Chapter Text
Stiles isn’t even driving all that fast.
Maybe it’s the glare of the too-brought sunrise that makes him squint, or perhaps his steadily drooping eyelids can be blamed on the fact that he’s just pulled a fourteen-hour nightshift at the hotel (because writing doesn’t actually pay the bills until you’ve published something) and he’s tired as fuck, but either way he doesn’t see the sleek, black Camaro slowing down in front of him and indicating to pull over outside Starbucks until it’s too late.
He has just enough time to slam on his breaks before they collide, the impact jarring him forwards with a sickening lurch, his forehead smacking against the top of the steering wheel (that’s what you got from slouching all the way home) as the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass explodes around him.
Adrenaline is an awful thing. It sucker-punches you in the gut, steals the breath from your lungs, leaves you teetering on the brink of impending doom as the rational part of your brain switches off. Stiles can’t tell whether he’s choking or if it’s just the seatbelt cutting him in half, but it’s hands-down one of the worst experiences of his life, and it feels like half a decade before he regains control of his respiratory function and remembers how to breathe.
The outside world goes eerily silent, which is even worse than the deafening cacophony of colliding vehicles, because now all he can hear is the rush of blood pounding in his ears and his own fast, erratic breathing as he struggles to push himself upright, his head throbbing as he tips it back against the headrest. But he's alive. Nothing's broken. Even with panic cloying in his chest, he has the presence of mind to acknowledge that it could have been so much worse, and his relief at the fact leaves him shaking.
His vision’s swirly and blotchy for a moment before he blinks it back under control, and then he almost wishes he hadn’t because the other car looks wrecked.
“Shit,” he manages, fumbling with shock-numbed fingers to undo his seatbelt, feeling for the door handle with his other hand. “Fucking fuck, oh my god-”
The door knocks against something solid and rebounds with an “oof”, which is odd because car doors don’t usually verbalise such protests, and that’s when he finally turns his head and spots the dark-clad figure looming in his window, eyes glowing red, blood trickling down his unfairly angular jaw from a rapidly healing cut on his cheekbone.
Fuck. Fucking hell on a stick. He just totalled an Alpha Dom’s car.
Stiles raises both hands in a “look at me, non-threatening human here” gesture, because antagonising a Dom bad enough, but pissing off Alpha is a dozen or so leagues beyond that on the no-no scale.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, and means it, although he’s acutely aware that this isn’t one of those screw-ups he’s going to be able to apologise his way out of. “Dude, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you.”
Angry-eyes doesn’t let up his glare for one second, even as he very slowly and very carefully opens the car door and leans inside. Stiles resists the impulse to scoot across to the passenger seat, because the urge to run and hide and look small and helpless is almost overpowering, damn his biological instincts. But he’s dealt with unsavoury customers working as a hotel receptionist, and he’s had enough practice with threatening Doms not to lower his eyes submissively when the guy invades his personal space. A sub he may be, yes, but not a pushover. He can handle this.
The Alpha's gaze flickers down to Stiles' wrists, the crease in his brow deepening momentarily, and Stiles suspects the Werewolf had been hoping to identify his Dynamic by the presence of a Sub-band on his wrist. Well, fuck that. Stiles likes long-sleeved shirts. And if this guy's hoping to use his Dominant skills to make Stiles cooperate, he's gonna get slapped with so many Dynamic assault charges, he won't even know up from d-
“Give me your licence,” Pissed-Off says, and although his voice is surprisingly low and calm for a guy who looks about ten seconds from ripping Stiles to shreds with his teeth, the undercurrent of authority is still there, and it’s this that has Stiles fumbling for his wallet, pulling out the licence card with trembling fingers and handing it over wordlessly.
On a better day, he would have questioned the command. Civilians can’t demand to see proof of identification, and if they do the individual involved is under no obligation to obey that order, be they submissive or Dominant. But right now his head’s throbbing and his brain’s foggy and he’s still fighting against the instinctive urge to lower his gaze and bare his throat to appease Mr Angry Eyes. Denying the man his licence certainly isn’t a notion that crosses his mind.
The Alpha glares at his card for a split second, then closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. And just like that the tension in his posture is gone, his shoulders relaxing, the air of absolute authority he’d previously been carrying dissipating in a split second. And when he opens his eyes again, they’re a soft brown rather than Alpha-red, and the glare is gone entirely. The only indication that he’d ever been angry is the single line that creases his forehead, the faintest hint of a frown.
“I need you to call your Dom,” he says, and while the authority’s still there, it’s soothing now, a balm to Stiles’s jittery nerves. “Okay?”
Stiles blinks at him for a second, dumbfounded. It’s like the guy just flipped a switch; going from murderous Alpha Dom to calm, non-threatening protector in a split second. The only other dominant Were that Stiles has met with that sort of control is Scott, and that’s only because the dork’s a big softy with a heart of gold. There’s a reason he got accepted into the Werewolf Pan-Dynamic Services program fresh out of college. Isaac’s a lucky sub. (And Stiles is still giving himself self-congratulatory pats on the back for hooking them up, even though it’s been years.)
“Hey.” The Dom dips down a little further, putting them at a more even height, holding Stiles’s gaze steadily. “Hey, stay with me. Do you have your cell phone on you?”
Stiles nods slowly, even though there’s nobody to call; he’s been registered under John Stilinski for years now, since it became a legal requirement on his sixteenth birthday, but his Dad’s out in the middle of nowhere for the next three days on a fishing trip, camped out by some lake with a couple of work colleagues where there is absolutely no cell phone signal, Stiles, so please try to keep out of trouble until I get home, alright?
“My-” Stiles pauses and clears his throat, because that weak, wavering thing is not his voice, thank you. “My Dad’s on vacation until Monday. I can’t reach him on my cell.”
The Alpha’s face darkens briefly. “Is there anybody else you can call? Another guardian?”
Shaking his head, even though it only makes the throbbing worse, Stiles shifts in his seat and peers nervously towards where the all the early-morning Starbucks patrons have gathered in a small crowd outside his vehicle. He likes to think himself a fairly confident and independent sub, but right now he’d give anything to have his Dad to hide behind, or to feel Scott’s arm circling his shoulders like a protective shield from the rest of the world. Because he’s tired, he’s sore, and he’s fairly certain he’s in shock, and the last thing he wants to do is have a breakdown in front of a bunch of strangers.
“I can handle the insurance stuff on my own,” he insists, despite the way he can feel his tenuous control slipping, curling his hands into fists in his lap to keep them from shaking. “Unless you want to involve the cops?” Please no, please no, Dad’s gonna kill me…
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” The other man extends his licence back towards him. “And I’m not doubting your ability to exchange insurance details, but I’m also not about to let a shocky sub find his own way home, stubborn-willed or not.” He holds Stiles’ gaze, calm but firm. “Is there a friend you can call? Another Dom who can come and pick you up?”
A friend? Yeah, that he can probably manage. Scott’s not working until Monday, they’d Skyped each other last night to confirm that their plans for a junk food binge and movie marathon were still on. He can count on his best friend answering his phone too, even at this ungodly hour on a Saturday morning, because Scott’s newfound Werewolf senses make it near-impossible to sleep through the sound of a ringing cell phone.
“Scott McCall,” he says, after a pause that’s probably a little too long. But he can’t help that his head’s getting fuzzier by the minute.
The man’s dark eyebrows ascend marginally. “You’re friends with Scott?”
Despite the persistent urge to curl up in a ball and cry, Stiles manages to level the Alpha with a cautiously suspicious look. “Yeah,” he replies slowly. “That a crime?”
“Derek,” the Alpha tells him, like that’s supposed to mean something. At Stiles’ blank expression, he reiterates, “Derek Hale? I work with the Beacon Hills WPDS department. I’m Scott’s supervisor.”
Stiles blinks, opening and closing his mouth stupidly for a few seconds before clamping his lips shut and deciding that saying nothing is probably the best way forward. Otherwise he’ll end up saying something stupid like “oh, so you’re Hunky Derek” and “Scott never shuts up about you” and “I may have already fallen in love with the Perfect Alpha-Dom picture he’s painted of you”. Instead, he nods, because he’s pretty sure Derek just asked a question, and at least that’s some form of an answer.
Derek tilts his head to one side. “Are you listening to me?”
“Uh…” Okay, so maybe nodding without context had been a dumb idea. “I was…no. Sorry. What was the question?”
The Alpha’s lips twitch up at the corner. “I asked you what your name was. I wasn’t sure if you went by your full birth name, and to be honest I don’t know if I’d be able to pronounce it without hearing it first.”
“It’s Stiles,” he says, and his voice has finally lost that tremulous edge to it now that he knows who Derek is, now that he has Scott’s fanboy stories to reassure him that this particular Alpha isn’t about to go crazy and try to claim him. Or eat him.
“Stiles?” Derek echoes, and the smile curls a little wider now, soft and reassuring, and the urge to run and hide has been fully replaced with the urge to curl up against Derek and snuggle. “How about you slide out of the car for me, okay? We’ll call Scott and see what we can do about getting your Jeep towed.”
Stiles nods again, edging carefully across the seat and accepting Derek’s proffered hand as he slides out onto the road. His legs are wobbly and threaten to give out underneath him, and he’s grateful when the Alpha’s hand slides up to hold his elbow supportively, leading him away from the wrecked vehicles and then guiding him down to sit on the edge of the curb.
Something warm settles around his shoulders, and he blinks slowly, feeling weirdly spaced out as he glances down at his arms and sees the dark fabric of Derek’s jacket hanging loosely around him. That guy is seriously muscular, it’s unreal. He kinda wants to keel over sideways and go to sleep on the sidewalk, but there’s a hand on the back of his neck, the touch just firm enough to keep him centred, keep him grounded, as voices wash over him, a bustling hubbub of activity that he’s too tired to pay attention to.
He finds himself inching closer to the Alpha almost subconsciously, especially once the shivers start, the sub-shock rolling in like a tsunami now that the initial burst of adrenaline from the crash has worked its way through his system. He’s suffered enough panic attacks in his life to be intimately familiar with the symptoms of a stress-induced drop. And it fucking sucks, because he just crashed his Jeep and the repairs for both cars are gonna cost him a bomb, and all he really wants is a goddamn hug.
Derek doesn’t push him away, though. Most of it’s probably just Alpha instinct, and their level of contact is purely professional; one hand settled in his hair to keep his face tucked into the Dom’s shoulder, and a muscular arm wrapped around his midriff. Standard submissive comfort technique – Stiles played Test Dummy for Scott for weeks during his WPDS training (hey, any excuse to have prolonged snuggle-time with his BFF), and he recognises the hold immediately.
It feels fucking amazing though. Like Derek’s a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. He’s only ever felt that level of security with his dad when he was a kid, wrapped up in the man’s arms after a nightmare or a panic attack. He doesn’t want it to end. Like, ever. He makes a soft, pleased sound and buries himself as close as their current position will allow. Derek makes a soft, low noise in the back of his throat, and after a moment the Alpha's arms tighten around him further. Something tight in Stiles' chest slowly unravels, pulsing with a new and comforting warmth. Home, it says. Safe.
He’s not sure how long he’s sat there, but it hardly seems like any time at all before Scott’s face appears in front of him, concern written into his features as he crouches down in front of Stiles, hands sliding up from wrists to shoulders and squeezing gently, reassuringly.
“Hey, man, you okay?”
Like a bucket of water to the face, the reality of his situation rushes back to greet him, punching through the protective wall of happy, floaty sub-space that he’s built around himself.
He swallows, his throat tight and achy in a way he’s unfairly familiar with, and either it shows on his face or Scott’s Werewolf senses pick up something in his scent, because suddenly Stiles’s face is pressed against the other man’s shirtfront, Scott’s arms wrapped tightly around him, big hands rubbing up and down his spine in a confident, soothing manner.
“You should take him to the centre,” Derek says behind them, and Stiles realises that the Alpha’s hand is still resting on the back of his head, warm fingers rubbing against his scalp. “He’s down pretty far, and his Dom’s out of town.”
“M’fine,” Stiles insists, although it’s more of a muffled mumble because his face his still buried in Scott’s shirtfront. “Wanna go home.”
“I know you do, Stiles.” Derek squeezes the back of his neck gently, and Stiles feels himself go boneless. “But someone needs to stay with you until you’ve come back up again.”
Scott shifts, adjusting his hold. “I’ve got him, Derek. We'll be alright.” The younger Werewolf's arms squeeze him a little tighter. “We’re going back to my place, bud. No reason why we can’t start that movie marathon a little early.”
“But-”
“No arguments,” Scott interjects, but it’s still gentle, still neutral; one friend to another. Scott rarely pulls the Dominant card around Stiles, not unless he feels the situation’s escalating towards dangerous.
Stiles gives a grumbled complaint anyway, a token protest, but doesn’t fight the Dom when he’s pulled to his feet and steered on clumsy, uncoordinated legs towards Scott’s car. The ride home is a blur, and although he vaguely recalls being pulled from the backseat and carried upstairs (bless Scott and his supernatural canine strength), true awareness remains frustratingly elusive for a good hour or two afterwards.
He comes back to himself midway through The Fellowship of the Ring, his head pillowed in Scott’s lap, sleepy and disoriented but feeling warm and calm on the inside, the way he always does if he’s been guided up from a Drop by someone he trusts. Scott’s fingers are still in his hair, not stroking or rubbing, just resting there. It’s a comforting weight.
“Hey.” Scott’s clearly picked up on the change in his breathing pattern. A warm hand strokes down his side. “Hey, man. You back with me?”
Stiles nods, licking his lips, not quite trusting his voice just yet.
“You wanna sit up?”
He nods again, and Scott’s hands shift to support him, easing him upright slowly until he’s sitting slumped against the couch cushions. He feels exhausted. Lifting a too-heavy arm, he drags a hand down his face, taking a steadying breath.
“I crashed my Jeep,” he says at last.
Scott’s fingers smooth over his neck, warm and gentle. “I know.”
“I crashed my Jeep into an Alpha,” he reiterates, in case Scott hasn’t quite grasped the extent to which Stiles has fucked up. “A really, really nice Alpha who also happens to be your boss. He…he was so pissed off, Scott. I thought he was gonna tear the door right off its hinges and eat me.”
He drops his hand again in time to see a frown crease Scott’s brow. “What? Did he threaten you?”
Stiles shakes his head quickly, which unfortunately serves to reignite the ache in the centre of his forehead where it had collided with the steering wheel a few hours earlier. It’s a miracle that’s the only injury he walked away with. Come to think of it, he’s lucky he doesn’t have whiplash. Or maybe he does, and the afterglow of his sub-high is simply masking the pain.
“No, he was cool.” He scoots closer to Scott, tucking himself back under the werewolf’s arm when it lifts invitingly. “Really cool, actually. Shut down the whole Alpha-Dom thing once he saw my licence and realised I was a sub.”
He feels Scott relax beside him. “Good. Derek's a great guy, and he's not the type of Alpha who gets a kick out of Domming people, you know? I'd trust him with my life. But fear and adrenaline can screw with a Dom’s control, and that was a seriously nice car, man.”
Stiles groans and hides his face in Scott’s shoulder. “Duuuude. M’gonna be in so much trouble.”
“I gave Derek your insurance details,” Scott reassures him, resting his chin on top of the sub’s head. “And he’s already told me he doesn’t want to press charges. The only issue you’re gonna have is fixing the Jeep without your dad finding out.”
“My baby,” Stiles laments, lips turning down.
She’s old now, he’s had her since he passed his driving test six years ago, and the cost of the continual repairs and maintenance work has probably already doubled the price of buying a cheap, second-hand car to replace her, but there’s a sentimental attachment there. He lost his virginity in that car. She survived through his senior years at high school, through three years of Literature Studies and Creative Writing courses at college, and through six months of long nightshifts at the Lunar Palace Hotel across town to keep on top of the bills so that his dad could cut back on his shifts at the police station. And now she’s busted. Like, seriously busted.
“But nobody got hurt,” Scott reminds him, with another encouraging squeeze. “And Derek didn’t seem particularly bothered about the damage, so chances are he’s already forgiven you. I mean, your day sucked, totally, there’s no denying that. But it could’ve been worse, right?”
“Mm,” Stiles acknowledges despondently. He doesn’t want to think about how much worse things could have been. About how he’s fucking lucky that he not only hit a Dom who doesn’t have control issues, but that Derek is also an Alpha fucking Werewolf with super-healing. The idea that he probably would’ve put any other driver in the hospital if they’d been human is just too goddamn terrifying to entertain.
He swallows past the lump that’s reforming in his throat and scoots away from Scott again, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “You got anything to eat? I’m starved.”
“Sure, man.” Scott stands and moves towards the adjoining kitchen, brushing his fingers gently through the Sub's hair as he passes, a casual caress (they’ve become more of a regular occurrence now that Scott’s a werewolf; it’s a pack thing, he gets that, they’ve always been brothers in every way except blood). “Grilled cheese sandwiches work for you?”
“Mmmm, I love you,” Stiles moans appreciatively, flopping back down sideways so that he’s stretched out across the couch.
“Love you too. Dufus.”
Stiles grins tiredly, his eyes half-trained on the screen as Aragorn has a heated argument in Elvish with the blond-haired Dom in Lothlorien, but he’s distracted by a blur of black on the far side of the room, out of place against the cream-coloured armchair its resting on. He blinks. Frowns a bit. Blinks some more.
It’s Derek’s jacket.
Stiles remembers the smell of warm leather and Alpha and Dom and safety, and the back of his neck tingles at the tactile recollection of a steady, confident hand resting there. And suddenly he has an overwhelming urge to wrap himself back up in the jacket and snuggle. Which is ridiculous. And worrying. Because Derek’s a relative stranger, and an Alpha Dom at that, and developing those kind of urges over the guy’s clothing is the kind of lovesick thing that happens to high school teenagers around their first Doms.
Besides, Derek’s way out of his league, and he probably already has a cute little sub waiting for him at home. They probably cuddle all the time. And Derek’ll do that thing where he tucks his sub’s head underneath his chin and strokes their hair.
Stiles isn’t jealous. He’s not.
Ugh.
…………………………………..
He’s too much of a coward to take Derek’s jacket to the WPDS centre on Monday and thank him in person, so instead he bakes an extra-large batch of double chocolate and peanut butter cookies and sticks a post-it note to the Tupperware box which concisely sums up all he needs to say:
Thanks for lending me your jacket, Sir. Sorry again about your car. Make sure Scott doesn’t eat all your cookies. – Stiles xxx
It isn’t until Scott’s already driving away, jacket and Tupperware container sitting in the passenger seat of his car, that Stiles starts to regret adding the kisses.
His dad’s due to return home from his fishing trip later that day, and if takes Stiles a ridiculously long time to pack up his few belongings from Scott and Isaac’s spare bedroom, the other sub doesn’t mention it. Isaac’s fresh off the nightshift rotation at the Centre, yawning every other sentence, but he still insists on driving Stiles home, and leans over to give him a reassuring hug when he pulls up outside the Stilinski residence.
“It’ll be fine, Stiles,” the curly-haired sub insists, when Stiles clings to him a few seconds longer than usual. He nudges Stiles’s temple with his nose, a gesture of affection from one packmate to another “Your dad’ll just be happy that you’re okay.”
That doesn’t stop Stiles from cleaning the house from top to bottom and making sure there’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing by the time his dad’s car rolls up the driveway. In hindsight, it probably only makes his guilt more of a giveaway, because usually he hates chores, but it alleviates some of the nervous tension that’s been building up inside of him.
Of course, it all goes to hell as soon as his dad sees him, because hello, giant swollen bruise in the middle of his forehead. Idiot.
“What happened?” John demands, his brow creasing as he crosses the room, exuding protective Dom vibes that quickly have Stiles squirming guiltily in his dad’s hold.
“Nothin’.”
“Stiles.” His dad’s gaze flickers down the rest of Stiles’s body, perhaps looking for further injuries. “I don’t need to be a Werewolf to know when you’re lying to me.”
The younger Stilinski bites his lip and lowers his gaze to the floor, curling his bare toes into the fabric of the carpet. “I…I maybe kinda crashed my Jeep on Saturday.”
“Christ.” John’s hands move to cup his face again, forcing his gaze upwards, his eyes narrowed in concern. “Are you hurt?”
Stiles shakes his head as much as he can without dislodging his dad’s gentle grip. “Just a bump on the head.”
John exhales shakily, then pulls Stiles into an abrupt hug, one hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck while the other arms squeezes him tightly. “Thank god.”
Leaning into the embrace gratefully, Stiles blinks back the hot sting of tears, angry at himself because he thought he was over this, except apparently his emotions are still pretty fucked up from the whole ordeal.
“I’m sorry,” he manages a little while later, when they’ve migrated to the couch so that Stiles can curl up against his father properly.
John rubs his back. “Were you drunk?”
“What?” Stiles lifts his head, hurt. “No, Dad, god.”
“Were you speeding?”
“No.”
“Did you run a red light?”
He shakes his head adamantly, a cold, sickly sort of feeling in his stomach at the calm accusations. “No, I didn’t do anything, I promise. I just…I didn’t see him. He was pulling over to park in front of Starbucks, and I didn’t realise he’d slowed down, and it just…it happened so fast.”
His dad drops a kiss against his temple and tugs him in closer. “Then you don’t need to apologise. You’re not in trouble; sometimes these things just happen.”
Stiles sags a little out of relief. He’s never handled disappointment well, especially from his father. Sure, he’s got a smart mouth and enough sarcasm to ward away every sensible Dom in the immediate vicinity, but he never actually intends to cause trouble. Just seeing the look it brings to his father’s face is usually enough to stick a painful lump in his throat and leave his eyes burning, never mind actual discipline and consequences. A couple of taps to his backside and five minutes in the corner had always been enough to bring him to sobbing contrition as a kid, and sadly not much has changed since then. Damned biology.
“Do I need to call the other driver’s Dom?” John asks, patting his back to jar him from his thoughts.
“The other driver was a Dom,” Stiles replies, shifting to settle himself a little more upright. “An Alpha.”
His dad’s brow starts to crease again. “Did he treat you okay?”
Stiles sighs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes only because he’s close enough for his Dad to smack his leg in retaliation for the cheek. “He was fine Dad. He stayed with me ‘til Scott arrived. Derek works at the Centre, he’s Scott’s supervisor.”
“Derek Hale?” John guesses. At Stiles’s nod, he smiles. “We’ve worked together before, he’s a good man. I’ll give him a curtesy call anyway, Dom to Dom, but I’m sure he won’t want to press charges.”
“He doesn’t,” Stiles confirmed, tucking his legs up like he used to when he was thirteen and scrawny. It’s not quite so easy now that he’s in his twenties and has a little more meat on his bones, but it still makes him feel a little more secure. “Scott gave him my insurance details, it’s being sorted.”
John stands, ruffling his hair gently. “Still gonna call him, kid.”
“Not a kid,” Stiles huffs rebelliously, because the thought of his dad talking to Derek makes him feel edgy and uncomfortable in a way he can’t quite explain. It’s not like his dad’s gonna embarrass him. And why does he even care?
He doesn’t. He doesn’t care. It’s fine.
That doesn’t stop him from eavesdropping on their phone conversation though. It earns him a stinging swat to the thigh and an admonishing look when his father emerges from his office unexpectedly and catches him, but Stiles has a hard time regretting it.
He wonders what Derek could have said to make his dad laugh so hard.