starts. But Stiles just grins at him, hefts the frying pan in his hand, and he’s off toward the griffon before he has a chance to fully realize how stupid it is. But Derek is faster. He reaches Stiles before Stiles reaches the griffon, grabbing him around the chest and hauling him back. The griffon turns at the movement to face them. Now they’re all in a line, the griffon, Stiles and Derek, and then Jackson in the corner. Allison is aiming her bow, but she seems afraid that she’ll hit one of them instead of the griffon, because she isn’t shooting. The griffon makes a darting motion with its head, and lunges forward.

“Shit,” Stiles squeaks, and dives out of the way. Derek, who’s still holding on to him, off-balances, and Stiles’ awesome would-be roll ends up with both of them tangled together on the ground. Stiles is pretty sure Derek gets it in the face with the frying pan at least once.

He’s so preoccupied with the challenge of standing up, he almost doesn’t notice the stand-off that is now happening next to them, until the griffon makes a squawky noise, crouching low and staring at Jackson. Jackson is frozen in the corner, staring back.

And then Jackson howls.

“Crap,” Stiles says, and wrenches himself away from Derek, trying to put as much distance between himself and Jackson as possible. And then something small, with red hair flying everywhere, is between the griffon and Jackson.

“Stay away from him, you overgrown Furby,” Lydia yells. Something glints in her hand, and suddenly red is spurting from the griffon’s chest, where there’s a knife hilt buried in it. It howls in combined rage and pain, and knocks Lydia halfway across the room. She lies where she falls.

“Lydia!” Stiles shouts and starts running, but it’s useless; the griffon is bounding after her, it’s almost on top of her, it’s leaning down and its beak is almost at her throat.

Which is close enough to the ground that Stiles can swing the frying pan like a tennis racket and bring it crashing against its skull. There’s a sickening crack, and the griffon crumples. But Stiles’ momentum sends him smack into it, and they both tumble off Lydia. The griffon is lying on the ground, conscious but momentarily dazed. Stiles rolls away, just in time for Derek, roaring, to put his claws through the griffon’s throat. Blood goes everywhere. The griffon is suddenly still.

Stiles gets shakily up off the ground. Derek is standing over the griffon, covered in blood and breathing heavily. There’s a moment of quiet, the wounded werewolves healing quickly and picking themselves up, all of them watching Derek, who’s staring at the griffon, chest heaving. Stiles glances around the living room, and winces. There’s blood on the floor, dents in the wall, and broken glass everywhere. It crunches every time anyone moves. Any wooden furniture is now just splinters, and the couch looks like someone sent it through a meat grinder. Stiles is briefly thankful that someone had thought to move the TV before all this started.

The moment of quiet is abruptly broken by Allison’s bow dropping to the ground with a clatter as she runs toward Lydia. Lydia’s eyes are closed, something dark smeared against her halo of blazing hair. Stiles draws in a shaky breath when he sees her, and he gets to Lydia at the same time as Allison, just as she opens her eyes and struggles to sit up.

“Shh,” Allison says, stroking the side of her head that doesn’t have a gash in it, and gently pulling her back down to the ground. “It’s OK, everyone’s OK.” Stiles tears his eyes from Lydia’s for long enough to confirm it – all the werewolves are pretty much fully recovered by now, though they all look kind of tired and unhappy.    

“Jackson?” Lydia asks in a small voice, and Stiles grabs her hand. Her fingers are warm and alive against his, and something in him relaxes.

“He’s fine,” Stiles says, squeezing her hand. Her wide eyes manage to focus on his face, and she looks confused.

“Stiles?” she asks.

“Hey, you remember my name, that’s a good sign,” he jokes quietly. “How did you even get a knife?” he asks.

“Kitchen,” Lydia says dizzily. “Better than peaches.”

“True. I guess maybe we should’ve thought of that first,” Allison laughs quietly.

There’s a small noise behind them, and Jackson’s voice is suddenly closer than Stiles expected, and jarringly loud.

“What the hell, Lydia?” Jackson bursts out. Lydia’s eyes go wide, and her face crumples. “God, do you ruin everything, or is it just my whole life?” Allison’s mouth has dropped open, and Stiles turns, impossibly slowly, to face Jackson. He’s so angry he’s shaking, and it’s like he’s floating above them all, just watching this train wreck happen.
    
“I would’ve had him until you got in the way,” Jackson continues furiously. “Why are you always in the way--”

“Jackson!” Derek interrupts harshly, in his best Alpha voice. Jackson turns toward Derek, mouth open angrily. But before Stiles knows it, he’s right next to Jackson, yanking at his arm. He’s not sure why Jackson goes with him – maybe surprise, maybe to escape Derek, maybe because he wants to beat up on an easy target. But he goes, and soon they’re out of the room, alone in the kitchen. All the other wolves can still hear, and they’re most certainly listening right now, but Stiles doesn’t care.
    
“You’re going to get her killed.” Stiles’ voice is flat, and he doesn’t quite recognize it. He thinks it comes from the same place as his swooping concern, his need to check on Lydia constantly, his need to touch her to make sure she’s still there.
    
“Yeah, well we all know what you think, Stilinski.” Jackson’s face is twisted and ugly. “It’d be just perfect for you if I dumped her, wouldn’t it, because then you could finally make your move. As if we all don’t know about your stupid crush, it’s pathetic--”
    
“No,” Stiles says. He may not quite know where this is coming from, but he knows it’s right. “Honestly, Jackson, if you think that, you’re a bigger dumbass than you look. And that’s super hard. You’re gonna get her killed because no matter what you do to her or where you go, she will always follow. She protects you, whatever the cost. Personally, I’d rather she didn’t.” Stiles grins up at Jackson then, letting the absolute, furious contempt he has for Jackson right now come out in the curl of his smile.

“But when something bad happens – and this is Beacon Hills, hotbed of supernatural mayhem, so you know it will – when she saves you, there sure as hell better be someone there to save her back. So decide, Jackson. In or out, right now. Because if you keep jerking her around like you’ve been doing, eventually she’s gonna follow you somewhere bad. And when that happens – when she dies because you’re too busy bitching at her to care – that’ll be on you.”
    
Abruptly, Stiles is all out of words. But Jackson looks stricken, like he hasn’t actually thought his actions had any consequences (because he’s a stupid tool, Stiles thinks savagely). Stiles can’t even look at his stupid face any more, and he suddenly remembers he needs to check on Lydia, so without another word, he turns on his heel and goes back in to the others. He slams open the kitchen door on the way out, but Jackson doesn’t even flinch.
    
Stiles makes a beeline for Lydia, who looks pale and drawn but otherwise intact. She’s sitting up now, blinking like she’s still dazed. Scott is there too, hands steady on Lydia’s chin as he checks the side of her head. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac look a little shell-shocked. He can almost see them wondering why Jackson of all people is worth all this effort. Stiles is inclined to agree. Scott looks up at him with a funny expression on his face, like he’s kind of impressed, and also like he wished he was the one who got to yell at Jackson. Stiles glances briefly over at Derek, who is still covered in blood and just looks annoyed. Of course.

Stiles turns back to Lydia, dropping a hand lightly against her bright hair and crouching down to look her in the eye.
    
“Next time, Lyds, I think maybe running away from the scary things with claws should be the winning plan, don’t you?”
    
“Bite me, Stilinski,” she retorts, leaning into his hand. He draws it down to cover her cheek, and when she opens her eyes again, Stiles can see tears. He has never hated Jackson more than in this moment.

Stiles chances a look up at Derek again. Derek is looking at him back, but his face is blank. Not that Stiles expects a ‘thank you’ for totally doing all the Jackson-chastising and Lydia-comforting that the Alpha should have been doing if he wasn’t too busy remaining emotionally unavailable. But total lack of any acknowledgement is a little much. Or…not much? Or something. Either way, Stiles decides to ignore him.

Just then, Jackson is back in the room, slow and hesitant. He glances a question at Stiles, and Stiles gives him a level look before moving out of the way and letting him kneel down by Lydia. When he comes into her view, Lydia bites her lip and sniffs wetly. Jackson’s hand, when he swipes a thumb across Lydia’s cheek, is impossibly gentle.

“You shouldn’t keep saving me,” he says quietly, and Lydia looks stricken. “I don’t care about getting hurt, but I care about you--” He stops, like he’s hit up against his feelings-sharing limit for the day. But it’s a start, and Stiles can see Lydia’s whole body relax into his, and the way Jackson lets her. Allison and Scott are giving each other disgustingly sappy looks over their heads, and Stiles can’t help it – he does a little fist-bump in the air and turns to grin at Derek. Because he’s totally the most awesomest matchmaker ever.

But Derek isn’t even paying attention, now. Actually, he’s looking down at the dead griffon that’s getting all gross on the floor at his feet, and oh yeah. Stiles forgot about that. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac, clearly not as invested in Lydia and Jackson’s relationship drama as everyone else, are inching closer to the corpse as well.

“Think we should bury it?” Isaac asks, eyes wide as he stares at it. It looks even bigger now that it’s splayed out on the floor.

“This is when it’s nice to live in the woods,” Boyd says.

“We could burn it,” Erica suggests. “Like, bonfire style.”

“No,” Derek says harshly. “We’ll take it to the woods.”

“Um, how?” Stiles asks.

“In a tarp. In a car.”

“How in the hell are we gonna get a tarp—oh, duh. Of course you have a tarp just lying around your apartment. How silly of me.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and Derek glares at him.

“We’re taking your car,” he says before he stalks off, presumably to rifle through his tarp collection. Stiles wonders what he’s being punished for this time.

Chapter Text

Jackson drives Lydia to the hospital to make sure she’s not concussed. Stiles is pretty sure he’s just avoiding griffon burial duty, which does kind of suck. It takes all of their werewolf-y efforts combined to roll the griffon onto the tarp, and Stiles squawks when he nearly gets slashed by a lolling talon.

“Stiles and I will go in the Jeep, the rest of you follow in Allison’s car,” Derek commands as they’re dragging the tarp over to the elevator.

“Um, before you go, you think you wanna clean up a bit there? You’re looking a little Dexter,” Stiles says, encompassing the bloody, tattered, glass-covered mess that is Derek in one meaningful hand gesture. “The Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department is occasionally competent, you know. And I’ve heard they get suspicious when gory ex-murder suspects drive around with corpses in tarps.” Derek rolls his eyes, but he goes. They hear the shower turn on upstairs, and listen in glum silence to the running water, staring around in despair at the chaos of Derek’s apartment.

“No way are we gonna get all that blood out of a hardwood floor,” Boyd finally groans, but nobody answers. The shower turns off, and Derek is coming back down the stairs, and – seriously, does the man never wear a shirt? Stiles mouth goes suddenly dry. Derek’s chest is still slightly damp from the shower, and he’s toweling off his hair as he comes down the stairs. It looks soft and disheveled, and Stiles desperately wants to run his hands through it. And then he’s suddenly lost in a dream world in which he and Derek are in the shower, the water running hot down Derek’s body, down his chest and to his hips and—smack.

Something soft and wet hits him in the face. Stiles coughs as he pulls damp towel out of his mouth.

“You’re looking a little Dexter yourself,” Derek says, mouth quirking upward. Stiles’ face flushes.

“Right. Yeah. Gross, haha!” he says, his voice going higher as he wipes his face off with the towel. Ew, OK, that is kind of gross, he realizes when he looks down at the bloody, filthy towel. Derek is passing out towels to everyone else, though Stiles notices that nobody else gets theirs thrown at them. If not for Derek’s abs, and his stubble, and OK, pretty much every part of him, Stiles would totally hate him. So. Much.

Scott is looking down a little bemusedly at his towel, and then up at Derek. Now that Stiles thinks of it, it is a little weird that Derek Hale would have a half-dozen clean hand towels just sitting around. Because honestly, for the longest time the man didn’t even have running water. Derek seems to notice Scott’s stare, because he gets an extra-grouchy look on his face and mumbles something indistinct about there being a sale.

Once they’re all clean-ish, they make Isaac go down first to check that there aren’t any little old ladies out walking dogs in the parking lot as they drag a dead body through. Isaac must give the all-clear sign, because the other werewolves nod and start dragging the tarp into the elevator. They’re out in the parking lot – they have to kind of squeeze and jostle the tarp a little to fit the griffon through the front door – before Stiles remembers his Jeep.
    
“Oh no,” he moans, dropping his section of tarp and running over to his car. His heart sinks. The roof looks even worse from outside, almost entirely caved in. There’s an enormous dent in one of the doors, so much that he’s not sure it’ll even open. The paint is scratched almost everywhere, and there’s half a bramble bush embedded in his front fender.

Stiles mechanically starts clearing out twigs, but he quickly realizes it’s hopeless. He settles for stroking the Jeep’s hood, not minding the blue paint that’s flecking off onto his hands, and murmuring dire things about griffons.

“Stiles...” Scott says, looking as appalled at the damage as Stiles feels.
    
“Why is my car always the first casualty of any encounter with supernatural evil?” Stiles finally moans. “Why do they hate perfection?”
    
“Will it run?” Derek asks, because he is an unsympathetic jerk with no sense of tragedy.
    
“Of course she’ll run,” Stiles scoffs. “But--”
    
“Then help get the griffon in the back,” Derek orders.
    
“I hate you,” Stiles says, but he does it anyway.

***

The griffon is entirely obstructing Stiles’ view of the road behind him, and he doesn’t even want to know what awkward position it’s contorted into. He’s also driving really carefully, because getting pulled over right now would be very, very bad. Derek had told the others where to meet them, and apparently they knew where he was talking about even if Stiles didn’t, because they just nodded and piled into Allison’s car. Stiles is relying on Derek to direct him, but so far, Derek has been silent in the seat beside him, awkwardly curled around the dents in the door and ceiling.
    
“You love her,” Derek finally says after about ten minutes, and Stiles is so startled he joggles the wheel.
    
“Huh? The Jeep?” he asks.
    
“Lydia,” Derek says. He’s not looking at Stiles. And Stiles is completely confused about where this is coming from, because it’s kind of an awkward, personal topic to discuss at the best of times, let alone when you’re both scrunched in a deformed Jeep, with the corpse of a mythical creature in the back. And Derek is also pretty much allergic to awkward, personal topics. So Stiles doesn’t answer, and Derek doesn’t say anything else. But then Stiles starts to wonder if maybe this is some weird bonding thing, and since Derek is incapable of normal human interaction, he’s just being weird about it.

So finally, he says, “Well duh.” Derek nods tightly, and doesn’t say anything else. O-kay. Stiles figures the burden for carrying this conversation is on him, then.
    
“It’s like, you’re around someone for so long, and you pay attention to everything they do and you know them so well, it’s like they become yours. I mean, not in a creepy way. In a way where you feel responsible for them. For them being happy, and safe. It doesn’t matter what they feel about you, and they don’t owe you anything back, but...Does that make any sense?” Stiles is frustrated with his inability to explain it, but Derek is nodding.
    
“Like an Alpha.”
    
“Yeah, I guess like that,” Stiles agrees. “But without all the weird hierarchy bullshit, and the parts where being an Alpha kind of sucks.” They’re quiet for a moment, before Derek asks another question.
    
“Does it bother you, to see her with Jackson?” Derek’s eyes flick down to stare at the dashboard.
    
“Why would it bother me?”
    
“If you love her--” Derek starts, looking suddenly extremely uncomfortable. But Stiles gets it, and he lets out a bark of laughter.
    
“Oh, no, dude, I’m not in love with her.” Derek looks straight at him now, his face equal parts surprised and confused. “I mean, I was, for a long-ass time. But it’s like you said, I’m like her Alpha. We’re like a pack. It would be so weird and incestuous. I mean, imagine you being in love with someone in our pack; it would just be weird, right?” Stiles laughs again, but Derek doesn’t smile back.
    
“Right,” Derek echoes. “Really weird.” He’s looking out the window now, and he doesn’t say anything else until they get to the turn-off for the woods.
    
Stiles has no idea what the hell that conversation was about, but decides that werewolf bonding must be impossibly bizarre. When they arrive at the meeting place, the others are already waiting. All the other werewolves go sort of stiff when Derek gets out of the car.

“What’s wrong?” Scott whispers to Stiles after sidling up to him in a totally unsubtle manner.
    
“You mean besides the dead thing in my car?” Stiles asks sarcastically.
    
“No, I mean with him.” Scott nods at Derek.
    
“Oh, I dunno. Does something seem wrong?”
    
“He smells weird,” Scott says, frowning. “What did you guys talk about?”
    
“Nothing much. Lydia, mostly. Maybe he’s worried about her?”
    
“Maybe,” Scott agrees, though he doesn’t sound completely convinced.

***

The whole burial goes surprisingly smoothly, considering the delightful mix of bad luck and sharp things that usually dogs their every endeavor. Stiles rides back with Scott this time, so it’s not until they get back to Derek’s apartment and start to clean up the debris and gore, that Stiles realizes that Derek is being weird. He’s all quiet and awkward and stiff, and whenever Stiles goes near him, he comes up with some excuse to be somewhere else. Stiles is honestly baffled, but since he’s Stiles and Derek is Derek, Stiles decides that the best way to deal with this situation is to just goad Derek until a fight breaks out. It usually doesn’t take long.
    
He starts it by picking up his awesome, day-saving frying pan, which has a dent where it hit the griffon. Battle scars, Stiles thinks proudly. He waves it at the group.
    
“Hey guys, remember that time I saved all your lives? How great was that?” The outcry is immediate and intense, but Stiles is only paying attention to Derek. Derek glances at the frying pan, glances at Stiles’ face, and then busies himself with something else. Clearly, time to bring out the big guns. He says, over Erica and Scott whining at him about how amazing and heroic they were: “I dunno, it was pretty much the humans who clinched this battle, right Allison? Yay us! And hey, know what I just realized, totally spontaneously, like right now? If we’d listened to Derek, you all would probably still be fighting that griffon. Good thing we totally ignored him, like, entirely.” Stiles grins at Derek. It may be a slightly evil grin. Stiles is OK with that.
    
The others are blinking between Stiles and Derek, clearly preparing themselves to jump out of the way if Derek goes for Stiles’ throat. Stiles swallows. Derek kinda looks like he might. Stiles can see his jaw clenching, holding back whatever it is he wants to say. But Stiles has annoying Derek down to an art form. And 3…2…1…
    
“You had a frying pan. A frying pan, Stiles! What the hell were you thinking!?” Liftoff.
    
“I was thinking maybe I’d kill a griffon with it. And oh wait, that’s right, I did.” Stiles throws himself into the argument with relish.
    
“Of all the dangerous, crazy, idiotic ideas that have come out of your stupid head--”
    
“Funny how they always work, though,” Stiles interrupts. “Maybe because I’m awesome. And a badass monster-fighter. With badass weaponry.”

Scott suppresses a laugh.
    
“Kitchen utensils are not weapons,” Derek grits out. “And you were lucky.”
    
“I was not--” Stiles squawks indignantly, but Derek shouts over him.
    
“You were incredibly lucky. You and Allison and Lydia, you could have died. Lydia nearly did. You said you wanted to protect her, is this how you do it? Will it take her actually dying—or you—for you to finally understand?” Stiles feels himself go cold, and before he was just screwing with Derek, but now he’s actually furious, and it’s like his vision is narrowing so it’s just Derek and him in the room.
    
“Don’t use that against me,” Stiles says, voice low and shaking. “Don’t. You’re going too far--”
    
“No,” Derek interrupts, and his voice is equally dangerous. “Clearly, I haven’t gone far enough. Until you understand that you can’t just grab whatever’s around and throw yourself at something, completely untrained--”
    
“So train us,” a voice breaks in, and Stiles is so angry it takes him a moment to realize it’s Allison. “Give us weapons. Teach us how to use them. And then we’ll be safer, right?”
    
“Yes,” Derek practically shouts at her, and then blinks as his brain catches up. “I mean, no. I mean, that’s not the point!”
    
“Seems like the point to me. Allison’s right, sometimes you can’t just hide from danger,” says Boyd, cocking his head at Derek. Apparently the others have decided it’s safe to call attention to their existence again.
    
“Yeah, and the humans were kinda awesome,” Scott adds earnestly. “Allison shot arrows,” he points out, like he’s thrilled about it.
    
“They may have been somewhat useful today,” Erica concedes, but she winks at Stiles when she says it. “Imagine the damage they could do if they had actual sharp things.”


“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Derek snaps at them.
    
“Does this mean I get to play with swords?” The gloriousness of his situation suddenly dawns on Stiles. “Can I have a lightsaber?”

Derek groans, and winces like he’s getting a headache. “Nobody is playing with swords. Next time, the humans are going to do what they’re told and stay out of trouble. That’s the end of it,” Derek says, and turns away to start picking up debris.
    
They’re much of the way through cleaning the living room the next time Stiles talks to Derek. Derek is piling bits of broken furniture into a black trash bag, and Stiles’ glass-sweeping takes him to Derek’s end of the room. Scott and Isaac are scrubbing at the floor while Allison, with an air of expertise that is truly frightening, is giving an extended lecture on the best way to get fresh blood out of a multitude of surfaces. Erica and Boyd, meanwhile, are holding a brief but heartfelt funeral for the sofa. Stiles sweeps his way over to Derek, and nudges him a little with his broom.
    
“Is that why you were asking about Lydia before? To yell at me better?”

Derek’s eyes widen. “What? No! Of course not.” He sounds almost apologetic.
    
“OK then,” Stiles says, and keeps sweeping. He’s not looking at Derek, so it catches him by surprise when Derek’s voice is suddenly extremely close. He’s moved to stand right up against Stiles, nearly touching but not.
    
“I want you to understand what you’re getting into. All this.” Derek gestures around the room with his garbage bag. And Stiles can’t help it, he bursts out laughing in Derek’s face. Derek looks shocked and somewhat annoyed.
    
“Please. Where have you been for the last year? Like anything else has been less dangerous than this.”
    
“But you don’t have to be part of it,” Derek argues, leaning closer. Stiles laughs again.
    
“Yeah. I do. Why, you saying you would have stayed in the kitchen?” Derek looks frustrated, and he’s so close Stiles can see his individual eyelashes. Stiles’ breath catches, and he’s struggling to pay attention to what Derek’s actually saying.
    
“Not the point. I’m--”
    
“—The Alpha. Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Stiles grins at him wryly. “And that is the point. None of us would have stayed. And by the way, I didn’t let Lydia do anything; just ‘cause I care about her doesn’t mean I own her.”
    
“I know,” Derek says, low and irritated. Stiles grins and punches him lightly in the shoulder.
    
“It’s OK. You can admit it. You were worried about us, weren’t you?”
    
“No,” Derek grumps, and turns back to his furniture shards.
    
“You were,” Stiles teases. “Oh Derek, you do care!” He wipes away an imaginary tear.
    
“Liar,” Derek says, and shoves him lightly in the chest. Stiles laughs again, this time light and surprised.
    
“When you two are done playing footsy among the wood chips? We’d all kinda like a new window,” Erica interrupts loudly from across the room. Stiles flushes, and to his surprise, so does Derek. Right, Derek’s weird about sex. He really needs to get laid or something, Stiles thinks, and then his face flushes even brighter, and is it his fault he has a very vivid imagination?  No, it is not.
    
“I’ll go!” Stiles squeaks, to distract himself from images of Derek naked on a bed. “In my car! That I own.” Everyone gives him a funny look, and Stiles can’t entirely blame them.

“Your car is a rattly death trap held together with duct tape and prayers,” Boyd says flatly.

Stiles gasps at him. “You take that back!”

 Derek rolls his eyes. “We’ll take my Camaro.”

“Oh, are you coming now, too?” Stiles asks resentfully. Derek just stares at him.
    
“Aah, fine! But I get to drive it!” Stiles yells, and he’s off running for the elevator before Derek can stop him.
    
“No. Just no. No way,” Derek is saying as he bolts for the elevator himself, trying to catch it before Stiles can finish frantically punching the down button. The doors slam shut right before Derek reaches it. As the machinery clanks into life, Stiles can hear Derek’s voice groaning, “Why couldn’t we have had stairs?”
    
“Hey, you volunteered,” Erica says brightly. And then Stiles is pretty sure he can hear Derek resentfully pressing the elevator button four extra times.

Stiles, when he reaches the car downstairs, is thrilled to find that Derek doesn’t lock it. So he’s sitting in the front seat looking thoroughly pleased with himself by the time Derek has stomped out the front doors, sunglasses on and keys in his hand.
    
“No. Out,” he says the minute he sees Stiles.
    
“Yeah? Make me,” Stiles laughs.
    
“I’ve seen the way you drive,” Derek grumbles, hesitating by the door like he’s considering taking Stiles up on the challenge.
    
“Yeah, I’m basically NASCAR,” Stiles boasts, running his fingers over the steering wheel with a moan that he belatedly realizes sounds a little obscene. “C’mon, Derek please? I totally saved your life today, remember?”
    
“That’s highly debatable,” Derek grumbles, but he climbs reluctantly into the passenger seat.
    
“Awesome,” Stiles breathes, turning to give Derek his best you’re-my-favorite-Alpha-and-I-love-you-forever grin. Derek’s face goes weirdly soft. Man, his I-love-you-forever looks never work this well on Scott.
    
“Dent it and die,” Derek says, but Stiles is almost entirely positive it’s for show.

Stiles spends a full five minutes revving the engine in the parking lot before he’s ready to leave. Derek’s head is in his hands. But Stiles doesn’t even care, because he’s entirely aware that this is the first and last time he’s gonna be allowed to drive Derek’s car.

“Can we please just--” Derek grits out for the millionth time.
    
“Fine,” Stiles sing-songs and shoots out of the parking lot before Derek can finish his sentence.
    
“Oh holy hell,” Derek says feelingly.
    
They’re halfway to the hardware store when Stiles chances a look at the car clock and nearly swerves off the road.
    
“Stiles!” Derek yells.
    
“Oh my God, how could we forget?” Stiles says, and he can feel the color draining from his face as he turns to look at Derek. “The full moon.” Derek’s eyes widen.

“Don’t you guys have, like, instincts about this stuff?” Stiles asks.
    
“I’ve gotten used to ignoring instincts,” Derek says cryptically, but he sounds furious at himself. “Where’s Jackson?” he asks.
    
“Still at the hospital, with Lydia,” Stiles realizes, and he thinks he’s gonna be sick. “He almost lost control earlier today, no way he can--”
    
“I know,” Derek says tersely, and pulls out his phone. “Jackson? You need to go back to my apartment. Do it now…No, Jackson, I said now…I don’t care...I will send Allison over to Lydia, but every minute longer you stay, you are putting the whole hospital in danger. Is that what you want?” He listens for a moment longer, and hangs up.
    
“Argh, why does everyone always have to argue with me,” Derek moans, staring grumpily at his phone.
    
“Because we’re not robots,” Stiles informs him. “And also, you’re funny when you’re thwarted.”
    
“What.”
    
“It’s true,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Sorry dude.”
    
“Wait, where are we going?” Derek asks, realizing they’re going in a new direction.
    
“To my house,” Stiles says. “We have a bunch of werewolf containment stuff stored there.”
    
“Yeah, that stuff worked so well last time,” Derek says with an eye-roll.
    
“You got a better idea?”

Derek glares at him. “Just drive faster.”

Stiles grins, and obliges.
    
His good mood lasts until he reaches his house, and he sees his dad’s police cruiser in the driveway.
    
“Uh oh,” Stiles says, banging his hand on the steering wheel.
    
“Why ‘uh oh?’” Derek asks. “And don’t abuse my car.”
    
“My dad’s home,” Stiles explains, wincing.
    
“Why does that matter? We’ll just go in, get your stuff, and--”
    
“You’re really completely clueless about your image to the rest of this town, aren’t you,” Stiles says, sighing fondly. “OK, so I’m going to park down the street and go in my house. You come in through my window--”
    
“What?”
    
“Please, you’ve done it before plenty of times.”
    
“Stiles, I really don’t think we have time for this.”
    
“Um, yeah. We do. Unless you want to spend the next hour explaining to my dad why I’m hanging out with you, and then have to leave by yourself since I’ll be grounded…”
    
“Fine,” Derek grumbles.

***

“Hey Dad!” Stiles walks into the house with his best breezy, nothing-to-see-here voice.
    
“Hey, kiddo,” his dad says, and Stiles can tell he’s instantly suspicious, because Stiles’ breezy voice is awful. “Whatcha doing?”
    
“I’m going to stay over at Scott’s house, but I wanna pick up some stuff first.”
    
“Scott’s house, huh?” Stiles’ dad asks.
    
“Yep!” Stiles answers brightly, and makes for the stairs.
    
Derek is already in his room when he gets there, glancing down at the things cluttering his desk.
    
“‘For next full moon, don’t forget sex chains?’” he reads from a post-it reminder on Stiles’ wall. He turns to look quizzically at Stiles. Stiles swallows.
    
“Oh, uh, there’s a totally simple, not-at-all-creepy explanation for that. You see, they’re not my sex chains, they’re Scott’s, and--”
    
“That really doesn’t make it better,” Derek says. Stiles blinks.
    
“You’re right. It really doesn’t. Well let me try to explain it a different way. When a werewolf loves someone very, very much--”
    
“Please stop talking.” Derek looks slightly traumatized. Stiles laughs at him.
    
“C’mon dude, isn’t it obvious? Scott was looking for werewolf stuff, and he accidentally went to a sex toy shop. Are you even surprised?” Derek stares at him for a moment, and then claps his hand over his face.
    
“Oh my God, Scott,” he groans. “Really?” Stiles is rifling through the back of his closet, pulling out a beat-up cardboard box that he hopes his dad never has cause to open.
    
“Yep. But Scott insists they’re surprisingly good quality,” Stiles tells him, pulling out some handcuffs. “Here, wanna try?” Derek stares at him, shocked. Stiles blinks at him.
    
“You know, see if you can break ‘em?”
    
“Oh. Um, no, I believe you,” Derek says awkwardly. Sometimes Stiles does not understand Derek at all.
    
“Here, you take this box.” He hands it to Derek. “And I’ll take this duffel out the front. Meet you by the car?”
    
It’s when he’s going downstairs that disaster strikes.
    
“Hey Stiles,” his dad says casually, and Stiles has lived the past 16 years in fear of that level of casualness in his dad’s voice.
    
“So, I just talked to Mrs. McCall…” Uh oh, danger Stiles Robinson!
    
“She seemed surprised that you were staying with them tonight, considering Scott told her he was staying here. Are you two doing some sort of bed-switching thing? Or is there maybe something else you wanna tell me.” His dad fixes him with a piercing eye.
    
“Um, definitely the bed-switching thing,” Stiles says brightly. “You know us. Always with the hijinks!”
    
“Yes. I do know you. So…what’s in the duffel?”
    
“Nothing! Clothes! Normal stuff,” Stiles says frantically, but he knows the battle is lost. Damn his father’s investigative prowess!
    
“Uh huh. Let’s see.”
    
“Um, well, it’s private. Private…clothes. They’re Scott’s sex chains!” Stiles finishes desperately as his dad tugs the bag out of his hands and pulls the zipper open. One of the chains slides to the ground with a hissing clatter. A whip bounces out after, rolling across the floor. Stiles can’t help but stare at it until it comes slowly to a stop under their dining room table. Why did Scott even buy a whip?
    
“O-kay,” his dad says. “While I really wish I could erase the last 5 minutes from my memory…I can’t. So why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
    
“Ha ha, isn’t it obvious?” Stiles squeaks, but his dad just glares at him.
    
“Ugh, fine. I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to make a big deal about it. But you remember Lydia?”
    
“Lydia Martin? The one you have a crush on?”
    
“Yeah, sure! Well she has this…um…thing she’s working on. She’s filming uh…a summer project about…slavery? Hence the chains, and...um...It’s for history class, and she asked me to help.”
    
“So what you’re telling me is, you’re not sleeping over at Scott’s house, but you are sleeping over at a girl’s house.”
    
“Maybe? There’s a lot of um, night shooting. Because the movie is about the Underground Railroad? I’m pretty sure.”
    
“So you’re going to be out alone at night with a girl?”
    
“Wow, you’re really fixated on this ‘girl’ thing,” Stiles mumbles. “But yeah. But, um, lots of other people will be there. Scott, and Jackson, and…other people…” Stiles’ dad looks down at the duffel, and then back up at him. Stiles pastes on what he hopes is a winning, trustworthy look.
    
“Hmph. Fine. Get your…stuff. But you should just remember, that…‘making movies’…is a serious grown-up activity, and sometimes it’s better to wait until you’re a little older and understand the consequences of…movies.”

“Huh? Oh my God, Dad, we’re not having sex!”

“Sure. Of course not. I just want to make sure you know how to be safe when you’re…filming.”

“And I am officially leaving right now, before things get any weirder,” Stiles announces. He pulls together everything as quickly as humanly possible, and every time his dad opens his mouth, he puts his fingers in his ears and says, “What? I can’t hear you!”

He’s halfway down his driveway, just as he thinks he’s safe, when his dad leans out the front door and yells, “Just please use condoms. In your movie!”
    
“Aaand, that is a memory that will haunt me forever,” Stiles mutters to himself.
    
“What was that about condoms?” Derek asks from the driver’s seat of the Camaro. Traitor.
    
“Trust me, you in no way want to know,” Stiles assures him. Derek stares. “If you’re gonna drive, you should probably go ahead and do it,” Stiles says sourly to him. Derek shrugs and starts the car.

“OK, it’s only 7:00, so we have a full hour until sunset. Thank God it’s summer,” Stiles says on the way home. He’s checking his phone. “Scott says that Jackson is back at the apartment, but he’s getting growly. The others are doing OK. Also, Lydia is home from the hospital; everything seemed fine. She’s staying at home tonight, though.”
    
“Good,” Derek says. “Sure you don’t--”
    
“Yeah. Right,” Stiles laughs at him. “Like my answer will be any different now than the five million other times.”

Derek half-smiles at him. “Do you have any survival instincts? At all?”
    
“Not even one,” Stiles assures him.
    
When they get back to the apartment, Jackson is pacing furiously, all nervous energy.
    
“You know,” Scott remembers, “he totally just fell asleep all night last time. Maybe this won’t be so bad.”
    
“Sometimes soon after a bite, that happens,” Derek tells him. “If your body is still recovering from the initial physical changes, you can sleep it off. Like a healing coma. Probably won’t happen this time.” With a growl, Jackson kicks the wall.
    
“O-kay then. Well, at least we don’t have any more furniture to break,” Stiles says brightly. Boyd laughs. The newer Betas are actually handling this full moon pretty well. After glancing briefly at Stiles – and Stiles honestly isn’t entirely sure why – Derek told them they didn’t have to be chained up this month, and Stiles thinks they practically glowed.
    
“You really think we’re ready?” Isaac says.
    
“Sure. You’ve all three been doing really good with control,” Derek says awkwardly, like he’s not sure how to deal with such an excess of happy emotions. He woodenly pets Isaac on the shoulder.
    
“Damn straight,” says Erica, but even she is looking absurdly proud.
    
“Don’t you, like, ever give them positive feedback?” Stiles whispers to Derek.
    
“Of course!” Derek looks offended.
    
“Then why do they all look like Dad finally agreed to come to their dance recital?”
    
“I’m uncomfortable with this metaphor,” Derek hisses back. “And maybe I was just…saving the praise. If I’m too soft, they won’t ever learn.” Stiles stares at him.
    
“Wow, this explains so much right now. C’mon Grinch who Stole the Full Moon, we need to go chain Jackson to a pillar.”
    
“What does that even—argh,” Derek growls, but it’s a resigned growl.

***
    
This full moon is nothing like the last. When the sun sets, Jackson goes absolutely crazy, straining at his chain, slamming himself against the pillar, hurting himself and then healing again. Stiles is ridiculously grateful that Lydia isn’t here for this. As it is, he and Allison are huddled together on a practice mat far away from Jackson’s pillar, while the rest of the pack circles Jackson. Scott and Derek just look wary, but Stiles can see the tinge of panic in Isaac, Erica, and Boyd’s faces. They’re all concentrating really hard on keeping control, and Stiles can see that whenever Jackson surprises them, they lose focus for a second.
    
“You know what I just realized?” Stiles asks Allison. “Isn’t that pillar a load-bearing pillar?”
    
“Please, don’t continue that thought,” Allison says, and shivers. “This apartment has already taken enough abuse today.”
    
“Yeah, at this point, I’m just hoping someone doesn’t fall out the window,” Stiles agrees. It’s a few hours past sunset, and Jackson has shown no sign of slowing down. The others are trying to keep him in check, but it’s wearing on them. A little before midnight, Erica’s focus wobbles, and she’s already in full wolf form before Derek realizes. Erica’s on Stiles and Allison’s side of the pillar, and as she turns toward them with a growl, Allison gasps. It’s then that Derek notices, and he’s between Erica and the humans in an instant, his eyes glowing red. Way too slowly, Erica changes back. She looks stricken.
    
“Derek, I’m sorry--”
    
“You need to keep it together,” Derek says shortly. “Go into the kitchen if you have to.” Erica slinks off, looking miserable. After a brief glance at the other werewolves, who look pale and ragged but still human, Derek turns to Stiles and Allison.
    
“It would be better if you went upstairs. You can crash on my bed.” Stiles or Allison must look ready to argue, because Derek sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
    
“You two being here, it’s not making it easier,” he admits. “I promise, if something happens, you can come back with all the suicidal heroics you want.”
    
“We’re holding you to that,” Stiles tells him solemnly. Allison goes carefully over to where Scott is, and talks to him quietly for a minute. He nods and smiles, and she kisses him. Stiles smiles at how cute they are, and turns back to Derek.
    
“You guys will be careful, right?” He looks sidelong at Derek, not totally willing to show how concerned he is. “It’s been a long day for everyone.” Derek sighs, and Stiles fully realizes how tired he must be right now.
    
“I know. And we will be.”
    
“And don’t be too mad at Erica, OK? This is like a trial by fire for these guys, right?” Derek shrugs like it shouldn’t matter.
    
“Dude, if she’s afraid of disappointing you, it’s gonna be harder to manage her emotions, not easier. You can’t let them panic.”
    
“I know,” Derek says, sounding irritated. Stiles huffs fondly, and knocks his shoulder into Derek as he passes. Derek’s hand on his arm stops him, and Stiles turns back to look at him quizzically.
    
“I won’t tell,” Derek says, the beginning of a smile on his face.
    
“What?” Stiles asks, confused.
    
“That you do care,” Derek says in a dramatic falsetto.
    
“Liar,” Stiles tells him cheerfully. “Also, shut up, my voice does not sound like that.” He can still hear Derek laughing as he climbs the spiral stairs.

***
    
He hasn’t spent that much time up here; he mostly hangs out downstairs in the living room or kitchen. It’s really only bedrooms, anyway. The spiral stairs open up onto a long hallway that spans the length of the living room downstairs. That’s enough space for three bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. Stiles knows Isaac, Boyd, and Erica usually sleep here in the first two rooms, though he’s honestly not sure in what configuration. He also knows Derek’s room is the one on the end, though he’s only been in it once or twice.
    
When he opens the door, Allison is already there on the bed. Like all the rooms on this floor, the ceiling slopes down pretty far, hitting the wall with about four feet to spare. On the left wall on the far side of the room, there’s a bookshelf that they must have made for this space, because its top shelves are cut in a diagonal so it slots in against the ceiling. It’s stuffed with books, and Stiles is absurdly curious to find out what’s there. The bed is against the other wall, pushed far enough toward the front of the room that the ceiling doesn’t get in the way. A tall, dark, wooden armoire rounds out the furniture of the room. The walls are painted gray. It’s tidy and bare.

Allison’s legs are pale against Derek’s dark blue comforter, the light from a bedside lamp making the room feel fuzzy. Stiles suddenly realizes how tired he is, and he collapses heavily on the bed next to Allison. He’s been running on adrenaline for most of the day, but now that he’s lying down on something soft, it all seems to seep out of him.

“Do you really think we can sleep tonight?” she asks, nodding toward downstairs.

“I don’t know. But I don’t think I can stay awake, either,” Stiles answers with a yawn. “Mm, Derek’s bed is comfy,” he says as he noses into a pillow. Allison laughs at him.

“I’m gonna stay up for a bit,” she says. “OK if I keep the light on?”

“Go ahead,” Stiles says, kicking off his shoes and sliding under Derek’s covers. He’s almost entirely asleep when a thought hits him.

“Haha, guess my dad was right,” he murmurs to Allison, giggling sleepily. “I am sleeping with a girl tonight.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Allison asks, her voice dangerous. At that, Stiles’ eyes fly open.

“Oh no, I meant platonic sleeping. But see, my dad, he had these ideas--”

“Oh, go to sleep,” Allison tells him fondly.

“‘Kay.” Stiles yawns again, and then he’s gone.

***

When Stiles wakes up again, the room is dark. He’s not sure what time it is, or what woke him up. He’s trying to hear if there’s any noise downstairs, when he realizes there’s someone else in the room.

“Shh, Stiles, it’s just me,” Derek says. He’s on Allison’s side of the bed, gently pulling a book out of her hands. She’s fallen asleep sitting up, and Stiles watches as Derek shifts her down so she’s lying properly.

“Were you coming to check on us? Can I have a glass of warm milk?” Stiles jokes at Derek, his voice still fuzzy from sleep.

“Shut up. Go back to sleep,” Derek says quietly.

“Everything OK?” Stiles asks, struggling to attend better to what’s going on around him.

“It’s fine. It’s gotten a little better,” Derek says, coming around to Stiles’ side. Stiles can feel himself fighting a losing battle against sleep, but he stays awake long enough to ask, “Were you nice to everyone?” He yawns widely, his eyes drifting closed. “You should be nice. You’re nice when you’re nice…”

“I’m always nice,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. “Now go to sleep.” Stiles falls asleep to Derek’s hand stroking through his hair, gentle and warm. Later, though, he’s pretty sure he must have dreamt it.

Chapter Text

When Stiles wakes up next, bright morning sun is shining through the windows. Something is pressing heavily onto his chest, and it takes Stiles a few moments of sleepy analysis to realize that it’s an arm. Attached to Derek, who is sprawled between him and Allison, lying over the covers like just collapsed on any available surface. His shoes and jacket are still on, and his fist is clenched around Stiles’ shirt like he was reaching out in the night and grabbed the first thing his hand found. Stiles is slightly fascinated by the small differences in Derek’s face as he sleeps, the way his usually turned-down mouth smooths upwards a little. Stiles doesn’t realize he’s reached out to touch the corner of Derek’s lips, like he needs to feel it for himself, until Derek murmurs and shifts at the contact.

Derek’s arm tightens, and Stiles finds himself pulled closer into Derek’s side, Derek mumbling something grumpy into his shoulder. Stiles blinks up at the ceiling, determinedly not dwelling on all the places Derek’s body is pressed against his (chest, wrist, knee - crap!), or the soft, even puffs of Derek’s breath against his neck.

It’s amazing that someone who normally flees in the face of physical affection during all other times of his life - Stiles thinks resentfully - can be such an aggressive cuddler while asleep. Maybe this is how he meets his human contact quota?

Stiles tries to gently ease himself away, back to his own, safe section of the bed, but Sleep!Derek is having none of it. Every time Stiles tries to move, Derek frowns and his grip tightens. So Stiles resigns himself to lying imprisoned with Derek’s body basically entangled in his.

...And that’s when he realizes he really has to pee. Well, crap.

“Derek,” he whispers, nudging a bit at Derek’s arm. Derek makes another grumbly noise and doesn’t move. “Derek!” Stiles says more urgently, shaking his shoulder. Derek’s eyes fly open, and he’s half sitting up before he’s actually awake.

“Aah, no, sorry, it’s just me,” Stiles whispers.

“Stiles?” Derek says, looking both confused and grumpy.

“I need to pee,” Stiles explains.

“Um, OK?” Derek says, voice still hoarse from sleep. “That’s…good?”

“Can you maybe let me go?” Stiles asks, nodding significantly at Derek’s hand, which is still fisted in his shirt.

“Oh,” Derek says, widening his eyes and dropping Stiles’ shirt like it burned him. “Sorry.”

“Eh, it’s cool,” Stiles says, and pads off to the bathroom. When he comes back, Derek is still in the center of the bed, but he’s properly awake and blinking at Stiles, his ears tinged red and his body carefully straight and rigid in the center of the bed. Allison is still on her side, curled up on herself so that all Stiles can really see is her dark hair poking out from under the blanket. Stiles hovers near his side of the bed, unsure whether it would be weird now to climb back into it.

“Um, sorry I woke you?” he offers.

“It’s fine,” Derek says, his wide yawn turning abruptly into an alert look. “I think someone else is awake.”

There’s a quiet knock at Derek’s door. Erica, in faded pink Hello Kitty pajamas, cracks it open and peeks through. When she sees Stiles is awake, she opens it fully and rushes in, throwing her arms around Stiles and putting her nose in his neck.

“I had a dream I ate you,” she says, voice muffled into his shoulder. “I had to come check. I didn’t know if it was true.” Stiles shoots Derek a panicked look over Erica’s head.

“Well, it’s OK, you clearly didn’t eat me. All of us are here, we’re fine and…undigested.” Derek muffles a laugh into his pillow, and Stiles glares at him. Tears are starting to leak out of Erica’s eyes.

“It was horrible,” she says, her voice hollow. “I knew what I was doing and I couldn’t stop it, and you were screaming…” Derek stops laughing abruptly, and Stiles agrees, it kinda stopped being funny.

“Erica,” Derek says from the bed, voice quiet but firm. “Erica, look at me.” She lifts her head from where it’s buried in Stiles’ shoulder, but she’s still wrapped around him. “You didn’t hurt anyone. And you won’t. I wouldn’t let that happen. Do you trust me?” Derek’s eyes are steady as they hold hers. There’s a momentary pause, and then Erica nods, sniffling.

“You ready to go back to bed?” Stiles asks her quietly, running a hand through her hair. Her grip around him tightens involuntarily.

“Can I stay, just for a little bit?” she asks in a small voice.

“Duh, c’mon,” Stiles says, and piles back into the bed. He ends up half-sitting against the pillows and squooshed into the middle of the bed. Derek’s hair is tickling his arm, and Erica kind of settles against his chest until she’s pinning him to the bed.

“Hey dude, nice Alpha-ing. I’m just glad I used the bathroom before Cuddlefest 2.0,” Stiles whispers down to Derek. But Derek has already fallen back asleep.

Stiles isn’t really tired anymore. Well, he is, but in a more abstract, can’t-sleep-while someone-is-lying-on-you sort of way. So he sits quietly for a bit, but it’s only been about 10 minutes before Scott peeks in through the door.

“I’m checking on Allison,” he whispers to Stiles.

“Why?” Stiles whispers back, because it’s not like anyone else is talking to him. Scott shrugs.

“Just can’t sleep. I keep waking up thinking something’s happened to her.”

“Seriously, is there something in the water, here? Fine, sleep here, but don’t bother anyone.” Scott practically skids into the room, sneaking his way ninja-style along the bed until he insinuates himself between Derek and Allison. She’s still curled up, so Scott ends up kind of awkwardly scrunched at the bottom of the bed, his head resting on her feet. It looks horrifically uncomfortable, but Scott is asleep again almost immediately.

It takes thirty more minutes, the last twenty of which involve some serious leg-cramping, before the door creaks open again.

All Jackson says is, “I hate being a werewolf,” and glares at Stiles like it’s his fault. His eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, and tufts of his hair are sticking up in weird places.

“…Do you wanna--” Stiles begins, and Jackson is on the bed before he can finish. Stiles pulls his knees up into a triangle shape so Jackson can lean against them. Jackson bumps his head against Stiles’ shins, which apparently soothes him. As Stiles listens to Jackson’s ragged breathing slowly even out, it occurs to him that this pack’s collective emotional stability is basically held together with Krazy Glue, leather jackets and some twine. Stiles wonders if Derek went after scared and desperate people deliberately - like he thought they’d be the only ones to want him - or if Derek himself was so scared and desperate that he just thought it was normal to be that way. Something in his stomach twists at that, and Stiles finds that he can’t bear to look back down at Derek’s face.

And so instead Stiles wonders when Isaac and Boyd are gonna show up, and if the bed will hold everyone when they do, and he watches the sun get higher and higher in the sky, listening to the five people breathing around him, counting the inhales and exhales of everyone in turn. It’s so quiet that it makes Stiles think that maybe everything will be OK.

Stiles is actually starting to doze off again when a voice brings him abruptly back to wakefulness.

“What the hell?” Allison is saying, sitting up and staring at the menagerie around her. “There are more of you. Did you multiply?” she asks Stiles stupidly. “And why can’t I feel my legs?”

“Nightmares,” Stiles says with a shrug, like that’s a totally normal thing. Allison stares at him.

“I’m hungry,” she finally says, like that’s really the only thing she can process right now.

“Yeah, well, if you liberate yourself, we can probably do something about that.” Allison looks confused, and it’s only then that she realizes Scott is lying on top of her.

“It’s OK, he sleeps like a dead person.” She proves her point by shoving Scott off her feet none-too-gently. He doesn’t so much as stir. Allison slides out of bed, and Stiles barely feels it move. “What about yours?” she asks, nodding at Jackson and Erica.

“You move Jackson, I’ll work on Erica,” Stiles says, already starting to wriggle his way out from under her. With Allison’s help, he manages to extricate himself without too much trouble, and they both sneak silently out of the room.

Before he goes downstairs, Stiles gives in to a weird urge to check on Isaac and Boyd. They’re in the first door from Derek’s room, both sound asleep on a set of bunk beds. Stiles has never really been in their room before, and so this is the first time he notices the other set of bunk beds, significantly less personalized but with wrinkled, slept-in sheets. Puzzled, Stiles pushes in the door to the third room. It’s definitely Erica’s, but the weird thing is, there are also four beds in it. She’s claimed one full set of bunk beds for her own, having rigged up a flowing curtain thing that pulls around one of the bottom bunks. The other set has a bunch of her stuff piled on it, but the beds are still made. Stiles is confused until he does a quick count in his head, and realizes that there’s enough beds for all of them – the whole pack.

Stiles’ stomach twists again. Even if they never use it, even if they didn’t know it was here, Derek has made space for all of them if they want it. He’s smiling a little as he goes down the spiral stairs to meet Allison in the kitchen.

She’s pouring herself a bowl of cereal, but Stiles stops her and rifles through the kitchen for a second.

“Dude, Allison, we totally have all the ingredients for pancakes. Do you want pancakes?”

“Um, yes?” she says like she’s offended that he would even ask.

“Yeah. We went through trauma. We definitely deserve pancakes,” Stiles agrees. Allison pours herself a glass of orange juice and sits on top of the counter, swinging her legs against the cabinets. Stiles pulls ingredients out as he chatters absently at her.

“I’m great at pancakes,” he promises, tapping on the refrigerator door a little as he searches for eggs. “My mom used to make them every Saturday, like huge ones as big as my head. I’m not as good as that; if I try to make them big they go all over the place and don’t flip, but she had these secret ingredients she would put in…” He’s rifling through the spice rack now, grabbing nutmeg and cinnamon. “At least, she said they were secret. When I was little, she told me the cinnamon was a magic powder she got from a witch, and just a little sprinkle would make any food delicious. So once when there was only plain Cheerios that I hated, I dumped the whole container into the box, and my dad almost choked on it the next day, and she just laughed…” Stiles is smiling as he remembers. He glances up at Allison, feeling a little self-conscious for monologue-ing about this silly story, but she’s staring down into her orange juice. Her feet have stopped kicking, and her eyes are wet.

“My mom didn’t really make breakfast that often, but for my birthday every year she used to make Special French Toast--” Allison says quietly, her voice wobbling a little. Stiles swallows. He is such an idiot. So he goes around to Allison’s side of the counter, and puts his hands on her knees.

“You wanna mix the batter?” he asks, voice as soft as he knows how to make it. Allison shrugs, sniffling. “It’s therapeutic,” he promises. “And it’s the most important step in pancake-making. Besides the step where we eat them.” Allison smiles a little faintly, and hops down from off the counter.

“OK, what do I do?” she asks. Stiles pulls out the hand mixer. Pretty early in Stiles’ hostile takeover of Derek’s kitchen, Stiles had stolen Derek’s credit card and gone on an IKEA binge, so the kitchen now actually contains normal kitchen things like plates and spoons. And baking stuff. Stiles may not be an expert chef – his oeuvre is mainly pasta, hamburgers, and the entire snack aisle of any supermarket – but pancake-making implements are a necessity in any kitchen.

“OK, you turn that on, and I’m gonna pour in the wet ingredients,” Stiles instructs. Allison nods, biting her lip like she’s concentrating extremely hard.

“Don’t worry, it’s even easier than shooting an arrow,” Stiles assures her. He starts to pour the flour in, just as Allison laughs and flicks on the mixer. The little engine revs and surprises her, her hand jerking up and knocking Stiles’ bowl flying. Milk splashes, and flour sprays everywhere.

“Aah, turn it off!” Stiles yells, spitting flour out of his mouth. The mixer whirs to a stop. Allison is standing frozen over the bowl (which now has about half the contents it previously held), flour in her hair and batter sprayed across her face.

“OK, maybe stick with the archery,” Stiles tells her, and she starts to giggle. Flour wafts in the air like dust motes, falling slowly to settle on every kitchen surface.

“Oh my God, I think milk got on the ceiling,” she says, pointing up. “How does that even happen?” Stiles cracks up.

“I’m gone for 24 hours…” says a voice in the doorway. Lydia is standing there, a small, white piece of gauze taped neatly to her right temple, looking at them like she is seriously reconsidering all her life choices.

“Lydia!” Allison and Stiles yell, and trip over each other to hug her. In the process, they get deconstructed pancake all over her jacket and in her hair.

“Ugh, come back when you’ve both taken baths, you’re disgusting,” Lydia tells them, but she has her arm wrapped around Allison’s neck and her other hand finds Stiles’. They pull her into the kitchen and Allison forces her to sit on a stool while Stiles tries to salvage the pancake batter.

Stiles hums quietly to himself as he starts to fry them, half-listening to Allison and Lydia’s conversation. It seems to be primarily about Jackson, so he’s pretty sure he doesn’t care that much. He’s already made most of the pancakes, even though there are about five billion of them (enough for six post-full moon werewolves), before anyone upstairs wakes up. It’s Isaac who comes down first, yawning, and wearing blue flannel penguin pajamas. When he sees the food, his eyes light up.

“I knew I smelled something,” he says happily, and proceeds to start inhaling pancakes. After pancake number five, Stiles has to whack him on the hand with his spatula.

“Hey, save some for the others,” he warns. Isaac pulls his hand back, grumbling.

“But they’re gonna be asleep forever,” he whines. Belying his words, Scott and Jackson both poke their heads in a second later.

“Pancakes, score!” Scott says. Jackson follows, shooting Stiles a dirty look that he’s pretty sure means tell anyone about my moment of weakness this morning, and I will end you. Stiles gives him an entirely too innocent look, and shrugs. And then Jackson sees Lydia, and gets distracted by teasing her about the pancake in her hair, tugging at her curls and ducking in for a kiss.

“Uh, why do we get pancakes?” Boyd asks, appearing next.

“Because we vanquished evil,” Stiles tells him, and Boyd nods like pancakes are an entirely reasonable response to that kind of situation. Derek and Erica are last. Derek still looks sleepy, and blinks at them like he doesn’t totally remember who they are. Erica is still hovering around Derek, like she really wants him to hug her, but Derek seems oblivious. When they come into the kitchen, Erica makes for Boyd and crowds into his lap. This is made more precarious by the fact that Boyd is perched on a stool. Derek stands in the doorway and stares at the kitchen.

“What?” he asks, which Stiles decides could really refer to any number of things.

“We made ‘Yay We Killed Some Stuff And None Of Us Died’ Celebration Pancakes,” Stiles announces.

“Mmm, Celebration Pancakes taste like victory. And nutmeg,” Isaac says happily.

“You’re cleaning all this up,” Derek tells Stiles, before snagging a pancake and eating it rolled up in his hand. Stiles gapes at him in outrage.

“What? You just assume this was my fault? Allison--”

Allison gives Derek her most innocent look, which Stiles has to admit is miles better than his. “Stiles is a bad influence,” she tells Derek, her eyes wide and adorable.

“Trust me, I know,” Derek tells her with a long-suffering sigh, his second pancake half-eaten already.

“See if I ever make you pancakes again,” Stiles grumbles. “Either of you!” He points accusingly with the spatula at Allison and Derek in turn.

“You have batter on your forehead,” Derek tells him calmly.

“I hate you all,” Stiles informs them.

“You love us,” Allison teases, dimples coming out.

***

After breakfast, they sit on the practice mats, the only furniture that managed to avoid griffon-y destruction.
    
“We should really head to IKEA, or something. These things are not comfortable,” Boyd says, stretched out on the mat.
    
“Too full,” Scott groans. “Don’t wanna move.”
    
“Weren’t you two going to get glass for the window yesterday?” Erica accuses Stiles and Derek.
    
“Yeah, but a little thing called the full moon kinda distracted us, remember?” Stiles grumbles back. Someone, probably Derek, had thought to put a tarp over the window some time last night. At least that stops rain or birds from getting in.

“Dude, how many tarps do you even have?” Stiles turns to Derek.

“Enough,” Derek says enigmatically.

“Well. That’s extra weird,” Stiles tells him.

“Does this mean you’ll go get a new window?” Erica asks Stiles.

“And a couch!” Isaac reminds him.

“What? No! It’s not like this is my apartment.” As if on cue, they all turn to stare at Derek. He ignores them.

“OK, compromise,” says Lydia. “Everyone who doesn’t want to help clean the kitchen can go get new furniture.” Immediately, all hands go up.

“Hey, I cooked,” Stiles reminds them. Derek, finally deigning to pay attention, sighs.

“Listen up, children. Allison, Scott, Stiles, Boyd. That’s how many the car will fit, that’s who’s coming. Everyone else, clean up Stiles’ mess.” Protest erupts immediately.

“It’s not my mess,” Stiles insists.

“But decorating is what I was born to do,” Lydia whines. “And I’m wounded.”

“IKEA creeps me out,” Boyd tells Derek. “All those empty, fake rooms with no people? It’s like the apocalyptic wasteland from I Am Legend.”

“Wait, Will Smith I Am Legend, or the original novel?” Scott asks seriously.

“Please. The novel,” Boyd scoffs.

Derek groans. “If all of you promise to stop talking? Boyd can switch with Lydia.”

Boyd says “Awesome,” and Lydia claps her hands.

Derek sighs. “Now can we please just go?”

The trip to the hardware store for window glass goes smoothly, if you would describe Stiles managing to not knock over an entire stack of glass and Derek making him go wait in the car as “smooth,” which Stiles totally does. Even the IKEA trip is OK, though all of them hate Lydia by the end.

“I didn’t know couches were so complicated,” Allison moans after they’d been dragged from showroom to showroom for two hours.

“Lydia. These are exactly the same,” Derek says flatly to Lydia, who’s forcing him to make a decision about which black leather, three-cushion couch he likes better.

“No, see…” and Lydia re-launches into a detailed explanation of how the chemical compound used with one of these types of leather is actually radically different from the other.

“I like that one,” Scott says quickly, pointing at the one on the left.

“Sure, that one’s good,” Derek agrees.

“Interesting choice, is it because of the--” Lydia begins.

“Let’s go find it in the warehouse. Do we need a cart? I think we need a cart. Can I push it?” Stiles interrupts loudly.

“What are you, like, four years old?” Lydia grumbles, but Allison and Scott mouth “thank you!” behind her back.

After an even longer - and possibly more interminable - time trying to stuff the couch into Allison’s trunk along with the flat-packed chairs and table, in which Derek refuses to admit that it won’t fit, they finally get it tied to the roof of the car with string and can leave.

The ride back is painful; there’s a cardboard box digging into Stiles’ side. The trunk, which they had to leave open to fit the boxes in, bounces alarmingly, and the wind rushing through makes it impossible to hear anyone talk. So they’re all bickering at high volume as they near Derek’s apartment. But then, without any warning, Derek goes suddenly still. A few yards later, so does Scott.
    
“What? What’s going on?” Stiles, Allison, and Lydia ask, but neither of them answers. They pull into the parking lot and Derek is out of the car before it’s even come to a full stop. With a jolt, Stiles remembers the other werewolves left in the apartment, and his mouth goes dry. Allison must have realized the same thing, because her voice tremors when she says, “Scott?”
    
“No, I think everyone’s OK,” Scott says, and Stiles feels like he can breathe again. “It’s something else…” At a slower pace, they all follow Derek through the door. He’s standing motionless in front of the open doors of the elevator. There’s something on the floor there, but Stiles can’t see it well enough to know what it is. As he gets closer, he realizes it’s the head of the griffon they’d just killed. Except…it doesn’t look the same…
    
“It’s male,” Lydia says from behind him. Stiles spins to stare at her. Her eyes are narrowed, like she’s thinking. “The one we killed, it was female.”
    
“What?” Scott asks. But Stiles gets it, all those hours of research finally paying off.
    
“You think this was the mate?” he asks Lydia. She nods, and Derek growls. His back is to all of them, his shoulders tense and angry. Lydia crouches down, peering intently at the severed head.

“It’s been frozen. I don’t know how long...”

“...But why would you freeze something unless you wanted it preserved?” Stiles finishes for her.

“So you think the male griffon was killed, and then preserved so it could be left here for us? I mean, this whole presentation? Clearly meant to send a message,” Allison adds. Derek makes a furious noise, and Scott gives him a concerned look.
    
“OK, can somebody please explain--” Scott begins.
    
“The Alphas sent it here,” Derek says, and his voice is a low rumble like faraway thunder. “I think that’s pretty obvious. They’ve been lurking around, making threats, and now this?”

“It does make sense.” Lydia gives the head another assessing look. “If they killed our griffon’s mate, she would definitely come for revenge. Eagles have a fairly diminished sense of smell, so the griffon may have only gotten ‘werewolf’ from the scene. The Alphas could easily be masking their scent for a while, making it seem like we’re the only werewolves in town.”

“They endangered our whole pack.” Derek’s voice is louder now. “For what? Some stupid mind game?”
    
“We don’t know for sure it was them,” Scott reminds them all, but Derek isn’t listening.
    
“They wanted us to know what they’d done,” Derek continues. “They wanted us to know how easily they could play with us, and there’s nothing--” he cuts himself off abruptly, his body practically humming with fury. He turns and looks helplessly at all of them, running a hand through his hair.
    
“There’s nothing I can do about it,” he admits. Stiles wonders how much it took, for him to say that to them. Stiles thinks about how werewolves seem to understand each other better when they can touch each other, how a physical connection seems to calm them when they’re freaking out. So deliberately, Stiles walks over puts a hand on each of Derek’s arms. Derek looks like he’s trying to figure out what Stiles is doing, his eyes darting between Stiles’ hands and his face. Stiles wills Derek to understand that he’s touching him like Pack.

Scott seems to understand, maybe better than Derek does because Scott is more used to asking for comfort, used to seeking it out with the complacent trust that he will find it. So Scott comes over too, clapping a hand on Derek’s back and leaving it there. And suddenly the girls are there, Allison giving Derek a hug and Lydia leaning against his side. Stiles is actually worried they might all just fall over now, hopefully not on the griffon’s decapitated head, because that would be unimaginably disgusting. But instead they all kind of hang there for a second in an amorphous clump, until Stiles can feel Derek relax.
    
“We can’t do anything about it now, maybe,” Stiles says, placing slight emphasis on the word ‘we.’ “But we’re gonna figure out a way to hurt these assholes.” Derek still looks kind of miserable and unconvinced. So Stiles raises his eyebrows and teases.
    
“Don’t you trust me?” echoing Derek’s words to Erica from last night. Derek stills, staring at Stiles’ face for a moment, before his mouth curves up slightly. It looks like a sad smile, though, and Stiles isn’t really sure how to interpret it.

The moment is lost when Derek rolls his eyes at him and answers, “Not even a little bit.”

Stiles shoves at him, and the girls squeal as they all nearly overbalance.
    
They realize with some chagrin that they have to ride the elevator up to the apartment with the head, in order to find a trash bag. The brief elevator journey is silent and awkward, all of them hugging the elevator walls and hoping the head doesn’t roll around and bounce against their feet.

The others, when they get back to the apartment, are shocked to see the head, and Derek snarls at them about their scent training until they’re a combination of head-droopingly ashamed and spikily defensive (this last one is mostly Jackson), and Scott tells Derek to chill out.

Derek stops practically mid-word and stares at Scott, who matches his gaze defiantly, his eyes turning gold and staying that way. Stiles wishes Scott the same luck he had with it, the last time he tried interrupting Derek mid-harangue. Similarly to that occasion, Derek’s face shuts down abruptly, and he strides up the stairs, trying very hard to look majestic and scorned while climbing a rickety spiral staircase, but mostly failing. Every time he sweeps around a corner of the stairs for dramatic effect, his face just comes back into view a few seconds later, and he has to do the whole performance again. Stiles thinks they’re all pretty relieved when all they can see is Derek’s feet stomping up the last few steps.

So…this Alpha Pack Mind Game thing is clearly throwing Derek. And now Stiles kind of wants to punch every single member of the Alpha pack in the solar plexus, because he’s pretty sure that throwing Derek is what this whole thing was about. And to be honest, it’s throwing Stiles too, but mostly because it’s such a blatant attempt. Like seriously, the lurking in the shadows, the cryptic messages, the head? It’s all so Godfather that it seems less intimidating and more theatrical, like they’re following some How to Be Evil handbook. So what’s bothering Stiles is less the Alphas, and more the fact that Derek is letting it get to him at all. Is Derek really this easily manipulated?

The answer, once Stiles takes a moment to think about it, is clearly “yes.” Because really, this is Derek we’re talking about. Derek, who, by all accounts, actually believed that his clearly evil uncle murdering his sister was just some weird misunderstanding, like, “oh, oops, accidentally bit you in half with my teeth! How clumsy!” Derek, who is so susceptible to puppy dog eyes that Stiles thinks it’s almost immoral when the pack uses them on him.  And Derek, who’s always on such high alert for the next tragedy that he overreacts to mild threats and misses the real danger.

It worries at Stiles, like a little itch in the back of his brain, throughout the rest of the day. Derek stays away, and Stiles can’t tell if it’s because he’s moping, or if he can hear the disaster that is the IKEA furniture construction process and is in hiding. Because yeah, after they play the nose game for who gets to take the decapitated head down to the back dumpster (for once, Stiles doesn’t lose, but Lydia whines the whole way up and down, so it basically feels like losing. For everyone. Which Stiles is confident was her intention), they remember the IKEA furniture still in the trunk of Allison’s car.
    
The rest of the day is spent trying to put furniture together, which actually may be worse than fighting a griffon. Or so Stiles says. Loudly. Many times. Especially after he and Scott accidentally put the table together upside down, and get into a heated argument with Jackson about whether it’s obvious from the picture instructions which side of the table is supposed to face up, since the instructions show a white side and a shaded gray side, but “both sides of this wood are the same freaking color, it’s all just brown.”

“Yeah, well when there’s a darker brown and a lighter brown…”

“They’re the same brown! Look!

“…Shit, they are the same brown. Give me that!” And then a brief but ultimately painful-for-Stiles tussle over the instruction booklet ensues.

Several times, Stiles has to stop Erica from throwing a wrench across the room, or punching through a piece of wood with her werewolf strength. Apparently, she is not equipped with the particular brand of patience, wiliness, and pure stubbornness that is necessary to win in a battle of wits with an IKEA instruction manual.

Lydia, on the other hand, is amazing at it, and has all the chairs done while Scott and Stiles are shamefacedly deconstructing their table. Isaac, Boyd, and Allison are in charge of putting the windowpanes back in. Stiles isn’t really paying much attention, but since all he hears is frequent cursing, rather than actual shattering glass, he figures they’re probably doing OK.
    
By dinnertime, it’s like they almost have a functioning living space again, and if there was one unfortunate hammer-related incident that may have led to a slight, tiny, practically invisible dent in the floor? Well, Stiles has sworn everyone to secrecy.

Now, Stiles is basking in the glow of the new couch. Erica is practically in his lap, squished against him, her legs draped over Boyd’s. Isaac is sitting against Stiles’ legs, playing a card game with Scott and Allison. Jackson is at the table, scowling helplessly at the one remaining piece of IKEA wood. Everyone is pretty sure that there weren’t supposed to be any leftover pieces, so it’s all slightly unsettling. Lydia next to him is already scheming about wall hangings, and Jackson is grumbling at her, “Why do we need wall hangings? We didn’t have wall hangings before. What are wall hangings, even?” Which Stiles thinks is actually a valid question, but one that Lydia does not deign to answer.

“Thanks for being nice, about last night,” Erica says quietly to Stiles during a particularly loud moment in the surrounding discussions. Stiles kind of shrugs, though it’s hard when Erica’s back is shoving his shoulder against the couch cushions.

“Not a big deal. That was some scary shit.”

“Yeah,” Erica says unhappily. She presses into him briefly, like she wants to give him a hug but is too awkward to do it like a normal person.

“It’s probably nice, to have Derek around for stuff like that. Good thing about sleeping here, I guess,” Stiles muses absently, watching Allison and Isaac tease Scott as he loses the hand particularly badly. Jackson gets bored with Lydia’s decorating schemes, and flops down on the floor, demanding to be dealt in.

“Huh?” Erica asks, and Stiles’ attention is brought back to their conversation.

“What? Oh, ‘cause he’s the Alpha. He probably has extra special calming powers, right, with the whole emotional connection thing? Isn’t that how it works?” Erica, and now Boyd, are kind of giving him funny looks.

“I guess,” Erica says doubtfully. “But Derek…doesn’t really do stuff like that.”

“He’s not that kind of Alpha,” Boyd clarifies, like he totally knows what he’s talking about. Stiles is starting to realize that none of them really do. “Most of the emotional connection comes from the rest of the pack. Like the touching and stuff? That’s how we bond, right?”

“Yeah, so Derek doesn’t do that because…?” Stiles trails off, inviting Boyd to explain. Boyd shrugs.

“He’s not that kind of Alpha,” Boyd repeats like it’s obvious, but that isn’t really an answer. Erica has clearly gotten bored of this conversation, because she gets up from the couch and pulls Boyd with her into the kitchen, where Stiles is pretty sure they’re going to either talk a lot about their feelings, or make out. Whichever, he’s glad he doesn’t have super-werewolf hearing, is all he can say.

And since Stiles cannot let something like this go once he’s noticed it – weird moments and inconsistencies and something’s-wrongs make him watchful and nervous – he starts thinking way too hard about Derek touching people.

He hadn’t really noticed it before, because seriously, this pack is more incestuous than Greek mythology, and so even without all the extra werewolf feelings, they’re still a super-cuddly bunch on their worst days.

But now Stiles remembers the way Isaac always makes a beeline for him or Scott whenever they’re in a room, and gets in their space like it’s harder to breathe when they’re not around. The way Erica shoves people, knocking into them or punching them, a little too hard and a little too desperate, whenever she gets self-conscious or anxious. The way Boyd always hangs slightly to one side of any group like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

Stiles watches, now, the easy way that Scott is laughing at Jackson’s spectacular bitchface about something in the game, and the thoughtless way he puts an arm around Jackson’s shoulders while he’s teasing him. Stiles watches Jackson freeze, his eyes wide, for a split second before sniping back at Scott like nothing’s happened.

Stiles has thought before that it’s easy for Scott, and now he realizes with some surprise that it’s easy for him, too. Most of his self-conscious freak-outs happen after the fact, but in the moment he’s all instinct and impulsivity. He hasn’t realized before, how that makes it fairly easy it is for him to initiate physical contact like it’s no big deal. But he’s only starting to realize what a huge deal it is, to this pack.

And that explains a lot actually, about why when there’s a minor tussle on the couch, it’s the winner who always seems to end up next to him or Scott, or the way the others gravitate towards wherever he’s sitting in a room. Isaac especially, but the others also. Even Jackson.

Shit, I am the Pack Mom, Stiles groans to himself. And then he laughs a little, because if he is, then Scott totally is too.

But Stiles doesn’t think it’s actually supposed to work that way.

And now all the thoughts about Derek that he’s been suppressing with IKEA-related activities sneak back into his mind, clamoring louder than ever. Shut up, he tells his brain. Derek is fine, he doesn't need you interfering. But his brain has never shut up before, and it doesn’t now. So finally, with an irritated huff, Stiles gets up to check on Derek.

Derek’s not in his bedroom, or the bathroom, and by the time Stiles checks the Betas’ bedrooms, he’s already pretty sure Derek won’t be there either.

He knows Derek hasn’t come downstairs, because even though the main living room was like a war zone this afternoon, Derek kind of has a presence that’s hard to ignore. And also, the stairs make really loud creaking noises whenever anyone goes up or down them. So Stiles goes back into Derek’s room, and that’s when he sees the open dormer window, leading out onto the roof.

“God damn it!”

Chapter Text

It takes a few minutes of contemplating the open window and Derek’s distinct absence from the loft before Stiles shakes himself into action. He nearly tumbles down the entirety of the staircase, landing on the ground with a thud that distracts Allison and Jackson from what sounds like a debate about the rules of strip poker. Which...even if this wasn’t a freaking emergency, Stiles would still be really glad to end that conversation.

“Derek’s gone,” he gasps out. Erica and Boyd come sidling out of the kitchen, Erica asking “What do you mean ‘gone?’” in a super-casual voice like everyone doesn’t know what they were doing in there.

“I mean gone. As in, distinct absence of Alpha,” Stiles snipes back.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Scott growls, and Lydia agrees, detailing exactly what she will do to Derek when she finds him. It’s disturbingly thorough. Allison, meanwhile, is saying doubtfully that “maybe he just needed some air. You guys have been cooped up here together for a while, I’d want space.”

“No way,” Isaac says, looking scared. “Not without telling us.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious he went after the Alphas by himself,” Jackson adds, like this conversation is clearly a waste of time.

“Even if he didn’t, we really have to assume he did, right?” Boyd asks.

Stiles has been quiet, dialing Derek’s number and listening it go straight to voicemail, letting the cacophony of the pack’s fear, and worry, and hope that Derek was just getting ice cream or something, hit him in waves of noise.

He waits for Derek to yell at them, make them shut up and pay attention, make them turn from scared, bickering teenagers into a pack that can actually get shit done. And then Stiles remembers with a sick feeling that Derek isn’t there, and while they’re arguing, Derek could be getting seriously hurt.

Someone has to be The Derek.

“We need to find him,” Stiles says, pitching his voice over the others’. “Isaac, go upstairs and see where the scent leads after he went out the window. We’ll meet you out in the parking lot to follow it.” Isaac nods, quick and scared, before he runs up the stairs. The rest grab phones, car keys, and in Allison’s case, her bow. The ride down in the elevator is tense and silent.

Isaac is on the roof when they get outside, looking down at them. He points to the empty space where Derek’s Camaro was parked, and Stiles curses.

“Can you still get his scent?” he asks the others.

“I dunno, it’s been a couple hours, I think,” Boyd says doubtfully. “He must’ve left right after he went upstairs.” And yeah, does Boyd think Stiles doesn’t know that? It’s been hours, and anything could have been happening this whole time, and dammit he should have gone to check on Derek earlier.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, because that pretty much encapsulates all his feelings right now.

“We should split up,” Scott offers. “If we go in different directions, we might be able to pick up the scent somewhere around town. I’ll go with you in your Jeep.”

“I can come too,” Isaac offers.

“No, you should go with Jackson in his car,” Scott says quickly. “So you can pay attention to the scent while he drives.”

“OK, the rest of us will be with me, then,” Allison says, pulling her car keys out of her pocket. “C’mon you guys,” she beckons at Boyd, Erica, and Lydia.

“We’ll coordinate by phone,” Scott calls after them all. “Don’t do anything alone if you find him. We’ll all come fast as we can.”

They’re all leaving the parking lot, Jackson going one way on the road and Allison going the other, when Scott says, “Stiles,” in such a weird voice that Stiles pauses before pulling out of his parking spot. He looks quizzically at Scott, who has that sick, I-just-ate-a-caterpillar-because-I-thought-it-was-a-gummy-worm look that means Scott is about to tell him something he’s a little embarrassed about, and which Stiles probably isn’t gonna like.

“What?” Stiles tries not to freak out.

“Um, I think I know where the Alphas are,” Scott says, ducking his head toward the window so that he’s not looking Stiles in the eye.

“What,” Stiles says dangerously. And yeah, all pretense of not-freaking-out has pretty much gone out the window.

“Yeah, remember how they were trying to recruit me? And how they suddenly stopped? Well…they kinda didn’t stop.”

“What,” Stiles repeats, and he wonders somewhat hysterically if he really is turning into the new Derek, and if Derek dies, will he have to be Derek? And have to master the art of the taciturn yet strangely effective death threat? And throw people into walls, and refuse to discuss feelings, and—oh, right, Scott is still talking.

“…and then I was at their place, but you can see how it was kind of an accident, right? And dude, it was really fancy, it was in this hotel, and if I was ever gonna join their stupid pack, which I’m not, I would totally order room service all the time. But they were really pushy, and so I said something about how I’d think about it, and then I ran out of there! Totally innocent!”

“I’m sorry, you said what to the Alphas? The ones who need to be absolutely, 100% convinced that your loyalty is pure and incorruptible?”

Scott stares at him for a beat. “You don’t think--” he says.

“Aah, whatever. Not the time for this,” Stiles rushes out. “I’ll yell at you later. Which hotel?” Scott gives him an address, and Stiles is peeling out of the parking lot so fast that Scott almost overbalances into the cup holder. And is Stiles one bit sorry? No, he is not.

As they’re driving, Stiles finally bursts out with the question that’s been bothering him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to freak out,” Scott explains, with an earnest look on his face that is uncomfortably effective. “You were so worried about the Alphas before, and they didn’t contact me again, so I thought maybe they’d gotten the message. And I obviously didn’t want to tell Derek or any of the others, because I hadn’t meant to go with them, but then I was there, and I thought it would seem really untrustworthy.”

“More untrustworthy than keeping your clandestine meeting a secret?” Stiles mutters. Scott glares at him and punches the dashboard in frustration.

“Hey,” Stiles says sharply. “Don’t take your stupidity out on my car.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Scott says defensively. “Aren’t you glad now that I did it?” Which Stiles thinks, outraged, is just totally missing the point.

When they get to the hotel, Stiles admits that Scott is right about one thing: the Alphas managed to pick the fanciest hotel (read: the only fancy hotel) in Beacon Hills. It does have a certain panache that a burnt-down husk in the middle of the woods can’t really achieve.

There’s a Camaro in the parking lot, and Stiles tries to tell himself that lots of people in Beacon Hills have black Camaros as they spill into the lobby. The concierge looks very much as if he’d like to kick them out.

“He’s definitely here,” Scott says quietly to Stiles under the pretext of pointing out something on a trail map in the stack of tourist brochures by the door.

“OK, so we call the others--” Stiles begins. But Scott has gone still.

“I smell blood too,” Scott says. Stiles curses and fumbles at his phone. He gets Isaac on the first ring.

“No luck,” Isaac says into the phone. “You guys?”

“The Beacon Arms,” Stiles hisses into the phone. “Know where it is?”

“Sure,” Isaac tells him unsteadily. “Is everything--”

“Hurry,” Stiles says, and hangs up.

Scott, meanwhile, has been having much the same conversation with Erica in Allison’s car.

“They’ll be here soon,” Scott tells him. “But they were all the way on the other side of town.”

“Shit,” Stiles curses. “What do we do?”

Scott’s eyes are wide and scared. “I dunno, man. I can’t hear anything from this far away.”

“OK. OK,” Stiles repeats, trying to calm himself. “We can wait for the others, but maybe, like, get a little closer? Just in case something really bad is happening?” Scott nods, and beckons him toward the elevators.

“What floor?” says an older man in a suit who’s gotten on the elevator just before them.

“Um, not sure yet?” Scott says, and gives the guy what he clearly thinks is a winning, innocent smile. The guy gives him a weird look in return, which only gets more confused when they’re between floors three and four, and Scott says, “Here!” and Stiles nearly knocks him over lunging for the “4” button.

“We find our room by sensory memory. Terrible with numbers!” Stiles says cheerfully to the open-mouthed guy in the elevator before Scott drags him away.

“They can probably hear you,” Scott hisses, and Stiles clamps his mouth shut. He follows Scott, who’s stalking through the halls of the fourth floor, eyes glinting yellow. Stiles hopes they don’t come upon any more random hotel patrons, because things could get really awkward.

It turns out, though, that Stiles doesn’t need Scott to help him locate the Alphas and Derek, because the muffled thumps, groans, and occasional roars coming out of Room 417 are loud enough for a regular human to hear. Stiles wonders why hotel staff haven’t investigated by now, and then realizes that to anyone not friends with a bajillion werewolves, it probably just sounds like the TV. Or really kinky sex.

Stiles and Scott creep up to the doorway, Stiles trying to slow his quickening heartbeat so the Alphas don’t get suspicious.

Just a couple dudes, looking for their room, putting their faces up against someone else’s door, as dudes do, Stiles thinks to himself. No cause for alarm.

When he sticks his ear against the crack between the door and the wall, he can hear someone talking.

“Is your pack really this out of control, Derek?” one of them is laughing. Not Douchecanoe, it’s a woman’s voice.  Stiles feels a rush of relief when he hears Derek’s name. She’s talking to Derek. Derek must be conscious, at least. “You had to come alone? They wouldn’t follow you?”

Stiles listens for Derek’s response, but doesn’t hear one.

“Not everyone is cut out for leadership, you know,” says another Alpha voice. “No shame in it. Some people are just born Betas.”

Stiles hears a murmur that sounds like Derek. He’s pretty sure Derek just said something rude.

“Yeah, but see, it is our business,” says Douchecanoe. Oh, shit. Him getting involved can’t be good. “Either your pack doesn’t trust you enough to come, or you don’t trust them enough to bring them. Whichever, I don’t care. But the result is the same. A group of unstable children calling attention to themselves in an area that a certain hunting family already has…heated relations with. But I assume you know that story?”

And now Stiles is positive Derek just said something rude.

“You’re a liability,” Douchecanoe continues, his voice hard. “You know why we have to put you down.” Stiles and Scott turn to each other at the same time, eyes wide. They nearly trip over each other scrambling back to the elevator, getting far enough away that they can talk without being overheard by the Alphas.

“We have to do something,” Stiles whispers the minute the doors chime closed on them. Scott cocks his head, and his face relaxes.

“Oh thank God. The others are finally here.” When the doors chime open, they’re all in the lobby, the wolves clearly concentrating on the scent of Derek three floors above, Allison and Lydia looking awkwardly aware of the stares they’re getting.

“They’re going to hurt him,” Scott says to the rest of the pack in a low voice. “We need a plan.” They all turn to Stiles, and why would they do that? Isn’t it someone else’s turn to have a brilliant plan? His brain buzzes static, and he looks at their expectant faces and all he can hear is Douchecanoe’s voice echoing the words “put you down.” OK, Stilinski, focus. Focusfocusfocusfo—

“We need to get them out of the room,” Scott says. He’s using his slow “sick animal” voice again, and Stiles doesn’t know why, until he catches the tail end of Scott’s surreptitious, worried glance and realizes that Scott thinks the wounded animal is him. Stiles pulls a face at him, but Scott’s words must have sparked something, because suddenly he has a plan.

“Scott!” Stiles almost shouts, and they all startle. “Did they give you a way to contact you? You know, when…” Stiles realizes that the rest of the pack is now staring at them in confusion, and yeah, may have blown that secret.

“A phone number, but I wouldn’t use it,” Scott says, sounding scandalized. Stiles waits a beat, and watches the realization dawn on Scott’s face.

“Apparently I would,” Scott says, diving for his phone.

Stiles knows Scott knows, but he can’t help spelling it out anyway, his hands tapping a nervous rhythm against his thighs: “Tell them you’re changing your mind, you don’t trust Derek, tell them whatever. But say you’re in the lobby and you want to talk to them. You have to make them come down.” Scott’s eyes are wide as he nods.

The others also look like they’re getting the plan, but again, Stiles says it anyway. He needs to hear it himself. “We’ll hide on the fourth floor, far enough away that hopefully we’ll sound and smell like other guests. I don’t know how many will come down. Hopefully enough that we can fight our way through the rest.” They nod, and everyone but Scott heads for the elevators. Scott is staring at his phone, looking a little sick. As she goes, Allison presses a hand to his arm. He looks up, startled, and she smiles at him reassuringly. Scott relaxes a little, and waves his phone at them just before the elevator doors ding shut.

When they get to the fourth floor, Stiles lets the werewolves lead the way through the halls, far enough away from Room 417 that their lurking won’t seem too obvious. Stiles sends up a brief prayer of thanks to…whatever, that the Alphas are confident enough to stay at a hotel, surrounded by people, when doing their Maiming and Murdering. Makes it a lot easier to hide in plain sight…smell…sound…whatever.

Pretty quickly, they realize the flaw in the plan is that they can’t hear what’s going on, and won’t know if Scott’s managed to lure anyone down.

“I’ll go,” Lydia says quietly. “They haven’t seen me before.” Jackson opens his mouth to argue, but she says, “Stiles.” And Stiles is forced to agree that she’s right.

“Be careful,” he hisses. She tosses her hair like she thinks that’s a stupid thing to say, and struts down the hall. Stiles can see her put a little wobble in her step like she’s slightly tipsy, and twirl her hair. That girl could’ve gone on the stage.

She turns a corner, and they’re all left to wait in silence. Jackson clenches his fists, Stiles switches his nervous finger tattoo from his leg to the wall, Erica puts her hand in Boyd’s, and Isaac closes his eyes. Allison re-checks her bow for the millionth time. It’s still loaded, but she looks at the arrow like she’s surprised to see it there.

After what was probably only a few minutes, Stiles’ phone vibrates in his pocket.

They’re coming now, says Scott’s text. He’s showing it to the others when Lydia rockets around the corner.

“They just left. Three of them. An older guy and two younger guys.”

“Douchecanoe and the twins,” Stiles thinks aloud, ignoring Jackson’s “wait, who?” “That leaves one guarding Derek.”

“I think we can do one, right?” Isaac asks uncertainly.

“Absolutely,” Allison says, her face set. When she says it like that, Stiles actually believes it. “Someone kick down the door, and then get the hell out of my way.”

“Got it,” says Boyd, and they take off.

This part of the plan goes off without a hitch. The part where Boyd sends the door crashing into the room and then leaps to the side. Allison even manages to get the Alpha in the shoulder as she leaps up, snarling, the second the door comes down. And then it kind of goes to shit.

Boyd, Isaac, Erica, and Jackson rush in, but in the close quarters of the hotel room, they just keep getting in each others’ way. And the Alpha clearly knows how to play this to her advantage, because she’s already swept Isaac off his feet and sent him stumbling into Erica by the time Stiles gets to the door. As he watches, just as they struggle up, Jackson flails into them and they all go down again.

So they probably should have planned this a little better.

But Stiles had kind of assumed that once they brought the door down and distracted the Alpha, they could grab Derek and go. But one glance at Derek, and Stiles can see it’s definitely not happening. He’s not tied up in any way Stiles can see, but he’s slumped in a chair, and he seems barely aware of the fight that’s going on around him. His shirt is bloody and torn to shreds, and his head is lolling to one side, face puffy and dark with bruises. Stiles can’t actually tell if he’s conscious right now, but either way, he’s not walking out of here without some serious help. Help they can’t give, because between Stiles and Derek is a whirling tornado of pissed off werewolf, who has just hit Boyd over the head with a mini ironing board. Well, shit.

“We have to get the Alpha out of the room,” Stiles says urgently to Allison, who’s still standing next to him in the doorway. She smiles grimly, and aims another arrow, waiting for the others to be knocked clear. Which - fortunately or unfortunately - doesn’t take long.

The arrow sails past the Alpha’s head to stick quivering in the wall next to her ear. The Alpha pauses in her menacing of Jackson, and cocks her head at Allison. The next arrow goes into her thigh. The Alpha yells in pain, a half-human, half-werewolf sound that makes Stiles wince, and takes off after Allison.

Stiles pulls Lydia to the side as the Alpha goes through the door, Allison dancing away and notching another arrow.

“Go after them. Keep her away,” Stiles hisses to the others. Panting, they pull themselves up off the floor and run out.

So that leaves Lydia and Stiles with Derek.

“C’mon dude, we’re taking off,” Stiles tells him, slinging one of Derek’s arms around his shoulders and hauling up. “I hear this place has a shitty breakfast buffet, anyway.”

“Stiles?” Derek mumbles through a split lip, sounding lost, and Stiles feels like he might vomit. But Derek is squinting at him--or at least, Stiles thinks he’s squinting, but his eyes are so swollen it’s hard to tell—so Stiles grins at him instead.

“Seriously, Derek, we have to stop meeting like this. People will talk,” he says, but he makes his voice soothing as he tries to get Derek out of the chair. Derek makes a sharp sound of pain, and Stiles stops moving. Lydia rushes to grab Derek’s other side, and between the two of them, they manage to ease him up. When Derek tries to walk, his left leg drags behind him a little bit. Stiles thinks it may be broken.

“How are we gonna get him through the lobby?” Lydia asks Stiles, her eyes wide. Stiles shuts his eyes and doesn’t answer, because yeah, maybe definitely should’ve thought this whole thing through more.

Far as Stiles sees it, there are two issues:

First: Crazy powerful Alphas trying to kill them all, and them moving at the pace of a geriatric sloth.

Second: The entire population of Beacon Hills, who are no doubt all in the lobby right now, watching as Stiles drags a clearly beaten, half-conscious man into a car.

So basically, if the Alphas don’t kill him, his dad certainly will. It’s almost comforting, Stiles thinks, to have this much certainty about his future.

Derek moans again. OK, focus, Stiles commands himself. Luckily, he realizes, because of Problem #2, Problem #1 may not be such a problem after all. Probably the Alphas won’t turn into werewolves and try to kill someone in front of the hotel concierge. Probably. So that only leaves Problem #2.

“Um, we’ll play it like drunk kids, OK?” he says to Lydia. She looks at Derek’s face doubtfully.

“Yeeeaah...pretty sure no alcohol can make your face look like it was run over by a truck.”

“Right, yeah, um…my hoodie. That’ll hide his face, right?”

“Maybe?”

“Well it’s not like we’ll be staying long enough for them to do a thorough inspection,” Stiles bites out, trying to simultaneously struggle out of his hoodie without dropping Derek. Luckily, this one has a zipper, or no way is Derek getting into it at all. They have to zip it up all the way, and it looks comically short and tight on him, but Stiles supposes it’s not really time to worry about the impending destruction of Derek’s reputation as the town fashionista.

Painfully, achingly slowly, they make their way out of the room and toward the elevator, Lydia occasionally stumbling under Derek’s weight. Stiles can hear sounds of fighting somewhere in the labyrinth of hallways. He hopes the others are OK.

When the elevator doors ding open on the first floor, it’s like all motion in the lobby stops. Everyone turns to stare at them. Stiles forces himself to let out a hysterical giggle, which is only a few steps away from the truth anyway.

“Oh. Em. Geeeee!” Lydia squeals. “Totes better than prom night!”

“Holy crap you guys, I’m like, so drunk right now,” Stiles laughs, stumbling into Derek and nearly sending them all toppling. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Douchecanoe and the twins suddenly stand up, Scott still seated on the couch across from them. Scott’s mouth pops open.

“The others are so gonna wanna hear about this,” Stiles says loudly, shooting Scott a significant look and hoping he gets the message. Scott seems to, because his eyes widen and he pulls out his phone.

“I’m really drunk,” Lydia giggles. “How ‘bout you, Derek? OMG Stiles, I think Derek fell asleep!”

“Dude, you are such a lightweight, it’s embarrassing,” Stiles says to Derek, trying to punch him in the shoulder without also dropping him. And yeah, despite the fact that Derek’s face makes Stiles’ heart hurt every time he looks at it, and despite their very probable impending demise, Stiles is secretly thrilled that he just said that to Derek. And Derek couldn’t even kill him for it.

They’re almost out the door now, everyone in the lobby still staring, but making a pretense of doing other things. Like looking directly at the spectacle is indecent somehow. After one swift jerky motion in their direction, Douchecanoe has been forced to stand and watch them leave. Stiles suppresses the urge to flip him the bird as he goes.

“I…have to go,” Stiles hears Scott mumble, and he’s out the door after them. Allison, Isaac, Jackson, Erica, and Boyd clatter around a corner at just that moment.

“Emergency staircase,” Erica wheezes at Stiles questioning look, and grabs Derek just as Lydia nearly drops him.

“Into my car,” Allison says, pulling open the back door for them to tip Derek into. Lydia runs around to the other side and gets in with him, as Allison dives for the driver’s side door and Boyd just makes it into the passenger seat before his legs give out.

Allison is peeling out of the parking lot just as Douchecanoe and the twins stalk out the door. Douchecanoe grins at them ruefully as he watches the car fade into the distance.

“Well-played, kiddos. But you’re just delaying the inevitable here. I mean, we do know where he lives. And where there won’t be such an audience…” Stiles stares at the graceful way Douchecanoe shrugs, like this is all just a minor setback to him, like they’re all just inconvenient. His face hasn’t lost its slightly detached smirk, and suddenly, overwhelmingly, Stiles wants to make him crack. He’s so angry he’s shaking. Beside him, he can feel, rather than see, that the others are resisting similar urges to claw off his face.

“Until next time,” Douchecanoe says with a half-wave, and turns to walk away, and no. He doesn’t get to try to kill Derek and just walk away. Before Stiles knows what he’s doing, he’s lunged at Douchecanoe and grabbed his arm, spinning him back around. The Alpha growls and his eyes glint red, before he seems to relax when he sees it’s only Stiles. If anything, that just makes Stiles more furious.

“No next time,” he says, voice clipped and surprisingly, not wavering. “Go after him again, and I’ll kill you myself.” Douchecanoe blinks at him like he’s a jumbled up Rubick’s cube, like Douchecanoe can’t put his pieces together, but also can’t decide if he cares enough to try.

“We all will,” Scott says, even and firm behind him. The others rumble their agreement. At this, Douchecanoe’s eyebrows spring up, and he looks at Scott carefully.

“That’s…surprising.”

“Not really,” Scott says shortly.

“As nice as this post hoc display of pack loyalty is, I admit I’m having trouble feeling particularly threatened by a bunch of teenage Betas and humans,” Douchecanoe says, laughing in their faces.

“Maybe you should,” Stiles says boldly, standing up straighter. “Maybe if you took humans seriously, you would’ve noticed who was driving the getaway car. You’re familiar with the Argent family, right? It’s pretty gruesome, the kinds of things they do to werewolves they don’t like…But I assume you know that story.” Stiles drawls, and he barely recognizes his own voice as he says it. Douchecanoe’s expression falters.

“We’ll do what we think is best,” he finally says shortly. “And we don’t respond well to threats.” He’s gone before Stiles can shout back some retort, which would no doubt have been awesome and witty. Yeah. You better run, Stiles says in his head.

He releases a huge breath of air and turns to the others. Erica has a bruise blooming on her face and Jackson winces every time his right side stretches, but otherwise, they’re doing OK. And Stiles suddenly just feels tired.

“Two of you guys can fit in my Jeep,” he says, running a hand over his face. Thinking right now is almost physically painful. “The Camaro…I guess we can come back for…”

“Not so fast,” Erica grins, and shakes Derek’s keys at him. “Grabbed ‘em off him when I was getting him into the car.” Stiles blinks at her.

“How did you even think of that, while everything was going on?” he gapes. Erica shrugs.

“’Cause I’m an awesome ninja. And now I get to drive Derek’s car!” She practically skips over to it. Scott follows Stiles into the Jeep, Stiles mechanically turning in the direction of Derek’s apartment.

“He looked pretty hurt,” Scott says tentatively, after ten minutes of silence.

“Yeah,” Stiles says shortly.

“Plan worked though.”

“Yeah.”

Five minutes later, Scott speaks again: “Stiles? Did you really mean it? That you’d kill him?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers without pause. “Did you?”

Scott does pause, like he is actually thinking about it, and finally he says, “Yeah,” like he’s a little bit surprised to find it’s true.

Well. At least there’s that.

***

Stiles and Scott are the last ones home, and by the time they arrive, the others have somehow – Stiles has no idea how – managed to get Derek up the spiral stairs and into his bed.

“He’s started healing,” Allison whispers to them when they arrive, like Derek is a baby that can’t be woken. But they’re in the living room, so Stiles is pretty sure, despite his werewolf hearing, that Allison is being a little overly cautious. “It was Alphas so it’s going slower, but it already looks better than before.” And Stiles huffs a sigh of relief, because before was awful. The others are all sitting downstairs too, folded in on themselves and casting miserable glances at the ceiling.
    
And Stiles believes Allison and everything, he really does, but suddenly he needs to see for himself. The others weren’t there, Stiles rationalizes to himself. Derek didn’t say their names like it hurt, like he was afraid. He leaves Scott talking to Allison and goes upstairs, just to check, just for a second.
    
Derek is asleep in his bed, and Allison is right. He does look better. His face isn’t swelling anymore, and the bruises are still there but they look days old rather than fresh. Stiles lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
    
At the noise, Derek cracks one eye open.

“Stiles?” he asks, and his voice is croaky, but in a normal grumpy way, and not like before. Stiles’ legs feel a little wobbly.

“Sorry to wake you,” Stiles says, feeling like a jerk for intruding on his recuperation. “Go back to sleep, Derek.”
    
“What happened?” Derek is frowning, slowly, like it’s taking a lot of effort. “The last thing I remember--”

“Yeah, we kinda had to save your life again. No big deal,” Stiles blurts out, cutting Derek off. He’s seen enough of the gory details, thank you, he really doesn’t need to hear them, too. Without thinking, his hand goes down to Derek’s hair, trying to soothe him back to sleep.
    
“What?” Derek’s eyes go wide and he struggles up from his pillow. Stiles pushes him down gently.
    
“Dude, you got totally demolished by the Alphas, it’s gonna take a while to heal. Chill.” Derek glares at Stiles’ hand on his chest like that’s the only thing keeping him from leaping up and running a marathon. Idiot.
    
“Is everyone OK?” Derek asks finally, seeming to resign himself to his bed-ridden state.
    
“Everyone but you,” Stiles tells him, a slight edge in his voice that he didn’t intend.
    
“I’m fine,” Derek grits out. “I was dealing with it.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I think they were really intimidated by your unconscious and battered body. Are you gonna go to sleep, or do I have to get Lydia to make you,” Stiles jokes, turning as if to go out the door. Surprisingly fast, Derek’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Stiles’ whole arm sparks a little at the sudden touch, and he can’t help but stare at Derek’s fingers around his skin, shocked.
    
“No, stay,” Derek says, and now Stiles is really shocked. Like, actually, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
    
“I was just joking, I would never sic Lydia on you,” Stiles reassures him, making his voice go back to gentle and soothing. It’s not a tone he does particularly well. Derek tugs his wrist closer to the bed.
    
“Stay,” he repeats, his eyelids fluttering closed. Stiles realizes this might be a pack proximity thing. Maybe it helps them heal better, as well as all the emotional benefits?
    
“Not going anywhere,” Stiles says quietly, but he’s pretty sure Derek is already asleep.

***

Stiles is sitting cross-legged on Derek’s bed when Derek wakes up again. His hand is somehow still resting against Derek’s hair, and while he’s not sure what’s up with that, he also hasn’t tried very hard to move it. Derek’s hair is soft against his hand, and as Stiles watches the bruises on his face fade, leaving it pale but unmarked, Stiles thinks about the most perfect, understanding, kind, soothing, deferential remark he can make to best facilitate Derek’s healing process.
    
So of course, the first thing he says when Derek opens his eyes, looking almost entirely healed and a million times more alert, is: “So I’m not mad, just disappointed,” in a bright and hard voice that makes his internal, compassionate self wince. Derek stares up at him, like it’s too early in the morning to deal with Stiles not making sense.
    
“Huh. Why?” he asks, and Stiles’ mouth pops open.
    
“Seriously, dude? You’re seriously asking me that question? How about, I dunno, running after the Alphas after I said we’d deal with it together? How about putting your life in danger? How about putting our lives in danger? How about being stupid and stubborn and a total hypocrite, because it was like yesterday that you were yelling at me about the griffon thing.”
    
“That was different,” Derek growls.
    
“Yeah. It was. Because me, I was working together, with my pack, to stop an immediate threat. Which, if I’ve correctly read the Werewolf Pack User Guide - and I think you know I have - is what pack members are supposed to do! You, on the other hand, ran off by yourself, without telling anyone, to challenge something you knew would kick your ass. And also, I managed to kill my bad guy while you, as previously mentioned, got your ass kicked.”

“It’s my job to protect the pack,” Derek continues stubbornly, like he hasn’t been listening to a word Stiles said. Stiles snorts.
    
“And how well did that work for you today, huh?” Stiles asks, arms flailing in righteous indignation. “Dude, at some point you gotta accept that we’re in this together. And also, that you frequently do stupid shit, and contrary to popular belief, probably should not trust your instincts. Because they suck.”

Derek huffs a laugh, and Stiles smiles fondly at him. “People were really worried, dumbass. Scott almost cried.”
    
“That’s…touching?” Derek says, raising his eyebrows.
    
“Seriously, next time, maybe a little less with the Hulk Smash, and a little more with the carefully constructed plans? You can’t protect the pack if we’re all crying at your funeral. Not me, I wouldn’t cry. But Scott. Scott might cry.”
    
“I’m--”
    
“If you finish that sentence with ‘the Alpha’ then so help me, I will turn your furry werewolf ass into a rug.”
    
“I was gonna say “I’m sorry,”” Derek says ruefully. “But if you’d prefer the rug…”
    
“Oh,” Stiles says, his cheeks heating up. “No, that’s OK. You’d look kinda mangy on my floor, anyway.” He realizes abruptly that his hand is still tangled in Derek’s hair, and he tugs it out self-consciously.
    
The others must have heard voices, because Boyd and Allison poke their heads in.
    
“He is awake!” they call downstairs, and suddenly the whole room is filled with werewolves. Isaac and Erica clamber on the bed and push up against Derek, both of them glaring at him like they’re daring him to push them away. Derek looks taken aback and a little overwhelmed, but he doesn’t make any move to dislodge them.
    
Jackson and Boyd are teasing Lydia about her drunk performance, under the pretense of narrating the story to Derek. Scott is quiet, looking at Derek thoughtfully, and in a lull in the conversation, finally blurts out, “Did you think we would just do nothing, when we realized you had gone?”

Stiles blinks at Scott, because…yeah, that’s a good point. Derek’s face has gone carefully blank.
    
“What?” Stiles yelps. “You did? Are you kidding me?” Reluctantly, Derek looks up at them.
    
“If I’m dealing with the Alphas, then you don’t have to. You should have been relieved that I was taking care of it.” All the Pack’s eyes go wide with hurt. Erica and Isaac both pull away from Derek and look at him like they don’t quite know who he is.
    
“Was the Alpha right? You don’t trust us?” Scott asks, wounded, at the same time Stiles says furiously, “You don’t think we care--”
    
“Oh my God,” Jackson interrupts them all, rolling his eyes like he can’t understand why they’re wasting his time with this. “This is actually the dumbest conversation I’ve ever heard, and I once had to sit next to Greenberg for two hours on the way to a game. Guys: Derek obviously cares about you and doesn’t want you to get hurt. Derek: the pack obviously cares about you and doesn’t want you to get hurt. Any questions?” He pauses and stares at them, like he’s just daring them to actually ask a question. Stiles can’t even muster up the words for a question, he’s too busy wondering how he missed that Jackson had hidden emotional depths. It’s profoundly disturbing.

“...Now can we please get back to important things, like the totally awesome way I kicked that Alpha in the face and she went rolling down the hall in a towel cart? I pretty much crushed it in that fight.” Aaand…everything is once again right with the world.
    
Except it kind of is, because Allison laughs in his face and tells him he would have been crying like a puppy if she hadn’t been there to save his ass, and then they’re practically jumping over each other to tell Derek all the awesome things they’d done while fighting the Alpha. Stiles is watching Derek’s face, though, and he’s not really listening. He’s frowning at his duvet, but as the pack laughs around him, Stiles watches Derek pull Erica and Isaac in tighter. They don’t seem to notice, but Stiles does.
    
“...And then, oh my God, it was amazing, Stiles goes, ‘Go after him again, and I’ll kill you myself,’ and his voice went all scary, it was so badass.”

Derek’s eyes shoot up from the bedspread to stare at Stiles. “You did what?”
    
“It wasn’t…totally like that,” Stiles answers uncomfortably.

“Dude, those were, like, the exact words you used,” Scott interjects. Way to have my back, Former Best Friend, Stiles thinks.

“Yeah, well, Scott said it too!” He’s not totally sure why he cares, why it bothers him that Derek knows what he said, why Derek’s searching stare is making his cheeks flush. Everything just suddenly feels too close now – close together, close to something important, Stiles isn’t sure. Every time he blinks he sees Derek’s broken face, hears him saying “Stiles.”

The memory seems private and terrible, not something he wants to open up for Pack analysis and questions. And he especially doesn’t want Derek to launch into some lecture or another about how Stiles shouldn’t put himself in danger because he’s too small and humanly squishable to defend himself. He doesn’t want Derek to laugh, at the thought of Stiles trying to defend him.

So Stiles laughs first.
    
“You guys, I was just trying to distract the Asshole Alphas from following Allison’s car. C’mon, do you really think they saw me as a threat? I was stalling. Duh.” And Stiles ignores the small voice inside his head that reminds him it wasn’t really like that. That’s not why he’d said it, not at all.
    
Derek has his head angled away from Stiles now. Well…good. A lack of mocking laughter is always good.

***

Later, the pack’s relief at seeing Derek healed has somewhat abated and they’ve all wandered back downstairs to find some food. Except Derek is apparently a terrible invalid because he keeps getting bored and trailing downstairs after them, so they’ve had to post rotating shifts of guards in his room to make him stay in bed.

It’s only then, on Stiles’ shift when he’s trapped there, that the topic comes up again. He’s lounging at the foot of Derek’s bed, reading aloud from one of the books on Derek’s bookshelf, which turns out, bafflingly, to be filled with old British novels. Maybe because only the 19th century is melodramatic enough to accurately convey Derek’s inner torment? Unclear. But anyway, Stiles is reading Wuthering Heights in funny voices because that’s the only thing that could make it bearable, so he’s totally being the most awesome and entertaining guard ever.
    
“Why did you do that?” Derek says suddenly, interrupting Stiles’ best Overwrought Romantic Declaration voice.
    
“Um,” Stiles answers. “If you’re looking for character motivations in this novel, I think you’re doomed to a lifetime of disappointment.”
    
“No. You,” Derek clarifies. Which actually isn’t a clarification at all.
    
“Why did I do what?” And Stiles isn’t trying to be a jerk, he just honestly has no clue what Derek’s talking about. Derek sighs, like he was hoping Stiles would just divine all his thoughts and they wouldn’t actually have to talk about it.
    
“Come after me. And with the Alpha – I mean, the others are werewolves, they’re Pack, and you’re--” Derek breaks off like he’s not totally sure what Stiles is. Stiles can already feel his face flushing, his breath coming short and angry.

“The one who just fucking saved your life,” Stiles reminds Derek, his voice clipped. “Sorry if that’s not Pack enough for you.” But to Stiles’ surprise, Derek makes a sound that’s half-sigh and half-growl, and runs his hand through his hair.

“Not what I meant,” he rebukes, and Derek has a lot of nerve, being annoyed at Stiles right now. “I meant, you’re human. The stakes are higher for you, in a fight. Being an Alpha means protecting the pack, and I can’t protect--” Derek stops abruptly, looking annoyed at himself. Stiles takes this opportunity to shut his gaping mouth with an audible click. This may be the most sentences Derek has strung together, like, ever, and the fact that they’re also about feelings? Stiles starts to worry if Derek suffered some sort of concussion at the hands of the Alphas.

When Derek speaks again, it’s slow and careful, like he’s concentrating on getting it right.

“When we were fighting the griffon, I told you to go in the kitchen but you didn’t go, and I was -- the Alphas are more dangerous than that, and I knew you’d want to be in the middle of it, and I couldn’t…I wanted to keep you – I mean, the humans. I wanted to keep the humans out of it. But I just made it worse and got you all involved anyway.”

Derek is avoiding Stiles’ eyes now, looking miserable, and kind of like this conversation is worse torture than the actual torture he just endured. So even though Stiles is pretty sure they will have words about the total creeptasticness of Derek’s “I will protect you, my little human lambs!” complex -- not to mention that he seems to actually be feeling guilt about feeling guilty, which is all kinds of screwed up – Stiles takes pity on him.

“OK, dude…how’s this? We’ll stop trying to butt in on special werewolf fighting time, if you promise not to run off and do shit by yourself in some misguided attempt to deliver us from all evil. Deal?”

“I don’t--” Derek sighs heavily. “Okay. Yes. Deal.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Stiles totally breaks the deal.

To be fair, it’s not entirely his fault. It starts, like many questionable ideas, with a text from Lydia. Once they’d all ensured that Derek was neither dying nor a flight risk, most of the pack went home that night, exhausted and desperate for their own beds. Jackson had been whining all the way down the elevator about his Tempurpedic mattress, making pointed comments to Scott about how the bottom bunk makes creaky noises.
    
“I told you dude, you coulda called ‘Shotgun’ first,” Scott says in reply.
    
“You can’t call ‘Shotgun’ on beds,” Jackson says scathingly, and the ensuing argument only stops when Lydia and Stiles give each other exasperated looks, and in a coordinated effort, drag Jackson and Scott apart.
    
“And also, I totally saw that stuffed bear you tried to hide under your pillow!” is Scott’s parting shot before Stiles literally shoves him into the passenger side of the Jeep.
    
“Ingrid Beargman is five times the man you’ll ever be!” Jackson bawls out his window before peeling out of Derek’s parking lot with a squeal.
    
Stiles coughs, and starts his own engine.
    
“Well. That was mature,” he says to nobody in particular. Scott just grumbles wordlessly back.
    
He’s dropped Scott off and is the process of sneaking into his own house, when the voice of his father stops him.
    
“Stiles,” is all he says. Stiles winces, and wheels around with an overly casual look on his face.
    
“Heeeey, Dad, what’s up?”
    
“Interesting call came in today,” his dad says conversationally. “From the Beacon Arms. Any idea what that might have been about?”
    
Stiles widens his eyes in total innocence. “…No?”
    
His dad sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.
    
“Is there any possibility, that when you told me you were going over to Lydia’s to make a movie…you really meant ‘getting drunk with her in a hotel lobby’?”
    
“Dad,” Stiles says, scandalized. “I’m underage. That would be illegal.”
    
“Oh, I’m well aware of how old you are,” his dad shoots back.
    
“Well then!” Stiles throws his arms out, as though the idea of him doing anything illegal was simply inconceivable, and no more needed to be said. He turns to go, but is brought up short when his dad grabs his shoulder.
    
“The witnesses were very specific,” his dad insists. Stiles thinks fast.
    
“Well…maybe they made a mistake?” His dad's grip does not loosen, and so Stiles keeps talking, “You know…maybe it was part of the movie? To pretend to be drunk? And see everyone’s reactions, and have Scott film it all from a hidden location?” He blinks up at his dad in what he hopes is a trustworthy manner. His dad blinks down at him in what is decidedly not a trusting manner.
    
“In a movie about the Civil War,” his dad says flatly. Shit, I really need to keep better track of my lies, Stiles thinks, and then feels instantly guilty about it.
    
“Um…well…no. See, we finished that one early, and we still had all this camera equipment, and Lydia started talking about performance art pieces, and something weird about policing deviant bodies in social spaces? Except not the actual police. OK Dad? Um…” Stiles stutters to a stop. His dad is still looking at him, one eyebrow raised, almost daring him to keep going. And his dad should really know by now, that Stiles can never resist a dare. He grins winningly.

“We’re gonna put it on YouTube! Lydia says we’ll be Tumblr famous.”

“A dream come true,” his dad says dryly, but he takes his hand off Stiles’ collar and only rolls his eyes a little when Stiles bolts for the stairs.

Stiles thinks – well, hopes – that that’s the end of it. Until he comes back from the bathroom after getting ready for bed to find a box of condoms on his bed. He stares at the box uncomprehendingly for a moment, before he notices the Post-It stuck to the top. In his dad’s precise handwriting is written, Just be safe. Which has been hastily scratched out, and scrawled beneath is: Ever use one of these, and I WILL KNOW.

Stiles wonders hysterically which would be worse: the Sheriff believing that all Stiles’ lies and weird behavior over the past few months have been because of an illicit sexual relationship with Lydia Martin, or the Sheriff finding out that his best friend is a werewolf. It’s a toss-up. Really.

Stiles texts Lydia before going to bed.

To: Lydia -
so...on a scale of 1 to ‘my dismembered body will be found 500 miles downstream,’ how pissed would you be if my dad thought we were secretly dating?

To: Stiles -
I would never be sloppy enough to let people find your body. Is this because of the hotel?

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Because if Lydia wanted to kill him, he’d already be dead.

To: Lydia -
yep

To: Stiles -
Guess it’s ok as alibis go. You get to tell Jackson

To: Lydia -
…you’re evil

To: Stiles -
Duh. Also, we’re picking you up at 9:30 tomorrow. With coffee, don’t worry

Well, Stiles thinks, that’s vague and not at all ominous. And also, what’s with all his friends wanting to drag him out of bed at ungodly hours for no discernible reason? This coffee better be awesome, Stiles thinks resentfully as he gets into bed.

***

It isn’t. It’s tepid and watery, and does nothing to soothe the hysteria Stiles feels after his dad catches him tripping out the door that morning and into a car with Lydia and Allison waving cheerfully at him, and gives him a Look. A Look which conveys surprise that Stiles has it in him to have kinky threesomes with hot girls (one of which is his best friend’s girlfriend, by the way). It’s two parts pained, one part grudgingly impressed, and all parts horrible.

Lydia, leaning around from the driver’s seat to hand him his cup, follows Stiles’ horrified eyes to his dad, still standing in the doorway. She raises her eyebrows. “If we were kidnapping you for sex, I like to think we’d be a little more subtle.”

Allison snorts into her coffee. Lydia pulls away from his house with a lascivious-sounding engine rev that Stiles is pretty sure is on purpose, before he remembers there was ostensibly a reason for all this pain and sexual confusion.

“So…what’s up? And couldn’t I have slept a little bit longer?” he asks.

“No,” Lydia answers. “We’re going to see Scott’s vet friend.”

“Deaton?” Stiles asks, gaping at her from over his coffee. “Why?”

“You told me he’s creepily well-informed about werewolves,” Lydia reminds him, which is true, but doesn’t really answer the question.

Allison chimes in, “We started wondering if he knew about other stuff, too. How to defend against werewolves? Stuff Derek won’t tell the humans.” The last part has a definite note of resentment in it, and Stiles gets it, because it’s pretty obviously been bothering him too. The way Derek is so consumed with worry for the humans in his pack that he’s leaving them more open to danger. It’s stupid, not to mention insulting.

Lydia adds, “Honestly not sure why you haven’t tapped that source of information already. Sloppy.”

And…well…Stiles doesn’t really have a retort to that, because it’s kind of true. But also: “Yeah, but if you’d actually met Deaton, you’d know – he’s not super forthcoming about anything. His philosophy is more ‘learn by dying,’ if you know what I mean.”

Lydia shrugs. “He seemed nice on the phone.”
    
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course you talked to him on the phone.”

Lydia gives him an innocent look, and says, “Drink your coffee.”
    
Stiles takes a sip, makes a face, and vows to dump the rest into the nearest potted plant when Lydia’s not looking.

***

Deaton looks pleased and mildly intrigued when they arrive, but Stiles doesn’t think that’s a sign that he’ll actually be helpful. The man would have the same look on his face if Allison started speaking in tongues.

“Miss Martin?” he says with a questioning smile at Lydia, and she nods crisply.

“We spoke on the phone.”

“Yes. We did. And these are the other human members of Derek’s pack? Miss Argent and Mr. Stilinski?” Stiles swears Deaton’s smile gets slightly wider when he says his name, but by the time he looks again, Deaton’s expression is once again schooled into an expression of polite interest. “What can I do for you?”
    
“You know an awful lot about werewolves, for someone who seems human.” Lydia gives him a narrow look, as though she’s hoping her words will make him give something away, but Deaton’s face doesn’t change.
    
“I’ve had experience with werewolves in the past,” Deaton allows.

“What kind of experience would that be?” Lydia asks, voice as even as Deaton’s smile.

But Allison makes a noise of impatience, and cuts in. “I don’t see how it matters. If you’ve had experience, you must know how to fight against them.” At this, Deaton’s eyebrows do raise.

“Fight against werewolves? Isn’t that something you should be asking your father about?”

Allison flushes, opening her mouth to retort, but Lydia cuts in smoothly. “Defend ourselves against werewolves, is what Allison meant.” Her voice goes hard. “And anything else that threatens the pack.”

“Derek--” Deaton begins.

“Derek’s a werewolf, and he’s never been fully human. He doesn’t understand the value human members can bring to a pack. Not like we do.” Lydia puts subtle stress on the “we,” with a significant look at Deaton, and Stiles can’t help but be impressed. Even though he’s pretty sure that Deaton is impervious to manipulation.

“He thinks of us as liabilities, not assets. And because of him, that’s how we’ll stay. He’s afraid. But I’m not.” Lydia continues, lifting her chin up at Deaton, and Stiles can see the calm truth of that fact in her eyes, in the set of her mouth.

“He’s not teaching you self-defense?” is all Deaton says in response.
    
“We know how to fall. How to twist out of holds. How to run away,” Lydia says, her mouth twisting.
    
“Those are good things to know,” Deaton responds evenly.
    
“But they aren’t everything,” Allison breaks in, impatient again with Lydia’s maneuvering.
    
“What Derek’s taught us, it’s helpful, I guess. But it’s designed to do one thing, and that’s all: keep us alive until Derek or one of the other wolves comes to rescue us. But what if they don’t come? What if they’re the ones who need rescuing?” Lydia says. Stiles remembers Derek, slumped in the chair at the hotel, the Alphas so confident he wouldn’t get up that they didn’t even bother to restrain him, and he shivers. Deaton’s eyes dart to him.
    
“It won’t be easy,” Deaton says finally. “And Derek’s not wrong, it is dangerous.”
    
“So are a lot of things,” Allison retorts, shrugging. But Deaton fixes her with a look, and Allison bites her lip before nodding solemnly.
    
“Well, I’ll need some time,” Deaton says cheerfully, clapping his hands together. “Come back tomorrow morning, and I’ll have things set up.”
    
“We’ll be there,” Lydia promises, and turns to go. Stiles wavers for a moment – he feels like he’s been dragged along with the whirlwind that is Lydia, and the thing is, he knows she’s right. He knows Derek is being unreasonable and stubborn, and putting them in more danger by leaving them unprotected, not to mention putting the pack in more danger by relying on just the wolves to take care of things. But he also knows Derek will be furious that they went behind his back, especially because Stiles just promised. But does it matter if he’s mad, as long as he’s alive? The conflict must show on Stiles’ face, or in the way he’s hovering in the doorway after Lydia and Allison are already halfway back out to the car, but for whatever reason, Deaton gives him a searching look.

“Stiles? Is everything all right?”

“You won’t tell Derek?” Stiles finally blurts out. Deaton looks a little surprised.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” he says, eyebrows raised.

“Good. I don’t. I mean, we don’t. I mean, please, would you--”

“It’s fine, Stiles.”

Stiles nods jerkily and flails out the door, to where Allison and Lydia are waiting.

***    

They swing by Derek’s apartment next, since that’s what they’re in the habit of doing in the morning. Stiles is quiet in the back, as Allison and Lydia gush excitedly about the kinds of things Deaton might teach them. As they pull into Derek’s parking lot, Stiles wonders briefly how they’ll manage to sneak away from the pack for long enough to train with Deaton, without arousing enough suspicion that they have to outright lie. Because Lord knows the werewolves will pick up on it in a literal heartbeat. As it is, he still wonders whether they’ll know something is wrong – he can feel his pulse quickening with worry as they go up the elevator. But all that happens is that Scott gives him a funny look when they walk in, and everyone else ignores them.
    
Stiles is glad to see that Derek looks like his normal grumpy self, and is stalking around the apartment mid-lecture when the humans arrive. Everyone else is looking severely annoyed, and seem to be ignoring Derek’s words in favor of shooting him not-so-subtle dirty looks.    

“…The Alphas have proven they’re willing to destroy this pack, by any means necessary. They’ll pick us off when we’re alone, like the griffon tried to do. We have to be ready. At any moment.”

“Constant vigilance, is that it, Mad-Eye Moody?” Erica says with a glare.

“This isn’t a joke,” Derek growls, slamming a hand against the wall.

“Who’s joking?” Jackson says sourly. “You snuck up behind me while I was in Starbucks, knocked my coffee to the ground, and said, ‘Next time, that could be your head.’ The kid behind me in line started crying, and I never got any coffee.”

“You hid in the backseat of my car and jumped out while I was driving over. I nearly hit a pedestrian!” Scott accuses, agitation clear in every tense, spiky line of his body.

“You got an ax lodged in my bed frame!” Isaac blurts out, lower lip trembling.

“That…may have been a little too far.” Derek admits. “But the point is, none of it would have happened if you all had been more alert.”

“That’s a little victim-blamey, don’t you think?” Stiles finally breaks in, after trying and failing to suppress his laughter.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek retorts, not even turning to look at him. “As of now, regular training is suspended. We’re going to work on honing your instincts. You’re going to go about your days normally--”

“And what, wait for you to strike?” Boyd asks sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Derek says, and the grin he gives them is seriously scary.

***

The upside to this new arrangement is that Derek and the Betas are so busy leaping out at unsuspecting passersby and being leaped out at (respectively), that they don’t pay much attention to Lydia, Allison, and Stiles. Which gives them lots of time to sneak away to Deaton’s.

When Stiles arrives at the clinic the first morning, he’s surprised to find Deaton in one of the back storage rooms, which has been cleaned of dog kibble and bandages and instead, features a weapons rack that Stiles is absolutely certain had not been there before.

When Allison and Lydia arrive, they actually squeal as they run over. Allison struggles to pull out an enormous battle-ax, while Stiles is pretty sure he sees Lydia caress a sword. Sometimes, he really wonders about his friends.

***

The other upside is that when the Betas straggle back to the apartment in the evening for Pack Dinners, usually looking much worse for the wear, Stiles gets to laugh at them.

“Water balloons,” Erica says wearily a few nights after they first start this new phase of training, dripping all over the elevator like a bedraggled, miserable cat.

“So basically, Derek is just instigating the most dysfunctional, one-sided prank war ever. It’s like Dennis the Menace, but with inner torment.” Stiles says, tossing her a soda from his position on the couch.

Erica growls, takes a swig of the soda, and squelches upstairs to dry off.

Isaac and Derek come in next. Isaac is covered in yellow paint, and Stiles doesn’t even want to know. He’s looking warily at Derek as they both walk off the elevator, and flinches a little when Derek reaches out an arm and clumsily pats him on the shoulder.

“Nice dodging today. I almost didn’t catch you,” Derek mumbles, his eyes sliding inadvertently over to Stiles as he says it. Stiles grins and gives them both a thumbs up, for reaching this next step in each of their personal developments. Isaac’s eyes light up.

“Yeah, well detouring through the construction site maybe wasn’t the best idea,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, but he leans in to Derek’s hand. Derek gets a panicky, hunted look on his face like he doesn’t know what to do next, and Stiles can’t help but laugh too.

Baby steps, he thinks as he passes over two more sodas.

Over the course of their training with Deaton, Stiles swiftly discovers that he is as clumsy and terrible with weapons as he is without. At first, Deaton tells him not to worry; everyone has certain weapons they’re better with than others. As the days go by, and they try different things, Deaton starts telling him very kindly that his best survival strategy may be to just close his eyes and wave his arms around, because he’d be more likely to hit things.
    
Allison trains competently and seriously with some of the other weapons, but they all know that her real skill is with archery. Lydia becomes enamored with a particular short-sword, and she’s almost instantly deadly with it. Stiles is fine with that. He is used to it. And maybe if Allison and Lydia weren’t naturals at everything, he wouldn’t look so bad in comparison. He knows he’s getting better. But every time he gets on the practice mats, it’s like he can hear Derek’s voice in his ears, telling him he can’t just run at things, and his limbs get tangled around the words.
    
It’s been about a week when Deaton takes Stiles aside.
    
“I know all of you wanted to be trained in combat weaponry,” Deaton starts, and Stiles feels a miserable weight fall into his stomach. This conversation cannot be going anywhere good. His fears seem to be confirmed when Deaton continues with, “But I think we both know that combat doesn’t suit everyone.”

Stiles opens his mouth. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but he’s sure that some mix of apology and promise to work harder will rush out. Deaton holds up a hand, and despite every one of his hyperactive instincts, Stiles stops talking.
    
“You know enough to protect yourself. But there is something you can do that others can’t. Something equally valuable to fighting. Are you interested?” Stiles isn’t sure what he’s talking about, but anything to avoid having to get beaten up on the practice mats every day.
    
“It will help the pack?” he asks suspiciously. “And you’re not about to say something lame, like ‘moral support,’ or ‘hiding safely out of danger,’ or ‘organizing the Annual Werewolf Picnic,’ right?” Deaton smiles and shakes his head.
    
“I was actually about to say ‘magic.’ If you’re interested.”
    
“No way, that’s so much cooler than moral support,” Stiles bursts out. “Is it gonna be like Harry Potter? Do I get a wand?” Deaton laughs tolerantly.
    
“I’m going to give you some reading. After that, you can decide if this is something you want to pursue further.”
    
“Awesome,” Stiles breathes.
    
“It is going to be work,” Deaton warns. “Hard work. Probably harder than using a sword.”
    
“Sure, of course,” Stiles says, but he totally doesn’t believe him, because dude, have you seen him with a sword? No way could anything be worse.

***

It’s not worse than swords, Stiles finally decides a few days later. But he’s not entirely sure it’s better. It turns out that the basics of magic involve a lot of memorizing of plant properties, which is definitely more up his alley than physical combat, but is still tremendously boring.

As far as Stiles can tell from way too many old dusty books, magic has a lot to do with will. Which is something he already knows from pretty much every fantasy series ever, but it’s nice to have it confirmed. He thinks it’s a little like Chemistry, although he tries to think about Chemistry as little as possible. There’s all these inert substances in the world, just doing their thing, being rocks, or plants, or stuff you season food with. But if someone comes along who’s a catalyst for their other properties, they do other stuff. And some of that stuff is pretty freaking cool.

But still, sometimes, when he’s sitting at the table poring over spell books and magic theory books while the other two roll around and punch each other, he wonders if he really picked the right specialty. But then to blow off steam he goes and lets Lydia beat him up for a while, and that pretty much breaks him of any desire he has for fighting.

***

The upside and downside of Stiles’ new focus is that unlike Lydia and Allison’s weapons, he can drag an old-looking book anywhere. And because he’s Stiles, he does. So any possibility of summer vacation being an actual vacation pretty much goes out the window (not that Stiles was holding out any particular illusions anyway).

Derek is so distracted by his campaign of vigilante stalking that Stiles is able to sneak a lot more by him. So with some gentle misleading that totally isn’t actual lying, he manages to convince Derek that Stiles’ sudden dipping into the Restricted Section is purely theoretical. You know, in case they ever encounter an evil witch, and for updating the Bestiary, and…reasons.

Derek, against all odds and his customary paranoia, just grunts something inaudible on his way into the elevator. And Stiles doesn’t want to look too closely, but he’s pretty sure Derek is carrying several boxes of Saran wrap, a portable drill, and a cantaloupe.

“Well.” Stiles says to Derek’s empty apartment, and stays carefully silent when Boyd trudges back several hours later with melon guts plastered to his face.

Since Derek’s apartment is usually pretty quiet lately, what with Pack skirmishes breaking out unexpectedly all over town – and actually, Stiles is kinda surprised his dad hasn’t hauled them all in by now for breach of the peace, or hooliganism, or just general weirdness – anyway, Derek’s apartment is often empty, and so Stiles spends a lot of time there reading the massive tomes Deaton keeps assigning him.

The humans are still managing to hide their true extracurricular activities from Derek, although Stiles continues to worry what’s gonna happen when shit goes down, and one of them needs to bust out their new skills, and Derek finds out. He’s just hoping that they’ll save the day so impressively, that Derek will be overwhelmed with gratitude and won’t mention the whole lying, sneaking, disobeying thing. He might even apologize himself, for being so wrong. Hey, a guy can dream.

The other Betas find out pretty quickly, what with two of them dating Allison and Lydia, and what with the fact that Stiles’ lies really are pretty lame. It’s truly a testament to Derek’s failings as an Alpha that he hasn’t caught them yet. While Stiles likes to think that the others wouldn’t spill the secret to Derek even in the best of times, because they have a deep and abiding bond cemented by junk food and Netflix marathons, it doesn’t hurt that they’re all pretty pissed at Derek right now, and keep the secret from him with a sort of vicious relish that Stiles is pretty sure can’t be healthy. He’s also pretty sure Isaac’s the one who’s been passive-aggressively eating all of Derek’s jelly doughnuts, even though Stiles knows for a fact that Isaac has been creeped out by jelly after a traumatic late-night viewing of The Blob.

So Stiles feels free to hang out in Derek’s empty apartment most of the day, soothing the shell-shocked Betas who occasionally come through the door, and calling Derek “Doctor Strangelove” until Derek stormed downstairs one morning and says “I finally watched that stupid movie. You’re not as funny as you think you are,” and Stiles laughed at him and told him to take care of his precious fluids, and Derek grumbled back that it wasn’t his fluids that were in danger here, Stiles, and Stiles had laughed harder.

***

And actually, Derek hangs out in the apartment more often than Stiles would expect, since Stiles kinda thought his schedule was pretty jam-packed with terrorizing the populace.

But maybe Derek just likes to switch it up with a little terrorizing of Stiles once in a while? When Derek sees him sprawled on the couch or with his books spread all over the table, it’s like he can’t help but come over and lean against his chair, reading over his shoulder.

Stiles decides that Derek just wants to feel like he’s involved in Stiles’ life, now that he’s mostly focusing on the rest of the pack. Or maybe Derek is trying to convince himself that this stuff is way more harmless than hacking at things with weapons, or whatever he’s afraid Stiles might want to do. Stiles kind of wishes he wouldn’t pay quite as much attention to him, though, because whenever he feels Derek behind him, Stiles’ face flushes and his heart starts beating faster in ways he’s pretty sure the entire pack can notice. As it is, Derek’s habit of stalking over, making rude comments, and then leaving - which would usually have him gleefully retaliating, just leaves him feeling vaguely unsettled.
    
“Mugwort? That cannot be a real thing,” Derek says one day, tilting his head down to the book.
    
“Just ‘cause you’ve never heard of it,” Stiles responds immediately. “Increases strength in powder form. Burned, it brings protection from distant enemies. Carried, it brings protection on journeys. The oil can enhance divination and prophetic dreams, which I’m pretty sure is magic’s way of saying it’s a hallucinogenic. We should try it!”
    
“That stuff isn’t in the book,” Derek says, leaning over farther to squint at it. His chest rests against Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles very carefully focuses on his book.
    
“I know, this is a theory book. The Herbary is the big one over there that smells weird. It’s like an encyclopedia of magic plant stuff.”

Derek straightens and stares at Stiles. “So when did you read that stuff about mugwort?”
    
“I dunno,” Stiles says, giving Derek a strange look. “It was when you guys were practicing that throwing thing where people kept falling against the table and knocking the books over? On Tuesday I guess? Why do you even care?”

Derek blinks at him. “It’s Saturday.”

“Yeah. I’m…aware of that.”

“So you just remembered that? Days later?”

“Um, yeah...remembering is kinda the point of all this reading, right?” Derek is looking at him like Stiles has done something remarkable, and it’s starting to freak Stiles out. “Dude, it’s not like mugwort is anything special, it was just in a list of herb properties I was reading once I got bored watching you guys punch each other in the face. Like, if you want to hear about mistletoe or mullein – I was in the “M” section…”

“No, it’s fine.” Derek just turns and walks away, and after that, he doesn’t tend to say scathing things about the Magickal Arts anymore. Stiles calls them the Magickal Arts in his head, because it’s much cooler than Glorified Plant Measuring and Book Reading. And the “k” in “Magick” totally makes it legit.

***

For once, Lydia and Allison are taking a break from training with Deaton. Stiles is seriously starting to question how this guy manages to maintain a veterinary clinic while also apparently becoming a full-time personal trainer. Derek is somewhere else, but the others are all lolling in various states of wilted exhaustion on the furniture. They’re bickering amicably about who should go over to the TV and get the remote, Jackson bitching at Stiles about why he can’t just say Accio at stuff, and then Erica teases Jackson for a full five minutes about the fact that he knows the names of Harry Potter spells, and then Jackson gives her a furious look and mutters Silencio under his breath.

That’s when Jackson gets a text and pulls out his phone, his movements slow and lazy. He glances down and suddenly stills.

“Derek kidnapped Ingrid Beargman,” he blurts out, his voice torn between pissed at how seriously Derek is taking this, and actual panic.

“Hold on, what do you mean?” Scott asks. Jackson whirls and brandishes his phone at Scott.

“He sent pictures,” Jackson growls. Scott takes his phone and passes it around.

“Wow, I’ll say this for him. When he goes for a bit, he really commits,” Stiles says wonderingly, scrolling through a series of pictures of a teddy bear tied to a chair holding today’s newspaper, padlocked to a radiator with a little pink combination lock, being menaced by a set of pliers held perilously close to its button eye, etc.

“Tell me about it. I haven’t been able to bring home an intact carton of milk since this whole thing started,” Scott agrees.

“That’s just unnecessary,” Boyd winces, having apparently gotten to the waterboarding.

“He could damage him,” Jackson whines, snatching back his phone.

Erica looks up from where she’s been texting. “Derek says he’s preparing you for a possible hostage situation. And that if you don’t come to the address in the text, he’s gonna take out all of Ingrid Beargman’s stuffing. Slowly.”

“Fuck these stupid games, I’m actually gonna kill him,” Jackson growls, jerking out of his seat and towards the door.
    
“Wait, Jackson,” Scott says. Jackson stills and glares at Scott, clenching his fists and clearly trying to maintain control over his wolfier instincts.
    
“We all want this to stop. And he’s not gonna stop until he thinks we’re prepared for a threat.”
    
“What’s your point, McCall?” Jackson spits out. But Boyd and Erica are nodding, and a devious grin is starting to spread over Isaac’s face.

“Show him we’re prepared,” Scott says simply. “C’mon, I have an idea, but we’re gonna have to get some stuff first.”

“Need any help from Team Human?” Stiles asks, closing his book on a graphic description of selenium poisoning.
    
“Nah, we’re the one Derek’s been messing with. We can deal with it,” Scott says casually, and leads the way out, Jackson muttering dire things about what would happen if Derek harms one thread of Ingrid’s little paw. Stiles blinks after them, even Lydia and Allison looking a little downcast in the suddenly silent apartment.

“So…wanna see how fast we can break ourselves out of handcuffs?” Stiles asks. “We totally have a couple pairs lying around after the full moon.” Lydia and Allison instantly brighten.

“Points off if you have to break your thumb,” Lydia says, tossing her hair back with a businesslike swish.

“Duh,” Allison agrees. “I’m not an amateur.”

“…Go Team Human?” Stiles says.

***

When the werewolves come back, Stiles has managed to handcuff himself upside-down on a chair and lose the key. In his defense, Stiles is almost positive the key was long lost before he put the handcuffs on in the first place. The upside-down part, he honestly has no explanation for.

“Can I please do it?” Lydia is asking in exasperation, as Stiles fiddles one-handed with a straightened paperclip.

“No,” he grits out, face red. “I’ve. Almost. Got—hey, Derek!” Stiles flails in surprise at Derek’s glaring face looming suddenly into his line of vision, does an accidental flip off the chair, and lands flat on his back with his arm still twisted up in the handcuffs.

“Did they save Ingrid Beargman?” Stiles asks casually, as though sprawled on the floor locked to a chair is his default position.

Scott’s self-satisfied face swims into view. “He was shocked…shocked to discover gambling – um I mean…a bucket of honey over the door.”

“Round up the usual suspects,” Isaac adds wryly.

“Crude, but effective,” Stiles says approvingly. “Come to think of it, you do look a little gloopy, Pooh Bear,” Stiles beams up Derek, squinting his eyes at the way Derek’s hair has gone all tangled and clumped together, not to mention the careful way he’s holding all his limbs away from each other.

“Don’t call me that,” Derek grumbles. “And give me the paperclip.” He snatches it out of Stiles’ hands before Stiles can squawk a protest. He fiddles impatiently with it for a while, and there’s a beat of silence.

“They had to hose me down before I could come inside,” Derek admits, ducking his head away from Stiles and glaring at his Betas.

“Revenge is best served sticky,” Erica says, and Stiles can hear the glee in her voice. There’s another beat, as Derek messes with the paperclip and Stiles stares contentedly up at the ceiling, ignoring the uncomfortable way his wrist is twisted.

“…It’s stuck,” Derek mutters. “…I think I got honey in the lock.”

“Oh my God,” Lydia bursts out.

“This wouldn’t have happened--” Derek starts furiously.

“—If you hadn’t rubbed butter all down the stairs?”

“—stashed a wolfsbane sachet in my house and made me find it?”

“--hid in my closet for an entire night?”

The Betas’ complaints tumble over each other, Jackson’s voice rising above all the rest with a wail about Ingrid’s PTSD.

“—If Stiles didn’t get himself into trouble with literally everything he does.” Derek finishes, wrenching savagely at the paperclip until part of it snaps in the lock. Derek holds up the broken end of the paperclip with a look of bafflement that would have been comical if not for the fact that Stiles is too busy saying, “Hey! We’re bored! What else were we supposed to do?”

“Sit quietly. Count floorboards. Look out the window.”

“No wonder you’re such a hit at parties,” Stiles snipes back. “So…am I just stuck like this then? Will I have to carry the chair with me everywhere I go, as my constant companion? Is this gonna be like a Golden Compass daemon thing? Because I always thought I had the soul of a cobra.” He makes a hissing noise with his tongue, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Derek. You’re an Alpha. Can’t you just break the cuffs?” Lydia asks, like she’s the only one in the room who hasn’t lost her mind. In her defense, it might be true. Derek stops poking at the jammed part of the paperclip with the other half in a desultory rescue attempt, and stares at Lydia. She raises one eyebrow at him, like she’s daring him to disagree.

“I was gonna do that next,” Derek huffs. He falters for a brief moment before jerkily putting his hands around Stiles’ wrist like he’s testing the strength of the cuffs. With a swift jerk of his arm, Stiles is free.

“Derek, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Stiles tells him cheerfully, waving his arm around experimentally and wincing as it tingles back to life. Derek grunts something nonverbal back.

“Gross, you got honey on me. You seriously need a bath, dude,” Stiles says, unthinkingly going to lick the smudge of honey off his wrist. At the weird look Derek is giving him, Stiles falters self-consciously. He guesses it’s probably weird that he was about to put something that was just on Derek’s skin in his mouth – like, oddly intimate in a way that is making Stiles more uncomfortable the more he thinks about it. Clearly, from the way Derek is staring at his wrist, Derek thinks he’s being a total creeper. Which, considering the source, possibly means that Stiles is reaching Silence of the Lambs levels of personal boundary violation.

“Um,” Stiles says, wiping his arm off surreptitiously on his T-shirt. But now he’s thinking in too much detail about Derek’s body and licking and stickiness, and he feels his face flush again. Crap.

But nobody else seems to notice Stiles’ complete failure as a normal human being, because they’re all paying attention to Scott telling the story of Derek’s sugary comeuppance, and Derek disappears up the stairs to try to reclaim his tattered pride through copious amounts of soap.

“And seriously, what was even the point?” Jackson says at the end, still clutching Ingrid Beargman in a way that everyone else is too polite to mention. “What are the odds of us even being in that kind of situation? It’s not like the Alphas are really going to kidnap one of us and hold us as bait.”

There’s a beat.

“Jackson, you’re actually the dumbest person alive,” Stiles says.

“Hey!” Jackson says, outraged. “Lydia--” like he expects her to intervene on his behalf.

“Stiles is right, that may be the worst thing you’ve ever said. Have you never heard of jinxing?” Lydia hisses back.

“Now one of us is totally gonna get kidnapped! Thanks a lot, Jackson!” Scott grumbles.

Isaac wilts resignedly into the sofa. “Aw man, I just know it’s gonna be me.”

Chapter Text

Stiles is in his room, banging his head against an essay on quartz for Deaton when he gets a text from Derek. It’s an address, along with one extra word: Emergency.

Stiles feels his stomach drop out from under him, and he nearly drops the phone. He curses -- repeatedly -- at the phone, but the message doesn’t change. It feels like he blinks, and suddenly he’s standing in his driveway, with his hoodie and sneakers on, Werewolf Shenanigans Preparedness Kit in his hand, and no clear memory of going down the stairs.

Stiles drives his Jeep a little too high over the speed limit, his fingers thrumming the steering wheel and his non-pedal foot bouncing. His mind is running through all the horrible possibilities – Scott shot with wolfsbane, Erica torn up by an Alpha, Isaac kidnapped and electrocuted, Derek dead – and holy crap, Derek could be dead. They could all be dead. 

With the image of Derek, bloody and still, foremost in his mind, Stiles screeches his Jeep to a stop at the address Derek had given him. It’s an old house that looks pretty abandoned and creepy, and Stiles briefly wonders what Derek was doing here as he bolts out of the Jeep and slams his way into the house. Inside it’s just as dark and quiet as the outside, and Stiles realizes why, half a second before he feels the slightest pinprick of claws on the back of his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” says a voice that Stiles recognizes as Douchecanoe, everyone’s favorite Asshole Alpha. His back flares with pain, and Stiles goes instantly still.

The Alphas pull him to the back of the house and chain him to a chair. One of the Alpha twins wraps a chain around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, so that he can still move his forearms and hands, but it doesn’t do much good. Of course they take away his Werewolf Shenanigans Preparedness Kit, rifling through it and snorting with laughter at whatever they saw in it. Then they’d searched him, but they hadn’t even needed to, because Stiles hadn’t thought to hide any weapons.

Yeah, he kind of sucks at this. It just added insult to injury that they didn’t even think he was threat enough to bother tying up his hands properly. 

“So the text was a trap?” he asks. He’s pretty sure of it at this point, but he needs to make sure that none of the others are here.

“Sit. Stay. Good human,” says Douchecanoe, sounding amused. “Of course. Your little display at the hotel was touching, but it’s high time we truly tested the loyalty of Derek’s newest, most troublesome pack members.”

“Well, good job you guys, loyalty tested, we passed, can I go home now?” Stiles can feel himself starting to panic, his breathing becoming more uneven. One of the other Alphas, a twin, pulls tight the chain on his left leg with a particularly vicious yank.

“Not exactly,” says Douchecanoe, and now he doesn’t sound amused. His mouth curls into a snarl. “You didn’t all pass.”

Scott, Stiles realizes with a jolt. They must have sent him the text too, and he must not have come. If Stiles doesn’t die, he’s going to kill Scott. Hell, Stiles is sure he can figure out a way to do it, even if he does die.

“You know, Scott loses his phone all the time. And he always forgets to check messages. Happens to me constantly, where I’m like, ‘Hey, Scott, call me,’ and he doesn’t, and then I realize later that he’s left his phone in his other jacket or in the refrigerator or something.” Stiles knows he’s babbling, but he also doesn’t think he can stop. He also knows his voice sounds high and scared, and he kind of hates it. 

Douchecanoe growls and half wolfs out, and that shuts Stiles up fast.

“You know, we were always curious about you,” he says pensively through his fangs. Well, this can’t be good. “It doesn’t make much sense, why Derek would have humans hanging around his pack. Humans are so easily breakable.” He grins, and as if on cue, all the other Alphas turn and grin at Stiles too. Despite himself, he shivers.

“...And trappable,” Douchecanoe continues. “No sense of danger, you know. We wanted to see if Scott would come, if he would follow orders without question, and if he would defend his pack. But we wanted you in case he didn’t.” Stiles isn’t sure what this means at first, but his mind is running at full-speed, panic making his thoughts jump around nauseatingly. 

“If the pack wasn’t strong, you were going to use me as bait to take them down.” The truth finally dawns on him, and he thinks he’s going to be sick. They’re not ready to fight the Alphas, not yet, especially when the Alphas have every advantage.

“Why don’t we see if Scott gets the message this time?” Douchecanoe growls. He pulls Derek’s cell phone out of his pocket, and dials a number. “I have something that belongs to you,” he sneers into the phone. Stiles can’t hear who it is on the other line, but there’s a long pause where he thinks that the phone must have been passed to Derek.

“We have your pet human. The annoying one, with the pretty face.” Ugh, gross. Stiles still feels like he’s playing catch-up on whatever Douchecanoe’s motivations are here, especially since this whole scenario screams Admiral Akbar levels of “Trap!” but Stiles has an easy way to ensure that Derek gets the message.

“Derek, it’s just me here!” he shouts. “And it’s a trap, don’t come--” but a sudden searing pain in his right arm stops him. His vision goes gray, and he thinks he may have made a noise, but he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, his brain isn’t working, everything just suddenly hurts and he doesn’t understand.

 When his vision clears, he’s still kind of sobbing with pain, sharp and overwhelming. He’s not sure how long it’s been, but Douchecanoe no longer has the phone in his hand, and he has a watchful, tense air about him, like he’s expecting the pack to burst in at any moment.

 Stiles looks down at his arm, and nearly passes out. His right forearm is clearly broken, hand lying at an unnatural angle that makes him want to throw up. Stiles thinks he can see bone. He looks away quickly, and up at the Alpha twin who had tied him. He’s standing right next to Stiles now, the same sick grin on his face.

 “Think that’ll hurry him up?” he asks Stiles, nodding at his arm. Stiles refuses to look down again.

 “You guys clearly don’t know Derek very well, and you definitely picked the wrong hostage,” Stiles says, his voice tight with pain, trying to convince himself it’s true more than them. “No way he risks the whole pack like this. Not for just me.”

 Suddenly, all the Alphas stiffen, listening to something that Stiles can’t hear.

 “Apparently he does,” Douchecanoe smirks at him. The thought hits Stiles like a punch: they’re going to die, and it’s going to be because of him. Stiles is so furious, at the Alphas, at Derek, at himself, that he almost starts crying again.

 Derek bursts through the door then, sending splinters of wood in all directions and making the walls shake alarmingly. Stiles hopes, somewhat hysterically, that the house doesn’t come down around them. That would really suck.

 Derek heads straight for Douchecanoe, who is already wolfed out and waiting for him. Douchecanoe howls a challenge, but Derek just flings himself, reckless and unprotected, at another werewolf. Like an idiot. He manages to catch Douchecanoe by surprise, though, and they both slam to the ground in a jumble of limbs and teeth.

 The other Alphas growl and start towards them, but that’s when the rest of the Hale Pack arrives. Jackson and Isaac each take a twin, while Erica and Boyd go immediately for the female Alpha. Well, at least it looks like they put a little thought into it before they all barreled in. Scott starts to move towards Stiles, his eyes wide and afraid, but then Isaac yelps in pain. Scott dithers for a moment, but Stiles gives him his best Don’t be stupid look, and Scott rushes to help Isaac.

 They’re all fighting defensively, crouching low and protecting their fronts. Stiles watches approvingly. They know they’re outmatched, and they know they can’t heal as well from Alphas, so they’re just trying to stall. For what? Stiles realizes that maybe they’re waiting for him to escape, so he takes this moment, while nobody is paying attention to him, to try to wriggle out of the chain around his torso. Every movement causes sharp bolts of pain to shoot up from his arm, and he finally has to give up, panting.

 That’s when he hears a small noise behind him -- Allison and Lydia, creeping towards him from an open window. Allison has her bow slung over her back, and Lydia is holding a sword. Allison puts her finger over her mouth. When they reach him, they try to undo the chains as silently as possible, but the chains are heavy and clanky, so they aren’t making much progress.

 Stiles turns back to the fight. Scott is now facing one of the twins by himself, while Jackson and Isaac are teamed up against the other. They’re positioned on either side, so that every time he turns to strike one, he leaves his other flank unprotected. Until, with a howl of rage, the Alpha takes a swipe at Isaac and then continues his momentum, spinning around and throwing all his weight into Jackson. Jackson goes flying, hitting a wall with a sickening crunch. Stiles can feel Lydia go still next to him, and he knows she saw it too.

 Derek is still fighting like an angry cat, all flaily limbs and noises like gears grinding together, but Stiles can see blood dripping from his stomach. Erica has a gash on her head that’s making her sway. Boyd is planted firmly in front of her to take the brunt of the female Alpha’s attacks. Isaac is standing up again, but Stiles can see that he’s moving more slowly than before. Scott notices it too -- he turns towards Isaac, concerned, which gives one of the Alphas an opening to claw a line down his side. Allison gasps and drops the chain she was fiddling with; she has an arrow in her bow before she seems to know she’s done it.

 Stiles realizes that the fight needs to end. Now. If the Alphas realize the girls are here, this thing becomes a whole different ballgame, and there’s no way they can win.

 “Allison,” he whispers urgently. She lowers her bow. Stiles signals over to his bag, which is lying discarded on its side against the wall. Even that small movement makes his head spin, but he grits his teeth and ignores it. She sees the bag, nods, and goes for it, low and fluid. Stiles reaches for it with his good arm, searching by feel. The Alphas have jumbled everything up, and it takes him a moment to find what he’s looking for.

 The Alphas must have thought he was trying to cook them a meal, with all the dried plants he had in there, but Stiles knows better. He pulls out a small green pouch, and shakes a fine powder onto the ground in front of him. Willow root. Good for enemies.

 “Find the lighter,” he murmurs to Lydia. Her eyes widen, and she shuffles through the bag until she finds it.

 “Light it. Don’t touch,” Stiles says. He really hopes that the whole ‘magic is about belief’ thing actually works, because Deaton has also explained many times that you’re not really supposed to do magic by proxy. But you know what? He is chained to a chair. So Stiles just closes his eyes and believes in the willow root burning, believes that the smoke of this tiny pile will fill the entire room. Most importantly, he believes in his pack.

 When he opens his eyes, there’s a little scorch mark on the ground where the powder used to be, and the Alphas look kinda like they’re drunk. One of the twins keeps batting at the air, as though he’s fighting off invisible bees. Douchecanoe has stopped fighting Derek, and he seems to be having trouble concentrating. But then he looks over to Stiles, seems to focus very slowly on the bag and the bit of smoke still wafting from the ground, and starts toward him with a roar of wounded rage.

 And suddenly Derek is there in front of Stiles, blocking him from Douchecanoe. Douchecanoe stops, confused. Reluctantly, he turns back to completely human. The willow root doesn’t affect him as much in human form, but he still looks pretty out of it. Despite his still-dazed expression, he looks up at Derek unrepentantly.

 “I had to do it, Derek. If you can’t control your pack, we can’t allow you to have power. We cannot have rogue werewolves running around Beacon Hills.”

 “There are none,” Derek grits out, and he doesn’t change back to fully human. Douchecanoe raises his eyebrows.

 “We tested Scott. He didn’t come when called. He won’t protect you when you need him.” Stiles gives Scott the most bitchy expression he can manage with a broken arm that still really fucking hurts, because seriously, Scott? You couldn’t keep your head out of your ass for five minutes? But to Stiles’ surprise, Scott is smiling.

 “Actually I did,” he says, dropping the painful-looking headlock he has on one of the Alpha twins, and walking over to stand by Derek. “I just didn’t come where you called. After I got Derek’s fake message, I called Isaac to coordinate strategy. I’m working on this whole thing, you know, where I tell other people about my plans before I do them.” Scott cracks a crooked grin at Stiles, but Stiles is in the process of realizing his own colossal stupidity, and doesn’t return it. 

 “In this case, I’m glad I did, because Isaac was sitting next to Derek when I called, and neither of them knew anything about a text message. We were just summoning the rest of the pack and wondering why we couldn’t get a hold of Stiles, when you called. Good timing, by the way. Saved us from having to worry his dad.”

 “Dude,” Stiles says, with no small amount of awe. “The student has become the master. I have nothing more to teach you, young Padawan.” Scott looks at him all concerned, but Stiles was totally just kidnapped. He’s allowed to make jokes.

 Douchecanoe smirks, but even Stiles can tell he doesn’t have his usual sinister flair. “Well, good job, Team Hale. Derek, clearly you’ve got things under control here. So we’ll just…leave you to it. Pack loyalty, check.” He actually pulls out a clipboard from somewhere, and Stiles wonders if he’s temporarily hallucinating due to pain or something.

“Seriously?” he says. “You guys have a checklist? An evil werewolf checklist?”

“We’re not evil. We’re thorough.” Douchecanoe snits. He signs a document with a flourish, and hands it to Derek. “The results of your inspection. Congratulations. And, er, sorry about the misunderstanding with the kid.” He nods at Stiles. And Derek is suddenly right up in Douchecanoe’s face, which Stiles knows from personal experience is terrifying. 

Stiles has thought he’d seen Derek angry plenty of times – actually, he thought Derek was kinda permanently angry – but now he realizes that he’s never actually seen Derek angry. He seems to grow several inches taller, and his whole form goes completely still. It’s like if he moves, he’ll just go crazy wild animal and be unable to stop.

 “Go,” he grits out, and Douchecanoe actually looks alarmed. Stiles kinda can’t blame him. “Now.”

“Of course,” Douchecanoe grins shakily at him. “Clearly, our work here is done. Have a wonderful evening!”

And just like that, they’re gone.  

“Well, I think that went quite well,” Stiles says, letting out an audibly shaky breath. “And also, ow. Can someone please untie me now?” Scott and Boyd are suddenly there, using their awesome werewolf strength to get the chains off him. Lydia rushes to Jackson with a sob, Allison moves closer to Scott, and Isaac eases Erica down to the floor, talking to her quietly.

Derek just stands there, his back still turned away from Stiles. And Stiles knows he screwed up, is painfully aware of it with every throb of his arm. He knows he was stupid and reckless, and even Scott was more prudent than him for Chrissakes, and he almost got them all killed. Derek has a right to be disappointed. He has a right to be furious. But right now, Stiles just hurts and all he wants is for Derek to look at him.

But Derek doesn’t.

“Does he need a doctor?” Derek grits out finally. Stiles stares at Derek’s back, broad and familiar, his muscles taut and blood all down one side. Stiles wants to reach out and touch him, feel Derek warm and not dead against his hand. And not for the first time today, Stiles kind of wants to cry.

 “Derek,” Stiles says, voice cracking, when he can’t stand it anymore. Derek turns to face him then, his jaw tense and eyes unreadable.

 “Scott and Isaac, get him in the Jeep. Call his dad once you get to the hospital. Scott stays; Isaac, bring the car back here. We’re going to need to take Jackson and Erica to Deaton.” They all open their mouths to argue, even Jackson and Erica, who are clearly about to furiously insist that they’re fine.

 “Just do it,” says Derek, and he sounds so tired, and it makes Stiles feel even more tired in return.

“Come on, guys,” he says, struggling to his feet and savagely ignoring the pain and the way he sways a little once he’s up. Scott and Isaac make small noises of concern, but Stiles just glares at them. “If either of you even look at my Jeep wrong, I will end you,” he finishes fiercely, gathering up his backpack and stumbling out of the house. He doesn’t even care how comical that threat seems right now, he totally means it.

 Scott and Isaac settle him in the side seat, and he’s actually ridiculously grateful for the way Isaac buckles his seatbelt for him and Scott rests one hand on his head briefly before closing the door. He’s also grateful for the way Scott tries not to jostle him too much while driving, although he’s only partially successful. He’s grateful for Mrs. McCall taking his bag from him, and guiding him with soothing hands to an examination table, and he’s especially grateful for the painkiller she gives him afterwards.

He doesn’t remember much after this, but he has a vague sense that his dad is there, and he thinks he may hear him shouting at Scott in the waiting area. Eventually, his brain refocuses again into something resembling consciousness, although everything still seems a bit jumbled. His dad is definitely there, hand resting gently on Stiles’ head. Stiles gets the sense they’ve been having a conversation, but the words skitter around the edges of his mind when he tries to remember.

“Stiles,” his dad is saying. “The doctor says we can go. Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying to clear the haze of medication from his brain. “Where’s Scott?”

 “He’s outside. He’s gonna help me get you home, OK?” Stiles nods, and then immediately regrets it, because his head still isn’t totally cool with big movements after all the drugs. They pile him into the back of his dad’s police cruiser, and Stiles is starting to lose track of all the backseats he’s been in lately. He falls asleep again while trying to figure out whether he’s back in his Jeep or what.

***

When he wakes up, he’s in his own bed, almost drowning in pillows and blankets. The sun looks like it’s coming up, letting a bit of thin light into the room through the window. Scott is there, sitting in Stiles’ desk chair, his head pillowed in his arms on the desk. The moment Stiles shifts though, Scott is up, halfway to the bed.

“Stiles,” he says. “How do you feel?”

 “Scratchy and hot,” Stiles complains. “It’s summer, what’s with the swaddling?” He tries to kick a blanket off himself, and Scott is instantly there to help him.

“It’s OK,” Stiles assures him. “I feel a lot better now. So that’s what Vicodin feels like, huh? Remind me to check that off the life experience list, and then never do it again. Did they put a cast on me? Is it awesome? I love casts,” he adds happily, waggling his be-casted arm. “Dude, you have to sign it. You get to be first.” Scott doesn’t look as thrilled about this as Stiles might have expected.

“I’m really sorry. I went to Derek, and I should have called you first thing, and I swear, Stiles, I didn’t think they’d contacted you. I didn’t know, and I’m sorry your arm is broken, it’s my fault,” Scott says in a rush, like he’s barely been holding this speech back all night. Stiles just stares at him.

 “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. You did what you were supposed to, and I was the one who ran off all stupid and alone.”

“It wasn’t stupid, it was brave,” Scott retorts, although he still doesn’t look entirely happy.

“Coming from you, those words mean, like, the exact same thing,” Stiles informs him.

“Shut up. You’re stupid. Let me sign your cast,” Scott says, but now he’s smiling. Stiles grins at him.

 “You should write a poem. An epic poem to my greatness. My cast is going to be the coolest cast ever. I’m going to get everyone to sign it. Even Derek.” Oh shit, Derek. “Um, so, is Derek super-mad? He kinda seemed super-mad.”

Scott stills in the middle of drawing a werewolf puppy in purple Sharpie on Stiles’ cast. Stiles would yell at him for revealing their secret identities, but he’s pretty sure that once Scott’s done, nobody else will be able to tell what it is anyway.

“I don’t know,” Scott says. “I wasn’t there, but the others say he was all quiet and scary. But I’m sure he’s not angry at you. I mean, why would he be?”

“Um, duh, aforementioned running off all stupid and alone? I kinda screwed you guys over,” Stiles reminds him. Scott shrugs.

“Whatever, the Alphas are gone now, aren’t they?”

Stiles realizes that Scott might be right, and grins. “Yeah, if you ignore the kidnapping and the torturing and the harrowing terror, I guess we can chalk this one up as a win. Yay us!”

“Yay,” Scott echoes. “Also, I promised the others I’d text them once you woke up. You’re apparently supposed to lie around and not participate in organized sports for a while, so they’re gonna come over and cheer you up. I mean, as long as you want them?” Scott amends, seeming to realize belatedly that a crowd of werewolves may not be the most therapeutic cure. 

“No, totally. They should come. But maybe, like, wait until a normal hour? If they wake my dad up, I may be in fifty times more trouble than I’m already gonna be in. Was he really pissed? I remember him yelling.”

 Scott looks traumatized. “Yeah, he was mad. I told him that you and me and Isaac had gone out to practice lacrosse, and you’d fallen. But I don’t think it was super-convincing, because it was, like, one in the morning by the time we got to the hospital. So I said something about how night lacrosse is better because it hones your senses? But I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe me.”

 “Yeah? Maybe because that’s the single dumbest story ever!”

“Well what was I supposed to say? He was really scary!” And Stiles can’t even blame Scott, because it’s true. He still teases Scott a bit for facing down a whole Alpha pack, and then being too scared to lie to his dad. But Scott just grumbles at him and yawns. Stiles realizes that Scott has probably been up all night, and as much as he’s all super-badass werewolf and stuff, he had taken kind of a beating last night.

“Do you wanna go home and get some sleep?” 

 Scott shakes his head and yawns again. “No, I’m supposed to stay with you. Derek said. Think he’s afraid the Alphas may come back.”

“Oh. OK, um…then here,” Stiles says, scootching over. “You look really tired. We’ve got a couple hours before we call the others, do you want to share?” Scott looks kind of awkward. It is a little bit weird, but Stiles feels like he owes him better than a desk chair after the whole ‘saving his life’ thing last night.

“Isaac says pack members communicate through physical proximity,” Stiles offers.

“Isaac just wants excuses to cuddle,” Scott huffs, but he does lie down on the bed. And it’s actually kinda not that weird, because Stiles knows Isaac’s partially right. And he falls asleep to Scott’s steady breathing. 

***

“Aw, how cute!”

Stiles shoots up in bed to a girly squeal, and it takes him a few moments of heart-stopping panic to realize it’s just Erica. Scott is sitting up next to him, alarmed and half-wolfed out, before he relaxes as well.

“Christ, Erica, you scared us half to death,” Scott growls. Erica glances at Stiles’ face, and looks chastened.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” And then she clambers up on the bed also, kind of nudging against Stiles’ side as though she’s checking to see if he’s still intact. The others are there too, watching Stiles with open, worried expressions.

“It’s OK, guys,” Stiles says, reminding himself that it’s safe now, the Alphas are gone. But his muscles are still tense, and he can feel himself shaking a little. And then Lydia and Isaac and Boyd are on the bed as well, touching him in ways that would make him feel a little manhandled if he weren’t so grateful to feel them close. They are all OK. Everything is OK.

Allison smiles and walks around to the other side of the bed to stand near Scott. Jackson kind of hovers in the doorway for a moment, before he snits, “I’m not getting in bed with you, Stilinski. But I’m glad you’re not dead,” and sits on Stiles’ computer chair.

“Thanks, Jackson. I feel the love,” Stiles laughs as Lydia plumps pillows behind him and helps him sit up. Scott moves to the foot of the bed to let the others crowd around him, Erica and Boyd on one side, Isaac on the other, and Lydia practically in his lap.

“Clearly I should get injured more often,” he tells them brightly, already feeling the happy, safe feelings that he always gets around Pack, even as a human. The tension -- that was there all through the drug-induced haze, and talking to Scott, and even sleeping -- finally begins to ease out of him. How can you even be tense while sleeping? Stiles wonders, but he was, and now it’s leaving his body in waves of warmth.

Lydia says, “No, don’t ever do that again. You were so pale.”

“It was scary,” Isaac agrees. “And when we got the phone call from the Alphas, Derek almost lost it. When he heard you on the phone, he put his claws in the couch.”

“Damn, I liked that couch,” Stiles says lightly, to hide the jolt in his stomach. Derek really was gonna kill him.

“Seriously,” Boyd adds, looking slightly traumatized. “When they did the…thing,” he nods at Stiles’ arm, “and you yelled, I was afraid for my own life.”

“Yeah, but then it was OK. We’re all OK. I mean, broken arms; I had like four when I was a kid, right Scott? And speaking of which, you guys totally have to sign my cast!” Just like he’d intended, they all get incredibly distracted from the topic of Derek, jostling around him and writing rude things in colored markers on the cast. Jackson draws a picture of Stiles getting hit by a lacrosse stick, complete with comical facial expressions and flailing. Unfortunately for Stiles, Jackson’s drawing skills are considerably more advanced that Scott’s.

Allison draws a heart with an arrow through it, which, considering Allison, is not so much cute as menacing. Lydia and Isaac start composing him a poem filled with blush-inducing phrases about his bravery and sexual prowess, and immediately get into an argument about whether “pectoral” rhymes with “squirrel.”

Erica puts on red lipstick and then kisses the cast, leaving a splotchy red mark on it, and winks at him. Boyd rolls his eyes at her, and starts in on a complex geometric drawing involving the letters “B-O-Y-D.”

Meanwhile, Allison has been talking quietly to Scott at the foot of the bed, and when Stiles tunes in to their conversation, she’s saying, “Well he was furious,” and Stiles’ attention is instantly caught. She continues: “But Stiles was in trouble, of course we had to tell him about Deaton.”

“Wait, you told Derek about Deaton? All the secret training?” Stiles asks, and it’s only when everyone turns to look at him, with varying levels of concern on their faces, that he realizes how loud his voice was.

 “We had to,” Lydia echoes. “Derek’s working plan was, and I quote: ‘Fight them until we win.’ He wasn’t thinking -- Erica was literally five minutes away from the apartment and he wasn’t even gonna wait for her before going after you.” 

“So…what did he say? When you told him?” Stiles almost doesn’t want to know, but at the same time, it’s like he has this sick fascination in knowing the full extent of the damage.

 “It’s like he wasn’t hearing us,” Lydia says thoughtfully. “He said, ‘It doesn’t matter right now,’ and it was Scott who came up with idea to use the werewolves as a distraction.” She shoots Scott an approving look, and Stiles adds, “Thanks, buddy.”

Scott shrugs, and punches him in the leg.

“Speaking of which, what was that powder thing?” Erica asks.

“Willow root? It…um…protects people. Like, most plants that you can use for protection, they protect the user. Willow root picks up on what you feel for other people, and protects them. You have to really concentrate on your connection to them, though, because it takes a lot of strong emotions to work.” The other pack members are looking a little touched by this speech, and Stiles ducks his head awkwardly. “So…you’re lucky I like all of you, I guess.”

“Awww…does this mean we all share a special bond? How sweet,” Erica cackles, and Stiles shoves at her, and Jackson rifles through Stiles’ Werewolf Survival Backpack while Scott asks loud, obnoxious questions about each thing in it, and Lydia nudges quietly against Stiles’ shoulder while Isaac laughs at Scott. 

They stay all day, raucous and annoying and perfect, and when they leave, the room feels large and quiet. Scott has assured Stiles that someone would be outside the house keeping watch all night, but he looks a little shifty when Stiles asks who it will be, so Stiles wonders if maybe they’re gonna pretend to stay over to appease Derek, but really sneak home and sleep.

Stiles doesn’t particularly mind either way. He doesn’t think the Alphas are coming back, and wouldn’t blame the others for wanting sleep instead of giving in to Derek’s well-known paranoia about these things.

He falls asleep hugging his cast to his chest and trying to get used to its unnatural weight.

***

 Stiles wakes up abruptly, and he must be used to it by now, because after a brief pulse spike, all he says is, “Way to lurk, Derek,” in a totally calm voice. The way the shadows fall in the room, Stiles can’t see the expression on Derek’s face.

“Stiles,” Derek says, from his position by the window. “I’m on guard.”

“I feel like this is becoming way too comfortable a pattern for you guys. Will there ever be a night when I’m not interrupted by people watching me sleep? I mean, I’m sure I’m delightful while in repose, but it’s kinda starting to creep me out.”

“Stiles,” Derek says again. And Stiles is pretty sure that Derek is angry, and as much as he’s wanted to see Derek all day -- has felt his absence glaringly among the rest of the pack -- he suddenly doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Can we just…not? Is that OK? Can we please not right now? I know you’re pissed, and you’re perfectly entitled to yell at me in the morning. But right now I’m tired, and my arm hurts, and I can’t deal with you too. I just can’t.”

“Your arm hurts?” Derek says, moving closer to the bed in an awkward, jerky movement like he’s not totally in control of it.

“Well, a little,” Stiles allows. “It was mostly for dramatic effect. You know, so you’d remember I was in a weakened state and be nice to me?”

“Trust me, I remember,” Derek says, drawing even closer. Stiles can see his face now, but his expression is guarded and kind of odd-looking, so Stiles has no clues, except that Derek’s eyes keep returning to the cast on Stiles’ arm.

“Does that mean you’ll be nice to me?” Stiles asks hopefully. Derek stops.

 “You were reckless,” he said shortly.

“Guess that’s a ‘no,’ then,” Stiles mutters.

 “This isn’t a joke, Stiles! You got hurt. You almost got killed.” Now Derek looks angry, and Stiles is actually a little relieved that they seem back on familiar footing.

“I know, and I’m really sorry. I screwed up, I put the pack in danger. I was just…scared. I got your message and didn’t think.”

“Next time we may not be there to save you. You have to think--” 

“I know!” Stiles bursts out. When he was safe with the others, it was easier to pretend he wouldn’t have to do this. Easier to imagine that everything was going to be OK, and the feeling of being surrounded by Pack would never end. But Derek is pushing him to confront it, and he finally snaps.

“I get it, OK. It’s become really, abundantly clear. And it’s funny, you know? We went to all this effort, thinking Scott was your biggest weakness. All the work we put in, to bring him into the pack, everything, was all just making it worse. Because it’s pretty clear now that Scott’s not your biggest weakness. I am,” Stiles finishes miserably, and can’t stop himself from glancing up at Derek’s face to see his reaction. Derek has gone completely still, and his face looks stricken. He’s silent for a long time, until he finally swallows with a click of his throat and grinds out, “Stiles.” 

“Just...shut up and let me finish, OK? I know you’re not gonna like this, because you like to think you can protect everyone all the time, but you can’t. And I’ve been trying so hard to not be helpless, to be useful to the pack and take care of myself, but it’s just a fantasy, isn’t it? I’m the weak link in the pack.” For some reason, something in Derek relaxes at that. Stiles isn’t sure why, but he has to say all this before he chickens out.

 “I can’t defend myself like the girls can. I’m always going to be the one the bad guys go for, and as long as I’m in the pack, you’re all going to have to spend resources to protect me, or rescue me, or save me. That’s what you were trying to tell me, but I didn’t listen.” 

Stiles is absolutely miserable. He’s always known he’s basically the damsel in distress of this adventure, but saying it out loud feels a lot worse. He tugs at a loose thread on his blanket, concentrating on it so he doesn’t have to look up at Derek for this part. This is the hard part.

“So I have to leave the pack. You shouldn’t have come after me. The Alphas were stronger and you knew it, and you all almost died because of me. And I know you’re always going to come for pack members, no matter how stupid and suicidal. And I can’t let you. I can’t be Pack.”

“You’ve been thinking about this since the Alphas took you,” says Derek from somewhere to his left. It’s not a question, so Stiles doesn’t answer. 

“That’s stupid. You’re stupid,” Derek says forcefully, and Stiles is so outraged that he looks up, forgetting that he’s not supposed to be looking at Derek’s face. And Derek is suddenly right there, looking down at him with an equally outraged expression on his own face. 

“You’re not weak,” Derek growls. “The Alphas don’t know anything about our pack. They wanted to break us, and don’t you dare let them.” His face is right up in front of Stiles’ now, the darkened room heightening the shadows on his face. Stiles watches, his attention caught despite himself, the close-up furiousness in Derek’s eyes and the clench in his jaw. He’s leaning in, his hands planted against the wall on either side of Stiles’ head. Stiles’ eyes slip down, taking in the  way the moonlight illuminates the curve of Derek’s neck, the pale lines of his throat. Stiles swallows. Derek is way too close, and Stiles looks up into Derek’s eyes again, and suddenly he can’t breathe.

 Derek pauses and stills, looking intently at Stiles’ face.

“Anyway,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse. “You may as well stay. Because it wouldn’t matter. Pack or not, I would always come for you.” And then Derek leans in and kisses him. 

Stiles’ brain, which was already struggling mightily with Derek’s mere proximity, fills with static. But Stiles barely gets out a little “mff!” of shock before Derek pulls away. Stiles stares at him, wide-eyed and mouth open, scrambling to return to some semblance of coherent thought. Before he can say or do anything, Derek makes a sound like a rake on concrete, and is out the window.

 Stiles continues to stare after him for a long moment, trying to get his heartbeat back under control.

“Well,” he finally says out loud. “That's new.”

Chapter Text

Isaac is the one who drops by for guard duty the next day. Which Isaac clearly interpreted as ‘hang out on the couch and watch TV.’ So when he arrives, he’s holding four seasons of Buffy in his arms, which promptly go flying when Stiles grabs him and yanks him into the house.

“What’s wrong?” Isaac asks immediately, scanning for threats. 

“Oh my God, dude, something happened last night and I’m freaking out,” Stiles bursts out. “I need your advice about werewolf matters.”

“Um, sure?” Isaac asks, gathering up his DVDs protectively. “What happened?” Stiles leads him into the kitchen, because they are going to be in serious need of some snacks after this. He rifles in the pantry until he discovers the bag of peanut M&M’s he hid from his dad, and tears it open. 

“Derek kinda kissed me. At least, maybe?” Stiles punctuates this announcement by crunching somewhat desperately on a mouthful of M&Ms. Isaac, in response, goes alarmingly pink and squeally.

“Really? Holy crap, finally!”

“What?” This was not the reaction Stiles was expecting.

“What?” Isaac echoes, looking shifty. There’s a beat where they both stare at each other, and then Isaac coughs and reaches for the M&Ms. “Have you called Lydia?”

 “No. Because I don’t think it meant anything. I mean…” Stiles sighs. “So we were arguing about the whole Alpha arm-breaking thing. And I said…OK, don’t freak out Isaac, but I said maybe I should leave the pack, since I’m kind of a danger to you guys?” 

Isaac’s eyes widen. “What? No! That’s--”

 “I know, maybe it was stupid. But Derek got really upset, and he was saying that I shouldn’t let the Alphas win, and all this stuff—and then he kind of kissed me, but I feel like it might have been a friendly kiss? Or, like, territorial or something? Werewolves get territorial, right?”

 “Ye-es,” Isaac says slowly. “But--”

“So I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I think maybe he was, like, displacing his worry about the pack, and my near-death situation, and all that. I think he was trying to show me that I was still part of the pack. And his werewolf instincts got in the way, and it was weird in human terms, but he didn’t mean it. Because werewolf instincts can make you do weird stuff, right Isaac?”

 “Um, sometimes,” Isaac says carefully. “But I don’t think--”

 “And then he just left! Because if he’d meant it as something...” Stiles waves his hands in what he intends to be an illustrative gesture but ends up being kinda obscene “...romantic, why would he have left? I think he realized how weird it was, once he got more human-y, and he felt weird. And I don’t want him to feel weird about it, because it’s fine, I get the whole ‘werewolf instincts lead to inappropriate touching’ thing. I’m not gonna be weird about it or anything. Right?”

Isaac raises his eyebrows at him.

“I’m not!” Stiles insists. 

“I think we should call Lydia,” Isaac finally says. “And also I think we need more chocolate.”

Lydia comes over half an hour later with ice cream, and Stiles has to go through the whole painful, humiliating story again. And then she makes Stiles tell it again, repeating in their exact words, what both of them had said.

“...And then he said, ‘Even if you’re not pack, I will always come for you,’” Stiles finishes.

 “That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard,” Lydia says, one eyebrow raised significantly, and Isaac nods vigorously behind her.

 “Better than The Notebook,” he breathes.

 “Right!? But I’m not gonna make a big deal out of it; I’m gonna play it cool. Because Derek and I are cool, and normal, and everything’s fine.”

“OK, here’s the question, though,” Lydia says, fixing him with a Look. “Are you into him?” Isaac’s head snaps up, and he watches Stiles carefully.

 “What?” Stiles gasps. “How is that even relevant?”

“Just answer,” she says serenely. Stiles holds out for maybe 10 seconds, before he cracks.

“Fine! Yes! Maybe? I don’t know. Who wouldn’t be?” Lydia and Isaac both raise their hands, giving Stiles significant looks.

“Really? The whole ‘cheekbones, dark and broody, never has a shirt on’ thing doesn’t do it for you? Huh.”

“Yeah, sorry, I have a type,” Lydia says dismissively. “Anyway, so now I’m wondering, why don’t you just go for it?”

“Because Derek didn’t mean it,” Stiles exclaims, and he wonders why this very salient point keeps going over everyone’s heads. “And you may be surprised to hear this, but in the past, the very distant past, I’ve kinda…had trouble letting go of things like that. If I think there’s even a snowball’s chance...” He shrugs awkwardly at Lydia, and she tilts her head and stares him down, letting the moment lengthen into awkwardness.

“That’s…somewhat true,” she finally allows, and Stiles feels like he’s won a major victory. Isaac is meanwhile stuffing M&Ms into his mouth and watching them both with wide eyes.

“Anyway,” Stiles continues. “If I start acting like it meant anything romantic when it didn’t, it’s gonna make him really uncomfortable and avoid me. Which I really don’t want. But more than that, it’ll mess with the pack dynamic we’ve got going. I can’t put strain on the pack just because I can’t get my wishful thinking under control. I’d just…I’m not gonna screw things up any more than I already have!” There must be something convincing about Stiles’ face then, because Lydia and Isaac both give each other dubious looks and don’t answer right away.

“You haven’t screwed anything up,” Isaac finally says quietly, holding out Lydia’s ice cream as if it’s a panacea.

“And you’re wrong!” Lydia bursts out. “Wrong wrong wrong--mph!” Isaac stuffs a spoon heaped with ice cream into her mouth to shut her up.

“I think you might want to think this through a little more,” Isaac tells him kindly, while Lydia glares daggers at both of them over her spoon.

“I have thought it through!” Stiles practically howls, and his heart rate must be spiking because Isaac gives him a look of concern and comes around to Stiles’ end of the table, to lean against his side. Stiles pets Isaac automatically, and it actually does calm him down enough to say, “What do you mean by ‘think it through?’”

“Derek does mean it, you dolt,” Lydia says, having finally extricated herself from the spoon situation. “Seriously, you are actually the only person in the world who doesn’t think that Derek Hale is crazy about you.”

“Like fireworks, singing in the streets, boom-box-over-head kind of crazy,” Isaac adds solemnly from Stiles’ shoulder.

“Seriously?” says Stiles. This conversation feels like the mental equivalent of getting off a ride at Disneyland and onto a revolving floor, with his right foot going in one direction while the left slides off the other way. “But what about the platonic werewolf instincts?”

“Stiles, please. You know, like, a million werewolves. How many of them have done weird, semi-sexual things to you and called it platonic werewolf instincts?” Lydia asks. Stiles looks down pointedly at Isaac’s head still resting on his shoulder, and jabs him a little in the side.

“Physical touch--” Isaac begins defensively, and Stiles starts to laugh.

“Fine! I’ll take it under advisement. I guess I just…need to talk to Derek, maybe? Crap.”

***

An opportunity to talk to Derek doesn’t come for the rest of the week. His dad has taken vacation time in order to ‘help his only son recuperate,’ which apparently means ‘put his only son under house arrest.’ It also seems like he hasn’t forgiven Scott and Isaac for the ‘night lacrosse,’ because he gives them dirty looks every time they come over, like they had corrupted his kid or something. Which is both hilariously inaccurate and more true than his dad knows. But now Scott gives off this pitiful vibe every time the Sheriff is in the same room, and Isaac has taken to doing things like kicking people out of the Sheriff’s favorite chair and saving him the gooeyest cookies whenever they bake things. Which Stiles is pretty sure is the werewolf equivalent of, like, bringing in dead birds and squirrels.

The Sheriff also gives Stiles a completely different kind of meaningful look whenever Lydia comes over, which is awkward for everyone. Or really just Stiles, because Lydia thinks it’s hilarious, and plays her role as the secret seductress with cheerful and inventive gusto until Stiles kicks her out. So basically, the pack member most welcome in the Stilinski household becomes Jackson by default, and that is not something Stiles ever thought he’d say.

They watch every film version of Emma in existence, with Jackson harassing Stiles each time for his opinion about random aspects of the story – “Isn’t it funny how people can be good friends with someone, and then all of a sudden realize they’re in love?” or “Age difference shouldn’t be an obstacle in a relationship, don’t you think Stiles?” – and staring Stiles down with Crazy Eyes until he shrugs and mutters “I guess…” Which prompts Jackson to start texting furiously. Stiles finds his lack of subtlety oddly endearing.

Stiles is desperately grateful when, on Day 6 of his imprisonment, Jackson starts making ominous promises about Mansfield Park, and his dad goes a little pale, and suddenly his other friends can enter the house without encountering pop quizzes about sports safety.

His friends are loud and frequently obnoxious, and sprawl on sofas until you have to burrow your way behind someone’s legs just to sit down at all. But the good thing about their constant plot to laze around his house under the pretense of ‘keeping Stiles entertained’ is that they really do distract him from thinking too much about Derek. 

In his head, Stiles calls the vast, innocent expanse of his life before Derek kissed him “B.K.E.” (“Before Kiss Era”). In the B.K.E., Stiles tells himself somewhat savagely, everything was totally fine. Yeah, he often had inappropriate reactions around Derek: felt breathless and hyperaware whenever Derek was in the room, sometimes stared at him for too long, frequently wondered how he could be remotely attracted to someone who spent most of his time surreptitiously marathoning 7 ^th Heaven without realizing that Netflix saved your viewing history...but Stiles was handling it.

It’s just normal teenager stuff, right? And that conflicting urge, whenever Derek gets particularly stubborn, to simultaneously pet his hair and kick him in the shin? A completely reasonable reaction to Derek being infuriating.

And when it had been just the two of them alone in the apartment, with Stiles reading and Derek wandering around doing quiet, rustly, Derek-things, the fact that Stiles felt like his mind was actually quieting down enough for his thoughts to fit properly inside his head? Had probably been hormones. Or something.

At least, Stiles is pretty sure that’s how puberty works, but Finstock’s lectures during their 9 ^th grade sex ed unit had been obsessively detailed about yeast infections, and not so much about anything else, so Stiles is still a little fuzzy on the details.

And now they have entered the K.E. (“Kissing Era,” but not the fun kind), and everything is a million times worse, because all those things that Stiles noticed occasionally? Have now become a constant cacophony of overlapping thoughts, all jostling into each other and shouting each other down.

And he tries not to think about the fact that Derek hasn’t come by his house once after the kiss, not to mention the fact that he’s kept total radio silence on every other form of communication Stiles could think of. Including the radio. Like, the dude hasn’t even written him a letter, and how hard is that to do? Stiles had been so sure that Derek’s kiss had just been some silly werewolf thing, and they’d have an awkward conversation about it, but then it would be over and things would be fine. Or at least fine enough for Stiles to deal with. But as the days go by, Stiles is getting more confused, and less certain that he’ll be able to resolve this whole thing without a blurted-out declaration of feelings, or something equally terrible.

When he occasionally voices these fears to his friends –- because he’ll go absolutely crazy unless he says some of what’s happening inside his head out loud –- their reactions range from outright scornful (Erica, Lydia, Jackson, Boyd), to sympathetic (Isaac, Allison), to a stubborn jut of the chin and cryptic comments that Stiles interprets to mean that Derek is getting yelled at (Scott).

Sometimes the urge to text or call Derek is almost too strong to resist, but Stiles is not going to be the one to text Derek something pathetic like can we talk? or I think I feel the same way except I don’t actually know how you feel, hint hint.

Or just please come back.

***

“Huh? What about Derek?” Stiles asks abruptly during a conversation that he hadn’t really been attending to. Pretty much the only thing that can cut through the 24-7 Derek-feed in his brain is someone else mentioning his name. The entire pack –- besides Derek of course, who’s God knows where –- pauses what they were saying to give him a pointed look.

“Sorry, zoned out,” Stiles says defensively.

“Clearly,” Jackson drawls. He looks significantly down at the paltry band of freedom fighters Stiles’ Risk army has been reduced to, and then gestures at his own massive Red Army fanning out across Europe.

 “Pretty sure you’re going to have to build the Berlin Wall in London at this rate, dude,” Scott comments.

Erica snickers, “Maybe he’d pay more attention if he was playing with Derek.”

And Lydia adds acerbically, “Apparently Stiles won’t play Risk with Derek,” and Stiles kind of hates them all.

“You said to let them deal with this themselves,” Erica turns accusingly to Boyd when Stiles’ last few brave warriors get soundly defeated. “Does this look like they're dealing with it?” She makes a gesture at Stiles that encompasses his whole, hopeless, board game-losing personhood with one scornful sweep of her arm.

"Hey! I am dealing with it!" Stiles says. "I'm…biding my time. What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"Weeell..." Erica drawls lasciviously. Stiles ignores her.

Allison takes pity on him and says quietly when the others aren’t paying attention, “He watches the house, you know. Even when one of the rest of us is on guard duty, he’s always ‘just driving by,’ or wants to keep us company or something. Sometimes, I can tell he’s around even when I can’t see him.”

“The fact that I find that information adorable -- instead of grounds for a restraining order -- says tragic things about my standards,” Stiles whispers back.

“Tell me about it,” Allison grins, angling her eyes at Scott and winking at Stiles. Stiles makes a mental note to inform Scott that his roof-lurking isn’t as surreptitious as he thinks.

***

It takes his dad a week to use up all his saved vacation time and go back to work -- a moment that coincides precisely with the moment Stiles’ dad gets thoroughly sick of teenagers. It’s a week in which Stiles hasn’t spoken to Derek. A week in which Stiles has slowly been going insane.

It takes him three hours to screw up the nerve to go to Derek’s apartment, and even after that, it’s mostly because Stiles reminds himself that he never finished researching quartz, and he wants his books back.

He spends most of the ride up in the elevator chanting a mantra of Don’t be weird, don’t be weird, don’t be weird until he achieves inner peace.

And so of course the first thing he does when the doors slide open is stumble into the room, notice Derek and Boyd talking at the table, get slammed with an image of Derek’s quiet, intent face directed at him right before he kissed him holycrap, and trip on the edge of a practice mat.

Derek looks up at the noise, sees Stiles sprawled all over the mat, and gives him a mournful look like Stiles’ very presence is painful to him. Boyd glances between the two of them, says “I’m just gonna--” accompanied by an awkward hand gesture, and bolts up the stairs.

Don’t be weird! Stiles wants to yell at Derek, but that would, in itself, be weird, and Stiles isn’t gonna be weird, so he just sorta stares back at Derek with his mouth hanging a little open.

“Um,” is Stiles’ brilliant opening conversational gambit. And then his life is saved when he notices what’s on the table next to Derek.

“Sooo…those weren’t really for theory as much as I may have implied,” Stiles says, gesturing toward the stack of magic books at Derek’s elbow.

“I did notice that, yes,” Derek answers wryly. “And I haven’t forgotten that you promised to stay out of this stuff.” He says that in a similar light tone, but there’s an edge there that Stiles isn’t stupid enough to ignore.

“I didn’t exactly lie. Not at the time,” Stiles says quietly, but it’s a semantic argument and they both know it. 

Wow, this conversation is failing on so many levels.

Derek looks down at the books, and then back up at Stiles. He’s opening his mouth again, and Stiles can tell by the determined tilt of his chin that he’s steeling himself to say something awkward, and Stiles panics.

“Wanna sign my cast?” Stiles blurts out, waving his arm at Derek a little hysterically. Derek closes his mouth, and looks back down at the table in front of him like he’s examining it closely. When he looks back up, something in his expression has become shuttered.

“OK,” Derek agrees, but he doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else.

He comes over with a pen, and they seem to realize at the same time that signing Stiles’ arm means getting close to each other, because Derek falters and Stiles twitches. And then Stiles laughs nervously and holds out his cast as far away from himself as it can go for Derek to write on. But when Derek puts his hand under Stiles’ arm to steady it, Stiles swears he can feel it like a brand through his cast.

His breath hitches, and it’s the reminder he needs to force him to say, “Sooo…you kissed me. If you recall.” And if that last bit was slightly more pointed than he’d intended, Stiles is really fine with that. Derek pulls the pen up sharply before he’s actually written anything, and goes strangely shifty-eyed.

“It won’t happen again,” Derek promises, and Stiles blinks at him. Really not where he thought this conversation would be going.

“Wait…so just to clarify…that means you want it to happen again, right?” Stiles asks, and he already knows the answer by the way Derek ducks his head and shuffles his feet awkwardly. 

“It’s fine,” Derek says after a long pause, and Stiles gapes at him. On an intellectual level, he had tried to believe all his friends’ crap about fireworks and singing and whatever, but it’s a whole different thing to actually hear Derek say it. He never really thought Derek would say it. Stiles ignores the fact that Derek didn’t quite say it, because with Derek, he’s learned to grade on a curve.

But even though this was the answer he’d told himself he’d expected, it still kind of feels like his entire worldview is in the process of shattering, like when Pluto was suddenly a dwarf planet instead of a real planet, and does that mean nothing is sacred?

"Since when?" Stiles demands.

"It's not--" Derek starts. Stiles affixes him with a steely look, and Derek seems to deflate. "...A while," he admits finally, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm not sure exactly when. I didn't expect--"

Stiles laughs a little hysterically. "You and me both," he says shakily.

“I know you don’t feel the same way, and I’m not going to…anything.” There’s another pause, in which Stiles stares and Derek stares back, but Derek’s stare is kind of sexy whereas Stiles’ would guess that his stare is kind of unhinged. Derek breaks the eye contact to stare at his feet instead. “I’m dealing with it,” he says finally. 

“You’re…dealing,” Stiles says faintly, still trying to grasp a solar system with only 8 planets in it while Derek is distracting him with miserable half-glances that manage to be grouchy and plaintive all at once, and…fuck that, who cares if Pluto’s new classification is more scientifically accurate, it has the spirit of a full planet, goddammit.

“How will anyone get nine pizzas without Pluto?” Stiles demands, and finally Derek looks up at him properly, with that half-baffled, half-fond expression on his face that Stiles has thought was just a general Derek look, but is starting to realize is maybe a Derek-and-Stiles look? Possibly?

“I have no idea what that means,” Derek says, after a long beat.

“It means you’re stupid,” Stiles says. “Like, to an epic degree. Which is good, because as I recall a particular Werewolf-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named saying once, I’m stupid too.” His smile is a little more tentative than he means it. Derek’s eyebrows are crinkling ominously in that way that means he’s confused And annoyed with his confusion.

And it’s such a prickly, familiar, Derek look that Stiles starts to laugh, and pulls Derek in by his shirt. He’s still giggling a little bit into Derek’s mouth, and Derek has gone completely rigid against him with shock, so everything’s a little awkward for about 2 seconds before Derek’s brain seems to reboot and he starts to kiss back. And Stiles stops laughing abruptly, because woah.

Derek’s mouth is as soft as Stiles remembers from that brief moment a week ago – and it’s possible Stiles may have gone over every detail of that a little obsessively – and it’s kinda surprising considering that Derek’s cheekbones and stubble usually make him seem all sharp angles. Derek kisses with a single-minded focus that Stiles should have expected, knowing the serious, determined way Derek goes about everything, but Stiles still has to catch his breath at the intentness with which Derek brings his hands up to cup Stiles’ chin and nudges open his mouth like it’s the most important thing in the world.

But then Derek pulls away as abruptly as he started, and it takes Stiles a few dazed seconds for Derek’s wide-eyed expression to swim into focus.

“This—you--” Derek says, his eyes flickering over Stiles’ face like it’ll reveal secrets.

“Yep. This. Me,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes fondly. “Obviously, dumbass,” he adds, and leans back in to kiss Derek some more. But Derek is frowning a little now, going a bit cross-eyed as he focuses on Stiles’ too-close face.

“Hold on,” Derek says slowly, like his thoughts are taking a long time to catch up. Stiles makes a muffled sound of displeasure. “Did you just give me a Voldemort epithet?”

“…No?” Stiles says, and tries to distract Derek by biting a little at his bottom lip. Judging by Derek’s sharp intake of breath and total lack of a retort, Stiles is pretty sure he succeeds.

That’s when Derek’s arm snakes out and pulls Stiles flush against him, chest firm and warm and pressed tightly into his. Derek ghosts his teeth against Stiles’ jawbone, so that Stiles makes a noise that sounds a little like “blarghl” and gratefully grabs onto Derek’s shirt with his non-becasted hand to stop himself from falling over.

He surges against Derek, licking into Derek’s mouth with an enthusiasm that Derek must be cool with, because Derek groans a little and jostles Stiles up against one of the living room walls. There’s something hard and brick-shaped digging into his spine, but Derek is leaning against him, breathing a little heavily as he kisses him back, and Stiles can’t find it in him to care.

“This is definitely better than the other times you’ve shoved me into walls,” Stiles says into Derek’s mouth with a gasping laugh.

“Shut up,” Derek mumbles, and Stiles can feel Derek’s lips humming against his when he talks. “We’ve already done the part with the words.”

“Ha, it’s cute that you think the words are ever over,” Stiles starts to retort, but Derek’s mouth moves down to the pulse point on his neck, and the rest of the sentence come out breathless. When he regains enough control over his body to look back at Derek, Derek is sliding his eyes across him in a way that Stiles can only describe as smug.

“Unfair,” Stiles grumbles, but he tilts his head back pointedly for more. Derek’s chuckle ghosts against his skin, and Stiles shivers.

Up until now, their movements had been languid and exploratory, like they both needed a minute to get over the shock, but then Derek nudges one leg between Stiles’, and everything goes hot and urgent all at once. Stiles is already half-hard, but the unexpected friction makes him gasp and cant his hips against Derek’s. Derek lets out a strangled groan, and pushes him harder against the wall, hands suddenly touching Stiles everywhere, and Stiles is surprised to feel his good hand doing the same thing to Derek. He tugs against the dark hair at the nape of Derek’s neck, and Derek hisses and presses Stiles’ legs further apart, kissing him until Stiles’ mind buzzes white noise.

Derek moves from his mouth back to his neck – which he keeps circling back to like a man obsessed. He’s tugging impatiently at Stiles’ collar, and then he’s biting and sucking a mark onto Stiles’ neck that has Stiles groaning at the sharp pleasure-pain of it. Stiles is thrusting up against Derek in a way that might have been embarrassing, if he’d any brainpower left to care.

Derek pulls away from Stiles’ neck and stares at the red mark there, eyes shocked and blown-out. He traces it like he hasn’t seen anything like it before, and Stiles takes that moment, when Derek is distracted, to finally pull Derek’s shirt off.

He tries to do it with both hands, until he accidentally knocks Derek in the side of the head with his cast – which he’d forgotten about – and then he tries to do it one-handed until Derek’s shirt gets stuck halfway off, and Stiles groans and leans his head against Derek’s now bare chest in despair at his general fail-boatiness.

Derek struggles out of his shirt and gives Stiles’ cast a considering look.

“C’mere,” he finally says, tugging Stiles by his good arm over to the sofa. Stiles flops down onto the cushions, totally fine with any plan that involves them being horizontal, and tugs Derek down with him. Derek shifts Stiles’ cast arm up to lie above his head, and presses down on it a little bit.

“Keep that there,” Derek says. 

Stiles wriggles a little bit under him and says with a lascivious wink, “Oh, giving orders now, are we?”

Derek rolls his eyes and starts kissing him again, probably in order to stop him talking. Stiles is onto these devious tactics.

Stiles keeps forgetting and accidentally hits Derek several more times with his cast before Derek threatens to tie it down and Stiles says, “Please do,” with another wink.

And Derek says, “You look like a crazy person when you do that, I hope you’re aware,” and to punctuate the point, he slides down Stiles’ torso and noses at the button on his jeans. Stiles breath hitches, and Derek looks up.

“We're moving fast,” he says semi-anxiously. Stiles does actually think about it -- as much as he's physically capable of doing at the moment -- but finally answers:

"Actually don't think it's been that fast. At least, for me, it's felt pretty glacial."

"So this is OK," Derek clarifies, and even though Stiles knows it's a serious conversation they should probably be having more of, he can't help but laugh and laugh, until Derek mumbles something rude and puts his hand down Stiles’ pants.

Stiles’ laughter turns into a groan, and he thinks he sees stars. The entirety of his world has narrowed down to his dick and Derek’s fingers, and the beautiful interaction between those two concepts. He thinks he may be saying things, he thinks he may be tugging at Derek’s hair again, he thinks he may have hit himself in the face with his own cast, but all those things have ceased to matter. Not as much as Derek’s thumb swirling over the head of his dick and making him forget to breathe.

He’s embarrassingly close already. He squints his eyes and tries to think of baseball, and then realizes how startlingly erotic baseball is, and has to choke out, “Derek--”.

Derek looks up the couch at him with a dazed expression on his face, like Stiles is the one who’s miraculous here.

“C’mere,” Stiles mumbles, because he doesn’t think he’s capable of anything more complex right now. He tugs Derek back up and kisses him a little frantically. And it’s almost without realizing it that Stiles starts to tug at Derek’s jeans, until Derek helps out by fiddling with his jeans and kicking them impatiently away.

Stiles’ mouth goes a little dry at the sight of Derek in only his boxers, and when Derek shifts a little bit so that his presses down into Stiles, Stiles can’t move his hand down fast enough to stroke them both, thrusting up into the space between Derek’s hip and thigh. Derek’s hands are bracketing Stiles head against the sofa in a pose that is inadvertently reminiscent of their first kiss in Stiles’ bedroom. Stiles can feel Derek’s breath coming heavy against his own chest, and Derek ducks down for kiss after kiss until Stiles is stupid with the feel of him, the motion of Stiles’ hips becoming sloppier.

Stiles comes first, pressing up into Derek with a moan, feeling his come warm and wet against his boxers, making his hand slip. He can suddenly feel every place Derek’s body is touching his, even the light presses of Derek’s toes against his calf, and it’s both unbearable and addicting. Derek comes a moment later, gasping down into Stiles’ mouth, and then pressing his forehead into Stiles’ shoulder, right over the unfaded mark of the hickey from earlier.

They breathe together for a moment, and Stiles feels windswept and panting, like a train has just rushed right past him.

Derek looks up to kiss him again, and that must be when he looks at Stiles’ cast properly for the first time, because he does a little double-take.

 “The hero of our band aconital,

He conquers both our hearts and genitals.

His arm won’t weaken, it’s truly magic,

Except in the face of a rogue lacrosse stick.

A Mets cap sits ‘pon his stern, manly brow,

And all his assets are quite well-endow’d.

His eyes are like honey, which should give you a clue

 That he’s like the Tigger, to Derek’s Pooh.”

Derek recites incredulously, twisting Stiles’ arm around to read the rest silently, eyebrows raising higher and higher.

“It just…keeps going…” he says at last, slightly stunned.

“Lydia insisted it be in iambic pentameter, and I think Isaac was in charge of the rhyming which...maybe explains some things,” Stiles says with a shrug, struggling up into a sitting position.

“Can I sign it?” Derek asks, his voice more serious than Stiles would have expected.

“Of course. I said you could. As long as you go get the Sharpie, because I am not planning to move for another…” he makes a big show of checking his nonexistent watch. “Four hours. At least.”

Derek huffs in affectionate annoyance, and struggles up off the couch in search of a pen. Stiles stares openly at Derek’s ass as he shuffles around the apartment grumbling about how he always buys pens and they always go missing, so he can never find a pen when he needs one, and he’s pretty sure it’s Jackson’s fault somehow. Stiles marvels, a little bit, both at the fact that he’s now allowed to stare openly at Derek’s ass, which is a small wonder in and of itself, but also at the sudden upsurge of affection he feels at the sight of Derek stomping around in his underwear and muttering dire things about pens.

Derek returns with a maroon Sharpie that he may have retrieved from under the refrigerator, judging by the dust in his hair. He’s also bought a box of Kleenex for Stiles to clean up with, and Stiles busies himself with that as Derek stares seriously at Stiles’ cast, like this is the most important thing he will ever do.

Slowly and carefully, he reaches down to Stiles’ arm and signs a simple “Derek” in his neat, familiar script. He looks up again a little anxiously, like he’s afraid it’ll get dwarfed by the elaborate artwork of the rest of the pack. Stiles beams widely at him and leans over to kiss him again. Because he can.

“It’s perfect, dude. It really completes the tableau, you know?” Stiles says, nudging him a little bit in the side, and knowing that Derek can hear the truth of his words in the steady beat of his heart.

“Are you guys done yet?” Isaac’s voice shouts down, totally shattering the moment. Stiles and Derek both freeze.

“I was definitely in the middle of microwaving a Hot Pocket when I went upstairs. It’s probably cold by now,” Boyd’s voice adds resentfully.

“That was mega sexy, you guys should go again!” Erica chirps.

“Arrrggghhh,” whimpers a voice that sounds disturbingly like Scott’s.

“As long as it wasn’t on the couch,” Isaac yells. “That couch is a safe space!”

There’s a beat. “…It was totally on the couch, wasn’t it?” Stiles hears Isaac say sulkily.

“Guys. Not cool.” Boyd’s voice is filled with judgment.

Stiles grins unrepentantly at Derek, and Derek’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he grins back.

Chapter Text

Stiles is weirdly nervous and jittery on his first day back at school. More than he’s been since the first day of high school, or maybe even farther back to the first day of kindergarten, before he’d met Scott and he was going in to school alone.

This year, he’s not alone. He swings by Scott’s house as usual to pick him up, and has to honk the horn until Scott dashes out the door with his backpack half-done-up and his shoes untied.

“Sorry, sorry!” Scott says, still crunching on a burnt piece of toast as he slides into the passenger side of the Jeep. The familiarity of it makes something in Stiles’ chest ease a little, but he still wonders.

He wonders if everything that happened this summer was a fluke or a hiatus from normal life, like making endless friendship bracelets with summer camp friends that you’ll never see again.

Stiles was never convinced that anyone in The Breakfast Club actually spoke to each other on Monday, and maybe that’s why he feels the same vague anxiety that he gets whenever he watches the end of that movie. When they had watched it as a pack, Erica had nudged him and said, “Lighten up, it’s supposed to be a happy ending,” and Stiles had answered, “It is?” in genuine surprise.

Stiles wonders, as he makes the familiar turns to the high school, what will happen without the bonds of shared danger to keep the pack together. If they’ll be able to stay over at Derek’s less often on school nights, and if homework or lacrosse practice or whatever the hell Lydia did with her free time will all conspire to make them too busy for each other. He wonders what will happen when danger inevitably comes back.

Peter has been sending postcards with blithe references to things that should ‘stay in Vegas,’ and Stiles has always kinda hoped that he meant it in, like, every possible sense. But lately his postcards have been peppered with pointed comments about coming home, and Stiles is honestly not sure what's gonna happen with that.

“You OK, dude?” Scott asks, shooting him a weirdly perceptive look from the seat next to him.

“Just…thinking about the school year,” Stiles answers, and it’s not even a lie.

***

He doesn’t have classes with anyone but Scott and Allison until right before lunch. They reunite sappily in History like they’ve been apart for years, even though Stiles has it on good authority that Scott’s mom had been on night shift and Allison had slept over the night before.

He’s been texting Derek furiously throughout the morning. Just random things, like:

To: Derek -

english teacher got all intimidating about texting in class. Now I have a challenge :)

To: Derek -

Did you know “mon petit chou” is a French term of endearment?

To: Derek -

It means “my little cabbage”

To: Derek -

New nickname for Derek!!!!!

To: Derek -

Saw Harris coming down the hall. Am definitely now hiding in the bathroom. If I plied you with sexual favors, would you beat him up in the parking lot after school?

But Derek hasn’t answered yet. And neither Scott nor Allison are in AP Bio, so Stiles is sitting alone on his lab bench, checking his phone for responses from Derek for like the twelfth time, when Lydia sinks down next to him.

“You should know, I have an allergy to formaldehyde,” she says, waving what looks like a doctor’s note in his face. “So if we’re going to be lab partners, you have to do all the dissecting.”

Stiles covers his surprise by saying, “Yeah right, like I’m getting within 10 feet of a dead animal after--” he stops and looks around the room. He does occasionally try to be subtle.

After we dumped the bloody corpse of a griffon into a shallow grave? Lydia’s lifted eyebrow finishes the sentence for him. 

“…you know,” Stiles finishes. Lydia hums like this conversation isn’t over, and waves to Jackson and Danny, who’ve just come in.

“Hey dude, can I borrow a pen?” Jackson asks Stiles as he and Danny dump their stuff at the table in front of them.

“Only if you promise this isn’t going to, like, cement our immediate soul-bond, and we go all McCargent,” Stiles warns, passing one over.

“Don’t fight true love, Stilinksi,” Jackson deadpans, and Danny gives him a weird look.

“Are we, like, friends with him now?” Stiles hears Danny whisper to Jackson. “Does this have something to do with what you’ve been doing all summer?” Stiles strains to hear Jackson’s answer, and sits back on his lab bench with a smile when Jackson says, “Yeah, I guess he’s OK.”

***

The four of them walk to lunch together. Lydia and Jackson falter slightly when they see their old table, but Erica waves them over to where she’s sitting.

Isaac passes them with a tray, and says, “She’s already gotten me kicked out of one class today,” with an eyeroll.

“Here guys,” Stiles says, grabbing an armful of snacks from his backpack once they’re all crammed at the same lunch table.

“Pudding cups?” Scott asks, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

“No way I’m eating that,” Lydia says instantly. “It looks like paste.”

“Guyyssss,” Stiles whines. “It’s, like, a symbol of our friendship!”

“Why?” Boyd asks the question they’re all clearly wondering. Because months ago you snuck into my bedroom and menaced me, and I had a premonition that we’d all be sitting around the lunch table eating pudding cups. That’s why.

“Because it’s delicious, just like me,” Stiles says instead, with a sniff.

“Dude, I thought we agreed, no stories about sex with Derek. It’s bad enough having to hear the actual thing,” Scott groans, and everyone at the table gives a collective wince. Then they all dive for their pudding cups, like maybe if they do what Stiles says, nobody will get hurt.

“...Who’s Derek?” Danny asks.

That’s the moment when Stiles’ phone vibrates in his pocket.

To: Stiles:

It’s 12:15, and I’m eating this stupid pudding thing like you said. You gonna tell me why? It tastes like heart disease.

Stiles texts back:

To: Derek - 

Awww thanks mon petit chou

And grins when he sees Derek’s answer come back two seconds later.

To: Stiles -

That’s not gonna be a thing

Stiles glances up from his phone to see Danny still looking at him quizzically.

“Derek? He's my surly older boyfriend. You may know him as my cousin, Miguel, which is a funny story actually--” he starts.

“Eat your stupid pudding cup,” Erica interrupts. Lightning fast, she dabs some onto his nose with her spoon, and laughs at his squawk of outrage. 

Stiles immediately begins plotting revenge.