Chapter Text
It turned out, a week later, that Stiles heart hadn't yet realized it wasn't still in danger. He was hobbling around pretty well despite himself, an ankle brace around his thankfully-not-beyond-repair ankle and a cream to help the bruises all over his body heal quickly. But he was also being unnecessarily stubborn, refusing to let even a dewy eyed Lydia help him, always flinching or scurrying away whenever any of the werewolves were even in sight, and frankly, it was making everybody a little cranky. Derek watched silently as his pack settled comfortably into the Stilinski living room, the Sheriff – John – sprawling out onto the sofa and putting his feet up on an amiable Boyd's lap, Erica and Isaac sitting near them on the floor with Scott and Jackson while Peter leaned against a doorway.
John had his face covered with an arm, hiding from view as sadness radiated from him. He couldn't even go near Stiles without the teen getting wide eyed and panicky, something that made him feel as useless as when his wife had died.
Which was why there were all here. Because this had to stop.
"He's being bitchy," Erica frowned, glaring at the ceiling with a sneer. "And he keeps flinching whenever we're even close to him."
Beside her, Isaac nodded, looking pained and sympathetic as he rested his head on Erica's lap. "He gets scared whenever we even growl, or do anything wolf-y."
Jackson grunted something as Scott squinted up at Derek from the floor with a hesitantly determined look. "You're the only one that knows what happened; he refuses to tell us anything."
Scoffing at the hint of hope he could hear in Scott's voice, Derek shook his head and kept his arms crossed over his chest. "I'm not telling you anything." He bluntly told them, directing it to everybody in the room rather than just Scott. It wasn't like he knew much anyway – beside the 'attempts' Stiles had told him about when he'd obviously been drugged up on wolfsbane. "It's getting late, so you all need to leave."
The teenagers half-heartedly tried to stay longer, most of them hearing the order even without Derek explicitly using his Alpha voice, but Scott – like always – ignored him and made himself comfortable, resting his back against the sofa near the Sheriff's head. "I'm not leaving him alone. None of us are. Right?" Isaac looked uncertain, unwilling to be put on the spot, and Erica – still riding the tail end of her period most likely – quickly allied herself with Scott, always raring to go.
Derek bared his teeth, letting his eyes flash red, and opened his mouth to repeat himself when the Sheriff surprised all of them with an irritated growl. Scott and the betas went tense, turning wide eyed towards the sheriff as John dismounted his legs from Boyd's lap, sat up, and glared at the teenagers. "Do you think Stiles would appreciate being in a house full of werewolves? I don't even want to think about how many times one of you lost control and almost killed him when you were just turned-" Scott looked down, guilt wafting off him in waves. "-but I refuse to let any of you force Derek to betray Stiles' trust. Now leave, all of you."
Shocked, the teenagers got up to their feet and trickled out of the room one by one, Erica dropping her eyes from Derek in a show of apology, one he accepted with a small nod. Scott barely looked at him as he passed. Nothing unusual there.
"I guess I'll leave too, then." Peter commented, looking bored of the conversation. "Do tell the boy I send my regards. Maybe we should get Argent to train him up as a hunter for us."
Growling at the idea of letting Stiles anywhere near the Argent household, Derek jerked his head towards the exit, and didn't stray his eyes from his uncle until he was certain Peter was long gone. The Sheriff watched Derek curiously, ignorant of the family drama that had resulted in Peter killing Laura, but sighed quietly instead when Derek turned to look at him. "I'm not happy," he said, answering the question Derek hadn't been able to actually ask. "I'm not happy that I can't know what happened to my son, that you won't tell me, but I get it. He never wants anybody to worry about him, I know. I'm just grateful that at least somebody here is thinking with a straight head. But you need to talk to him."
Derek nodded, moving forward to help the Sheriff stand to his feet, clasping the older man by the shoulders for a moment. "You've seen the other betas and their eyes. There's a reason why you have a different color."
"It's because I'm your Second, isn't it?" John replied wearily, nodding with a small quirk to his lips at Derek's surprised look. "Yeah, Peter told me. He also threatened to cut me in half if I ever so much as thought about betraying you. Though I think that was something he didn't want me to tell you."
Frowning, Derek shook his head. "Stay away from Peter," he warned, not willing to have the Sheriff get hurt for simply not knowing about the man's bid for power. "You're my Second, so if he tries anything, pull rank on him like you did just now."
"I will." John nodded, smiling tiredly as he patted Derek on the shoulder. "Now go upstairs and deal with my son. Try and be easy on him, yeah? Scott needs someone to knock some sense into him, I swear. I'll go and keep the kids busy." The Sheriff paused, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said with a grin, "Or should I say pups?"
Derek snorted, starting to see where Stiles may have gotten his humor from, and followed John's movement as the man turned to leave the house. A few minutes later and John was out of ear shot, nothing in the house now except for the scent of pack (something he thought he'd never have again) and Stiles' rhythmic heartbeat coming from upstairs. The sky outside was dark, the clock lying precariously on top of the TV ticked over to ten, and Derek inhaled deeply before taking to the stairs. He made sure to stand on each creaking step, to announce his approaching presence as loudly as possible, and came to a stop in front of Stiles' door. Hesitating for just a second, Derek breathed out through his nose, closed his eyes for a moment – blood, skin, wide brown eyes – and rasped against the door three times before pushing through anyway.
His eyes tracked around the room, seeing the desk with the laptop hibernating on top, the window shut tight with small vials of glass along the sill (alarm system?) and a lump bundled underneath the blanket on the bed. Derek moved forward, dropping onto the bed, forcing himself to ignore the small hitched breath and full body flinch Stiles gave. He sat there, using the silence to try and plan out how to start, how best to go about it and make the upcoming confrontation as easy for both of them as possible, but in the end, like always, Stiles spoke up with a cracked, "What?"
Still not sure what to do, despite knowing he'd have to do it, Derek shook his head – a bid to stall for time – and didn't reply. Stiles buzzed head became visible as the teen shoved the blanket off him, glaring down at Derek with his honey brown eyes, and with a voice filled with much more confidence said, "What do you want, Derek?"
"Nothing." Derek said quietly.
The smell of burned copper pervaded the room as Stiles snarled in anger, eyes flashing as he hissed, "Don't lie to me! Of course you want something!"
"No, Stiles, I don't." Derek responded, still quiet, struggling to keep himself visually non-threatening. "We don't."
Just as fast as the smell came, it disappeared, and nothing but the small, constant amount of fear remained in the room as Stiles buried himself into the blankets and went quiet. Derek could never stomach the idea that Stiles was perpetually afraid, even before the alpha pack had come, but more than that, he couldn't understand how Stiles could still function even remotely like a human being with it. How did the boy do everything he did with the paralyzing feel of fear always with him? How the hell did he keep coming back – sarcasm increasing with every added ounce of fear?
Maybe this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Derek wouldn't hold it against Stiles if he decided this was it, that he couldn't do it anymore, couldn't be the boy that ran with wolves. But then again, Derek had taken away that choice hadn't he? With the Sheriff now a werewolf and Derek's Second, Stiles would never truly be able to just quit, not with the way Stiles took care of his dad.
"I'm sorry," Derek found himself saying, surprising himself by the words coming out of his mouth into the dead silence of the room. "Even if you got tired of us, you wouldn't be able to leave now that your father's my Second."
Stiles made a curious noise from beneath the blankets, the mass of it squirming with it before falling still. "He's second in command now?"
Derek nodded, dimly wondering why he even bothered to be surprised by curiosity being the only thing to bring Stiles out of his funk. "Yeah. He helped get rid of everybody just now. Plus he has blue eyes instead of Scott's yellow."
Once more, Stiles made a noise, but it was suddenly more devastated than curious. "I thought it was a hallucination," the boy moaned, heart rating picking up as the fear was spiked with panic. "You can't make him, no, you can't put him in danger, the Argents-"
"-Stiles," Derek interrupted, worry spiking along with Stiles' increasing heart beat. "Stiles, calm down. He'll be fine, the Argent's don't know a thing. They didn't see him change, and they don't know the difference between us to tell. He's worried about you." Stiles shut up quick enough, and Derek felt the smoky stench of guilt. Realizing Stiles wasn't going to make this easy for him, Derek decided to take another page out of Stiles' book, and do the talking for the both of them this time. "You need to talk to someone, tell them everything," he began, ignoring the full body tensing happening underneath the blankets. "Let whatever it is you're thinking that has you so quiet come out, even if it's just to me. Stiles, you're hurting yourself, you're hurting everybody. Especially you're dad."
The small gasp that came from Stiles sounded heartbreaking, the guilt tripling enough to trigger Derek's memories of fire. He could hear Stiles draw in a raggedy breath, could hear the air wobble out of his lungs when he exhaled, and found himself at a lost as to how to carry on. He couldn't just stop speaking now, not when he'd brought Stiles to this peak, where the teenager was dangling and could go either side, could go into the abyss that would have him lost to everybody or back into the safety of the pack's arms.
But Derek had never been good with words, not even before the fire, not even before Kate and everything she'd done, and suddenly he found himself burning with envy and sheer want for his sister, for the way she could talk anybody into anything, how she'd mischievously drag Derek into trouble and leave him to take the blame, only to sneak him some sweets later on as apology. He found himself missing the way she'd talk him and her out of trouble, and whenever she couldn't, she'd pull a face and slither behind Derek, letting him deal with the action, and he missed the way she'd dragged him around New York, insisting on buying him clothes, and the way she'd forced him into leather in the first place, with some stupid line about how they'd match.
It hurt to think about her, it always did, even worse when he thought about the way she'd been killed, about how she must have coming face to face with Peter, their uncle, only to die alone in their family forest.
So caught up in remembering her, Derek didn't notice the hand coming towards him until it dropped on top of his own fisted one, causing him to startle in surprise. Stiles flinched back at the motion, taking his hand with him with a start, but Derek grabbed it and held on, riding out Stiles' reaction and the waves of his panic before the teen got a hold of himself and calmed down. Stiles stared at him, pupils blown wide and almost swallowing the hazel brown, lips parted to show only the hint of a moist tongue, and Derek answered by squeezing the hand in his own.
"Y-You had that face on you again," stuttered Stiles, tripping over his words in his haste to get them out, trying to explain why he'd been touching Derek. He looked afraid, frightened, as if... as if... as if Derek would be angry. He must have made an expression, something to prompt Stiles all but shouting, "You looked like you were thinking about your family!" He must have done something else with his face at the exclamation because Stiles squeaked and dived back into his blankets, and Derek found himself unable to stop out the punch of laughter that burst out of him at the image.
For some reason, it reminded him of Laura doing something completely stupid and blaming it on whatever ridiculous object was near her – like a potted plant – and looking panicked when she realized just how stupid of a scapegoat it was. It reminded him of Uncle Peter (before everything, before everything) conning his dad out of his money, and dad complaining loudly to mom who'd get so pissed she'd ground them both like rebellious teenagers.
Stiles reminded him of his family, of all the stupid but clever ways Laura barely survived with, of all the deadpan snark his dad responded with, of his mother's fierce loyalty to her pack and family. And Stiles thought he was angry, in typical Stiles fashion, yet for someone so wrong, he was the only one out of everybody to notice that Derek had a 'face' for when he remembered his family.
Stiles was staring out from his hidden spot, confusion written all over his face as he peered at Derek suspiciously, and Derek felt his lips curl into something that might genuinely be a smile. "I'm not angry, Stiles."
Frowning at him, Stiles pressed with a, "Because I'm human? Because I'm damaged? Because I'm weak?"
Shaking his head, Derek's smile slipped back into nothingness like water dripping off oil, the self-deprecating emphasis causing something to twist inside him and make him want to whine. "No, Stiles. Because you said nothing wrong. You're right – I was thinking about my family. Mostly Laura."
Stiles stared at him, still suspicious, with the somewhat astute amount of paranoia Derek had noticed the boy to hold at random times and always caught him off guard. Stiles always seemed so... not quite naïve, but positive, and to think he inherently had a bone in his body that was even slightly paranoid seemed equally surprising as well as familiar. "You're not going to tell me something important just to get me to tell you something back, are you?" Snorting, Derek raised a single eyebrow at the teen silently, which prompted Stiles to grumble to himself and concede that yeah, Derek wouldn't stoop so low as to emotional manipulation, not when Derek had the far worse amount of ammunition that would only put him at a disadvantage anyway. Sighing, Stiles averted his eyes and curled smaller underneath his blanket. "What do you want, Derek?" He said quietly, wearily.
Deciding he should be comfortable if he was going to be staying here longer, Derek scooted back on the bed until his back rested against the wall, comfortable in the room he'd been in more times than he could count, and looked Stiles in the eye. "Talk."
For a while, Stiles stayed silent, visibly searching for words and wondering where to start, and for a moment it seemed like he wouldn't even speak. It wouldn't matter ultimately, whether he spoke or not, as long as Stiles ended up growing comfortable again in at least Derek's presence – as the alpha, getting used to him would make getting used to the beta's easier, theoretically – and slept through the night without terrors waking him up. But Stiles surprised him by clearing his throat awkwardly and looking uncomfortable as he started to speak.
"Um, I don't even know how to start, but you want me to talk so... I'll... just talk, I guess. You know I can't come up with foolproof plans all the time on my own, right? I just can't do it, there's never enough time or enough information to do so, and something always goes wrong so early on and then snowballs into the freakin' apocalypse, and I can't do it, I can't predict it or even see it as a possibility, I'm just not that good. I'm not really anything, I try, as much as I can, and sometimes I might get something right, or I might just get it completely wrong, but I figured as long as I tried it'd be OK, it'd all end up fine."
Derek frowned, hearing a huge but there, and just as he'd thought, Stiles started up again with a, "But... it's even worse than I thought. I'm not really useful at all, I'm a liability, I always end up getting caught and making things worse. If it wasn't for me, Scott would've never been bitten, and right now I'd probably have been helping my dad figure out the animal attacks and what the hell was going on. I know I probably would've ended up stumbling across you anyway, and maybe even finding out, so you can stop frowning, but it's also the truth. And this whole crap didn't help anyway. At all."
Stiles kept talking, detailing everything that had happened from what he can remember, how he'd tried to run, the injury on his ankle now in a cast, waking up in the alleyway and getting lucky with a messed up text message before getting hit and passing out, and Derek kept listening. He was surprised at the pride he felt rising up in him at that, squeezing Stiles uninjured ankle through the blanket, quietly trying to send through the message that Stiles had done good by screwing the alpha over, better than his beta's probably would've done in such a situation (their instinct would've forced them to be docile in the presence of an alpha, even Scott would've struggled to stay independent). Stiles faltered, voice cracking and dropping, something vulnerable in his blown honey eyes before he started again quietly, talking about waking up in the meat fridge.
"And, uh, I guess you know what happened afterward." That wasn't talking. Derek shook his head, boring into Stiles with his eyes until the teenager huffed and scowled at him. "I tried getting out to find a signal and call you guys, and it took a while, but then I finally got it and you heard me and you came and found me." Stiles rushed in one go, summing up the three days he'd spent in captivity with a single sentence that lacked any kind of pause. The teen paused, looking surprised at his own words before he cocooned himself further into his nest, repeating himself quietly. "You... actually found me."
The growl came out of him before he could hold it back, and the wolf inside him whined as Stiles went stock still for a second in instinctive fear, too used to the growls of enemy werewolves to realize he wasn't in any danger. Carefully, Derek shuffled on the bed towards Stiles, keeping his face open and clear of any signs of his wolf as he could, holding his hands – palms first – out for Stiles to keep track off as he climbed into the space between Stiles and the wall, letting Stiles be on the outside so he wouldn't feel cornered. He knew a little something about fear, about what it could do to you, what it could make you see or feel, so he only laid down beside Stiles and made contact as he finally spoke up, infusing as much confidence as he could, which wasn't surprisingly too hard. "I can't promise you won't get hurt, not if you keep hanging around us and especially me. But I can promise you, Stiles, that no matter what happens or how far you end up being, no matter how unlikely it may see, we'll – I'll – always find you."
And apparently, Derek had just pushed Stiles over the precipice.
"But you can't," Stiles wheezed, squeezing his eyes together tightly as his expression cracked, opening them up again to show nothing but pain and grief. "Not all the time. Life doesn't work that way."
Derek held back the growl building in his throat, let it rumble in his chest rather than come out, and brought a hand up towards Stiles' face, hovering as the teen flinched before softly putting it on his cheek, soothing the stench of smoke dripping of him as he stroked the soft, pale, skin. "Every time, Stiles." He promised darkly. "And I'll rip apart anyone that touches you."
Stiles broke the eye contact, averting his gaze away from him, but nodded slightly as he burrowed in further towards Derek's warmth. He was shivering, running cold, a physical reaction to his own thoughts, possibly, and it only made sense that Stiles would seek out Derek's heat – he naturally ran hotter than the average human thanks to his lycanthropy. By the time Stiles stopped moving, he had his face hidden in the hollow of Derek's neck – a vulnerable position, one that normally Derek would've been completely against, but found himself strangely satisfied with it – Derek's hand lying on top of Stiles' hip on top of the blanket, just a slight pressure of reassurance, to show Stiles he was here.
His lungs deflated as he let it burst out of him in a sigh, his stiff muscles finally relaxing into the comfortable bed and the warm body beside him, and Derek couldn't stop himself from pressing dry lips to Stiles'' short hair. He could feel Stiles breathing in and out, expelling hot air through his nose into the sensitive skin of where his collarbones met his sternum, could smell the smoke receding, the rotten eggs disappearing, leaving nothing but the smell of grounded coriander in it's remains. He didn't expect anything to come of it, packs were generally touchy anyway, and he'd held back from the humans in the pack because he'd figured they wouldn't understand. He'd held back from Allison and Lydia because they belonged to Scott and Jackson first and foremost, and he didn't have either of their trusts to even bother risking a feud like that, and he'd held back from Stiles because he couldn't see a way of how that could have been taken positively. But now everything had changed, the awkward barrier between them had been broken when they'd been stranded together at the mercy of the alphas, and Derek wasn't about to let Stiles get away without at least smelling slightly of Derek.
It was peaceful, just as peaceful as it'd been in the cabin waiting for the enemy to make their move.
And then Stiles was muttering, "Oh shit," right before a punch-drunk wave of arousal hit Derek solely in the solar plexus.
He couldn't help it, couldn't help inhaling deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring as the spicy tang flooded his lungs and set his own skin alight. His mouth watered at the scent of herbs mixing with the pulsing increase of coriander mixing with hormones and lust, and the inquisitive noise that broke free from his throat without his permission was all wolf – and the noise of choked embarrassment that came from Stiles was definitely all teenage boy.
Derek snorted despite himself, wryly thinking of how horrible it must be to be a teenager popping inappropriate boners when they really weren't necessary, but he couldn't fault the teen for his body. Teenage boy plus hormones always made things awkward, and Stiles had long since been crowed the king of awkward, and Derek hadn't exactly discouraged his body with the last time they'd been in a bed together.
What he didn't expect was for Stiles to start struggling, fighting to get out of Derek's loose hold, and surprised by the sudden movement, Derek held on, keeping Stiles still as to not aggravate the teen's broken rib or the other numerous injuries still littering around his body.
"I'm sorry!" Stiles squeaked, sounding panicked as he glanced at Derek with wide hazel-brown eyes. "I didn't- it was never- I was never going to say anything!"
Derek growled, trying to tell the kid to stop moving, but Stiles just went still as death at the sound, his heart rate picking up and sky rocketing, his breathing going ragged as his eyes lost focus and became glazed. Cursing, Derek let the pressure up on his hold and shuffled down until his face was in line with Stiles, stroking the teenager's cheek carefully, tapping at it to grab the other male's attention, "Stiles," he started, keeping sure not to hiss or sound threatening. "Stiles, calm down. Stiles." But Stiles was out of control, babbling something, speaking a mile a minute with Derek's name scattered in between.
"-orry, I'm so sorry, Derek, I didn't mean to- I don't know when it happened or how or why, it's just you saved my dad and saved me a buncha times and you're not bad at all just have a sucky amount of luck and I hate that I never had a chance of knowing you while you were happy and-" A deep breath, Derek opened his mouth to try and take advantage of the opportunity, but Stiles didn't even exhale as he burst into speech again. "-when your whole family were around and Laura was alive and just thinking about it makes my chest hurt because you didn't deserve that and no-one deserves it and I know there's no chance and my stupid body should know that but it doesn't and I'm so sorry please don't hate me, I- I can't help it–"
"–For God's sake, Stiles," Derek interrupted, speaking loudly to try and drown out the words as he slotted a hand over Stiles' mouth to shut him down. "Calm down, breathe through your nose, yeah, just like that." Hell, who could even speak that fast with only one breath? Was Stiles even human? And the things he'd said, they'd just thrown Derek completely off his game. Was he reading too much into it? Stiles was still riding on the tail end of terror, so whether or not he meant any of what he'd said could be taken with a grain of salt. But what if he did? What would, could, Derek do about it? "Stiles, I need you to nod your head or shake it to answer. And I'll know if you're lying, so don't." Stiles nodded his head to show he understand, eyes wide and panicked, and Derek took a deep breath to fortify himself before point blank asking, "Do you like me?"
The hazel brown eyes turned wide and deer like, and Derek could clearly read the indecision over whether to lie or not battling it out in the kid's head. In the end though, Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, braced himself, and nodded his head once. Derek heard Stiles heart stutter before picking up again, a sure sign that he was pushing it, that this wasn't the time for something like this – but he couldn't just... ignore it. Even he knew that would end badly. He needed to think about this, think about whatever it was that was going on between them – whatever it was he'd forced himself not to think too deeply on but had happened anyway – and he needed to come up with an answer or at least a reply.
So what was it? He... couldn't keep his hands off the teen, that much he knew, even before they'd been on the same side. He'd resorted to violence then, slamming Stiles up against walls and lockers, and when camaraderie had been established, he'd resorted to just keeping his distance altogether. Scott always infuriated him, less on the fact he refused to admit he was pack already and more on the fact he couldn't get his head out of Allison's ass. The thought of how much Stiles had helped him had his wolf growling, the idea that even after everything Stiles had done to teach Scott better than Derek ever could, Scott still didn't listen to his supposed best friend.
Then there was the pool, a crystal clear memory that had always confused Derek, of being held up for two hours, dropped to the bottom of the pool because Stiles had too, but never left behind. And he thought about the day Stiles had gone missing, how frantic all of them had been to search for him, how they'd all been barely holding on by the seams, how even Peter seemed suspiciously fond of the teenager now – respectful too. Something about irked him about the exchange between Stiles and Peter, made him think he was missing something, that there was something there that had happened between the two that he didn't know about. Considering Derek still didn't know what it was, it had probably happened with only Stiles and Peter as witnesses, and Stiles still hadn't told anybody about getting kidnapped by Gerard, even if Erica and Boyd had told him after they'd broken free.
Derek rubbed his thumb against Stiles' cheek in small circles, staring at the apprehensive honey-brown eyes that skittishly watched him back, and smiled slowly at Stiles' confirmation to his attraction. "Good." He simply answered, bumping his nose against Stiles' just to see the teenager's affronted expression. "Good."
Stiles rolled his eyes, not looking impressed in the least. "I'm just going to pretend you said you like me back, because you said good, and the only person that finds someone liking them a good thing is when they like that person back – unless they're vain douchenozzles, in which case, dude, rude – so hurray and everything, but I'm still kind of hormonally challenged and I'd really like it if you just prowled downstairs and gave me even a pretense of privacy so I could wallow in my own embarrassment."
Huffing in amusement, Derek peered down into the dark crevice between their bodies, the arousal in the air less pressing than it had been before. It was thrumming lightly, patient, no longer desperate for instant gratification but willing to defer to the emotional side of things for a time. "You really are just a teenager, aren't you?"
Stiles groaned, wishing for the ground to just swallow him whole even as he yawned widely. "Let me up, let me go to the bathroom, let me try and gouge myself in the eye with my toothbrush."
"Stay." Derek rumbled, closing in and letting their bodies fit together like perfect puzzle pieces. "No hurting yourself. It'll pass."
"Not if I just lie here with you and all your muscles behind me, oh my god."
"Then what?" Derek sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes heavenwards. "I'll go downstairs if you want."
Stiles hummed in thought before saying, "What time is it, anyway?"
"Eleven." Derek answered. "PM."
The teenager rolled over him and off the bed, dropping with a wince on the floor. "Ow. Come on. Breakfast."
"It's eleven." Derek repeated himself, scowling down at the eagle spread teenager. "PM."
Stiles grinned up at him unrepentantly, subconsciously scratching at his stomach where his shirt had ridden up as he nodded. "Yup. Think of it as comfort food." He rolled onto his stomach, pushing up to his feet, and headed for the door, Derek following him with a put upon sigh. The teenager flicked on the lights as he went, heading straight for the kitchen with a painful looking yawn, and didn't stop until he reached the fridge and yanked it open. "I feel like ice cream. It screams comfort. And oblivion in the form of brain freeze, maybe."
"You're insane," Derek responded, scowling faintly as he watched Stiles search for a spoon and stick it inside the tub of chocolate ice cream. Stiles just grinned at him unrepentantly, scooping some of the dark delight and sticking it in his mouth, an obscene moan vibrating out of him. Wincing and trying to ignore the reaction going on down in his pants, Derek rubbed at his face, at the stubble covering his jaw, and glared at Stiles. "You're insane."
The spoon came out, empty of the ice cream, and a pink tongue darted out to drag along its silver surface. Stiles licked slowly, humming in satisfaction to himself, and nodded distractedly at Derek, scooping another spoonful of the ice cream and holding it out invitingly with a sly look. "You've leveled up from grunting to repeating your words! Congratulations, grumpy wolf. Now come here and taste some buon cioccolato."
And Derek, god help him (because that Italian accent was just horrible, Stiles, stop it), did just that.
"'Think of it as preparation,' he says," Stiles repeated, staring blankly at his dad. "'Think of what might happen next time.'"
"It's either this or teach you not to incite rage in the bad guys." His dad replied, perfectly happy with where he stood on the porch of the Hale house. "And sure, it might be a year or two early, but at least this way I won't have to home school you indefinitely for fear of losing you to the ridiculousness that spews out of that mouth, right?"
"You wouldn't."
His dad's eyes glowed an eerie blue before subsiding into the usual hazel-brown. "Aim, son." He answered instead, completely bypassing the look of horror dawning on Stiles' face as he walked down the steps towards him. "Aim and shoot. I thought I'd never say this, but remember what Rodriguez tried to teach you with his sniper when you were ten."
Frowning down at the gun in his hand, Stiles weighed it carefully and looked at where Allison was drawing a red circle on the bark of a tree. The rest of the pack (now including one Melissa McCall, who'd taken one look at the Hale house and frowned hard at Derek in silent judgment) were standing safely behind his dad. By safely, Stiles meant they were literally cowering behind his dad, peeking over his shoulders with wide, uncertain eyes. Heathens, the lot of them. Stiles would aim this gun at that tree and show just how awesome he was, and everybody would cower not out of fear, but awe.
Allison quickly finished up, moving aside to show an unconventional bulls-eye target of a smiley face, and grinned mischievously at him before winking and ducking out of the way. He appreciated her effort, because the smiley face had red eyes and fangs peeking out of it's mouth, and Stiles felt a lot more confident now that he knew he was shooting an evil werewolf tree rather than just an innocent tree with some weird circular drawings on it. He could do this, just remember every single piece of video game he'd ever played along with the stuff Deputy Rodriguez had tried teaching him one bizarre little summer nobody liked to talk about and he'd be fine.
Step one; hold the gun comfortably in his hands, widen his stance, and aim. Done. There was going to be some sort of rebound stuff when he shot, right? So he needed to make sure he was ready for it when he let a bullet loose and not accidentally shoot someone that could actually die – which, considering that the bullets were just regular bullets, could only be him, Ms. McCall or Allison. Lydia was off somewhere shopping, having taken it upon herself to replenish Stiles' ruined outfit from two weeks ago, and with her, an outfit meant a whole wardrobe, so she'd be gone for a while. Maybe he could shoot Peter. By accident. Wouldn't kill him, sure, but it would definitely hurt.
"Focus, Stiles." His dad sighed, not sounding surprised in the least that Stiles' thoughts had gone wondering. "Widen your legs just a little bit, like this." Two warm hands adjusted him, moving him just a little bit differently. "Now aim at the target, close one eye if you have too, and be careful of the recoil."
Right, so it was called recoil. Good to know he remembered the basic gist. Closing his right eye, Stiles peered through the left one and tried to align the gun to the center of the smiley treewolf. He breathed in deeply, breathed out again, and squeezed the trigger.
"Holy shit, that's loud!" Scott screeched, clasping his hands around his ears.
Stiles spun on his foot just in time to see most of the werewolves cower to the ground, his dad wincing but making no other move, and Derek slapping irritably at his ear as if some water had escaped into it. Rolling his eyes, he turned around to the tree to see if he'd succeeded, not really expecting anything – but lo and behold, one of the treewolf's alpha eyes was missing!
"Score!" Stiles shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. Another loud bang! rang through the forest, and Stiles flinched just as he realized his mistake. "Oops. Uh." He could specifically remember Rodriguez happily warning him about keeping his finger off the trigger unless he was about to shoot. Stiles had kept his finger on the trigger. He'd kept it and he'd-
"Oh my god, Stiles." His dad groaned. "Finger off the trigger, son. Finger off the trigger."
Huffing, Stiles pawed at the gun until he found the safety switch on and flicked it, then hesitantly tried shooting it at the tree again. The gun didn't fire off, meaning the safety was properly on, meaning the switch he'd flicked on really was the safety, and hooray for trial and error! "I got it in the eye, though." He said instead, gleefully shifting on his feet. "That werewolf would be dead if it was real. And anyway, what happened to the elder dude?"
John took the gun back once Stiles offered it to him and started to speak when Jackson interrupted rudely with a, "Your dad's fucking frightening, Stilinski," which was basically the only thing he'd gotten out of all the betas when he'd asked. That, and a disturbing blush from Erica. Sitting separate from everyone on the porch, Peter rolled from his back to his front, cradling his face on his hands, and smiled dazzlingly as he answered. "A father's gotta do what a father's gotta do."
Which, from the shifty look dad was getting, meant John Stilinski had gone Alpha on an Alpha-Alpha's ass. And... won?
"But then, shouldn't you be an alpha?" Stiles blurted out, staring at his dad in confusion.
John shrugged, then said, "Chris pulled the trigger. Also, you and I are going to have a long talk about keeping secrets from me. And... other things." And was that a suspicious look towards Derek? Yes, yes it totally was. Holy shit, his dad knew. And Peter looked smug, and Boyd had a telling cocked eyebrow, and abort, abort, abort-
-"So that's it, then?" Stiles said loudly, voice wavering at the badly chocked snort coming from Jackson. "The alpha pack is gone, Chris is BFF's with dad, Peter looks slightly less homicidal and Allison and Scott are back together again, woohoo! Does that mean we don't have to fear for our lives for a while? Hopefully a week? Maybe two?"
"Don't jinx it," Isaac whined, hiding his head in his arms. "You're going to jinx it."
"Cool your fur, furboy." Stiles singsonged happily. "I have plans. Bad ass plans. Life saving plans."
And that's when Scott blurted out, "Oh hey, has anyone heard from Deaton?"
FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:48)
'Faeries kidnapped Scott.'FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:48)
'Faeries, Stiles.'FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:50)
'Derek gives up.'FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:53)
'Stiles.'FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:53)
'Get my gun.'FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:54)
'The good one. With the batman sticker.'FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:55)
'Hurry up.'FROM: dad (timestamp: 16:56)
'Love you. :)'