Derek was waiting on Stiles when
he got back home. Scott had apparently called the alpha when Stiles showed up
at his house with a busted face. Stiles had been cornered by Gerard and Stiles
doesn’t know how not to mouth off, so he deserved a few of the hits he took.
He’d lied and told his dad that he
had mouthed off to a few kids from the opposing team of the lacrosse game they’d
played that night. He didn’t want his dad mixed up in everything yet.
Stiles walked in to see Derek standing
in his room with his arms crossed, his expression murderous.
“Derek,” Stiles sighed.
Derek’s face instantly softened as
he reached for the human. He cupped Stiles’ jaw, inspecting the large bruise
that sat raw and painful on his cheek.
Stiles felt the pain ease up under
Derek’s touch, “Thanks,” Stiles gave a Derek a small smile.
“He did this to you?” Derek asked
though he already knew.
“I was mouthing off, it probably
wouldn’t have been so bad,” Stiles shrugged.
Derek growled, “He’ll pay for this.”
Stiles waved a dismissive hand, “You
have more pressing matters to deal with.”
“Stiles, I can’t lose you,” Derek’s
tone was harsh like he was angry, but his eyes were scared and worried.
Stiles paused. He and Derek had a
complicated relationship, they had grown closer over the weeks, but it was
still uncertain were exactly they stood. Neither one was brave enough to talk
about it.
“I don’t trust many people, but I
trust you, and I need you,” Derek’s tone was vulnerable now, like he was
worried Stiles would reject the information.
Stiles nodded, “I’ll be more
careful.” Stiles wanted to wrap the alpha in a tight hug, but he knew Derek’s
limitations. Hell, that was why Derek trusted him so much.
Deaton jumped when the front door of the clinic slammed open and someone started smashing around in the front room. In the same instant he heard his name being called, desperately, frantically, and he opened the door to the back room. Derek stood at the edge of the front railing, unable to pass without permission.
Draped over his arm, listing as he tried to remain upright, was Stiles.
“We need help,” Derek said in a rush as Deaton crossed the space between them. As soon as the railing was unlatched, they stumbled forward. Deaton let them to the table in the back and helped Stiles to sit up on the edge of it.
“Why aren’t you at a hospital?” Deaton asked, tipping Stiles’ head back toward the light and looking at his pupils, nearly dilated to blackness. It was then that he noticed the blood, seeping through the thick cotton shirt over Stiles’ ribs.
“Chimera,” Derek explained. Deaton could see blood on his clothes, and more of it, but the wounds were closed or closing already. When Derek’s breath caught in his throat, Deaton looked up, met his pale gaze. “He took a direct hit from the tail.”
“It was – going – to bite – you,” Stiles bit out, sticky breaths punctuating between his words. Deaton could hear how tight his chest was.
Regret pooled in Deaton’s belly, because he knew what that meant. “It bit you.”
It took Stiles a few halting breaths before he was able to speak. “We killed – it.” He met Deaton’s eyes, brows scrunching in pain. “Now – fix – this.”
Eyes closing, unable to hold his stare, Deaton shook his head. “I can’t.”
Derek was on him in a second, claws out, snarling. “You have to.”
“I can’t!” he shouted back and both boys flinched. He shoved at Derek’s hands, knowing the wolf wouldn’t actually hurt him. “I told you to stay away from it for a reason.”
“It was -” Stiles managed, but the breath caught, stuck for a moment before he coughed. It sounded thick and strained. “Kids-”
“It was stalking kids, Deaton. Two little girls on their way home from the park,” Derek cut in, so that Stiles wouldn’t have to. “What were we supposed to do? Let it?”
Deaton sighed, glancing back to Stiles, who was giving him the same imploring look. Of course they all knew the answer. There was nothing else they could have done. Even if they had full knowledge of the potential cost, he knew they would have stepped in anyway.
“There’s no anti-venom,” he said softly, watching Derek stiffen and Stiles close his eyes like he’s already figured it out. “It’s a paralytic venom that will affect your whole body. It’s already affecting your lungs and eyes; it won’t be long before it affects your heart.”
“It – is,” Stiles said brokenly. “Dizzy.” He took a few breaths, staring at Derek until he found the strength to speak again. “Huh- how – long?”
“An hour,” Deaton said. It felt so final. “Maybe two.”
“Call – everyone,” Stiles pleaded. “Dad. Scott.” His breath dragged in and out, scraping in and out of his throat. Deaton wondered if it would even be an hour. “Please.”
Deaton threw a glance to Derek, but Derek had eyes only for Stiles. He could see the shine of tears in Derek’s eyes, the clean trails down his cheeks. He didn’t need to be a werewolf to hear the soft ‘no’ that whispered out of him.
“I’ll get them all here,” he assured Stiles, backing away to give them room. “I leave you two alone until then.”
Neither of them looked at him as he backed out of the room. The last thing he saw was Derek, pressing close between Stiles’ knees, touching their foreheads together. He stayed just long enough to see Stiles stiffly raise his arms, fingers gliding over the curve of Derek’s jaw, holding him there, holding him steady.
The last thing he heard was Stiles’ quiet it’s going to be okay, puppy before he closed the door and moved toward the phone.
Derek reached up, fingers encircling Stiles’ slender wrists, his eyes closed against reality. Stiles’ hands were cold on his jaw, his reassuring words a warm counterpoint that twisted in Derek’s gut. It’s going to be okay, puppy.
“It’s not,” Derek told him softly, touching his nose to Stiles’. It was cold, too. “It’s not supposed to end like this.” He could barely get the words past the lump in his throat.
A small puff of laughter brushed over Derek’s lips. “Tell me,” Stiles murmured, voice all rasp and gravel. “How it – ends.”
Sliding his hands up Stiles’ arms, then down his sides to rest on his hips, Derek nodded. “It doesn’t, not for a long time,” he said, quiet and wobbly. “Not until after I propose to you, and you say yes.”
“How do you – ask?” Stiles shifted a little, stiff and slow, and Derek moved with him, letting him bury his cold nose in the crook of Derek’s neck.
“Out in the woods where we met,” Derek told him. He’d thought about it. He even had the money set aside in his savings.
“Lame,” Stiles croaked, fingers curling at the nape of Derek’s neck. “I’m gonna – do it first.” He took a moment to breathe and Derek felt like his chest was being crushed as well. “At the – aquarium. — First date.”
A broken laugh escaped Derek, the edge of a sob as he grasped at Stiles a little tighter. “Marry me,” he said in a rush.
“Okay,” Stiles replied, breath stuttering as he chuckled. “And then?”
“And then we’ll get married,” Derek told him, knowing his voice was strained, feeling the tears tracking down his cheeks as he focused on Stiles’ labored heartbeat. The others weren’t going to make it in time. “We’ll get real jobs, and a real house. We’ll get really comfortable couches and the biggest bed that will fit and we’ll paint it whatever colors we want.”
“I lo-” Stiles halted, swallowing to try to clear his throat even though there was no way it could help. “I love…” He pressed his nose against Derek’s skin, slippery with tears. “You.”
“I know,” Derek said, voice catching. He knew why Stiles said it; he didn’t know how much longer he would be able to speak. “I love you too, Stiles.”
“Tell — them?”
“Of course,” Derek assured him, eyes closing tight. “Everyone. I’ll watch your dad, and Scott. I’ll keep them safe for you. I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep you safe, too.”
“Not — your —- fault,” Stiles told him. Derek felt his grip tightening just a little, like he needed Derek to believe him.
“Okay,” Derek said, though he knew it would never be the truth. Stiles had taken the attack to save him.
“House,” Stiles prompted, and Derek felt his eyes slide closed against his neck.
Derek wasn’t sure he could find the words to tell Stiles all of the future he wanted. “Yeah, a house,” he agreed, hands trembling as he smoothed them up and then down Stiles’ sides. “And a cat, or a dog, or whatever you want.”
“Kid,” Stiles supplied, a barely scraped out word.
“A kid, okay,” Derek agreed instantly, fresh tears leaping to his eyes, his throat closing up around the thought. “A little girl.”
“Laura,” Stiles said. His chest was heaving stiffly with the effort of drawing breath, his heartbeat so slow in Derek’s ears.
“I was thinking Claudia,” Derek said, the corner of his lip twitching up at the name. He’d been so afraid to tell Stiles any of this. It didn’t seem fair to be telling him now.
“Sof— softie,” Stiles accused on a breath. Derek had time to count between heartbeats now.
“Yeah,” Derek agreed. “Anything for you. That’s how it’s supposed to go, Stiles. We’re supposed to get jobs and a house and a family, and watch terrible movies and have Sunday brunch and take summer vacations.” He knew he was rambling now, pouring out the things Stiles should have heard from him all along. “We’re supposed to grow old together, to yell at kids to get off our lawn and hold hands on the front porch and fall asleep next to each other every night forever. Stiles, please,” Derek mumbled brokenly against him.
But Stiles’ grip had gone slack around Derek’s neck, his heart no longer beating beneath Derek’s palms.
Stiles blinked open dry eyes to a pale white ceiling, marred only by blurry yellow light. Low voices filtered in from the hall, and electronic noises beeped somewhere Stiles could not see.
Something whirred, and Stiles felt his chest move, felt air flood his lungs. He did not fight it, did not pull the tube from his throat, just let the machine breathe for him.
He shifted his head as much as he could, a tiny fraction to his right, and caught sight of Scott curled up in a chair by the door, asleep.
Somewhere, a machine started to scream, and darkness swallowed Stiles whole.
————
When he next struggled back to consciousness, it was dark. A sliver of light cut the room, falling over the lumpy form slouched in the chair. His dad, he thought.
The machine whirred, still breathing for Stiles. Maybe it still had to. Maybe it always would. He surrendered his tenuous hold on consciousness before he could worry too much about it.
————
Stiles’ body ached the third time he woke, but at least the tube had gone. An invisible anvil rested on his chest, each breath a struggle, but at least he was breathing of his own accord. He rasped in once, twice, three slow times before he realized there was something in his hand.
Fighting the lethargy pulling him down, he turned his head to the left and found he was not alone. Derek sat with his head on the edge of the bed, his hand curled into Stiles’.
“Derek,” Stiles managed, voice like scratching sandpaper over raw granite.
Derek stirred and then startled, his hand tightening reflexively. “Stiles,” he breathed out, looking like he might just climb right into the bed. His eyes were human red, the sort that told Stiles he’d been crying enough even werewolf healing had gotten tired of fixing it.
“I’m alive?” he asked. It hurt to talk even that much.
A small, broken laugh puffed out of Derek. “You’re alive,” he said, like maybe he hadn’t been sure until that moment either.
“How?” Stiles asked, confused. He’d felt his heart stop. He’d had a moment after that, listening to Derek call his name, unable to respond. He’d died listening to Derek beg him not to go.
Apparently, he’d listened for once.
“Scott,” Derek told him, glancing toward the empty doorway. Stiles guessed his best friend wasn’t far, probably taking care of his dad for him. “He found a way to counteract the venom’s effects, a little. Enough.”
“I died,” Stiles said, voice shaking. Surreal did not begin to cover the way saying that aloud felt.
“Yes,” Derek said, choking on the word. His hand squeezed tighter and he leaned in to press his forehead to Stiles’. “You died. Alan brought you back and kept your heart going until Melissa got here with the drug and they brought you here.”
“Hurts,” Stiles managed. He could barely keep his eyes open.
Derek huffed another relieved laugh, and stroked a hand over Stiles clammy hair. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Cracked your sternum while Deaton found a human defibrillator.”
“Then he defillibrated me,” Stiles said, slurring and fuzzy, and he knew that wasn’t the right word. “Iluv you,” he slurred. That was important. It was important Derek knew that. “Love…”
“I know. I love you too, Stiles,” Derek said, kissing his forehead. It felt like floating. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up. You’re going to be fine.”
“I’ll carry your lifeless body into an alternative universe if it means you’ll come back to me.”
Recolored this one three times before I got happy with it, then spent copious amounts of time on details? yeah sounds like me. Thos doesn’t come with a fic, which is unusual though.
i did my research, but you should not fix a dislocated shoulder yourself except in an emergency, nor should you use this fic as any kind of medical guide
For a frightening moment, Stiles has no idea what happened.
All he knows is that the last hellhound the pack is fighting
just tackled him, that his bat flew out of his hands, and that his shoulder just
made a terrifying sound as he hit the ground.
It’s not more than a few seconds before the weight of the
hound is tackled off of him, but otherwise, no one comes to his rescue. The
battle continues to rage around him, the cacophony of gunfire and howling and yelling
all echoing through the preserve. The pack is spread everywhere, from behind
the trees to in them, and all he can
do is hope that someone notices him before he gets trampled.
He’s not sure how long the whole thing goes on. His head has
been getting increasingly fuzzy, and he idly wonders how hard he banged it. The
fuzziness quickly turns into a rush of panic when the face of a huge black
canine suddenly appears right over his own, its muzzle covered in blood. It
looks furious, and Stiles isn’t proud of the distressed sound he makes. The
reading he’d done on hellhounds talked about how the beasts were known to tear
out the throats of their victims before dragging them down to hell. Stiles
isn’t sure if he believes in the whole eternal torture thing—and hey, that’s
what living in Beacon Hills feels like half the time anyway—but he’s still not
particularly keen on having his jugular ripped out. The hound is off to his left and staring
straight down at him, and hysterically, Stiles thinks of all the jokes he’s
made about big bad wolves out in the preserve. Hounds are close enough.
In a fit of desperation, though it’s more likely to result
in his hand being bitten off than anything else, he flings out an arm to try
and shove the hulking hound away. Well, at least he tries to. What actually
happens is that his hand and forearm barely make it six inches off the ground
before weakly flopping back down, sending pain shooting up his arm.
Fuck, what did
this thing do to his shoulder?
Stiles cries out incoherently, trying to get someone’s
attention. No one else shows up, though, and a moment later the creature looms
even closer, and looks Stiles right in the eyes. Oh, good. At least this whole
thing is satisfying for someone.
Right as Stiles is about to tear his gaze away and try to
come to terms with his own mortality in a matter of seconds, the monster’s eyes
flash blue.
Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved in his life.
“Not a monster,” he slurs, mostly to himself. “J’st Derek.
Thank fuck.”
This is a short piece written for the @fandomcares auction.
Thank you so much to @notvirginawoolf for bidding. She asked for manipulative Peter, and hurt Stiles. I hope this is what you were after!
Summary: Peter gets his sweet boy a present.
Warnings: Nothing graphic, but NSFW for language. Implied violence.
The guy in the bar is
not Peter’s type. Too square-headed. Too stocky. Too blond. He’s up for it
though. Peter smells the arousal rolling off him as his gaze travels down Peter
from head to toe, and then moves slowly back up again. Peter smirks, and
gestures for the bartender. He buys the guy a drink, because that’s how the
game is played.
“Tell
me,” Peter says twenty minutes later in the parking lot, his voice a low growl
in the guy’s ear as he nips at his lobe. Faint hints of sweat and cordite. “Have
you ever had a threesome?”
The
sudden spike in the guy’s arousal tastes like copper on his tongue.
“Because
I’ve got a sweet boy in my hotel room who loves to get fucked,” Peter purrs,
pressing his erection against the guy’s thigh. “Eighteen years old, eyes like
amber, and the prettiest mouth you ever saw. He sucks dick like he was born to
do it.”
“Yeah?”
the guy rumbles.
“Tightest
ass I ever fucked,” Peter murmurs. “But I left him open and dripping with cum
before I came out tonight. Wrecked him on my cock until he couldn’t even scream
my name anymore. Want to see?”
The
guy almost stumbles in his eagerness to get to Peter’s car.
The
hotel is one of Portland’s finest. Peter could never bring himself to stay in
anything less than four stars. And this one is definitely five. The rooms are
private, spacious, and filled with luxuries. The tubs are big enough to fuck in
for hours. Peter has tested that theory multiple times over the week he’s been
here.
He
opens the door with the keycard.
The
lighting in the room is soft. There is a balcony that looks out over the city.
It’s a lovely view, but the blond’s gaze is drawn elsewhere: to the boy in
Peter’s bed.
So, I wrote a thing for Sterek week! I love Shy!Derek and I love Alpha!Derek, but you know what I don’t see a lot of? Shy Alpha Derek. (Maybe there’s a reason for that, idk) Anyway, have lonely, shy, alpha Derek who stumbles across injured werefox Stiles in the forest, and is immediately smitten by him (but fails hard at social interaction). Also on AO3.
Derek hears the hunter’s SUV pull away in a peel of rubber. He stays hidden, barely dares to breathe, watching as the car’s tail-lights bounce down the dirt road away from him, tiny red pinpricks of light eventually swallowed by the darkness. He stands there, straining to hear the thrum of their engines, half-expecting, any moment, to hear the roar of their return. It’s a full five minutes before he can bring himself to move.
He picks his way back through the trees as quietly as he can, every nerve still drawn tight as a bowstring, finally he reaches a clearing. By the light of the moon, he can make out the shack he’s been holed up in for the last week.
The hunter’s scent lingers near it now, bruising the air around him. He won’t stay here tonight, he can’t risk it. He just needs to sneak in, collect his sleeping bag, blankets and the tiny camping stove he bought a little over a year ago, when he passed through Idaho. His hands shake as he crams his meagre belongings into his duffle bag. He’d hoped to stay here just a little longer, but that can’t happen now. He takes one last look around the dusty room he’s called home for the past few days, and then steps out the door and away.
Above him the moon hangs fat and round in the sky, it calls to him, makes the blood in his veins sing. He wants to howl, long and mournful, he wants to shift and run for miles, let himself get lost in that feeling the full moon always brings, wild and fierce and free.
He can’t though. Not tonight. Hunters are on the loose and he’s all alone, no pack to protect him, not any more. He slings his bag over his shoulder, and steps forward into the unrelenting darkness of the forest.
–
Derek hears him before he sees him, hears him even before he smells him. Hears a noise like velcro being ripped apart again and again in an unsteady rhythm, and for one moment he can’t work out what’s causing it. Then it hits him: This is someone’s breathing, ragged and wet and awful.
As he moves closer to the sound, the smell hits him. The iron tang of blood, the acrid scent of panic and pain and beneath that a richer, earthier scent that tells Derek this isn’t just a human, this is a were, but not a wolf. Underneath all that though, there’s something else, something more about this scent. It’s like nothing Derek’s ever smelled before, warm, spicy and inviting. It draws him in, hooks him just under his ribs and won’t let him go, it calls to him, soothes him, pulls at the blood in his veins, just like the moon.
Without conscious thought he’s moving forward, fingers twitching, nailbeds itching, burning with the desire to extend his claws.
As he gets closer a sliver of moonlight breaks through the trees and illuminates a guy, lying on his side, half buried beneath fallen leaves and dirt; he’s shivering violently, though whether from shock or cold, Derek can’t tell. His head jerks up at Derek’s approach, eyes flickering like a broken streetlight, brown to gold and back again. They stare at each other, one long moment that seems to stretch out forever; all Derek can really make out is dark hair, wide eyes, the general shape of him and his scent. His scent is doing things to Derek.
“H-Help,” the guy pleads, voice thick round his fangs. “Help me, p-please.”
It’s enough to break Derek’s stupor. He rushes forward and drops to his knees beside him. This close the air is thick with the sour stench of pain, and there’s blood, so much blood.
“Sshh,” Derek says, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
There are long gashes along the guy’s bare arms, his face is bloody, leg mangled, maybe broken, and, worst of all, an arrow, sticking out of the guy’s flank, just under his rib cage. Derek sucks in a breath, he knows from bitter experience that it needs to be removed before the healing process can begin.
“G-Get it out,” rasps the guy. “P-Please.” Derek’s hands hover uselessly over the shaft. The pain is going to be excruciating, and they both know it. He hesitates.
The guy seems to understand. He reaches one hand out and clasps Derek’s shoulder, forces him to meet his gaze. “S’okay. Promise. Jus’ do it.”
And Derek does.
–
It’s a messy job, one that leaves Derek’s hands slick and sticky with blood, and the stranger with an open wound in his side that bleeds sluggishly even as it knits itself back together. The guy loses consciousness almost as soon as Derek’s claws dig into his side, which is probably a blessing.
Once the arrowhead is out, Derek sinks down next to him, wondering what to do next. He’s supposed to be half way into the next county by now.
He opens up his duffle bag and gets out his sleeping bag, opens it up and then scoops the guy up in his arms and gently places him on it. Then he rifles through his pack for bottled water and some tissues; he spends the next hour meticulously cleaning all the guy’s wounds. It’s not really necessary, and Derek knows it, now the arrow is out the guy is already healing, but Derek’s full of the need to do something, overcome with an urge to provide, to protect. He barely knows him, but the instinct to care for this stranger is overwhelming. Finally, when he’s finished cleaning him, Derek pulls out his old army blanket and drapes it carefully over him, tucking him in snug and warm. He shudders as he gets a whiff of their scents combined, refuses to focus on how good it smells.
Satisfied he’s made him as comfortable as he can, he sits down, back against the rough bark of a tree and watches over him, waiting for him to wake.
–
Dawn is nearly on them by the time the guy finally stirs. The sky turning pale and pink as the sun rises. He kicked the blanket off in the night, and as he groans, stretching cat-like, the fabric of his t-shirt rides right up to reveal the fresh pink of newly healed skin, and the taut, flat muscles of his stomach. Derek’s breath catches in his throat.
At that the guy’s eye cracks open, he stills, staring at Derek. “Woah,” he says, eventually. “I thought I dreamed you.” He levers himself up onto one elbow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I guess not.”
Derek rubs a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly self conscious. “Are you okay?” he asks, gruffly.
The guy quirks an eyebrow, “I-uh- I think so. Don’t remember much.” He glances about himself, taking in the sleeping bag, the worn army blanket, the empty bottles of water and blood stained tissues littered about. His eye falls on the arrowhead and he winces, reaches forward with one hand and picks it up, running his fingers over it. Derek watches his hands, entranced by the pronounced veins, broad palms, the long fingers with knobbly knuckles, and nails bitten to the quick. He’s staring, he can’t help himself.
“You pulled this out of me?” the guy asks, contemplatively, jerking Derek out of his reverie.
Derek nods, the tips of his ears turning pink.
The guy sits up properly then, hugging his legs to his chest, chin resting on the knob of his knee. He seems to be waiting for Derek to continue, and Derek wants to. He wants to say something clever or witty, but he doesn’t know where to begin.
“My name’s Stiles,” the guy says, eventually. There’s an expectant pause. “And you are?” he prompts.
“Derek.”
“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles observes, ducks his head, a faint blush creeps up his cheeks. “I mean, obviously you know that. I was just- shit, nevermind. Thanks, I guess, for, y’know, rescuing me last night. Fucking hunters, man. Am I right?”
Derek shrugs. He still can’t find his words, he hasn’t been this tongue tied since he tried talking to Paige in High School. He scowls. Say something, his brain screams at him, say anything. “You’re not a wolf.” It comes out sharp like an accusation.
“No,” Stiles agrees with a nervous chuckle, “I’m a fox. Well, a werefox.” He spreads his hands, palms upwards, as if to say, ‘what can you do?’
Derek’s never met a werefox before. He knew that other weres existed in a theoretical sense, but they’re rare, rarer than wolves.
Across from Stiles stomach gurgles loudly, and he blushes again, red splotches creeping up pale, mole-speckled skin. “Sorry, healing like that always makes me hungry.” He looks sheepish.
Derek’s hand reaches automatically for his duffel bag, tugging it toward him. He rifles through it, pulls out a granola bar and throws it to Stiles who catches it easily.
“Oh my god, you are an actual life saver,” Stiles rips it open and takes a huge bite. For a minute there’s nothing but the sound of Stiles’ chewing. “So, you don’t like to talk much, huh?” he says, spraying crumbs everywhere.
Derek frowns. He isn’t talkative, that’s true, but he used to be better than this. Something about Stiles, the look of him, the way he smells, it’s robbed Derek of all coherent thought. He’s struggling to put a sentence together.
His scowl deepens and Stiles winces. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude or ungrateful or whatever-” he sighs, shoulders slumping. His long fingers pluck at the frayed hem of his tee-shirt. “It’s not you, it’s me. I talk too much, then there’s the complete lack of a filter, the-” he rambles on, listing flaw after stupid, imaginary flaw. And Derek’s hands ball into fists, claws pricking at his palms, he needs to stop him, needs to make him understand. It’s not him. It’s not his fault. He’s perfect.
“I like the way you smell,” he blurts out. As soon as the words are out he regrets them. He wants to reach out and take them back, swallow them down where they can’t do any more damage.
Stiles stares at him jaw slack. “You- You what now?”
Derek swallows hard and looks away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But-”
“Leave it.”
Stiles kneels up, shifts closer, “Derek.”
“I said leave it,” he growls, eyes flashing red, fangs dropping.
Stiles huffs out a frustrated sigh, but backs away. When Derek finally dares to look at him, he’s trying to sniff himself, covertly. He stops as soon as he catches Derek watching, blushing furiously.
Derek ducks his head and scrambles to his feet. He busies himself packing up their makeshift campsite.
“So, uh-” Stiles says, watching him. “I was thinking, maybe we could y’know-” he takes a step forward, closer to Derek, “-stick together for a bit.”
“Uh,” Derek croaks, pausing his attempt to fold his blanket. “Stick t-together?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, shifting closer still. “I mean, it’s a dangerous world out there. Especially for two guys like us. We could help each other out,”
Yes, Derek’s brain screams at him, Yes, say yes! “How?” comes out of his mouth.
“Well you know,” Stiles offers him a shy smile. “Look out for each other. You helped me last night. I could help you, socialize you a bit, not-” he raises his hands. “Not that I’m saying you need it.” Derek doesn’t have to be a werewolf to know that’s a lie. He snorts, rolling his eyes and Stiles grins, small and genuine. It makes Derek’s heart flutter in his chest.
“I could help you,” Stiles persists, shuffling nearer. “You could help me. It could be good. You’re an alpha, but I don’t see any pack. Wolves don’t like to be alone, they’re pack animals, right? Well we could be, y’know, pack.”
“Pack?” Derek drops the blanket he’s holding and stares at Stiles, eyes wide and unblinking. His heart thumps madly in his chest.
Stiles knocks their elbows together, his scent is everywhere, eyes limned gold in the early morning light. “Trial pack,” he says. “If you don’t like it you can kick me out.”
Derek swallows, too stunned to speak. Pack. Stiles is offering him the chance to have a pack. He hasn’t had that since- well, not for a long time.
Not since the house fire that wiped out his entire family leaving him all alone.
Stiles seems to take his silence as rejection. His face falls.
“It was a stupid idea,” he says, “Ignore me, I’ll just get out of your hair-”
“Trial pack,” Derek says, cutting him off. “That sounds good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, “Just, try not to get shot again.”
Stiles grins, wide and genuine, and Derek can’t look away, can’t help smiling back.
shealwaysreads 