Chapter Text
Stiles feels like a complete dumbass when Scott's tattoo fades away about two seconds after they leave the tattoo parlor. Scott is a werewolf, Stiles should have used that as an argument in his elaborate presentation of Why Scott Henry McCall Should Not Get That Hella Ugly Douche Tattoo. However. He had been too busy hating the idea of the tattoo to actually pick up on some common sense. Now the tattoo has disappeared and Scott is looking like he's just been hit on the nose with a newspaper. Which Stiles hasn't done to him since they were eighteen and Melissa caught him doing it and made him attend a speciesm seminar at the hospital she works at. The same seminars Stiles is now paid to give. Oh how life has come full circle for him.
So Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket, googles werewolf tattoo parlor Beacon Hills because he knows for a fact that he's seen a werewolf with a tattoo. It's a memory he's been desperately trying to repress because really, his heart can't take that much horror even in one single memory, but well. At least his trauma is now good for something.
The first shop's website looks legit enough and is only two miles up north. When Stiles gives Scott the news the kicked puppy look disappears, but Stiles' head starts throbbing again. He already fainted once today, can his brittle skull really handle another round? So what if he's a med student who can't handle needles all that well. He's still a student, god.
When they step into the parlor and a man appears out of a doorway that leads to the back of the shop, Stiles almost faints on the spot.
“Oh. My God,” he says instead of hitting the floor. “It's you. The crazy werewolf who almost made me cut off his arm! The source of all my nightmares. The devil in all my-” he doesn't get to finish with 'sexual fantasies' because the man cuts him off. Which is probably a good thing.
“I remember,” the dude says curtly and steps forward.
“You know each other?” Scott asks with a grin. “Cool, discount!”
“Yeah, yay,” Stiles says weakly because the dude is now looking at them like he wants to throw them straight back outside, and maybe through the window for dramatic effect.
He doesn't. “You know what you want?” he asks, with a nod in Scott's direction.
“Yeah!” Scott says, still super enthusiastic about his horrible tattoo.
The man doesn't help them right away. They have to wait about half an hour in which Stiles is forced to listen to Scott babble about how rugged he's going to be with his awesome new tattoo, before he finally calls them to the back.
“Okay, so how does this work? Is it like, is it a special kind of ink? Do you put mountain ash in it? Is it going to have any future effects? Side effects?” So Stiles is very interested in the biology and science of things. He's going to be an official doctor some day soon, and if it weren't for the fuckery that is their community he would probably be a werewolf doctor. He'd definitely be a werewolf doctor, actually. So much more drama goes down at the WW Hospital downtown than at the one Stiles works at these days.
“No,” the man says, with his back to Stiles and Scott as he puts on gloves and does mysterious things, hunched over a table so that Stiles can't see. Scott has taken his place in the comfy looking chair and looks giddy as all fuck. Right up until Mr. Tattoo Guy turns around and turns on his blowtorch.
The good news is that Scott only bleeds on about half the room and Stiles doesn't pass out again. The bad news is that Scott does pass out in the middle of things, which leaves Stiles to make small talk with the man who almost died of wolfsbane poisoning right under his hands only a few months ago, and who Stiles had tried to help completely illegally, at their hospital after he'd stumbled in.
“So,” he says, “you're alive. That's kind of great. Haven't been shot with any wolfsbane bullets lately, I take it?”
“That was one time,” and he actually sounds kind of defensive.
“Okay, but for future reference, there's a werewolf hospital downtown-”
“I know that. Yours was closer and I was dying.”
“Yeah, so maybe don't get shot next time.”
“That's solid advice, doctor,” he snorts.
“I'm Stiles,” Stiles then offers because even though his stepbrother's blood splatters are covering this man's hands and Scott is still out cold, the tone is light and Stiles likes to live on the edge.
“Derek,” the man says after a second and Stiles releases a breath he didn't know he was holding.
“You know, my sister is going to be a doctor too,” Derek then adds, completely unexpected and Stiles has to admit that maybe the look on his face – the Proud, Excited Brother Look – is possibly Very Very Cute. Way better than the man's I'm On The Edge Of Death And If You Don't Do Anything I Am Taking You With Me Look.
“Really? Is she at Berkeley? I may know her.”
“Her name is Cora,” Derek says.
“Cora Hale? Oh my god, how could I not have seen the resemblance immediately,” Stiles gawks, because holy shit, Cora's brother. “I was so jealous of her, you know. She got the internship at WW,” Stiles then says. “Which is good for you, I guess, since you have a tendency to get shot and all.”
“That was one time, get over it,” Derek huffs. He leans away from Scott's body and Stiles can see that the tattoo is as good as done. “You know her?”
“Yeah, we take the train out together at least twice a week. Oh shit, are you the one who broke her iPhone?”
“I got her a new one.”
“You know she raged on about that for about an hour and a half and it was the funniest thing I've ever heard. She loses her crush's number, and you go all the way to his house to get it. I don't know how any of you survived that situation.”
“She was raving about losing the number for six fucking hours, okay? I got her the goddamn number and it still wasn't right.”
“Dude, you don't go to the guy's house-”
“Why not?”
“It's that kind of attitude that gets you shot, my friend.”
Derek makes a non-committal sound and focuses on cleaning up Scott's arm. “Your friend should be waking up soon,” he then says. “Or not. How long does it usually take him to wake up after he passes out?”
“I don't know, dude. It's not like we pass out from shock or pain every damn day. Granted, I fainted this morning, but that was for like five minutes.”
“You fainted this morning?”
“Yeah, needles are not my friend.”
“What kind of -”
“I don't need your judgment, okay? I'm working on it.”
“Remind me not to go looking for the doctor who's afraid of fucking needles the next time I get shot.”
“Again, how about don't get shot?”
“Sounds easier than it is,” Derek says with a shrug before he stands up. “How close are you to this guy? Is he worth a discount on your name?”
“Oh my god, really? He's my stepbrother, so yeah, please. Do Cora's friends always get special treatment?”
“People who save my life get special treatment.”
Scott groans in the background.
Stiles has been waking up at six am for almost six years now. The drive from Beacon Hills to Berkeley is about an hour, the train ride an hour and a half, and with Stiles having to be there at 9 am on most days, yeah, he's used to it. Why hasn't he just moved the fuck out of Beacon Hills and into campus housing, you ask? Because he doesn't want to. Because Scott stayed in Beacon Hills, because his dad and Melissa are here and because he's comfortable right where he is, really. Besides, he's made his schedule so that he's never home later than 7, which allows for plenty of actual life living outside of school. Well. Some living. Mostly any time that isn't spent studying is spent working at the hospital. So what if he hasn't actually gone out in a while. He wasn't all that into the club scene as an undergrad, but he had done his part and even now he doesn't feel the loss. The real loss is that even though he decided to stay in Beacon Hills, he can go days without seeing Scott or his dad. Which is absurd, because they live in the same house.
Yes, Scott and Stiles have yet to move out of their parental home, whatever. The real problem is that they sleep down the hall from each other and there used to be a time where they woke up together, fought for the bathroom, ate breakfast with the parental duo and went on their way. And there was a time when they made sure they were home before seven so they could have dinner as a unit.
That had still been the case up until about a year ago, when Stiles first started interning at the hospital. Between his classes, traveling back and forth from university and working, Stiles forgets sometimes that there are other things that matter. Like his family. Like eating and sleeping. Like sex.
Okay so maybe he doesn't really ever forget about sex, but he doesn't go out of his way to have it either. He doesn't exactly have all that much time to go out and find dates, let alone multiple dates with one person that would then result in Stiles getting laid. One night stands are an option. But then again, one night stands are found in those bars and clubs that Stiles doesn't have the time for. He can't exactly start hitting on people in the hospital waiting room in hope for a romp, and his fellow interns are either not interested- Danny - not available, not interested and his ex girlfriend - Lydia.
He may have had a tiny crush on Cora for a little while, but Stiles has that thing where he finds horribly abrasive and generally mean assholes very attractive. Hence his huge and sudden bitch of a desire to climb Derek Hale like a forbidden tree.
To be fair, Stiles had been sort of having these reoccurring sex dream about the werewolf who came into the hospital that one time, and took his shirt off. Only the werewolf in his dreams doesn't hand Stiles a bone saw and does not demand for Stiles to cut his arm off. No this werewolf may look like that werewolf, but the things this wolf demands are much more satisfying and far less horrific.
Only now, now that he's seen this werewolf -Derek - again, in a far less traumatizing setting - still sort of traumatizing, though, thank you, blowtorch - the fantasies have gone so much further. The werewolf character has really developed. He's a tattoo artist now, and he now likes it when Stiles rides him in that comfy chair his clients get to sit in.
So it's only natural for Stiles to have a serious internal struggle when Cora asks him to do her a favor one afternoon, after class.
"I don't know," Stiles finally sighs. "Cora, that's a really nice car and your brother sort of seems like someone who would rip my head off for sport, let alone if I actually let something happen to his property.”
"Sure, but you're not going to let anything happen to it," Cora says, dangling the keys in front of his face. "Please, I'll owe you one. He'll owe you one."
"Fine," he then finally cracks. "To the tattoo shop?"
"Yeah, and I'll text you Derek's number too so that you can let him know when you're close. Thanks, Stiles."
So that happens and now Stiles is standing in the middle of Derek's tattoo shop, clutching the keys to the man's car. By some miracle Stiles hadn't crashed it - Stiles is a great driver, but that is just the kind of shit that happens to him - and he's managed to deliver Derek's car to it's owner, safe ad sound.
The door dinged when Stiles came in, and there are two young girls looking around the front of the shop. The door to the back is open and Stiles wonders whether he can just walk through it. Chances are Derek is tattooing someone's ass though. Does Stiles want to see that? He's not sure.
So he looks around. One of the walls is covered in tattoo designs, and Stiles sees some things he recognizes to be druid symbols and some things that he shouldn't recognize at all, but does anyway.
"I do humans too."
Stiles is startled out of his focus on one of the symbols and he turns the words around in his head until they make sense. It takes a while. A long while.
"I'm not getting a tattoo," Stiles finally objects. "But these," he then says and points at at a series of runes. "What do you do with them?"
Derek looks a bit surprised by the question. "You know what they are."
"No, I-"
"You used them when I came into the hospital," Derek interrupts. "You know what they are and you know what they do. People like their symbolism, even when most of them don't even believe the magic is real. Healing runes are pretty popular. Russian ones, not so much, but I did put a series on a woman about two weeks ago."
"Do they..." Stiles isn't sure whether to finish that or not. He's already said too much, but he's never been able to talk about this at all and his curiosity has gotten the best of him.
"They don't have the same effect as they have in a spell, if that's what you're getting at. Purely symbolic for as far as I know."
"Huh, so you know a lot about magic? Which doesn't, you know, exist but-"
"But you saved my life with it anyway," Derek says softly.
Stiles wasn't expecting that, had really hoped that the man had just thought a miracle had happened while he had been unconscious, or that Stiles was just that great of a doctor.
"Your secret is safe here so you can wipe that look off your face. I don't know how you've managed to keep it a secret at all, with a werewolf for a best friend,” Derek then says and takes a step back. Stiles then sees that the girls have left and that the door to the back room is closed. They're alone.
"You caught me off guard here. I am usually a much better liar than this," he says, trying for breezy and sounding sort of like an asshole.
"You're the one who asked me about it, so how exactly did I catch you off guard?"
"Hey now, don't be a smartass. I drove your wagon back for you, so how about a little-"
"Did you smoke in it?"
"I don't smoke."
Derek raises an eyebrow at him and Stiles does not fidget. No.
"Not much anyway. How do you even know that? Scott never smells it."
"You carry mountain ash with you to cover the smell. That's clever. Immature, but clever."
"Oh my god. How do you know all this? And for your information I am totally quitting. I'm down to like two cigarettes a day.”
"Is that why you're so fidgety? Can't believe Cora trusted you with my car, of all things,” he finally snorts and pushes Stiles towards the front door. How rude.
So what if Stiles likes to screw around with ancient Russian magic now and then? It has never hurt anyone. Well. He can't be a hundred percent sure about that but he does know that it actually saved a man's life so it's pretty fucking awesome. Except, yeah. Not to everyone else, and definitely not since the last crazy psycho went on a sacrificial killing spree.
Stiles can't help it. He came across it years ago, when Scott first got bitten and Stiles had spent weeks on end researching anything there was to know about werewolves. One website lead to another and before he knew it, he was reading up on werewolves on Russian websites – and silently thanking his mom for talking to him in Russian all through his childhood and forcing him to learn to read and write in the language after school – and there it was. Rune magic, powerful magic, and possibly dangerous magic. But Stiles was sixteen, bored, curious and currently being overshadowed by his step brother turning into a werewolf. So yeah. He really didn't care much about the possible repercussions. He had enough common sense not to tell anyone about it at the time, but he hadn't started actively hiding his research until a few years ago, after Jennifer Blake was fucking shit up all over town. Now his laptop and iPad are on serious lockdown, and he hasn't been able to read the books he wants to read, because he's paranoid as all hell that someone is going to find out. A werewolf who can tell that he's lying. Scott, for example. So maybe it is a good idea to start looking for an apartment soon.
So now Derek knows and Stiles is stuck between freaking out and fleeing town altogether, and desperately wanting to talk to him about everything he knows, to find out if he has any books or documents that Stiles hasn't read yet, to see if the man can do magic himself or if he knows more people who do.
Eventually, Stiles' curiosity wins as it always does, and the very next free afternoon he has, he finds himself back at the tattoo parlor. It's five o'clock on a Friday afternoon and Stiles had the last exam of the semester that morning, picked up his work schedule for Christmas break that afternoon and now here he is.
When he enters, Derek is standing by the glass check out counter. He's bent over, leaning on one elbow and tapping a pencil against the counter, quick and frustrated, glaring at something on a drawing pad that Stiles can't see. He doesn't look up until Stiles is all the way inside and hovering next to him. Stiles can hear people in the back.
“Is someone else working here?” he asks curiously and Derek nods before straightening up. He flips the drawing pad closed and slides the pencil behind his ear.
“My sister,” he says. “Older sister.”
“Oh really? I didn't realize this was a family business.”
“It's called Hale Tattoos.”
“You think you're so smart, don't you?”
“What do you need, Stilinski? Changed your mind about getting a tattoo?” Derek then asks and Stiles doesn't miss the little smirk that plays around his lips. His wonderful lips. Goddamnit.
“No, I was actually, uh, wondering if we could talk about. You know,” he says in a low voice. He knows that whoever is in the back could still hear him, but only if they really wanted to and Stiles can't imagine why they would. Derek looks conflicted. Or in pain. Either way, there's a lot of negativity going on on his face when Stiles is done talking. But Stiles is here now, and this is happening.
“Come on,” he urges. “Didn't you say you owed me one for driving your car here?”
“I never said that,” Derek answers without missing a beat. “Definitely didn't say that.”
“Right, so Cora said you owe me one. Same thing. Please, just an hour or so. I'll get you coffee and everything.”
“And you want to do this right now?”
“Yeah, if you don't have anything to do. I'm free tonight too.”
The negativity isn't gone, but Derek rolls his neck once and then says: “Come back at seven. The sign will say that we're closed and the lights up front will be off, but the door will be open. Do not bring anyone else with you.”
“That does not sound ominous at all, but no problem, I'll be here. Yes, thank you, thanks!”
Derek just frowns at him, or at himself, Stiles can't tell. So he just leaves and goes home for the remaining two hours in which he locks himself in his room with his laptop and pulls up all the things that he absolutely needs to discuss. It's a lot, way more than they could possibly talk about in one hour, but that doesn't matter, because he's going to be talking about magic with someone who knows.
He's got his backpack in one hand and his coat in the other, heading for the back door through the kitchen when his dad stops him. “Where the hell do you think you're going? Dinner is in ten minutes.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. Right. He's home in time for dinner for the first time in weeks and everyone is here, even Melissa. “I'm sorry, I sort of have a thing today. Totally has to do with my education and I really can't blow this off. Sorry, guys,” he calls out loud enough for Scott and Melissa to hear in the other room.”
"Sorry for what?” Scott calls back. “Where are you going?”
“I'll explain later!” he says and dodges his father's disapproving look when he walks out the door. Definitely time to look for an apartment then.
When Stiles arrives at the shop, the front door is open despite the darkness and the 'closed' sign turned up, just as Derek said. He enters, the bell rings, but Derek doesn't appear. So he continues through the door leading to the back. To his surprise, it's empty. He's just about to call out when another door flings opens at the far end of the room, and Derek beckons him over.
“No, dude. You expect me to follow you into your werewolf dungeon?”
“I live upstairs, you asshole,” Derek snaps and Stiles gets it. Of course, Derek hadn't invited him back here so that they could sit around in his work space, and he hadn't told him to meet somewhere else because this is a very private conversation. Derek invited him to his place. To where he lives. Oh god. Stiles realizes that this is probably going to either end in sex or murder. That's just how these things go, isn't it?
“Great,” Stiles then says. “Did you cook? Because I am starving.”
Apparently there was also an unforeseen third option which entails that they go upstairs, to Derek's huge, somewhat dark and gloomy looking loft, order pizza and then talk about ancient Russian magic, werewolf healing and end it with a discussion about whether Batman is an asshole or not (Derek thinks he's a douchebag, Stiles has a huge crush on Bruce Wayne and is therefor thoroughly offended). So offended even that he decides that they need to meet up again to go over things once more.
“I'll let you know when I'm free. Cora gave me your number with the car-thing,” Stiles tells him, while he's packing up to leave. “This was awesome, by the way. I never thought I'd actually have someone to talk about this to. And you know a lot more than I thought you would. You'll bring those books next time, yeah?”
“How many times are you going to ask me that before you're convinced that I'll do it? God, you're so annoying,” Derek groans. “Just go.”
“I'm going, I'm going. Just don't forget, okay? I'm way too excited about this to have you disappoint me without adding more trauma to my already brittle soul.” Stiles zips up his bag and flings it over his shoulder before looking up. Derek nods and walks him to the door downstairs in the tattoo shop.
“I can get you the books by Sunday night, at the earliest,” the man finally says. “So next week, give me a call when you're free to pick them up.”
“Pick them up?” Stiles asks. “No, dude. I can't take them with me. I live at home, with Scott and my parents. I need to check them out here.”
“You live with your parents?”
“Missing the point.”
“Fine. Fine. Stop by whenever you're free the coming week and I'll let you upstairs.”
“Awesome. Thanks, again.”
“Go.”
And Stiles leaves with a grin on his face. He has learned that Derek's family has a library full off books about magic and creatures, even though his family doesn't practice magic themselves. He has learned that Derek's mother and uncle were actually the ones to put an end to Jennifer Blake's saga a few years ago, and that they hadn't expected people to go as far as to ban magic altogether.
“Humans have more fear in their nature than any creature I've ever met,” Derek had said at one point. “That they would lash out at outside threats like werewolves is one thing, but they're screwing with their own freedom, attacking each other, and it's kind of a shitshow.” Stiles has to agree.
He also learns what Derek's biceps feel like – Stiles had pushed him for being a dick at one point or another, and then again but on purpose after that, and okay, the third time was also on purpose – and that's probably going to fuel more than a few fantasies.
Two months go by and Stiles is now spending practically every free moment he can scrape up in Derek's loft. Derek lets him go up there alone during business hours, brings different books and new documents for him now and then, and by the time Derek finally cracks the first real smile since they met, Stiles is in love with him. It happens when Stiles is feeling sort of like he needs to do something, to show Derek that he hasn't just been wasting his time. Stiles has been preparing for this, has been working up to this, so after he finishes his night shift from Saturday on Sunday morning, he gives Derek a heads up and heads to the loft. Derek is there, dressed and looking more perfect than usual, but that could just be Stiles' sleep deprived mind talking. He wonders briefly if maybe he should have gone home first so he could have changed out of his scrubs, but quickly pushes the thoughts away. He's on a mission today.
“Check this out,” he says, before even sitting down.
Derek only glances at him before turning back to the screen of his phone. “What.”
“Check this out,” Stiles urges until Derek finally puts his phone away and turns to look at him properly.
“What?”
“Look closely. Are you looking?” Stiles asks, as he puts his right hand out.
“I'm looking.”
“Prepare to have your mind blown, my friend.” Stiles braces himself, focuses his energy into his palm and draws the proper runes against his right wrist with his left hand. He's surprised at how quickly the energy gathers, golden threads of light seeping out of his palm and curling around his fingers. This isn't new, not to him, but Derek's eyes widen and he takes a step closer. Stiles smiles to himself. He makes a fist before straightening his fingers out again, and this time the warm threads of light gather together, almost a foot above Stiles' hand. He draws a final rune on his palm and the ball of light expands quickly before it changes from gold to silver and then takes it's proper shape. The tail is bushier than the last time Stiles had done this, the body thicker with muscle and the fur larger. Derek grins as the illusion pads it's feet through the air in a steady pace. Stiles stares at the man who's face just opened up, completely changed into a new person right there and he can't help but think that the wolf in the air is nothing compared to the one standing next to him.
And then he passes out.
When he wakes up it's dark all around him, except for the liight coming from up the spiral staircase. Stiles has never been up there before, mostly because whenever Stiles is up in the loft on his own, the latch to the next floor is locked and when he's up there with Derek the man tells him he's dead if he even goes near those stairs. “It's work stuff,” Derek had said. “I don't want your sticky fingers all over everything.”
Not that he has the urge to go up those stairs right now. No, he's actually perfectly comfortable in Derek's bed, curled under all of these Derek scented sheets. All that's missing is Derek himself, and maybe a pizza. His stomach growls. Yeah, definitely a pizza. “Derek!” he calls out and the response is there barely a second later.
“I'll be down in a second,” Derek calls down from upstairs and a few minutes later Stiles can see his shadow coming down the stairs, sauntering over to the bed and flicking on the lights.
"How long have I been out?" He groans and stretches before pushing himself to sit up. Derek reaches over and tugs on Stiles' hair, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough for Stiles to whine about it loudly.
"You've got your eight hours," Derek answers before retreating his hand and well. Maybe Stiles shouldn't have whined at all.
"I should have seen that coming, actually," Stiles nods. "I was working all night and that pretty little trick I showed you costs a lot of energy. Apologies for the uncool ending to an otherwise cool magic show. You liked it, right?" Because he was pretty sure that Derek's face lighting up like a kid's face on Christmas morning was not part of his otherwise Derek-heavy dream.
"Liked what?" Derek asks distractedly.
"The wolf I made for you!" Stiles wails and only just manages to catch himself from falling face first into the floor as he untangles himself out of the sheets and clambers out of bed. "I worked hard on that. Decorative magic is such a pain, but I thought it was freaking perfect this time. It even had the yellow wolf eyes for once!"
"I liked it," Derek says slowly. "I just didn't realize it was for me."
"Well it wasn't as much for you as it was a representation of you, you know? The wolf deep down and all that. It wasn't right?"
Derek stares at him for a few seconds and Stiles hates that he can't decipher the expression on his face. It's closed off, like he has a million things to say but isn't planning on saying any of them.
"Maybe it's because I've never seen you shift," Stiles continuous slowly. "What do you say? I showed you mine, time to show me yours?"
Stiles knows he can get his ass kicked for this. Werewolves usually don't shift outside of full moons and dangerous situations these days. Sure, Scott walks around half shifted when he's hungry or just grumpy and Stiles can imagine that most werewolves do the same in the privacy of their own home, where there are no pesky humans to panic at the sight of them. Asking Derek to shift may be a bit much, they may not be at that level of friendship just yet, but if they are, Stiles wants to know.
"No," Derek says. Well then. Stiles isn't upset. Nope.
"Fine. The wolf will remain crooked then," he huffs and brushes past the man to grab his hoodie draped over the back of the couch. It's chilly in the loft and Derek must have taken off Stiles' shoes and the hoodie before tucking him in - which, okay, is sort of bordering humiliating and also very very nice.
"Your phone has been ringing all day," Derek then tells him. "You should probably get that."
"Right. Man, since I've been working at the hospital I've been losing track of everything that isn't medicine or magic. After I tried so freaking hard to balance stuff out all through college."
Stiles doesn't falter in putting on his sweater, but he has to quietly wonder why he's telling Derek this, this personal thing that he hasn't really talked to anyone about. Not even Lydia or Danny who work with him and know exactly how straining the job can be. Not even Scott or his dad or Melissa who have been giving him a minimal amount of shit for all the times he's blown them off. Still Stiles knows that even in their eyes he's got things together. And he has things together, he does, but sometimes he doesn't, and that's when it sort of feels like he's on his own. Because he can't exactly be open about everything that's bothering him.
But here he is, with Derek, in Derek's loft, where for the last two months Stiles has been talking and talking and reading and screwing around with forbidden magic. Maybe Derek's loft has become some sort of safe haven for him. A place where he can do magic, pass out and wake up and still be safe and still be proud of what he's able to do.
Or maybe it's just Derek.
Stiles decides that he hasn't had dinner at home for a while and leaves, but not before he gives Derek a hug. It's stilted and kind of awkward, but it's warm too and kind of painful to let go. Derek doesn't hug back exactly, but he doesn't pull away either. "Thanks for not leaving me on the floor," he says before he goes.
"Derek, can you get me that - Scott, I mean Scott, can you hand me that pencil."
Scott is staring at him, looking kind of hurt and kind of angry and Stiles doesn't understand.
"Dude, I didn't say the wrong name during sex here. What's with the face?"
"Nothing," Scott huffs and flicks the pencil onto Stiles' textbook. "You've been saying that name a lot lately."
"I've been hanging out with him a lot lately." It's true. It's been over three months and their topics of conversation have slowly shifted from mostly magic and some nonsense to mostly nonsense and some magic. Stiles knows things about Derek now. Small things like how he only likes pure chocolate and how he likes to stare at Stiles' mouth and pretend like he isn't staring at all. Bigger things like how he's very private about his art, not because he's insecure about it, but because it's one of the few things he has that are his own, one of the few things that he doesn't feel obliged to share with his enormous family.
"Is he your boyfriend?" Scott asks.
"No," Stiles answers and thinks, not yet, but fingers crossed, "I would have told you-"
"Then why are you spending every free second you have with him, instead of with us? And why haven't I met him yet?"
Stiles contemplates this for a moment. Scott doesn't know that Derek is Derek, the tattoo guy and therefor doesn't know that Derek is a werewolf. Stiles has been carrying around mountain ash since he started smoking and found out that mountain ash obstructs a werewolf's sense of smell when it comes to the person holding it. Which means that Scott - or Derek for that matter - can't smell the scent of death and illness Stiles is sure he carries around with him from the hospital either. Derek knows about the mountain ash trick, must have read it somewhere and even though it shouldn't have a scent, Derek told him that if a wolf has enough experience with it, he or she can sense that it's there from far away. Scott hasn't had much experience with it, which means he doesn't know it's there and can't smell Derek on him either.
And yet, mountain ash doesn't do shit about loud heartbeats.
"You've met him," Stiles finally says. He picks up the pencil, twirls it around and has to restrain himself from letting it float too much. Yeah, he never has that problem when he's studying at the loft. "He's the guy that put that tattoo on you," he explains. "We've been hanging out."
"You've been hanging out," Scott says flatly. "With that tattoo werewolf dude."
"Yeah. He's pretty cool. Cora's brother."
"Are you telling me that you've been hanging out with a bunch of werewolves this whole time? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? What do you even know about this guy, Stiles?"
"What is so dangerous about hanging out with werewolves, all of a sudden?"
"Are you really asking me that?"
"Oh you mean because there is a certain werewolf who tried to kill me a few times after he was bitten? Newsflash, Scott. Derek isn't a violent juvenile asshole who needs to be chained up every full moon. Maybe if you'd start to reach out to more people in the werewolf community you'd find out that most of them are as harmless as you are now."
"I can't do that and you know it."
"Yes, you can, Scott. Don't say that you can't because you're afraid of what your girlfriend is going to say. You can, but you won't.”
"Hanging around werewolves is dangerous whether the wolves are dangerous or not, Stiles, and you know that. Hunters-"
"I know, okay?" Stiles snaps and images Derek's near lifeless body, his pale face and darkening veins. Derek had never explicitly told Stiles that he was shot by a werewolf hunter, but Stiles knew. He had known that day, when the man had stumbled into the hospital. And Stiles was reminded of it whenever the topic of hunters came up and Derek's shoulders tensed and his mouth tightened. Stiles always desperately wanted to ask what had happened, how Derek had gotten away, if the hunters were caught after that. But he didn't. It was something he felt Derek would tell him if he was comfortable enough. The same way Stiles felt that Derek would shift in front of him when he was comfortable enough. "I know," he repeats. "And I don't care."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"God, I can't stand you sometimes."
"Does the mountain ash bother you?" Stiles asks the next time he and Derek meet. They've been going out more lately; out to diners and the mall and they've finally gone to that movie that Stiles had wanted to see three weeks ago, but Derek wouldn't go because he hadn't read the book yet, because Derek is an asshole.
Stiles is pretty sure they're sort of dating, though. Sort of, because there are extended hugs now whenever Stiles leaves the loft, which is definitely not a bro thing to do, not when Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's waist and sometimes his neck and clings to him, and not when Derek finally gives in and squeezes the breath out of him before letting him go.
So yeah, he's pretty sure that they're kind of dating now, and he's also wondering if the mountain ash is keeping them from reaching the next level. Make out level, that is.
"It's annoying," Derek shrugs. "That I still don't know what you smell like."
"Then what do you smell?"
"When I get close to you it's sort of like walking into a room that's just been cleaned with bleach."
"Are you serious?" Stiles asks, whipping his head around to look at the man who's focused on the book in his hands more than on the conversation they're having. It's Sunday evening and Derek only returned from his parents' house about half an hour ago. Stiles had been there for the past two hours, had sort of run away from home for a bit because since the argument with Scott a few days ago, things have been tense and just in case Melissa or his dad start to notice, he'd rather not be there.
"What?" Derek asks.
"You're just sitting here, next to a guy who reeks of bleach?"
"It's not bleach exactly. It's more like something that smells like it's desperately been tried to get clean, and smells kind of toxic as a result."
"I smell toxic?"
"Where exactly are you trying to go with this conversation?" Derek finally asks and closes his book. "Well?"
Stiles contemplates that for a moment and then moves his hand up to his own neck, pulls the silver chain he has hanging there out from under his shirt. The hanger is simple; a thin silver tube, barely an inch long. The chain is thin and feminine and had belonged to his mother, the tube is smooth but less pretty, and Stiles had found it in a jewelry store downtown a few years back when he had been actively looking for something to store a small amount of mountain ash in.
He unhooks the clasp of the chain at the back of his neck and pulls the necklace off. Derek sits up straighter, when Stiles gathers the necklace and the tube in his fist before dropping the bundle on the coffee table in front of him.
"What about now?" Stiles asks. "Better?"
"Yeah," Derek says around an exhale, "yeah, definitely."
And then Stiles is suddenly pulled under Derek's arm, pressed into his side and Stiles laughs before curling one arm around the man's back and the other around his stomach. Derek presses his face into Stiles' hair and Stiles should probably be much more weirded out by that than he is.
They stay like that for a while, long enough that Stiles starts dozing off and Derek picks up his book again.
At one point, awake or barely awake, Stiles starts to wonder what the hell he's waiting for. So he slides out of Derek's hold, sits up and says: “I want to see you shift.”
And to his surprise, Derek says: “Okay.”
Stiles hates himself for being surprised, for being shocked and afraid and for letting it show. He hates himself for putting so much of his energy, so much of his heart into a relationship with a werewolf he had only known for a few months. He only has himself to blame, is the truth. Because when Derek looks at him, and then lets his eyes turn into the iciest shade of blue Stiles has ever seen, all he can think is of course. Of course he fell for a murderer. He knew from the start that Derek was hunted and simply did not want to believe that there was a good reason for it.
Derek is a blue eyed wolf. Which makes him a killer.
Okay. So in hindsight, Stiles could probably have handled it better. Or not, since he had not in a million years imagined Derek to be a blue eyed wolf. Humans shouldn't even know that they exist, let alone know what it means and of course Stiles fucking knows, because once he starts researching something he can't stop. So fuck yeah, Stiles freaks out, gathers his shit and leaves.
It isn't until he's outside and in his car, fumbling to get his necklace back on like that's suddenly the so damn important, when he remembers the way Derek looked at him. He hadn't imagined the hurt there, had he? Hadn't imagined the vulnerability seeping through icy blue eyes, right?
Stiles wonders if Derek is disappointed in him for walking out. If Derek had trusted him with this and if Stiles had completely let him down.
He wonders this, and realizes that it's probably one of the dumbest things he's ever considered: would be right up there with learning forbidden magic and dating Lydia Martin while fully aware that she was in love with someone else. Walking back into a murdering werewolf's den would probably be the dumbest though. The sharp fear Stiles felt when he first met the man was slowly coming back, and he hates it, hates it so much because he knows that Derek wouldn't hurt him.
He starts his car and goes home.
Stiles takes over two of Lydia's shifts and one of Danny's in the next two weeks and that's how he copes with what feels like the loss of a best friend, someone who he could finally talk to about anything. He works and works and spends hours and hours with his nose in his textbooks and doesn't practice his magic because he has nowhere to do it on the scale he's now used to.
No one asks about Derek so he doesn't tell anyone, and at the end if the second week, after Mister Lawson, the car crash victim dies of blood loss right under Stiles' hands and after fourteen year old Jamie Lawson has slipped into a coma, Stiles just wants to curl himself up into Derek scented sheets and pretend that he and Derek are the last people on earth for a little while.
So Stiles calls him from the hospital parking lot at three in the morning. He knows he's an asshole. Derek is going to wake up and see his call and think that someone died – which, yeah, Mister Lawson died and who knows, maybe Jamie Lawson is next – but he calls anyway.
“Stiles,” comes Derek's voice through the phone. Smooth and easy, not asleep then.
“Yeah, hey,” Stiles says and scrapes his throat, because what do you say to someone who you ran away from because you found out he was a murderer the last time you saw him? “I was wondering what you're up to these days.”
“Are you okay?”
“Tired,” Stiles admits readily. “So fucking tired, Derek, you have no idea. And it's cold. The heat in my car died last week and I don't think I'm ever going to have time to get it fixed. And it sucks, you know? It sucks when people die and you can't do anything to save them even though that's supposedly what you're training for. And I'm out a cigarettes, that fucking figures.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Hospital parking lot. Are you coming?”
“Yeah. If you want.”
“Yeah, I – Yeah.”
“Okay, I'll be there in fifteen. Don't go anywhere.”
And it's strange maybe, that the fear Stiles had felt at seeing Derek's eyes go from pale green to icy blue is now nowhere to be found. His chest floods with relief at the thought of seeing Derek, at the knowledge that Derek doesn't hate him enough to ignore his calls. He waits and waits and fifteen minutes later Derek pulls up in the empty parking spot beside Stiles' Jeep. Stiles jumps out of his car immediately, into the light drizzle and climbs into the passenger's seat of the black Camaro.
“Where do I take you?” Derek asks when Stiles is settled in. Stiles looks at him, at how his eyes are stubbornly focused on the hospital entrance in front of them, at how his hair is messy and at how his beard is sort of still perfect as ever. He doesn't look different, but the tight set of his shoulders says enough.
“I don't know,” Stiles says. “I just wanted to see you.”
“What?” Derek asks and sounds genuinely confused. “What?”
“Wow, no need to be so shocked there, big guy. I wanted to see you. And I called because I wanted to hear your voice and know that you were still alive.”
“You ran away.”
“You've killed someone.”
“Yeah, so why on earth do you want to see me?”
“Because, call me crazy, but I don't think you're actually a cold blooded murderer or whatever,”Stiles says. “And I should have realized that earlier, but-”
“But you don't know. You have no idea what happened, and you have no reason to trust me at all-”
“What are you talking about-”
“You're an idiot, Stiles, that's what I'm talking about. What kind of idiot calls up someone in the middle of the night who they know killed an innocent person without even knowing the story behind it?”
“I didn't call up someone, okay? I called you, because you're my friend and it took me a long time to figure that out, but here we are. And I don't care if you think I'm an idiot. Think whatever, but just... know that I'm sorry. For walking out.”
“You were scared.”
“Yeah, I'm sorry-”
“No, it's fine. I didn't think you'd know what it meant, but I put it off in case you did know. And when you took the necklace off... I just forgot for a second, that I'm a freak and that anyone who knows what it means would run for the hills. Whether they know me or not. Whether they know what happened or not.”
“I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit here. I am sorry I left, okay? I am and I need you to know that it's because I'm an asshole and not because you're a freak. I'm serious,” Stiles urges when Derek looks away. “Hey.” He grabs for the man's wrist and pulls his hand into his lap.
“You're a moron,” Derek gruffs. “Just tell me where to go.”
“I know it's not my business, and I'm not supposed to embarrass you at work, but I really have to ask who got my baby smiling again.”
“A new day,” Stiles grins as he accepts the patient chart Melissa holds up for him. “Life is awesome like that, you know? You can have a horrible day, go to sleep, wake up, and find order to the world restored.”
“Where exactly did you sleep and find order restored, then? Because it sure as hell wasn't in your bed. I checked.”
“Isn't that great, Jamie Lawson's vitals are looking awesome!”
“I saw you leave in that black car.”
“And her health care checked out. What a wonderful day.”
“Stiles.”
“What. No, I'm not seeing anyone. Just a great new friend who has a lot of experience with grief and people dying in his arms,” he finally cracks.
“Is this the same friend Scott hates so much?” Melissa asks curiously.
“I swear to god,” Stiles sighs. “Scott doesn't even know him.”
“So maybe introduce him,” Melissa suggests. “Let the two of them hang out? He's a werewolf, right? You've always been saying that Scott should be hanging out with more werewolves, so why don't you see if they hit it off?”
“Werewolf playdate?”
“You make a party out of life, don't you?” she muses. “I read on the board that you're in ER from three and in surgery from six to nine, so I suggest you put Jamie at the top of your list if you want to check up on her.”
“Yes, ma'am. And I'll talk to Scott. Maybe,” he offers.
Derek had driven them back to his loft the night before and Stiles had collapsed onto his bed without a word. He passed out instantly, woke up in the early afternoon. Derek had been working downstairs and if he remembered correctly so was Laura on Fridays. So Stiles had stomped around until Derek finally came up and glared at him.
“What,” Stiles faked innocence. So he may have also helped himself to one or three of Derek's bananas and the last of his coffee. “I was wondering about a shower, because maybe you smell bleach on me now, but the real smell is a thousand times worse.”
“Yeah, you look like you smell horrible,”Derek had said – or something equally heartbreaking.
“You really know how to get a guy out of his clothes,” Stiles had drawled.
Stiles showered and changed into a pair of – now clean – scrubs he had left in Derek's apartment a while back. When he came back out, Derek was still there, sitting on the couch and staring at his hands. And then he told him. Told him about a girl named Paige, a girl who he had so desperately wanted to be with. A girl who Derek had to put out of her suffering.
Derek had driven him to the hospital afterwards, and when Stiles asked if it was okay if he came by the loft again that night Derek said yes.
“My mom used to smoke,” Stiles says that night, hanging half out of a window, and talking into the chilly night air. “And then she died of lung cancer. And I still smoke. That's weird, right? That I know exactly what could happen, first hand experience, emotional involvement and actual medical evidence. And I still don't care.”
“You care,” Derek says from somewhere behind him and then Stiles is being shoved to the side and Derek squeezes in next to him. “You just like how it smells on your skin. Reminds you of her, I'm guessing.”
“Oh, what, you're psychoanalyzing me now? Go draw me some pretty pictures, wolfboy,” Stiles huffs and leans into the man's shoulder. He takes a drag of what he guesses is his seventh last cigarette of the year.
That's when Derek turns around, puts a hand in Stiles' neck and kisses him. The half smoked cigarette tumbles to the ground outside as Stiles fails to react properly, is startled into a second of non-motion before he gathers himself and stops Derek from pulling away with two hands on his face.
“Take it off,” Derek breathes against his lips, and then adds: “please,” and it's so hot that Stiles is ready to throw all his clothes away forever, before he realizes that Derek's fingers are hovering over Stiles' necklace. He nods and fumbles with it for a few seconds before chucking it away, somewhere on the floor, Stiles doesn't care. Not when Derek's lips are right there, and his tongue is right there and all of him is right there.
“Good?” he breathes into Derek's mouth, and Derek answers by putting his hands on Stiles' hips and pulling him in as close as he can manage, until they're flush together and all Stiles can do is hook his arms over Derek's shoulders and kiss him.
Suddenly Derek is pushing him away, hard and jostling. “Put that back on,” he says.
“What-”
“Someone is here. Outside,” Derek explains and reaches for the necklace. There's a small spark of blue light when Derek's skin comes in contact with the tube holding the mountain ash and he winces before Stiles snatches it out of his hand.
“Who?” Stiles asks as he watches the man take a step back towards the window. “Derek.”
“Humans,” he says, and his shoulders sag a little in relief. “Hunters.”
“How is that- Derek, why are you looking like that is good news?”
“It's better than the alternative,” Derek explains. “Which is wolves coming towards the scent of magic.”
Stiles clutches at the necklace and feels his stomach drop. “Does it- I didn't know it had that strong a scent.”
“Neither did I, and the average werewolf won't know what the scent is, but an alpha will recognize it easily. I shouldn't have asked you to take off the necklace.”
Derek reaches out, covers Stiles' fist with his own and fiddles the silver thread out of his fingers. He doesn't touch the tube this time, and clasps the necklace around Stiles' neck easily. “Don't take it off.”
“What about those dicks out there? Derek-”
“Passing by,” Derek says and puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder. “They do that sometimes, like they're fucking cops or something, because there are a lot of werewolves in this neighborhood. I just hear them coming from farther away, usually. I didn't mean to scare you.”
“Well you did a horrible job,” Stiles finally breathes out, and steps closer. He hesitates for a second before opening his arms and wrapping them around Derek's torso and Derek pulls him in easily, and Stiles closes his eyes at the warmth coming off his body.
Stiles wakes up alone, in Derek's bed, and this time Stiles knows that it's not because Derek is just that perfect gentlemen, or because he simply didn't want to share a bed. When Stiles fell asleep Derek was there in bed, but it would be close to impossible for him to fall asleep surrounded by a scent that he himself had described as toxic. He'd asked Stiles to take it off the night before, because he hadn't been enjoying kissing Stiles with it on and when Stiles had taken it off Derek was much more relaxed, much more into it. And then of course harsh fucking reality hit them right in the face.
Derek isn't far away though. When Stiles sits up, the man is sitting on the stairs running up to the attic and he saunters over and presses a kiss into Stiles' hair.
“Don't do that,” Stiles croaks, voice still strained with sleep and Derek gives him a curious look. “Not when it makes you feel sick,” Stiles explains and taps his own chest where his pendant hangs.
Derek answers by tilting Stiles' face up with a finger under his chin and pressing their lips together.
“Or do, what do I know, right?” Stiles grins into the kiss before reciprocating properly.
--
"Check this out," Stiles says a few weeks later. Derek looks up, pencil tight between his lips and quirks and eyebrow as if to say oh my god, Stiles, what, what do you want, don't you see I'm working. Stiles has gotten pretty good at reading Derek's face and it is a lot of fun.
"Check this out," Stiles says and puts his palm up to the ceiling.
It took some practicing, but the wolf has blue eyes this time.