Archive of Our Own

Derek swears an x-ray could catch the imprint of Stiles’ hand over his face, the ghost of his body heat seared into his skin. No one has ever touched him so tenderly, so kindly without an ulterior motive, but even so, the intent behind the touch changes everything. He wonders how he’s lived so long without it, if Stiles even knows what he’s done, the oils of his palms intermingling with Derek’s own scent, mixing to create a bouquet so unique it makes his mouth water. He could bathe in it, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

The first thing he realizes once he’s awake, is that he doesn’t hurt. He can still feel the imprint, smell the sweat and grime covering Stiles’ lissome hands, the caress of his fingers over the shell of his ear. And it doesn’t hurt .

He doesn’t wash his face for three days, and the wolf inside doesn’t feel so alone. His fingers press over his sternum, a new pack bond in place, straining against all odds, but it’s there.

Werewolves, whether bitten or born, thrive off scent. It’s why they tend to mark those they consider pack, hands always finding one another somehow. Whether it’s a simple brush across their throat or even a hand on their back, wolves tend to leave their scent behind on the things or people they like. Derek has been actively ignoring the fact that Stiles smells… good. Mouth-wateringly, tooth-rottingly, delectable. It was easier to ignore that before Stiles touched him.

Once he finally showers, he finds himself outside the Stilinski household, hands in his leather pockets as he stares up at the orange-limned window. Stiles is awake, he knows from the rapid hum of his heartbeat that somehow never sends him into cardiac arrest. The Sheriff isn’t home.

Derek climbs the side of the house and is granted a view into his room, the spindly human hunched over his computer desk as he murmurs to himself, a hand covering his mouth as he leans on his elbow.

As if his sixth sense is triggered, Stiles turns to his window and flails out of his chair, his heart thumping wildly as he scrambles back up. His skin is flushed, Derek notices, his gaze averted as he opens the window with a scoff.

“Dude, I take drugs that increase my heart rate, are you trying to kill me?”

Derek can only stare, eyes fixated on the way Stiles’ ears redden, his eyebrows furrowed in total bemusement—he can’t for the life of him think of an excuse as to why he’s here.

Stiles swallows and steps aside, and Derek takes the invitation, closing the window behind him once he steps inside.

“Uh, so. What’re you doing here?” Stiles asks, scratching at his sideburn, anxious waves purling off him as he tries to figure out what to do with his hands. He settles on crossing his arms for all of five seconds before swiping them over his chest and stuffing them into his pockets.

Derek just wants to press his face into his palms, is that so much to ask?

“Thank you,” Derek blurts out, his lips a tight line, eyes searching. “For saving me. Or, trying to.”

“Oh, man, it’s no biggie. I’m just glad I didn’t have to actually cut your arm off,” he says a bit breathlessly, like he’s recalling the split second before metal teeth bit into Derek’s flesh. Derek is glad too. He’s tired of always ending up in a novel amount of pain.

That’s as far as Derek could get.

His eyes trail around the teenager’s room, cluttered with junk and posters, every object in here granted the privilege of his touch. Derek is jealous of a goddamn basketball stuffed in the corner of a shelf—it probably hasn’t even been touched in years, but it has been touched, nonetheless. His gaze settles on the open laptop screen, an image that reminds Derek of a gargoyle in plain view.

“What’re you researching?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Stiles’ head snaps to his screen. “Gargoyles, dude. Except I don’t think these are the good ones. Do you know anything about them?”

Derek finds himself nodding despite only knowing what the general public may know of the stony creatures. He’s pretty sure the Hale mansion had one until... yeah.

Stiles grabs his arm and plants Derek down on his bed as he snatches his desk chair and takes a seat right in front of him.

“Tell me everything.”

If Stiles could hear Derek’s heart, he’d probably be wondering how he doesn’t end up in cardiac arrest. 

Honestly, he’s just been searching for any way to get Stiles’ hands on him again. Any way he can feel that gentle touch, even if it’s only for a moment, it’s better than the horrible ache he feels without it. Better than the devastating longing he feels when Stiles’ scent is washed away. He knows that he shouldn’t let it get to him so much, because it’s not like Stiles is his or anything, despite how much he wants him to be. God knows Derek can’t just open his fucking mouth and say it, though. That would leave him too exposed, too vulnerable, too weak. He’s done a damned good job of building up the walls around him to keep everyone at a safe distance and he’s not entirely sure he can let them crack to let Stiles in without the whole thing crumbling. Even still, it doesn’t change how much he wants.

Which is why he’s done some, well, pretty fucking foolish things the last few weeks. Not the least of which is how he found himself standing outside of the Stilinski house on a Saturday morning. The Sheriff’s cruiser is gone, Jeep parked in the driveway. He can hear Stiles humming tunelessly to himself somewhere within the house from where he stands on the sidewalk. A hand raises to scratch at his cheek, the stubble grown out a little more than he normally allowed. 

Although, that is sort of the point here. The hair held onto Stiles’ scent longer, meaning he doesn’t have to make a fool of himself quite so often. Of course, that doesn’t matter much in the long run, does it? Because he’s still actively seeking ways to get Stiles to touch him. With a little shake of his head, both to bring him out of his thoughts and steel himself, he jogs closer, casts a quick look around, and vaults up to the ledge. The window’s already open, so all he has to do is swing his legs over and he’s in. Stiles huffs from where he’s sitting on the floor, school books and notebooks and loose papers scattered all around him. 

“What the hell is it with wolves and windows?” he mutters without looking up from the notebook he’s currently scribbling furiously on. Homework, Derek assumes. When he doesn’t respond, Stiles glances up past those long lashes before his eyes widen. “Jesus, didja get in a fight with your razor?” 

Derek just scowls back. Apparently, there’s something hilarious in the way his eyes narrow because it ignites this beautiful amused glimmer in Stiles’ eyes. “I’m trying to grow it out… but now it’s too much and I can’t get the angle right.” If Stiles were a werewolf he would have heard the lie.

As it is, Stiles only raises his brows with a smug little smirk forming. “So, you plan on walking around like-” a hand waves in the general direction of Derek’s face “-that until you figure it out?” And he’s trying so hard not to laugh, Derek can almost hear the giggle burbling up.

So, he rolls his eyes to keep up the appearance. “No. I came to ask you to do it for me,” he replies bluntly.

Stiles’ eyes widen marginally, a surprised burst of laughter escaping him; not quite the amused snicker that had been there before. “I, uh, you. You want me to do it? I mean, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, big guy, but I’m not exactly rocking my own phenomenal beard or anything.”

“Can you hold a razor steady?” he deadpans. Stiles chews his lower lip, clearly on the verge of saying something along the lines of barely being able to sit still, when Derek rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll just… ask Erica, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He’s barely turned back toward the window when he hears Stiles’ limbs go flailing, the book and notepad that had been in his lap landing on the floor in muffled thuds as he lurches to his feet. 

“Hell no, she’ll just shave it all off.” Containing a smirk, he glances back at Stiles, eyebrows arching toward his hairline. Stiles huffs, almost sounding exasperated, but there’s something else beneath it too. “Come on. Might wanna lose the jacket though, dude.”

Derek wastes no time shucking it and tossing it onto Stiles’ bed, letting it pick up whatever scent lingering there. He follows behind as Stiles leads him to the bathroom, watches as the younger teen digs into the linen closet within, returning with an electric razor. Not what Derek would have preferred, but it’ll work. Stiles, a few inches shorter than Derek still, chews at his lip again. “Uh, alright. Don’t, ah, don’t bite my fingers off or anything.” He’s joking, Derek knows, but there’s still a hint of anxiety behind it. And a flush creeping up his pale cheeks that Derek has to force his gaze away from.

The click and hum of the razor grates his nerves, though he’s able to completely ignore it the second Stiles’ long fingers are on his chin, angling his head to better see what he’s doing. Derek’s shoulders relax at just that gentle contact, lids drooping closed. He breathes slowly, inhaling every spike in Stiles’ scent from that anxious energy to teenage horniness to awkwardness and excitement. It’s all too easy to focus on Stiles’ fingers ghosting along his jaw, his chin, his cheek, or the scents coming off of him and completely ignore the razor’s sound or the scraping over his cheek.

When Stiles tips his chin back to target the hair beneath it, Derek’s eyes open only enough to see him again. His cheeks are still pink, face screwed up in concentration. Every so often his tongue pokes out or he bites at his lip and Derek has to clench his hands at his sides to keep them to himself. It feels like ages pass when the razor clicks off, a soft thunk as Stiles sets it aside before his hands are on him again.

Stiles tilts Derek’s face one way, then the other, scrutinizing his work. Then those long fingers gently pad across his cheeks to wipe away any remaining stray hairs, tracking through the short strands on his face and down his neck before brushing at the bits attached to his shirt front. All the while Derek’s heart is in his throat, hammering loud enough he’s sure Stiles can hear it.

He doesn’t, if the way the other teen acts is any indication. Just steps back with a satisfied grin. “Well?” When Derek just raises a brow, Stiles rolls his eyes and reaches out, delicately grasps his chin and turns his face toward the mirror. “How’d I do?”

Derek swallows thickly, then takes a moment to ghost his own hand over where Stiles had touched, careful not to disturb his scent. Then nods, “Thank you.” He knows Stiles has no idea what he’s thanking him for, but Stiles grins pridefully nonetheless.

“You’re welcome, grumpy. Hey! What do you know about polynomials?” Derek fights not to smile and Stiles grasps him around the elbow, “Good, come help me with my homework.”

Sometimes Derek feels like he’s drowning, completely immersed under water without knowing which way is up, which way brings him life-giving oxygen. It’s not hard to see where he needs to connect that little pin labeled ‘air’. Right in the middle of Stiles’ forehead. Right between those amber, doe eyes. Or, more aptly, pinned to each of Stiles’ hands. Because when he feels this lost, this hopeless, the only thing that chases it away is Stiles’ touch. 

Derek is trying not to go over there. He can’t seem too needy. Especially considering the better part of his and Stiles’ interactions showcase Derek as an asshole. A standoffish jerk who growls more than smiles and tends to scare the hell out of people. Except Stiles. Much as the younger man might claim that Derek scares him, he knows that it’s not Derek, himself, that Stiles is frightened of. At least not judging by the scent of arousal that spikes from the teen at random.

Stiles’ scent has faded from his face and the only place he can find it is his pillow, where his beard has scratched it into the fabric. He’s avoiding grabbing the pillow and hauling it to his face just to inhale every ounce of the aroma until there’s nothing left. Which, is actually easier than he would have thought this morning when he’d realized he couldn’t smell Stiles anymore after he’d left his bed. What he wants is that touch. He wants that comfort that comes from those soft, soothing fingers. 

He wants the feeling of Stiles’ tender touch, marking him in all the ways he craves. Derek hadn’t realized until Stiles’ touch was imprinted in his skin just how much he needed it. How much he’d missed having anyone put their hands on him. How much he desires being connected to someone else, especially pack. 

If he reaches for it, he can feel the pack bond. There and stable and steady. If Stiles was a wolf he would be able to feel it when Derek tugged at that bond, but Stiles isn’t a wolf. Fuck, Stiles probably doesn’t even know that the bond is there at all. There’s a large part of him that wants nothing more than to rush over and tell Stiles everything, but another that knows if he does, all that will do is freak him out. 

And he’d rather not scare Stiles away for real. Not when all he wants is to pull him in and bury himself in Stiles’ arms, let the spindly human become his casket and take him away from all the pain and hurt and trauma that’s been his life.

Briefly, Derek wonders if he would have reacted the same way to anyone else’s touch. Scott’s patted him on the shoulder a handful of times and while Derek doesn’t cringe back from it, nor does it leave a stinging ache in its wake, he doesn’t long for that same contact. Boyd keeps his hands firmly to himself–or Erica. Erica doesn’t seem to care as much who her hands land on. Derek’s come to notice, however, that he responds to hers almost as willingly as he does Stiles’. He just doesn’t find himself longing for contact with her.

The closest he can come to that same feeling Stiles’ touch invokes is Isaac’s. Though, those are few and far between, like the beta is terrified to put his hands on anyone. The biggest difference is that Derek Isaac’s hesitant grazes are only platonic– there’s no perpetual desire for repeated action, for regular contact. It takes more self control than Derek is even sure he had to begin with to keep from running to Stiles’ house in this very moment. 

If he can just keep it together long enough, he’ll be granted asylum under the full moon, the buzzing of yearning under his skin breifly swapped for rage. 

“I’m telling you : there’s something in the lake,” Stiles huffs.

“And I’m telling you that’s not possible,” Derek replies while opening the bag of food he’d brought. Stiles had texted him an hour ago telling him to bring food from the diner because he was falling into the rabbit hole of research and needed someone to bounce ideas off of. And probably someone to remind him to eat. Scott was likely off with Allison, again. He’d barely made it in the door when Stiles had loudly proclaimed there was something living in the lake at the center of the preserve.

Stiles scowls at him from where he sits at the Stilinski’s dinner table, laptop open in front of him. “ Why are you so dead set that there’s nothing there? Have you been to the lake lately?”

Derek’s brows rise slowly. He hasn’t been to the lake since before Kate. Frolicking in the water has little appeal for him anyway. “What do you possibly think could be living in the lake? And why in the world do you think there is anyway?” he scoffs while pulling a takeout container from inside the bag. After a quick check, he sets it aside then hands the other over to Stiles: A hamburger with curly fries, his own containing a grilled chicken sandwich and side salad.

“Because I saw it!” Stiles insists and pushes his laptop toward the center of the table. When Derek’s brows shoot higher, Stiles sneers. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, asshole, I know what I saw.”

“And… what exactly did you see?” Derek asks with a hint of a smirk forming. Stiles is sat at the head of the table and Derek slips into the seat at his right.

“I swear it was a mermaid, dude. But not, like, little mermaid kind of mermaid.”

“What?” Now, he’s thoroughly confused.

“You know,” Stiles huffs in exasperation, “Ariel. The Little Mermaid. Big, beautiful bitch Ursula…”

Derek snorts a laugh before he’s able to school his features. There’s so few people who can ignite a reaction like that from him and Stiles always manages to. Shaking his head, he asks around the grin that’s threatening to form, “So, no singing crabs and dancing fish?”

Stiles’ gives his best bitch face. “Maybe if they lived ‘under da’ sea’, but they’re in a frickin lake. Anyway ! So, what I saw was a mermaid tail or fins or whatever you call them and a humanoid upper half.” He motions toward the open laptop before taking a large bite of his burger.

On the screen sits a google image search of ‘mermaid tails’. “So, you saw a big fish?” he deadpans and takes a much more appropriate-sized bite. Of course, he’s skeptical. It wasn’t as though the lake is a hotbed of supernatural activity. It’s just… a lake. A large body of water nestled in a tranquil space of the preserve. Hell, most people probably didn’t even know it was there. Which was for the best, really. Otherwise half the town would be out there on warm days, polluting the preserve.

“It was not just a fish!” Stiles states firmly after swallowing. “Unless the fish in the lake are over six feet long!”

“A really big fish, then?”

“I knew I should have called Isaac.” Stiles huffs again and shoves more than a few fries into his mouth.

Derek can’t stop the quiet laugh that escapes him. “Isaac would have told you that you’ve lost your mind. Okay, so say there’s a mermaid in the lake. Are they dangerous?”

Stiles’ gaze tracks back to the laptop screen, eyeing it while shoving another handful of fries in. He’s going over everything he’s read so far and Derek’s can’t help himself but to watch Stiles. The way his eyes flick back and forth unseeingly, processing everything while he chews. The way his long fingers hold a few more fries in front of his mouth, waiting for it to be free to shove them in. “Not really, no. I mean, it’s not like they draw people in to drown them or anything. And they don’t come out of the water,” he says, though still hasn’t refocused his attention on anything beyond whatever he’s seeing in his mind’s eye.

Derek raises his sandwich to his mouth, “Then why are you so worried about it?” he asks, taking his bite.

“Because no one will believe me without proof!” Stiles replies and rolls his eyes back onto Derek. A second later and he’s smiling. “Dude, you got a little, ah, mayo there.” He points to the corner of his own lip.

Setting down his sandwich, Derek swipes his finger across his mouth but it comes away clean. “No, man right, uh, right there. No,” Stiles is getting increasingly aggravated over it as Derek purposefully wipes at roughly the same space each time and Derek has to fight not to laugh. 

“R-right th- no, ther- no.” He huffs again and instead of grabbing one of the napkins set between them Stiles reaches over and swipes his thumb across the corner of Derek’s mouth before drawing back. While Stiles wipes his hand across his pant leg, Derek’s heart is thundering against his ribcage.

If he hadn’t thought he was in too deep before Derek is absolutely certain of it now. That one action caused his breath to catch in his throat and he knows that his eyes are a little wider than normal. Not that Stiles notices, his attention immediately recaptured by his own food. It takes a considerable effort not to shove the rest of his sandwich onto his face just to get Stiles to do it again. That would be weird.

Derek isn’t supposed to be the Alpha. He isn’t. That was meant to be Laura. She was the one training with their mother for the role. She was the one who had learned everything about training young pups and freshly turned betas. Derek, of course, knew some things. It wasn’t like he’d never paid attention to Talia’s lessons, he’d just never actively participated. Which is why, partially, he’s struggling so fucking much with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. And Jackson when the little shit decides to show up.

He’s frustrated and annoyed and tired. Fuck, he’s tired. Not the kind that a good night’s sleep would fix, either. It’s the sort that leaves a bone-deep exhaustion no matter what he does. In part, he almost wishes that Peter were here. Sure, his uncle had gone off his fucking rocker and completely lost his shit, but Peter would at least know what to do. He’d been at Talia’s side through thick and thin for years. He’d know how to teach a beta some level of control.

With that thought, however, comes the renewed realization that Derek killed him. Ripped his throat out. His last remaining relative just. Gone. The fire essentially took them all, Peter’s was just a delayed death. The blame of it shared between Derek and Kate. If he’d not been such a naive kid… if she hadn’t been such a manipulative bitch. No matter what anyone said, Derek knew he wasn’t blameless in it. It didn’t make it hurt any less for people to come to his defense, but it did remind him who he could trust.

At the top of that, insanely short, list is Stiles. Which is how he found himself outside of the Stilinski house at nearly 11pm. Most of the houses on this street are dark, an orange glow spilling from a few scattered windows here and there, porch lights casting shadows on lawns. The glow attracts moths and other nocturnal insects. He hears a raccoon digging in someone’s trash down the block, the rustling nearly drowning out the chirping of crickets.

With a quick glance around to ensure no one is watching him -because how much of a creeper does he look like: standing out across the street from the Sheriff’s house and staring at it?- Derek jogs up to the house. Stiles’ light is on, none of the others within the house are. The Sheriff must be working late, the cruiser’s gone. For a moment he wonders if Stiles’ is asleep, it’s late and it’s quiet within the house, but then he hears a near silent sigh from within.

Seconds later and his feet hit the carpeted floor. Stiles jerks from where he’s laying on his bed, laptop open across his lap with a set of large headphones over his ears. “Jesus, I’m buying a bell for my window. Or better yet, I’m getting each of you fucking wolves one if you’re going to keep climbing through it.” He huffs while yanking his headphones off, dropping the laptop beside him. A scene from Star Wars continues to play. Those warm amber hues dance over Derek’s face before his brows raise. “You good, dude? I mean, I guess not since you’re here this late but…”

Derek eyes the empty expanse of bed beside Stiles, then settles on the floor beside it, his back pressed against the mattress. It’s only been three days since he was here seeking Stiles’ touch, but tonight it’s not about getting his scent on him or feeling that gentle touch. Tonight, he wants comfort but also someone to slap him with the harsh reality that he’s been denying for weeks: that he’s fucking this up. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just props his elbows on his knees and rests his forehead in his palms.

It’s not until Stiles’ hand hesitantly lays on his shoulder that Derek breathes out a slow, heavy sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits quietly, and hates himself for it.

The weight of Stiles’ hand on his shoulder is almost calming. Almost. The younger man doesn’t say anything for a while. His thumb brushes along the collar of Derek’s shirt, just shy of actual skin-to-skin contact, like he knows that Derek needs a few minutes. After clearing his throat, he says, “I mean, that was kind of obvious, dude.” A low growl rumbles in Derek’s chest in response, he hadn’t even meant to do it. Sometimes Stiles’ cavalier attitude irks him. “Look, you want my advice or do you want to just sit and mope?”

He purses his lips and drops his hands so that they hang between his legs. “Both?” he grumbles while adjusting his weight to look back at Stiles without disturbing the hand on his shoulder.

A barely there smirk tugs at the corner of Stiles’ mouth as he pats Derek’s cheek mockingly. “That’a boy.” Only after he presses his palm back onto Derek’s shoulder does he continue.

“Alright, look. So, you’re trying to teach them control the same way you were taught, right?” Derek bobs his head once. “That’s not going to work on everyone. Isaac’s headstrong but kinda fucked in the head, you know? He needs something to ground him more than ‘pain’. That kid’s known pain his whole life, or enough of it anyway. He needs you to be patient and, I know that vocalizing anything is not exactly your strong suit, but he needs positive reinforcement. He needs a pat on the back when he does something right and for you to correct him, calmly , when he doesn’t.”

Objectively, Stiles is right. He’s seen it already, any time he raises his voice at the beta Isaac internalizes it and withdraws from everything around him. The problem is that Derek has no fucking idea how to be that positive role model when he didn’t have one when he needed it most. Sighing, he asks, “and Erica?”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate before launching into his own perception, which Derek appreciates. “See, she needs a firm hand. But in, like, a guiding way. Not a I’m-gonna-beat-it-into-you way. She’s spent her whole life bullied and mocked by virtually everyone around her. And now that she’s free of the one thing that held her back there’s every chance she’s going to turn into a much more evil Regina George if you don’t rein her in. She needs to still feel like she’s got a choice in everything that happens, but you have to guide her toward the right ones. You, also, have to make sure she thinks she came to that conclusion on her own, otherwise she’ll resist you for the hell of it. She wants friends and family. She wants ‘pack’ and you have to make sure she knows she’s got it. Which means opening up yourself, big guy.” He pats Derek’s shoulder again, thumb skimming over the cord of muscle in his neck as it strokes back and forth. It’s more calming than he’s sure Stiles even realizes.

Derek shifts his weight again, this time leaning more fully back against the mattress, and drops his head back against it with his eyes closed. “What about Boyd?”

“Jesus, I gotta do all the work for you?” The playful tease in his voice makes his eyes roll behind his lids. Stiles snickers, because of course he caught it. “Boyd’s easy, man. Boyd, like Erica, wants to belong to something. Boyd’s got his own shit that he’s dealing with too. You two could bond pretty easy, you know? He lost his sister in a freak accident like five years ago. I bet he still blames himself… you know, considering his mom still blames him.” Derek’s eyes snap open at that, regarding Stiles curiously. 

“What, you think he hangs out around you or his jobs all the time because he wants to? He doesn’t feel welcome at home. But you can make him feel welcome and safe. Just gotta use your words, Derek.” Stiles’ fingers idly trace up the side of Derek’s neck as he speaks, thankfully he ignores the pleased hum that manages to escape Derek’s throat. “Boyd could be your greatest asset, if the two of you let yourselves get close enough to one another. Seriously, make him feel like he belongs. Show him you understand his pain. Talk to him.”

Stiles’ fingertips graze the shell of his ear on their path toward his scalp and Derek folds his arms across his chest in an effort to hide the shiver that races up his spine. He leans into the contact while listening to everything Stiles tells him. Stiles has known these people for years, Derek’s barely known any of them for months. Which means whatever advice Stiles has, he’s going to take to heart. It helps that Stiles’ gentle fingertips are continuously running along his scalp, like he knows that’s exactly why Derek is here to begin with. With each stroke of Stiles’ long fingers through his hair, Derek feels that pack bond between the two of them strengthening, cementing firmly in place. Stiles might not be a werewolf, but he’s as ‘pack’ as any of the betas Derek’s bitten. Hell, if asked -provided Derek gave an honest answer- he’d tell anyone that Stiles is the first member of his pack. Maybe even ranking above the actual wolves.

A shaky breath escapes him as Stiles’ fingers slowly and tenderly rake through his hair, bitten nails lightly grazing his scalp. Derek lets his heavy lids close. “And Jackson?” he asks, hoping that Stiles will ignore the slight tremble in his voice.

He does and just scoffs. “Well, I mean, fuck Jackson.” Derek peeks one eye open with a faint purse of his lips and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Seriously, fuck Jackson. How often does he even bother to come around since you bit him?”

“Not nearly as often as he probably should.” Derek settles more comfortably against the bed. Stiles adjusts himself so that he’s laying on his side with one arm tucked between his head and the pillow and Derek’s head near his chest, nearly cradling it with as close as he’s pressed himself. All the while his fingers never stop combing through Derek’s hair.

“So, how bad do you really want him in your pack?” Stiles asks, sounding vaguely miffed that Derek might want Jackson around at all.

Another sigh slips out, though he doesn’t turn to look at Stiles again, not while the teen is petting his hair like this. “He’s my responsibility.” As if that’s all the answer needed.

Stiles grumbles under his breath. “Okay, look. Jackson’s an ass. Like, king of the dicks. Always has been. He’s smart-assed and mean-spirited. He’s cocky and douchey and…”

“Stiles…”

Heaving a sigh, Stiles’ fingers still for a moment before idly resuming their gentle stokes. “Alright, look, you want to get through to Jackson you have to find a balance between putting him in his place and letting him think he’s grand master dickbag. Because you seriously won’t bond with Jackson unless there’s a, like, push-pull dynamic.” Derek’s eyes feel heavier and heavier with every stroke to the point he can’t keep them open even if he tries, but he’s awake and still listening to every word pouring out of Stiles. “And if you let him, he’ll try to walk all over you, but if you don’t give him some leeway, he’ll never let you in. The only person he’s ever let his guard down around, besides Lydia, is Danny and both of them know how to play Jackson like a fucking fiddle.”

Derek snorts, “It sounds like you know how, too. Why aren’t you closer to him?” Honestly, he couldn’t stop himself from asking. Stiles seems to just know everyone around him. How the kid isn’t constantly surrounded by friends vying for his attention is an actual mystery. Pop culture references aside, Stiles is sociable and kind and friendly. It’s amazing that Derek ever finds him alone. Although, he’s not going to argue that point because how else would he have the time for this.

Whatever this is.

The sigh that rushes out of Stiles sounds both annoyed and exhausted at once, a yawn following it almost immediately. “Because Jackson’s a dick. I’d rather spend my time around less asshole-ish people,” he states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Mm,” Derek hums in reply, unsure of what more to say, especially given the way Stiles’ breathing is slowing. His hand only shifts up once more, fingers tangling loosely in the strands at the top of Derek’s head like he doesn’t want to let go, before raking through on their way down to the bed beside Derek’s ear.

He tips his head back a little more to look at the sleeping teen, half of Stiles’ face buried in the pillow, the other half looking so serene. Derek could stay and watch him sleep for hours. He won’t. But it would be all too easy to do so. Mainly because he’s so relaxed already. But he breathes a quiet sigh and moves to stand, the slight jostle of his bed causes Stiles to stir, pouting in his sleep as he mumbles unintelligibly.

If Stiles had been awake Derek wouldn’t have allowed the soft, fond smile to form as he leans over and snaps Stiles’ laptop shut before moving it back to the desk so it wouldn’t get rolled on and broken. Stiles seemed the type to flail and move around a lot in sleep. He then tugs a blanket over the teen’s shoulders, turns off the light and slips back out of the window. 

The last person to put their hands on him the way Stiles does, was his mother. So gentle and affectionate and caring, leaving him with nothing more than that contented feeling of safety and home. The last time Derek felt her touch was the morning of the fire, but he doesn’t dwell on it– there’s too much pain in knowing he’ll never feel her again. Not just an ache around his heart, but a physical hurt, too. It leaves a sting in his skin where he remembers each of her fingers brushing, a burning throb where her palm touched.

The only balm that soothes it is Stiles’ fingertips.

Even Laura hadn’t touched him in a comforting way after the fire. She was his alpha. She was meant to calm and protect and love him. Much as she did love her younger brother, Derek would never blame her for the anger that sat in her heart. Though she never said it aloud, Derek knew she blamed him just as much as he blamed himself for the fire, for the fact that they’d lost everyone.

She didn’t hate him, but she couldn’t forgive him either. Her touch, since that night, was never gentle. Was never kind. When they trained it always turned into a real fight, with claws and teeth and, once or twice, hurtful words spewed at him. Derek took it, because he deserved it.

The only person who doesn’t make him feel that way every second is Stiles. He knows that the teen has gone toe to toe with several Argents over him and his family. He knows Stiles doesn’t blame him but puts all of the blame on Kate. Where Derek knows it should be, but he’ll never find himself guiltless in the loss. If he doesn’t hold onto the guilt and pain of it, he’ll lose any connection he still has to the Hales that were taken away that night.

Derek scrubs a hand over his face while watching Isaac and Erica leap on Boyd in an attempt to take down the large wolf. Boyd being the epitome of ‘immovable object’, standing with his arms crossed while Isaac climbs his back in a scarily close mimicry of Stiles the other day while Erica tries to take his legs out from under him. It doesn’t work.

In the end, Boyd shakes the both of them off like irksome flies, forces them to headbutt one another -much gentler than he could have been given all his strength- then shoves them aside with a smirk. Erica pounces on Isaac, then. The two are ridiculously similar to how Derek and Cora had been when they were children. 

Boyd saunters over and drops onto the step beside Derek, watching the other two. “Got a lot on your mind?” he asks in that low voice. His gentle voice balances out his commanding presence. 

Derek nods softly, his gaze locked on the betas across the lawn as Isaac pins Erica down, straddling her chest with a smug grin. She smirks back and shoves him off with the same ease she flicks her hair over her shoulder before pouncing on him again. ‘Mhm’, he hums without saying anything and nearly curses Stiles’ voice in the back of his head telling him to bond with the Beta.

“You can talk to us, you know? Aren’t we all supposed to be here for each other?” Boyd asks, sounding slightly miffed, whether from the lack of attention or the lack of Derek being their alpha, he’s not sure.

Derek shifts his gaze fully onto Boyd after Isaac effortlessly dances away from Erica’s claws with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. For a moment the teen looks so carefree and childlike it’s almost heartbreaking. Although, Derek’s learned that Erica has a way of bringing it out in Isaac. And Boyd, if he’s honest.

“We are. I’m trying to do better, to be here more for all of you. You can talk to me too. About anything.” Derek nods, eyeing the large man.

Boyd stares back, skepticism etched into each line of his face before his lips purse slightly. As though he knows Derek’s not ready to talk about the pain they share, or maybe he’s the one not ready, he nods back toward the ruined house. “I noticed you’ve been trying to rebuild.” Derek nods again, glancing back at the charred remains. “I can help.”

A smile curls the corners of Derek’s mouth because it’s the first time Boyd has offered… well, anything. Much as he wouldn’t mind the assistance, Derek’s been committed to doing the work himself. It was his family home, his penance to rebuild it. It feels wrong to deny Boyd’s offer, though. Derek only takes a moment before nodding softly, “so long as it doesn’t interfere with anything else you’ve got going on, I won’t refuse some help hauling everything.” While he’s not expressly telling Boyd to do anything, he’s not outright refusing either and Derek feels its a good middle ground.

Boyd chuckles quietly and reaches out to pat Derek on the shoulder, and Derek finds the touch doesn’t leave a twinge in its wake.

Two days. Two full days Derek has been camped out on the floor of Stiles’ room, only leaving it when the Sheriff is at work, while they research the latest monstrosity to come to Beacon Hills. Scott’s been by several times but his focus is always split by the texts that blow up his phone from Allison. He’ll cut off mid-sentence from whatever he’s intending to say just to text her back with a stupid, goofy smile. Derek remembers what it’s like to be young and in love that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t scowl at Scott every single time.

Stiles, on the other hand, ignores it. Steadfast in his resolve that this is absolutely typical behavior of his best friend. The only times Stiles really looks away from the screen are the few breaks he takes to eat something, usually only when his father yells up the stairs, or to use the bathroom. Derek always knows when it’s the latter because Stiles will dart out of the room like a bat out of hell from holding it so long. The teen takes a few micro naps, though doesn’t allow himself to snooze too deeply.

Derek assumes that it’s, in part, thanks to the bottle of adderall Stiles makes a grab for every now and again. He’s reaching for it again and Derek flicks a glance toward the alarm clock on Stiles’ bedside table. Almost four in the afternoon and Stiles hasn’t eaten since the donut he shoved in his mouth this morning, which was eight hours ago. Containing his sigh, Derek drops the large tome he’d been reading through onto the bed beside his hip and stands.

Before Stiles can get the bottle open Derek plucks it out of his hand. “Hey!” Stiles’ wide, amber eyes blink up at him in surprise.

“You need to eat. And sleep,” Derek replies, crossing his arms with the pill bottle tucked against his armpit.

“I’ll sleep when we crack this. Now give it back!” Stiles stands almost chest to chest with Derek and he’s sure that the only reason their torsos haven’t touched is his arms between them. Much as Derek would like to tuck his around Stiles, he’d rather keep his hold on the bottle.

“Not until you eat.”

“Oh my god, Derek. Just… give me my damn meds.”

“You took them six hours ago, I think you’ll be fine until after you eat,” Derek argues back. He watches as Stiles’ lips draw into a thin line, eyes narrowing in frustration. The hand clenching the pill bottle tightens on it and he leans around Stiles to snap the laptop shut.

“Hey,” Stiles practically whines.

“Food. Now,” he demands, pointing toward the bedroom door with the hand not grasping the pills. Stiles glares a few moments longer, then storms out of the room like an angry child; stomping his feet and grumbling under his breath the whole way. As if Derek had demanded he put down a controller and go outside to play. Tucking the bottle into his front pocket, Derek follows behind to make sure Stiles eats something of sustenance rather than just shoveling in a Hot Pocket.

Which is precisely what he finds the teen unwrapping in the kitchen. Just one more thing he plucks from Stiles’ grasp with ease.

“Jesus! What the hell, dude! I was going to eat that!”

“How about you eat something with actual nutrients?”

“Hey, all you said was food. This counts,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at the Hot Pocket Derek is shoving back into the freezer.

“Hardly,” Derek snorts back. He knows that, in part, Stiles’ snippy attitude is due to not having eaten much in the last 24 hours. Pulling open the fridge, he scowls at the lack of contents. When was the last time either Stilinski had gone shopping?

“It’s food, alright? Just, just lemme eat that and give me my pills back.”

“Aren’t you jittery enough already?” Derek quirks a brow and Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, seriously, Stiles, you’ve hardly slept in the last two days and I know those aren’t helping.” He doesn’t tell Stiles they’re in his pocket, having a feeling the teen would try to make a grab for them. Even if it meant trying to dig into Derek’s pocket. He hasn’t had an issue with budging into Derek’s personal space before, why start now?

Stiles frowns, eyes narrowed darkly before his expression softens. He rubs at his face with one hand. “Look, can we just finish this and then you can hide them wherever the hell you want.”

“Until the next thing comes along…” Because god knows what will and he knows well enough that Stiles will keep himself awake as much as he can to figure out everything that he can. “I’ll order something for dinner, and you can have them back after you’ve eaten, showered, and slept more than twenty minutes.”

“No way! That wasn’t the deal!” Stiles argues petulantly. 

“It is now.”

“Bullshit.” Stiles glowers at him, then turns on his heel and stomps back toward the stairs.

That, well, that wasn’t what Derek expected. So, he stands there, blinking stupidly after him. From the second floor, he hears Stiles’ bathroom door jerk open, then the medicine cabinet and the telltale rattle of pills in a bottle. Of course, Stiles had more. 

Derek makes it up the stairs and into the bathroom in seconds. Seriously, if Stiles had really wanted to keep him out, he should have closed and locked the door.

He almost wishes he could say that Stiles was even able to put up a fight before he snatches the half-open bottle from his hands.

“Give. It. Back.” Stiles demands, scowling even more.

Derek’s brows lift, his thumb and forefinger twisting the cap back on securely as he raises his hand over his head out of Stiles’ reach. Stiles’ eyes narrow in an almost feral way that, well, it should have been intimidating; if it weren’t absolutely fucking adorable. He won’t say that aloud, though. That’s just asking for trouble.

Stiles makes a leap for it, hands flailing and smacking at Derek’s wrist but failing to even touch the small orange bottle. A slightly amused smirk tugs at the corner of Derek’s mouth. The younger man jumps twice for the bottle and misses both times and he huffs loudly. Before Derek has the opportunity to do anything more than gasp quietly, both of Stiles’ hands close firmly around his wrist and in the same fluid motion he’s leaped up and wound his legs around Derek’s waist. He all but climbs Derek like a tree. 

The added height is all he needed to get his fingers around the bottle. Not that Derek put up much fight for him to take it back with his face pressed against Stiles’ stomach when the younger male shimmied higher. The scent radiating off of Stiles was spiked with not only annoyance and glee but arousal that nearly floors Derek. It takes every ounce of willpower in him to keep his breathing normal, to keep the flush that started on his cheeks from spreading, to keep his hands to himself.

Stiles drops back to the floor, nearly falls on his ass, then smirks and turns on heel. By the time Derek can clear his head, Stiles has already warmed up two Hot Pockets and is halfway through a bag of chips.

Gnomes. Fucking gnomes . Who would have thought the little bastards would be so hard to kill? Who would have ever believed that it would take most of their pack to contain twelve of them? Certainly not Derek. Stiles had researched endlessly before they’d gone out to the preserve. The gnomes, in and of themselves, aren’t particularly dangerous creatures. Well, setting aside their sharp teeth and insurmountable strength. Gnomes are attracted to wildflowers and butterflies, the beauty of nature that can easily be found within the varied clearings in the preserve. The problem is what the gnomes attract: goblins, trolls, and witches. God, Derek fucking hates witches. Most creatures want to eat the gnomes, though Derek can’t fathom why after looking at their squishy, fat little faces for the last half hour. Witches want them because they can help a garden grow, useful for someone who needs a variety of herbs for spells or enchantments.

Scott, ever the politician, wanted to talk things out and find a way to drive the gnomes away from Beacon Hills. Which was how they’d found themselves surrounded by the little bastards. In all of Stiles’ research, he didn’t find anything about how fiercely protective gnomes were over the pregnant women in their horde. Well, they found out the hard way. 

They’d barely made it into the clearing before the gnomes attacked. Derek, Scott, Boyd, Isaac, and Stiles- armed with his bat as a precaution. Three of them had launched themselves on Boyd, as the largest of their pack, two each launched themselves at the others, the pregnant one cowering somewhere a little further back. Stiles had read somewhere that dog whistles could disorient gnomes, the shrill sound too much for their sensitive hearing. If Derek had known that Stiles had one on a chain around his neck he probably would have gotten rid of it before the teen had a chance to use it. 

Even though it does work to their advantage. Sort of. It also nearly deafens the werewolves for almost the entire time the gnomes stagger and stumble. Of course, by the time Stiles blows the whistle, after having to knock one gnome out with his bat and punt the other away, one of the gnomes that came for Derek manages to climb up his back and sink its razor-sharp teeth into his shoulder. Derek grasps it, planning to throw it across the clearing, but it only bites down harder. So when he does get a good enough hold to rip it away, it literally rips away a hunk of flesh with it.

He’s barely lobbed the little bastard when Stiles has the whistle in his mouth, blowing loudly, over and over and over again. All the wolves grasp their ears in an attempt to block the sound, not that it works. Isaac stumbles over and yanks it from Stiles’ lips. 

“Oh! It did work!” Stiles beams in response, watching as the gnomes move like drunk toddlers.

“Yeah, it worked! You do realize that works on us too!” Isaac glowers and Stiles smiles that much wider.

“I wasn’t entirely sure it would.” A lie. Every one of the wolves hears it, but Stiles is grinning so mischievously that no one wants to argue with him. Not for the risk of being deafened again.

“Alright, there’s a dog kennel in the back of the jeep, courtesy of Deaton. We can throw them in there and Deaton will take them north. Said he found a nice little meadow they can live in.”

Derek reaches for the one closest to him, the one Stiles had clocked with his bat, and winces at the pain in his shoulder. A wound like that isn’t going to heal quickly, not as deep as it is. Not with the way it tore a sizeable chunk out of him. The other wolves must smell the blood, it's irritating his own senses, but they choose to ignore it. Derek can’t even blame them, it’s not like he’s bosom buddies with any of them. He almost wishes Erica were here. She, at least, would have pointed it out.

Then again, she probably would have tried to baby him. His gaze flicks toward Stiles, who’s laughing with Scott while holding a gnome by its foot. Boyd has four of them between his two large hands and Isaac has managed to get ahold of the pregnant one, her thick hands wound around her large, swollen belly.

It’s been too long since Derek felt Stiles touch, and it’s been driving him insane for the last five days. Stiles’ scent has long since washed off of him and he can hardly feel the ghost of the teenager’s fingertips anymore. For days after Stiles had ‘helped’ him shave, Derek could still smell him imprinted in the stubble on his cheeks. Could still feel those long fingers gently caressing his cheeks, soft palms grasped at the lines of his jaw. Fuck, he can still feel the impression of Stiles’ elbows against his shoulders, every so often he swears he can feel a phantom breath across the back of his neck. Every time he’s gone to Stiles it takes days for the sensation of his soft fingers to go away. And, like an addict, he goes running back the moment it starts to wear away.

He knows that, on some level, his desire for contact with Stiles stems from not being touched by anyone who wasn’t actively trying to hurt him in years. He knows that not everyone’s touch will hurt or leave him in pain. But Stiles was so fucking gentle with every touch, every small caress as the pads of his fingers trailed over Derek’s cheek. It still sends jolts through him that make him ache for more. More of that tender touch. More of Stiles.

Which is probably why he purposefully walks between Stiles and Scott with the three gnomes in his grasp, ensuring that his bloodied shoulder is fully on display for the human. Derek makes it all of three steps before the scent of surprised horror radiates off of Stiles. 

“Holy shit, dude!” Stiles' voice draws nearer, accompanied by leaves and branches breaking underfoot as he rushes over. “Did that thing bite you?!”

“It’s fine.” Derek plays off with a quick shake of his head while tossing the gnomes into the kennel.

“It’s not fine .” Stiles groans, “What if their bite has some weird, magical property that, like, turns you into a gnome? Or a tree or something?!”

Derek’s brow arches, almost amused by that one. “I’m not going to turn into a tree.”

“Will you at least let me clean it out, geez, that looks awful!” Stiles drops the gnome in his hand atop the rest before grasping Derek’s bicep. He huffs and steps behind him, then stands on his toes to get a better view. Derek relaxes under Stiles’ touch as he shifts aside the navy blue henly to assess the damage. Stiles inhales through his teeth. “Yeah, it looks gnarly. I know you’re Mr. Super Healing and all, but seriously you should let me-”

“Fine,” Derek sighs melodramatically, feigning the very least amount of resistance possible, despite agreeing faster than he probably should have. 

With the rest of the gnomes tucked safely away, Boyd snaps the padlock closed and looks at the rest of the group. He, Derek, and Isaac had all ridden here together. Derek frowns and tugs the keys to his Camaro from his pocket before tossing them over. “Don’t wreck it.”

Boyd offers a half-smirk, then nods for Isaac to follow him. Isaac pats Derek on the arm, then exchanges a few quick words with Scott before rushing after him. Scott turns to stare skeptically at Derek, then sets his sights on Stiles. “You going to be alright dropping them off?”

“Yeah, yeah. Deaton told me where to put them. Go, get cleaned up for your date.” Stiles waves him off with ease.

Scott grins. “You’re the best, man.”

“Remember that for your wedding. Me, best man.” Stiles smirks and Scott rolls his eyes. 

Derek watches the two for a moment, missing the easy camaraderie of brotherhood. He hasn’t found it yet with Isaac or Boyd, and who knows where Jackson has fucked off to. His family is gone, so he can’t even turn to them for the comfort he so desperately seeks and it hurts.

The ride from the preserve to the animal clinic seems to fly by, even though Stiles is driving just under the speed limit, and just like every other time the two have been alone Derek finds it difficult to be so close, yet wants to be even closer. It’s a conundrum that he doesn’t quite know how to solve. Other than just finding more and more creative ways, ludicrous as some of them are, to get Stiles’ hands and scent on him.

It’s honestly the only reason he ensured Stiles would see the wound or go with him to the clinic. Because he knew that soon enough those tender hands would touch him, warm him in ways he hadn’t felt in years. Deaton isn’t at the closed clinic but Stiles being Stiles has a key and opens the back door for them. After the kennel is deposited in Deaton’s office, Stiles leads Derek back to the exam room and rifles through a cabinet until he comes back with a bottle of saline. 

With that mischievous glint in his eye, Stiles pats the exam table, “Up, boy!” And when Derek growls in response, he’s completely unsurprised that Stiles’ scent doesn’t spike with fear. Stiles has never really been afraid of him, despite what he might proclaim. Instead, Stiles just smirks. “Yeah, yeah, come on. Might need to lose the shirt too, big guy,” he says, patting the table again.

An easy enough request to comply to, Derek reaches back to grasp the neck of his shirt and tugs it over his head before dragging Deaton’s rolling chair over and plopping onto it, barely catching the way Stiles’ gaze skims over his abs before his back is to him. He figures this is a much better idea because otherwise, he’d have to lay on the table for Stiles to be in eyeline of the bite. Stiles seems to agree as he quickly moves into Derek’s space with the saline and a few gauze pads that Derek hadn’t seen him pick up before. He flinches when Stiles pours the cold saline over the still-bleeding wound. “Sorry man, didn’t realize it was that cold,” Stiles murmurs as he wipes at the bloodied trail down his back.

“It’s fine,” is all Derek can muster as a response, wincing again as more is poured on. He exhales slowly, calming his pounding heart after hearing the bottle set aside carelessly so that Stiles’ fingers could trace around the wound. He was sure Stiles was just inspecting it more closely as he leans in but the warmth of his breath sends a shiver down Derek’s spine, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

“Jeez, who would have thought gnomes teeth were that frickin sharp.” Stiles whispers, his fingers ghosting over Derek’s skin. “I think you’re all good though, man. I mean, I don’t know anything about gnome bites but I’ll look into it. Make sure you won’t turn into a scary broody sunflower or something.”

Derek rolls his eyes, unable to keep the fond smirk off of his lips since Stiles can’t see it anyway. “Shut up, Stiles.”

He hears the soft snicker behind him as Stiles’ lays fresh gauze over the wound to tamp down the bleeding a bit more. His touch, as always, is gentle enough that it might as well not even be there, yet at the same time is a grounding presence. It reminds him that even though Stiles is human, Stiles is pack. Fuck, he’s more pack than Jackson ever will be. He’s more pack than even Scott, who’s still teetering on the fence of whether or not he’s going to follow Derek. 

It’s become pretty clear that Stiles is already on his side. And every time Stiles comes to his aid, whether it’s to just put a comforting hand on his shoulder or run his fingers through Derek’s hair, he feels that bond between them growing and expanding. At first, he’d thought it was cementing in place somewhere within him. Now, he’s realizing that it’s ever-changing, like a river’s banks, swelling with every tender interaction.

The amount of times Derek witnesses Stiles blatantly running into danger wielding his baseball bat is astounding. Derek can’t deny, Stiles clearly knows what he’s doing with his weapon of choice, but if he’s gonna be running with wolves, he really should learn a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat. Derek’s only offering for the greater good of keeping as many humans alive as possible. And if it means Derek can touch him, well, that’s just a bonus.

“You’ll want to spread your legs hip distance apart,” Derek starts, pursing his lips as he pushes unethical thoughts away. “Keep your elbows close to your body. Like this,” Derek says, holding his fists in front of him, elbows tucked in. Stiles watches him carefully, his eyebrows knitting in concentration as he emulates Derek’s stance. “Good. Now punch me.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, his lips parting. “What? No, I don’t wanna hurt you,” Stiles says, his muscles relaxing as he loses confidence in his posture.

Derek smirks, shaking his head softly. “I think I can take it. Just give me your best shot. As much force as possible.”

Stiles chews his lip, eyebrows raising. “You sure?”

Derek shoots him a reaffirming nod. “Promise.”

Stiles clenches his jaw as he raises his fists again, his gaze hardening as he puts on his war face that’s entirely too adorable to be considered lethal. Derek won’t tell him that since people tend to underestimate him for it, his kewpie doll charms giving him an advantage.

Stiles takes a step back, giving himself momentum as he throws his right fist towards Derek’s face, but before his hand connects, Derek ducks to the left, his hands coming up to parry the attack— one grabbing his wrist while the other blocks Stiles’ left hand and presses it against his chest. He quickly uses the force Stiles put so much effort into to shove him down and away (gently, as gently as possible, really), his hand coming up to put pressure on his neck as he controls Stiles’ left arm, twisting it to force Stiles to turn instead of allowing his arm to break before locking it in place against the small of his back.

“Jesus, fuck,” Stiles gasps out, his heart thrumming wildly as Derek holds him in place, hand squeezing around Stiles’ wrist, and if Derek catches a hint of arousal, he’s respectful enough to ignore it as he carefully releases his grip on Stiles’ wrist and neck. Stiles takes a gulping breath as he steps away and turns around, his face flushed, eyes wide, and Derek can’t help the smirk curling his lips.

“Okay, now you try to do the same to me,” Derek says from under his brows, his gaze fixed on Stiles’ mouth as he licks his lips anxiously.

“I don’t… there’s no way I can do that, you’re bigger than me,” Stiles protests, his heart still thrashing in his chest.

Derek quickly shakes his head, shucking off his leather jacket and tossing it aside. “It has nothing to do with size. If anything, you’d have an advantage.”

Stiles bites his lip, his fists clenching nervously at his sides. “Are you actually gonna punch me? What if I can’t block it in time?”

Derek’s expression hardens as his gaze locks onto Stiles’. “I would never hurt you, you never have to worry about that. You’re quicker than you realize. Just trust me, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles swallows and nods, and Derek assumes the fighting stance again, raising his eyebrows in silent query. Stiles imitates him, offering a quick nod in affirmation. Derek throws his fist, no real intent behind it, and before he realizes it, Stiles has got him in the same lock, his fingers gripping Derek’s wrist, palm squeezing his neck as he laughs in disbelief.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, a bit breathless, the suddenly-familiar scent of his arousal permeating the air around them. He slowly releases his grip around Derek’s wrist and neck as Derek turns to face him with a satisfied grin.

“See? I knew you could do it. Wanna try again?”

Stiles laughs again, clearly pleased with himself, and Derek savors his scent pulsing over his wrist, surreptitiously swiping it over his mouth.

“I just kicked a werewolf’s ass!”

Derek smirks. That’s not entirely true, but he’ll let Stiles think so.

Derek can’t say he’s surprised to find the blue Jeep broken down on the side of the winding preserve road, miles away from any kind of auto shop within walking distance for a spare part that just so happens to be available in Derek’s shed behind the Hale manor. It really just worked out that way, and Derek will seize any opportunity to be in the same room as him, but even better is with the teenager pressed up against him holding the flashlight as Derek assesses the damage. Derek doesn’t need a flashlight, but…

“I think I have a belt in my shed,” Derek says, regarding Stiles as he dips his head towards the Hale property. “Come on.”

“I can wait here. I don’t wanna leave Roscoe all alone,” Stiles says as he looks woefully at his Jeep as though one tire was in the grave. To be honest, about three-quarters of it was already there, but Derek understands the sentimental value. Stiles always smells nostalgic when he gets to talking about his Jeep.

“I’m not leaving you alone in the middle of the woods under a new moon. It’ll be ten minutes, if that.”

Stiles purses his lips with an exasperated huff through his nose before he reluctantly nods and follows Derek to his Camaro.

Derek navigates down the long driveway, leaves and rocks crunching under tires as he pulls up to the separated shed, in much better condition than what’s left of the mansion. It’s got a loft inside not different from a barn, and that’s where Derek and Isaac live while he works on fixing up the property. It’s not bad, actually, but the way Stiles reacts to his living quarters makes Derek think maybe he should reconsider.

“You’re living here?” Stiles gapes, his eyebrows wrinkling his forehead as he gazes around incredulously.

“Yeah,” Derek shrugs. He really didn’t mind, even liked it enough—while the ruins of the mansion smell like charred decay, the shed smells like his father, even after so much time has passed.

“But… where do you shower?”

“There’s a bathroom up there. My mom used to make my dad wash up before he could come inside,” Derek offers as he rummages through rusted metal tool cabinets and splintered wooden drawers. He doesn’t realize Stiles has been silent this whole time until he finds what he’s looking for, a serpentine belt with the exact specs needed. What are the odds?

Stiles studies him, his brows knit together in curious concern. “You’ve never talked about your dad before.”

Derek pauses at that, only now realizing he let a seemingly harmless fact slip out about his family. He tends to not bring them up… it only makes people pity him and then it gets all awkward because they never know what to say, leaving the onus on Derek to make them feel better even though he’s the one who experienced the tragedy. It’s just easier to keep quiet about those things.

“I guess not,” Derek says with another shrug, avoiding Stiles’ gaze as he begins the search for the right-sized wrench.

“You can talk about them, you know. I mean, with me. Or, uh, anyone. If you wanted to.”

Derek’s shoulders tense up, his jaw hardening as he shoves tools aside in favor of words.

“Or not. Like, no pressure or anything. I just… I mean, I know what it’s like—well, I mean, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. So maybe I know just a little bit how you feel. Or… whatever,” Stiles rambles, his heartbeat speeding up as his brain-to-mouth filter fails him. Derek catches him wincing in the corner of his eye as he rubs a hand over his head. It’s quiet between them now, the fresh scent of anxious sweat springing over the teenager’s skin as he shakes his head to himself, but he continues, regardless.

“My mom used to read to me, before bed. She would act like she was reading from a book, but I didn’t realize she made up her own stories until after she died and I couldn’t find any of them.”

Derek finally turns to face him, a flush of red creeping up the boy’s neck as he looks away and twists nervously at his hands.

“It was like experiencing her death all over again, when I realized. They only existed between us, and now they’re gone forever. I can’t remember them anymore.”

With a frown, Derek lowers his gaze, the belt in one hand and the wrench in the other, Stiles’ heart beat allaying the silence.

Derek swallows, his own heart pounding in his chest. He grits his teeth before forcing the words out: “My dad used to pretend he needed me to hold the flashlight as he worked on junk cars.”

It’s the most he can allow himself to say for now. Part of him wishes he hadn’t, because now the jig is up. When he peeks from under his brows, Stiles is blushing, but he’s got a careful smile on his lips as he studies the wolf with intrigue, his bottom lip pink and lush after pulling it between his teeth. His scent flourishes, sweet and spice, an undercurrent of wonder, excitement, and something else Derek can’t quite place– he’d later discover that’s when Stiles knew Derek loved him.

He tips his head towards the door, his smile matching.

Stiles still holds the flashlight for him, body heat searing into Derek’s side. Neither of them mentions anything, and Derek savors the brushes of their hands as Stiles holds mechanisms out of the way, asking questions Derek knows that the kid already has the answers to.

He’s taking a much needed break from working. The teens are all at school and, fuck, while he wishes he’d actually finished school in a real building, he can’t help but feel sorry for them. Being subjected to another crazed Finstock rant is not high on his list of things he wishes he could go back and do-over. Really, it surprises him that Coach has lasted as long as he has in that school without being fired for misconduct over. Well, anything, really. There’s no denying that the man is intelligent but he’s a little insane, too.

Anyone who spends more than a few minutes around the guy can see it.

Derek drops onto the porch steps with a sigh, really just wishing he had Stiles’ sweet scent surrounding him rather than the smell of ash. His hands are caked in black charcoal and he’s pretty sure it’s covering half his face like a mid-century coal miner. The ash coats everything and muddles his senses, making it difficult for him to smell much of anything beyond a few feet away. 

It, apparently, covers the scent of wolf on him, too.

His eyes widen as a kitten crawls from under the porch, no more than a handful of weeks or months old. Big enough to wander on its own but he doubts it could protect itself against a rabbit. It mewls loudly at him, clearly unafraid of people or just too hungry to give a shit, large green-ish gold eyes staring imploringly up at him. When he doesn’t move it mewls again, showcasing a mouthful of sharp teeth, before tottering forward.

The small achromatic kitten doesn’t hesitate to dig its pointy claws into his leather boot, using what little strength it has to claw itself up his jeans and into his lap. It mewls again, its sharp nails digging into the tank top around his stomach and Derek finally snaps himself back to life.

“Alright. Alright.” He breathes a laugh while reaching behind him for the small cooler he’d brought with his lunch. Tearing a piece of lunchmeat from his sandwich he holds it out in his palm toward the kitten who quickly chomps it down. Then mewls again, louder this time. He picks pieces of the sandwich apart until the meat is all but gone, offering little bits at a time toward the kitten who gratefully eats it.

He’s rewarded with soft purrs and little kneading paws on his thigh between each bite until the kitten curls up in his lap, purring even louder. Derek chuckles to himself and gently strokes the kitten's downy fur. It’s not pure gray as he’d first thought, in fact its tail closely resembles a raccoon’s with little darker grey rings surrounding it, a small white patch just under the kitten’s chin.

Looks like work is out for the day because he just became a bed for this stray kitten. It doesn’t surpass him that he feels a little lighter after spending nearly thirty minutes gently petting the little creature, either. “Too bad I can’t keep you,” he murmurs to it, then wonders if he even knows anyone who could care for it. Maybe Deaton could find it a home.

​​Another monster, another night of research. Stiles takes ‘know your enemies’ to a whole new level, and Derek has nothing but admiration for the brainpower of the pack. He takes it so seriously, much more than Derek thinks is necessary—but then again, it’s Stiles’ obscure knowledge that ends up pulling them out of trouble nearly every time.

Besides, it’s the perfect excuse for a night of bonding. The Sheriff is on duty, so the pack has overtaken the Stilinski living room; Erica on the plush rug as she twirls her hair and reads a book unrelated to their research, Isaac on the recliner, his lanky form spilling out of it while he digs through articles on his phone, and Boyd, sat beside Derek on the couch, doing his own homework, because ‘Stilinski’s gonna figure it out anyway’, (his words) as he disregards Derek’s begrudging looks. It shouldn’t all be left up to Stiles.

Derek purses his lips but understands Boyd’s sentiment. He doesn’t press it though, more concerned about the pack being together and strengthening their bonds than the useless research they’d end up coming up with. So far, all Isaac has found is ‘Bigfoot spotted at Burning Man’, and Derek has to refrain from rolling his eyes and glaring at him. Positive reinforcement.

Jackson is either late or not coming. The pack bond with everyone else vibrates behind his sternum as Jackson’s dims, a void compared to the glowing strings surrounding it. Pretty soon it won’t be there—the more he distances himself, the more he severs the bond and creeps into omega territory. Derek can’t decide if he’s upset about it. On one hand, Stiles seems pretty content without him, but on the other, Derek feels like he’s failed as an Alpha.

He decides Stiles’ contentment is more important than his damaged ego.

Stiles sits behind them at the kitchen table, hunched over his laptop as he scrolls, sometimes frantically typing, sometimes making noises of interest as he comes across new pieces of information. Pizza is on the way, the television buzzes in the background, and Derek focuses on the book about Native American creatures in front of him and Stiles’ heartbeat behind him.

Bigfoot, otherwise known by The Sioux as Chiye-Tanka (Big Elder Brother) live deep in the woods, foraging for plants as their food by night, and are afraid of humans. Other legends, however, claim the creatures like to mate with female humans and may abduct them as well as small children who are then raised in the woods and never seen again.

“Hey, have you seen this?” Derek asks, his finger planting on the page.

“Seen what?” Stiles asks, and Derek rereads the sentence again, feeling like there’s something between the lines he’s not quite grasping.

When Derek doesn’t respond, Stiles huffs and drags himself up from his chair before he drops over the back of the couch directly behind Derek, arms crossing against his shoulders as Stiles balances himself. His breath washes over Derek’s neck, and he has to refrain from shivering, his whole body tensing as Stiles reads where Derek’s finger lies on the page. Stiles’ lips move silently as he mouths out the words, his heartbeat steady, and then he reaches out to flip the page, gently brushing Derek’s hand aside in the process.

“Possibly afraid of humans, but also possibly a rapist. Hmm,” Stiles hums as he ponders. “Why would the legends be so conflicting? It’s almost as if…” he trails off when the doorbell rings, and Derek jumps, a bit miffed he didn’t hear the delivery person approaching.

“I’ll get it,” Stiles says, his hand falling away, brushing over Derek’s chest as he rises and makes his way towards the door. Derek misses his body heat immediately.

When Derek looks up, the betas are eyeing him with knowing looks and un-subtle smirks. His jaw hardens, eyes narrowing, and then he says, “Go eat.”

They obey, and Derek follows after them, ensuring they all make their plates first before helping himself, except Stiles holds out a loaded plate before he can grab a clean one.

“Saved you some, big guy. Have a seat,” Stiles says, shoving him gently towards the open chair next to Stiles’ previously claimed spot.

The betas snicker to themselves, and Derek ignores them, despite the pack bonds swelling against his sternum.

It's Cora's birthday today. She'd be 16 if she were still here. He's standing in the ruins of the Hale mansion, in the middle of what used to be Peter's library, staring around the empty space. All of the books that still reside on the shelves are ruined, most are little more than charred bricks that will crumble and leave ash on his fingers if he tries to pick them up. The few that managed to escape becoming kindling are tucked into the vault below the school, but they'd been moved days to months before the fire anyway.

Derek walks through the destroyed remains of his family home with nothing but the ghosts of the past to keep him company. Cora giggling with his Aunt Maggie. The twins jumping on his father when he walked through the door after work. Peter laughing while throwing a football with Derek and his father in the backyard. His mother baking in the kitchen. This house had held so many people, werewolves and humans alike. Pack. Family. People he'd loved his entire life and were all gone in one night.

His fingers run along the scored lines in the archway between the dining room and entrance hall. Marks dug into the wood to gauge each child's growth. He barely remembers which ones are his own anymore but he knows the one that belongs to Cora, the last one anyway, hers being the freshest. Hers was the last birthday they'd celebrated here before... before Kate took it all away.

Not for the first time does he wish he'd been in the house that night, too. That he'd burned with them. Kate was cruel to let him live with the weight of it all. And as much as he's wanted to end it all in the past, Derek knows he could never follow through, his wolf’s survival instinct insurmountable against his anguish. 

He misses his mom, his dad, his cousins and aunts and uncles. He misses Laura so much it fucking hurts, like someone stomping on his heart before dragging it under their boot. He misses Cora with her bright, bubbly smile. God, he misses the closeness he'd had with Peter. The two were so close in age that they might as well have been brothers. They'd acted like it more often than not.

But when Peter came back he wasn't the same. He was as cruel as the bitch that had destroyed everything. And Derek had killed him for it. He'd killed the last remaining relative he had. All he's known since Kate came into his life is pain and he's so fucking tired of feeling that pain. He's tired of feeling so fucking alone. Even with his new betas it doesn't stop the chasm of empty loneliness in him.

There's an ache he can't soothe, a hurt he doesn't have a balm for, a wound that he can't bandage over. The only thing that has made any of it feel even relatively okay in years has been the soft touch of a certain bright-eyed teen. Before he even realizes what he's doing, Derek's darting out of the house and running through the forest. He doesn't stop until he drops through Stiles' window onto the carpeted floor on his hands and knees. At this point it hurts just to move his limbs.

Stiles is sat at his desk and regards Derek almost warily at the display of emotion, Derek knows his eyes are flooded with unshed tears, knows that he has to look a mess right now. His face is scrunched with the effort it takes to hold the tears back, his shirt is torn in more than one spot from the places it was snagged on thorny branches during his run. He knows... and he doesn't care. The one person he doesn't care if he sees how much of a wreck he is is Stiles. Stiles doesn't say anything but closes his laptop as if to inform Derek he has his undivided attention.

Derek forces himself onto his knees in front of Stiles, only a few feet of space between them. “I can't do this, Stiles,” he whispers, every ounce of pain he feels dripping into his voice. Still, Stiles doesn't speak, just stares at him like he's unsure what to say. “Everything hurts and I can't handle it. The only thing that doesn't sting anymore is you, when your hands are on me it's all that stops the pain and I...” he inhales shakily, fighting to keep his breath steady and not let the water tension break his threatening tears.

Stiles swallows hard, eyes flicking over Derek's face, and he still can't bring himself to say anything. Not that it matters because for the first time since Derek's known him, he's the one filling the silence.

“I've lost everything. Everyone. My-my family... they’re gone. And it doesn't matter how much I want them back, I can't have them... it doesn't matter what I do I can't make this stop.” He knows he's begging now and doesn't feel an ounce of shame for it. There's a flicker of recognition in Stiles' eyes, because he knows what it's like to lose someone he cares for. He knows how that pain doesn't leave. He just doesn't know what it feels like to know that it's your fault they're gone.

“I need,” Derek sucks in a sharp breath in an effort to maintain some control over himself. But, fuck it. At this point he's here baring his soul like he hasn't done in years in the hopes that someone sees him and understands. That someone, that Stiles, can help him not feel that ache. “I need you... please. Please, make it stop. Pl-I can't. Stiles, please.”

Before he's even finished saying his name Stiles is out of the chair and crossing the gap between them. With quiet 'shh's' his long, spindly fingers brush over Derek’s cheeks, his neck, his hair. Everywhere he can touch. When his thumbs track across Derek's cheeks to wipe away the tears he didn't even realize had escaped, Derek winds his arms around Stiles' legs and buries his face into the younger man's stomach, just breathing him in. Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair and over his shoulders and just holds him while he calms himself.

It takes longer than he cares to admit. When Derek manages to draw a breath that doesn't feel like he's breathing in glass, he pulls back. Stiles is staring down at him so earnestly it almost hurts all over again. Before his expression can turn toward pity, Derek's ducking back out of the window, disappearing into the setting sun.

It's barely a few nights later when he's dragging himself back. It's not as bad as it was the other day but that ache is still there, a constant anchor weighing on his heart. Stiles is lying in his bed with a book propped against his chest and it's the first time he's seen him since then. All Derek wants is to bury himself in Stiles' scent and never come back up for air again. Something in his expression must convey this because Stiles snaps the book closed and drops it onto his bedside table before scooting further over.

Derek doesn't move. Not until Stiles pats the empty space beside him. In an instant, he's in the bed, lying on his right side to face Stiles. A tender smile tugs at the younger man's lips as he presses a hand to Derek's cheek. He immediately relaxes under the touch, eyes fluttering closed as Stiles' fingers trace over the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, along the cords of his neck. Just touching wherever he can.

His once-heavy breath slows as Stiles' thumb smooths out the line between his brows before running over the left one, then down his cheek to stroke under his chin. Derek's heart thrashes against his ribs when those soft caresses outline his lips hesitantly, helped along by the brief aroused spike in Stiles' warm scent. He hums as Stiles' fingers card through his hair, relaxing further and further into the pillow with every tender touch. Every soft stroke eases the ache right out of him. It's almost like it never existed under Stiles' sure fingertips.

It becomes almost routine. Derek's having a bad day or, fuck, even a bad moment and he's there. Sometimes he asks Stiles to touch him. Others the teen just knows. Sometimes they're on the Stilinski's couch, or at the kitchen table, twice they've ended up sitting in the backyard with Derek's head in Stiles' lap. At first it was only once a week that Derek would end up there.

It progresses quicker than he would have expected to a few times a week and now it's almost every day. He'll find his way into the Stilinski house, usually when the Sheriff is out but by now he's slipped in more than a handful of times while the man is puttering around the house or sleeping. Each time his father is home, Stiles just closes his door and invites Derek to sit or lay with him. It's become a compulsion, really. Seeking that comfort. That safety and sense of 'home' that Stiles provides. He hasn't told him that.

Hell, he really doesn't say anything when he's there anymore. At least, not about this. It's become their normal, actually. So much so that Stiles can busy himself with other tasks while running his hand over Derek's face or neck, or just resting a hand on Derek's shoulder is more than enough. Stiles hums to himself while doing homework or research and Derek listens to it, adding it to the list of things that Stiles does that soothes him.

Neither of them initiate contact in front of the pack. At least, not to the same level as when they're alone. He'd been there just this morning, with his head on Stiles' knee while Stiles typed his report one-handed, the other threaded in Derek’s hair. Occasionally, he'd ask Derek a question like he was just trying to include him. Now, it's late and the Sheriff's already in bed, he can hear the man's slow, steady heartbeat and deep breaths from his own room even outside of the house. As usual, the window is unlocked and cracked open for Derek, like he knew that Derek might show up at random tonight.

Stiles raises a brow at him, then smiles gently and scoots over on the bed like he's done so many times already. When Derek curls into the space beside him, Stiles’ hand rests on his cheek like it belongs there. 

“How you doin', big guy?” he whispers, his thumb stroking along Derek's sharp jaw.

Derek leans into the touch, and he can almost hear the amusement in the teen's voice, like Stiles wants to say something else. Despite wanting to maintain his standoffish appearance, Derek knows he can't keep that façade up with Stiles. Not when Stiles has seen him at his worst, anyway. So, he sighs and says, “Better now.” Because it's the truth.

He can feel and hear the movement of Stiles nodding understandingly, though Stiles is quiet for a little while, just tracing the now familiar planes of Derek's face. Though, both of them know that Stiles can't be silent for too long, even in his sleep. His hand comes to rest on the curve of Derek's neck, stilling for a few moments before he whispers again. “Why me?”

“Hmm?” Derek hums back, brows twitching upward.

“Why me? Why does my scent marking you calm you?”

Derek's eyes snap open at that because he didn't think Stiles knew what scent marking was. But, of course, Stiles knows. The boy who runs with wolves has made it his personal mission to learn everything about them. It wouldn't surprise him at this point if Stiles already knows about true mates and all the obscure lore that even Derek thinks is bullshit. Stiles stares at him expectantly and even if he can't hear a lie in Derek's heart, Derek can't bring himself to tell one to him anyway. The teen knows him better than anyone alive. And that's really saying something considering he hasn't exactly been open with anyone.

So, he swallows hard and keeps his gaze on Stiles' beautiful amber eyes. “I-” a sigh as he tries to think of how to properly articulate it. “You're safe.”

He hears the scoff in Stiles' voice, even if he doesn't actually make the sound, “Because I'm human?”

Derek shakes his head so hard it dislodges Stiles' hand from his neck. The 'human' is quick to put it back. “Because you... because you remind me of 'home'. Where I was always safe. Because you're the first person in ages who isn't actively trying to hurt me. Because this-” he gently grasps Stiles' wrist and shifts that hand back onto his face, eyes immediately fluttering shut “-is the kindest anyone has been in... I don't even know how long.”

He peers back at Stiles when the teens thumb tenderly strokes just beneath his eye and sees a little smile curling his lips. Stiles nods once and lets the subject drop. It was that easy.

It takes far too long for Derek to realize that the things he feels for Stiles aren’t just because of the way the man makes him feel when he touches him. Months, in fact. He can’t believe he’s been so stupidly oblivious to it. His betas have all seen it, even if they don’t say anything. They know. They know he’s hopelessly head over fucking heels for the younger man.

Every touch only strengthens that bond between them; watering it like a flower that’s been too long neglected and finally finds the care it needs in someone else’s hands. It’s a wonder he’s able to respond at all, given the level of mistreatment he’s felt for so long. Really, he could have reacted any other way when Stiles spider-monkied his way up Derek’s torso: he could have thrown him off like he’d done with Erica. He could have backed him into the wall and left him with no room to escape. He could have hurt him or kissed him or…

A sigh escapes while pushing a hand through his hair, because Derek knows he’d never hurt Stiles. Not on purpose anyway. Not if he could ever help it. If his claws ever raked over any part of Stiles it would only be done as gently as Stiles has been with him. If his fangs scraped Stiles’ skin it would be done affectionately. He has to push those thoughts away or they’ll walk him right into dangerous territory. Of course, he’d follow along all too fucking willingly.

He’s quickly learning that he’ll willingly do anything for Stiles. And that’s almost frightening to him; knowing that he craves the younger man as much as he does. Because the last time he felt like this it cost him everything but his own life. He’s pretty sure if he lets this consume him the same way he will lose everything this time. Not just his pack, but himself. If he allows himself to give his all, there will be nothing left.

It’s not as terrifying of a thought as it should be, really. Derek knows that even if Stiles is pissed at him, for whatever reason, the human teen would never do anything to hurt him or the pack. Stiles is too selfless. Which only makes him want him more.

“You smell different,” Isaac says one day as they eat their burgers outside of a diner near the preserve. They end up here way too often, but until Derek can finish up the kitchen, it’s this or spaghettios over the camp stove. Isaac complained enough until Derek finally got a mini fridge with some essentials (if a jar of pickles and cheese sticks is even considered essential), but other than that, they don’t have much else at the house.

“Like what?” Derek asks around a mouthful of food, eyebrows furrowed. He hasn’t changed any of his products—why would he do that when a 3-in-one has everything he needs?

“Like… more sweet. Kinda like Stiles, but it’s deeper than that,” Isaac says, inhaling sharply through his nose as if to get every nuance of his scent. “Oh my god, is that… is that what love smells like?”

Derek’s entire body flushes as he glowers and takes another bite. “No,” he says, and even if Isaac isn’t entirely tuned into his wolfy senses, he knows the kid can hear a lie.

Isaac’s face splits into a grin as his eyes wash over Derek. “Holy shit, you’re in love with Stilinski. This makes so much sense!”

“Shut the fuck up, Isaac,” Derek grumbles, stuffing in another bite of his burger as he looks off at the sun sinking behind the spiny pine trees.

Isaac can’t contain his laughter, and Derek chooses to ignore him as he keeps his gaze averted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he discreetly smells his wrist. It’s harder to tell on himself, but the spicy warmth that stands out is definitely Stiles, mixing with the sharpness of Derek’s green scent. Combined, it reminds Derek of Christmas.

When he turns to meet Isaac’s gaze again, he’s smirking to himself as he stuffs a fry in his mouth, amusement etched into each of his features.

“It’s different for everyone,” Derek starts, his brows furrowed as he attempts to turn this into a lesson. “Romantic love will always have a sweetness to it, but it’s unique to the couple. Like Allison and Scott are more citrusy.” Isaac nods in agreement, watching Derek intently as he sips his drink.

“Familial love will smell more savory. Platonic is more floral. But it’ll never smell the same on everyone. You have to train your nose to find the base notes. Even then, love is the most complicated emotion of them all.”

“Is that what you think?”

Derek’s eyes flick over his features, the line between his brows deepening. “It’s what I know.”

Isaac shrugs and takes another bite of his burger, licking ketchup off the side of his mouth. “I dunno, it doesn’t seem all that complicated to me. You either love someone, or you don’t.”

Derek blinks at that, a bit struck as he watches Isaac pick over the rest of his fries. This kid, despite his years of torture and abuse, seems to have a better grip on the emotion than Derek has ever allowed his mind to conceive. Life isn’t so simple; it’s never quite as black and white as the world paints it to be. Nevertheless, he’s got a point. Perhaps love is that simple, but the other emotions that coincide make it a minefield to navigate.

“He loves you too, you know. You both smell the same,” Isaac says eventually, a gentle smirk tugging at his lips.

Derek purses his lips to keep from smiling in response.

They finish up, gathering their trash, and Isaac tosses the crumpled-up paper bag into the garbage bin, beaming when he makes the shot. Why he chose lacrosse instead of basketball is lost on Derek, but he reaches up and lays his hand at the nape of Isaac’s skull, scenting him while concurrently praising his beta.

“Nice shot,” Derek says, and Isaac leans into the touch, his shoulders curling as he makes himself smaller beside his Alpha, baring his neck in welcome submission. 

Isaac may be just as touch-starved as Derek, the poor thing without an outlet to melt away the ache of loneliness, but Derek’s touch seems to provisionally do the trick. The cool rosemary spoor of relief, belonging, acceptance, pack, family purls out of him, and for a moment Derek feels deeply remorseful for not doing this sooner despite every spike in Isaac’s nervous system indicating this is what he needed all along. Their relationship improved nearly overnight once Derek took positive reinforcement to heart. 

Derek frowns before tugging Isaac into a hug, his hand still covering the back of Isaac’s neck, the other squeezing around his torso, his heart beating as he builds up the courage to say what he should have said the moment he offered the Bite.

“I’m sorry, Isaac. I’m still trying to figure this out,” he mumbles, and he feels like there’s more to be said but no other words seem suitable enough. He’s sure Isaac can smell it on him, the remorse, the grief, the uncertainty, but also the resolute determination to be better, to provide for his pack, to make sure his betas feel safe and included. The desire to be the Alpha his betas need him to be.

Isaac just nods against his shoulder, his grip clutching Derek’s shirt, the earthy aroma of reluctance seeping out of him as he begins to pull away. Derek squeezes him instead, reminding the beta he’s safe, that Derek’s got his back, that it’s okay to seek out comfort from him. That he’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.

The pack bond between them gleams, and if Derek can smell his tears, that’s neither here nor there.

He’s giving Stiles space today. Derek knows what today is. Today’s the anniversary of his mother’s death and Scott had forewarned him almost a week ago that this was a day to avoid; Stiles and his father would go out to the gravesite, offering flowers and remorse. They’d talk about Claudia and get takeout and reminisce about her. They’d spend the whole day just… talking, his father sharing favorite memories or stories about Claudia from before Stiles was born, or even a concept in this galaxy.

So, he made sure to steer clear despite wanting nothing more than to go to Stiles, offer whatever comfort he could. The loft above the shed is empty save for himself. Isaac is out with Scott and Allison and Derek’s done nothing for the last hour but sit on his bed with a book he hasn’t digested more than a few words from. Isaac’s statement from a few days ago still rattles around in his head too much to focus on anything consistently.

It’s almost a reprieve when the familiar rattling groan of the Jeep’s engine cuts into his thoughts as it traverses up the old path. He listens to it idle for a few minutes before sitting up, straining his ears for any sign of Stiles’ getting out of it. Normally he can hear Stiles singing loudly, and a little off-key, to whatever song is on the radio. Except, the radio isn’t playing. And Stiles isn’t singing.

Instead, when the Jeep’s engine dies away he hears a strangled sob. The book he’d been ‘reading’ hits the floor with a muffled thump as he lurches out of bed. Derek makes it down the stairs and out of the door in seconds. Stiles hasn’t turned off the Jeep’s headlights, so they nearly blind him when he steps outside, bringing up a hand to shield his eyes while moving across the leaf-strewn lawn. He moves around the Jeep and gazes through the window at Stiles, who has his forehead pressed against the steering wheel as his shoulders heave with the sobs he’s trying to hold back.

Derek’s heart breaks for the teen. Pulling open the door, he sighs silently and Stiles turns his teary eyes toward him, sniffling as he wipes at his face. The attempt to stop his tears is in vain because the second they’re cleared away, fresh ones take their place. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, his cheeks are puffy from wiping at them so fervently. The realization seems to hit Stiles that he’s not going to make the tears stop and he responds with another heartbreaking sob. 

Derek knows without Stiles needing to say anything, it’s not like he could if he wanted to in his current condition, that he needs comfort right now. He needs someone to hold him and make it stop hurting. With a sad smile, Derek flicks off the Jeep’s headlights to preserve the battery, then tucks one arm under Stiles’ knees and the other behind his back before hauling him out and into his arms.

Stiles immediately wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and sobs against his neck as Derek carries him back up to the little loft. He doesn’t shush him. He doesn’t try to soothe him because Derek knows that sometimes letting it all out like this is the only way to feel even remotely better. And because he can’t spout platitudes here. He can’t tell Stiles that it will be alright, it won’t. Telling Stiles that time heals wounds is another falsehood, you just learn how to better cope. A wound like that will always be raw and easily picked open.

So, he carries him over the threshold and up the stairs. He settles on his bed with Stiles in his lap. Stiles just tucks himself closer once they’re stationary, holds Derek that much tighter. Like he’s afraid of how much he’ll break without something solid to grasp onto. And Derek knows he can be that for him. Just like Stiles has been for him so often.

Derek traces his hands over Stiles’ arms, his back, his thighs, memorizing every lean muscle under his fingers. He runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, reveling in the way the soft, short strands fluff between his thick digits. For the first time, he allows himself to just touch without any intent behind it beyond comforting the younger man he’s fallen so helplessly in love with. When Stiles grips him tighter with another full-bodied sob, Derek winds his arms around him and pulls him closer while dipping his head to press his lips against Stiles’ forehead.

Either Stiles was too lost in his grief to notice or it just didn’t bother him because he nuzzles his nose against Derek’s throat, the skin there already damp with tears. It takes nearly forty-five minutes for Stiles to stop crying, Derek only knows because he’s counting the moments until this contact ends. He doesn’t want it to. Even still, once the tears stop flowing, Stiles sits and sniffles for nearly thirty minutes longer. One hand moves from around Derek’s shoulders to swipe at his cheeks, then beneath his nose with the sleeve of his shirt before tucking right back around him.

He doesn’t apologize for sobbing on Derek, just murmurs in a shaky voice, “Today’s my mom’s-”

“I know,” Derek interrupts in a whisper, his lips brushing against Stiles’ forehead as he runs a hand up and down his back again, “It’s okay.” And it is. He’d hold Stiles like this for the rest of their lives if Stiles would let him. “Where’s your dad?”

Stiles sniffles again and snuggles closer, whispering, “He couldn’t get out of work.” He swallows thickly, voice hoarse from crying. “I didn’t want to bother Scott or, or anyone. I didn’t want to bother you, either but I…” he sounds like he might cry again with the way his voice shakes, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And just like that the tears are spilling over again. Not the same gut-wrenching sobs they’d been before, but an aching grief that leaves a hollow in Derek’s chest. Because it’s a grief he knows all too well. “I’m here,” he whispers back, holding him that much tighter. Stiles nods against his throat and wipes at his face again.

A comfortable silence settles over them, or as comfortable as it can be when the air around them is tinged with the bitterness of grief and the salt of tears: things Stiles can’t smell anyway. Derek rubs his hand from Stiles’ shoulder, down his bicep to his elbow and back up while pressing another little kiss to his forehead. Stiles only sighs, a contentment in his scent for that brief second.

“Do you want to talk about her?” Derek asks quietly as Stiles’ hand gently grips onto the other side of his neck, thumb ghosting over his skin.

He’s quiet for a moment before murmuring, “I just miss her.” There’s no threat of tears behind the words now, just an age-old ache. “She used to make the best pierogi’s… I can’t even try to make them because she did it from memory and never had a recipe card or anything. Store-bought isn’t the same.” He sniffs quietly. Derek doesn’t say anything, just continues running his hands over Stiles’ lean frame while Stiles rambles.

Stiles tells Derek about a few other recipes his mother used to make, and their walks in the preserve, and how she was the first one to set up a play date with Melissa for him and Scott. He tells Derek about the way she used to smell and adds, “Dad still has a bottle of her perfume, he sprays it on her pillow every now and again. I found it years ago and it was almost gone. I bought some and refilled it, and have refilled it every couple of months for the last three years. He’s never questioned it but I know he knows I’ve been doing it.” He almost laughs at that.

He talks about the few memories he has of when she first got sick, or when he first realized she was anyway. A sigh falls from his lips as his thumb brushes over the hollow beneath Derek’s ear. 

“I know it took years, but sometimes it feels like it all happened so quick. And then, just as fast, she was gone. Just… one minute we were talking, she didn’t even recognize me at that point, but we were talking and then the next she was… gone.” Swallowing hard, he tucks himself closer to Derek, as if there was much space between them to begin with.

Stiles wipes at his face once more and finally tips his head back after Derek’s lips ghost over his hair again. Their eyes lock and Stiles searches Derek’s for what feels like an eternity before his grip on Derek’s neck shifts around to tangle loosely in the hairs above his nape. Between one breath and the next Stiles’ lips are on his, sending shockwaves through him from the contact. Derek inhales sharply and hugs Stiles closer, kissing him back like he’s a soldier leaving for war in the morning– he doesn’t know if this will ever happen again.

He can feel the smile form on Stiles’ lips in response, though the younger man doesn’t break the kiss until they’re both dizzy and struggling for air. It’s different for Derek because even when Stiles’ pulls away he’s still breathing the same air and all of it is flooded with Stiles’ scent which leaves him panting even more. He’ll never get Stiles’ scent off of him now. He doesn’t want to, anyway. When his eyes flutter open it’s to find the most glorious flush spread across Stiles’ cheeks and an almost devilish grin tugging at the teen’s lips. Surely, whatever has just flashed across Stiles’ mind, he doesn’t want to know.

Stiles snickers, however, and says. “Jesus, don’t you know you’re supposed to kiss the blushing bride before carrying her over the threshold?”

Derek’s brow knit together in mild confusion and Stiles grins that much wider. “Dude, you totally carried me bridal style when you could have, just, thrown me over your shoulder or something. And now look at me” -he waves a hand toward his flushed face “-blushing.”

A brief snort of a laugh escapes him, rolling his eyes. “You kissed me first,” he quips back with ease, his mind already wandering to what it would be like to be married to Stiles. Sure, they’d fight and argue and probably break a few things, but they’d laugh so much more. They’d stay up late so often just to talk or sit under the stars. They’d take care of each other and hold one another through whatever grief struck them in that moment, soft touches and gentle kisses to quell the sorrow until the next wave troughs over them. 

He could easily imagine coming home to Stiles on a bad day and just folding up against him on the couch or bed or… wherever. Stiles would comb his fingers through his hair and snuggle against him. He’d kiss his brow and offer advice or make a joke -or maybe not really a joke, but an actual threat that Derek just finds amusing- about beating someone up. Stiles would come home exhausted from school or work and collapse on top of him. And Derek would hold him like he is right now. They’d make one another better, day by day, even through the worst of it.

Derek wants it. All of it. He wants Stiles. For the rest of their lives.

He tunes back in as Stiles laughs, “And? How many times did you kiss me tonight? I think I lost count,” Stiles teases. Derek growls playfully and surges forward to kiss him again, if only just to shut him up. As far as he’s concerned, with the way Stiles’ fingers clutch onto him as he returns it, Stiles has just expressly agreed to wanting to marry him. Someday.

Derek goes out and buys rings the next day. 

For the longest time, Derek didn’t let anyone else touch the manor. He could have easily hired carpenters and had the place restored within half the time it took him, less even, but he knew they wouldn’t put the same amount of love into it as his ancestors once did. Derek took great care, ensuring the stairs still had their secret trap doors, that the beams matched the stain in his mind’s eye, that each joint in the rafters contained a special kind of wolfsbane used to protect the wolves inside. Eventually, after enough pestering on their part, Derek realized his new family only wanted to help too, and so he let them.

They’ve finally gotten to a place where not only is the mansion inhabitable, but flourishing, full of life that was once burned out of it. It wasn’t the shiny wood floors or fresh paint, nor the marble countertops or window treatments that make it feel like a den again. It’s the mixture of their scents, of pack—Isaac’s spearmint, Boyd’s musk, Erica’s peppercorn, and of course, Stiles’ cinnamon, all intermingling with Derek’s cypress, making the house what it always was meant to be: Home. The oils from their hands, the sweat while working under the sun, the blood from stray nails, the tears of frustration… they would all be forever engrained in each plane of wood, each panel of drywall, each stroke of paint that collectively came together as the great manor that it once was, the betas marking their territory forever, whether they realized it or not.

With the last area rug placed and piece of art hung, it is done.

“It’s so beautiful, Der. Is this really what it looked like?” Stiles asks as they lounge over the giant sectional, big enough for puppy piles and snuggles on a perfect fall day much like today. Boyd and Erica are on cooking duty, the house filled with the smell of bay leaves and chili as she pesters him over his methods. Isaac is in his room upstairs and down the hall—he requested Derek’s old space and he’s happily claiming it as his own.

“Yeah, pretty much everything except the wall color,” Derek answers, following Stiles’ gaze as they admire their craftsmanship. The television isn’t even on, no point when they’re paying attention to literally anything else outside of the black rectangle posted to the wall.

“It’s stunning. I can’t believe we did this,” Stiles laughs a bit incredulously, the corners of his lips upturned in a proud smile.

“You’re stunning,” Derek insists, his gaze settling on the man under his arm. He’s not as spindly as he was five years ago, thick muscles under tanned skin, a shadow of facial hair that’s about as persistent as Derek’s, his hair grown and sticking out in every odd direction. “My pretty little wife,” he teases, his finger curling under Stiles’ chin as he tips his head back and leans in to press their lips together—because Derek can just do that now, inhale his scent as their noses brush, savor his sweetness on his tongue.

Stiles smirks and peers up at him once they pull apart, an eyebrow raised. “You say that, but I still don’t have a ring on my finger.”

Derek hums in acknowledgment with a solemn nod, the ring in burning a hole in his pocket. He carries it everywhere on the off chance the perfect moment will arise. Being the romantic that he is, the sun hasn’t set just right yet.

Then again, any moment with Stiles is a perfect moment.

He stretches out his leg and rises a bit, pulling out the silver band he got sized for Stiles’ finger years ago as he drops to his knees in front of his mate.

“You mean like this one?”

Stiles’ mouth falls open, his cheeks flushing as he looks at the ring, then at Derek’s ridiculous face, then back at the ring, and finally back to Derek’s face. It’s quite possibly the first time Stiles has ever been stunned into silence.

“Are you fucking serious?” he asks, his voice a bit breathless as he laughs skeptically, and Derek can smell the salty tears before they even well in his eyes.

Derek grins and leans in, sealing their lips together again as Stiles’ hands cup his face and hold him there.

“As a heart attack,” Derek mumbles as they pull away, their foreheads resting together as Stiles’ thumb strokes over his cheek. Derek is certain Stiles’ scent is burned into his skin forever with how often they’re enmeshed, but he won’t take any chances on that—Stiles will just have to linger around to ensure it never fades. Derek leans into his touch, his eyes searching Stiles’ in earnest.

“Yes, like that,” Stiles laughs, and Derek takes his hand, slipping the ring over his long finger before Stiles has a chance to change his mind, not like he ever would. He knows the ring means more to Stiles than he cares to admit, a relic of human commitment and everlasting love. 

Derek never needed a talisman to prove what he already knew—Stiles is his true mate, and inside, his wolf is howling.