Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every Friday morning since the Nemeton woke the darkness in his heart, Stiles bought himself a coffee to celebrate surviving another week. Usually he waited until daylight, but with Scott’s broken leg still knitting together in the backseat and Derek’s stomach wound still bleeding through his t-shirt, Stiles felt especially proud of being alive right now. At 1:30 in the morning it was, technically, Friday, and the coffee stand behind the grocery store was open 24-7. Besides, the caffeine might calm Stiles down long enough to let him sleep tonight. It might finally ease the jittery, broken feeling that had crashed through him when Derek went down with a fucking scythe in his gut. That feeling had only gotten worse when Scott raced to help him, only to get plowed down by the hunters’ SUV.

Stiles’s heart had stopped, only to start beating again when Scott dragged himself out from beneath the huge wheels, and Derek pushed himself to his elbows a second later, gasping for breath. His relief had given Stiles the strength to lift the pistol his dad had been teaching how to use, shooting the man whose scythe still dripped with Derek’s blood. He would have shot the driver, too, if Allison hadn’t beaten him to it. Now Ethan and Aiden were taking care of the bodies, and Chris was chewing out the surviving hunters for making a move on Argent-protected land. The fight was over, but Stiles’s hands were still shaking. He couldn’t stop bouncing his left knee up and down when he wasn’t working the clutch. If Derek hadn’t been so out of it, he probably would have smacked Stiles for fidgeting. So yeah. Coffee.

As he pulled up to the drive-through window, Stiles hoped it was dark enough that the barista wouldn’t notice the bloodstains on their clothes. But the curly-haired girl behind the window showed no sign of alarm, only mild curiosity as she folded her ragged copy of The Fault In our Stars and let her gaze flicker over them. Even without the bloodstains visible, Derek looked half-dead slumped against the passenger window, and Scott was stretched out across Stiles’s backseat with his leg elevated on a folded blanket. A painful bruise was forming on Stiles’s cheek where one of the hunters had clocked him. Dried blood still caked his split lip.

“Rough night?” the barista asked.

“You have no idea,” Stiles said fervently. On days like today, he could practically feel the darkness inside him, drawing him further and further towards it in a series of ever narrowing circles. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing as it came away with leaves and twigs.

“I’ll take a tall shot in the dark,” he told the barista. Then, since he was feeling generous, he added, “Do you guys want anything?”

“Stiles, we don’t all have your weird relationship with caffeine,” Scott said. “It’s late! I want to get some sleep tonight.”

“Caffeine shouldn’t affect you at all,” Stiles pointed out, curling his fingers into claws to make his point. But Scott just made a face at him in the rearview mirror, so he turned his attention to Derek instead. “What about you?” Stiles asked, nudging Derek with his elbow.

Derek shook his head, clutching his abdomen even tighter. His face was tight with pain, eyes suspiciously bright as they stared straight ahead. Stiles’s own gut spasmed in sympathy. He patted Derek’s knee, trying to ignore how his jeans were tacky with drying blood.

“And a tall hazelnut latte with almond milk,” he added because Derek had a sweet tooth and a bizarre hatred of dairy products.

The paper cups the barista handed to him filled the Jeep with a heavenly scent even Stiles’s human nose could appreciate. He savored the smell as he pulled out of the coffee stand. At the next red light, he reached for the cup, inhaling deeply before taking a sip.

A second later, he scrambled for the door, barely opening it in time to stick out his head and retch onto the concrete.

“Dude, are you okay?” Scott asked, leaning forward to grip Stiles’s shoulder.

Even Derek pulled himself out of his misery long enough to snap, “Stiles!” in a voice rough with pain and worry.

“I’m fine,” Stiles gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It just tastes weird, that’s all.” He glanced back at Scott. “Does it smell funny?”

Scott made a face. “It smells like it always does. That stuff is like battery acid, Stiles!”

“But I like it,” Stiles protested weakly. He’d started drinking coffee when his mom was in the hospital, filling and refilling his Styrofoam cup with the weak, burned-tasting brew from the carafes in the family waiting area. Foul as it was, the coffee had calmed Stiles down, had given him enough focus to sit quietly in the hard, plastic chairs instead of tearing through the halls and driving the nurses and his dad crazy. Later that year, when Stiles got his ADHD diagnosis, his doctor had explained to him that he didn’t react to stimulants the same way most people did. From hospital coffee, he went on to the pots of sludge Tara made at the sheriff’s office. She’d liked her coffee black and strong, and she’d taught Stiles to drink it the same way. A shot of espresso in a cup of black coffee was one of Stiles’s favorite things.

Cautiously, Stiles brought the cup to his nose and sniffed again. The rich scent that had comforted him only minutes before now smelled acrid. His stomach seized at the memory of the taste. Grimacing, Stiles dashed the rest of the coffee onto the road, breathing in through his mouth so he wouldn’t be sick again.

“I think I’m officially too stressed out for coffee,” he lamented. “What is my life coming to?” He wondered if he was developing an ulcer. Wasn’t coffee supposed to hurt ulcers?

When they pulled up in front of the McCall house, Stiles clambered out of the driver’s seat so Derek wouldn’t have to move. He folded the seat up and helped Scott out, though he probably needn’t have bothered. Scott bounced onto the sidewalk, as good as new. He gave Stiles a crooked grin, then leaned back into the seat to grip Derek’s shoulder.

“Hey, you were great today,” Scott said, in the calm, quiet voice he always used when he was channeling his inner alpha. Stiles always thought it was cheesy as hell, but Derek actually managed a weak smile in response to it. His eyes glowed blue for a second as he ducked his head, lowering his gaze from Scott’s. “Heal up soon, okay?” Scott said, patting Derek’s shoulder before letting him go.

Pulling out of the Jeep, Scott wrapped an arm around Stiles in a brief bro hug. “You’ll look after Derek?” he asked, ignoring the quiet noise of protest Derek made from the passenger seat.

“Yeah, I’ve got him,” Stiles said, thumping Scott on the shoulder. “You’re off alpha duty for the night.”

The wry look Scott shot Stiles said that he was never off alpha duty. Given that Scott didn’t exactly have a stellar leadership history before he’d been bitten, he was actually handling it better than Stiles would have expected. Mostly Scott’s leadership style as alpha involved a lot of delegating. And pep talks. Scott was great at pep talks.

“Have a good night, guys,” Scott said, starting towards the house. “Stay safe.”

Somehow, “stay safe” had become their “goodbye.”

“Yeah, you too,” Stiles said, climbing back into the Jeep. Derek’s eyes were closed again. He might have been asleep, slumped against the window, one arm still curled protectively around his gut. But when Stiles turned towards his own house and not the loft, Derek stirred, sitting up in the seat like he was preparing to argue.

“Dude, do yourself a favor and just don’t,” Stiles said, without taking his eyes from the road. “You’re in no position to defend yourself right now. “You know it. I know it. The hunters who got away tonight sure as hell know it. I texted my dad while you and Scott were posturing with their leader. He’s got the couch made up, and if anyone so much as sets foot on our property, he’ll haul their asses into jail before you can blink. Just let us take care of you tonight, okay?”

Derek gave him a sidelong look before jerking his chin down in a nod. Stiles reached over the divide between their seats to touch the back of Derek’s wrist.

“That’s my favorite beta,” he said. If the tone came out a shade too serious for teasing, Derek, at least, was in no position to call him on it.

No sooner had Stiles pulled into the driveway than his dad was hurrying out of the house to meet them. Together, they got Derek up the steps and onto the couch, which was, as Stiles had promised, fitted with clean sheets and an old Batman comforter.

Leaving his dad to get Derek settled, Stiles ran to the bathroom. The size and variety of the Stilinski first aid kits had grown exponentially since werewolves entered Stiles's life. The enormous plastic chest under the sink was designed to hold fishing tackle, but it worked just as well for gauze strips and antiseptic creams. Beside it was a stack of towels, threadbare and stained, but clean, and a box of room-temperature bottled water from Costco.

"I can do that," his dad offered, when Stiles returned, his arms full of first aid supplies.

His dad had managed to get Derek’s shirt off while Stiles was in the bathroom. Derek lay on the couch in his jeans and boots, his hands curled protectively over his stomach. His eyes were closed and his breathing came in short, shallow gasps. Even through Derek’s fingers, Stiles could tell that the wound was still raw and angry, which meant his injury must have been even worse than Stiles imagined. Werewolf healing always took care of internal injuries before moving on to the relatively minor issues of torn flesh. Just looking at the wound made Stiles a little squeamish, especially with his stomach still rolling from the coffee. He was tempted to take his dad up on his offer. But he shook his head regretfully. Stiles knew that, even half conscious, Derek wouldn’t hurt him if he accidentally grazed the wound or bumped him in a sensitive spot. He wasn't about to take a chance with his dad, though.

So Stiles steeled himself and popped open the bottle of water, using it to rinse out the worst of the dirt before patting the intact skin dry. He murmured a quiet apology as he ran an antiseptic pad over the wound, but Derek only grunted. Stiles patted his hip reassuringly, reaching for the gauze. His stomach settled a bit once the torn, angry flesh disappeared beneath white padding. He taped the gauze to Derek’s stomach with a quick efficiency born of too much practice. Derek lay still. Stiles thought he might have passed out. But as Stiles dropped the first aid tape back into the plastic kit, Derek's eyes fluttered open. His hand landed weakly on Stiles's knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. Stiles let his own hand fall over Derek’s, just for a second.

"You'll be okay,” Stiles murmured. “Get some rest."

Derek nodded into the pillow, his breathing already deepening into sleep. Stiles pulled the comforter up over Derek’s shoulders, eased off his boots. Setting them on the ground beside the couch, he glanced up to see his dad looking at him.

“What?” he asked.

His dad only shook his head, smiling sadly. “You’re a good friend,” he said. “Your mom would be proud of you.”

Stiles’s hand spasmed on the comforter near Derek’s ankle, and he took a deep breath, forced his fingers to relax. His mom had told him that the day she died. She’d gripped Stiles’s hand, told him she loved him, that she’d always be proud of him, no matter what. But even as she spoke, her eyes had kept flicking behind Stiles to the empty door. The nurses had rushed in and bustled Stiles out when the line on her heart monitor went flat, but not before he’d seen the disappointment creasing his mom’s brow. He always wondered, afterwards, if his dad could have made it there on time if only Stiles had known to call for the nurses before her heart stopped beating.

“Thanks,” Stiles muttered. He couldn’t bear to look at his dad’s sad face, so he looked at Derek instead. Even in sleep, pain crinkled the skin around Derek’s eyes. For a second, Stiles wished he were a werewolf so he could take some of it away. He gently carded his fingers through Derek’s hair, unsure which of them he was trying to comfort. Derek only sighed, burrowing his face down into the pillow. His hair was crunchy from the product he used in it.

“Have you told his sister, yet?” his dad asked.

“No,” Stiles admitted. “I should probably text her.” He reached for his phone, but it wasn’t in his pocket. It turned out to be on the floor of his Jeep, where he must have dropped it after the fight. Slumping back in the driver’s seat, Stiles shot off a quick text to Cora.

Derek got hurt pretty bad tonight. He’s healing, but you should call him tomorrow. He’d written so many of those texts he could probably do it in his head. Stiles didn’t blame Cora, exactly, for staying in New Mexico and letting Derek return to Beacon Hills alone, but he didn’t understand it. If Stiles found out there had been some mistake, that his mom hadn’t died, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. But Cora and Derek seemed okay with the distance.

“We don’t know each other anymore,” Derek had said, when Stiles asked him about it. “We get along better with a few hundred miles between us.”

That was bullshit. How could they get to know each other if they only spent time in person a few weeks out of the year? But of all the mistakes Derek had made, that was the one Stiles had the least right to stick his nose in.

So he’d just said, “I’d like you better from a few hundred miles away, too.”

Derek had caught him in a headlock, but he hadn’t called Stiles on the lie. Sometimes the two of them understood each other perfectly.

As he put his phone away, Stiles noticed that the coffee he’d got for Derek still sat untouched in the cup holder. He sniffed it cautiously as he walked back toward the house, breathing in the scent of hazelnut and espresso, so much sweeter than his shot in the dark. Stiles wasn’t a big fan of almond milk, but he supposed it might smooth the coffee a little. And he wanted the coffee. He needed to calm himself down. Tentatively, he took a sip. At first, all he could taste was the syrupy sweetness of the hazelnut syrup. Stiles never got the point of flavored coffee. The coffee was the flavor. But then he picked up the darker note of espresso beneath the sweetness. No sooner had the taste hit his tongue than he was doubled over, vomiting onto the icy, dead grass of the front lawn.

“Are you all right?” his dad asked, stepping out onto the porch.

Stiles gave him a shaky thumbs up and poured Derek’s coffee into the dead leaves covering the yard.

* * *

Since Scott had become alpha, the pack met every Saturday morning at the nature preserve. Stiles and Lydia usually spent that time training with Deaton while the wolves and Allison sparred, occasionally under Chris’s direction. Sometimes Stiles’s dad dropped by unannounced, as if to make sure Stiles and his friends really were playing in the woods, not ripping people’s throats out or shooting up werewolf heroin. His dad hadn’t checked up on him that way in years, not since Stiles had started high school. It was annoying and a little embarrassing, but after everything that had happened, Stiles supposed he couldn’t really blame his dad for wanting to make sure Stiles and his friends were safe.

Typically, his dad only stayed for a few minutes, anyway. Stiles supposed it wasn’t particularly exciting to watch him doing yoga or meditating while his friends threw each to the ground or back flipped off tree branches. It must have been about as thrilling as watching Stiles sit on the bench during lacrosse matches. That was probably why his dad usually only stayed for a few minutes. But one day, his dad swung by as Stiles was dipping his fingers into a bag of mountain ash, and he got out of his car to watch.

He wasn’t sure why his dad was even bothering looking at him. On the other side of the clearing, Derek had the giant wolf the twins merged into caught up in a choke-hold, dangling from his (their?) neck like a child, while Isaac circled them in beta form, growling. Nearby, Allison fired arrow after arrow at Scott, who kept plucking them out of thin air like a badass. At the edge of the clearing, Lydia sat cross-legged under the trees, chanting very intently over a dead bird, while Deaton watched. But, no, of all the spectacles playing out in the clearing, his dad was focused on him.

Swallowing, Stiles reached into the bag of mountain ash, letting it sift through his fingers. At first, the magic flickered away from his touch, almost as self conscious as Stiles himself was. This felt like the first time his dad had watched him play lacrosse. Forcing himself to forget his dad, forget Lydia and Deaton, forget even the wolves crashing through the forest around him, Stiles closed his eyes and focused. He found the spark inside of him and sheltered it. As he walked in a slow circle, the ash falling through his fingers, he imagined every footstep was fanning it higher, into a steady flame.

He knew it had worked the second he sealed the circle. He could feel it in his bones. But since his dad was watching, he beckoned Scott over all the same. Sure enough, the air shimmered against the insistent press of Scott’s body. Scott broke through in about thirty seconds, but his dad clapped all the same.

“That’s fantastic!” he laughed, pounding Stiles on the shoulder like he used to when Stiles brought home a good report card.

Stiles ducked his head, pleased. Without giving himself time to examine the impulse, he thrust the bag of mountain ash at his dad. “You try.”

His dad’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline. “I don’t know — “ he started.

But Scott was nodding. “It’s a good idea,” he said. “What happens if you need to arrest a werewolf? You could keep them in a holding cell with this.”

At both of their urging, his dad relented. Deaton leaned against a tree and watched as Stiles talked his dad through it, trying to explain the spark as best he could. It took three tries for his dad to make it work, but when Isaac finally stepped up to his dad’s mountain ash line and froze, Stiles felt almost more proud than he had when he’d managed his first circle at the rave. He threw his arms into the air and whooped, clapping his dad on the shoulder. Afterwards, his face hurt from grinning so hard. Maybe this was what growing up was like — getting to feel proud of your parents.

His dad left with a smile on his face and a bag of mountain ash in his pocket. Stiles climbed onto a stump, his arms thrown wide for balance, and watched him drive away. The woods behind him were thick with werewolves and the gravel road ahead was shrouded with the dust the cruiser had kicked up. Stiles stood balanced between the two. He would mediate between the pack and the human world, making sure that Scott and his dad both had the tools they needed to protect Beacon Hills. And later on, when Deaton retired, Stiles would become an emissary after him. Stiles wasn’t psychic, not even a little bit, but in that moment, he could almost see the future spiraling around him, vivid as a photograph.

* * *

His dad had to work on Thanksgiving, which sucked, but was hardly surprising. A lot of domestic disturbances happened over the holidays. So Stiles found himself at Scott’s house, where he usually ended up when his dad’s job orphaned him. Melissa had to work too, but not until later, so they were having an early dinner. Stiles sat on the couch, artfully arranging crudités on a platter while Scott, Isaac, and Melissa banged away in the kitchen.

Stiles had been banned from holiday food preparation in the McCall kitchen since the great pie-burning incident of 2008, quite unfairly, in his opinion. The McCall’s stove had a different knob configuration than the Stilinski’s, that was all. Anyone could accidentally turn on the wrong burner. And who thought it was a good idea to cool a pie on one of the unused burners, anyway? Besides, there hadn’t been any actual flames involved, no matter how much Scott and Melissa said otherwise.

When the doorbell rang, Stiles dumped the rest of the carrots onto the platter and stood to answer it. Derek stood on the other side, gripping a casserole dish before him like a shield.

“Derek!” Stiles exclaimed, unable to keep the surprised happiness from creeping into his voice. He’d been bored and kind of lonely hanging out in the living room, listening to Scott and Isaac bicker as they cooked. Now that Derek was here, Stiles would have somebody to talk to. Besides, Derek wore a green sweater beneath his leather jacket, and it brought out the color of his eyes. Dimly, Stiles became aware that an idiotic grin was spreading across his face.

“Stiles,” Derek acknowledged. His lips quirked in the corner, like he was trying not to grin. The hesitant, almost shy expression he’d worn when first Stiles opened the door was completely gone. “Are you going to let me in?”

That’s when Stiles realized he was still clinging to the doorframe, his body positioned smack in the center of it. Blushing hard, he stepped aside, making room for Derek to enter.

“You made it!” Scott said, emerging from the kitchen with a dish towel flung over his shoulder and a potato peeler in one hand. He took the casserole from Derek, leading him into the kitchen. Stiles followed them, unable to suppress his curiosity. In the kitchen, Isaac was frantically stirring a pot of gravy, and Melissa was taking a steaming pan of rolls from the oven. She was already dressed in her scrubs, and her face looked tired and harried, but the smile she gave Derek seemed genuine.

“I’m glad you were able to join us,” she said. “Scott, take his jacket. And you!” she snapped, catching sight of Stiles behind Derek as he set the wine bottle on the counter and stripped off the leather jacket. “Out of my kitchen!” She lifted her oven mitt threateningly.

Stiles scurried out, accepting the jacket that Scott thrust at him as he went. At the closet hallway, he paused for a moment, holding Derek’s jacket close and breathing in the scent of it, leather, pine and musk. It sent an odd thrill down his spine to realize that he’d spent enough time in close proximity to Derek that he knew how the guy smelled. He hung Derek’s jacket beside his own corduroy sports coat. When he closed the closet door and turned around, Derek was standing behind him, watching.

Heat flamed in Stiles’s ears and neck, and he ducked his head, hoping like hell that Derek hadn’t noticed that little jacket sniffing moment. Of course, Derek was a werewolf, so he might not think it was weird even if he did.

“Banned from the kitchen, huh?” Derek asked, smirking at Stiles.

“Lies!” Stiles insisted, leading Derek away from the closet and into the relative safety of the living room. They sat together on the couch, munching on the vegetables Stiles had arranged and booing at every bad play. Well, Stiles booed. Derek scowled.

When Melissa called them into the dining room, Stiles learned that Scott and Isaac had managed to talk her into letting them each have a glass of wine, on the grounds that they were werewolves and couldn’t get drunk, anyway. Stiles had to protest loudly that she was discriminating against the non-lyncanthropic teenagers at the table before she gave in and poured him one, too.

“But someone else has to drive you home,” she said firmly, setting the glass in front of his plate.

“One glass of wine won’t get me drunk!” Stiles protested.

“And you know this, how?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows.

“From . . . hearsay not at all related to personal experience?” he tried.

She shook her head. “I’m serious, Stiles. We have too many people come through the ER after driving drunk. You are not going to be one of them.”

“I’ll take him home,” Derek said, ignoring Stiles’s betrayed look.

Like every year, Melissa insisted they all hold hands and say one thing they were grateful for. Stiles had ended up between Melissa and Derek. He took their hands, trying to ignore the traitorous flutter in his heart at the touch of Derek’s warm fingers.

“I’m grateful for my pack,” Scott said, beaming at them all.

“For my dad,” Stiles said, like he always did.

“I’m grateful for Scott and Melissa giving me a home here,” Isaac said, ducking his head to avoid Derek’s eyes.

Derek stiffened beside him. Stiles tightened his grip on him, half afraid Derek was going to launch himself at Isaac or storm away in offense. He hoped Scott was doing the same thing on Derek’s other side. It would probably take an alpha to stop Derek from doing whatever the hell he wanted to do.

But Melissa saved the day, saying, “Well, I’m grateful for these boys who are going to clean the kitchen for me while I’m at work.” Everybody laughed, and Stiles and Scott groaned. Some of the tension eased out of Derek’s shoulders.

“Cora,” Derek said quietly. Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand tightly for a second, running his thumb up and down the back of Derek’s hand before letting him go. When he glanced up, Derek was staring at him.

Their thanks given, Melissa let them all dig in. Stiles piled his plate high out of habit, snagging an extra roll and liberally spooning gravy onto his mashed potatoes. But when Scott and Isaac headed into the kitchen for second helpings, Stiles was still pushing his food around the plate.

Melissa looked at Stiles with worried eyes. "Are you all right kiddo?"

"Not hungry, I guess," he answered. The truth was, Stiles hadn't been hungry for a while now. Since he’d started puberty, he hadn't been able to shovel food into his mouth fast enough. He’d been constantly hungry. Now, he had to remind himself to eat. He figured he was just done growing. But Melissa was frowning at him.

She stood up, walking across the table and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. It reminded him so much of something his own mother would do that tears came to his eyes. He swallowed nervously. Derek was staring at him, his brow creased with concern.

"You don't have a fever," Melissa said, pulling back. "But there’s a nasty stomach bug going around. Three people ended up in the ER with it last week.” She patted Stiles on the shoulder. "Get lots of rest, okay?"

Stiles brightened. "Does that mean I don't need to do the dishes?”

"Fat chance,” Melissa said, and swatted him across the back of the head.

* * *
Stiles never got the stomach bug Melissa had warned him about, but his appetite didn’t return, either. He still liked food, he just didn’t want it anymore. Sometimes his stomach hurt after eating, a burning pain that radiated out from his upper abdomen. The smell of coffee still made him sick. Stiles was starting to think he really did have an ulcer.

It wasn’t just his appetite. He was exhausted all the time now. It took more and more effort to get himself out of bed in the morning. It was a relief when Christmas break came, and he was able to sleep in until noon every day. On the deepest level, Stiles’s body just felt wrong. He was more aware than ever of the darkness inside him, drawing him in towards its center. Sometimes, for no reason, he thought of his mom’s face after she’d gotten sick, how pale and drawn she’d been. He knew it was just the Nemeton messing with him, but every time he woke up after dreaming again of her face, he wondered if something really was wrong with him.

The pack would be scattering over the holidays — Derek to spend Christmas with Cora, Lydia and her mother to Switzerland, the twins to visit family in the Midwest. The weekend before everyone left town, Scott decided to hold a slumber party in the name of pack unity.

The werewolf element aside, it actually reminded Stiles of the slumber parties they’d had back in grade school. He and Scott knocked elbows as they brushed their teeth, the same way they’d used to. When they went to the living room, the rest of the pack was already down there, sleeping bags spread out across the living room. They were all in their pajamas aside from Derek. Allison, looking decidedly less dangerous in sleep shorts and a tank top, was painting a giggling Isaac’s toenails bright purple. Beside them, Lydia lounged on her sleeping bag, a glass of eggnog in one hand. She wore a lacy blue nightgown that made her skin look even creamier than usual, and Stiles had to fight back the momentary pang of jealousy he felt when Aiden, shirtless (of course) and wearing a pair of flannel sleep pants, leaned over and kissed the tip of her shoulder. On his other side, Ethan, also shirtless, leaned back against the sofa, deeply engrossed in his texting conversation with Danny.

Only Derek lay apart from everyone else. He lay on his sleeping bag in the far corner of the room, still fully clothed, his hands folded over his chest as he gazed up at the ceiling. He looked wistful. Stiles thought of the Christmas he and his dad had spent without his mom, how hollow everything felt without her, even though they’d tried to carry on their old traditions. This must be like that for Derek, he thought, except for a hundred times worse.

Without letting himself examine the impulse too much, Stiles picked up his sleeping bag from where he’d absently tossed it beside Scott’s earlier in the evening. Crossing the room, he spread it out next to Derek’s instead. Derek’s head rolled to the side to watch him, but he didn’t say anything, and neither did Stiles. For a long time, they just watched each other. Stiles wanted to ask Derek about his family, about their traditions, about everything he’d lost. He wanted to ask what Cora’s place was like down in New Mexico, whether it was better or worse to spend Christmas there than in Beacon Hills. But Stiles didn’t ask any of that. Instead, he smiled weakly and patted Derek’s arm, shaking his head to convey how deeply fucked up this whole situation was. Derek exhaled slowly, managed a stilted shrug in return. Giving his arm a final squeeze, Stiles pulled away, rolling onto his side. He fell asleep, leaving Derek to his memories.

Sometime after midnight, Stiles woke feeling like his gut was on fire. Pain burned through his upper abdomen, curling around his torso to lick his back. A whimper escaped him before he remembered he was sleeping in a room full of werewolves.

"Stiles?" Scott murmured sleepily, not lifting his face from his pillow. From his other side, next to Allison, Isaac was blinking up at Stiles with confused, wide eyes. Across the room, the twins were stirring in their sleep. Wrapping his arms around himself, he exhaled slowly, trying to calm the rabbit-quick racing of his heart. "What is it?" Scott asked.

"Stomach ache," Stiles grunted, clutching his abdomen.

"It's probably gas," Isaac said darkly. He rubbed his eyes, dropping back down to the pillow. "If you fart," he told the ceiling, "I guarantee someone will maul you. We have enhanced senses. It's practically self defense."

"It's not gas!" Stiles said, and Aiden twitched in his sleep, claws flicking out, then in again.

"Shut up!" Ethan groaned from beside him. "Some of us are trying to sleep.

Scott lifted himself up onto one elbow. His hair was going every direction. He looked ridiculous. "Dude," he said around a big yawn rubbing a hand over his face. "We've got Tums in the medicine cabinet. Do you need me to --?" he gave a half-hearted wave of his hand towards the door.

"No," Stiles said. "I got it. Go back to sleep."

Not having to be told twice, Scott rolled over, snores quietly drifting over the room. Isaac blinked at Stiles, then dropped his head back to the pillow. Gingerly, Stiles picked himself up out of his sleeping bag. It was only when he stepped over the empty sleeping bag beside him that he realized Derek was gone.

Half asleep and feeling fuzzy with pain, Stiles made his way to the bathroom. He found the Tums where Scott had said they would be, and poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink. He hated the chalky taste in his mouth. As he was putting his glass in the sink, he noticed the back door was unlocked.

At first, Stiles reached for the handle intending to lock it. Melissa hated having the door unlocked, even though the werewolves sleeping in the living room were more than a match for any burglar. But then Stiles remembered Derek's empty sleeping bag, and instead of locking the door, he opened it. Shoving his bare feet into the pair of sneakers Scott had left near the door, he padded out into the dewy grass. In the moonlight, it was easy to make out Derek sitting on the old swing set Mrs. McCall had never bothered to take down. He wasn’t swinging, just rocking himself back and forth slightly, his feet firmly planted on the ground as he stared up at the sky with a helpless, lost expression. Snowflakes were falling gently around him, tiny, anemic things that melted as soon as they hit the grass.

Wordlessly, Stiles took the other swing. The chains groaned alarmingly with his weight, but didn’t collapse, so he figured it was okay. Stiles pushed off with his feet, sending himself swinging backwards a little. He was too tall to swing anymore. He had to pull his knees up to his chest to keep them from hitting the ground. But the motion reminded him of being young and safe. He felt old all of a sudden, bitter and jaded and worn out.

"Are you okay?” Derek asked after a second. “You smell . . . off."

"Just a stomach ache," he said, not meeting Derek’s eyes. "I probably ate too much."

"You barely ate at all," Derek said, watching him suspiciously. “You haven’t been eating much for awhile now.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said.

His feet hit the ground, and he propelled himself forward, trying to swing as high as he remembered managing when he was younger, back when his mom was alive and werewolves were only in scary movies. But maybe he was too heavy for the swing set after all. The entire swing set lurched alarmingly. Derek shot to his feet, catching hold of the aluminum legs like he was going to anchor it himself. Stiles saved him the trouble and jumped, arms flailing wildly.

He landed on his feet. For a brief second of optimism, he thought he might actually manage to stay there. But his borrowed sneakers slipped on the wet grass, and Stiles fell backwards onto his ass, laughing with surprise and embarrassment.

When he sat up, Derek stood in front of him, one hand extended in silent invitation. Stiles took it, and Derek hauled him back to his feet. “I don’t think the frame is bolted down right,” Derek said.

Stiles grinned sheepishly. “Noted.” Then he frowned, realizing Derek was still holding his hand. “Um,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

Derek didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let go of Stiles’s hand, either. Instead his brow furrowed in concentration. A second later, the veins in his hands and arms darkened, and Stiles wanted to cry at the sudden, shocking, absence of pain.

“That’s bad,” Derek said, frowning. “Are stomach aches supposed to feel like that?”

Stiles tugged his hand away, and Derek let him. Until that moment, Stiles hadn’t realized werewolves felt the pain they took. “What would you know about it, wolf boy?” he muttered, stomping back to his swing.

He took his seat more cautiously this time, and Derek settled into the swing beside him. Stiles’s brain tried to make sense of the fact that he was hanging out on Scott’s old swing set with Derek Hale. He almost wondered if he were drunk, although he’d only had a few glasses of Lydia’s eggnog. Or maybe it was Derek’s pain-leeching mojo that was giving this night the oddly surreal edge.

"When I was ten," Stiles said, mostly to distract himself, "I convinced Scott to jump off this swing and he broke his leg. Melissa was pissed at me for months."

To his surprise, Derek actually chuckled, shaking his head ruefully “We used to have a swing set, too, when we were kids,” Derek said. “Laura tried to convince me that if I ever swung all the way around, I'd end up in a different world."

"Did you believe her?"

"I did it just to prove her wrong," Derek said, staring up at the top of the swing set above their heads. "It's not hard when you're a werewolf. Then she tried to convince me that she didn't know who I was, and she somehow got Peter to go along with it. Mom found me crying in the basement and yelled at both of them.” He shrugged awkwardly. "I was kind of a sensitive kid."

He was a sensitive adult, too, Stiles knew, except the painful, vulnerable heart of him was layered beneath scar tissue and anger. He wished he knew something to say to make things better. But things never got better, not really, and Stiles knew that better than anyone. So instead, he swung sideways, bumping gently into Derek and sending him swinging, too.

When they crept back into the house, pink tendrils of dawn light were just beginning to color the sky. They climbed into their sleeping bags, and with the worst of the pain siphoned off, Stiles was actually able to catch a few hours of blissfully dreamless sleep until Melissa woke them all for breakfast the next morning.

Stiles dropped into his seat feeling bleary-eyed and exhausted, but when Melissa offered him coffee, he shook his head. "I don't drink coffee anymore."

"Since when?" Scott demanded.

Stiles gave him an unimpressed look. "Dude, you were there the night coffee decided to break up with me."

Beside him, Derek straightened, giving him an odd look. "That was months ago."

Stiles shrugged. "So, it took."

Melissa was frowning. “You don’t like coffee anymore?”

“It makes me sick every time I drink it,” Stiles said, shrugging. “It’s no big deal. Tastes change, right?”

“Sure,” Melissa said. “But usually not overnight.” For a long moment, she studied Stiles, and then she sighed and shook her head. “You’re a strange one, kiddo.”

“Tell me about it,” Derek muttered, and everybody laughed.

* * *

Stiles remembered when Christmas Eve meant caroling, sometimes just Stiles and his parents, sometimes a group of their friends. No matter the group, Stiles always begged to be the one who rang the doorbell. He’d loved the game of running to the door, ringing to the bell, and scrambling back to the group by the time the door opened and they launched into their song, his mom’s strong, sure voice rising over all of theirs, her cold-reddened fingers strumming her guitar. She’d been a folk musician when she was younger. Nobody famous, she always demurred — she just played in coffee houses and the occasional festival. But she’d made a demo CD that Stiles loved to show off to his friends, and she still had her guitar. Christmas Eve meant music, then coming home to cookies and hot chocolate, to his parents warning him to go to bed early so Santa would come.

Now, Christmas Eve meant pizza and bad movies, Stiles and his dad camped out on the couch, refusing to look at the guitar gathering dust in the corner. Stiles had texted Derek earlier that afternoon, nothing much, just a Merry Christmas. Derek hadn’t texted back, and Stiles had almost forgotten about it by the time his phone chirped during Earnest Saves Christmas.

Thanks, Derek replied, and a second later, You too.

Stiles couldn’t help the grin on his face. Setting his barely nibbled-on pizza back on the bright poinsettia plates his mom had insisted on buying, he asked,Do you hate the holidays as much as I do?

More, Derek responded at once, and Stiles chuckled.

“Who are you texting?” his dad asked.

“Derek,” Stiles replied, already typing his reply. Wish you were here. Misery loves company.

His heart raced a little when he hit the send button, though he couldn’t say why. He waited through the rest of the movie, half-heartedly gnawing at his pizza crust. The phone finally chirped as the credits were rolling, and his dad laughed at how quickly Stiles dove for it.

Me too, Derek had replied.

Feeling suddenly warm, though the room was slightly chilly, Stiles set the phone back in his pocket. Stretching, he stood, helping his dad clear away their plates and the pizza boxes.

As they cleaned up, his dad frowned at the amount of pizza left in the box. “Didn’t you eat, son?”

“I ate,” Stiles lied, laying the remaining slices out on aluminum foil and carefully wrapping them for the fridge. “But I filled up on chips at Scott’s house earlier.”

His dad frowned, clearly unconvinced, and Stiles escaped to the bathroom. When he got out of the shower, he stood for a long time in front of the bathroom mirror, studying his reflection. He was losing weight. He’d always been slim, but Stiles could see his ribs now, and the sharp bones of his hips. Fortunately, it was winter, and Stiles always wore so many layers that he doubted anyone else had noticed.

Of course, he always forgot just how good of a detective his dad actually was.

He cornered Stiles the day after Christmas, setting a slice of leftover pecan pie in front of him and asking, “Are you all right, son?”

“Fine,” Stiles answered, forcing himself to take a bite. His dad did not look convinced. If anything, he looked more worried.

“It’s just that you’re not eating,” his dad said.

“I’m eating!” Stiles protested.

His dad glanced pointedly down at Stiles’s mostly untouched pie. “Normally, you’d have had that polished off before noon,” he said. “You haven’t even touched it.”

“I’m pacing myself,” Stiles said, trying to sound casual.

“You’re not eating,” his dad repeated. “You’re losing weight. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been sleeping more than usual.”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. “What are you saying?”

His dad’s face looked equal parts nervous and determined. “Stiles, are you depressed?”

Stiles froze, another forkful of pie held halfway to his mouth. “How would you define depressed?" he hedged.

His dad fixed him with a look that said he wasn’t going to let himself get distracted. “I would define it as not eating, sleeping all the time, and waking up every night with nightmares."

Stiles let the fork fall onto his plate. "That's funny," he said. "Because I would define it as having permanent darkness in your heart because you sacrificed yourself to a goddamn tree. But I really don't think they make a pill for that, Dad.”

“You don't know that!" his dad said. “Look, I was on antidepressants for three years after your mom died. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know that!” Stiles said. “But this . . .” He shook his head, trying to figure out how to explain it. “It’s not a chemical imbalance, Dad. It’s magic. A doctor isn’t going to understand it.”

“Then go to Deaton!”

“What’s he supposed to do about it?” Stiles countered. “If there was a way to help me, don’t you think he would have done it already?”

“I don’t know!” his dad said. “I don’t know anything about this supernatural mess you kids have gotten yourselves into!”

And this was why Stiles had spent so long trying to keep his dad from finding out about werewolves in the first place. Part of him wanted to point that out, to argue like he might have a year ago, but he knew that would upset his dad anymore. Stiles was tired and heartsick, and the food he’d eaten was sitting in his stomach like a brick. He didn’t want to fight. Mostly, he wanted to go upstairs and go to bed.

But his dad was still talking. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “And I don’t like it. You know I’m not happy about what you did to find me. Goddamnit, Stiles, if I’d known this was the price you’d pay to save me, I’d have rather you just let me die.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Stiles said. His voice broke a little, and his dad shook his head, pulling him in for a rough hug.

“I know,” he said after a second. “I know you couldn’t.” He sighed, holding Stiles at arm’s length and forcing him to meet his gaze. “Look,” he said. “I couldn’t stop you from climbing into that tub to save me. But there’s no way in hell I am going to just sit there and watch you fade away because of it. We are talking to your doctor as soon as her office opens next week, you got that? She might not be able to do anything about the cause, but she can damn well treat the symptoms.”

Stiles sighed and nodded, knowing from his dad’s expression that there was no point in arguing.

Next week, as promised, he went to the doctor’s office after school. After that, a bottle of Lexipro joined the Adderall on his desk. The pills didn’t touch his new awareness of the darkness inside of him. They didn’t touch his stomach aches, either, but then, Stiles hadn’t expected them to. But they did give him a little more energy, enough that he could pretend that everything was okay. For a little while, anyway.

* * *

The first time Stiles had knocked on Lydia’s door, her mom had stared at him like something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe, demanding to know who Stiles was and how he knew Lydia, before she’d deigned to let him visit her daughter. Now, she gave him a smile that looked genuine as she opened the door.

“Lydia,” she called. “Stiles is here.” To Stiles, she asked, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

It was cold day, so Stiles said, “Tea sounds great.” In response, Lydia’s mom shepherded him into the kitchen, opening an entire cupboard full of brightly colored tea boxes and glass containers filled with leaves.

“Go ahead and pick one out,” she said, filling the kettle.

For a second, Stiles could only boggle at the variety. He and his dad had one half-empty box of Red Rose at home, and that was probably a good five years old. He dithered over the tea for a few minutes, reading the backs of boxes and hesitantly sniffing at the leaves. Lydia appeared in the kitchen doorway just as he was choosing a blueberry flavor.

“Green tea?” Lydia asked him, reaching around Stiles to snag her own teabag — green pomegranate, he noticed.

"I wanted to try something new,” Stiles said, unwrapping his teabag and putting it into the mug Lydia’s mom had given him.

Lydia nodded her approval. “It's high in antioxidants," she said. “You should do yoga with me sometime.”

He shrugged. "Maybe.”

“What are you two working on today?” Lydia’s mom asked, pouring boiling water over their tea bags.

“Banshee stuff,” Lydia said, lifting her tea bag by the little string and bobbing it up and down in her cup. Stiles followed her lead, feeling silly. “I might scream,” Lydia warned her mother. “But don’t come in.”

Her mom smiled, smoothing Lydia’s already-perfect hair. “I’ll run a few errands,” she said.

As Lydia led him up to her room, Stiles said, “Your mom is taking this really well.”

“She’s just happy I’m not crazy,” Lydia said, dropping gracefully onto the edge of her bed. “And she likes to know what’s happening in my life. Doesn’t your dad?”

“I guess,” Stiles said, taking the desk chair across from her. “He’s glad I’m not lying about the werewolves anymore. He’s still upset about the Nemeton thing, though.”

“Wouldn’t you be upset if he sacrificed himself for you?” Lydia asked, taking a sip of her tea.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles said. “But that’s different!” He took a sip of his own tea, then made a face, setting the mug on Lydia’s desk. He missed coffee.

“Your dad probably doesn’t see it that way,” Lydia pointed out.

“We should get started,” Stiles said.

Lydia gave him a smile that said she wasn’t abandoning the topic, only setting it aside for later. Setting her own mug on the nightstand, she crossed her legs into perfect lotus, laying her hands on her thighs, palms up.

“Did Deaton run through the exercise with you?” Lydia asked.

“I’ve been practicing guided meditation all week,” Stiles assured her. “He had me record myself on my phone and play it back for him. I think I’ve got this.”

“You’d better,” Lydia said, but her voice was warm. After everything that had happened with Peter, she’d flat out refused to let Deaton guide her in meditation, saying she would only do it with somebody she trusted. When Lydia had suggested Stiles as an alternative, the surprised happiness he’d felt had warmed him to the bone. “How do I start?” she asked.

“Close your eyes,” Stiles said. She did, and he continued, trying to make his voice calm and soothing. “Imagine yourself in a field. You’ve never been here before, but somehow, you recognize it. Know that you’re completely safe here. Go ahead and explore it a little. Notice how the air smells. Notice the sounds you hear.”

As he spoke, the tension in her shoulders eased, and she sat up a little straighter on the bed.

“If you listen closely,” Stiles continued, “you’ll hear the sound of running water. You follow that sound, and soon, you find yourself on the bank of a massive river. You kneel beside it, and dip your hand in the water. It’s cold against your hand. You can feel how strong the current is.”

She shivered.

“Know that you’re safe,” Stiles said. “The river is strong, but it can’t take you. Step into it, and feel yourself connected to the riverbed, even though the water is moving by. The water is cold and it’s fast, but you’re rooted in place. Kneel down, and feel the water all around you.”

She was nodding slightly, biting at her lower lip.

Stiles took a deep breath, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness. “When you're drawn to the bodies, what do you feel?"

“It's like . . . a tugging,” Lydia said, her voice sounding far away. “In my heart."

"Focus on that feeling,” Stiles said.

She shuddered.

He said, “Now reach out your hands, and feel the fish that occasionally bump against you as they swim downstream. Each fish is a person who is going to die. You can feel them in the water. You could almost catch one of them if you moved fast enough. Be still and patient, and when you find one that's nearby, grab ahold of it."

"Is that your great Emissary speech?" she asked him, opening one eye and flipping her ponytail over her shoulder.

"Lydia, will you just try it?" Stiles said, in a tone that was decidedly not soothing and calm. But Lydia’s shoulders relaxed in response to it.

“Fine," she said, frowning in concentration. Her lips pursed and the fingers on her right hand made a little, abortive gesture, as though trying to close around something unseen. "I've got one.”

"Are you sure?" he asked dubiously. Deaton had said this would probably take about half an hour for her to manage.

"Positive,” Lydia said, in a voice that brooked no room for argument.

"Okay," Stiles said, hoping he didn’t sound as unsure as he felt. "We're going to try to find what it is you're sensing. Go ahead and stand up.”

Moving like a sleepwalker, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, standing unsteadily.

Stiles swallowed. “You’re going to lead me to whatever it is you’re sensing,” he said. “When you’re ready, point towards it.”

In a smooth, creepy motion, one hand swung up from her side, pointing in Stiles's direction. He glanced behind himself at the quiet street outside the window. "That way?" he asked, reaching for the jacket he’d placed on the back of her desk chair. "Okay, let's go."

When he glanced back at her, she had frozen in place, lips moving silently, her head shaking in little jerks.

"Lydia?" Stiles asked. "Come on. We're going to try to find it before something happens, okay?" He lay a hand on her shoulder, and she jerked as if burned. When her eyes flew open, Stiles was startled to see tears brimming in them.

"Lydia?”

"Oh God," she whispered.

"Lydia, what's wrong? What is it?"

"It's you," she choked, bringing her hands up over her mouth, but not before the scream bubbled out of her. It echoed through the house. Stiles thought it might be echoing inside his bones. He was suddenly glad he’d thought to text the pack beforehand and warn them to ignore any screams they heard.

When the scream echoed into silence, Lydia stared at him, tears streaming freely down her face. “Stiles,” she said, in a frantic, terrified whisper, “there's darkness in you and it's killing you. I can see it."

He forced a smile. "You were there when I went in the ice bath," he said. "There's a shadow around my heart. You know that. But I'm dealing with it."

She shook her head. Her breath was coming in tiny, gasping hitches. “No," she whispered. "It's not in your heart." She stumbled towards him, resting one hand on his upper abdomen, where the pain had been driving him crazy for weeks now. “It's here," she whispered, her eyes still glazed, too bright. “It started here, but it’s spreading out. It’s radiating outward.” Her face crumpled, and she choked out, “It’s metastasizing.”

"Oh my God," Stiles whispered, sinking back into the desk chair.

* * *

Stiles knew fear. He knew the blinding terror of fleeing from something stronger, faster, and 100% more deadly than he was. He knew the paralyzing dread of being helpless to stop Scott from shifting during a lacrosse game, to free Erica and Boyd from Gerard, to stop Jennifer from killing his dad. By now, Stiles was probably Beacon Hill’s resident expert on fear. But he’d never felt anything like this — fear with wings beating his chest and throat from inside, talons raking his guts. This wasn’t something he could fight. This was his body rebelling against him. Lydia gripped his hand too tightly as they drove to the animal clinic, her nails biting red crescents into his palm.

On the drive to the clinic, Lydia had called Deaton, asking him to meet them there, even though it was a Friday night. When Stiles pulled into the parking lot, Deaton’s Prius was already there and the door to the clinic was unlocked.

Lydia described what she’d seen in clipped, rapid sentences, like she might manage to stay ahead of the rising undercurrent of panic in her voice if she could only get the words out quickly enough. Stiles barely heard a word she said. He sat in one of Deaton’s uncomfortable plastic chairs with his arms wrapped around his stomach, eyes flicking over the posters on the walls: Understanding Feline Leukemia, Your Dog and Diabetes, Canine and Feline Skeletal Anatomy.

“Lydia, you’re not a medical intuitive,” Deaton said, when she finally fell silent. “There’s no reason to think that anything is wrong with Stiles.”

“He’s dying!” Lydia protested. “I can feel it!”

“It’s pancreatic cancer,” Stiles said dully.

“You can’t know that,” Deaton said, but Stiles barely heard him.

God, he’d been such an idiot. All of the symptoms were right there. The stomach aches. The weight loss. The lack of appetite. Even the sudden aversion to an acquired taste. He’d watched his mom go through the exact same things. But then, she’d gotten yellow right before she went into the hospital — jaundice, his dad had explained. That had certainly never happened to Stiles. A new thought occurred to him, and for a second, hope overpowered the frantic terror. “But . . . The werewolves would have smelled cancer on me, right? Scott smelled it on Gerard. So maybe it’s something else.”

Deaton hesitated. “Not necessarily,” he said. “What Scott smelled wasn’t the cancer itself. It was the medication he was taking for it. Cancer is a mutation of the body’s own cells. It’s difficult for even experienced werewolves to detect, unless they’re looking for it specifically.”

Stiles slumped back into his seat.

In a gentle voice, Deaton said, “Stiles, go to your doctor. Tell her your concerns.”

"If I go to a doctor, my dad will find out!” Stiles protested, surging to his feet. “He can't know about this."

"He's your father," Deaton said.

"Exactly," Stiles snapped. "And pancreatic cancer killed my mom!" He glared at Deaton, who only frowned. Stiles sighed, some of the wind going out of him. “Look," he said, “Can you help me or not?"

Deaton sighed. “I can give you an ultrasound if it will make you feel better,” Deaton said. “But I think you're overreacting."

"For what it's worth, I hope you're right," Stiles said.

At Deaton’s direction, Stiles took off his shirt and lay on the examination table. At any other time, he would have been embarrassed to show his scrawny chest to Lydia. But he was so nervous and heartsick that he stripped his shirt without a second’s thought, handing it to her for safekeeping. He climbed onto the examination table, drumming his heels against the side as Deaton busied himself in the back. A few minutes later, Deaton came back with a machine that looked like it had sidelined as an 80’s home computer, huge and blocky with a tiny screen and a fold-out keyboard with an enormous turquoise mouse ball and green, blue and yellow buttons. A little pocket on the side of the contraption held what seemed to be the love child of a microphone and a vacuum attachment.

“Is that the ultrasound?” Lydia asked, dropping Stiles’s shirt onto the chair and crowding up beside Deaton.

“It is,” Deaton said, setting the machine on a rolling steel table and pushing it closer to Stiles.. He was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “I’m going to rub this on your stomach,” he told Stiles, holding up a tube. “It might be cold.”

A number of Stiles’s favorite fantasies had started off with a latex glove and a bottle of lube, although none of them had involved Deaton. God, he’d made a fisting joke with a pair of those gloves in this very office not six months ago. It felt like it a different lifetime. He stared up at the ceiling, breathing in and out through his nose, and tried not to flinch when Deaton spread the gel on his stomach. He hadn’t lied — it was cold.

Stiles tried to ignore what Deaton was doing with the machine until the veterinarian stood, holding the white plastic wand over Stiles’s stomach. He slid it across Stiles’s abdomen slowly, keeping his eyes on the screen. Stiles tried to look, too, but it was all a mass of gray lines. He couldn’t even begin to make sense of it. Deaton’s face was impassive as he worked, but Stiles heard the small intake in his breath.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, though he already knew the answer.

Deaton only hesitated a second before he said, “There is a mass on your pancreas.”

Stiles’s head dropped back to the table. He felt like all of the air had been leeched out of his body.

“This isn’t necessarily a cause for alarm,” Deaton was saying. “You’ll need to have it biopsied. I suggest you set up an appointment with your doctor immediately. You’ll — Stiles?”

Stiles was already on his feet, pulling his shirt back over his head, mindless of the gel still coating his skin. “I have to go,” he said, unable to look at Deaton. He stumbled out of the clinic in a daze. He didn’t realize he was running until he heard the click of Lydia’s heels on the concrete as she raced to catch up with him. At the edge of the parking lot, Stiles fell to his knees. Leaning forward, he vomited into the tall grass between the parking lot and the road.

A small hand landed on his back, rubbing gentle circles. “Breathe,” Lydia was saying. “Breathe, Stiles.”

He choked out a laugh. “Will you kiss me if I don’t?”

“Not unless you brush your teeth.” She sounded nearly as hysterical as Stiles felt. He leaned back against her, pressing his head to her thighs in their flowered skirt. Her fingers petted his hair, like he was a little boy.

“There’s no point in getting a biopsy,” he said. “It’s cancerous. You sensed it in me.”

“I could be wrong,” Lydia said in a small voice.

Stiles shook his head. “You’re never wrong.”

Her arms wrapped around him, suddenly, fierce and strong. “I wish I were this time,” she whispered into his hair.

“Me too.” Stiles drew in a shuddery breath, staring out at the road, at the forest beyond.

“What are you going to do?” Lydia asked.

“I don’t know,” Stiles said. But deep in his heart, he thought maybe he did.

* * *

That night, Stiles dreamed that Scott, Derek, the whole pack turned on him, nipping on his heels with slobbery fangs and creepy, glowing eyes. He tore off through the forest with the wolves on his heels, but he wasn't fast enough, he couldn't move fast enough, his arms and legs weren't following his commands. Someone’s teeth closed around his ankle, and it hurt like hell. He fell, landing on his face against the forest floor, screaming. The last thing he saw was Scott's faced twisted into an expression of rage and grotesque hunger, mouth spread wide to show his fangs. Then Scott lowered his head and pain exploded through his belly as the fangs sank in.

Stiles woke gasping for breath, cold sweat beading at his temples.

For a few minutes, he could only lay in bed, still shaking, clutching the pillow to his chest. The ache had started up in his stomach again. That had been real, not just part of the dream. He spread his fingers over where it hurt, thinking again of the tumor he'd seen in the ultrasound. Even now, the cancer was spreading through his body. Lydia had said it looked like a dark shadow slowly working its way out from his center. Now that he knew it was there, he could almost feel it, poisoning him slowly from the inside out. He’d thought it was bad enough when the darkness was weighing on his soul, trying to drag him down towards it, but now his entire body had rebelled against him. If you couldn’t even trust your own body not to turn against you, what could you trust?

When Stiles dragged himself downstairs at a quarter to eight, his dad glanced up from his newspaper, clearly surprised.

"You're up early."

"Nightmares," Stiles said shortly, reaching for the Cap'n Crunch. Fortunately, nightmares were such a commonplace occurrence after the Nemeton that his dad didn't even look surprised. He just made a sympathetic face at Stiles, offering the coffee. His dad had his own cup in front of him, steaming hot and fragrant. Stiles considered saying fuck it and pouring one for himself -- he was dying, goddamnit? Couldn't he at least have a cup of coffee? But when he imagined the taste of it on his tongue, his stomach rolled. Regretfully shaking his head, Stiles made himself a packet of instant cocoa instead.

"What are your plans for the day?" his dad asked, as Stiles sat across from him.

Stiles hesitated, sipping his cocoa. Usually, he spent Saturday mornings training with Deaton, and the afternoons hanging out with the pack. But after yesterday, Deaton was the last person in the world he wanted to see. He didn't really feel up to facing the pack, either. Not because of the dream, although he still shivered at the look in dream!Scott's eyes. No, he didn't want to face Lydia’s worry. Didn't want to try to fool Scott and Derek into thinking something wasn't wrong.

Cautiously, he glanced at his dad. "I was thinking about maybe hanging out with you," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. "If you're not working or anything."

The pleased and startled expression on his dad's face made Stiles feel like the worst son ever. How long had it been since he'd hung out with his dad?

“We can head out to the range and fire a few rounds,” his dad offered. They’d done that a lot, when Stiles was younger.

But Stiles shook his head. “No guns," he said firmly. "I need a break from that shit. We could go to the park, though," he offered. "Maybe shoot some hoops?" His dad had played basketball in school, possibly with Peter Hale, now that Stiles thought about it. When Stiles was a kid, his dad had often taken him to the basketball court on their way home from school, probably to try to burn off some of Stiles’s energy.

“As long as you promise to go easy on your old man,” his dad said, the grin on his face almost infectious. “Speaking of basketball, there’s a game on this evening. I could make nachos. What do you think?”

“That sounds great!” Stiles said. He didn't have to fake the enthusiasm in his voice. His dad's nachos were the best.

Stiles sent off one group message to the pack, telling him he was hanging out with his dad and not to expect him today. Then he turned his phone off and set it on the table.

His dad frowned. “Is everything okay?” he asked. “You seem off, kid.”

"I just need some space from the pack," Stiles said, which was true enough. He forced a smile. “Come on. Are you ready to have your ass handed to you?”

“You wish,” his dad laughed, dropping the subject.

As it turned out, his dad did win their little game of one-on-one. Stiles wasn’t as quick as he usually was. That would be the cancer, he thought, trying not to let the bitterness show on his face. Still, he insisted loudly that he’d only let his dad win, keeping the protests going the entire walk home. They spent the afternoon in front of the TV, a platter of Nachos before them. The Kings were getting the shit beat out of them, which suited Stiles just fine. He didn't have to pretend to be happy, not when he was trash-talking the referees and booing the Lakers.

When he went up to his room that evening, Stiles went straight for his closet. He kept a cardboard box in the very black, safely hidden by sports equipment and piles of dirty laundry. This wasn't stuff he was trying to hide from his dad. No, Stiles kept his weed at Scott's house and his porn neatly sorted into the homework folder on his desktop. The things in the box were there because they hurt too much for Stiles to look at them.

Steeling himself, he pulled the box from his closet, setting it on his bed. On top was a small photo album. He took that out without giving into the masochistic urge to flip through it, setting it on the bedspread. Next came the stuffed elephant his mom given him to keep him company when she first went to the hospital. He’d slept with it every night until she died. After that, he couldn’t bear to look at it anymore, though he couldn’t handle the thought of getting rid of it, either. The elephant joined the photo album on the cover. He pulled out the chipped coffee mug she always used in the morning. It had a picture of Garfield on it and the words, “I don’t do mornings.” Stiles had rescued that from the Goodwill box when his dad started purging the house of her stuff. Below that was a denim jacket, neatly folded. His mom had loved that jacket, worn it almost every day. Once upon a time, it had smelled faintly of her perfume, but now it smelled like dust. Swallowing, he unfolded it, slipping his arms into the sleeves. It had fit him once. Now it was too tight in the shoulders, and the sleeves barely covered his wrists. Stiles slipped it off again, setting it, too, on the bedspread.

He found the CD at the very bottom of the box.

The woman on the cover was thinner than the mom Stiles remembered, at least until the cancer had stripped her down to skin and bones. She dressed differently, too -- a long, flowered skirt and Doc Martens, a choker around her neck. But her eyes were the same ones Stiles saw in the mirror every morning, though hers were ringed in dark liner. She sat in front of a rain-streaked window with her knees clasped to her chest, dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

Claudia Nowak, the cover read. The Widening Gyre.

Stiles had never burned the CD. The last thing he needed was for one of her songs to ambush him on shuffle. But he listened to it sometimes, when he wanted to remember her. Carrying his MacBook over to the bed, Stiles double-checked that his headphones were in. If his dad heard her voice coming from Stiles’s room, he’d know something was wrong. Holding the MacBook on his lap, Stiles slid in the CD. When iTunes popped up, he went straight for the last track, the one he usually skipped.

His mother’s voice rolled into his headphones, a cappella, every bit as deep and rich and beautiful as Stiles remembered. “I was standing by my window on a cold and cloudy day, when I saw the hearse come rolling to take my mother away.” He’d hated that line even when she was still alive, could barely stand to listen to it now. His mom had recorded this the year after her own parents died in a car crash. Stiles had never met his grandparents, but he’d always hated this song. His mom had loved it, though, had sung it to herself while doing dishes or pulling weeds out in the garden.

“Why do you sing it?” he always asked. “It’s so sad!”

“Life is sad,” she’d answered, smiling wistfully. “But music helps to make it better.”

When the chorus came, her guitar joined her voice, turning the song from a dirge to a prayer. Stiles whispered the familiar words with her, as the tears stung his face.

May the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by

They’d played that song at her funeral. Stiles hadn't been able to listen to it since. Once the Johnny Cash version had started playing during one of those late-night infomercials trying to sell boxed CD collections to old people, and Stiles and his dad had practically collided as they dived for the remote.

He remembered Peter gripping his wrist in the parking lot, casually asking if Stiles wanted to give up his humanity. Even now that Peter was dead, his ashes scattered to the wind, Stiles shuddered at the memory of hot breath across his wrist. Part of him had wanted, desperately, to accept Peter’s offer, and that had scared him even more than chaining his best friend to a radiator had. Since his mom had died, anger had burned inside him like a low-banked coal, hot and flickering in the depths of his heart. That anger had carried him through the empty days after her death, had given him the strength to get out of bed and go to school the Monday after her funeral, the strength to talk his dad into drinking Coke instead of whiskey at dinner, to smile and laugh when he felt like slamming his fists into the wall. It had given him the strength to pull away from Peter.

If friendly, easy-going Scott could turn brutal when the wolf took hold of him, Stiles didn’t want to know what would happen to him. Arming his anger with fangs and claws seemed like a fundamentally bad idea. He was too angry, too broken, too sarcastic and cynical. Even submerging himself in ice water hadn’t managed to quench that flame — if anything, it flared brighter in the darkness the Nemeton had left in him. Stiles barely trusted himself as a human. How could he trust himself as a werewolf? He’d sworn to himself that he would stay human, even if it meant being the weakest of his friends.

But with his dead mother’s voice in his ears, Stiles’s resolve weakened. He knew what pancreatic cancer meant. Even if it didn’t kill him, there would be hospital stays and medication that made him sick to his stomach. The pain-lines around his mom’s eyes had been constant for most of that last year. She’d been so weak, so fragile, so wracked with pain in those last few months. Stiles had seen her crying, shaking with it, despite the drugs slipping through her IV. The thought of that happening to him, of his dad watching it happen, made Stiles feel even sicker.

If he died, who would try to get his dad to smile? Who would keep him from drinking too much? Who would keep him from eating the crap Stiles always took out of their shopping cart? Would his death leave his dad as hollow and broken as his mom’s had?

He imagined his dad picking out the music to play at his funeral.

Stiles wrenched the headphones off and threw them to the mattress. His mother’s voice still echoing faintly from them, like a ghost’s, until he pushed the eject button, putting the CD back in the case without looking at his mother’s face. Carefully, he packed everything back into the box. His mom’s CD. Her jacket. Her mug. His stuffed elephant. The photo album. Then, standing, he walked to his dresser, gathered up the tools Deaton had been teaching him how to use. The baggie of mountain ash. The wand of yew. The curved, silver knife. The tiny bottle of mistletoe. The blackthorn branch, tied with bells. Each of these he packed carefully into the box. Overlapping the cardboard ends to close it, he lifted the box and carried it back to his closet, thrusting it back into the darkest corner and setting his snowboard in front of it.

Then he grabbed his jacket and ran down to the stairs.

“Where are you going?” his dad asked, as Stiles exploded out the front door.

“To Scott’s!” he yelled, letting the door slam shut behind him.

* * *

He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Melissa or Isaac, so he parked the Jeep a block away from Scott’s house and cut through his backyard. Even for a clumsy human like Stiles, climbing the apple tree up to Scott’s window had never been much of a challenge. Before he’d even reached the top, Scott was opening the window, reaching out to grab Stiles by the arm and help him inside.

“Why didn’t you use the front door?” Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged, dropping onto Scott’s bed. He’d prepared a whole speech on the drive over, but now that he was here, looking at Scott, all of the words he’d prepared deserted him. Leaning over, he snagged the lacrosse stick from Scott’s floor and ripped the net free. As Scott watched, he started restringing it, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Is Isaac here?” he asked. This really wasn’t a conversation that needed to be overheard.

Scott’s face darkened. “He’s out on a date.” He didn’t need to add the “with Allison” part. The tightness in his voice made that loud and clear.

For a second, Stiles wondered if he should save this for tomorrow. This conversation was going to be hard enough without Scott silently stewing about Isaac and Allison, all the while trying to pretend he was totally fine with it. But tomorrow, Isaac might be home, and besides, Stiles had spent the drive here gearing himself up for this. He wanted to get it over with before he could change his mind.

As Stiles silently debated with himself, Scott’s expression morphed from frustrated to worried. “Stiles, what’s wrong?” he asked. “You’re shaking.”

Stiles glanced down at his own hands, and realized the nylon string between his fingers was trembling. Dropping it, he ran his hands through his hair, letting out a shuddering breath.

“I need a favor,” he said.

“Sure,” Scott said immediately.

“No,” Stiles said. “Like, a really big favor. You’re not gonna want to do it. But Scott, just hear me out.”

Scott pulled his desk chair closer to the bed and sat facing Stiles. “Whatever it is, just say it,” he said. “You’re scaring me, man.”

“I want you to bite me,” Stiles blurted, getting the words all at once, like ripping off a Band Aid.

“What? No!” Scott sounded exactly as outraged and offended as Stiles thought he would.

“You don’t understand,” Stiles said. “I need this, Scott. Like really, really need it.”

“But you don’t need it!” Scott said. “You’re great the way you are.”

Stiles twisted the lacrosse stick around and around in his hands. “Thanks,” he said. “I mean it, Scott, that’s great that you think so. But you’re wrong. I’m not great. I’m fucking falling apart here, and I need you to do this for me!” His voice was rising, and he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“Is this about lacrosse try-outs next week?” Scott asked.

Stiles glanced up, startled. “What? No!”

In response, Scott looked at the lacrosse stick in Stiles’s hand.

“Believe me,” Stiles said, tossing the stick away and letting it clatter to the floor. “Lacrosse is the last thing on my mind.”

“Then why?” Scott asked.

This was his cue, Stiles knew. This was where he explained about the cancer. But his throat was already tight and the last thing he wanted was to start crying again. So instead, he said, “Can’t you just trust me?”

"No!" Scott exploded. "Not on something this big! Stiles, this will change your entire life!"

For a second, Stiles was so stunned he could only stare at him. “Really?” he said. “That’s what you’re going with? In case you haven’t noticed Scott, my life has already changed!”

“That’s why you shouldn’t make it even worse!” Scott said. “You saw what happened to me!”

“Because the superpowers and the popularity really seem to be weighing you down.” Stiles said, his voice sharp with sarcasm

Betrayal flashed across Scott’s face, followed fast by anger. “Don’t say that! Not you! Damnit, Stiles, you know how hard everything has been!”

Stiles felt bad, but he held his ground, looking Scott straight in the eye. “If you could wake up tomorrow and be human again, would you?” he asked. “Would you really go back to the asthma attacks and sitting on the bench all the time?”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Scott cried, his gaze sliding away from Stiles’s. His hands had clenched into fists at his side and his chest was rising and falling with his breath. Stiles noticed he hadn’t actually answered the question.

“Yeah, well I do,” Stiles said. “I want the bite, Scott.”

“No!” Scott said, his face sliding into its mulish expression. “I won’t do it, Stiles! You can’t make me!”

"What, like you made Derek give it to Gerard?" Stiles sneered.

Scott’s eyes flashed red before he got control of itself. “That was different!” he protested.

“Yeah, I’m sure Derek thought so,” Stiles said, just to watch Scott squirm. “I wish Derek was still the alpha,” he added petulantly. “I bet he would have bitten me."

"Then why didn't he?" Scott demanded. "He bit everyone else. Why not you too."

“That's . . . a good question," Stiles said, ducking his head. "I'll ask him sometime. But right now, I'm talking about you."

“Well, I’m done talking!” Scott said. “The answer is no!”

“Boys!” Melissa yelled from the doorway. They both turned to stare at her. “What the hell is going on?” she asked. “Stiles, when did you even get here?”

“Don’t worry,” Stiles said. “I was just leaving.” He glared at Scott, then started towards the doorway.

Melissa stopped him with a hand on his elbow, searching his face. “Stiles, are you okay?” she asked, in a much gentler voice.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His whole body was shaking with anger, and he could feel the tears stinging his eyes. She frowned, but stepped aside, giving him room to pass. Stiles thundered down the stairs and out the front door. Part of him hoped Scott would follow, but he didn’t.

* * *

His rage carried Stiles across town, to the sullen building that housed Derek's loft.

"Why didn't you ever offer me the bite?" he asked as he stepped out of the elevator. The hard edge of anger in his voice was sharper than he’d meant it to be. It wasn't that he was angry with Derek. He was angry with the world, and that just happened to include Derek.

"What?" Derek asked, taking a step forward. His brows knit in confusion. "Stiles, I don't --"

"When you were an alpha," Stiles interrupted, stepping up so they were staring at each other. "What, I was good enough for Peter, but not for you?"

"Peter offered you the bite?" Derek said, his voice going cold and steely, though Peter was dead for real now and far from any revenge Derek could manage. "When did this happen? Stiles, did he hurt you?"

Stiles ignored him. He pulled backwards, away from the hand Derek was reaching towards his shoulder. "What is it about me?" he asked, voice rough. "Was I just not good enough for your pack?" To his horror, his voice broke. He turned away, glaring at the floor. Derek's hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

"You were in Scott's pack," Derek said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, like the hand on Stiles's shoulder, gently stroking the muscle through the flannel.

Stiles roughly wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "So if I wasn't in Scott's pack, you would have offered?" he asked, turning again to face Derek.

Derek hesitated, just long enough for Stiles to read the answer in his face.

"Oh," he said, feeling his stomach sink. "Okay." He swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry for bugging you," he said. "I'll let you get on with . . ." he waved his hand at the couch and the book Derek had left open on it. Turning, he started towards the door.

He’d barely managed a step before Derek's hand slid from his shoulder to his wrist, tugging him back.

"Stiles," Derek said. "That's not -- I didn't." He sighed loudly, running a hand through his hair. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. "I have beer."

"I thought werewolves couldn't get drunk," Stiles said, glancing at Derek suspiciously.

"We can't," Derek said. "But I like the taste." He started towards the kitchen, still gripping Stiles's wrist, as if afraid he'd make a break for it. The prospect of alcohol led Stiles to follow him complacently. Derek only dared to release him when hey were within a few feet of the fridge. Stiles leaned against the wall, watched curiously as Derek pulled two bottles out, opening each with a quick flick of his thumb claw.

"That's useful," Stiles said, amusement briefly breaking through the anger and sadness.

One corner of Derek's mouth quirked up into a smile as he led Stiles back to the living room. "There are perks to being a werewolf," he said, then froze as Stiles's face fell. "Stiles . . ." he started, but Stiles just shook his head.

He sat on the couch, and Derek sat beside him, handing Stiles one of the bottles. Stiles took a long swig. The taste of pumpkin surprised him. He glanced down at the label, which had a picture of an owl on it. In a better mood, Stiles would have made a joke about werewolves and Halloween. Derek reached between them, picking up the book he’d left spread open on the couch and carefully dog-earring his page. As he set it on the coffee table, Stiles snuck a glance at the title, not surprised to see it was about World War I. Derek was kind of a history geek.

Sipping his beer again, Stiles said, “So you wouldn't have offered me the bite?”

Derek gave a tiny shake of his head.

"Do you think I'd make a bad werewolf?" Stiles asked in a small voice, picking at the label of his beer.

Derek’s fingers touched the back of Stiles’s wrist, stilling the motion. "You'd make a great wolf, Stiles.”

"Then why didn’t you ask me?” Stiles asked. To his horror, his voice broke a little.

Derek pulled away, clasping his hands around his own beer bottle. For a second, he stared pensively out the rain-streaked window. When he finally spoke, he said the last thing Stiles had expected. “Cora said Peter told you about Paige.”

Stiles ducked his head. "Yeah," he admitted. "You kind of disappeared after Boyd, and I was just . . . worried, I guess." He glanced sidelong at Derek. "Does that bother you?"

Derek gave a little shrug. "If you know about Paige," he said, not answering the question. "Then you know why I only offered the bite to strangers."

It took a second for the words to sink in. Then Stiles eyes widened and he explained, "You like me!"

"I didn't say that," Derek said quickly.

“No, you totally do!” Stiles said, grinning. “You don’t want me to die!”

“You have too much to lose,” Derek said. "You have a father who loves you. You have your friends. You have a life, Stiles. You didn't need . . ." He broke off, staring with horror at Stiles.

Tears were welling in Stiles eyes, and he jerked his head away from Derek's, wiping his face on his sleeve. The last time he'd cried in front of Derek, he'd been so worried about his dad that he'd barely registered the embarrassment of it. Now, humiliation burned through him like a flare. Derek took the bottle out of his hand, setting it gently on the coffee table.

"Stiles," Derek said, sounding lost. "What . . . ?"

Stiles shook his head, trying to stem the rising flow of tears that he'd been threatening to escape since he got the diagnosis. "I asked Scott,” he sobbed. "I tried . . . but he won't . . ." His breath was coming harder now, sharp and ragged. He buried his face in his hands, shaking.

After a second, Derek awkwardly settled his hand on Stiles's shoulder, the same way Stiles had touched Derek when Boyd died. It was comforting, the heat of Derek's large hand seeping through his flannel shirt. But it wasn't enough. Turning on the couch, Stiles threw himself against Derek with a sob, burying his face in the crook of Derek's neck. Derek froze for a second, before his hands lifted, tentatively wrapping around Stiles's shoulders.

A fresh wave of sobs emerged from that. Derek's body felt strong and solid. His arms were warm, safe. "I didn’t want to go to the doctor,” Stiles murmured against Derek's neck. “So I asked Deaton to do an ultrasound. He said . . ." Stiles shook his head, unable to force the words past the lump in his throat.

Derek's body stilled against his, though the arms wrapped around Stiles didn't lessen their hold. Then, to his surprise, Derek leaned in, pressing his nose behind Stiles's ear and just breathing. For a second, he hesitated there, his hair tickling Stiles's cheek. Stiles sniffled, pressed his face into Derek's shoulder. Then Derek's arms were tightening around him, and one of his hands was rising to curl protectively around the back of Stiles's neck.

"Shit," Derek murmured against Stiles's ear. His voice sounded rough. Helpless. "I smell it now. Damnit, I didn’t even think to check before! I knew something was wrong, and I didn’t even check!”

“It’s not your fault!” Stiles said. He pulled back far enough to look into Derek’s face, needing him to believe that. “I mean, my mom died of pancreatic cancer. I know what the symptoms look like, but I didn’t . . .” He shook his head. “I guess I didn’t want to know,” he said, scrubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. “It took Lydia to make me figure it out. She could sense it in me.”

“I’m calling Scott,” Derek said, reaching for his phone. “I don’t care if I have to force him to do it!”

From the hard edge in Derek’s voice, Stiles knew he was serious. Part of him wanted nothing more than to sink down into Derek’s couch and let Derek deal with all of this. But common sense kicked in, and he shook his head, catching Derek’s wrist before he could dial.

“Don’t,” he said. “I said some kind of shitty things to him. He needs to cool down first.”

“Ethan or Aiden then,” Derek said, his face going determined. “I’m not letting you die!”

“I’m not dying tonight,” Stiles told him. He sighed, taking another sip of his beer. “This needs to be something I do myself. I’ll talk to Scott again on Monday.”

“Are you sure?” Derek asked, thumb still hesitating over his phone.

Stiles nodded.

Derek shrugged and set the phone down. “If you need me to talk to him, I will,” he promised.

“I know.” Stiles lay his head against the back of the couch, smiling at Derek. Crying had calmed him down some. Now, he just felt tired. “Can I crash on your couch?” Stiles asked. If his dad saw him, he’d know right away that something was wrong.

“Of course,” Derek said immediately.

* * *

Usually, Stiles met Scott at his locker before third period, and they walked to class together, sliding into their seats a moment before the bell rang. But when Stiles stopped by Scott’s locker on Monday, his friend was nowhere in sight. Stiles wasn’t surprised to find him already sitting at his desk. Scott glanced up from the homework he’d been finishing, eyeing Stiles warily as he stepped into the classroom.

“Hey,” Stiles said, sliding into his own seat. Scott’s eyes narrowed and he stared straight ahead, as though Stiles hadn’t spoken. Slamming his binder onto the desk, Stiles made a big show of searching for his own homework, inwardly fuming. Usually he was the one who pulled the silent treatment. He wasn’t used to getting it, especially not from Scott. He found his vocabulary sentences on the back of a page of math notes, and ripped the page from his spiral notebook, tearing it a little in the process.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and stood, snagging some tape from the teacher’s desk. When he sat down again, Scott was very deliberately not looking at him.

“Look,” Stiles said under his breath, risking a sideways glance at Scott. “I said some things I shouldn’t have on Friday.”

“You think?” Scott muttered. Shifting his glare from his textbook to his half-completed homework, he scrawled out an answer, pressing so hard that his pencil broke. Holding the broken pieces in his hands, Scott stared down at them, distraught. When Stiles offered his own pen as a peace offering, Scott shook his head. “I’ve got another one,” he said, digging into his backpack.

Stiles sighed, resting his chin on his desk. He could already tell that it was going to be a long lesson.

As Mr. Anderson droned on about Yeats's “The Second Coming,” Stiles snuck his phone out of his pocket, sending a hasty text to Scott.

Im sorry

The phone buzzed in Scott’s pocket, but he didn’t take it out. Keeping his hands folded on his textbook, Scott stared up at the whiteboard, nodding intently at the teacher’s words.

Stiles glared at him sideways. “Scott!” he hissed, quiet enough that only a werewolf could hear him. Well, maybe not that quiet. On his other side, Angelica Martinez rolled her eyes.

“Lover’s quarrel?” she muttered.

Stiles flipped her off beneath his desk. Turning his English notes to the side, he started a new piece of paper, scribbling a quick note to Scott.

I really am sorry. There’s a lot going on with me right now that you don’t know about.. I was really upset on Friday. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though. Can you please come to my house after school? I need to talk to you.

Folding the note, Stiles dropped it onto Scott’s desk, beneath the open cover of his English book.

“Mr. Stilinski!” Mr. Anderson snapped.

Stiles jerked his hand back so quickly that he banged his elbow on his desk. “Yeah?” he asked, rubbing it surreptitiously.

Mr. Anderson glanced skyward, as though asking for strength. “The center cannot hold,” he said. “Your interpretation?”

All of the eyes in the room turned towards him, except for Scott’s. Stiles twirled his pen in his hand. “I think it means that we all have things that define us,” he said. “Our beliefs. Our identities. Our families. Our friends.”

Scott did glance towards him, then, but Stiles kept talking.

“Those things, they’re like fixed points in our lives, you know? We kind of rotate around them, like the moon orbiting the earth.” He lifted a fist into the air to demonstrate, his other hand circling his pen slowly around it. “But the thing is, life is never stable,” Stiles said, slowly moving his fist away from the pen’s orbit. “The things and the people we depend on, they change. Life is always changing. Sometimes, they don’t even have a choice. And sometimes, we’re so mad at them for throwing us out of orbit that we forget that. But either way, if we can’t change with them, or if those fixed points move so far that we can’t find them anymore, then the center of that orbit just falls apart. And then . . .” Making a dramatic whooshing sound, he let the pen fall to the desk, miming an explosion upon impact.

Surprised laughter welled up through the classroom. Even Mr. Anderson was smiling. “Very insightful, Mr. Stilinski,” he said. “Mr. Dagdagan, what would you add?”

As the other student started to talk, Stiles’s phone buzzed loudly where he’d left it on his desk. He hurried to scoop it up, hoping the teacher hadn’t heard. When he dared to glance down at it, he saw a text from Scott.

After school, it promised

* * *

“Cancer!” Scott cried.

Stiles nodded grimly. “Derek could smell it on me, once he knew what to look for. You probably can, too.”

Frowning, Scott leaned close, nostrils flaring as he inhaled. Stiles squirmed, relieved that Scott wasn’t actually nuzzling behind his ear like Derek had. Derek was so intense about everything that Stiles hadn’t minded from him, but he thought it might be weird if Scott did it.

Scott’s entire body stiffened, and he pulled away, eyes wide and horrified. “Why didn’t I notice earlier?” he asked.

“Deaton said it’s too subtle to notice unless you’re looking for it,” Stiles said. “It’s not your fault. Besides, I’ve probably had it for a long time. Pancreatic cancer is kind of a silent killer. The symptoms are so vague that it’s almost impossible to diagnose until it's too late. I’ve probably had it since before you even turned, Scott. Lydia said it had already spread through my body.”

“What are you going to do?” Scott asked.

Stiles looked at him steadily. “You know what I’m going to do, Scott.”

“No,” Scott said, his voice trembling. He shook his head frantically, catching Stiles by the wrist. “There’s got to be another way!” he said. “You haven’t even seen a real doctor yet!”

“What’s the point?” Stiles asked. “I already know what they’ll say. Ninety-four percent of people diagnosed with pancreatic cancer die within five years of diagnosis, Scott! Seventy-five percent die within the first year! That’s what happened to my mom!”

“That means six percent get better!” Scott said. “You can’t just give up!”

Stiles waved his hands in the air. “Look at our lives, Scott!” he said. “When have I ever been lucky?” He sighed, dropping his forehead against his knees. "The way I see it, I've got a choice," he said. "I can start chemo. I can put my body through hell trying to heal this. I can fucking kill my dad watching me go through the exact same thing my mom went through. And after all of that, I’ll probably be dead in five years anyway. Five years, dude! I’d only be 22!” He lifted his chin, looking Scott square in the eye. “Or I can get the bite,” he said.

“No,” Scott said, lifting his hands. “I can’t . . . Stiles, you don’t know what it will do to you!”

“Don’t I, Scott? Haven’t I seen you going through it? I may not be a wolf, but I’ve seen what I’m getting into. I’m not an idiot.”

Scott just shook his head, mouth hanging open, like he was trying to form words, but couldn’t quite manage them.

“I already made up my mind,” Stiles said, trying to pour every last ounce of conviction into his words and hoping like hell that his heartbeat matched it. “You’re my best friend, Scott. You’re a good alpha. I want you to do it.” Stiles bit his lower lip, then added, “But if you won’t, I’ll find someone else,” he said, spreading his hands. “I’ll ask Ethan or Aiden. Maybe the people Cora is staying with. Hell, I’ll track down Deucalion if I have to!

“Stiles,” Scott said, but he was already sounding defeated.

“Please,” Stiles gripped his shoulder. “I don’t want to spend senior year in the hospital, Scott.”

“Have you at least asked your dad?” Scott said.

“No,” Stiles said firmly. “And I’m not going to. The last thing I want is for my dad to find out about this."

"Don't you think he'll notice when he finds out you turned into a werewolf?" Scott said. “Your dad’s not an idiot Stiles, and he knows about us now.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’ll deal with that when it happens,” he said. “He'll be pissed, but he'll get over it. Your mom did.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have kept it from her,” Scott said. He turned away from Stiles, bracing his weight against the footboard as he stared out the window. “I think the lying bothered her even more than the wolf thing,” he said sadly.

“I know,” Stiles said. “But Scott, come on! You saw what my dad was like after my mom died. I thought he was going to drink himself to death that first year.”

Scott sighed. Dropping his head, he rolled it from side to side, cracking his neck. When he turned to face Stiles, he’d shifted to beta form, eyes glowing red.

“Best. Friend. Ever!” Stiles exclaimed, unable to stop the relieved smile from spreading across his face.

Scott just shook his head. “For the record,” he said, lifting Stiles’s shirt and shoving his jeans an inch lower down his hips, “I still think this is a really dumb idea.”

“Noted,” Stiles said, and gasped as Scott’s fangs sank into his skin.

* * *

Later that evening, Stiles tried not to pick at the cotton gauze covering his hip. Scott had insisted on spreading Neosporin over the bite, despite Stiles’s protests that it wasn’t going to get infected. Afterwards, he’d wrapped the wound in gauze, efficiently fastening it in place with neatly-torn strips of first aid tape.

"So," Stiles had asked before Scott left. "How long does it take to . . . you know?"

Scott hadn’t known, not exactly. He had turned during the night, but it’s not like he’d known that anything was happening to him, so he hadn’t exactly been paying attention to the timeline. Derek, when Stiles texted him, was more helpful. It could be anywhere from six to twelve hours, he wrote back, cautioning that it might take longer for Stiles because of the cancer. Apparently, Erica’s epilepsy made her transformation go slower than Isaac’s and Boyd’s.

Resigned to a long night ahead of him, Stiles settled in front of the computer, pulling up World of Warcraft to distract him from the lingering pain in his hip. He was just trying to decide whether or not to go on a quest when something warm and wet splashed onto the back of his hand. Stiles stared down at it. The black drop swam dizzily against his pale skin.

“No,” he whispered, shoving himself back from the computer desk. He stumbled for the stairs, grabbing his keys from the hook near the door.

A truck’s horn blared at him, and Stiles blinked at the road before him, where he’d drifted into the other lane, forcing the truck nearly off the road. Panicked, he steered hard to the right, nearly overcompensating and spilling the Jeep into a ditch.

How long had he been driving? This was the road to Derek’s house, he must have been in the Jeep for nearly ten minutes now, and he couldn’t remember a second of it, couldn’t remember anything past the splash of black blood on his hand. God, had he hit somebody? He could have caused a million accidents, and he wouldn't even know. It felt like the last time he'd gotten really trashed at a party, bright moments of starry consciousness against the total blackness of a vacuum. One second he was at his computer, watching the black blood splash onto his hand. The next minute, he was driving, and there were wads of tissue shoved up his nose.

Panting for breath, he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles tightened, willing himself to stay alert. How had he not crashed the Jeep by now? The safest thing, Stiles knew, would have been to pull over. But now that he was back in the present, his entire body reverberated with pain. Deep inside him, there was a war going on, the bite struggling to turn him, to take control of his genes, and Stiles’s stupid, stupid, sick, human body was fighting him every step of the way. If he pulled over, he would curl up into a fetal position and he wouldn’t be able to get himself back on the road.

Besides, he was almost to Derek’s.

Ten minutes later, he sagged against the elevator wall, barely able to keep on his feet. “Derek,” he gasped, before the elevator doors barely had a chance to spring open. Then Derek was there, catching him by the arms.

“Stiles?” He gripped Stiles tight by the biceps, holding him up. His eyes searched Stiles’s face, lingering on the black blood that had soaked through the tissues Stiles had wadded in his nostrils, and was now dripping steadily down his mouth and chin. Derek’s entire face went pale. “No,” he said, his voice breaking on the word. “Stiles!”

All Stiles could do was shake his head, fighting to stay conscious. Pain rang through his entire body in deep, sonorous tones that shook him to his very core. His whole body was vibrating from it. He’d thought the abdominal pain was bad, but that was nothing. He hadn’t known pain like this even existed. Maybe it couldn’t, for a human. Maybe his nerves had already gone werewolf, sharpening every last moment of agony before his body eventually surrendered against the onslaught.

“Is this supposed to happen?” he asked, voice slurred.

Derek shook his head, mouth working as though he were trying to speak. Tears brightened his eyes, making him look younger. Giving up on words, Derek lowered them both to the floor, his arms wrapping around Stiles, cradling him against his strong, solid chest. Stiles pressed his face into the worn cotton of Derek’s thermal shirt, some scared, grasping part of him soothed by the touch.

Half delirious from pain, Stiles thought it made perfect sense that he had come to Derek. Who else would he go to when everything was shuddering apart? In life and death situations, they always seemed to find each other.

Black veins surged against Derek’s pale skin, and the sharp, echoing pain eased, dying down to a dull thrum. Stiles clung to Derek’s wrist in gratitude, resting his head against Derek’s chest. Time dissolved around him. He might have spent an hour in Derek’s arms like that, drifting in and out of consciousness. It might have been ten minutes. When something hot and wet splashed against Stiles’s neck, he blinked until the room swam back into focus.

Derek’s eyes and cheeks were red, raw from the salty tears streaming down his face. He’d only seen Derek cry like this once, when Kali forced him to kill Boyd. Then, as now, he’d trembled, his expression helpless, and lost, and just wrecked. Stiles heart seized. All at once he felt selfish for coming here, for burdening Derek with his death, too, when he’s been burdened so much already.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles rasped.

Derek choked out a laugh that sounded like a sob. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “What do you possibly have to be sorry for?” A new thought seemed to occur to him, and his face went stricken. “I told you to ask Scott for the bite,” he said, sounding sick. “This is my fault.”

“No!” Stiles protested. “Derek, it’s mine. I asked Scott for it even before I talked to you.” Weakly, he brushed his fingers against Derek’s wet cheek. “Listen,” he said. “Maybe some things are just meant to be. I would have died from the cancer anyway, probably.” He forced a smile. “You can’t blame yourself for this. You blame yourself for too much already.”

“No,” Derek whispered, shaking his head. He held Stiles close, like he was precious, murmuring, “No, no, no,” into his hair. Then his entire body tensed. His arms tightened around Stiles. In a firmer voice, he said, “No. You’re not going to die.”

“I don’ think you can save me,” Stiles said, trying to keep his voice gentle.

Derek’s face had taken on that stubborn expression he always wore before he did something fundamentally stupid. “I can save you, Stiles,” Derek insisted, staring into his eyes.

“What?”

Derek said, “You know how Paige died.”

Stiles nodded, and Derek echoed the movement.

“If I'd been smarter, I could have saved her, helped her with the change. I didn't know how to do it then, but I do now." His voice was insistent, his eyes eager, practically begging, as he said, "Stiles, let me help you!"

"How?" Stiles asked.

"I can form a bond between us,” Derek said. “You can draw on my strength.”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he managed, barely hearing the words, his voice was so weak.

But Derek gripped him tighter, shaking him a little. “You won’t!” he said. “Not permanently! I’m strong enough for this, Stiles! I can help you!” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. Stiles could practically see the conviction draining out of him. “But you might not like it,” Derek said.

Stiles made a low, questioning noise in his throat.

Derek’s gaze shifted inward. He looked so sad in that moment that Stiles could barely stand it. Weakly, he reached up, caught his fingers in Derek’s sleeve, hoping only to distract him a little, to pull him out of the morass of his own thoughts. Derek shuddered at the touch, his gaze catching Stiles’s again. He wet his lips, then murmured. “It’s intimate.”

Confused, Stiles could only shake his head. Thanks to the pain, this conversation had been hard enough to follow before Derek started getting cryptic. Every beat of Stiles’s heart sent fresh waves of torment echoing through his body. All he wanted to do was curl into a fetal position and wait for it to be over. The velvet edge of the blackness was creeping close again.

Derek sighed, burying his face against Stiles’s shoulder. “Stiles,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’d have to fuck you."

Incredulity forced Stiles to struggle against the blackness closing in on him, holding it at bay. “You’re joking,” he said. But he could tell from Derek’s face that he wasn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” Derek breathed. “I know you don’t want . . . That you’re not.”

“Derek!” Stiles interrupted, feeling the sharpness in his voice and latching onto it. Sarcasm is my only defense, he thought, half giddy from pain and fear. “Do you honestly think sex with you is worse than dying?” Hysterical laughter bubbled out of him. “Dude, come on! You cannot possibly be that bad of a lay.”

Derek drew back, eyes flaring with indignation, and Stiles managed a weak smile in response. That was better. He liked Derek with the fire in him. That was the Derek he knew.

“Whatever you need to do,” he said, squeezing Derek’s hand. “I trust you.”

For once in his life, Stiles didn't think he'd be able to get an erection. That was a shame -- never in his life had Stiles glimpsed a more boner-worthy sight than Derek Hale stripping off both their clothes and carrying Stiles to bed. For years, he'd been daydreaming about Derek's pecs and abs, and now they were here, spread in front of him, all naked and inviting skin, and all Stiles could do was lie back against the covers, shaking with the pain coursing through him. At Derek's urging, he spread his legs, feeling vulnerable and exposed. Derek slicked his fingers up quickly, unable to look Stiles in the eye. His other hand rested on Stiles’s hip, veins still stained black. The initial discomfort of Derek’s fingers barely registered against the waves of pain crashing through his body. Stiles lay on the bed, eyes shut, blacking in and out as Derek worked him open. When Derek’s’ fingers jolted against something that made sparks crackle through the darkening agony of his body, Stiles gasped in surprise.

“Did that hurt?” Derek asked, voice shaky and rough.

Stiles shook his head. “Again,” he murmured. Derek repeated the motion, pushing hard and deep. Again, pleasure brightened the pain, and Stiles groaned. His dick gave a little, interested twitch.

The emptiness he felt when Derek’s fingers slid out momentarily distracted him from the dull waves of torment throbbing through his veins. Derek shucked his own clothes, never lifting his hand from Stiles’s skin. Weakly, Stiles tried to lift his head from the mattress, wanting to take Derek in, but he couldn’t manage it. A second later, Derek was climbing over him, and Stiles forgot about trying to watch him, too distracted by the warm press of skin against skin, comforting even through the pain. Derek knelt over Stiles, straddling his hips. His broad palm slid up Stiles’s torso, coming to rest above Stiles’s heart.

Derek’s cheeks were still red from crying and his eyes had this horrible, haunted look in them.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered.

Derek’s mouth trembled. Stiles honestly didn’t know if he was going to laugh or cry. He didn’t do either, though, just closed his eyes and leaned forward. For a second, Stiles thought Derek was going to kiss him, and he held his breath, waiting. But Derek only pressed their foreheads together.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, gripping Stiles’s shoulder, hard, before he slid down Stiles’s body. “It’s going to be okay, Stiles.”

Strong hands settled below Stiles’s thighs, guiding his legs up and around Derek’s waist. “Are you ready?” Derek asked, and Stiles managed a small nod. The first, blunt pressure of Derek’s cock was minor compared to fire consuming him from the inside out. Still, it was almost too much when Derek began to slide inside him. Stiles gasped, shaky, gripping Derek’s arms. He felt weak. Lightheaded. Derek felt impossibly huge as he slid inside him, inch by painstaking inch. The intimacy of the moment startled him. His body opening for Derek. Warm skin against his own. Derek’s thumb lightly caressing his hipbone. Stiles wanted to cry because he could see how, in another situation, this would have been perfect.

“You’re doing great,” Derek murmured, drawing his lips down Stiles’s throat. The praise punched through Stiles. Derek never gave out compliments. “We’re almost there.”

By the time Derek’s balls bounced against his ass, tears had gathered in Stiles’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why, whether from the pain of Derek’s cock, the razor-sharp heat tearing through him, or the startling intimacy of having all of Derek’s attention, hell, his entire body, focused on Stiles. The veins on his hands and arms were still corded black, skimming away the leading edge of pain. Stiles thought this might almost be bearable, dying here, in Derek’s arms. At least he wouldn’t die a virgin.

“Is this all right?” Derek asked. Fine tremors were running through his body with the effort of holding back.

Stiles managed a nod. “Do it.”

It hurt when Derek started to move. It felt strange and uncomfortable, too full, too raw, too everything. Stiles’s burgeoning erection had wilted right back to nothing as Derek started sliding inside, and without it, this felt dirty, almost wrong. Stiles gritted his teeth, gripping Derek’s hips hard enough to bruise. He didn’t think he’d be able to stand it if he let go, lost that solid connection to Derek.

Derek was murmuring in his ear, quiet words of reassurance that felt almost ridiculous under the circumstances. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Stiles.”

Stiles wanted to laugh or maybe cry. But then Derek changed his angle, knocking back into that spot that he’d found earlier, and a bolt of pleasure shot through the cloudy pain, illuminating all of Stiles’s nerve endings and curling his toes.

“Oh!” he gasped, unable to help himself.

Determination glinted in Derek’s eyes, and he repeated the motion, more surely. Stiles cried out again, and Derek grinned, teeth sharp and bright in the dark.

“That’s it,” he said, and Stiles could only nod beneath him, shuddering.

And then, Derek dove into the fucking with abandon. It was amazing. Derek was so aware of his body, so keenly sure of his strength, his grace. Stiles had never had that attention focused on him before. Now that he had it, he was almost grateful he would probably die because he didn’t want to ever live without it. Derek fucked like he was born to it, all glowing, sweaty skin and soft palms and strong, sure dick. This time, the heat in his gut had nothing to do with the failed bite, everything to do with Derek, with the sure press of his cock, the scrape of his stubble along Stiles’s neck and jaw. He became aware of his renewed erection as from a great distance. His cock was hard, weeping against his stomach. It was all too much — the pain, the pleasure, Derek. Stiles felt paralyzed. Overwhelmed. All he could do was lie on the mattress, panting, yielding himself up to Derek. Stiles lifted a hand to wrap around it, but Derek caught his wrist, moving it back to his hip.

“Derek,” he gasped. “Please.”

“I’ve got you,” Derek repeated, wrapping a hand around Stiles. His hand smoothed over Stiles’s cock once, languidly, as if he were admiring a piece of art.

“Derek!” Stiles protested, bucking up futilely into the too-loose grip.

“Shh,” Derek soothed. “Stiles, I can’t let you come yet. We’ve got to come together. While I’m knotting you.”

The words didn’t make any sense, at first. But then Stiles felt the base of Derek’s cock begin to swell. “You have got to be kidding me,” he gritted out, wincing as the pressure against his inner walls grew.

Derek shook his head. His hair was sweaty, plastered to his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “It’s the only way.”

The pressure was becoming almost unbearable now. He gasped, tossing his head against the mattress, unable to stop the tears from rising in his eyes. His entire body was already one great sea of pain, and now the fire in his ass made him want to pass out or cry. Instead, he gripped Derek’s thighs to give his shaky body more leverage, instinctively bearing down against the pressure. The knot slid another inch inside him. It was more comfortable there, away from the ring of muscle around his entrance.

“Do you do this with everyone you fuck?” Stiles gasped.

Derek shook his head, eyes wild. “No,” he groaned, grasping Stiles’s hips and driving in even deeper. Stiles felt like he was being split apart. “Only you.”

The knot was impossibly huge inside of Stiles. It pressed against his prostrate, constant pressure, nothing at all like the sudden, piercing-hot jabs of Derek’s cock against it. Stiles gasped, throwing his head back against the pillow.

He opened his eyes to see Derek staring at his neck. His eyes had gone electric blue. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, leaving them soft and wet. “Stiles,” he said, “I’ve got to . . . “

Stiles stared at him. “What the fuck?” he gasped, voice reedy with mingled pleasure and pain. “There’s something else?”

Derek shook his head, swallowing. “I need to bite you,” he said. “Can I?” His thumb was circling the little circle of skin between Stiles's throat and shoulder almost reverently.

Stiles nodded. Derek opened his mouth wide, showing his fangs. For a second, Stiles had an uncomfortable memory of Scott doing the same thing before he’d bitten Stiles’s hip, then Derek was lowering his head, and all thought fled as Derek’s teeth punched through his skin. The pain was fast, sharp and swift. Derek pulled away with a red-rimmed mouth. Then, in a vertigo-inducing move that shouldn't have been possible with Stiles so weak, and knotted on Derek's cock besides, they were flipping. A second later, Derek lay spread beneath him. Stiles swayed, dizzily, still impaled on Derek's cock.

Derek tossed his head back, exposing the pale line of his throat. “Bite me,” he urged. “You have to do it, too. We need to finish the connection.”

Hesitantly, Stiles leaned forward, fitting his mouth over Derek’s skin. It tasted salty as he dragged his tongue over it, feeling Derek shudder beneath him.

“Do it!” Derek urged.

Stiles bit, but Derek shook his head. His hips were still moving up in Stiles, tiny, impotent little thrusts, bound by the knot. “Harder!”

Stiles’s teeth clamped down hard around Derek’s neck until the skin broke. Blood filled his mouth, coppery hot. He choked, trying to swallow it before he got sick.

Derek cried out, bucking up into Stiles. The hand that was still on Stiles’s hip spasmed, claws pricking into the skin, and Derek's entire body went rigid below him. The pressure inside of Stiles increased minutely, and he realized, dimly, that Derek was coming inside him. Dropping his head to Stiles's shoulder, Derek started jacking him off, hard and efficiently.

"Fuck," Stiles groaned, shuddering as the touch sent him sprawling over the edge between pain and pleasure. He shuddered in Derek's arms, pressing open-mouthed, clumsy kisses to the bite-swollen skin of Derek's throat and shoulder.

Then he felt it.

It was as if, deep in his chest, the sea of pain crashed into a sea of cool, deep water. Stiles grasped for it greedily, drawing it into his veins. This was nothing like Derek drawing the pain away. That had been siphoning, merely skimming the hottest layer away from the top. Now all of his calm, dependable strength was seeping into Stiles, cooling him from within. The solid pressure of Derek’s knot inside him was like an anchor.

The last thing Stiles sensed before he passed out was deep, overwhelming relief.

* * *

He woke to the absence of pain. His body ached lightly, like it did after a hard workout, but it was nothing at all compared to the agony of having his body fighting itself. Even the months-old ache in his gut was gone, washed away like letters in the sand. Stiles’s limbs felt heavy and calm. His entire body felt at peace.

That’s when he noticed the smell. Rich and smoky, like leather and cedar and sex and old books. Stiles wanted to bury himself in it. He was, in fact, burying himself in it. Stiles blinked open to find himself sprawled over Derek, his face pressed into Derek’s neck. He dragged his nose through the hair behind Derek’s ear, gaining another deep inhalation of the scent.

Holy fuck.

Blinking, Stiles rolled away from him. Although they’d gone to sleep with Derek’s cock still pumping inside Stiles, they’d separated during the night. Derek’s cock was limp now, nestled in the dark hair between his thighs. Stiles found himself fascinated by the foreskin, so much more obvious when Derek was soft. He wanted to reach, to touch, to cradle Derek’s soft cock in his hands and kiss it to life.

Regret coursed through Stiles, not because of what they’d done — he didn’t think he’d ever regret having sex with Derek — but because he knew they’d never get to do again. Biting his lip, he tore his face away from Derek’s cock. Glancing at his face was enough to convince Stiles to slip out of bed without touching him. Derek slept like the dead, his breath heavy and even. His skin was pale against the pillow, dark circles heavy under his eyes. For the first time, Stiles let himself think of the danger Derek had put himself in while helping Stiles. He’d drained his alpha powers away healing Cora’s pain. Stiles shuddered to think what healing Stiles might have done.

It was hard to think with the smell of sex on his body, so he showered. The hot water sluiced away the last, dried remnants of the black blood clinging to his face and chest, and the dried come crusted on his belly and thighs. From the fullness he'd felt when Derek's knotted him, Stiles thought his ass should be on fire right now, but it felt fine. Stiles lathered up his hands, blushing a little as he slicked his finger into himself -- for cleanliness, he told himself. He could smell Derek's come washing away from him, Stiles realized, as the scent in the shower changed, became a little less complex. It almost made him sad to get clean. He squeezed a dollop of Derek's fancy, organic shampoo into his palm. It smelled spicy, kind of herbal and oddly familiar. It took Stiles a second to realize that was because the shampoo made up part of Derek's scent. He took careful note of the brand name as he worked it into his hair. He might not be able to carry Derek's scent on him anymore, but at least he could smell like his shampoo.

Afterwards, with a towel slung around his hips, Stiles stared at his own reflection in the mirror. Instead, he got distracted by the bright red mark of Derek's teeth against his collarbone. It stood out against his pale skin, announcing to the world, Hey, Stiles Stilinski got laid last night!

He was going to have to wear a scarf to school, Stiles realized with mingled pride and mortification. Curiously, he lowered the towel, glancing at the spot on his hip where Scott had bitten him. It was healed, just the faintest hint of white scar tissue beneath his fingers. Was it because Derek's bite was fresher? Stiles shrugged, deciding it probably didn't matter, and dropped the towel, taking in his reflection as a whole.

Truth be told, Stiles had kind of been hoping for a werewolf makeover, kind of like Erica's or Boyd's. He'd been hoping for more muscles, a hotter face, anything, really. But the reflection that greeted him was disappointingly the same as ever. Scott hadn't changed either, Stiles thought, but then, he thought loyally, Scott was kind of a hottie beforehand. In a nerdy way. Stiles supposed he should be thankful just to be alive.

He opened his mouth, poking at his flat, human teeth and wondering how to get in on the fang action. Closing his eyes, he tried to work up his inner rage, get good and mad, summon the wolf. But he was too wrung-out to feel anything but relief at being alive.

When he crept back into the bedroom, Derek was still asleep. Stiles pulled his jeans on commando, tucking yesterday's boxers into the pocket because it seemed kind of tacky to leave them on Derek's floor. His t-shirt was too bloodstained to be salvageable, so he borrowed one of Derek's instead, unable to dampen the little thrill of excitement as he slid it over his head. The cotton smelled like Derek, beneath the clean scent of detergent.

Derek stirred a little when Stiles sat on the edge of the bed to slip his shoes on. He stretched, naked muscles glowing against the blue sheets, and rolled onto his side to watch Stiles. The sleepy smile that brightened his face was breathtaking.

"It worked," Derek murmured, voice thick and rough with exhaustion.

"Yeah," Stiles said, blushing hard. Tentatively, he settled his hand on Derek's naked shoulder, remembering the way he'd clutched them last night. The bruises from his fingers were gone, of course, but the bite mark on his neck still looked as bright and vivid as Stiles’s, and that worried him. Derek usually healed faster than that. "Are you all right?"

Derek nodded into the pillow, his eyes drifting shut again. "Jus' need sleep," he murmured. Stiles trailed his hand down Derek’s arm, reluctantly breaking contact.

"Thank you for everything," Stiles told him, but Derek was already asleep.

It was still early, so Stiles drove back to his house before school, changing into fresh underwear and finding a scarf in the closet. By the time his dad woke up, coffee was brewing. Stiles had thought coffee tasted good as a human, but now it smelled amazing, almost better than Derek had smelled.

His dad shuffled into the kitchen in his bathrobe. "Nightmares again?" he asked around a yawn.

"Yeah," Stiles said.

His dad patted his shoulder. "You're gonna be okay. It sometimes takes awhile for antidepressants to kick in."

"I know," Stiles said. He poured his dad a cup of coffee, then, hesitantly, poured one for himself, as well.

"I thought you didn't drink coffee anymore," his dad said.

Stiles shrugged. "I missed it," he said truthfully. "Life is short and all, you know?"

"Exactly," his dad said, taking a sip. "So when I stop for donuts on the way to work this morning --"

"That doesn't mean you need to make it any shorter!" Stiles protested, and his dad laughed. Stiles smiled, realizing he'd missed the sound of his dad's laughter. He took a sip of coffee, and moaned. It tasted exactly like it smelled – deep and dark and rich and delicious, like everything that was perfect in the world.

“Are you crying?” his dad asked, putting down the coffee cup and staring at Stiles with real concern.

“It’s just really good,” Stiles sniffed, cradling the cup in his hands.

Chapter Text

Ethan and Aiden’s heads lifted as one as Stiles walked into homeroom. In perfect sync, their nostrils flared and their lips drew into thin lines. A second later, something deep and musky hit his nose, different from the weaker, human scents of soap and deodorant and body spray. Something fierce and primal surged through Stiles’s body in response to it, starting at the base of his spine and radiating outwards. Since Scott bit him, Stiles had been casting around for the wolf inside him, wondering if he would know it when he felt it. He shouldn’t have worried. The new, animal instincts were impossible to miss.

Predators, those instincts growled in response to the twins, but also, reluctantly, pack. The twins were eyeing him just as warily.

“Was it Scott?” Ethan whispered, so quietly that Stiles doubted even Danny heard him from the next desk.

Stiles heard him perfectly from across the room.

Inwardly, he was dancing. He could listen to his dad’s phone calls without even being in the same room! He could listen to both sides of the phone calls. Nobody would be able to sneak up on him ever again. He would finally know for sure when people were talking about him in the locker room or hallway. But on the outside, Stiles did his best to keep cool, despite the monster grin threatening to break across his face.

He nodded, starting towards his own seat. As he passed Ethan and Aiden, he couldn’t help turning and taking the last few steps to his own desk backwards. The idea of turning his back on the twins made his new, werewolf instincts uneasy.

“Why did he do it?” Aiden whispered.

“He had his reasons,” Stiles muttered, sliding into the desk beside Lydia.

She glanced up at him sharply. “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles said, digging through his messy binder for the homework he knew should be in there.

Lydia leaned forward in her desk, staring at him. She glanced from him to the twins’ expressions. Then her eyes widened. She bit her lip, hope and trepidation warring on her face. “Stiles?” she asked in a small voice.

He raised his eyebrows at her, trying to project an air of nonchalance. It didn’t work. In a second, she was out of her chair and launching herself at him, practically climbing into his lap as her arms wrapped around his neck. His new wolf senses flailed at the sudden barrage of perfume and deodorant, soft skin and hairspray. When she pulled back, beaming, the entire class was staring at them. Stiles could immediately hear the whispers starting.

“How the fuck did Stilinski score her?”

“It doesn’t matter, she’s as big of a freak as he is.”

“Yeah, but isn’t she with Aiden?”

“Aiden’s gonna kick his ass!”

“She’s always been kind of a slut,” Greenburg said.

At that last comment, murderous rage crackled through Stiles’s entire body. His hand spasmed and he curled it into a fist, though every instinct was telling him to spread his fingers wide to make room for the claws that were now biting into the meat of his palm. Growling low in his throat, he took a step forward, before he’d even realized he’d stood. Greenburg paled. He must have realized Stiles heard him.

A second later, Ethan’s arm was around Stiles’s shoulders, claws pricking through his flannel shirt in warning. “Close your eyes,” he hissed.

Stiles froze, wanting to lash out against him, to fight somebody, anybody. Ethan smelled dangerous, predatory. But then his words sank through the red fog clouding Stiles’s vision, and he screwed his eyes shut, hoping to hell that nobody had seen them glowing. Beta amber wasn’t that different from brown, right? Surely anyone who noticed would think it was just a trick of the light.

When Ethan shepherded him out of the classroom, Stiles followed willingly, sick with horror. He could have killed Greenburg, he realized, just for being a jerk.

“Boys?” the teacher asked, as they stepped into the hall.

Behind them, Aiden was explaining, “Stiles doesn’t feel good. My brother’s taking him home.”

Whatever she said in response was lost to Stiles. Ethan dragged him to the locker room, and Stiles sank onto a bench, burying his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he whispered. His breath was coming too rapidly, and he gripped the edge of the bench, feeling the wood splinter beneath his hands. This wasn’t a panic attack, not yet, but the very thought that he could have one was making his chest tighten. Ethan was texting somebody, but Stiles ignored him, trying to concentrate on breathing.

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps racing down the hall, the quick slap, slap, slap of rubber soles on the floor. The familiar pattern of that gait flipped a switch in Stiles. All of his senses pricked to attention, and the flood of joy and excitement coursing through him startled his breath back to its usual rhythm. He stood, making a conscious effort not to bounce on his heels.

“Scott?” he asked, hopeful, incredulous, and more than a little disgusted with himself. He felt like a goddamned dog whose master had just come home.

Sure enough, Scott slid into the locker room, eyes wide with worry. “Stiles, what are you doing here?” he asked, catching him by the shoulders.

“Um, I go here,” Stiles said, still weirded out by his body’s reaction to Scott. Every instinct in him was singing, Alpha! Alpha! Of course, Ethan and Aiden were alphas, too, but Scott was his alpha. Inside of Stiles, part of him was jumping up and down, rolling onto its back and showing its tender belly, damned near pissing itself with excitement.

Fortunately, Scott, at least, seemed completely unaware of the fucking submission soundtrack playing in Stiles’s head. “Not today you don’t!” Scott said. “Dude, you were just bitten yesterday! You could hurt somebody!”

“You came after you were turned,” Stiles pointed out.

“I was an idiot!” Scott said. “Do you really want to follow my example?”

Stiles didn’t even pretend to think about it. “Hell, no!”

“Besides,” Scott added, “I was an omega. You have a pack, dude! A pack with three alphas in it! You’re a lot stronger than I was, then. Come on, we’re skipping.”

“But what about the Scott McCall improvement plan?”

Scott thumped him on the shoulder. “Family emergency,” he said decisively. “I’ve got to grab something. Meet me behind the locker room, okay?”

The flood of joy and pride washing through Stiles as he watched Scott trot away had to be supernatural.

A few minutes later, they met behind the locker room, as agreed. In one hand, Scott held a lacrosse stick. In the other, he held a bucket of balls.

“What are those for?” Stiles asked, eyeing them warily.

Scott grinned at him, wide and feral. “Payback.

* * *

A million round bruises had bloomed and healed on Stiles's skin by the time Scott finally agreed to stop pelting him with lacrosse balls. He was feeling pretty proud of himself, though. His heartbeat hadn't gone up once, not even when Scott hit him in the balls. That one had been close. Something amber-hot and angry had stirred in him, threatening to spill out, until Stiles closed his eyes and remembered cool strength flowing into him, the feeling of being safe and protected.

"It's actually kind of creepy how good your control is," Scott said as they started back towards the Jeep.

Stiles stared at him, incredulous. “Are you kidding? I almost attacked Greenberg this morning!”

“But you didn’t,” Scott pointed out. “Remember that time I attacked you in the locker room?”

“Believe me, every second of that event is permanently burned into my nightmares,” Stiles told him.

A low, watery growl sounded from Stiles’s direction and Scott’s eyebrows lifted up to his hairline. “Dude,” he said. “Is that your stomach?”

“Yeah, I’m starving!” Stiles said, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been hungry. “Let’s grab lunch,” he said. “I am a predator and I need red meat.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. They picked up burgers at the Cyclone Drive-In, then drove back to the park, eating them on the hood of Stiles’s Jeep.

The first bite of his cheeseburger was heaven. His new senses could pick up every nuance in the taste of juicy ground beef and melted cheddar, of bacon cooked crispy, but still slightly chewy, just the way Stiles liked it. Stiles wolfed down two burgers and a tub of curly fires, hardly pausing for breath. Afterwards, he licked the juice from his fingers, eyeing Scott’s onion rings.

Scott tucked the carton protectively against his chest, but only half-heartedly. "Hey, Stiles?" he said.

"Yeah?" Stiles asked, crunching his sad, empty burger wrapper into a ball and tossing it into his equally sad and empty fry tub. He was already daydreaming about dinner tonight. He would make macaroni and cheese, he decided. His mom’s recipe, with the bread crumbs on top. Maybe he’d steam some broccoli on the side to set a good example for his dad.

A roar thundered through the trees and Stiles leaped from the Jeep’s hood, hands lifting and fingers forming claws.

Scott stood before him, wolfed out, eyes glowing red.

"What the hell?" Stiles exclaimed.

Scott frowned at him. "You're not attacking," he said.

"Should I?" Stiles asked.

"Well, no," Scott said, shifting back to normal. "But your fight or flight instinct should have kicked in. Why aren't you fighting?"

"I'm a lover, not a fighter, Scott.”

"Not with a face like that you're not," Scott huffed.

Stiles brightened, running his hands over his face. He'd never been able to manage much in the way of sideburns, but now, it felt like he was sporting full muttonchops. Thinking of Derek, he lifted a hand to his eyebrows, relieved to discover he still had them.

"Whoah, cool," he said, crouching down to examine himself in the side mirror of the Jeep.

He didn't think his beta form was that bad, whatever Scott said. Sure, there might be some kind of tusky bottom fang action going on, and sure, his brow ridge looked a bit Neanderthal, but at least the glowing eyes were cool. He looked a hell of a lot better than Isaac.

"You've got an anchor already," Scott said thoughtfully. "It's the only explanation.”

Stiles blushed to the tips of his toes, remembering how he’d focused on Derek’s cool strength when Scott pelted him in the balls. Something in his expression made Scott grin, and he leaned closer.

“Is it Lydia?"

"None of your business," Stiles muttered.

"Dude, your heartbeat is going crazy!" Scott said, eyes wide. "It makes sense though. You've been in love with her since third grade." His eyes went sympathetic, and he patted Stiles's shoulder. "Better not tell Aiden."

"It's not . . . I'm not --" Stiles started, then gave up. Maybe it would be better if Scott thought it was Lydia. He couldn’t exactly tell him about Derek.

“It’s all right,” Scott said, patting his shoulder. “Believe me, I know it sucks.” He sighed, and Stiles knew he was thinking of Allison and Isaac. “Just try to keep away from her this afternoon, all right? Your control is great, but it could still be dangerous.”

“This afternoon?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, I called a pack meeting,” Scott said, ignoring the way Stiles’s heart stopped. “Everyone’s meeting at my house after school.”

* * *

Allison’s Toyota pulled into Scott’s driveway, and Isaac and Lydia bounced out of it, Allison following at a slower pace. She held herself tall as she walked up the driveway to the front door, every footstep deliberate. When Allison caught sight of Stiles, she gave him a hard look. He had the uncomfortable feeling she was taking note of his vulnerable points.

“So you’re a wolf now,” she said flatly.

On the couch beside him, Scott slumped. Stiles had the feeling he’d been looking forward to making some kind of grand announcement about Stiles joining the pack.

“Yup,” Stiles said, flashing his eyes. He and Scott had been practicing that all afternoon, and he finally thought he had it down.

Allison’s lips drew into a thin line, but she nodded, dropping onto the armchair across from Stiles with easy grace. Coming into the living room behind her, Lydia perched on the arm of the couch, resting her head on Stiles’s shoulder. She was still beaming, and he ducked his head. Three years ago, he would have been ecstatic to know that someday Lydia Martin would be this happy that he was alive.

At least someone was. Allison was still eyeing Stiles like he might wolf out at any second, and Isaac was frowning as he dropped his keys into the basket by the doorway. Between Scott, Stiles, and Lydia, there wasn’t much room on the couch, but Isaac squeezed in anyway, claiming a space for himself between Scott and the other arm. He leaned into Scott’s space, almost possessive, sending Stiles a superior glance.

In the driveway, the twins’ motorcycles roared to a stop.

“Kill anyone?” Ethan asked, as they stepped inside.

“Not yet,” Stiles said brightly, and immediately regretted the joke at the glare Allison shot him. Aiden, too, was frowning – it took Stiles a second to realize it was because Lydia’s head still rested on his shoulder.

“Not ever,” Scott said, gripping Stiles’s knee hard. Beside him, Isaac’s lips narrowed into a thin line. Stiles supposed he'd probably feel threatened, too, in Isaac’s place. Other than the werewolf thing and Allison, Scott and Isaac didn't have a lot in common, certainly nothing compared the long history Scott shared with Stiles. Then the door scraped open, and Stiles forgot about Isaac entirely because Derek was stepping into Scott's living room.

He looked cool and composed as ever in dark jeans and a slate gray Henley that brought out the color of his eyes. But he’d left the collar open, and the glimpse of naked skin made Stiles remember how he’d looked curled in the sheets that morning. The wolf inside him surged up, claws pricking the battered couch cushions. It was taking everything he had not to launch himself at Derek, to wrap his arms around his neck and press his nose again to the spot behind his ear. He wanted to curl around him, to be petted and stroked and nuzzled, to bend over and present his ass to Derek, but also to tumble Derek down to the rug, to mark and claim and take him in turn.

A spicy scent drifted up to him, and Stiles blushed to the roots of his hair, realizing he could smell the arousal rising off his own skin, even as his dick gave an interested little twitch in his pants. And so could half of the room, he realized. Scott and Isaac were looking at him strangely. Ethan was smirking, and Aiden’s face had relaxed from the death glare. Of the wolves, only Derek wasn’t looking at him. He was staring somewhere over Stiles’s head, his arms crossed across his chest.

The expression on his face was better than a bucket of cold water.

Stiles sank low into the couch cushions, dropping his gaze to the floor. He hadn’t seen that particular expression of murderous rage on Derek’s face in years.

"So," Scott was saying, "most of you know this already, but Stiles is a werewolf now."

He was looking at Derek, obviously waiting for some show of surprise. Derek's lips just pressed together and he nodded his head once.

Scott frowned, disappointed, then shrugged it off. "So let's show him the ropes," he said. "Everyone outside!"

* * *

As usual, Ethan and Aiden managed to lose their shirts before they'd even stepped through the back door. Derek wasn't far behind them, stripping his off on the porch. Stiles turned away, suddenly remembering how Derek's chest felt pressed against his naked belly.

"What's that?" Isaac asked, drawing Stiles’s attention back from his memories.

Curiously, Stiles risked a glance over, only to realize Isaac was pointing at the bite Stiles had left on Derek's neck, the red ring of teeth marks vivid against his pale skin. His hadn’t healed either. Stiles blushed, resolving immediately to keep his own shirt on around the pack. The last thing he needed was for somebody to notice he and Derek had matching scars. Fortunately, nobody seemed to have noticed his reaction. They were all too focused on Derek.

Derek, too, was flustered, his voice sharper than usual when he snapped, "It's nothing!"

Ethan and Aiden were staring now, too. "But that's . . . " Ethan started hesitantly.

"Drop it!" Derek gave him a venomous look.

"Guys, come on," Scott cajoled. "We've got more important things to worry about than Derek's hickey."

"Like what?" Isaac asked.

"Like catching Stiles up to speed," Scott said, wrapping an arm around Stiles's shoulders. "Hey, Derek," he called. "We're running through some two-person drills today. Can you pair with Stiles? We finally have an even number!"

Derek hesitated. Stiles could practically hear him debating whether or not to say no. Scott seemed cheerfully oblivious. At last, Derek jerked his chin down in a nod, reluctantly crossing to stand beside Stiles.

Scott explained the directions, something about running through the forest and tagging each other, but Stiles didn’t listen to a word he said. Derek's heart pounded audibly, though probably no one but Stiles could have heard it, spread out as they were through the backyard. He had always seemed so controlled, but now that Stiles was a wolf, too, he could practically sense Derek’s apprehension. It made Stiles feel sick to realize how afraid Derek was that the rest of the pack would find out what they’d done. Or, a more insidious voice inside of Stiles asked, was it more than that? Did Derek regret sleeping with Stiles? Was he afraid Stiles was going to – what? Hit on him? Had they fucked up the tentative friendship they’d finally managed to form out of the distrust and fear that had marked their early encounters with each other?

"Go!" Scott yelled. All around them, the wolves burst into motion, dashing into the trees.

Derek glanced at Stiles expectantly.

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "I . .. uh . . . kind of missed the directions."

Derek rolled his eyes. Oddly enough, the familiar gesture of exasperation drew back some of the tension between them. "Run," he said. "I'll try to catch you."

"Oh, got it." Stiles hesitated. "Derek?"

Derek glanced towards him with a clearly warning expression.

Stiles hesitated, but the backyard was empty now. He might not get a better chance.

"I just want you to know that I'm not going to tell anybody about last night,” he said. “Not even Scott. I know that what happened between us." He swallowed, waving a hand between their bodies. "It was just to save my life. I get that. I mean, I know I'm not exactly your type."

He thought of Miss Blake, of Kate Argent, of Paige, whom he'd looked up in the school yearbook. They'd all been so beautiful. The thought drew a low pang of bitterness up in his chest, but Stiles kept talking, refusing to give into it.

"I just . . . dude, you're one of my best friends. Please tell me we didn't fuck everything up because you had to take my v-card."

Derek was staring at him incredulously. Stiles hadn't been able to read much off any of the others. He was still adjusting to his wolf senses. But Derek was an open book to him, maybe because he'd spent so much time trying to figure him out. As Stiles spoke his scent ripened with anxiety, grew salt-tinged with sadness, and then blossomed into surprise.

"Stiles," he said after a long moment.

Swallowing, Stiles met his gaze. "Yeah?"

Derek grinned at him, all sharp teeth and glowing eyes. The scent of predator and competition raced down Stiles's spine, along with the comforting sense of pack. "Run," he growled.

He had barely a second to process that Derek wasn't going to go easy on him anymore, that Derek had actually been holding back every time he’d deliberately terrified Stiles in the past. Then Derek was lunging forward and Stiles was shrieking with delight, bounding away from him. They were going to be okay, he realized, even as Derek's claws raked down his back, the brief pain drawing an extra burst of speed from him. They were still friends, even if things were a little awkward between them now.

And if Stiles wanted more . . . Well, Stiles had loved Lydia for a good eight years without a shred of hope. He would deal.

* * *

By the time the cruiser pulled into the driveway that evening, the macaroni had long since been moved to the refrigerator and dishes cleared away. Stiles had been procrastinating on his homework with a well-earned turn at Grand Theft Auto V, but at the sound of his dad’s footsteps in the driveway, he hit pause. Returning to the kitchen, he fixed his dad a plate, making sure to serve him an extra-large helping of broccoli. The microwave dinged just as the door slammed open.

His dad strode into the kitchen, ignoring the plate in Stiles’s hands and going straight for the fridge. Popping the tab on a can of Miller, he drank half of it in one long gulp.

“Rough day at work?” Stiles asked, setting his dad’s plate on the table. His dad managed a grateful smile in response, sliding into his seat.

“Sometimes it seems like they’re all rough days,” his dad said ruefully, taking a bite of the macaroni and cheese. For a second, the lines on his forehead smoothed out and he smiled around the mouthful of food, giving Stiles a thumbs up. “I forgot how good this was! You haven’t made it in awhile.”

“I was in the mood for it,” Stiles said, dropping into the seat beside his dad. Leaning forward, he asked, “So what kind of bad day was it? Anything I should be worried about?”

His dad chuckled as he dug the fork back into the macaroni. “I can tell you’re feeling better,” he said, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d miss this curiosity.”

“Dad!”

Chewing another bite, his dad eyed him thoughtfully. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

“Oh, I dunno,” Stiles said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not sure I could keep anything hidden. Certainly nothing big.”

“I get the point, smart ass,” his dad said, swatting him gently. “Alright, listen up, but don’t breathe a word about this.”

Stiles zipped an invisible line across his lips.

“We found a body down in the warehouse district this morning. It was torn up pretty bad. “

"Claws and fangs?" Stiles asked.

His dad shook his head. "It looks like it's just a human murder," he said. "An axe, maybe. But I don't know. It was missing a lot of blood. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but . . ."

"You can't be too paranoid in this town," Stiles said at once.

"I know," his dad said, shaking his head wryly. “I need to talk to Deaton tomorrow.”

“I can do it,” Stiles offered.

“Son,” his dad started, but Stiles cut him off.

“Let me help you!” he said. “I know you’re busy! No one else at the station knows about the supernatural stuff that goes on here! That’s too much for one person to handle.”

“Six months ago, you thought it was too much for me to handle,” his dad pointed out.

“And I was wrong!” Stiles said. “I should have trusted you. But you can trust me, Dad!” A sliver of guilt formed in his stomach as he spoke. Could his dad trust him? Here he was, keeping another secret from him. “Besides,” he said, forging on before his expression could betray him. “I need to talk to Deaton anyway. Emsisary stuff. I’m swinging by after school tomorrow.”

His dad stared at him for a long moment. He drummed his fingertips on the beer can, uncertain. “If anyone at the station finds out, I’ll be in deep shit,” he said at last.

“So don’t tell them!”

His dad stared at him for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. Rising, he crossed to the living room, kneeling to retrieve something from the laptop bag he’d dumped by the coat tree as he came in. When he returned to the table, he had a manila folder in his hand.

“Let me go over what we found,” he said, spreading a series of truly disgusting photographs out in front of Stiles.

* * *

Stiles had known the gate leading back to the inner sanctum of the animal clinic was made of mountain ash, but he'd never really appreciated what that meant until he reached out to swing it open and head back to Deaton, the way he usually did. The air grew thick around his hand as he reached for it, until, half an inch or so above the polished wood, the resistance grew so great that he might as well have been pressing against a wall of stone. All around his fingers, the air shimmered iridescent, like the edge of a bubble. He stepped back, sweat beading the edges of his temples.

"Deaton?" he called.

A few moments later, Deaton emerged from the back, still flipping through a file. "Stiles?" he asked, confused. "Why didn't you just come back?"

Nodding at the gate, Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugging sheepishly.

A slight frown touched Deaton’s features. "I take it you didn't follow my advice to go see your doctor."

"I didn't see the point," Stiles admitted. "I mean, even if I survived, I didn't want to drag my dad through that again."

"That wasn't your choice to make," Deaton said.

"It's my body," Stiles countered. "And my life. Who else should get to decide?" He glanced behind him, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway," he said, “there’s not much point in showing up for emissary training anymore.” A faint note of bitterness crept into his voice, despite his best efforts.

Deaton opened the gate, motioning Stiles to follow him back. "I wouldn't say that," he said. "Obviously, you can no longer manipulate mountain ash, but there are some spells werewolves can perform. There's even a position for a shaman in large, traditional packs. The theurge."

"Theurge?" Stiles said, shutting the door to the examination room behind him. "Did the Hales have one?”

"Do you really need to ask that?" Deaton asked. He stepped behind the examination table, resting his hands on it like a teacher at a lectern. “A theurge has powers far beyond the scope of most werewolves. Theoretically, a strong theurge could even raise himself from the dead, with the proper tools at his disposal. He could manipulate the color of his eyes to hide the fact that he’s an alpha.”

A shiver ran down Stiles’s spine. His body felt suddenly heavy, so he dropped onto Deaton’s stool. “Peter.”

Deaton nodded.

“I don’t want to be like Peter!” Stiles protested.

Deaton looked at him oddly. “When you were training to be an emissary, did you want to be like Jennifer Blake?”

“Well, no,” Stiles said. “But . . .”

“Magic is a tool, Stiles, for a wolf or a human,” Deaton said firmly. “If you end up like Peter, it will be because, somewhere along the line, you decided to misuse it.” His voice gentled, and he offered a small smile. “But unlike him, you have a pack to guide you in your decisions. I doubt Scott or Derek would let you use your powers for ill.”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles laughed, giving Deaton’s stool a little spin, just because he could. “One time a checker forgot to ring up my candy bar, and Scott made me take it back!”

Deaton nodded. “I’ll work with you on Saturday then, like usual,” he said. He glanced at the folder in Stiles’s hand. “Was there something else?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, stopping the stool’s spinning with his heel. “My dad is working on something. I told him I’d ask you about it.” He stood and crossed to the examination table, spreading out the photos his dad had taken. Deaton didn’t flinch at the site of the mutilated corpse. He only frowned.

“When did this turn up?”

“Yesterday morning,” Stiles said. “In those old warehouses on the far side of town.” He explained everything his father had told him.

Deaton frowned, shaking his head. “There are a number of supernatural creatures that use axes,” he said. “But I can’t guess which one it might be, or even if it’s supernatural at all without more information.”

Stiles sighed. That’s what he’d been afraid of. “I’ll tell my dad,” he said, sorting the photos back into the folder. “Until then, what? We just sit around and wait for another body to show up?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Deaton said.

* * *

Another body turned up five days later. Stiles was working on homework when his dad came home with the news. At least, he was trying to work on homework. He couldn’t focus on math for more than a few minutes at a time, despite the Adderall he’d taken that morning. His knee kept jiggling under the desk, and a deep feeling of dread had lodged in the pit of his stomach. To make things worse, his dad hadn’t responded to Stiles’s texts asking if he would make it home for dinner. He thought the anxiety would go away when he heard his dad’s cruiser pull into the driveway, but if anything, the leaden feeling in his stomach grew heavier.

He stood, meeting his dad at the foot of the stairs. From one glance at his dad’s face, he knew what had happened. “Another body.”

His dad nodded grimly as he took off his coat. “Some homeless people stumbled across it this afternoon.”

“Any clues?” Stiles asked.

Shaking his head, his dad said, “Just like the other one.”

Stiles followed him into the kitchen. “There’s got to be something we can do!”

"That's why I talked to Derek this afternoon,” his dad said, opening the fridge and pulling out the leftover baked chicken Stiles had made the day before. “He's going to go check it out for me."

"You talked to Derek," Stiles repeated, pulling two plates from the cupboard.

"Yeah," his dad said. "I didn't want you kids getting involved. He said he'd go around tonight, sniff around."

"He shouldn't be by himself!" Stiles protested.

"Derek's got a good head on his shoulders," said his dad, in what had to be the most bone-headed statement in the whole century. "He won't do anything stupid." From the fridge, he took out containers of leftover rice and roasted carrots. Then he turned, catching sight of Stiles’s expression. "Oh no."

"Dad!" Stiles protested. "He's going to get himself killed!"

His dad set the food on the counter, crossing his arms. “You are not going out there.”

"I have to!" Stiles insisted. "He could get hurt!"

“He’s a werewolf,” his dad said. “He’ll be fine.”

“Dad, he’s part of my pack! I can’t let him do this alone!”

His dad gave him an odd look. “This is really important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” Stiles cried, gesturing emphatically with his hands.

His dad sighed, nodding towards the menus tacked up by the phone. "Call in an order for burgers,” he said, opening the fridge and setting the Tupperware back inside. “We’ll pick them up on our way out.”

Stiles blinked. "What?"

"We're doing a stakeout tonight,” his dad said, then laughed as Stiles collided with him, hugging him hard.

* * *

As it turned out, stakeouts were a lot cooler in theory than application. For the first half hour, they didn't come across anything more interesting than an old man huddled in a doorway, sheltering a cigarette in the cup of his gnarled hands. He had a rust-red beanie pulled over his head, but no jacket to speak of, and Stiles shivered sympathetically at the sight of him. It had to be horrible, living down here, especially right now, when the air smelled faintly of blood from the murder that morning.

They parked on a side street and ate their burgers. Then his dad answered emails on his iPhone, while Stiles played Candy Crush Saga on his. The minutes stretched on with no sign of violence anywhere. But oddly, Stiles grew more and more nervous with each passing hour. Close to midnight, he jerked in his seat and screamed, a red-hot line of agony cutting into his ribs.

"What is it?" his dad asked, grabbing his shoulder.

Stiles shook his head. Lifting his shirt, he ran a frantic hand over his own skin. It looked normal – there certainly wasn’t a gaping wound oozing the blood he could feel dripping down his side. Breathing in through his nose, he gripped the door handle, trying to center himself. He felt dizzy, like he was spinning. Some distant part of him was spinning, he realized, dropping low to avoid another attack. It was almost like there were two of him now, one sitting beside his dad in the cruiser, and one fighting desperately, ducking beneath the second swing of the axe whistling through the air towards him.

Throwing open the cruiser door, Stiles spilled out onto the sidewalk.

"Stiles!" his dad yelled.

"Something's wrong!" Stiles said, tearing off down the alley. Because his dad was watching, he forced himself to run on two legs, at human speed, though he knew he’d be faster if he dropped to all fours. Behind him, he could hear the key turning in the ignition, the driver’s side door slamming shut and footsteps hurrying down the sidewalk after him. But he was already a block away, making a sharp turn to the right.

Later, Stiles would never figure out how he knew where to find him. It was like there was a GPS unit in his chest, set to locate Derek Hale. He launched himself up rooftops and through dark alleys, surely navigating the maze-like streets of the warehouse district. His dad was somewhere behind him. Stiles had lost track of him a long time ago. He wasn’t worried about his dad, though. His dad was safe. Whatever it was that was killing people, all of its attention was focused on Derek.

A line of pain caught him in the arm, then another in the shoulder, both agonizingly deep. The phantom pain brought Stiles to his knees, and he breathed in and out through his nose, gritting his teeth together to keep from crying out. Was this what pack bonds were like? Shakily, Stiles climbed back to his feet. His entire body felt weak, and he wondered if Derek was somehow drawing on his strength, the way he’d drawn on Derek’s to survive the Bite. He hoped so. It felt like the wound had almost managed to take Derek’s arm off.

Focusing once more on that inner Derek sense, Stiles started running again. A block later, he turned a corner and saw Derek on his knees, one clawed hand raised to protect his face. His other arm hung limply at his side, sleeve coated with blood. Looming over him was the old man Stiles and his dad had passed in the alley several hours ago. He looked significantly less frail and helpless now. The muscles on his bare arms gleamed, sinewy and hard as wood, as he lifted the axe high above his head. Blood dripped steadily from its blade. Derek’s blood.

A roar escaped Stiles, before he'd even made the conscious decision to attack. He launched himself at the old man, grabbing the axe by its handle. The old man clung to it stubbornly, surprisingly strong, even against a werewolf. Behind them, Derek rolled onto his side, kicked out with his leg, hard enough to sweep the old man's legs out from under him. He tripped, surprise making him loosen his hold on the axe.

With a cry of triumph, Stiles wrenched it away. He'd been planning to lift it, bring it down on the old man himself, but the second the gnarled fingers let go of it, some dark and unpleasant magic worked into the handle, shocked Stiles's fingers. He flung the axe away from him, hard as he could.

The old man scrambled after it, and Stiles tackled him. They wrestled fiercely, until Stiles tried to catch him in a chokehold. The rust-red beanie came off in the commotion. It was wet, sticky in Stiles’s fingers, and reeked of old blood. For a second, Stiles and the old man just stared at the dripping beanie, the old man's face twisted with anger, Stiles's with disgust.

Of course he would be a fucking Red Cap. What else would he be in Beacon Hills?

"Derek!" he cried. "Burn this!" He tossed the cap behind him, and Derek's good hand shot out, snatching it from mid-air. Reaching into his pocket, Derek pulled out his lighter. The Red Cap let out a shriek as the flame touched the blood-soaked fibers.

As it turned out, watching a supernatural creature spontaneously combust was significantly less cool in real life than on TV. Especially if you happened to be holding onto it at the time.

By the time the cruiser’s headlights found them, the Red Cap was nothing but ashes, and Stiles's eyebrows had mostly grown back. All the same, he ducked his head as his dad stormed out of the cruiser and lifted him up by the collar, giving him a good shake.

"You are in so much trouble, kid," his dad said. “We’re talking grounded for life!”

"But I saved Derek," Stiles protested, risking a beseeching glance up at his dad. He was 99% certain that his face was human again.

"My hero," Derek muttered, pulling himself to his feet. He staggered, dizzy from blood loss. Stiles sagged forward as his dad released him, hurrying to catch Derek by the elbow.

"Whoah, there! You don't look so good, son."

"I just need to sleep it off,” Derek said. “My loft is only a few blocks away.” His voice was firm, but he wasn’t trying to pull away, and that, more than anything, told Stiles something was wrong.

His dad seemed to sense it, too. "I’m not going to leave you alone when you’re this injured,” he said.

"I’ll stay with him,” Stiles offered.

His dad narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push me, Stiles. You’re in deep enough shit as it is.”

“I’ll be fine,” Derek insisted. “Just take me home.”

The dubious gaze his dad gave Derek had to mirror the one on Stiles’s own face. Derek didn’t look fine. He held himself like every inch of his body hurt, cradling his wounded arm. If Stiles focused, he could practically smell the pain rolling off of him in red-hot waves, feel the phantom echoes of it through his own body.

“Dad!” he said, glancing meaningfully at Derek.

“It’s a school night, Stiles!” his dad protested.

“So? Derek will drop me off,” Stiles said, not bothering to look at Derek to confirm it. “And Allison can give me a ride home.”

His dad gave Stiles a hard look, and Stiles shifted uncomfortably, grinding a toe into the cracked pavement. Then his dad’s gaze turned to Derek, and he sighed, shaking his head.

“Fine. But don’t think you’re off the hook.”

“Never,” Stiles agreed, hurrying to open the cruiser’s passenger door so his dad could help Derek inside.

* * *

They got Derek on the edge of his bed, and he sat heavily, breathing hard. Stiles and his dad spent an awkward moment trying to figure out how to get Derek’s shirt off without jarring the injured arm, before Derek solved the problem by slicing the sleeve off with the claws of his good hand.

His shoulder looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. Stiles’s dad hissed through his teeth, and Stiles clasped a hand to his mouth, worried he was going to be sick.

“I’ll grab a towel,” he said, escaping to the bathroom. Derek’s own first aid supplies, gathered with werewolf healing in mind, weren’t nearly as extensive as the Stilinski collection. But he had clean towels and bottles of water, along with a roll of sterile gauze.

Stiles hoped his dad would clear off while he was bandaging the wound, but he only hung back, looking over Derek's bookshelves and examining the framed photo of Cora that sat on his desk. Afterwards, he said, “Stiles, come outside with me for a second.”

His dad led them downstairs, but Stiles shook his head, opening the door of the building and gesturing them outside, safely out of hearing range. He leaned against the street lamp on the sidewalk, bracing himself for the inquisition to follow.

"What the hell was that back there?" his dad asked.

"First aid?" Stiles asked.

His dad glared at him. "You know what I'm talking about! You tore off like a bat out of hell! I couldn't even follow you!"

"Well, Dad, you are getting older," Stiles said, trying not to squirm at the venomous look his dad sent him in response. Deflating, he muttered, "I've been working out with Scott and the pack, Dad, you know that! Lacrosse trials are on Thursday."

His dad frowned, but relented. "Fine," he said. "Forget the running. But you knew exactly where to find Derek tonight. How?"

It took every ounce of willpower Stiles had to meet his dad's eyes. "I'm starting to sense pack bonds," he said, which was true enough. "It's an emissary thing."

"Uh huh." His dad did not sound convinced. "And when you doubled over in pain earlier, was that an emissary thing too?"

"Maybe," Stiles said. At his dad's expression, he groaned, throwing his hands into the air. "I don't know!" he cried. "I'm just starting to figure this stuff out! What do you want me to say!"

"The truth, Stiles!"

"This is the truth!" Stiles said, feeling like utter shit.

In the harsh light of the streetlamp, his dad looked years older. "I thought we were past all this," he said.

"We are," Stiles insisted. He looked up at the golden light streaming from Derek's windows. He tried to remember how it had felt to wake in Derek's arms last weekend, warm and protected.

"Dad," he said, "I know you don't get it, but there's a . . . a bond between me and the pack. Scott and Derek, especially. We've saved each other's lives about a dozen times now. I guess . . . that kind of thing just leaves a mark, you know?" He looked back at his dad, only to find him studying Stiles sadly. "What?"

His dad sighed, shaking his head. "Nothing," he said. "It's just, I'm still used to thinking of you as a snot-nosed kid, but after everything you've been through . . . Hell, Stiles, I've got combat vets on the force who talk like you do." He looked up at Derek's glowing window, where Stiles had been staring. "I hope that kid knows how lucky he is to have you guarding his back."

"I'll tell him that," Stiles said, forcing a smile.

His dad chuckled, pulling him in for a rough hug. Holding him at arm's length, he said, "Make sure you get to school on time tomorrow, got that? And come home right after practice. You're still grounded."

Stiles nodded, not even bothering to protest.

When he went back upstairs, Derek had kicked his pants off and was lying under the covers. His eyes were closed, but Stiles could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he was awake. Stiles flipped the light switch, figuring the darkness would help Derek to sleep. He was planning to use his phone as a flashlight, but a half second after the loft went dark, the world switched into reds and blacks, the edges of Derek's furniture snapping into perfect focus. Score one for being a creature of the night.

Derek stirred in the bed, unable to hide the tiny hiss of breath as the motion jostled his wounded shoulder. Cautiously, Stiles sat on the edge of the bed beside him, squirming a hand under the cover to rest it on Derek's elbow, just beneath the still-healing gash. He'd never tried this before, didn't know how it would work. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, imagining the pain seeping up from Derek's body into Stiles.

Nothing happened. He frowned, narrowing his eyes in determination. Scott could do this. Hell, Isaac could do it. There was no way in hell that Stiles couldn't do it too.

He reached down inside himself, fumbling for the spark he'd felt as a human. He hadn't tried to work magic since becoming a wolf. He hadn't seen the point. But then he found it.

Help him, he thought, willing himself to believe with all of his being that it would actually work. Normally, he felt the spark deep in his gut, amber warm and tasting faintly of minerals. This time, when the familiar stirrings of magic came, though, they were distant, cool and silvery light flowing in through his bowed head. Stiles gasped, even as he instinctively reached for the magic, funneling it through his fingers and into Derek’s wounded body. He tried to imagine a magical channel falling into place, dark pain siphoning up into his hand, healing energy flowing down into Derek’s skin.

When Scott and Isaac tried this, their veins went black. That didn’t happen to Stiles. Instead, white light was pulsing beneath his hand, throwing the room back into blues and grays.

Every nerve ending in his arm exploded with pain. His skin split open as Stiles stared at it, the wound mirroring the one on Derek’s arm. Veins and muscles cleaved apart, and Stiles cried out, trying to jerk his hand away. But he couldn’t move, the magic had immobilized them both. Beneath him, Derek was staring up, eyes wide and horrified. Their hearts raced together in a frantic dance.

As quickly as it had formed, the wound on Stiles's shoulder knit together, Derek’s melting away along with it. They collapsed together onto the mattress, gasping in relief as the pain flowed away. The room dropped back into darkness.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles gasped. His entire body tingled with adrenaline and serotonin, and the odd, magical high he always got after working magic. He flexed his fingers, amazed he could even move them after that. As deep as the wound had gone, he’d almost expected permanent nerve damage.

“You sped the healing,” Derek said. “That should have taken all night.” He trailed his fingertips over the unblemished skin of his own bicep, almost reverently. “Jennifer did something like that once.” His face went sad when he mentioned her name, and Stiles rolled away, staring up at the ceiling.

“I was just trying to take your pain.”

“That’s all you should have been able to do,” Derek said. “The only wolf I’ve met who could heal through a touch was . . .”

“Peter?”

Derek nodded.

Stiles sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. The movement took some effort to coordinate. He was shaking. "It’s getting late,” he said. I'll just . . .” he jerked his thumb towards the couch.

But Derek caught his wrist when he tried to stand. "Just come to bed," he said, face oddly hesitant in the red overlay of Stiles’s night vision.

Stiles met his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. He kicked his shoes and jeans off, climbing under the covers. For a second, he wasn’t sure whether to slide over to the other side of the bed, or to lie beside Derek. In the end, Derek solved the dilemma for him, rolling onto his side and reaching beside him to grab Stiles’s arm, tugging him down with him. Stiles ended up curled against Derek's back, arm draped around his middle. Derek made a low, pleased sound in the back of his throat, running his fingers over the back of Stiles’s hand.

It felt odd to be spooning someone as strongly muscled as Derek, but perfectly natural at the same time. Derek could have died tonight, Stiles thought. He could have died, but Stiles had found him. Relief surged through him, and he hugged Derek tighter, feeling suddenly fierce and protective. If anything else wanted to come after Derek tonight, it would have to get through Stiles first.

Derek inched closer to Stiles, until his back was melded to Stiles's front. The bottom of one bare foot stroked Stiles's calf. Stiles could practically feel the waves of contentment rolling off him, although that was probably the aftermath of pain and magical healing. Burying his face in Derek's hair, he closed his eyes and just breathed, soaking in Derek's scent, the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat. He would roll in Derek's scent if he could, he thought.

"You smell really good," he murmured.

Derek made a little sound into his pillow. It might have been agreement, might have been a snore. His breath was already starting to even out into sleep. Letting the warmth and the comfort flow through him, Stiles followed soon after.

* * *

He woke to the smell of coffee.

Stiles opened his eyes in time to see Derek setting a mug down on the nightstand beside him. He gave Stiles a tight smile as he retreated back to the kitchen. Yawning, Stiles sat up, carefully bunching the covers around his lap to avoid giving Derek a view of his morning wood. Granted, Derek had already been up close and personal with Stiles’s dick, but discretion had to count for something.

“Good morning,” Stiles yawned, taking a sip of his coffee. It was dark and strong, the way he liked it.

“Morning.” Derek sat down at the counter, lifting his own cup of coffee. He had an honest-to-God newspaper spread out in front of him. He was already dressed in jeans and a dark sweater. Stiles shifted nervously beneath the blankets, feeling awkward in his boxers and t-shirt. Usually, if either of them was going to be under-dressed, it was Derek.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, he snagged his jeans, pulling his phone out of the pocket. It was dead, of course.

“What time is it?” he asked, taking another sip.

“Early,” Derek said. “You have time to take a shower before school.”

As he stepped into Derek’s shower, Stiles felt an odd sense of déjà vu. At least this time, he wasn’t washing away the smell of sex. He was actually a little disappointed about that, to be honest. He still remembered how Derek had felt, wrapped in his arms, and his morning wood bobbed insistently against his stomach at the though. Stiles gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to take care of it. He knew Derek would smell it if he did.

The bathroom door opened as he was showering. Stiles’s heart thundered in anticipation, but Derek only lay a neatly-folded bundle of clothes on the closed toilet lid before backing out again. Gritting his teeth at the influx of fresh Derek-scent, Stiles turned the shower to cold.

It turned out that Derek had brought in a pair of navy boxer briefs, some plain, white socks, and a soft, gray t-shirt. His scent was layered beneath the clean cotton, and Stiles’s hands trembled a little bit as he put them on. The thought of carrying Derek’s scent around with him all day filled him with mingled anticipation and horror.

The toothbrush he’d unwrapped the last time he spent the night at Derek’s still sat in the holder, beside Derek’s own. A fuzzy feeling spread through his chest at the sight of it, but he squashed it back down. Probably, Derek had just forgotten to throw it away.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Derek had made breakfast. It felt strange, but right, sitting with Derek at his kitchen counter, eating eggs and toast, and sipping fresh coffee. Stiles had never been much of a morning person, but Derek’s usual silence soothed his mood. If things had been normal, he might have smiled, joked. But every time he looked at Derek, he remembered holding him through the night, shuddering under him the night he’d been bitten. A few times, he thought he caught Derek’s gaze lingering on him, as well. Stiles felt like he should be comfortable here with Derek, but the sex had left everything between them strained. He wondered if it would ever get back to normal again.

Derek drove him to school earlier than Stiles would have managed to get there on his own. In the parking lot, Stiles hesitated, fingers curled around the door handle. Before, he would have patted Derek’s arm, maybe given him a friendly punch to thank him for the ride. Now, he didn’t know what to do.

“I’ll see you later,” he mumbled, stepping out of the car.

Derek drove away without saying a word.

* * *

Every day the moon grew rounder, and Stiles felt the awareness of it deep in his gut. It was like waiting for the first heart-stopping plunge of a roller coaster, all fear and exhilaration. It felt, a little, like spending time with Derek, now that he knew what it felt like to get fucked into the sheets by him, to hold him through the night. After that awkward morning at Derek’s house, they’d avoided spending time together outside of training, but even that was it’s own kind of torture, because now Stiles wasn’t just watching Derek run around shirtless, he was chasing him, wrestling him, slashing him with claws and fangs. The wolf inside him loved these games, savored every touch of Derek’s sweat-slicked skin beneath his palms, every fading bruise and cut Derek left on his body. In another life, this might have been easy. Stiles and Derek had always challenged each other, always gotten under each other’s skin. Everything was different now.

Lacrosse trials came, and Stiles made first line easily, along with the other wolves on the team. His dad whooped when Stiles told him, and they went out for burgers to celebrate. Stiles tried to muster his own enthusiasm in the wake of his dad’s obvious pride, recounting every second of try-outs. The irony was, he hadn’t even bothered using his wolf powers on the field, not really. Between last year’s championship game and the time he’d spent training with the pack, Stiles was pretty sure he’d have first line even as a human. He was only a little bitter that he’d never have the chance to find out.

On the morning of the full moon, he told his dad, "I'm spending the night at Scott's."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Stiles?" his dad asked. "There's a full moon tonight."

Stiles laughed so hard he snorted milk up his nose. Wiping his face with a napkin, still chuckling, he said, "Dad, come on! I hung out with Scott right after he turned, remember? If he didn't kill me then, he won’t do it now. Besides, his control is solid now. I'm talking stone."

His dad looked unconvinced, and Stiles put on his best puppy dog eyes.

"Come on," he said. "It's Friday night, and Allison and Isaac are going out on another date. I can't let my best friend suffer through that alone."

"Fine," his dad said, rolling his eyes. "But no alcohol."

"It doesn't even work on werewolves."

His dad lifted an eyebrow. "And you know that because?"

“Um . . . Derek told me?”

“Subtle,” his dad said, bringing his cereal bowl to the sink. “Just stay out of trouble tonight, okay?”

“Cross my heart,” Stiles said.

His plans for the evening had pretty much involved chains and handcuffs, but Scott insisted Stiles wouldn’t need them.

“We’re going running,” he said, practically bouncing with anticipation.

Stiles didn’t blame him. The moon hadn’t even risen yet, but he could already feel it like a hook in his belly, urging him to move, to shift, to howl. But he hesitated, remembering how Scott had attacked him after he first shifted.

“Dude, are you sure? I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“You’ve got good control,” Scott said. “I think you’ll be fine. Besides, the whole pack will be there. We’ll keep an eye on you.”

So when the moon rose, Stiles was in the forest, not handcuffed to Scott’s radiator or chained in the basement of the Hale house. The second it passed over the horizon, he felt it in his bones. Scott grinned at him through a mouthful of fangs, and Stiles returned it, suddenly breathless with anticipation. The change was sweeping through him, fingers and toes tingling as nails lengthened into claws. Side by side, they raced through Scott’s backyard and down the deserted side street that led to the woods.

He'd always thought it looked ridiculous when the wolves ran on all fours, but in the woods, at night, with the call of the moon singing through his veins, Stiles couldn't resist. His palms hit the mossy forest floor, just long enough to propel the rest of his body forward, and then he was running, flashing over roots and under branches faster even than he managed with the Jeep on an open road. His body sang beneath his hands, alive and powerful. Whole. He could feel, all around him, the pack. He lifted his head, exhilarated, letting out a howl.

The chorus that returned in answer settled deep in his blood, satisfying a need he hadn't even realized he'd been feeling until that second. He had a pack. They were out here with him. He threw back his head, drunk with giddiness.

The forest air smelled of pine and cedar, of rabbit and deer, of a hundred different scents, each more fascinating than the next. The pack scents overlaid them all, lingering in the air like jet trails through the trees. He could practically make out the aroma of each pack member, if he concentrated enough. There was Scott, chasing Isaac several yards away. There were the twins, running far ahead of everyone else.

Then Stiles caught one scent in particular, and his mouth started to water. When he breathed it in, it tasted like leather and soil, wood smoke, and old books. Stiles knew this scent. It still clung to the gray t-shirt he kept under his pillow, because he couldn’t stand the thought of washing it.

He caught a flash of blue through the trees. Derek stood several meters away, framed by the trunks of two thin pine trees. He hadn’t shifted, and even in the harsh, red palette of Stiles’s wolf vision, he was beautiful. He was staring at Stiles like he was everything amazing in the world, hand curled around the tree like it was all that was holding him back from launching himself at Stiles. Derek was shirtless, of course, and at the junction of throat and shoulder, the ring of scar tissue left by Stiles’s teeth gleamed white in the moonlight.

A low, hungry sound rumbled out of Stiles’s throat, and Derek licked his lips. He leaned forward, hand still braced on the tree. The flash of his fangs in the moonlight sent a primal thrill racing down Stiles’s spine.

“You’re it,” Derek whispered, barely a whisper of sound.

Then he was gone, leaves rustling behind him. Growling, Stiles gave chase. Derek was fast, even for a wolf, but his scent was easy to follow. Stiles tore through the woods after him, ducking under branches and leaping the width of a deep ravine. Only when he came to a wide stream did he pause. The scent trail disappeared here.

With a cry of anger, he slammed his fist into a boulder that stood near the riverbed, hearing the hairline fissures spiderweb across its surface. Then he caught sight of something high on the boulder’s surface – the faint, wet outline of a sneaker print, drying slowly in the cool night air. He glanced up, his predator’s brain barely processing the glint of blue eyes from the high branches of the redwood above them, before Derek was leaping, tumbling them both to the mossy ground.

They rolled together, wrestling for dominance. The wolf sang in Stiles’s blood, dizzying. Everything was filtered in scarlet, rage and bloodlust. He wanted to fight. To rend and tear. But even more, he wanted to pin Derek’s arms above his head and fasten his teeth to Derek’s throat again, where the sharp lines of scar tissue already cut into his gleaming skin. His body remembered the hot pressure of Derek's knot inside him, and all at once, he yearned to roll onto his back and show his exposed belly and genitals, to climb onto hands and knees and present his rump for mounting. He ached for it, almost as much as he ached to press Derek onto the ground, to blanket him with his own body and push inside him, to lock himself inside Derek, cock to ass. He wanted everything. He wanted Derek. Confused and dizzy, Stiles reeled with the conflicting impulses. In the end, Derek settled the issue for them both.

Bringing his knees up between their squirming bodies, he kicked out hard, sending Stiles sprawling backwards. With his new, werewolf agility, it only took a second for Stiles to right himself, springing forward into a low crouch. But by that time, Derek was already standing. For a second, they watched each other, both breathing hard. Their eyes met, and Stiles growled, snapping forward. Derek leaped backwards easily, perfectly in time with Stiles’s movements. A low growl of frustration escaped Stiles, and Derek grinned at him, feral and beautiful in the dappled moonlight.

With careful deliberation, he reached for the button of his jeans. Never taking his eyes off Stiles, he squirmed out of them, exposing his hard dick, the darkly furred balls beneath.

Stiles wasn’t aware of crossing the ground between them. One moment, he was crouched in the long grass by the river bank, watching Derek lower his jeans. The next, he was slamming Derek backwards, into a tree trunk, leaning forward into his space. Derek held his eyes a second longer, then, deliberately, dropped his head back, baring the pale line of his throat. The mark on the junction of his neck and collarbone beckoned and Stiles was clamping down around it before he’d even realized he was going to lean forward.

The hot rush of blood over his lips and teeth was like a lightning bolt to the base of his spine. Stiles licked his fangs, dragged the flat of his tongue over the already-healing skin to lap up the few drops that remained. When the blood was gone, he kept licking, taking in the unadulterated taste of Derek. He dragged his cheek down Derek's chest, going for where the scent of him was strongest. dipped his nose into an armpit, flicked out his tongue before making a face at the bitter chemicals of his deodorant.

"Stiles," Derek groaned, crushing him to his chest. He nuzzled Stiles’s jaw line, nipping at the skin there before dropping down to press his own teeth to the matching scar on Stiles.

A full-body shudder ran through Stiles, and he tipped his head back, murmuring, “Yeah.”

The hot bite of Derek’s fangs sinking into his skin formed a circuit between their bodies, the same as when they’d exchanged bites at his loft. Then, Stiles had been too sick with pain to register anything more than Derek's strength flowing into him, keeping him alive. But now, he felt more alive than he’d ever been, moonlight pulsing down to the very marrow of his bones and every sense awakened.

He sensed anger, first, the iron chains of anger and bitterness that usually held Derek’s wolf at bay rattling impotently in the wake of hot breath and sharp claws. A rough tongue laved over the pulse point in Stiles’s throat, and stubble scraped his cheek before Derek pulled back, bumping his forehead almost gently against Stiles’s shoulder. In the unbroken circle of their minds, Stiles could feel Derek’s hunger, his guilt, his desperate, aching loneliness. The wolf inside him responded before Stiles’s human brain could even begin to process the emotions, spinning Derek away from the tree and pressing him to the ground.

Derek went easily, even eagerly. He lay quiescent as Stiles crawled over him, dragging the flat edges of his fangs over the vulnerable skin of his belly, though his eyes burned electric, predatory, taking in every movement. Stiles nuzzled his way down Derek’s abdomen, lapping up the sticky trail of pre-come his cock had leaked onto his belly, then dragging his tongue up the cock itself. Derek cried out, shuddered, fingers dragging through Stiles’s hair.

“Fangs!” he warned, voice breathy and desperate.

But Stiles had no intention of biting down, of drawing the blood that pulsed so close beneath the delicate skin. He shook his head, deliberately swirling his tongue around the ruddy cock head straining out of the foreskin, then licking his way back down. He kept licking, again and again, until Derek was bucking beneath him, futilely trying to arch up into Stiles’s mouth. Pinning his hips to the ground, Stiles dragged his tongue even lower, over the seam of Derek’s balls and lower still. At the first touch of Stiles’s tongue to his hole, Derek gave a full-body shudder. Stiles groaned at the taste, hot, and earthy, and quintessentially Derek.

Rising up onto his elbows, Derek lifted his head. Their eyes met, and then, they were scrambling to change positions, Derek rolling onto his hands and knees while Stiles’s clawed hands spread his ass open. He nosed into the dark crevice, dragging the flat of his tongue up and down it. Deep in the recesses of his mind, the part of him that was still human was disgusted. He'd never even thought about rimming as something he'd wanted to try before, but that was only a faint echo compared to the howl of the wolf inside him. He lapped at the tight skin around his hole, circled it again and again until Derek was shuddering beneath him, his hole fluttering, begging to be touched. He eyed his own hands, the claws on his fingers, but even maddened by the moon, he knew better than to try stretching Derek out like this.

Derek's human hand reached behind then, shiny and fragrant with his own pre-come. He shoved two fingers into himself, gasping. Stiles rumbled low in his throat at the sight, running his tongue over Derek's fingers, where they disappeared into his hole, tried to work his tongue up between them. Derek cried out, arching back into the touch.

“Do it,” he said, pulling his hand away and grabbing Stiles’s cock instead, guiding it inside. Stiles shoved forward greedily, roughly, too roughly. The tang of blood bloomed in the air, but Derek’s was laughing, shoving backwards, impaling himself on Stiles’s cock. It was like riding a hurricane, Derek bucking underneath him, rocking back to meet each of Stiles's thrusts, so strong, and perfect, and beautiful, and his. The moon overhead urged them on, her song a aphrodisiac in their veins, everything silver hot and frantic.

When the knot began to form, Stiles barely noticed it at first, too caught up in the rhythm of the fucking. First, he only noticed that he was harder than he had ever been in his life, painfully so. Then he realized that Derek was growing tighter around him, and that the rhythm of their bodies weren’t coming as easily as it had a second before. He glanced down at himself, startled to see the knot bulging at the base of his dick, catching on Derek’s rim with every thrust. He reached down to give it an experimental squeeze, and groaned at the sensation. It was more sensitive even than the head, hot, and swollen, and aching to be inside of Derek, so close, there, where it battered the rim, but nowhere near close enough.

“Holy shit,” Stiles groaned, pressing his forehead to the tattoo on Derek’s back.

“What is it?” Derek gasped, groping frantically behind him. He made a low, hungry sound when his hand encountered Stiles’s knot. Bucking back hard against Stiles’s dick, he forced the knot inside.

The tight clutch of Derek’s body around the base of the knot was better than anything Stiles had ever dared to imagine. Derek cried out, shuddering, and Stiles just held on and came, harder than he ever had in his whole life. Through the bond between them, he could feel his own pleasure echoing through Derek, like a feedback loop. He howled with it, throwing back his head. Stiles rested his claws against the beautiful line of his throat as Derek came and came, spilling seed as milky as moonlight onto the new grass.

They collapsed together. Gradually, the fever heat of the full moon began to fade. Stiles came back to his body in increments, realized he was curled behind Derek, hand stroking up and down his arm. Derek, like all the wolves, had felt fever hot when Stiles was still human, but now his skin was cool to the touch. He’d gone still under Stiles, breath coming slow and measured.

The night air smelled like semen, like blood and tears, though Stiles had no idea which of them had been crying. His entire body felt wrung-out, lightheaded. Still bound by knot, by the press of their minds together, he could sense Derek gathering up the chains of his anger, locking the wolf down. The bond faded as he did so.

Finally, the knot went down enough for Stiles to tug out, and Derek winced. He stood without looking at Stiles, found his jeans where he’d tossed them. Stiles reached for his own pants, feeling numb. He’d ripped the button off in his haste to get them off, so they ended up hanging kind of obscenely around his hips. He remembered the scent of blood as he shoved inside of Derek, and immediately felt sick.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Don't be," Derek said. The words were friendly enough, but his voice was hard. He wasn’t looking at Stiles. Without another word, he turned, loping off into the trees.

* * *

Stiles hadn't lied to his dad that morning. Not really. He was spending the night at Scott's. As the moon disappeared below the horizon, he started back towards Scott's house, tugging at his jeans with every few steps to keep them from sliding down his hips. Fortunately, Melissa was working the night shift, and Scott and Isaac weren't home yet. Stiles let himself in using the key he'd made, and took a long, long shower. Even after he'd scrubbed with Axe three times, though, Derek's scent lingered on his skin. When the water turned cold, Stiles got out of the shower. He was dressed and toweling his hair dry when the front door opened downstairs.

"Stiles?" Scott called. "Are you up there?"

"Yeah," Stiles answered, opening the bathroom door.

A few minutes later, Scott’s reflection joined his in the steamy mirror.

"So," Scott said. "Derek, huh?"

Stiles groaned, twisting the towel in his hands. "Was it that obvious?"

Scott glanced pointedly at Stiles's neck and the new bite mark Derek had left. "You guys weren't exactly subtle."

Stiles dropped his head, bracing his arms behind him on the counter. "Everything is so fucked up," he said.

A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Scott gave him a little shake. "Hey, it's okay," he said. "It's the full moon. People do stupid shit. Hell, I made out with Lydia."

"I remember," Stiles said dryly.

Scott smiled apologetically. "And it's not like you need to feel guilty," he said.

"What?"

"Look, I know you've been in love with her forever, but it's not like you two are a couple. I mean, she's sleeping with Aiden. She can't exactly blame you for fucking around with Derek."

Stiles made a high, strangled noise, and buried his face in his hands. A second later, Scott’s strong hands were rubbing his shoulders.

"Hey, it's okay," Scott said. “I mean, it’s a little weird that it’s Derek.” Stiles didn’t even have to be looking at him to know the expression on his face. “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I did!” Stiles protested. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his face when he confessed, “You know Derek! He’s always in control and I . . . I made him—”

“Breathe!” Scott instructed, and Stiles drew in a ragged breath. Scott’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “I don’t think you made him do anything, Stiles,” Scott said. “He seemed pretty into it.”

Stiles did look up then, horrified. “Dude, how much did you see!”

Scott pulled the same face he made whenever his mom tried to make him eat green beans. “Trust me, more than enough.” When Stiles slumped beneath his hands, he said, reluctantly, “Not much, though. We left when Derek took his pants off.”

“Kill me now,” Stiles instructed, leaning his head back against the mirror to bare his throat. “I don’t think I can ever face the pack again.”

“I think they’re all trying to scrub it from their memories,” Scott offered apologetically, and Stiles whimpered. Scott squeezed his shoulder hard. “How about we never speak of this again?”

“Sounds good, buddy,” Stiles agreed.

* * *

The next morning, Stiles arrived at the loft carrying a hazelnut latte with almond milk.

Derek met him at the elevator, blocking his entrance. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"

Stiles shuffled on his feet, sticking his hands in his pocket. "I just . . . wanted to see how you were."

"I'm fine." Derek said flatly. "Now leave."

Stiles held out the coffee like a peace offering. “Look, I just want to talk,” he said. “Can I come in?”

Derek’s eyes flicked to the cup, but he made no move to take it. However, he did, grudgingly, step back from the elevator doors, giving Stiles room to squeeze past him into the open loft. Stiles set the coffee on the counter, then turned to lean against it, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

"Listen," Stiles said. "I wanted to apologize."

Derek's mouth narrowed into a thin line.

Quickly, Stiles added, "I didn't mean to . . . push you, or whatever." He lifted one shoulder, dropped it. "Look, you’ve got the strongest control of anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t know what happened last night, but I think it had something to do with me. And I know things got a little . . . rough. So I’m sorry, if I hurt you.”

All the time Stiles had been babbling, Derek had been leaning back against the elevator door, frowning. Now, he stalked closer to Stiles. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “Do you really think you could force me to do anything I didn’t want to do?”

Stiles drew back against the counter as Derek pressed into his space, eyes hard and lips drawn back to reveal his teeth. The wolf shuddered through Stiles, confused and uneasy, unsure whether to fight or submit. Derek leaned in against him, close enough Stiles could feel his hot breath gusting over his face. Even under the dominant notes of shampoo and body wash, he smelled faintly of Stiles.

"We fucked, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice even. “That’s all. If anyone should be sorry here, it’s me. I’m older and I have more control. I should have stopped it.”

Stiles licked his lips. “I wanted it,” he confessed.

Derek brought his chin down in a small nod. “So did I. So let’s forget about it and move on.”

Gathering his courage, Stiles reached out, running his hand up Derek’s arm. He could feel the hard muscles even through the worn fabric of his shirt. “If you wanted it,” he said, forcing himself to meet Derek’s eyes. “And I wanted it, then why should we forget?”

“Don’t,” Derek said, twisting easily out of Stiles’s grip. He stepped back, putting a few feet of space between them. “It’s not going to happen. Don’t even think that it might.”

“But it did happen!” Stiles pointed out. "It happened twice!"

Derek's eyes narrowed. "What's that you always say? Once is an incident. Twice is a coincidence."

“What happens when there's a third time?" Stiles asked, looking Derek squarely in the eye.

"There won't be."

"Bullshit!” Stiles yelled. “You were all over me last night. I've never seen you lose control like that."

"It was a mistake," Derek said. "It won't happen again."

"But --"

"I can't do this, Stiles!" Derek interrupted him. "Not with you. It's not going to happen. Get it out of your head."

Stiles shook his head. To his embarrassment, tears were welling up in his eyes. He wiped them angrily on the back of his hand. “But we . . .” he started, unsure what to even say. “What happened . . . it meant something.”

“We had sex,” Derek said. “That’s all. I’ve fucked strangers in clubs, Stiles. I’ve fucked people I can’t stand.”

“But I’m not a stranger!” Stiles protested. “We’ve saved each other’s lives. We’re pack!”

“That’s why it was a mistake,” Derek said. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “You should leave," he said, more gently. "Don't come back unless it’s pack business."

"You said we could still be friends!" Stiles protested. Tears were openly running down his face now. Derek's jaw tightened. Stiles could see his hands clench into fists at his side.

"Yeah, well, I was wrong," Derek said. He turned, walking up the stairs without a second glance.

* * *

“Did you have a good time at Scott’s?” his dad asked, when Stiles showed up at home later that afternoon. His dad wasn’t looking at him, just fiddling with his camera on the couch.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, hands clenching around his coat as he hung it up. “It was fucking peachy.”

“Language!” his dad admonished.

Stiles turned, shrugging. “Sorry,” he said, then flinched as a bright light went off. Bringing his arm up to shield his eyes, he snapped, “What the hell?”

“The flash was broken,” his dad said, glancing from the camera to Stiles, an odd expression on his face. “Looks like I got it fixed.”

“You think?”

“Son,” his dad asked, setting the camera down. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Stiles shrugged, heart racing in his chest. “I can’t think of anything.”

“You seem awfully distracted,” his dad said, looking at Stiles carefully. His eyes lingered on the scarf Stiles had borrowed from Isaac before he left Scott’s house.

Stiles swallowed. “I got in a fight with Derek,” he admitted.

Genuine surprise touched his dad’s face, but he seemed to lose interest in the scarf. “With Derek? Why?”

“It was stupid,” Stiles said. “It was the full moon. I . . . pushed him a little harder than I should have. He didn’t respond well.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” his dad asked, voice suddenly hard.

“Dad, no, it’s Derek!” Stiles said. “You know he wouldn’t hurt me!” He sighed. “He just . . . doesn’t want to see me again. I brought him coffee this morning, you know, to apologize, and he sent me away.”

His dad sighed, ruffling his hair. “You don’t always know when to stop, Stiles,” he said, sounding oddly sad.

Stiles wilted. “I know.”

Clapping him on the shoulder, his dad said, “But the people who care about you understand that. Derek will come around.”

* * *

That Friday, Stiles caught up with Scott at his locker before English. “I need you to do me a favor,” he said.

Scott eyed him warily – fairly enough, Stiles supposed, considering the last favor he’d asked for. “What?” Scott asked.

“Don’t pair me with Derek at training today.”

Scott shouldered his backpack, frowning. “Stiles,” he said, “you need to deal with this. I can’t have the two of you avoiding each other.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “And I will! Just . . . not yet.”

Scott didn’t say anything, but his lips drew into a stubborn line.

“Please!” Stiles grabbed his arm. “Scott, I’m depending on you!”

Scott shrugged him off, and avoided all of Stiles’s efforts to talk to him during class. But when the pack met that afternoon, he said, “Isaac, I want you with Stiles today.”

Isaac stared up at Scott, betrayed. The twins gave each other a troubled look. Lydia leaned close to Allison, whispering something Stiles didn’t even try to overhear. Only Derek showed no sign that he had heard. He was standing on the edge of the tree line, glaring out at the rest of them

Scott patted him Isaac on the shoulder, giving him a little push towards Stiles. Isaac’s eyes were already glowing by the time he stomped up to Stiles, his nails lengthening into claws at his side.

Stiles sighed, dropping down into a fighting stance. He could already tell that it was going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

Things continued that way for the rest of the month. Through a series of threats, bribes, and outright begging, Stiles managed to avoid working with Derek at practice. He didn’t drop by the loft when he got bored. Derek managed to get himself torn up pretty good when a siren came to town, but he made a point of going to Scott’s house to get patched up. Stiles tried no to let his hurt show on his face.

On the day before Stiles’s second full moon as a werewolf, Scott caught up with him at his locker after school to ask what his plans were. Stiles blinked at him, surprised. During the last pack meeting, Scott had declared they’d all be on their own during the full moon since it was on a weekday and since half of the pack had a history paper due the next day. Dropping his calculus textbook into his backpack, Stiles shrugged.

“I’m studying with Lydia.”

“Does Lydia even need to study?” Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged. The last time he’d “studied” with Lydia, they’d put their books away after half an hour and driven to the hospital instead. There, they’d gone up and down the corridors, Lydia trying to predict whether or not each patient would survive, until Melissa caught them and made them leave. But Lydia was still self-conscious about the whole banshee thing, so Stiles wasn’t going to bring it up.

Frowning, Scott said, “I’m studying at a coffee shop tomorrow with Allison and Isaac. You should come, too.”

“With you, Allison, and Isaac?” Stiles snorted, settling his backpack on his shoulders. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be awkward at all.” He turned, starting down the hallway towards the parking lot. Scott hurried after him.

“You can bring Lydia,” he persisted.

“And then we can invite Ethan and Aiden, too,” Stiles said. “And why don’t we call up Derek, while we’re at it, make it a real pack meeting? I’m sure he’d love to hang out and watch all of us do our homework.”

Scott stared at him. “Dude, why are you being such a dick?”

“I’m not!” Stiles protested. “But I have plans for tomorrow. Why is that such a big deal?”

“Stiles,” Scott hissed, catching him by the elbow. “It’s the full moon!”

“Thanks for the memo, Scott,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I haven’t been tracking full moons since you turned.” Helpfully, he reached into his pocket for his phone, showing Scott the full moon alert he’d programmed into his calendar. Scott didn’t even glance at it.

“But now you turn, too!”

“Again,” Stiles said, putting his phone away, “thanks for the info. I must have missed that what with the fangs and the claws last month.”

“For God’s sake,” Scott said. “I just don’t think you should be alone with Lydia!”

Stiles came to a dead stop just outside the door to the school, letting the crowd of exiting students part around them. “Why not?”

“You saw what I was like around Allison!” Scott said.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles said, starting towards the Jeep. “But what does that have to do with me and Lydia?”

Scott looked at Stiles as though he’d lost his mind. “You’ve been in love with Lydia since third grade!”

“Who’s in love with Lydia?” Ethan asked, coming up behind them with a smile on his face. Aiden was beside him, looking considerably less amused.

“Stiles is!” Scott said, ignoring the sharp elbow Stiles gave him. “Tell him it’s not a good idea to be around her tomorrow!”

The twins glanced at each other, then at Stiles. To Stiles’s relief, Aiden’s murderous expression had faded. Instead, the corner of his lip was twitching, like he was trying hard not to smile. Beside him, Ethan wasn’t even bothering to hide his grin.

Stiles buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God,” he said. “One, I am not in love with Lydia. Maybe I used to be, but I’m not anymore. Two, I am not going to try to kill her tomorrow night because we’re hanging out after school. I’ll probably be home before the moon even rises. And three, even if I’m not, I feel fine, Scott. I’m not going to lose control tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that!” Scott said. “You remember what happened during the last full moon, with Derek! What will it be like with someone you actually like.”

Blood rushed to Stiles’s face, and he stared at Scott, betrayed. “We are not talking about that,” he said. “Don’t you dare bring that up!”

“Fine,” Scott said, “but you’re still not going to hang out with Lydia tomorrow.”

“You’re not my dad!” Stiles snapped at him.

“No!” Scott yelled. “I’m your alpha!”

“That doesn’t give you the right to —“

“Stiles!” Scott roared. “Drop it!”

Before Stiles even realized what was happening, he was on his knees beside the Jeep, cowering behind its metal frame. Scott’s voice had reached down to the newly-born wolf inside of Stiles and grabbed it by the jugular. The wolf was cringing away from him, taking Stiles’s body with it. Every instinct in Stiles cried out that he had disappointed his alpha, failed his pack, that he was out of line. The crushing shame and self loathing he felt was even worse than when he’d gotten his dad fired. A tiny whimper escaped Stiles and he lifted his chin, instinctively baring his throat to Scott, who looked horrified. Beside him, the twins were gaping. All around the parking lot, other students were turning to stare at them.

“Stiles,” Scott said, sounding shaken now. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean . . .” Biting his lip, he offered a hand to Stiles.

“Don’t touch me!” Stiles snapped, finally grabbing enough control to shove down the cringing, ashamed part of him that only wanted to lean into Scott’s touch, to beg him not to be angry anymore. Scuttling backwards, he regained his feet, keeping a wary distance from Scott. He remembered, suddenly, the time Derek had used the alpha voice on Isaac to keep him from killing Stiles. At the time, Stiles had been overwhelmed, his body shaking with fear, adrenaline, and (if he was honest with himself) the horribly confusing boner that had sprung in response to Derek’s easy command of the situation. He hadn’t spared a thought for what Isaac must have felt.

“Stiles!” Scott tried again.

Stiles shook his head. He wanted to throw up. “Just don’t,” he said. “I can’t deal with this right now.” Ignoring the stares around him, he climbed into the Jeep and drove away.

He wanted to go home, but the wolf inside him was shaken, needing reassurance, so Stiles turned the Jeep towards the woods instead. Running would help, as would breathing in the scents of the forest. About a mile away from the nature preserve, he caught sight of a figure jogging towards him in the rearview mirror, easily gaining distance on the Jeep. Claws suddenly pricked his leather steering wheel cover, and Stiles muttered a curse around the fangs that had grown, unbidden. Scott was the last person he wanted to see right now. But then a second figure joined the first, and Stiles released a shaky breath, willing himself to shift back to human. The twins weren’t much better, but at least he could deal with them.

Slamming the Jeep into first gear, Stiles pulled over. He might as well get this over with. “What do you want?” he asked, climbing out of the driver’s seat and facing the twins as they drew nearer.

Ethan lifted his hands placatingly. “Relax,” he said. “We just want to talk.”

“Believe me, we know how much it sucks to get shut down like that,” Aiden said.

They probably did, at that, Stiles thought. Deucalion seemed like the kind of guy who would use any method at his disposal to keep control of his pack. He let out a shuddery breath, leaning back against the Jeep.

“Does it always feel so crappy afterwards?” he asked.

They nodded in sync. “It’s probably worse for you than it is for most betas,” Aiden said. “When you were human, you kind of led things with him. It’s got to be weird, now, having him in charge.”

“You have no idea,” Stiles said fervently.

“At pack meetings, you act like a co-alpha, still, even though you only have one full moon under you,” Ethan said thoughtfully. “It’s kind of creepy, actually.”

“And your magic!” Aiden broke in.

“Deaton says I’m going to be a theurge,” Stiles said with a shrug.

The twins glanced at each other. “Huh,” Ethan said after a second. “I guess that it explains it.”

“What?” Stiles asked.

Aiden shrugged. “We’ve never been in a pack with a real theurge, before,” he said. “That’s probably why you seem weird to us.”

Ethan nodded earnestly. “It’s supposed to be, well, kind of a triangle of power. Like the government.” He frowned, obviously dissatisfied with his explanation. “Checks and balances, you know? There’s the alpha who gives out the orders, and the alpha’s second, who makes sure they get carried out. The second is usually strong enough to take down the alpha, too, if the alpha gets out of control.”

“That’s Derek,” Stiles said, and the twins nodded.

“Only the strongest packs have a theurge,” Ethan continued. “It’s rare for wolves to do magic. But the theurge is like . . . I dunno, a bridge I guess. Between the pack and the spirit world. Between the pack and the human community. Sometimes between the pack and other packs.”

“Why didn’t you guys have one?” Stiles asked. “I thought the alpha pack was supposed to be all strong and powerful.”

Aiden stared at him like he was an idiot. “Because Deucalion was theurge and alpha, both,” he said. “That’s not supposed to happen! It’s too much power for any wolf to have without going insane.”

“And it’s why he was so unstoppable,” Ethan said. “Kali was his second, but even she couldn’t have taken him. Not on her own.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “So what the hell is a theurge supposed to do when the alpha pulls the kind of crap Scott just pulled?”

“No idea,” Aiden said with a shrug. “You’re on your own, there, dude.”

Stiles glanced at him sideways. Aiden seemed okay with him, but Stiles thought he should probably make things absolutely clear. “Just so you know,” he said, “I’m really not interested in Lydia.”

Aiden snorted and Ethan rolled his eyes.

“Well, obviously,” Ethan said.

Stiles wondered if he should be offended. “What do you mean, obviously?”

Ethan reached for the collar of his shirt, tugging it down far enough to expose the scar Derek’s bite had left. “You’re mated to Derek,” he said. “You couldn’t be interested in someone else even if you wanted to be.”

Stiles stumbled back against the Jeep, feeling like the ground had just shifted beneath his feet. “What?” he croaked.

Aiden waved his hand dismissively. “Relax,” he said. “We get you guys are trying to keep a secret.”

“You’re doing a really crappy job of it, though,” Ethan said, smirking. “The only reason Scott hasn’t figured it out is because he doesn’t know what the bite marks mean. But sooner or later, he’s going to notice you and Derek both have them.”

Aiden nodded. “You should just tell him,” he said. “It’s not like he’s a homophobe or anything. I mean, he knows you guys fucked on the full moon.”

Stiles shook his head frantically. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. “Mated,” he said, hearing the word as though it came from far away. “I’m mated to Derek?”

The twins looked at each other.

“Did you not know?” Aiden sounded incredulous.

At the same time, Ethan asked, “Are you okay?”

Stiles wasn’t okay. His grip on the Jeep’s hood was the only thing keeping him on his feet. The world was collapsing around him, trees telescoping in, and he was gasping for breath, but he couldn’t get any air, the muscles of his throat were closing up, and holy shit.

“Fuck!” he heard Aiden say. His voice sounded tinny and far away, although he was standing right in front of him. “Bro, I don’t think he’s okay.”

Hands closed over his shoulders, shaking him. “Stiles!” Ethan said, his voice sounded just as distant as his brother’s. “Snap out of it!”

“Is this a panic attack?” Aiden was saying. “Lydia said he gets panic attacks.”

Stiles was sinking to his knees, gasping. Tears were streaming down his face. He tried to reach for the wolf inside him, tried to draw on its strength, get his body breathing again. But the wolf was still curled up inside of him, shaken from Scott’s voice, and it cringed away as Stiles tried to reach for it.

Dimly, he heard Ethan saying something to his brother, but Stiles couldn’t even make out the words anymore, just the sound of his voice, rising around him in a steady wave, like the sea. Black spots were appearing in his vision. He stared down at the mud and moss beneath his hands, suddenly dizzy.

Then strong arms were wrapping around him, pulling him against a solid, familiar chest, and Derek’s voice was in his ear. “Stiles! Stiles, come on. You’re okay.”

The next breath he dragged in smelled like Derek, and it loosened the tightness in Stiles’s chest. He almost thought he could taste the oxygen beneath Derek’s smokier scent, and Stiles drank it in greedily, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Derek’s large hands were running up and down his back, soothing him. Stiles pressed his face against Derek’s throat, breathing him in. He could feel Derek’s strength flowing between them, just like the night he’d been bitten, a cool, steady current, gently washing the panic away. Derek was rocking him back and forth, like a child. His voice was a steady rumble in Stiles’s ear. After a few minutes, Stiles came back to himself enough to make out the words.

“That’s right,” Derek was murmuring. “Breathe, Stiles. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

>
Instinctively, Stiles’s arms wrapped around Derek’s neck, clinging. The strangest sensation rose up from inside him, like his wolf was nuzzling with Derek’s, all relieved contentment and soft fur. Now that the panic was receding, he could make out a new emotion, just brushing the edges of his consciousness, silky and fragile, like a familiar scent that you couldn’t quite place, a thread of music so quiet you barely even realized you heard it. Stiles could almost pick out notes — fond worry tinged with resignation, beneath it, something thick and dark and bittersweet that he couldn’t name, but that made his chest ache if he focused on it too much.

“You’re okay,” Derek whispered again.

Stiles lifted a hand to his face, wiping his eyes. His tears had dampened Derek’s skin, so Stiles wiped at that, too, smooth and unblemished beneath his fingers, until his thumb brushed against the raised scar tissue Stiles’s human teeth had left at the junction of Derek’s neck and shoulder, shallower than the fang marks on his own skin, but no less permanent.

A shudder ran through them both. Stiles jerked his hand away. In his mind, he heard Ethan’s words again. You’re mated to Derek.

Ignoring the protests of the wolf inside him, Stiles pulled back, holding Derek at arm’s length. “You found me.”

Embarrassment darkened the tangle of distant emotion that Stiles was just learning how to read. “I was in the woods,” Derek said. “I heard you.” Even without the skip in his heartbeat, Stiles would have known he was lying.

Stiles shook his head. “You knew something was wrong,” he said. “Probably from the second Scott used the alpha voice on me. Like I knew something was wrong with you when the Red Cap attacked.”

An oh shit feeling rang through the distant emotions. Derek pulled backwards, out of Stiles’s grip, and the discordant shimmer of second-hand feelings popped like a bubble, as much as confirming Stiles’s suspicions.

“We’re mated,” Stiles said, feeling his voice break on the word. “We can feel each other’s emotions.”

Dimly, he heard Aiden muttering, “Um, we’re just going to . . .” The leaves rustled as he backed deeper into the forest.

“Yeah,” Ethan said, hot on his heels. “See you later, guys.”

They fled, their scents fading rapidly, but Stiles ignored them. All of his attention was fixated on Derek.

Derek, who was staring at him with wide, fearful eyes, looking as stunned and silent as he had when Jennifer showed her hand by kidnapping Stiles’s dad. “Only strong emotions,” he said finally. “Unless we’re touching.”

Stiles stared at him, incredulous. Keeping his gaze locked with Derek’s, he reached out, curling his hand against Derek’s upper arm. Derek flinched, but made no move to stop him.

When the skin of his palm touched the skin of Derek's bicep, it felt like a flare went off low in his belly. Derek's emotions spread through him like a firestorm. Longing. Regret. Guilt.

From the wide eyes Derek was giving him, Stiles knew he had to be feeling Stiles's own emotions. He made a low sound in his throat, needy and pained. Then, all at once, they were kissing, Derek rolling him onto the ground, shoving greedy hands beneath Stiles’s shirts.

For all that he’d fucked and been fucked by Derek, they’d never kissed before. Stiles groaned into his mouth, lost in the sensation of his lips, his tongue, the occasional nips of his teeth. Stiles’s erection was straining in his pants, and he could feel Derek's, bumping against him. He wanted to pull away, wanted to mouth at Derek through his jeans and suck down the hard length of him, but he couldn't stop kissing long enough to do anything more than grip Derek's hips. Derek gave as good as he got though, thrusting up against Stiles erratically.

The bleachy smell of his come in the afternoon air hit him like a punch to the gut. Cheeks flaming, Stiles buried his face in Derek’s shoulder. Derek made a low, strangled sound against Stiles's lips, and then he too was tensing in Stiles's arms, shuddering as the crotch of his jeans grew damp between them. Stiles sighed into Derek’s mouth, wondering what it meant that just kissing Derek could make them both come in their pants like virgins.

They lingered in the embrace for a long time afterwards, Stiles running his hands up and down Derek's arm, his chest, the line of his throat. He didn't want to pull away. He had a sneaking suspicion that this Derek, the one who lay pliant in his arms, trailing his fingers up and down Stiles’s spine, might disappear if Stiles let him go, leaving instead the Derek who had avoided him all month. Beneath the calm, sated languor of Derek’s emotions, Stiles sensed dark fathoms of guilt, anger, and regret.

"Do you know what the worst thing about this whole situation is?" Stiles asked, lifting his head from Derek’s shoulder. Dark hair tickled his cheek as Derek shook his head. "If either of us had a choice in this, I think we could have been really good together,” Stiles said.

A sigh gusted across Stiles’s ear. Derek was staring up at the sky, looking impossibly sad.

Stiles shook his head. "But we didn't. And now I’m just another chapter in the horror story of your love life.”

Anger rippled across the calm surface of Derek’s mind, and he shoved Stiles of him. The connection between them broke as their skin lost contact.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” Derek said, eyes fierce as he rolled up to sitting. “I bonded us, Stiles. I did what I had to do to save your life. So don’t you dare act like I’m the victim here. I chose this!” The anger faltered, and he glanced away, pushing himself up to his feet. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the same choice.”

Turning, he stormed off, disappearing into the trees. Stiles watched him go, hugging his knees to his chest.

* * *

"Rough day?" his dad asked, looking at Stiles's torn shirt, at the scuffed and muddy jeans. Stiles swallowed, glad his untucked shirts were long enough to hide the come-stained denim around his crotch. He didn’t like his dad’s expression. It was closed off, almost suspicious.

"You have no idea," Stiles said darkly, crossing immediately to the fridge and taking out the milk. He poured himself a glass, taking a long swig of it. Behind him, he heard the rustling of his dad moving, crossing from one side of the kitchen to the other, and a soft powdery sound Stiles couldn't quite make out. He ignored it, too focused on rooting through the fridge for something to eat. He was starving.

Stiles stood, turning to leave -- and froze, his body pressing into air that had suddenly gone solid. Glancing down, he saw a line of gray powder on the floor. His dad was staring at him, stricken, his hand still hovering over the nearly empty bag of mountain ash.

The glass slipped from Stiles’s fingers, shattering on the linoleum and splattering milk over his already-filthy jeans. "What?" he asked, panic rising in his voice. "Dad, what are you--?"

His dad staggered backwards. His face had gone nearly as gray as the mountain ash. “I didn’t want to believe it,” he choked.

Desperately, Stiles said, “Believe what? Dad, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

"Stop lying to me!" his dad shouted. "Damnit, Stiles, we both know you’re a werewolf!”

Stiles’s knees gave out under him, and he sank to the milk-soaked floor. He accidentally put his hand down on a shard of glass and winced, yanking it out of his palm. He and his dad both watched the cut heal. “How did you know?” Stiles asked, dropping the blood-stained shard into the garbage. He set to work gathering up the rest of the broken glass, so he wouldn’t have to look at his dad’s expression.

“Gee, I don’t know,” his dad said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Maybe when you managed to outrun my car? Or how about how you found Derek right away? Or maybe it was when your eyes flashed when I tried to take a your goddamn picture!”

“I can explain,” Stiles said weakly, depositing another handful of glass shards into the trash.

“Can you?” his dad asked, sounding sick to his stomach. “Can you really?” He shook his head, voice growing angrier as he said, "I knew, as soon as you told me about werewolves, that you were going to try to turn into one. Goddamnit, Stiles, how could you have been so stupid!"

"I wasn't!" Stiles protested. "Dad, you don't understand! I didn’t want to!"

His dad's eyes hardened. "You didn't want to," he repeated, the anger in his voice deepening, not aimed at Stiles now. "Stiles, did somebody force you?"

"No! That’s not –”

His dad cut him off. "Who bit you? Was it Ethan? Aiden? I knew those punks were no good the second I saw them!"

"No!”

“Then who?” his dad roared.

“It was Scott!” Stiles answered, too shaken to even lie.

His dad blinked in surprise. Betrayal flashed across his face, followed quickly by anger. "Tell me,” he said, in a low and dangerous voice, “why I shouldn’t go to Scott’s house right now and take a wolfsbane bullet to his ass? I thought he, at least, had some common sense!”

"Because it’s not his fault!” Stiles cried. “I asked him to!”

There was a dangerous pause. "You asked him to?" his dad said slowly.

Stiles bit his lip, nodding. Tears were prickling his eyes for the second time today.

"You asked him to turn you into a goddamn werewolf!?” his dad yelled. “Jesus Christ, Stiles! How could you have been so stupid?"

Stiles shook his head. Tears were burning down his cheeks. He climbed shakily to his feet, brushing the glass shards from his hands. The kitchen felt like it was closing in around him. He staggered dizzily, hitting the barrier of mountain ash. The air shimmered around him.

"Let me go," he begged. "Please."

The air thinned as his dad drew a shoe through the line of mountain ash, breaking the seal holding Stiles in check. His dad took a step back, warily, as if half afraid that Stiles would attack him.

His dad was afraid of him.

Stiles had never hated himself more than in that moment.

When he burst out onto the back lawn, Mrs. Jenkins, next door, glanced up from where she was taking out the trash, mouth drawing into a little circle of surprise. For a second, Stiles was afraid he'd wolfed out without knowing it. But, no, his nails were still human. When he ran a tongue over his teeth, they were flat. The violence of the door slamming open had startled her. That was all. Stiles forced himself to close it more gently behind him. Then, vaulting the low fence, he tore off into the woods.

At first, he didn't have a destination. His only thought was escape. Tears streamed down his face and branches hit his body, but he didn't care. He just ran, as fast as he could manage on two legs, not wanting to drop to all fours and lose one more connection to his humanity. His breath was coming in harsh, ragged pants, but not from the stress of exertion. He didn't know where he was going, but gradually, the running grew more purposeful, instinct driving him deeper and deeper into the woods. When he finally slowed to a stop, the Nemeton's vast trunk spread out before him. Stiles kicked it, hard, then collapsed against it, sobbing. The rough bark was cold beneath his cheek. The tears were coming harder now, and he gave into the urge to climb up onto it, curling into a fetal position. Gradually, a snatch of music drifted through the air. He closed his eyes, breathing hard as a woman’s voice sang.

May the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by

A gentle breeze carded through his hair like soft fingers. Stiles traced the Nemeton's rings, humming along. His tears had stopped. He felt empty. When a branch cracked deep in the forest, he stilled.

For a second, he hoped beyond hope that it was his mother, that the Nemeton could give him the sight of her, not just the hallucination of her voice. But the wind picked up as the last notes of the song drifted away, and the familiar scent it carried smelled nothing like her.

Derek stepped through the trees, dressed only in jeans, his chest and arms gleaming with sweat. He didn't bother to ask if Stiles was okay, just eyed him for a long moment, as if taking stock of the lack of physical injuries. Cautiously, he sat on the Nemeton, keeping space between their bodies.

"Did you hear that?" Stiles asked, hugging his knees to his chest.

"The humming?"

Stiles shrugged, deflating. He'd known, the second he heard her voice, that it had to be a hallucination, called up by the Nemeton. He hadn't really wanted the confirmation, though.

"My dad used to like that song," Derek said, his voice quiet. Stiles risked a glance over, relieved to find Derek wasn't looking at him at all, was staring pensively into the trees, hands curled around the edge of the stump like he might push himself up at any second.

"My mom used to sing it," Stiles offered, inching closer. Bracing himself for rejection, he lay down again, resting his head in Derek's lap. But Derek didn't push him away. One of his hands lifted, settled on Stiles's head, fingers idly combed through his hair. Stiles closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of denim and fabric softener and Derek, comforting after the scents of ozone and dark earth that surrounded the Nemeton.

"My dad knows," he said, his voice muffled by Derek's jeans. Derek’s muscles stiffened beneath him, and the fingers carding through his hair froze. "About the wolf thing!" Stiles clarified. "Not about . . ." he waved a hand, trying to sum up everything that was twisted and wrong between them.

Derek's breath shuddered out of him. His hand slid from Stiles's hair to the back of his neck, curled around it, strong and comforting. "Do you need me to talk to him?" he asked.

Stiles imagined returning home with Derek like a living shield, the three of them sitting at the kitchen table, Derek speaking quietly, awkwardly, while Stiles shrank into his chair and his dad watched him with barely-concealed disappointment. A sigh shuddered out of him, and he shook his head, hair catching on Derek’s fingers.

“This is something I need to do myself,” he said. Reluctantly, he sat up, and Derek’s hand fell. Dropping off the edge of the trunk, Stiles stood, stretching his arms above his head. Derek dropped easily to the ground beside him.

“Your dad loves you,” he said, staring off into the trees with a wistful expression. “It will be okay.”

Stiles reached, caught Derek’s hand. Derek turned to look at him as Stiles threaded their fingers together.

“Thank you,” Stiles said. Despite everything, Derek had known when something was wrong, had found him, sat quietly beside him, offered him comfort. “You’re always there,” he said quietly. “For me. For Scott. For the pack. Even when you have every good reason not to be. And I don’t think anyone ever thanks you for it. So, just . . .” Derek was staring at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. Stiles wanted, fiercely, to wrap his arms around him. Instead, he squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” he finished, pulling away and managing a step back towards his house before Derek caught him by the elbow, reeling him back in.

“Stiles,” he said, shaking his head. He was looking at Stiles the way Stiles sometimes looked at Scott, fond, and rueful, and exasperated. “That’s you.”

Confused, Stiles could only frown at him.

Derek’s brows drew down, and he shook his head, obviously searching for words. “You do those things,” he said. “Not me. You’ve always been so damn loyal, even as a human. The rest of us . . . we don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” Stiles insisted, stepping closer.

His hand settled awkwardly on Derek’s shoulder. Derek’s brushed his hip. Then, all at once, they were clinging to each other. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, pressed his face into the open skin above the collar of his shirt. The white scar from their mating was smooth beneath his lips. Derek’s hands slid up under the hem of Stiles’s flannel shirt, caught hold of his t-shirt, which he’d stupidly tucked in, and worked the bottom free from Stiles’s jeans so he could press his large, warm palms against the bare skin of his back.

“We really need to talk,” Stiles said into Derek’s hair. He dragged his nose behind Derek’s ear, breathing in the intoxicating scent of him.

“Yeah,” Derek murmured against Stiles’s throat. His lips brushed over the pulse point, and Stiles shivered. Derek’s arms tightened around him for a second, lifting Stiles a few inches off his feet. Then, regretfully, he lowered him back down, easing his hands out of Stiles’s shirt. He cupped Stiles’s face and chastely pressed their lips together before stepping backwards, out of Stiles’s grip. “Later,” he promised. “After you smooth things over with your dad.”

Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out again. “Guess I should face the music, huh?”

Derek nodded, giving him a smile he probably meant to be encouraging. “Be honest with him,” he said. “He’ll understand.”

“Can I see you?” Stiles asked, scuffing a toe into the moss at the neediness that had crept into his voice. “After?”

“I’ll come over,” Derek promised. Putting a hand to Stiles’s shoulder, he gave him a little push towards home.

* * *

His dad's car was parked in the driveway when Stiles got home, but the house was dark. Stiles tried the door, and found it unlocked. The silence in the house disturbed him. Usually, his dad had the TV on when he was home alone.

He followed the smell of aftershave and gun oil to the dining room, where his dad sat staring out at the darkened yard, a glass of whisky in front of him. Stiles eyed it suspiciously, but the glass was still mostly full. His dad didn't smell drunk.

"Dad?" he asked, inching into the room.

His dad sighed, lifted his face from his hands. "Where did I go wrong?"

“You didn't do anything wrong!" Stiles protested, dropping into the seat across from his dad. As subtly as possible, he scooted the glass out of his dad’s reach.

"You lied to me!" his dad said. "Twice now!”

“I know,” Stiles said, feeling miserable.

His dad pinned Stiles with a hard gaze. "Will you at least tell me why? Don’t I deserve that much?"

"You don't want to know."

The crash of his dad’s fist on the table jostled the glass of whisky, splashing amber liquid out on the table. "Damnit, Stiles!" his dad shouted. "I always want to know! Haven’t you realized that by now?"

Stiles didn't answer, staring down with horror at the claws that had sprung, unbidden, at the loud noise. He felt like he was going to throw up. Standing, he stumbled backwards, away from his dad. When his dad moved to follow him, he held out a hand in warning, realized it was still clawed, and clutched it to his chest instead.

"Get back!" Stiles warned, voice tight and frantic. "I don't want to hurt you."

His dad shook his head and stepped, heedless of the fangs and claws, of the glowing eyes Stiles could see reflected in the dining room window. "Stiles," his dad said, gripping his shoulder. "I know for a fact that you wouldn't hurt me.” A wry smile quirked his lips and he added, “You'll infuriate me and drive me insane, maybe, but you won't hurt me. At least not physically." He looked old, suddenly, fragile and weary. Stiles ached for him.

"I'm so sorry," he said, looking down at his sneakers, his dad’s sturdy work boots.

His dad's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Talk to me, Stiles!"

Stiles took a deep breath, and he did. He told his dad about the the coffee. About the stomach aches and the loss of appetite. About Lydia sensing the cancer in him. About forcing Deaton to run the tests at the animal clinic. His dad listened to it all with wet eyes. When Stiles got to Derek saving him from the bite, his dad reached for the whiskey, downed half of it in a single swallow, even though Stiles had glossed over the sex as much as possible. Stiles bit his lip, but didn’t protest. He ended with waking up in Derek’s loft as a werewolf.

Silence stretched between them for a long time. At last, his dad said, 'When are you going to learn that it's not your job to protect me?”

Stiles shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you!” he protested. “Not after Mom.”

His dad took him by the arms. “I was a mess after your mom died,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have been there for you! I didn’t want you to turn yourself into a werewolf to protect me from that, any more than I wanted you to sacrifice yourself to the goddamn Nemeton!”

“But I didn’t do it for you!” The sound of ripping fabric distracted him, and Stiles realized he’d been worrying the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He let it go, the torn cuffs trailing over his hand. “I did it for me,” he confessed, unable to meet his dad’s gaze.

His dad sighed, but his hand landed strong and solid on Stiles's shoulder. His voice was gentler when he said, “I still wish you’d told me. You shouldn’t have had to make a decision like that alone.”

“But I wasn’t alone!” Stiles said. “I had my pack.” He ducked his head, blushing. He’d meant to say, “friends.”

His dad’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “And am I a part of your pack?” he asked. The note of uncertainty beneath in his voice made Stiles’s stomach ache.

“Of course you are!” he said, finally meeting his dad’s eyes.

Pulling him in for a rough hug, his dad said, “Then you tell me about these things, got it? I shouldn’t have to do detective work to figure out what’s going on with my own son.”

Stiles nodded, subdued.

His dad leaned back, pouring another shot of whisky. When Stiles opened his mouth to protest, he lifted a hand warningly. “Save it,” he said. “I have a feeling I’m going to need this.” Knocking the whiskey back, he set the empty cup on the table and asked, “So what, exactly, does it mean to have a mating bond?”

Briefly, Stiles thought about pouring a shot for himself, despite his dad’s inevitable wrath, before he remembered it wouldn’t do anything for him. Twisting his torn cuff between his fingers, he shrugged. “Honestly, I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “So far, I know that we can draw on each other’s strength. If one of us is hurt or really upset, the other one feels it. We can sense each other’s emotions, if we’re touching.”

“And sex?” his dad asked, in an even voice.

Stiles hesitated. “Sex . . . might be part of it,” he hedged, not wanting to rat Derek out, but not wanting to lie, either.

His dad gave him a hard look. “Derek Hale is twenty-four,” he said. “That’s statutory rape.”

“Come on!” Stiles protested. “We both know California is one of the only states that sets the age of consent at eighteen! If we lived almost anywhere else, I’d be legal!”

“The law –” his dad started, but Stiles cut him off.

“If we hadn’t slept together, I’d be dead now!” he said. “Look, I get that you’re upset, but Derek didn’t take advantage of me! So I don’t want you accusing him, or arresting him, or whatever else you’re thinking of doing! Okay? I can guarantee you that he feels guilty enough without you trying to make him feel even worse!” Stiles was practically yelling by the time he finished his outburst, hands clenched into fists at his side.

To his surprise, his dad didn’t look mad. In fact, his expression might almost have been approving. “You really care about him, don’t you?” his dad said thoughtfully.

“Yes!” Stiles snapped, surprising himself with the vehemence of his answer.

“Look,” his said, sounding resigned. “I’m not going to pretend to be happy about you dating someone that much older. But if it comes down to you being dead or Derek Hale being my son-in-law, I guess there’s not much of a choice.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I just wish you weren’t so young!”

“I know,” Stiles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m supposed to be worrying about . . . I don’t know, prom this spring. Instead I’m wolf married to a guy who can’t stand me half the time.”

“Now you know that’s not true,” his dad said.

Stiles looked down at his hands. “I don’t know, Dad,” he said. “He’s been through so much crap in his life. I know that we were friends before, but now . . . I’m just one of the shitty things that happened to him. This isn’t what he signed up for.”

“Except that he did sign up for it,” his dad pointed out, “to save you.”

“I didn’t ask him to!” Stiles protested.

His dad snorted, ruffling Stiles’s hair. “Kid, you and Derek Hale might just be perfect for each other after all. You’re both fanatical about protecting the people you care about, and you both go about it in the most idiotic way possible.” He shook his head, managing a smile. “Now if we’ve had enough of this emotionally-scarring conversation, I think you need a shower. You reek, kid.”

“You’re telling me,” Stiles said fervently, making a face at the mingled odors of come, dirt, and sour milk wafting off his filthy jeans. He started up the stairs, then turned, halfway up. “Dad?”

His dad had been staring pensively out the window, running his finger around the rim of his empty glass. But at Stiles’s voice, he glanced up. “Hmm?”

“I love you,” Stiles said, feeling suddenly about five-years-old again.

His dad’s face softened. “I love you, too, son.”

* * *

As Stiles was toweling off after the shower, he heard the scrape of a window opening in his room. His heart surged, and he hurried down the hall without bothering to dress, expecting to see Derek climbing over the windowsill. But it was Scott who stepped onto his bed, a cup of coffee held in his hand. He held it out as the door to Stiles’s room opened, a hesitant smile spreading across his face. But at the sight of Stiles in a towel, he froze, glancing behind him as if contemplating jumping back down again

Stiles hurried across the room to rescue the coffee cup before Scott could escape, or worse, spill it. “Sorry,” he said, setting the cup on his desk and snatching up the first pair of boxers he found in his underwear drawer. He tried to shimmy into them without moving the towel. “I heard you come in, but I thought you were someone else.”

“Who?” Scott demanded.

“Derek,” Stiles admitted, pulling on his track pants. Letting the towel fall to the floor, he turned, giving Scott a challenging look.

Scott sighed, dropping down onto the bed. “I take it what happened last month wasn’t a one-time thing?”

“No,” Stiles said, pressing a self-conscious hand to the scar on his neck. “It really, really wasn’t.”

Scott nodded, but he didn’t look upset, just thoughtful. “And Lydia?”

“We’re friends,” Stiles said. “That’s all. She’s not my anchor, Scott. It’s been Derek all along.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Scott asked, looking at Stiles with a wounded expression.

Stiles pulled a t-shirt from the dresser. “Because saying something would have made it real,” he admitted. “And I wasn’t sure then that it was.”

“And now?”

“He’s my mate,” Stiles said quietly. He lifted up a hand at the confused look on Scott’s face. “Ask Deaton,” he said. “Or the twins. Believe me, I’ve talked about it enough today.” Barefoot, but fully dressed, he dropped onto the desk chair, lifting the still-warm cup. The wonderful, comforting aroma of espresso and drip coffee drifted up to his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, feeling some of the tension drain from his spine. “This is good,” he said, taking a long sip of it.

Scott shrugged. “I was going to get you a card,” he said. “But Hallmark didn’t have anything that said, ‘sorry I went all alpha on you.’”

“You are my alpha,” Stiles said, shrugging a little as he took another sip.

“Yeah, but I’m also your best friend,” Scott said. “I wasn’t exactly acting like it earlier.”

“Is it hard?” Stiles asked. “Having me in your pack now?”

“You were always in my pack!” Scott said, giving Stiles a fiercely loyal look. “It’s just . . . weird. Being your alpha. I usually feel like you tell me what to do, not the other way around.”

“Nothing has to change,” Stiles said. “I was talking to Ethan and Aiden, earlier. They said me being pack theurge is kind of like Derek being your second. We can advise you, you know?”

“Oh, God, and the two of you are together now!” Scott said, eyes widening. “You’re going to gang up on me all the time, aren’t you?”

“Only if we can manage to agree with each other,” Stiles said cheerfully.

* * *

Much later, when Scott had left and Stiles was surfing Wikipedia and sipping coffee to soothe his stressed-out nerves, the doorbell rang. He didn’t think anything of it, until his dad called up the stairs.

“Stiles? Derek is here.”

Shooting up from his desk chair, Stiles raced down the hall, taking the stairs in a single leap. His dad stared at him, eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline. Derek just smirked, leaning against the doorframe as if he hadn’t performed that maneuver about a million times.

“Shut up,” Stiles told both of them, straightening from the crouch he’d landed in.

“You spilled,” Derek said, nodding at Stiles’s wrist, which was, indeed, splattered with coffee.

Glaring at him, Stiles licked a stripe up his wrist. Derek’s eyes widened, and his dad groaned, pinching his the bridge of his nose.

“That’s it, out!” he said, waving his hand at the door.

Derek took a step backwards, and Stiles turned to gape at his dad. “He just got here!”

“Not him,” his dad said. “You. This day has already been traumatizing enough for me. Both of you, get out of here. Take . . . whatever this is back to his place.”

“Can I spend the night?” Stiles asked, risking a sidelong glance at Derek, who looked absolutely mortified.

His dad sighed, but nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Just be back in time for breakfast tomorrow.” He lifted his glance to Derek and added, “You, too!”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said quickly.

Pulling his shoes on, Stiles gave his dad a quick hug, murmuring, “Thanks,” before grabbing Derek’s arm and steering him out the door.

“What did you tell him?” Derek asked, as the door slammed shut behind him.

“Everything,” Stiles said with a shrug. “More or less.” He started towards the Camaro parked at the curb. Halfway there, he realized that he’d basically just invited himself to spend the night at Derek’s. He stopped dead in his tracks, but Derek just kept walking, holding open the passenger door for him, like he was a girl.

“Um, we don’t have to go back to your place,” Stiles said, climbing inside. “We can grab food. Or whatever.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said, taking his own seat. “Unless you’re hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” Stiles said truthfully. He figured it was his body making up for the lack of appetite he’d had because of the cancer.

Derek shrugged, putting the Camaro into reverse and backing out of the Stilinski’s driveway. Stiles tried to pretend he wasn’t watching the smooth motion of his hand on the gearshift. “I could eat,” he said.

Downing the rest of the coffee, Stiles gripped the empty cup, playing with the cardboard sleeve. In as casual a voice as he could manage, he said, “So . . . three times is a pattern.”

Derek glanced at him sidelong. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. But at the next red light, he pried Stiles’s hand off the empty coffee cup, twining their fingers together. “What’s four?” he asked quietly, his thumb sliding across the back of Stiles’s hand.

“A date?” Stiles asked.

Leaning over the center console, Derek kissed him, just a quick brush of lips between the light turned green. “A date,” he agreed, giving Stiles’s hand one final squeeze before pulling away to shift gears.

* * *

Every Friday after school, Stiles swung by the coffee stand for a shot in the dark and a hazelnut latte with almond milk, to celebrate surviving another week. He hummed as he drove to Derek’s loft, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the lights to change. He wasn’t allowed to stay over on school nights, but weekends were fair game, as long as they both made it back to Stiles’s place for Sunday breakfast. All week long, he’d been imagining the things they were going to do to each other once he got Derek back in bed.

In the loft, he found Derek at his desk, so engrossed in his laptop that he apparently hadn’t noticed the elevator rising. The tips of his ears turned red as the elevator door slid opened, and he shut the laptop casually, but not casually enough . The bond was strong enough, now, that Stiles didn't need to touch him to feel his embarrassment.

Dropping his duffel on the floor, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek from behind, molding his body to Derek's back. "Whatcha doing?" he asked, pressing a kiss to Derek's cheek.

Derek tilted his face up, catching Stiles's lips in his own. For a few, glorious minutes, there was only the slow, delicious slide of Derek’s tongue against his own. Then Stiles pulled away, shaking his head.

"You're not gonna distract me that easy," he said. "Were you watching porn?”

Derek gave him an unimpressed look. They both knew that, if it were porn, Derek would have pulled Stiles onto his lap to watch it with him.

“It’s a job application,” he said quietly. "You're going to college next year, and I thought . . . I should do something to keep busy.”

"That's great!" Stiles said. "Where are you applying?”

Derek's whole body tensed. "The sheriff’s office," he said. With their bodies touching like this, Stiles could feel how he was steeling himself for laughter or incredulity.

Kissing his head, Stiles squeezed him tighter. “You’d be an amazing deputy,” he said earnestly. A new thought occurred to him, and he grinned. “Are you using my dad as a reference? He’d love that!”

“I am,” Derek admitted, chuckling as Stiles gave a fist pump. He did pull Stiles into his lap, then, wrapping his arms around him tightly. Nuzzling into Stiles's neck, he pressed a kiss to the bite mark between throat and shoulder, and Stiles melted against him.

Some days, he could feel the darkness pulling him in like a black hole, all dense gravity. But that was okay. In the center of his life's orbit, he had Derek. He had his dad. He had Scott and Lydia, even Isaac and the twins. He had his magic. Every Friday night, he had the circle of Derek's arms, strong and perfect around him.

"You're happy," Derek murmured, running his hands up and down Stiles's back. Through the bond, his own contentment was radiating back at Stiles, warming him from the inside. Stiles leaned into the warmth, into Derek's touch, and smiled.

"I am," he agreed.

The End