![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
cheerfulFandom: Teen Wolf.
Pairing: Derek/Stiles.
Rating: T, maybe M for cursing.
Summary: Stiles usually makes good decisions. Usually. Sometimes he chases howling wolves through the forest on the full moon. Nobody's perfect.
Author's Notes: Part two since LJ wouldn't let me post the whole thing at once, boo hiss.
---
It’s very clear for once: the ache of cold in his chest, the taste of sweat in his tongue, and the sound of Scott calling his name as branches break underneath his feet. Maybe that’s the one good thing about being a werewolf, Stiles thinks, besides the super senses: the ability to fade away. Maybe it’s not as bad as Scott makes it seem.
“That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Stiles chokes out, because lacrosse apparently hasn’t prepared him for a werewolf marathon as well as he thought and now he’s doubled over clutching his stomach and trying to remember what breathing is. “You—ugh, ow, lungs.” He plops down in the dirt, because he is human and his legs are on fire, and takes a few moments to catch himself before starting again. “You want to disappear.”
He hears Derek stop, which is progress. That or he’s gearing to eat him, Stiles can never tell. Either way, he goes on, “You never wanted to stay here, did you? You just wanted to find out who killed Laura and you wanted to return the favor and get the hell out of dodge. But now you have a pack and you can’t run anywhere. An animal in a cage.”
Just like that Derek is right in his face and it should be terrifying because this creature can kill him in a thousand and one different ways and will probably pick and execute one of them in the next few seconds.
But Derek just stares at him and Stiles returns the look because yeah, the eyes are red and that’s freaky as hell, but somehow, despite that he’s, like, two feet larger than usual and has insane teeth made for tearing the flesh of stupid teenage boys that chase mythological creatures around the forest and is covered in fur, for fuck’s sake-- it’s still Derek.
Derek, who has saved his life as many times as he’s promised to end it yet has never tried. Derek, who’s been looking out for them both before and after he and Scott decided to grace his already shitty life with a Sheriff Stilinski approved criminal record. Derek, who seems like he was born alone and just really, really needs someone to take care of him for once.
Stiles swallows, because there’s Derek and feelings and he wishes it didn’t make sense. “Every week you lecture us on how important the pack is, how we need each other, how we should go to you if we need anything. And you never ask us to do the same thing for you, and I think that’s bullshit, because you need us just as much.”
Derek’s lips curl back and Stiles throws his hands in Derek’s face (snout? God, what has his life become) because he’s having none of that. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re broody, forever alone werewolf guy with a dark and mysterious past and that’s all well and great except for the fact that you’re broody because you’re straight up miserable and maybe you can be less alone sometimes and it might help and I’m rambling.”
Then there’s silence, save for the sound of his still harsh breathing and the really gross resetting of Derek’s flesh and bone. He’ll be perfect by sunrise, Stiles bets, at least in theory. Without thinking—and God, Stiles, this is a fanfuckingtastic time to not do the brain thing—he reaches out and runs his fingers into the coarse fur of Derek’s neck, dragging them through and scratch at the skin underneath. “You’re not alone,” he murmurs. “It’s okay to need us as much as we need you.” And if they were both currently human this would be when he yanked Derek’s face to his because feelings and lips, but as much as Stiles admires Derek the Alpha (he is very aesthetically pleasing) he so does not want to go to that level.
Apparently he still has standards. Go figure.
So instead he calls Scott and declares the search party officially over and that he’s free to take the doctor and leave. Which Scott does, though he’s uncharacteristically concerned about the idea of leaving Stiles in a forest in the middle of the night with only a pissy werewolf to keep him company and okay, so Stiles is bitter because he knows the only reason Scott gives two fucks is because there isn’t an Allison in front of his face. But unlike Scott, he knows how to get his shit together, and puts aside his sidekick syndrome in favor of getting Derek home safely.
They walk—walk—back to Derek’s house in silence, which is something Stiles has come to expect from Derek no matter what form the older man is in. It’s oddly calming to hear nothing but the brush of grass and leaves under foot and paw as they pass through the forest. For once, Stiles doesn’t attempt to make conversation, to clog up the air with words in his typical nervous fashion. Because somewhere along the line Derek Hale, even wolfed out Derek Hale, became one of things that calmed him down, held him steady.
Life is fucked, Stiles thinks, but he still follows the werewolf into his slightly less fucked house.
It’s amazing how much work Derek has put into the thing given the small amount of time that’s passed since he returned to Beacon Hills. The burned out estate still looks like a hellhole, but at least now it’s a haunted house with water, electricity, and a roof. There must have been some work on the stairs, too, since there’s no way the old set wouldn’t have collapsed under a few hundred pounds of massive dog. The décor, though, is a whole other matter. Stiles is pretty sure that when Lydia sets foot in this place she’s going to have a meltdown, and then proceed to launch Extreme Makeover: House of Dead Family Members edition, with or without Derek’s permission. Stiles is pretty sure he’ll climb on board; he doesn’t have taste, but he has working limbs and this place (and this man) needs all the help it can get.
With a huff Derek collapses on his bed and Stiles has two options. One, he can go home and try and sleep this night—this weirdly not-weird long-ass night—off and wake up in the morning and forget all about it for the rest of time plus one.
Naturally, Stiles doesn’t take that option.
Derek doesn’t bite his face off when Stiles lays down next to him, doesn’t even snap when Stiles leans into the curve of the wolf’s neck and rests against the fur. Derek smells like smoke and damp earth and days old aftershave and it’s way more appealing than it should be. Derek in general is way more appealing than he should be and Stiles would be much more indignant about this if he could keep his damn eyes open.
“Does this count as bestiality?” He manages around a yawn.
Derek grumbles at him, which could mean yes or no but probably just means shut up and go to sleep before I change my mind and kill you.
Stiles does.
*
They don’t talk about that night, ever. Derek is gone the next morning and Stiles shuffles out pretty soon after he wakes up (though not before spying a few boxes postmarked from New York beside Derek’s bed and making a mental note to find out what’s in them and praying it’s not a severed head or any other body parts). Derek never says why he was parading around in wolf form, and Stiles never asks. He also doesn’t expect Derek to thank him, and tells himself that’s just fine, he doesn’t care, nope. He’s just going to let the whole thing go, just like that.
Somehow “forgetting” about it turns into “wondering how dead he’d be if Derek caught him stealing one of his shirts.”
Because Stiles totally doesn’t miss the way he smells or anything.
That would be gross. (Because werewolves aren't?)
And creepy. (Because Derek isn't?)
And gay, which is fine, Stiles doesn’t judge, free to be you and me, but he’s just. Not.
The midnight hard-ons are clearly just a coincidence and anyone who thinks otherwise is a filthy pervert.
*
He’s gotten into the habit of leaving his window open at night, which is stupid for normal people and even worse for a kid that knows his town is populated by beasts that are sometimes kind of homicidal.
To his credit, by the next full moon things are even better than before. Jackson and Scott are doing better than anyone could have imagined or expected, which is probably the reason Derek doesn’t look half dead anymore. The Argents are also surprisingly helpful: along with not shooting any of them dead or burning any occupied buildings down, they’ve actually started sharing some information on packs and the running of them with Derek. It’s a weight off all their shoulders, though Derek is still understandable wary, constantly ready to spring whenever Chris gets too close to him. It makes something in Stiles’ stomach clench to think that maybe Derek will never completely relax. Not that Derek seems like he was ever the upbeat, outgoing type, but still, he could breathe without looking like he was in horrible pain.
A twig snaps outside his window and draws Stiles out of his thoughts and even farther away from the chemistry homework he should be doing.
Past history dictates he should be running as far away as fast as possible, and also call his father, the man with the guns who is currently not home.
Instead Stiles goes to the window and looks down, not at all surprised to see a red-eyed shadow waiting for him down on the ground.
“You can’t just ask me out like a normal person?” A ridiculous smile is turning up the corners of his lips. He’s got a feeling this is going to become a pattern and as he hops out his window—a bit more gracefully this time, with Derek’s eyes watching him—Stiles decides that’s all right. “Should I bring a picnic basket?”
Derek growls at him.
Stiles grins and follows the wolf into the moonlit forest.
He could definitely get used to this.
