Archive of Our Own

~

~

"Please tell me this is about a dead body. You found a dead body on your training run, and that's why we're out here in the dark." Stiles clasps his hands in exaggerated pleading, but Scott doesn't turn around to see it. Stiles sighs and trains his flashlight beam along the barely defined trail of trampled leaves and moss, his eyes peeled for a piece of white plastic.

Scott huffs, the wheeze of his inhalations more pronounced than a few minutes ago. "Why would I show you a dead body?"

"'Cause you're a true friend, buddy. And you know that's the only reason worth calling me at midnight for a ride to the preserve. Not to go looking for your lost inhaler."

Scott clambers over a downed tree trunk and pauses to catch his breath, while Stiles surreptitiously checks the bars on his phone in case he has to call for medical assistance. "No bodies—just the inhaler. And I can't lose another one; those things are like 80 bucks. My mom'll kill me."

"Look, I get it; I'm all for avoiding your mom's disappointed-face. But even with the full moon, it's way too dark out here to find anything. Let's come back tomorrow."

Scott shakes his head. "Tryouts are tomorrow; I need my inhaler."

"Right, 'cause sitting on the bench really takes it out of you."

"No, because I'm playing this year. In fact, I'm making first line."

"Hey, that's the spirit. Everyone should have a dream—even a pathetically unrealistic one," he adds under his breath. Neither of them are born athletes; Stiles made peace with his own lack of physical gifts last year. And for all the running and chin-ups Scott's been doing the past few weeks to get ready for tryouts, there's no way he's making the first-line cut either. But Stiles is kind of glad Scott's still got his dream.

Scott pushes off the log and continues shuffling across the forest floor, faint beam of light sweeping the leaves in a semicircle.

"This is definitely the way you came?" Stiles asks for the fifth time.

"Yes! I'm not an idiot—"

A growl rumbles through the dark woods, and they both freeze.

"That sounded like a...like a wolf," Scott says.

"There are no wolves in California," Stiles says quickly and bites his tongue to keep from mentioning the two fatal animal attacks his dad's currently blaming on mountain lions. There are thousands of those in California....

The animal growls again, and Scott bumps into Stiles hard enough to make him jump. They point their flashlights at the dark spaces between the trees, peering into the shadows for a long moment. Stiles's heart pounds in his ears almost as loud as Scott's wheezing, and his father is never going to forgive him if he gets killed by a mountain lion and Scott asphyxiates to death because they snuck out on a school night. Fuck, his dad's still on shift; when someone finds the bodies, they'll call him to the scene....

Another growl has them spinning around and clutching at each other like Scooby and Shaggy, and then the animal howls—an actual, straight-out-of-a-wolf-documentary howl—long and high. All the hair on Stiles's body stands upright.

"That sounds like a wolf," Scott whispers.

"Coyote," Stiles bluffs. "Let's head back to the Jeep, okay? Come back before school? When it's light out?"

"Yeah. Good idea." Scott nudges him to start walking, and Stiles makes himself lower the flashlight so he can climb back over the log.

And then something barrels into Scott, knocking him down with a yelp, followed by the sound of tumbling, snarling, and screaming. Stiles whips his flashlight around to find a beast crouched over his best friend, its teeth sunk deep into Scott's side. It looks up as the light hits it full in the face, snarls to reveal long fangs, dripping red, and features that are half-animal and half-human, marred by burn scars over most of its skin. Its eyes lock onto Stiles, boring straight into him before flashing an impossible electric blue.

"What the fuck—"

The animal-person-creature rises on four legs, inch-long claws digging into the soil, back arched and brows lowering, and Stiles's rational mind has no idea what's going on, but his hindbrain does, because he's suddenly broken free of his paralysis, turned and sprinting into the trees, his legs moving faster than his eyes can see ahead. He crashes through thin branches, leaves whipping across his chest and thighs, and hears the same crashing behind him as the thing pursues.

He runs blindly, flashlight beam jerking dizzily with his pumping arms, barely giving him enough warning to jump over a jutting rock. Another howl turns his head to the right, and Stiles catches the silhouette of something moving through the trees a few yards off, pacing him. Toying with him.

Even as his heart sinks, Stiles turns left, flailing through a dead bush. Thorns catch on his clothing, tear at the skin of his wrists. His shirt snags on something more stubborn, forcing him to wrench out of its grip; he doesn't dare look behind to check whether it was a branch or that thing. It doesn't matter which, because Stiles knows in the small gibbering center of his brain that there's no way he can outrun it, not with his legs already shaking, his lungs burning and wheezing like Scott's worst asthma attacks, a testament to how unconditioned he is. He already feels light-headed, terrified like he's never been in his life.

He doesn't see the tree until it's right in front of him, a glimpse of too-fast approaching bark before his right shoulder barrels into the trunk. The collision knocks the flashlight from his hand and sends him tumbling to the dirt. He scrambles frantically for purchase, fingers sinking into dead leaves, but before he can even roll off his back, it's there above him, forelimb pressing onto Stiles's chest, pinning him like a bug.

Stiles gasps for air, choking on panic as its face moves closer. The features are lost in shadow, but the glowing blue eyes burn the brighter for it, drowning his entire vision. It opens its mouth, a glint of moonlight on fang, and Stiles smells its foul breath, coppery and rotten. He can't help saying, "Please, no, please, don't," but the monster doesn't seem to register his words.

This is how he's going to die, Stiles realizes.

A shotgun blast cuts through the air and echoes among the trees. The monster's jaws snap shut on empty air as it jerks its head up to locate the threat. Stiles hears a wet whizz-thunk as an arrow shaft embeds itself in the creature's shoulder. The beast snaps the wooden shaft with a clawed hand, snarls, and leaps away. Stiles gapes in astonishment as it lopes into the darkness until another shotgun report grabs his attention. He looks up to see two men running past him in pursuit, rifles and flashlights aimed at the retreating monster.

A third man stops above Stiles and lowers a huge, double crossbow to his side. "Are you okay?" he asks gruffly. He shines his flashlight up and down Stiles's body, checking for injuries. "Did it bite you?"

"I'm okay, I think. But what the hell was that?!" Stiles demands. The man doesn't answer right away. He offers a hand up, though, which Stiles gratefully accepts. Up close, Stiles can make out the guy's blond hair and kind eyes.

"You're sure it didn't bite you? Not even a graze?"

"My friend," Stiles gasps, and the memory of Scott's scream and fangs smeared with blood almost takes his legs out from under him. He braces his hands on his shaking quads, willing them to support his weight. "It got Scott."

The man's hand clenches on Stiles's elbow, a steadying support. "Where is he?"

Stiles gestures back the way he'd run. "I don't know if he's still...."

"It's okay, kid. We'll take care of him," the guy says, and Stiles believes him.

~

2 years later...

"Boise State's still the only school that's accepted both of us, so that's the backup plan, but it's like...Idaho. Ugh. She's still got a couple more schools to hear from. But I just got—" Scott squirms on the booth seat, digging around in his backpack to pull out a thick envelope stamped with the seal of Nevada State College.

Stiles grins, and a half-chewed french fry tumbles from his mouth. "No way! You got in? To Vegas?"

"Yes! Their nursing program is really good—"

"And it's Vegas!"

"And it's Vegas," Scott agrees. He bites his lip. "As long as Allison gets accepted. That would be so great."

"Yeah, dude, totally!" Stiles looks around to flag down the waitress for another order of curly fries—this calls for a celebration.

A leather jacket catches his eye, slung over one of the padded bar stools at the counter, one of its sleeves dragging on the linoleum. Stiles idly checks out its owner, a guy with broad shoulders in a gray t-shirt, tight dark jeans, and black boots. The body gets an A++ in Stiles's book, especially that ass, but then the guy turns his head, and a jolt like electricity rushes through Stiles's body.

A sharp nose, incredible cheekbones, light eyes, and dark hair all equal a major hottie Stiles has never met before...but somehow he's familiar, like Stiles could almost name him if only his tongue would cooperate. The guy turns back to his dinner and his paperback book, and Stiles shakes his head, trying to clear the weird déjà vu feeling.

Scott's playing with his milkshake, not meeting Stiles's eyes when he asks, "So...have you told your dad yet?"

Stiles lets out a slow breath, and his shoulders slump with guilt. He got accepted by his top two schools last month, and his dad won't stop talking about it, still over the moon about Stiles's future as an undergrad at a really great school. Stiles hasn't figured out how to break the news that he plans to defer admission. His gut tells him his dad isn't going to take it well when Stiles explains he's taking a couple of gap years to train with Chris Argent in Butte. Hell, he hasn't even told his dad about hunters yet. Or werewolves.

Yeah. Explaining his career aspirations to police the supernatural is going to require one heaping suspension of disbelief. And probably a whole lot of whiskey.

"No," Stiles says, and shoves his last fries in his mouth.

Scott gives him a knowing look but lets the subject drop, moving on to recount his latest Skype session with Allison.

Stiles's gaze drifts inexorably back to the stranger at the counter, still unsettled by the nagging familiarity. Continued observation doesn't lead to any revelations, apart from a newfound appreciation for stubble. Jesus, it's almost criminal how good it looks against the guy's pale skin. He's got nice hands, too. Strong, wide palms Stiles would love to feel on his—

"—and you aren't listening to me anymore, are you?"

"Whuh?" Stiles realizes Scott's glaring at him, brow furrowed in annoyance. "I was...n't, no. Sorry, there's this, well...." He shrugs and points at the guy over Scott's shoulder, prompting Scott to check for himself.

Scott twists around briefly and turns back with a smirk. "Okay. I see what's got you so interested."

Stiles nods, then shakes his head. "Definitely that, yeah, but does he look familiar to you?" Scott takes another look and shrugs. "I feel like I know him from somewhere.... Anyway, it's not just that. There's something that's off. Something in my gut." It's his hands, maybe. The way he's holding a coffee cup almost delicately, like he has to be careful with his strength. Stiles leans over the table and drops his voice low. "I've got a bad feeling about it. That kind of feeling."

Scott tenses up. "You think it could be one of them?" His voice trembles, but he doesn't say anything incriminating within range of a being that may or may not have enhanced hearing. Stiles knows the supernatural is a trigger for Scott, but it looks like he's holding it together.

"I'm not sure, but my spidey sense is tingling," Stiles admits.

They sit in careful silence for the next five minutes, Stiles keeping watch for proof of his suspicions while Scott pretends to eat. Nothing happens, though. No super strength, no temper, no aggression. No fangs and claws and glowing eyes. Eventually the guy lays cash on the counter, nods goodbye to the waitress, and heads out the door.

Scott takes a deep breath—Stiles reflexively monitors for any wheezing, but he's clear for now—and follows Stiles's gaze as the guy heads to a sleek black Camaro in the parking lot, its low, sinuous curves reflecting the yellow glow of the diner's marquis sign overhead.

"Crisis averted?" Scott asks, looking for reassurance that Stiles can't give. Not with his instincts screaming at him that he needs to keep an eye on this one, that he could be just like that drifter who trashed the used car lot last summer....

"I gotta go," Stiles blurts. He grabs his backpack and slides out of the booth, eyes glued on that black car as the engine cranks and the headlights switch on. New York plates. Definitely not a local.

"Stiles, I don't think you should—"

"I'll be fine," Stiles says, and dashes out of the diner to get to his Jeep.

He pulls out of the lot half a minute behind and catches up at the first red light, before the car takes off again, performance engine accelerating to twenty over the limit, so Stiles's Jeep shakes like heavy turbulence just to keep it in view. He follows the stranger west, past the suburbs, past the power plant, almost to the interstate. If the guy gets on that highway, he's no longer Stiles's problem. Stiles is almost chanting under his breath, go, go, go, get out of my town, just go. So it's inevitable that the Camaro slows, signals, and pulls into the parking lot of a single-story motel. It's the kind of seedy, run-down establishment that stars in his dad's gnarliest stories—exactly the kind of place a dangerous drifter with ill intent might stay.

"Fuck," Stiles whispers. The sports car's headlights wash up against a faded-green door at the furthest end of the building before flicking off. Stiles keeps driving, merging onto the interstate south. He'll take the business route back into town.

He needs time to think and figure out what he's going to do.

~

Stiles wakes with a start, breaths coming short and fast, his chest aching like he's been running a marathon—or running for his life. He sits up and focuses on the amber display of his alarm clock, trying to anchor himself in reality. Glowing blue eyes flicker at the edge of his vision, and he shakes his head to clear the memory. He rubs at his chest to calm his breathing, and finds his t-shirt sweat through. He strips it off and throws it toward his desk chair.

It's no coincidence he's having these nightmares again, considering his suspicions about the guy from the diner. It would be a huge relief to hand the matter over to the professionals, but it's too soon to contact Chris Argent. No, Stiles should have proof before he reaches out to the hunter community. He doesn't want a reputation for crying wolf before he's officially joined their ranks. Not that he thinks Chris would outright retract his offer to train Stiles, but Allison's probably told Chris about Stiles's college prospects—Chris could use that as an excuse to encourage Stiles to change his mind....

Stiles shakes his head forcefully. He's just worked up from the nightmare. Chris confirmed Stiles's plan to arrive in June in last month's email; there's no reason to second guess his future. What Stiles should be focusing on is getting the proof he needs about this stranger. Once he has that, Chris will take care of everything.

Last July, he'd had a convenient crime scene to report on, with photographic evidence of claw marks on five overturned cars at the Calexico car lot. And after some sympathetic questions, he'd gotten the owner to admit that she'd seen the perp's eyes glow blue for a few seconds when she'd pulled out her shotgun. She'd mostly convinced herself it was a trick of the light, but Stiles knew better, and he'd called Chris to report the threat.

On Chris's advice, Stiles had done his best to block the police investigation, capturing some of the lot's CCTV footage on his cell phone and degaussing the VHS tape before the detective could review it. Stiles had half expected Chris to come himself—he'd been looking forward to seeing him again after the Argent family's long absence from Beacon Hills—but Chris had asked a nearby hunter to contain the rogue werewolf. After all, San Francisco was a lot closer than the Argents' compound in Montana, and time was of the essence.

Stiles couldn't sleep for the 36 hours it took the hunter to track down the werewolf. What if the werewolf attacked someone else? What if the police found it first? Human police wouldn't stand a chance against the monster. Stiles rewatched the black and white footage on his phone at least a dozen times, watching the heavy-set wolf flip a Dodge pickup with superhuman strength. It was only when Chris's hunter friend sent word that he'd handled the rogue omega that Stiles was able to get any rest, although the nightmares returned for a full month afterward.

Even though Stiles hasn't seen anything definitively supernatural about the guy from the diner—yet—there's no harm in being prepared. And since he won't be able to fall back to sleep for a good hour anyway, he might as well load up his backpack. He flips on the light and grabs the bag, spilling out textbooks, notebooks, and a cache of protective silver charms. From under the loose floorboard in the closet, he digs out his collection of dried herbs and powders—the kind of suspicious substances that could get him in a lot of trouble at school—and starts scooping them into ziplock baggies.

He's got a feeling this stranger isn't going to leave Stiles's town on his own—not willingly. Stiles will just have to keep an eye on him until he can figure out whether he's a dangerous werewolf, or a nobody.

~

With his concentration shot to hell, school on Thursday is an endless slog of finger tapping and clock watching. His teachers sigh and attribute it to Senioritis, and Coach Finstock threatens to bump him off of first line, but Stiles can't focus on the mundanity of Beacon Hills High when there's a potential supernatural threat stalking his town.

As soon as practice ends, he rushes through his shower, shoves his lacrosse gear in his locker, and hits the road in search of his quarry. A black Camaro with gold New York plates; it should stick out like a sore thumb among the hybrids and SUVs of Beacon Hills. It's past dark by the time he's finished his drive-thru dinner—a Jack in the Box burger that his dad would kill for—and he's worked his way from the motel parking lot to the town center with nary a sighting. He starts looking a little farther out, cruising through the back streets and bad neighborhoods.

He finally spots the car nestled against the brown stucco wall of Jake's, a dive bar that shares a street corner with a check cashing store and a kabob joint. It's certainly in keeping with the drifter-motel aesthetic he's got going on. Stiles's safest move would be to park across the street and wait for his quarry to come out in one, two, three hours.

But that isn't going to get him the answers he needs.

He pulls around the corner and into the mostly empty lot behind the restaurant, where a six-foot-high wooden fence separates his old blue Jeep from the bar—and the watchful eyes of any passing patrol cars. He retrieves his fake ID, a quality job done by Danny's hookup, from a tear in the base of the passenger seat, and reluctantly leaves his backpack behind—it'd be a dead giveaway that he's still in school. Hands in his pockets, he strolls out to the street and around the corner to the bar like a regular 20-something.

The interior of Jake's is dim, a checkered linoleum floor reflecting the red light from the neon OPEN sign in the window and the bare red bulbs suspended above the bar. A few bar stools are free, and a couple tables are occupied. Stiles spots his target standing by the bar pickup station, beer bottle in hand as he speaks to a waitress. Stiles slips onto the stool closest to the door, trying to read Mr. New York's and the waitress's body language. She doesn't look afraid of him, just annoyed. The guy's actually striking out, Stiles marvels. How is that possible? He's poured into a sinfully tight pair of jeans and wearing a leather motorcycle jacket that makes Stiles imagine doing terrible things in the backseat of that Camaro.

The bartender approaches, and Stiles focuses on acting casual, aware of all the people in his periphery who can probably smell an underage drinker. But Stiles is cool; he's got this. His ID's withstood the scrutiny of a half-dozen bouncers in Cherryfield; it's solid. He orders a draft beer...and doesn't even get carded.

Okay, that's not cool. His dad's getting an anonymous tip about this place tomorrow.

When he checks his phone, he finds a few worried texts from Scott. "found him @ jakes / no big bad yet" Stiles sends back. With a bit of luck, his hunch will prove wrong, and this whole night will consist of flat beer, 00's alternative rock, and watching a super-hot stranger crash and burn with the local wait staff.

Scott texts again: a frown emoji, binoculars, and an eggplant, and Stiles stifles a too-young-sounding giggle in his beer. And then nearly chokes as his leather-clad quarry sits on the open stool next to him. Stiles fixes his eyes on his beer glass as if it's the new episode of Game of Thrones, instinctively trying not to draw attention to himself, although it's far too late to avoid notice when he's coughing fit to hack up a lung. So much for covert surveillance.

Well, if unobtrusive observation's out the window, he can either slink back to his Jeep in embarrassment, or he can go all in like a real investigator. Fuck it. Stiles doesn't let shame or fear call the shots. And they're in public; the guy would have to be an idiot to wolf out in here.

He takes a fortifying sip, clears his throat, and heaves an exaggerated sigh. "It's been a hell of a day," he grumbles in a fair imitation of his dad's post-shift exhaustion.

The stranger doesn't react, just scowls straight ahead, every inch of him saying 'don't approach me,' save for the bottle pressed against his wet bottom lip, acting like a goddamn come-hither beacon.

No, focus.

"Thank god tomorrow's Friday, right?" Stiles nods to his reflection in the scratched and scarred mirror behind the bar. "Don't think I can take another day like today. What about you?" He rolls his head toward the guy, making a point of staring at the side of his head. No one can ignore the Stilinski stare forever.

The guy glances down at the bar top, then wordlessly slides a coaster toward Stiles.

Surprised by the thoughtful gesture, Stiles accepts the coaster, then grins at the large words printed in jaunty blue script: Shut Up And Drink!

"Funny," Stiles admits, because it kind of is. Plus, he got the guy to acknowledge him, which is progress. "I guess you've had a worse day than me, if it's left you nonverbal. That's okay. I got your back."

The guy huffs. Stiles is undeterred.

"Cough once if you're good for now. Cough twice if you need me to order you another beer. We'll get through this together."

The guy finally looks at him, thick black eyebrows halfway up his forehead. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asks. "Get through what?"

"The no-good, very-bad day you're obviously having. Walking into my favorite watering hole looking grumpier than a cat in a doghouse. Consider me the welcome wagon, here to turn that frown upside down." Stiles gives him a big grin to demonstrate, as obnoxiously cheesy as he can manage. (And according to all of his teachers, Stiles earns straight As in obnoxious.)

"I just want to drink my beer in peace."

"No you don't," Stiles informs him. "You want to commiserate with your fellow man. That's why you're not drinking alone in your home or in your car. This is a social activity you're engaged in. And talking comes with the territory."

The guy rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it, so Stiles pushes his luck.

"I'm Stiles," he says, and thrusts his hand out, tapping an impressive bicep a couple times when he doesn't automatically reciprocate.

With another eyeroll to let Stiles know how much it kills him to humor Stiles, the guy grudgingly shakes his hand. The stranger's hand is warm and smooth, no callouses, not even dry skin. Is this what a hand model's skin feels like? Stiles would love to keep holding it, but he lets it slip away.

"And your name is?" he prompts.

"Derek Hale," the guy says, with a weighted stare at Stiles's face, clearly expecting a reaction.

Stiles wasn't raised by a cop without learning how to hold a poker face. He smiles placidly at his new acquaintance, keeping his breathing steady even as his brain screams Yes! That's the name he couldn't remember!

Stiles remembers Derek Hale from a handful of chance encounters when he was a kid. Watching the baseball championship semi-finals on the bleachers with his mom and dad; a clumsy collision during a birthday party in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese's; that time the high school Civics Club came to Stiles's elementary school to do a presentation on local volunteer opportunities.

Stiles hasn't thought of Derek Hale in nearly a decade, not since the man moved away after...well, after his family died. Jesus, what a tragedy.

But the years have definitely worked wonders, Stiles thinks. Who could've guessed that the lanky teenager would turn out looking like a leading man in a Hollywood movie?

So this means the drifter isn't so much a stranger in town as a returning local, visiting his old home town. This knowledge should take the edge off Stiles's suspicions, but there's still something about Derek that doesn't feel quite human. Maybe it's his preternaturally good looks. Maybe the addictive smoothness of his skin. A lot of things can happen to a person in eight years, including getting turned.

And the last thing Stiles can do is admit to recognizing him. If by some long-shot Derek remembers Stiles, and remembers just how many grades Stiles was behind him in the Beacon Hills school system, he'll realize Stiles is only 18—way too young to be drinking the beer in front of him.

So Stiles feigns an amiable nod and says, "Nice to meet you, Derek. So what's put you in such a bad mood?"

"Right now, having to make conversation with a babbling drunk."

"Hah, I'm hardly drunk, so you can't possibly be talking about me. Hey, can I ask you a question?"

Derek goes back to glaring at the mirror, which Stiles takes as an affirmative.

"How can you live in California and have, like, negative-five tanning points?"

That earns him an incredulous look. "My tan?"

"Or lack thereof," Stiles confirms. "You're as pale as Edward Cullen. You're not a vampire, are you?"

The corner of Derek's mouth moves a fraction, like he's tempted to smile. Or grimace. It could go either way. "No. I'm not a vampire. And I don't live in California."

Both things Stiles already knows about him. He'll have to press a little harder to get some real information. "Oh. Passing through?"

Derek huffs and looks away. "Maybe."

"Maybe is promising," Stiles blurts, and has to scramble for a way to play it off. "Maybe you'll stick around," he says, and dear god, now he sounds like he's flirting with the guy.

Derek side-eyes him and takes a slow sip from his bottle, unintentionally provocative. Stiles can't help envying that bottle.

"Alright. Then you must come from a land of eternal darkness...or from Seattle. Which one is it?"

"New York City."

Finally, something new and specific. "You know, I heard they get sunlight in New York City."

"Once or twice a month," Derek says, and...that was sarcasm. He just made a joke.

Stiles sits up straighter, trying to hide a face-splitting smile. Derek Hale has a personality beyond annoyed and sexy! "Right, when Mercury's in retrograde," Stiles agrees.

"And the tide's coming in," Derek adds.

"And only if the moon is full...."

And Derek twitches. It's the slightest flex of fingers, a brief compression of lips, hardly worth noting except for how they coincided with Stiles mentioning a full moon—and Stiles really wishes he could forget what he just saw, wishes he could unsay the words. For a moment there, Derek had seemed fun. And now he's gone quiet, eyeing the other patrons in the bar from under his brows, sizing them up.

Stiles acts oblivious to smooth over their mutual unease. "Well if there's so much sun in New York City, and you're still pale as a ghost, I'm forced to draw one conclusion about you."

"What's that?" Derek mutters.

"You're a night-time DJ for an easy-listening station, specializing in love song dedications for your listeners getting it on at home."

Derek blinks at him, and this time his mouth's definitely tilting toward a smile. This close, Stiles can see how light Derek's eyes are, although he can't make out the color. He's so beautiful, it's practically unreal.

"A what?" Derek sputters, his expressive eyebrows climbing his forehead again.

"Come on, it's the only answer. You're helping the good people of New York bone down every night to the smooth sounds of Kenny G."

"You're strange," Derek tells him, but it doesn't sound like an insult. "And also wrong."

"Hah, you'll have to prove it."

Derek just shakes his head, seeming content to forfeit the round. Stiles wonders whether Derek realizes he's keeping score.

Derek looks around again, and Stiles notices that the bar has filled in a bit while he focused on Derek. Chris would give Stiles serious shit for his lax situational awareness. Stiles is surprised again when Derek stands up, sets his bottle down on the rail, and walks toward the pool table.

Derek intercepts another employee, a man Stiles hadn't seen earlier, carrying a case of beer to the bar. Stiles takes a few sips as he watches Derek ask the guy some questions, none of which appear to be asking for his digits. Unless he's striking out again, but Stiles finds that possibility decreasingly likely. After a minute the guy shrugs, and Derek heads off toward the back hallway, vanishing into the darkness.

Stiles replays the scene in his head a few times—Derek scrutinizing the crowd like he was waiting for someone, talking to various members of the wait staff—but he can't guess at what Derek's motives are, not with so little information. He needs more.

And he needs to know where Derek's disappeared to. It's been nearly five minutes. He could've slipped out the back, or caused trouble for someone....

Stiles abandons his beer and follows in Derek's footsteps. He steps into the hallway, where the music is partially muffled by the walls. There's another red bulb hanging down the far end, and Stiles eyes the doors as he advances, listening for disturbances. Stock room, emergency exit, women's room, men's room....

The men's room door creaks open, and Derek steps into the hall, and Stiles is the least subtle stalker in all of Beacon Hills, because there is literally nowhere to hide. Derek doesn't see him right away, too intent on his phone. He doesn't even realize Stiles is there until he's inches away, and Stiles throws up his hands to try to minimize the collision.

"Um, sorry, sorry," Stiles says as Derek pulls up short, eyes wide, mouth dropping. "I didn't—" don't lie, don't lie, "—um, excuse me."

Stiles gestures that he'd like to get by and takes a step to his left, which Derek mirrors.

"Sorry," they say in unison and step right. Stiles feels a manic urge to laugh at the awkwardness of being all up in each other's spaces like this.

"Here," Derek says. He puts his hands on Stiles's shoulders and presses him against the wall, holding him there like he thinks Stiles is going to trip in front of him again.

Stiles feels himself flush and blurts, "I wasn't following you," a lie. He winces, bites his lip.

Derek frowns, nearly the same height as Stiles and just a few inches away, micro expressions of mistrust clear on his face...and then he relaxes. "Did you think something was going to happen if you followed me into the bathroom?" he asks.

Stiles gapes and blushes harder at the cascade of images conjured by the suggestion. He's got some experience with bathroom floors: a hard cock in his mouth, a hand fisting in his hair, having to muffle his moans while someone uses the stall next to them, his knees and jaw aching, the urgency and risk of exposure so heady he thinks he'll die. Fuck, looking up from his knees at Derek's gorgeous face, watching his lips curl ever so slightly with pleasure, Derek calling Stiles good boy....

"I didn't...not think that," he stammers evasively. Derek is still holding his shoulders, still pinning him gently to the wall, and Stiles can barely think straight enough to fumble his phone out of his pocket.

Derek gives Stiles a really thorough once over that sets his toes curling and his blood pumping. And then Derek leans in closer, and Stiles shuts his eyes, expecting a kiss. Instead, Derek's stubble brushes the line of his jaw, and Derek's voice rumbles in his ear, "The bathroom isn't really my scene." And then he lingers, his jacket brushing Stiles's flannel shirt, intimate and up in his space, breathing him in like Stiles smells delicious, and it's the hottest thing Stiles has ever experienced, while simultaneously setting off alarm claxons in his brain.

Derek's breath brushes over the vulnerable skin of his throat, and self-preservation finally wins out over lust as Stiles's spine goes rigid with the prey instinct to freeze.

Derek pulls back slowly, his hands dropping away but staying visible, like he can feel Stiles's unease. He gives one of his almost-smiles, says, "Excuse me," and heads back to the bar, leaving Stiles to get his body back under control.

When Stiles can move his fingers again, he adjusts his aching erection in his jeans and then checks his phone for the app confirmation message: mobile cloning successful. He takes deep breaths for a minute, riding out the adrenaline highs of lust and fear and triumph, for pulling off the cloning without getting caught, for flirting with Derek...and for Derek flirting back....

By the time Stiles can think reasonably straight, he's not surprised to find Derek's bar stool empty and the Camaro gone from the parking lot. Stiles starts walking back to his car, flipping through the cloned interface to activate the GPS. Derek's driving south on Palmetto, headed toward his motel. Probably turning in for the night.

There's no good reason to follow him right now, not when Stiles knows Derek doesn't pose a threat to anyone else tonight. Still, a large part of him wants to follow, and for all the wrong reasons, like wanting Derek up in his space again, wanting to feel Derek's interest, to see Derek eyeing him with that damned smirk, those beautiful lips.

He needs to give himself a strong talking to, Stiles decides. And probably take a cold shower, while he's at it.

~

Stiles has way bigger priorities than going to school on Friday morning. He scarfs down breakfast with one eye on the GPS tracker, and when Derek hits the road just past 10 a.m., Stiles heads out to intercept him. Derek starts his day with the McDonalds drive thru. Stiles salutes the Camaro with his own travel mug of coffee and maintains a cautious distance as he follows Derek's electronic route across town.

Much to Stiles's surprise, Derek's next destination is Rainier Wilderness Outfitters. Is Derek going camping? He doesn't look like the type. Stiles slouches low in the Jeep and watches to see what he purchases. Nothing, as it turns out. Huh.

Derek's next errand takes him to...Bert's Munitions.

Stiles's mouth goes dry. That's not good. Not good at all.

A fidgety, gut-churning five minutes later, Derek emerges empty-handed again. Which doesn't guarantee he's unarmed; he could fit any number of handguns under his leather jacket. And have his jeans always bunched around his ankles like that? There's no way to tell from this distance, but getting closer is too dangerous for Stiles's health. At least there's no commotion from the store; he didn't wreck the place or try to steal anything like last year's rogue omega.

Derek's previous two errands seem at odds with his third destination—the community sports dome south of Washington Ave. Derek cruises past the enclosed facilities and parks alongside the open-air baseball fields. When school gets out, there will be intramural teams holding practice or league games, but for now, Derek's goal seems to be climbing onto the empty bleachers and staring out at the fields for a while. Stiles's best guess is that Derek's reliving some childhood memories, revisiting some athletics glory days.

He can't really begrudge the guy for revisiting his teenaged haunts. Assuming that's what Derek's doing. Trying to recapture his youth. ...At a gun shop.

Okay, it's an imperfect theory.

After a half hour of field-staring, Derek heads north, ending up at Beacon Hills Animal Clinic, and Stiles doesn't have the first clue what he's doing there. Derek doesn't have any pets with him, at least as far as Stiles knows. So what business could he possibly have in a veterinary clinic?

Stiles hunches down and waits uneasily. Scott used to volunteer at this clinic, back when he thought he wanted to be a vet. Before the sight of any canine larger than a corgi gave him panic attacks.

Memories of that night tease at the edges of Stiles's consciousness, only strengthened by the dangerous vibes he's getting from Derek's unpredictable behavior. Something's up with this veterinary visit. Stiles just has to figure out what.

After the clinic, Derek zigzags across town to Celebration Floral Arrangements on Main Street. At least this time he actually makes a purchase. Stiles eyes the large bouquet of purple tulips in his arms, wrapped up in cellophane that shines iridescent in the sunlight. Who are they for? Who does Derek know in Beacon Hills?

Hiking equipment, firearms, baseball fields, a vet clinic, and now flowers? Stiles shakes his head and gives up on interpreting whatever Derek's up to.

To Stiles's chagrin, Derek stops at the diner for lunch. Stiles salivates from the parking lot, wishing he had more than an emergency power bar in his glove compartment for lunch. He's already frustrated over Derek's string of incomprehensible errands, and now the man's keeping Stiles away from a decent meal. Maybe he should text Scott, ask him to go into the diner and order him something....

No, hell no. He doesn't want Scott anywhere near Derek, not when there's a decent chance Derek's no longer human. Stiles rips open the old granola bar and chomps down viciously.

The real kicker is that Derek hasn't used his cell phone for anything besides checking the news headlines all morning—and he didn't even click on a single article. It's like he's determined to make this the least interesting surveillance job ever. Even now, he's just sitting there at the diner counter refusing to be entertaining, focused on his paperback book and his plate of food.

And it looks like he got the Bacon-Bacon Cheeseburger, too. God damn him.

Stiles isn't in the best mood when Derek hits the road again, driving five miles below the speed limit as though the Camaro were dragging its heels. Stiles feels his own feet dragging as they approach the edge of the nature preserve, his foot lifting off the gas and letting the car fall further behind. It's been years since he's gone in there. Granted, under completely different circumstances, but then again....

Thankfully, Derek drives past the entrance, continuing down Rte. 110 to the municipal cemetery and its tiny parking lot. Stiles stops at the last bend in the road, behind a small copse of California Pine; he can't get any closer without exposing his Jeep. When Derek parks and exits his car, Stiles eels over the seat to dig for his duffel bag stowed under the back seat, emerging with a lungful of stale sock stench and a pair of digital binoculars.

Between the branches, he tracks Derek's progress through the graveyard, flowers in hand, until he stops at a tall marble pillar. Stiles crawls back into the front passenger seat to get a clearer view—and he realizes what he's seeing way too late, as Derek pulls flower after flower from the bouquet, placing a purple tulip on each of a dozen grave markers surrounding the pillar. Hating himself even as he does it, Stiles increases the zoom, trying to catch more than a sliver of Derek's profile as he mourns the entire Hale family, killed in a house fire nearly a decade ago.

His heart rises into his throat, and Stiles finally lets the binoculars drop into his lap, overwhelmed. Fuck. This is why Derek came back to town, of course. Stiles's concerns about Derek, based mostly on his brooding appearance, bad-boy wardrobe, and slick wheels, feel cheap in comparison to this all too human pain. There's nothing he can say to excuse what he's just done, spying on Derek's private grief, a loss so great Stiles can't even imagine it.

Empathy pricks at his eyes, and Stiles thinks about his mom; he hasn't visited her in months. There's plenty of daylight left; lots of time to find a flower shop and pay his own respects at the St. Elizabeth's graveyard. With a last glance at Derek, standing alone amongst his dead family, Stiles puts the car in gear and heads back to town.

~

He finds Derek at the same dive bar later that night, hunched over a beer bottle and projecting don't-talk-to-me vibes to everyone in the general vicinity. Stiles takes the stool next to him and orders two shots of Jack Daniels.

When the drinks are set in front of him, he slides one over to Derek and holds up his own for a toast. It takes a few seconds, but Derek eventually looks at him, a quirked eyebrow complementing the scowl this time.

"What's this for?"

It's a peace offering, an unspoken acknowledgement of their common grief. But Stiles knows better than to say that, and instead says, "It's been that kind of a day." He gestures with his shot glass; after a long moment Derek picks up the offering and tosses it back in one go.

Stiles knows better than to do the same; he hasn't gotten the knack of shots yet, which is for the best, considering his family history. He spent the year after his mom died watching his dad get sloppy drunk on bottles of Jack, night after night. Tears threaten to well up again, his eyes prickling hot at the memory of his dad's grief, and a younger Stiles too preoccupied with his own loss to give him any support. Stiles swipes at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, dusted with pollen from the lilies he placed on his mom's grave that afternoon, and takes a sip of his drink.

They sit in silence for a while, Derek as untalkative as last night, but it doesn't feel hostile. When Stiles sees that Derek's nearing the end of his beer, he asks, "Can I buy you a drink?"

"You just did."

That's true but, "I mean one of your choosing," Stiles clarifies.

Derek sets his bottle down and nods. "Get me another whiskey."

Stiles blinks in surprise. It feels like a friendly gesture, but he can't be sure. He orders the drink, though, and this time Derek sips it, rather than downing it like a shot.

"So what's New York like?" Stiles asks, speaking the words into his glass.

Derek shrugs in his peripheral vision.

"The night life must be pretty exciting for a smooth-jazz love doctor," Stiles says.

Derek snorts. "It's fine," he grumbles, apparently determined not to give Stiles an inch...but then he adds, low like a confession, "It's crowded. Hard to get any space to yourself when you need it."

"As gorgeous as you are, I'm not surprised they don't leave you alone," Stiles says, because he has no filter and lives to stick his foot in his mouth around his crushes.

Derek shoots him an incredulous look, but doesn't call him on being the least cool guy he's ever met. Stiles takes it as a good sign.

After a few seconds, Stiles ventures another question. "How do you get away from people when you need to? If you don't mind me asking."

"I go out driving."

"A man and his car," Stiles says. "Classic love story."

Derek smirks a little, a definite curl of a smile haunting the corner of his mouth, and it feels like a victory for Stiles.

"Tale as old as time..." he starts opining, and Derek raises a hand in protest.

"Don't sing Beauty and the Beast. Please."

Stiles grins, because Derek just admitted to knowing a Disney musical. His tough-guy exterior isn't so hard-boiled after all. "I wouldn't dare," Stiles says, and crosses his heart.

Around them, the bar is significantly busier than the night before. A large group is taking turns at the pool table, and most of the high tops are occupied. A woman slides onto the open stool on Derek's right, and her date stands behind her, flagging down the bartender to order their drinks. Derek doesn't spare his new neighbors so much as a glance.

"Don't hum it, either," Derek says, when Stiles meets his gaze in the bar mirror. Stiles starts guiltily; he hadn't realized he was humming. Derek doesn't look annoyed, though. Another mark in Stiles's favor. He finds himself wanting to draw Derek out, see him smile more.

"Sorry. Uh, so what kind of car do you drive?"

"2005 Camaro," Derek says, and his smile widens just a bit more, like he knows how hot a machine it is.

Stiles whistles. "That black one outside? Nice taste, man."

"Thanks, but I didn't pick it out; it was my sister's. She gave it to me for my 21st birthday."

"That's a fucking awesome present," Stiles says. His dad gave him mom's beloved Jeep for his 16th. At the time, Stiles had thought it was the best gift in the world. It'd taken a few months for him to realize how conveniently it kept Stiles on a short leash; with its top speed of 55 mph and tendency to overheat after a hundred miles, he couldn't go far or fast. His dad is always cleverer than Stiles gives him credit for. "Your sister kind of rocks."

"She does," Derek agrees, affection brightening his eyes. "Even if she still demands the keys back whenever she needs to let off steam on the interstates."

"I bet it's a great ride."

Derek smirks and side-eyes him, adding an innuendo that Stiles hadn't intended, but god, yeah, he would love to go for a ride in Derek's car. Derek seems like he knows his way around a stick shift better than Stiles's last two hookups, a couple of dry handies out back of Club Tryst in Cherryfield. Just looking at Derek's hand wrapped around his glass makes Stiles want it on his skin, on his dick. And this time Stiles would break out the lube he's started carrying in his wallet—because chafing is not sexy. But imagining Derek's fingers slick with lube becomes picturing them sliding inside him, working his hole open, getting Stiles ready to take his cock...and all these thoughts must be showing on Stiles's face, because Derek's watching him with the damn smirk on his lips.

"Fucker," Stiles mutters and gulps his whiskey, blushing from his ears to his collarbones.

"It is a hell of a ride," Derek agrees. "And I wouldn't mind showing you."

Okay, this could actually happen, Stiles realizes. Derek's doubling down on the innuendo, more talkative than last night, and he's smiling with intent, a cocky offer to do all those things and more to him, if Stiles is brave enough to ask for them. All the blood rushes to Stiles's dick. He drops his gaze to Derek's lips, licks the taste of whiskey off his own before looking up. Derek quirks a brow, challenging. Throwing the ball back in Stiles's court.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea," Stiles decides.

And then some fucking asshole throws a bar stool through the window.

Glass shatters, patrons shriek, and the neon sign pops and fizzles as it crashes to the ground. Stiles whips his head around, looking for the source of the commotion, but it's obvious who the culprit is, and who his target was, since two men are currently slamming one another into the high-top tables. People crowd into the bar area to get out of the way, and...oh great, Stiles can see more people getting involved in the fight. In a matter of seconds, it's turned into a brawl straight out of Roadhouse.

"Christ," Stiles says. He finishes his whiskey and drops the glass in the well behind the bar for safety. The couple who were sitting on Derek's right are pushing their way to the front door. Definitely the right idea, because the bartender has pulled out a baseball bat and looks ready to join the fray. Forget Roadhouse; the bar is looking more like a mosh pit.

Stiles pulls on Derek's sleeve to get his attention. "We should go," Stiles yells over the chaos of shouts and crashes.

Someone falls against Stiles's back and punches Derek in the side of the head.

Stiles nearly faceplants across the bar, his forearm saving him from a busted nose. He raises his head and gapes in the mirror at the big, blond, bearded dude laid across his shoulders. And then Derek lifts his own head next to him, a snarl on his lips, his eyes glowing an impossible electric blue, and everything stops inside Stiles's brain.

The big guy pulls Derek off his stool and into the melee, and Stiles doesn't turn around, doesn't call out, doesn't even move a muscle to protect himself from another collision. He's lost in the memory of electric blue hovering over him, rancid breath, fangs about to bite down, the weight of a predator pinning him down, and the certainty of his own death. His fingers clench, fingernails digging into his palms as his nightmares play out again in the waking world, and he can't wake up from them, can't shake them off in the morning and pretend he's over that night. He's stronger now, smarter, but still just as vulnerable to the monster in his head.

And then a different shade of blue strobes across the mirror, accompanied by the too-familiar siren of a BHPD patrol car, and Stiles snaps back to the present with a disorienting lurch. He staggers off the stool, throwing his arm over his face to hide it from the headlights shining through the nonexistent window; if the cops catch him in this bar, his dad will murder him.

Derek can't get caught, either. His behavior today may have defied expectations, but Stiles knows enough about werewolves to know they would tear the deputy-on-duty to shreds rather than be taken alive. He looks around for Derek and spots him in the middle of the carnage, trading punches with two men.

Derek's eyes aren't glowing.

He's in the middle of a brawl, provoked and outnumbered, and he's still concealing his supernatural form. Even his punches appear tempered compared to the strength Stiles knows he must have—the strength to roll a pickup truck with his bare hands, and swing a cement parking block like a baseball bat. This show of restraint gives Stiles the courage to jump an overturned table, dodge past another grappling duo, and shove one of Derek's assailants into the other, giving Derek a second to breathe.

"Cops! We've got to get out of here, now," Stiles shouts. He grabs Derek's arm and hauls him toward the rear exit before his two opponents regain their balance. Derek doesn't resist, letting Stiles drag him into the back hallway and out the emergency exit into a narrow alley, hemmed in by brick on one side and a wooden fence on the other.

Derek pries Stiles's hand off his arm but doesn't complain about the way Stiles hauled him out of there. "My car's out front."

Stiles shakes his head. "So are the cops. Come this way." He takes a two-step run and jumps, catches the top of the wooden fence. With a grunt and a kick, he pulls himself up and over to drop into the unlit parking lot.

He waits long enough to make sure Derek clears the fence before heading to his Jeep, eager to get out of the area before more cruisers arrive. Or the sheriff's truck. Crap, his dad's on duty tonight.

Derek follows him, glancing warily around the lot until he's satisfied they're safe. Stiles digs for his keys, and Derek says, "Thanks for getting me out of there. You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, I did," Stiles laughs shakily. For everyone's sake, he really, really did.

He knows what Derek could do to anyone who tried to cage him. He could rip the cruiser apart, could take a shotgun blast and keep going. No, his dad's people aren't prepared for this kind of threat. There's only one group prepared to deal with someone like Derek, and Stiles will be calling them as soon as he's not alone with a fucking werewolf.

"Maybe wait an hour or so for things to settle down before you get your car," Stiles suggests. He tries to slide the car key into the lock, but his trembling fingers miss and scratch the paint.

And then Derek puts his hands on Stiles's face, turns him around, and kisses him.

Stiles flails for a graceless moment, arms wind milling, but Derek's palms are warm on his cheeks, his lips tugging gently at Stiles's lower lip, and Stiles is instantly derailed, taken back to five minutes ago, to a world of possibilities, of maybe getting into Derek's pants. He can't help leaning in for more, and Derek tilts his head and kisses him again, soft but thorough, nipping at Stiles's lip and tracing the seam with his tongue. Stiles moans—he isn't even embarrassed about it—and parts his lips for Derek to dip inside.

Derek is an awesome kisser. A+++, 10/10, would recommend to his friends. Stiles clutches at Derek's sleeves as Derek tips them against the side of the Jeep, slides one of those big hands around the back of Stiles's neck and massages a little as he sucks on Stiles's tongue for a perfect moment.

Stiles doesn't know how long it lasts, a few seconds or a few minutes, but when Derek pulls back for air, Stiles can barely hold himself up.

Derek nuzzles Stiles's cheek, his breath hot on Stiles's skin. Stiles realizes he's still got the keys in his hand, and Derek in his arms, and god, he wants him—more than he's ever wanted anyone in his life. It's base instinct to make the offer: "I can drive you to your motel."

Derek's fingers go tense for a second, and Stiles's stomach knots up at his mistake. Because Derek thinks he's just some guy from the bar, definitely not someone who's been stalking him around town and spying on him through his phone.

"Or wherever you're staying," he amends. When he risks a glance at Derek's expression, he sees hair mussed from the fight, a bruise darkening the pale slope of his cheekbone, and a wry twist to his lips, mere inches from Stiles's own.

Derek shakes his head a little and says, "No, you're right. And yeah, I could use a ride. Thanks." His fingers linger for another moment on Stiles's neck before he releases him, and Stiles has to blink a few times to not press for another kiss.

They hit the road a minute later, taking the back roads away from the two patrol cars parked out front of Jake's. Derek gives directions to a place Stiles has already been, and Stiles tries to keep his heartbeat steady, his breaths even, his scent calm. He has a werewolf in his passenger seat; if he lets himself think about Derek's true nature for more than a second, he'll have a goddamn panic attack.

Derek isn't even being threatening, just existing in Stiles's space, with his handsome face and intoxicating leather scent that Stiles wants to rub all over himself. Stiles catches Derek watching him a couple times, an unreadable look on his face as the streetlights flash past. Derek looks away each time.

It takes nearly 10 minutes to reach the motel, 10 minutes for Stiles to get the lust simmering in his veins to subside. He's just dropping Derek off, that's all this is. Stiles needs to get away from him, get somewhere safe, before Derek drops the nice-and-friendly act. He follows Derek's directions to the weather-worn door at the end of the motel building—the furthest room from the manager's office, with the woods as a neighbor on three sides, because that's not foreboding at all—and pulls into a parking space to let Derek out.

Derek opens the Jeep door, then pauses. He looks at Stiles, and Stiles stares back, too nervous to say anything besides, "Have a good night."

Derek leans in abruptly to place a kiss on Stiles's cheek, and then another, lower, into the curve of his neck. Stiles freezes, the sounds of the Jeep engine low enough to hear Derek's deep inhalations, blatantly scenting him. Derek kisses his skin again, intimate and terrifying at the base of his throat, and says, "Come inside if you want."

He gets out of the car, closes the door behind him, and doesn't look back as he enters his motel room.

Stiles stares at the faded green door, his mouth hanging open as he takes silent gasps of air, his chest aching with a confusion verging on panic. He whips his phone from his pocket, opens the messaging app, and scrolls to Chris Argent's name. He'll send one text. That's all he has to do. That's all he should do. It's the safest thing for him, for everyone in Beacon Hills. It's Stiles's responsibility to keep his town safe, and right now there's a werewolf in town, blue-eyed and alone; a rogue omega and confirmed killer. Stiles would be insane to hesitate even a second longer.

He looks at the blinking cursor, looks at Derek's door, and then bangs his forehead against the steering wheel a few times.

~

Derek kisses like he wants to devour him, big hands roving across Stiles's shoulders, squeezing greedily at his biceps. Stiles flexes, showing off the long muscles he's earned from physical training. He may not be as ripped as Jackson or Danny, but he can hold his own on the lacrosse field, and Chris says speed is more important than strength, anyway, when hunting a—

Derek is urging Stiles's arms up, tugging Stiles's button-down up and off, and Stiles silences his brain in favor of enjoying the moment he's currently living.

Stiles's t-shirt lands on the floor next, and Derek's hands slide hot over his ribs, easing around to his lower back to haul Stiles's hips firmly against his. They're both hard in their jeans, and the added friction helps Stiles focus on what he wants next, which is to get his tongue on Derek's skin. The leather jacket is already slung on a low armchair in the corner, Derek's long-sleeved Henley ripped at the neckline, damaged in the bar brawl. Stiles mouths at the exposed collarbone and rides the tide when Derek's hips buck sharply.

"You're so fucking hot," Stiles mumbles. "The first moment I saw you, Jesus, I wanted you so bad. I can't believe this is real."

"It's real," Derek growls, and catches Stiles's chin for another blistering hot kiss.

Stiles tugs at the hem of Derek's shirt until Derek gets his drift and obligingly pulls it off. "Oh my god," Stiles moans, and falls against Derek's chest like a starving man upon a banquet. Pecs like solid rock and abs for days, fuck, he's even more gorgeous than Stiles had imagined. Mouth literally watering at the sight, Stiles digs his fingers into firm muscle and mouths his way down Derek's shoulder to a nipple.

Derek growls again, and a small part of Stiles's brain thinks he should be worried about that, but rational thought and responsibility aren't here right now; Stiles left them waiting in his Jeep when he entered an isolated, no-tell-motel with a killer werewolf for what could turn out to be the lay of his life. The danger he's playing with makes it ten times hotter than gropes in an alley or suck jobs in a club bathroom, and oh, yes—that's exactly what Stiles wants right now.

"I gotta taste you," he tells Derek. "Get these—" And Derek, the brilliant mind reader, immediately opens his fly and shoves his jeans down, dark blue briefs straining with his cock. Stiles sinks to his knees on the ratty old carpet, nips his way down Derek's abs, and swipes his tongue over Derek's bellybutton.

"Fuck, Stiles," Derek says, a hand in Stiles's hair urging him lower.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees and pulls Derek's briefs down around his knees. "So gorgeous," he breathes and dives in. Derek shakes with each swipe of Stiles's tongue, each suck to the crown of his beautiful, uncut cock. Stiles wriggles his tongue across the slit, using his hand to slide the foreskin back, loving the way Derek bucks and groans for him. He opens his mouth and draws him in, savoring the salty weight on his tongue, the musky scent of him on every breath. Derek clenches his fingers, a painful tug on Stiles's hair before he urges Stiles closer, to take more of his cock.

Stiles wraps his fist around Derek's shaft so Derek can't push him too far, no matter how badly Stiles wants him to—wants him to push deep inside and cut off his air, make Stiles choke on his cock. He's drooling freely now as Derek ruts over his tongue, driving Stiles out of his mind with the friction, the heat, the dangerous fantasy of easing off the brakes, of seeing just how far Derek might push him for his own pleasure.

Stiles's jeans are punishingly tight, his poor cock aching to be released. But if he touches himself now, he'll cream his pants in less than a minute, and this is too good to end quickly. So he runs his free hand over Derek's hip instead and grabs a handful of firm ass cheek, the muscles flexing with each rock of Derek's hips, and Stiles can't resist squeezing in time.

Compliments spill from Derek's taciturn mouth, halting at first and then turning into a torrent, praising Stiles's mouth, his hands, his eyes, his tongue, his mouth, his fucking filthy, obscene mouth. Stiles redoubles his efforts, jacking his fist and sucking long and hard, barely pausing for breath around Derek's enormous cock, dripping with precum now, leaving a bitter taste on Stiles's tongue.

When he's about to come, Derek squeezes Stiles's shoulder, and Stiles pulls back to suck on the head, let Derek flood across his tongue until he can't keep it in, until it slides down his chin, mixing with his saliva. Stiles strokes him through the aftershocks and finally pulls off to rest his head against Derek's hip and rub his filthy face in the crease between Derek's groin and thigh. A moment later, Derek's grip in his hair falters, and Derek slumps down, landing on his ass in front of Stiles, collapsing back against the seat of the armchair. He looks sated and debauched, and Stiles's already juddering heart lurches, like his Jeep pushed into overdrive.

Derek's eyes slit open behind wet lashes, the only warning before he lunges forward and catches Stiles's lips with his own, pressing Stiles down with his weight until he's spread out on the scratchy rug beneath Derek's sweat-slicked body.

Stiles bucks up under him, both hands sliding down Derek's back to grip his perfect ass so he can rut against him. But Derek lifts his hips away and attacks Stiles's fly. He wrenches the zipper down and pulls Stiles's cock out of his boxers, licks his hand and—oh sweet god in heaven—starts jerking him off slow and tight, and Stiles whimpers, begs, writhes and pleads until Derek shuts him up with another kiss. It's incredible, it's too much, the relentless pleasure Derek wrings from him with slow, steady strokes, and Stiles comes apart too soon, his orgasm ripped from him with a muffled shout, his come spattering across Derek's stomach, and his nails scoring Derek's lower back, incautiously vicious as he rides out a pleasure so intense it steals all the air from his lungs.

Derek's grip on his cock eases, his touch turning to a comfort, then a delicate tease as Stiles moans weakly under him.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Derek murmurs. He runs his hand through Stiles's damp hair, smoothing the overlong strands away from his forehead, a dazzled expression on his face. Stiles knows the feeling.

He tries to tug Derek down to sprawl on top of him, but Derek is immovable, braced on an elbow and knees, so close Stiles can feel his body heat, but not close enough to cuddle. If Stiles's lower lip juts out in an approximation of Lydia's infamous pout, he'll never admit to it.

But Derek's eyes go hot, the same look of intent that had Stiles nearly coming in his pants at the bar, and he says, "I want to fuck you."

Stiles arches with an aftershock, his head tipping back. It's too much temptation for Derek, who leans down to kiss and suck at that spot he seems drawn to on Stiles's neck, laving it with his tongue. He's going to have a seriously epic hickey in the morning.

"Yeah," Stiles pants, "oh yeah. Please."

Derek scrapes his stubble against the skin he's been so happily abusing, and Stiles slaps Derek's ass in protest until he rolls off of him. Side by side, they kick off socks and shoes and wriggle out of their jeans. When Derek turns away to toss his jeans toward the chair, Stiles loses a minute tracing the raised, red welts he'd left across Derek's back, watching Derek's skin pebble and shiver at the touch.

"Do you have anything we can use?" Derek asks, his tone almost sheepish as he looks at Stiles over his shoulder.

Stiles gestures magnanimously toward his discarded pants, but when Derek pulls out Stiles's wallet, Stiles yanks it out of his hands—he does not want to have to explain the two driver's licenses in there. Too many secrets to keep straight, and rational thoughts keep creeping into the room, putting him on edge. Stiles tamps them down, pulls out the condom and lube, and passes them to Derek before tucking his wallet safely back in his jeans.

And then Derek is helping him to his feet, and Stiles forgets what he was just worrying about when he gets his first good look at Derek's eyes, up close in the soft light of the bedside lamp. "Woah," he says, leaning into Derek's space, his fingertips trailing over one of Derek's eyebrows, brushing at the thick, dark lashes at the corner of his eye. "Your eyes are—" Stiles gropes for an adjective to capture the stunning, multi-hued rings of gold, green, and brown. "Riveting," he decides, breathing it out like a revelation.

Derek kisses him again, long and sweet, and then nudges Stiles to climb onto the rumpled bedsheets.

He makes himself comfortable against the pillows and watches Derek drip lube on his fingers. Stiles has to bite his lip at his fantasy coming to life, and then Derek's hand dips under his balls, and slick fingers rub against his hole, lightly at first, and then firmer, pressing in. Stiles gasps and lets his legs fall wider apart and his eyes slide closed, as Derek settles between his thighs and presses deeper, setting a slow, relentless pace. He presses kisses to Stiles's knee and rubs his palm over Stiles's oversensitive cock lying spent in the crook of his thigh. The stretch burns with the third finger, but the sting fades to a luxurious ache a moment later. And with a couple brushes to Stiles's prostate, Stiles is writhing, his cock twitching with renewed interest even as he tries to hold still for Derek's fingers.

God, he can't believe how amazing it feels, how much he wants this. It was one thing to spend a fumbling afternoon figuring out the mechanics of fucking with Billy Mitchum in junior year; they'd known each other since the second grade, spent years in the same classes and locker rooms. If Stiles never quite got the appeal, maybe it was just that his one experience had been so uncomfortably awkward. Because with Derek, with a dangerous stranger in a seedy motel room, it suddenly feels like something he absolutely needs, or he just might die from wanting.

And when Derek finally presses his cock inside him, it's better than he'd dreamed, Derek's thick, hard cock spreading him wide with a few short thrusts, going deep, deeper, until he's pressed up against Stiles's hips, Stiles's thighs tight around Derek's waist, and Derek's arms bracketing him. It's unbearably good, his pulse pounding in his head, throbbing around the length of Derek inside of him, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding the unfamiliar position. He doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until Derek rocks slightly, and Stiles exhales on a sob, overwhelmed in ways he can't explain.

And then Derek pants, "Stiles," and stops moving, like he's waiting for something. When Stiles forces his eyelids open, Derek meets his gaze and starts thrusting for real.

"Oh my god," Stiles moans. "Oh my fucking god." Derek's thrusts come faster, but it's not enough for Stiles, he wants.... "I want it, fuck, I want—. Harder, please, more," he begs.

Derek complies, pulling out farther for longer strokes, building the tempo, and Stiles bucks into it, his knees squeezing around Derek's ribs for leverage, still reaching for more.

"Faster," he groans, a fever in his blood he can't quench until he's had it all, everything Derek can possibly give him. "Come on, Derek. Faster! Give me more!"

Derek grits his teeth, looking half-wild as he bears down into the thrusts, slamming home hard enough to bounce the bed frame against the wall, Bang! Bang! Bang! With a loud rip, the bed sheets tear under Derek's fists, and Stiles arches up to bury his scream and his teeth in Derek's shoulder as he comes, shooting stars dancing behind his eyelids and electricity humming in his veins.

Derek snarls and lifts Stiles's hips a foot off the bed, and slams a few more times into Stiles's quivering body. Stiles feels him go stiff, muscles locked as he comes inside him, and then with a gusting breath, Derek collapses on top of Stiles. His hands, still under Stiles's ass, knead a bit as he hums contentedly against Stiles's shoulder, sprawled out and honest-to-god cuddling. Stiles lifts a shaking hand and pets Derek's hair, all he's good for right now, feeling drunk with lassitude and pleasure, and sore when Derek slips out of him. He whimpers at the renewed ache, and Derek nuzzles his throat some more, soothing Stiles with the light scrape of stubble and slow swipes of his tongue.

Incorrigible.

They stay that way for ages, until Stiles's skin is cold everywhere Derek isn't covering him, and they're starting to stick together. Eventually Derek sighs, kisses Stiles's mouth, and tells him he'll be right back. Stiles stretches like a cat, almost liking the soreness. He wants to do it again, wants to do it forever. He wonders whether Derek would go along with either of those plans.

Derek returns with a washcloth and wipes Stiles down, pausing to kiss bruises on Stiles's upper arm and hip. Did he get those at the bar, or in Derek's bed? He can't remember, which seems odd. But he's distracted when Derek's phone buzzes with a message—the first he's received since Stiles cloned his phone two days ago.

Stiles's curiosity perks up, and he rolls over to watch Derek head to the armchair to grab his phone. The sight of his naked ass is a goddamn miracle. Stiles drinks it in for a second before letting his gaze wander up Derek's muscled back to where his fingernail marks should be...but aren't. They've already healed into nothing. Is the bite mark he left in Derek's shoulder fading even now? Could he watch it heal if he leaned in close enough?

Stiles's fingers clench in the sheet, around the gashes Derek tore, long and ragged like claw marks. Reality prowls around the bed, making it impossible to ignore Derek's otherness, the proof on display right in front of him. His blood chills at the memory of Derek's shining wolf eyes in the bar; he knows what Derek is and what he's capable of now. But Stiles can't reconcile that deadly knowledge with the way Derek just touched him, held him.

Derek checks the message and swears under his breath. "Sorry, I've got to make a call," he says, and turns to Stiles with an open, regretful expression.

Stiles tries to mirror it as he slides his legs off the bed. "It's okay; I should go." He still has a job to do; it's the clearest direction he has, when he can't tell what the hell to think of Derek anymore. If Derek's finally making a call, Stiles should listen in—and he can't very well do that discreetly from inside the same room. "Pass me my shirt?"

As he opens the door to leave, Derek steps close behind him, and Stiles holds still, not sure what's about to happen. Derek runs his nose along the nape of Stiles's hair, takes another of his deep, scenting breaths, and Stiles wants to lean back into it and cringe away.

"Thanks again for the save," Derek says.

"Yeah. I'll see you around," Stiles says, and doesn't let his shoulders hunch as he heads for his Jeep.

Once Derek's door is shut, Stiles hurries to get his phone out and headphones on. Derek's text had come from someone named Laura, a one-word message: update?

Update on what?

He starts the Jeep and rolls slowly down the lot, putting distance between himself and Derek as he hears the tones of dialing, then ringing. And then a woman's voice, slightly husky, calling him 'Der' and asking if he's okay.

"I'm fine," Derek says, annoyed, or maybe exasperated. "Been busy with your list."

"Yeah? You got any news for me?"

"I finished talking to everyone today. No one's seen a hunter in town for years. So it should be safe for us to come home."

Stiles slams on the brakes in front of the manager's office. Because he knows exactly what kind of hunters Derek is talking about. And the 'us' coming home must be him and...Laura...Hale? It sounds familiar, like a name he might've heard once or twice.

Or maybe he read it.

Stiles leaves the call running, barely listening as Derek complains about all the socializing his sister has made him do. Stiles is too busy cursing himself and opening his email to search for the name 'Hale' in Chris's messages. He finds it in an old attachment—the entire record of known werewolf activity in the state of California, Chris's parting gift to Stiles when the Argents moved back to Montana two summers ago. The relevant subfile is a case study prepared by Kate Argent detailing the history of the Hale pack in Riverside County. Stiles skims quickly past the profiles of two previous generations until he finds the line of alpha succession from Jacob Hale to Talia Hale, and then to Laura Hale eight years ago, upon Talia's death.

The new Hale alpha and one remaining pack beta had left the county. Current location unknown.

And now they want to come home.

Stiles rubs the back of his head against the headrest and tries to breathe past the tightness in his chest and the way his heart's jackrabbiting against his ribs. A werewolf pack moving into Beacon Hills...the thought makes him break out in a cold sweat. He should call Chris. This is what he has his number for, after all—to summon the hunters to handle any rogue wolves.

But Derek isn't an unstable omega if he's part of a pack...with his sister...and this case history means they're both born wolves, not freshly turned and heady with newfound power. Derek isn't terrorizing anyone...at least not yet. Stiles clenches the phone in his fist and stares at the empty highway just ahead of him, pushing away the images of Derek all up in his space to scent his neck, the way it makes Stiles's breath stop, paralyzed by a wary wanting he can't explain.

Derek's voice sounds strained to his ears now, describing the family gravesite in disjointed images, the tulips he'd bought for his parents and siblings, the gray of the marble, the quiet he'd found in the clearing beside the woods. Laura makes sympathetic noises and tells him he chose their mother's favorite.

Stiles wants to block it out, this conversation that's twisting him up in knots, but he has to listen, has to know their plans so he can make a rational decision about this. He wants to call Chris, but he can no longer bear the idea of hunters showing up to 'handle' Derek, to scare him away from his childhood home, the place where his family is buried.

And then Derek says, "I'll go visit Uncle Peter tomorrow. He should hear a familiar voice."

It hits like a slap, and Stiles flails, banging his wrist against the steering wheel. What the hell? Has there been another member of the Hale pack, another werewolf, here in Beacon Hills all this time? No way. Stiles would know if there were other wolves, the same way he'd pegged Derek in the diner. He wouldn't let another wolf just sneak around his town without—

"I'll text you the address of his facility. Tell him I'll see him soon, okay?"

"I will," Derek says, and the call ends.

Stiles watches the screen with bated breath, fear melding with anger and the conviction that he's been tricked somehow. It takes less than a minute for the text to come through: Beacons Crossing Home For Long Term Care

Wait, he knows that place! Scott volunteers with their nursing program. That means Stiles has an inside man. He can have Scott ask around about any employees named Peter, or anyone related to the Hale family. Stiles catches his breath, the desperation of a moment ago fading as he regains his footing. Derek's uncle may have been hiding, but now Stiles knows where to find him.

And once he figures out what Peter's deal is, Stiles can decide whether to let the Hales move back to town...or have the hunters make it clear that Beacon Hills is no longer a home for werewolves.

~

The sound of his dad's truck pulling into the driveway drags Stiles out of a nightmare...the fifth or sixth of the night. He wipes the sweat from his throat and rolls over to check his phone. The half dozen texts from Scott mean Scott's already at the care facility and not happy about it. Stiles definitely owes him for the early morning assist, but maybe not the free pass to drive his Jeep that Scott's asking for.

He hurries through a shower, catches sight of the hickeys on his neck in the mirror (from the earth-shaking sex he had with Derek Hale, oh my god), and throws on a hoodie to cover them before he ambushes his dad in the kitchen.

As expected, his dad has pulled the lemon meringue pie out of the fridge and is cutting himself a generous slice. Stiles snatches it out of his hands and tucks it back in the refrigerator over his dad's half-hearted protests.

"You know you can't sleep if you have sugar," Stiles reminds him. "Here, sit down and I'll make you breakfast."

His dad slumps into a chair at the kitchen table, his sheriff's uniform shirt unbuttoned and his hair rumpled. "A hell of a night," he mumbles as he rubs at his temples.

Stiles starts a mug of chamomile tea microwaving and preps a bowl of instant oatmeal. "Yeah? Anything exciting?" he asks, hoping his involvement in a certain bar brawl hasn't come to his father's attention.

"Just the usual. Some drunk and disorderlies, a shoplifter at the Walmart. We're still looking for the guys who hit the North Redondo subdivision."

Okay then, it sounds like Stiles and Derek are in the clear. Stiles thinks while the tea rotates in the microwave, trying to decide how to get the information he needs. But after a minute he just asks bluntly, "Hey, do you remember the Hale family?"

"Sure, yeah." His dad frowns. "I hadn't thought about them in years. Why? What's up?"

"Somebody at the diner mentioned them last night. I was trying to remember if we knew them."

His dad nods. "Claudia did."

Stiles nearly spills the tea in surprise.

"Talia Hale attended your mom's book club a few times."

Stiles starts the oatmeal cooking, sets the mug down in front of his father, and takes a seat. "She did? What was she like?"

His dad shrugs. "Your mom liked her, I think. But Talia was too busy with sports practices to stick with it. All the Hale kids were star athletes; you should've seen them play. I thought for sure we were finally going to bring home the state championship when we had two of them pitching."

It's surreal watching his dad reminisce about people Stiles was only barely aware of...people who weren't people at all, but a pack of werewolves in disguise. Stiles isn't sure if he's angry on his dad's behalf over the subterfuge...or jealous. The kids were talented athletes—no surprise, with superhuman strength and speed. Stiles has worked out diligently for the past two years to prepare for hunter training, but no matter how fast or strong he gets, he'll never be able to compete with a werewolf's innate abilities.

Which is why it's so important to learn everything he can about the werewolves who want to move into his town.

"How many of them survived the fire?"

His dad sips his tea and doesn't scowl at the flavor, too distracted by the topic. "Just the two kids, Laura and Derek; they were at practice. It wasn't my case—Sheriff Bresnan handled it personally—but I talked to the kids at the station, after. What that loss did to them...I can't even put into words. Claudia baked them some casseroles, tried to organize a charity event, but they left town right after the funeral. I heard some family lawyer handled the estate for them."

Stiles isn't prepared for the grief and compassion lining his dad's face. Ever since he left that motel room, he's been concentrating on Derek's otherness. It's the only way to keep his guard up against memories of Derek's smile, Derek's gentle hands, the way he'd worshipped Stiles's mouth....

The microwave beeps, and Stiles jumps to get it. "I uh, I remember the fire safety lectures the school gave us. Every year, another fire safety assembly. I've got the 10-step accident preparedness guide memorized," he quips to lighten the mood.

"It was a goddamn tragedy, worst this town's ever had," his dad says and accepts the steaming bowl Stiles hands him. He pauses, spoon poised over the oatmeal, before adding, "You know, there was something about that fire that never sat right with me."

Stiles looks up from the coffee pot. His dad's gut is rarely wrong. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know, it just seemed strange; a whole house full of people, and no one inside makes it out alive? But there wasn't enough evidence to justify an arson investigation, and the insurance rep didn't hassle the department for any further inquiry—he seemed more interested in golfing than doing his job. I've never seen an insurance claim settled faster in my life. Eventually Bresnan ruled it an 'electrical accident' and closed the case."

His dad's use of scare quotes unsettles Stiles. "You don't think it was an accident."

His dad sighs. "I can't say, one way or the other. I just wish I could've done more for that family. That insurance guy, though—he got killed by that mountain lion a few years back. You remember?"

Yeah, Stiles remembers the 'mountain lion' attacks. Viscerally. He suppresses a full-body shudder.

His dad stirs his oatmeal and looks off into the distance. "I guess karma works in strange ways."

~

Standing outside the Beacons Crossing facility, Stiles triple checks that Derek's GPS is still at the motel. It isn't a surprise, considering they'd left the Camaro at Jake's last night, and Derek will probably have to hitch a ride to pick it up. But Stiles has been jumpy all morning, half-expecting to find Derek looming over his shoulder, somehow knowing that Stiles is investigating him and his family.

Scott meets him in the lobby with bags under his eyes and a healthy glare for Stiles. "My shift started two hours ago—the one you begged me to volunteer for! Where the hell have you been?"

"Sorry, rough night," Stiles says. An understatement—when he wasn't having the usual nightmares about a predator chasing him through the woods, he was having vivid, amazing sex dreams about Derek fucking him...before Derek's eyes turned blue, and he tore out Stiles's throat with his fangs. "I'll make it up to you, I swear. Just tell me you found out something about our secret werewolf employee."

"Yeah, I did. Only he wasn't an employee; Peter Hale was a patient. Nurse Joyce remembers him; she says he'd been in a fire, that he was all burned and catatonic—he didn't move or talk to anyone for six years."

Stiles's simmering suspicion snuffs out. He'd expected a mustache-twirling villain skulking in the shadows, not an injured, incapacitated patient. Burned in the Hale fire of course. His heart tugs with this extra heap of tragedy piled on Derek's family.

Scott continues, "No one visited him; if he was part of a pack, it sounds like they abandoned him."

Stiles almost leaps to their defense, almost explains, they moved to New York. His dad's stories weigh heavily on his mind, and he can't help but feel for those two teenagers, suddenly thrust into adulthood, forced to shoulder the burden of hiding the family's supernatural secret on their own. But his thoughts are tripped up by Scott's phrasing. "Wait. Was? Did he die?"

"Nah, that's the weird part. He disappeared a couple years ago, right out of his room. They tried to contact the family, but never heard back, and Peter never turned up again. Apparently, it's still a mystery around here. Ms. Delores thinks he woke up with amnesia and walked himself out in the middle of the night—but she watches soap operas in the common room all day, so. Anyway, it's weird, huh?"

Weird is one word for it. Calamitous is another. Stiles feels like someone just tossed a live grenade in front of him, and he doesn't know whether to grab it or bolt. A werewolf with burn scars, who was on the loose in Beacon Hills a couple years ago, with no pack to keep it stable....

He stammers, "Two years...did they say how bad he was burned? Like, did he have scars on his face?"

Scott takes in Stiles's wan expression and shaking hands, considers for a moment, and then gasps, "Oh my god!" His hand drifts to the scar on his side. "You don't think—"

How could he not think it? The timing, the burns, the blue eyes—beta, not omega, he realizes. Stiles swallows hard. "This is...this is bad. You should probably bail on the rest of your shift—say you're sick or something. I don't want you here when his family shows up."

Scott already looks a little queasy. "Yeah, I'm not feeling so great. I'll go talk to Nurse Joyce."

Stiles waves him off and shuffles out to his Jeep, barely watching where he's going. It's too much to take in; Derek's uncle, the only member of the Hale pack to pull himself out of a fire that took the lives of a dozen loved ones, is the same werewolf who tried to kill Stiles and Scott on a moonlit night in the preserve two years ago.

And Stiles had helped kill him.

~

Despite how keyed up Stiles is, Derek seems determined to have a lazy morning. Hours drag by with Stiles slumped in the front seat of the Jeep, watching the GPS dot linger at the motel while Derek does nothing he can monitor with his phone. Without distractions, Stiles's thoughts wander, endlessly circling around Derek: Derek sleeping late in his motel bed, his naked shoulders and back, perfect ass and thick thighs. Derek smirking at him around his beer bottle, lips wet, that damned smile drawing Stiles in. Derek standing alone at his family's graves with a bouquet of purple tulips, alone in his grief. And Derek as an orphaned teenager, sitting with his sister in Sheriff Bresnan's office, learning the extent of his loss.

It's mid-afternoon before Derek finally starts moving. The GPS's pace indicates he's walking back to Jake's to get his car, and he's in no hurry. Stiles remembers Derek's dropping speed as he drove to the cemetery yesterday, when he'd seemed reticent to reach his gloomy destination. Today he's literally dragging his heels on his way to visit his infirm relative.

If Stiles had known this part of the investigation would take all day, he would've brought his physics textbooks. He settles for grabbing a drive-thru sandwich and soda, returning to his stakeout long before Derek makes it anywhere near his Camaro.

Stiles parks at the far end of the care center's parking lot this time, partially hidden in the shade of the tree line. But with the elm branches swaying in his peripheral vision, a persistent itch develops between his shoulder blades, a physical manifestation of the instinct to keep an eye on the woods behind him.

He hates the woods. He hasn't gone back into them alone since...Peter Hale.

Fuck. Peter. It's a head-trip to ascribe such a boring human name to the monster that stalks his nightmares, and even more boggling to feel pity for the beast. Stiles can't guess whether it was the devastating grief, the traumatic injury, or both combined that drove Peter Hale insane, but any of the above could explain a werewolf waking from a catatonic state into a mindless bloodlust.

Although...mindless was never the right word for it. Stiles had spent weeks at Chris and Victoria's kitchen table, helping them draw up search grids, eliminate possible lairs, and record its movements. The werewolf had been impossible to pin down. Even Chris had admitted that it seemed devious, almost calculating. And Stiles's dad's doubts about the fire must be contagious, because now Stiles can draw a clear line between Peter's murder spree and the death of the lazy insurance investigator who botched the Hale fire case six years earlier, and he's positive that karma—and coincidences—don't work like that.

He vividly recalls the details of Garrison Myers's fatal mauling, the bloody crime scene photos, the statements from the medical staff describing the victim as panicked and raving before his heart gave out. "Scared to death," one of the doctors had surmised. Stiles knows the feeling; he'd come close to it himself at Peter's hands. If it hadn't been for Chris's timely rescue, Stiles and Scott would've been two more of Peter's victims, their deaths attributed to a mountain lion the police never found.

Instead, Chris Argent had patched Scott up and given the two of them a lesson on the supernatural monster threatening their town. Stiles hadn't felt a shred of guilt stealing his father's case files on the victims—Myers, Unger, and Reddick—to aid in Chris's hunt; the werewolf was a violent killer that had to be stopped. Stiles had done everything he could to help stop the werewolf before it killed anyone he cared about...and he still hates himself for failing to do so before Kate arrived.

Finally putting an end to the rogue omega had been a victory of good over evil. But for the first time in two years, Stiles no longer feels that righteous certainty. Not when he envisions Derek walking the halls of the care facility, searching fruitlessly for his catatonic uncle. Not when Stiles knows that Peter Hale was decapitated and burned, and the ashes scattered in the Sacramento River two years ago. What will it do to Derek, when the staff give him the same 'mysterious disappearance' story that Stiles just learned?

Stiles struggles the hardest against those images, but they cling and multiply, until they're a buzzing swarm in his head: Derek heartbroken, alone, learning of yet another family loss, with no one to comfort him or even tell him the truth. Stiles grits his teeth in frustration, but he knows he can't be the one to break it to him; he has a feeling Derek wouldn't take news of the decapitation well, and killing the messenger is something that could definitely happen in this situation. No, he's already gotten too involved with Derek for his own good; he should keep his distance from now on.

Still, the guilt pricks at him as he waits. Along with the nagging urge to watch his rearview mirror as the trees sway behind him.

~

It's coming on sundown when Derek arrives in his black sports car. Seeing him in the flesh, Stiles wants to reach out and touch him again, slide his hands over all that smooth skin, rub his cheek against Derek's stubble. He wants—wants things he shouldn't have had in the first place and can never have again. Stiles gulps the last swallow of warm soda and slouches down in his seat as Derek heads inside to make his inquiries.

Judging by the ominous scowl and clenched fists when he emerges from the care facility, Derek has undeniably heard the news of his uncle's disappearance.

Stiles winces and adjusts the binoculars, tracking Derek's strides to his car. Through the tinted windows of the Camaro, Stiles can make out Derek lifting his cell phone and jabbing at the screen.

Oh man. This conversation is going to suck. Stiles grits his teeth and tucks in his earbuds.

Derek's first words to his sister are a furious snarl. "Peter's missing!"

"What do you mean missing?"

"I mean gone. Vanished from the home. Missing."

"How the hell—"

"You know how! The hunters must've found him. We never should have left him behind. He was easy prey for them; as easy as a house full of kids to those fucking Argents—"

Stiles drops the binoculars and scrambles up in the seat. What the fuck? Derek knows the Argents? Derek thinks the Argents set the Hale fire? In his ear, Laura is trying to calm Derek down, but Derek hangs up on her. The Camaro's tires squeal as it peels out of the parking lot, and Stiles should follow, should make sure Derek isn't going to take his bad mood out on the helpless Beacon Hills citizenry. But he can't get his head clear enough to turn the key in the ignition.

How could Derek possibly think the Argents were behind that fire? Stiles knows Chris and Victoria; they would never betray their hunter's code: to only hunt proven killers, to only hunt adults. They could never have gone after the peaceful Hale pack, let alone a house full of innocent children.

And Kate...Stiles's stomach twists, remembering how beautiful she was, the epitome of badass with her hunting rifle and wolfsbane-laced shells. He'd felt just how painfully young sixteen was, when he worked up the courage to offer her a personal tour of Beacon Hills. She'd laughed, throaty and too sexy for words, and assured him she'd been in town before and knew her way around...and she had a good idea where their wolf would go to ground. She'd been everything he wanted—and everything he wanted to be—in that moment, wearing a cocky smirk as she shouldered her rifle and headed out on her own to kill the big bad wolf that had attacked him and Scott.

He'll never forget Chris's expression when news came in the next day—his sister's body found torn in half, lying at the bottom of a ravine. Chris had smashed the vases on the mantel and the glass picture frames on the wall, tears in his eyes and his face a mask of fury. And then he'd formed a posse of every hunter within 200 miles, kitted them out with the full Argent arsenal, and declared, "You see anything on four legs out there tonight, you kill it. We'll sort out any messes later." And they'd sped off in their black SUVs like the wrath of God to find and end the omega once and for all.

A car alarm chirps in the parking lot, and Stiles blinks away the bitter memories that have defined the last two years of his life. Derek's car is long gone, with at least a five-minute head start, but the GPS tracker shows him heading with speed into the preserve, in the direction of the old Hale pack homestead. That's good; there aren't any humans living out that way. Stiles could technically call it a day, maybe go to the gym to burn off some of the excess everything he's carrying.

But he can't leave things as they are. Not with Derek hurling baseless accusations at his friends, at good people who'd suffered a tremendous loss doing what was right, what was necessary. No, someone needs to set Derek straight about the crimes his uncle had committed, and what the Argents had done for this town—before Derek does something stupid like declaring war against the Argent family.

Because Stiles has seen their arsenal and resources; if Derek decides to fight the hunters, he'll end up just like his uncle.

~

It's dim under the trees, fading daylight giving way to the rising gibbous moon, and there are reasons why Stiles doesn't come into the woods anymore. He clamps down hard on the steering wheel, a talisman to ward off an incipient panic attack as he drives deeper into the Beacon Hills preserve, following the GPS to Derek's childhood home.

He finds the Camaro parked by the burned-out shell of a once-large house. Stiles parks his Jeep alongside and climbs out with his backpack slung over his shoulder—just in case Derek doesn't like what he has to say.

The Camaro is empty; Stiles stands still and listens for any sign of where Derek might be. After a long wait, a crack echoes through the clearing, followed by a boom, muffled and drawn out, like walls collapsing, and oh dear god, Derek's inside the condemned building, isn't he?

Spurred on by the image of Derek pinned under fallen debris, Stiles hurries up to the porch. It's only when his foot creaks on the top step that he remembers the potential danger to himself—and not from a possible building collapse.

Maybe this isn't the best setting for the conversation he wants to have with Derek. Isolated, remote...he should turn back and try again somewhere else. His paired phone has Derek's number—Stiles can call him, ask to meet somewhere public. Like the diner, or a 24-hour grocery store. Hell, even Jake's would be safer.

Before Stiles can beat a hasty retreat, Derek steps out of the shadowed front doorway, catches Stiles's wrist in a bruising grip, and wrenches it up between them.

"What are you doing here?" Derek demands, his beautiful, multi-colored eyes still human, but narrowed with suspicion.

Stiles knows better than to lie to a living polygraph machine, but facing down an angry werewolf is new territory, and his higher brain functions are lagging. He finds himself instinctively bullshitting, "I was just driving by and saw your car—" Derek squeezes his wrist once, painfully, and Stiles blurts the first safe truth he can think of. "I was worried about you!"

"Worried about me? Why?"

That's a slightly easier question to sidestep. "Because I like you. I wanted to see you again."

Derek tilts his head, his scowl giving way to a wrinkled brow as he accepts that Stiles is telling the truth.

Stiles goes on the offense before Derek can ask him anymore questions. "What are you doing out here? This place looks like it's about to collapse."

Derek glances around them at the decaying façade of the house. His grip slackens, and Stiles holds his breath until Derek answers, "This was my family's home. Before the fire."

"Oh wow, I'm sorry. That must've been a long time ago, huh?"

"It was, yeah." Derek's gaze turns distant, following the path of memories. Painful ones by the look of it.

Stiles rotates his wrist cautiously until Derek releases him, and then he takes Derek's hand with his own. "I'm interrupting. I'm sorry," he says firmly to draw Derek back to the present. "Do you want to go somewhere and talk about it? I don't think this place is structurally sound." He gives a light tug, hoping Derek will follow his lead to find someplace with more people and more light. The gloom of night is settling around them, the moon casting wan shadows, and Stiles would give up ever seeing the stars again if he could just spend tonight under reassuring fluorescent light.

Derek looks at their joined hands like he's surprised by the touch, maybe even pleased. The last time Derek saw him, they'd just enjoyed multiple, mindblowing orgasms in his motel room; Derek would probably be up for an encore, if Stiles wanted to propose that.

Stiles lets his fingers slide suggestively over Derek's palm, reinforcing the sexual vibe.

"I know what you're doing," Derek says, and Stiles's breathing quickens. Does Derek mean the bait he's dangling, or the secrets Stiles so recklessly came out here to spill? Derek pulls, reeling him close so he can lean in and scent Stiles's neck. "I can smell it on you."

Stiles's cheeks flush, remembering the hickeys under his hoodie and a post-coital Derek lavishing his throat with kisses meant to mark. He knows he absolutely shouldn't have sex with Derek again, not with all the secrets he holds about the man and his family, but his body has a very compelling argument to the contrary. And defusing this conversation now means he can pick a better venue for the dangerous reveal later. Stiles turns his head to find Derek's lips, but Derek dodges and grabs the backpack strap off Stiles's shoulder.

His bare hands rend the backpack in two. Plastic baggies of herbs and charms cascade onto the porch, and Derek's eyes darken with fury.

"Can you explain this?" Derek growls.

Stiles's heart trip hammers as his mind goes blank, leaving only the primal urge to escape, to run—into the woods, under the light of a full moon, with a werewolf panting right behind him, nipping at his heels, toying with him as he runs for his life....

Not the woods. Never the woods.

"I don't know where that...." Stiles stammers as he backs up, but Derek catches the front of his hoodie in his fist to keep him in place. Stiles can't help the shudder of fear that shakes his body.

Derek jostles the heap of baggies with his boot. "Wolfsbane? Silver? What is that, mountain ash? You're full of surprises. Hunter."

"No, no! I'm not a hunter!" Not yet, he amends in the privacy of his head. The truth—he has to say something true. "I just...got some advice online" from Chris Argent "on how to keep myself safe. Apparently, werewolves are real—isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard?"

Derek doesn't buy his forced laughter. "You followed me, hunter. Why?"

Stiles can't deny that, and his mind races for a way to deflect, to stall. "I wanted to make sure you weren't a threat."

"That's a lie," Derek says.

"No, it's not!" he protests, but he can feel sweat beading under his armpits, his own body betraying the nuclear stockpile of secrets he's keeping. "I mean it wasn't. At first."

"At first?" Derek jerks him a couple inches closer, so he looms into Stiles's personal space. His knuckles press hard against Stiles's breastbone. "When did you start following me?"

"A...a few days ago," Stiles admits. Derek snarls, and Stiles thinks he sees a hint of fang in his mouth. Fear loosens his tongue. "I saw you visit the cemetery. And I know you were looking for your uncle. And I...I thought I should...I mean somebody should tell you...about what happened to him. Before you got the wrong idea."

Stiles had meant to soften the news, to deliver it gradually, but Derek must read the fatal implication in his babbled justification, because his features morph into something inhuman, and his eyes glow blue as he roars, "You killed him!"

Stiles's hoodie shreds to ribbons under Derek's claws, and in a panic, Stiles turns away from the woods and its recurring nightmares, running instead into the house. He needs time, has to find a place to hide, or find something to use as a weapon, but all he sees is darkness and a faint glow that might be moonlight further ahead of him. Stiles stumbles over an obstruction and slams his fingers into an unseen wall, but he's barely crossed the threshold from the foyer into a large room before Derek catches him—so easily—and hurls him to the moldy floor.

Stiles rolls on instinct, ignores the pain in his side, and gets his arms up to ward off the impending attack. Above him, he sees a glimpse of the moon shining through the ragged remains of the second-floor floorboards and the missing roof, before the werewolf falls upon him.

Stiles hits him with a right cross that barely turns Derek's head, and his kick to Derek's knee skids down his shin, a mere annoyance to the werewolf crouched over him. Derek's hand locks around Stiles's throat, not choking him, but sharp claws digging in just enough to send a clear message: Stop struggling.

Stiles clutches at Derek's immovable wrist, but all he can do is whimper and obey.

"Come to kill me like you killed Peter, huh? Well I'm not some drooling, helpless animal you can put down without a fight," Derek growls.

"No! I didn't— He tried to kill me! He woke up two years ago and started murdering people! He mauled my best friend!"

Derek makes a snorting sound, but surely he can read the truth in Stiles's words. He must. The truth is the only defense Stiles has left.

"He had to be stopped!"

"And you did the honors."

"No—"

"Yes!"

"No!" Derek doesn't yield an inch...because Stiles's body betrays his guilt. His sweat and his fear and his stuttering heartbeat are all telegraphing that he's holding something vital back. And Derek won't stop his interrogation until Stiles gives it up. Stiles whimpers, aware this will only confirm Derek's suspicions about him, and admits, "But I helped the hunters who did."

Derek's eyes narrow. "What hunters?"

Stiles bites his tongue to keep silent, knowing too well what paranoia his answer would fuel.

But Derek won't permit his silence. He releases his throat, only to seize Stiles up like a rag doll and shake him hard. "What hunters! Give me their names," he roars.

He's up in Stiles's face like Peter had been, and all Stiles can see is the blue glow of his inhuman eyes, the flash of fangs opening to rip his throat out, and Stiles shouts, high-pitched and cracking, "The Argents!"

Claws sink deep into his upper arms as Derek roars his fury. Stiles screams, but Derek snarls over him, spewing insults and cursing the Argent family in a torrent of hate.

"No," Stiles gasps futilely, writhing in Derek's agonizing grip. Blood trickles down the backs of his arms, sliding down to his elbows. He tries to focus on his words, looking for a way to get out of this alive. If he can just make Derek understand. "No, listen, they had to."

Derek's attention whips back to him, his eyes blazing with fury. "Like they had to set the fucking fire that killed my entire family?"

"No, I know them, they wouldn't do that! Chris and Victoria would never—"

"But their precious Kate would," Derek snarls. "I thought she was my— I thought she cared about me. But she was only using me to get information, when the pack would be home, about the secret tunnels, where she would lay the mountain ash to trap them inside...."

Stiles shakes his head, mutely defending her martyred memory from Derek's horrifying accusation. Sure, Chris had said Kate played fast and loose with human laws when it suited her, but she couldn't have killed children; she wouldn't have violated the code like that.

His denial only enrages Derek more. "You call her here! Make her come back here and pay for what she's done. I'll do what I should have done years ago, and avenge my family once and for all!"

"I can't," Stiles sobs, desperate and helpless, and Derek shakes him again, driving claws deeper into muscle. "I can't; she's dead. Your uncle killed her. He—he killed her two years ago."

And in the adrenaline-overloaded chaos of Stiles's mind, he feels it slot into place, the connection that fills in the missing threads. Peter must have had the same idea as Derek. The insurance investigator and Kate Argent—he'd been exacting revenge for his murdered pack. And Chris had succumbed to the same cycle of violence and killed Peter—not to protect Beacon Hills, not for justice, but to avenge his murdered sister.

What he's said finally reaches Derek, too, because the werewolf has frozen, his unblinking eyes boring into Stiles's as though trying to read the depths of Stiles's brain. Stiles nods frantically, willing his entire body to verify the truth of what he's just said.

And then Derek drops him, leaping off Stiles to land several feet away. He grabs the remains of a charred kitchen countertop, tears the wood from its base, and smashes it against an empty window pane, then into the flooring, a wild whirlwind of violence. The boards beneath them quake with the impact, and splinters spray like shrapnel, but Derek's awesome power is unstoppable. He breaks the countertop over his knee and hurls the pieces across the room, and then attacks the walls themselves, punching through drywall to rip out 2x4s like kindling.

Stiles whimpers in terror but forces himself to move, inching toward the relative safety of the opposite wall, praying Derek won't turn his frenzied attention his way—or bring the house down on them both. He fumbles his phone out to call for help, to call Chris...but he hesitates, thumb smearing blood over the screen. If he makes this call, it'll be Derek's blood on Stiles's hands, even if he doesn't pull the trigger himself. Derek will attack Chris, and Stiles doesn't doubt he'll die at Chris's hands. And then the powerful Hale alpha will come to avenge her brother...and the cycle of vengeance will continue until the Hales or the Argents are completely wiped out.

Stiles can't trust Chris to make the right choice about the Hale family.

He shoves his phone away across the ash-covered floor.

The violence subsides almost as quickly as it started. Derek tosses a last piece of debris aside and wavers on his feet, his blood-streaked fists clenched at his sides before he collapses to his knees amidst the wreckage, throws his head back, and howls the most gut-wrenching sound of anguish Stiles has ever heard. Tears flow down Derek's cheeks, shining silver in the moonlight, and when he hauls in a deep breath, it gusts out as a series of long, painful sobs.

Stiles doesn't even think—he crawls to him, ribs aching and sleeves heavy with blood, to lay a trembling hand on his shoulder. Derek shakes harder, bent over and weeping into his hands, and Stiles would give anything to ease his anguish in that moment. He squeezes, offering comfort, but Derek shrinks away from his touch and staggers to his feet, avoiding Stiles's eyes.

For a moment Derek pauses, staring at his own feet, and Stiles thinks he's about to say something...but instead Derek hurls himself through the empty back window and disappears into the dark woods, leaving Stiles alone in the decaying Hale house.

~

Scott drops a twenty on the table and grabs Stiles's messenger bag before he can slide out of the diner booth.

"I'm not an invalid, dude," Stiles whines, reaching for his bag.

"Nurse Joyce said a hypothetical patient with hypothetical injuries like yours shouldn't do anything strenuous for at least a week. I didn't spend all that time patching you up just so you could pull those puncture wounds open lifting your textbooks."

Stiles wants to keep arguing, but it's been a long day, aspirin can only do so much, and Scott's medical-professional lecturing tone is actually pretty impressive. "Alright, fine," he mutters. He wriggles out of the booth as obnoxiously as possible, arms flopping at his sides like a beached seal.

Scott rolls his eyes and starts toward the door. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"Hey, I can drive. I drove us both here; driving the Jeep is not a problem."

"I just mean...because he could still be out there," Scott says, and oh, right. Him.

Scott has a point—Derek could still be in town, maybe pacing around his crappy motel room, or hunched over a beer at Jake's, or skulking around his old family home. But Stiles wouldn't know. Because he'd deleted the cloning app that night, and he's very determinedly not looking for Derek anymore.

Still, he's kept his ears open, and there haven't been any unusual violent crimes reported in the last 48 hours, which had allayed his greatest concerns for Derek in the aftermath of Saturday. In all likelihood, Derek's gone back to New York City for good, having had enough of this town and its bad memories. If that prospect aches worse than bruised ribs and a half-dozen small-to-medium holes in his arms, well, Stiles never has to admit it to anyone.

"I'm sure he's long gone from Beacon Hills," Stiles says, faking a smile.

They head out to the parking lot and turn left toward Stiles's Jeep—but Scott jerks to a sudden stop right in front of Stiles, who crashes into him, smooshing his nose into the back of Scott's head.

Stiles squawks indignantly and cranes his head around Scott to see...Derek Hale not thirty feet away, standing next to Stiles's Jeep, looking like he's been waiting for them.

His first thought is that Derek looks good. Which is a no brainer; he always looks good—but he looks a whole lot better than the last time Stiles saw him. The late-afternoon sunlight warms his skin to a light gold. He's dressed in the same jacket, a pair of tight jeans and a black t-shirt, like he has something personal against wearing color—Stiles shouldn't find that adorable, but he can't help the fondness that unfurls in his chest. Derek doesn't look angry, which is another notable improvement. He's watching Stiles expectantly, his left eyebrow doing that silently amused thing that—

"Holy shit! Call the cops," Scott barks, backing up and stepping on Stiles's foot. "I'll get Allison's dad." He pulls out his phone to dial the Argents.

Stiles jerks into motion and snatches the phone out of his hand. "No! I told you, I don't want the Argents involved with this!" he hisses...and catches too late the triggering name he just used. A quick glance at Derek shows a second raised eyebrow, but no homicidal rage. That's good. Stiles really doesn't want a repeat of Saturday. He refocuses on his best friend, who's starting to protest. "Be cool, Scott! He's not going to attack us." He looks at Derek and asks the werewolf, without raising his voice, "Are you?"

Derek holds out his hands and says loudly, "Pack honor. I'm not going to attack you."

Scott's jaw sets stubbornly, and Stiles quickly steps around him to intervene. He's absolutely proud of Scott being able to stand up to a werewolf—seriously, A+ for personal growth—but Stiles really doesn't want him saying anything to set Derek off or drive him away.

"Look, I need you to let me handle this one, okay? Trust me; I know what I'm doing."

Scott looks at Stiles like he's crazy; it's the same face he'd made when Stiles admitted to confronting a werewolf without backup...and to sleeping with said werewolf the night before... and okay, Scott is maybe right to have some doubts about Stiles 'knowing what he's doing.'

But Scott doesn't know Derek like Stiles does, so he crowds Scott until he retreats a step. "Go back inside. Please. You can watch from the window. But let me do this."

"Give me my phone," Scott demands.

"Hell no! You'll just text Allison and get her worried over nothing. I'll be fine, Scott. Please. Let Derek and I talk."

Scott glares at him, then at Derek, before finally relenting and retreating to the diner. Stiles watches Scott take a seat in a booth overlooking the parking lot, where Scott jabs his finger threateningly at Derek a few times.

Stiles barely has a moment to feel relieved before—

"I don't think your friend likes me," Derek says, walking closer.

His amused tone makes Stiles immediately defensive. "Your uncle did a number on him. I can't say I blame him."

Derek's cocky attitude evaporates, and he holds up his hands again. "Sorry. That's the one you mentioned, the one Peter mauled." He stops a car-length away and looks from Scott to Stiles, his brows knitting together. "I'm sorry he got hurt. And I'm sorry I hurt you. I wanted to apologize for that. I hope you're okay."

Stiles nods. But when he tries to fold his arms to demonstrate, the wounds in his triceps pull sharply, and he winces. "I'll heal," he offers instead. Derek looks downright miserable at that answer, and Stiles is sick of seeing that expression on his handsome face. "So does this mean you're stalking me now? Turnabout's fair play, yada yada?"

"Would you believe I came here for the food?"

"Actually, yeah. Their curly fries are life-changing. But I'm pretty sure that's not why you're here."

Derek shrugs. "It was a coincidence, but when I saw your car, I figured I should wait outside."

"And eavesdrop on my conversation with your super-werewolf hearing?" Stiles can't even blame him, considering all the private conversations he'd spied on through Derek's phone.

"That wasn't my intention," Derek protests, "...but I heard some of it, yeah."

Stiles quickly reviews the topics he and Scott discussed over dinner: Stiles getting benched from lacrosse while he heals; Stiles having to choose between Stanford and Berkeley for next year; Scott's discomfort keeping Stiles's werewolf injuries a secret from Allison; Allison getting into Cal State; Allison acing her philosophy exam; Allison sending Scott a sexy selfie— Yeah. Mostly just talk about Scott's love life and their college plans.

But oh, about that. Stiles still has a few more secrets Derek doesn't know—or didn't know.

Stiles cringes, his shoulders inching up. "Um...so you've probably figured out that I'm still in high school."

"Yeah. I put that together."

"Um. Sorry. But I'm 18, so everything we did was totally legal!" he hurries to explain. But now he's remembering the many, many things they did, what it felt like sucking on Derek's cock, having Derek on top of him, inside him...and the blush is not helping him look more mature.

Derek snorts and deadpans, "Right, 'cause you buying me alcohol was totally legal." But he doesn't look pissed off, or disgusted, or disappointed, just amused, with a side of conspiratorial, and Stiles wants to kiss that smirk off his lips.

Stiles smiles and digs his hands in his pockets to keep them from flailing. "So. You were skulking around out here, looking like the shadiest drifter who ever drifted, just to see how I was?"

Derek mirrors his body language, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. "Basically. I wanted to apologize—"

"You did that," Stiles agrees.

"—and also, I have to ask you a question." Derek shifts on his feet, eyes flicking around the parking lot for a long minute, and it takes Stiles by surprise to realize that Derek's actually anxious about whatever he has to say.

Intrigued, Stiles prompts, "What's the question?"

Derek looks around some more, pausing to glower at Scott through the window before squaring his shoulders and telling Stiles, "I know you're not a hunter, but you're involved with them."

Stiles's smile falls. That's not actually something he wants to talk about. Or think about. Or be about anymore. Hence his pressing need to settle the Stanford versus Berkeley debate ASAP.

"That gives you the power, here," Derek continues, his face a stony mask. "My sister and I, we want to come back to Beacon Hills. We won't cause any trouble; we just want to live here in peace. But I know you get a say in that. If you tell your friends what I did to you...."

Stiles's stomach slides queasily at the reference to his earlier allegiances. Stiles has the perfect excuse to summon the hunters: claw marks in his skin. He could be Derek's judge, jury, and executioner-by-proxy with one phone call—and Derek knows it.

Derek's hands jerk free of his pockets, and he rakes them through his hair, words spilling faster. "I lost control, I...I hurt you, and I'm sorry. Again. To infinity. However many times you want me to say it."

"Derek—"

Derek's grim resolve cracks, giving way to pleading. "I know what you can do to us, Stiles. So I'm asking you not to do it. I'm asking you to let us come home."

Fuck, he's literally throwing himself on Stiles's mercy. The desolate, vulnerable expression on his face breaks Stiles's heart. "Stop," Stiles begs. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't, I couldn't, I..."

Derek goes silent, resigned as he waits for Stiles to string coherent words together.

There's so much Stiles wants to explain, to take back, to unlearn about the last two years of his life, beginning with Chris's very first lesson about so-called 'monsters.' Stiles has watched Derek grieving at his family's graves. He's seen Derek broken with grief and pain when he learned the truth about his uncle's death. And Stiles had Derek in his arms, open and warm and passionate, just three days ago. Like hell werewolves aren't people, and like hell they don't deserve justice like everyone else.

Stiles takes a few steps toward Derek, almost close enough to touch, and tries to say the most important parts, the parts that can't wait. What Derek deserves to hear. "I'm sorry for what happened to your family, and any role the Argents played in their deaths. I'm sorry for my part in what they did to Peter. And I'm not going to call them in, not now, not ever."

Derek blinks, slow to believe Stiles's disavowal.

"I thought I wanted to be one of them, but I don't want that life anymore," Stiles says. "That's why I decided—the only time I'm ever going to see them again will be at Scott and Allison's wedding, because like hell am I shirking my Best Man duties." Stiles tries to smile, to properly diffuse the uncomfortable tension, but he feels too hollowed out and raw.

And there's one more thing he has to say.

"This is your home. You belong here."

Derek's lips part on an audible exhale, and his eyes go wide. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Stiles says firmly, heart in his throat as he watches relief and gratitude transform something fundamental in Derek, some level of guardedness that was always there dissolving away with Stiles's words. And Jesus, if somebody doesn't tell a joke soon, Stiles might start crying. So he forces a cheerful tone and says, "We could always use another smooth-jazz DJ on our airwaves."

Derek scoffs, sounding just as choked up as Stiles. He may even be a little misty-eyed, but Stiles isn't going to call him on it. "You are so strange," Derek says, bewildered and admiring.

"The strangest," Stiles agrees. "But you like me anyway."

"I do," Derek says, without hesitation, like it never occurred to him to deny it. "I do."

Stiles bites his lip, and Derek tracks the movement, watching Stiles's mouth with interest. That look gives Stiles the courage to admit, "I like you, too."

Derek smiles and sidles half a step closer. "I know."

"I'm glad you're gonna stick around," Stiles adds.

"Me, too." Derek's hand comes up to tentatively brush Stiles's cheek and cup his jaw.

Stiles shuffles forward the last few inches, gets his hands on Derek's jacket, and leans in to breathe the scent of leather and warm skin along his neck, heady and addictive. Yeah, he can see why Derek likes doing that so much.

"Your friend is still watching us," Derek murmurs.

Stiles laughs, picturing the scowl Scott is probably giving them. "Let him watch," he decides and tilts his head to meet Derek's lips for a long kiss.