Archive of Our Own ^beta

There's no smoking allowed in Beacon Hills City Park, which strikes Stiles as both ironic and insensitive, but whoever made the sign probably didn't consider those who are smoking involuntarily, so there probably won't be any running and screaming.

Though if there is any running and screaming, it probably won't be about the smoking. Specifically. More the... general atmosphere of what the fuck.

None of that is part of Stiles' pep talk.

“C'mon, Derek,” Stiles says encouragingly. “It's fine. No one's even looking, man, I swear.”

The trees rustle, like something very, very large is very, very shy and really not sure about this whole idea. Which, yeah, some of Stiles' plans are better than others. But this one should work out fine.

“C'mon, buddy,” Stiles tries again. “I believe in you, dude. You can do this.” 

The tree directly between Stiles and Derek catches fire.

“That's alright, that's alright!” Stiles says only slightly frantically, unsheathing his Super Soaker. “This is a great plan. I've prepared for this eventuality.” He aims high and presses down on the trigger. A clear stream of water arcs from the gun and disappears into the trees, dousing out the fire. “See? Stiles is not an idiot. Stiles thinks about these things.”

“DEREK REALLY WISHES STILES WOULD STOP TALKING ABOUT HIMSELF IN THE THIRD PERSON,” Derek roars. Stiles pictures him rolling his eyes behind the trees, because Derek so does not need an audience to be melodramatic. 

“You know, Derek, some experts would call this kind of behavior antisocial,” Stiles says wisely, entering the edge of the woods. If Derek isn't ready to come out alone, fine. He won't be coming out alone.

“I'M THIRTY FEET TALL. I BREATHE FIRE, STILES,” Derek roars flatly, like Stiles is an idiot. "THE LAST TIME I TRIED LIVING IN A HOUSE, I BURNED IT DOWN." A demonstrative wisp of flame singes the treetops above Stiles' head. Stiles aims his Super Soaker and lets go like Derek's angst is a particularly entertaining carnival game. The fire goes out, leaving the tree unmarked, if smoking slightly. "OF COURSE I'M ANTISOCIAL.”

“But what about when you're... not a dragon?” Stiles says, stepping closer. “We could go out, you know, maybe see a movie—”

“DON'T BE AN IDIOT,” Derek snaps. “I'M A WANTED MAN, REMEMBER? YOU KNOW, SINCE YOUR BEST FRIEND ACCUSED ME OF MURDER?”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Right. That.”

So when Scott got bitten by an Alpha and turned into a werewolf, Stiles pretty much assumed there had to be other supernatural creatures out there too. So he wasn't nearly as terrified as he otherwise might have been when he saw Derek Hale taking a nap, weredragon style (Ooooooh! Sexy baby! Stiles still sings whenever Derek pulls off something particularly impressive, like getting a campfire started without burning him to death, or his shirt) in the woods.

Which, by the way? California. Forest fires. It's amazing Stiles had to see a weredragon before he realized that nobody just leaves their lit cigarettes in a fucking forest like an idiot. And Stiles is kind of scandalized at the mass coverup going on. Oh really, Smokey? Only I can prevent wildfires? That sure is interesting. Oh by the way, have you met my friend Derek? He's a weredragon. What's that? Nothing? Yeah, that's right. You're busted.

Boom. Stiles out.

Well, no. There was still just a little bit of freaking out going on when Stiles realized the fallen tree trunk he'd chosen to sit down and catch his breath on wasn't actually a fallen tree trunk and actually had scales and was actually vibrating slightly in a soft inhale-exhale motion and was actually a giant leg of a giant napping dragon. At which point he definitely screamed like a little girl and jumped about three feet high and said “Oh my god” about forty-eight times without taking a breath until the dragon lifted its ginormous head and opened its eyes blearily and roared, “WHATTIMESIT? FIVEMOREMINUTESMOMPLEASE.”

Which, c'mon, once the roar stopped being terrifying, and once Stiles was relatively sure the weredragon wasn't gonna kill him or eat him or kill him and then eat him or kill him by eating him or burn him to an ashy death, that was just adorable.

And the fact that the weredragon turns back into a Greek god-level gorgeous man occasionally, when he's sure no one's going to try to kill him in the next ten minutes? Bonus.

Very, very impressive giant bonus.

It also helps that he doesn't much care for fighting knights or massacring village people, and by the way, those are harmful stereotypes humans have used to enslave and torture and murder weredragons for centuries, Stiles quickly learns. So calm down, deep breath, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Jackson, let's be rational about this.

And no, rational does not mean telling Stiles' father, aka the county sheriff, “He's the murderer. Derek Hale did it,” just because you're panicking and “It was that Alpha nobody actually knows the name of” is harder to sell, Scott. And it really doesn't help Derek's defense that he buried his best friend's body in his old, ashy front yard, because you have to do it right to keep a weredragon body in its human form, and you have to bury weredragons in human form because weredragon bodies in weredragon forms are kind of unmistakeable and really fucking difficult to bury, and next thing you know it's your fault the townspeople are coming after your entire species with pitchforks and fire and—

“Huh,” Stiles interrupts Derek's rant. “Is going after a weredragon with a lit torch the original source of the phrase 'fighting fire with fire?'”

Derek snorts, and Stiles chases the accompanying lick of flame with his water gun without even looking away.

Turns out even Derek Hale leaves his hermitage (Is that a word? Well Stiles doesn't care, he likes it, it fits) when the action gets particularly heated. Or when Scott sends Stiles out to do probably-not-dangerous-at-all research while he plays first line in the lacrosse game, like Stiles' killer bench-sitting skills aren't at least as impressive as Scott's MVP thing.

But Stiles is not bitter, because he gets to hang out with Derek, who is in human form and also in Stiles' Jeep. So—

“Roadtrip!” Stiles sings for the first fifteen minutes of the drive to the hospital while Derek glares stonily at him. But it's a fond glare, Stiles is sure. Anyway, looking at Derek's actual human face is still kind of ridiculous and unreal, so Stiles is pretty much down with whatever. He's not a dragon, is the point. He fits in Stiles' Jeep. It's like Bizarro world, but really, really not, because Derek is gorgeous and the Bizarro Code is all like, “Us hate beauty! Us love ugliness!” and even Derek's dragon form is kind of amazingly bad-ass and beautiful. The leather on his stomach and under his tail is actually kind of a velvety soft matte, while the back of him is all smooth, fiercely glinting bright black leather scales like the shiniest muscle car ever, the kind you can see your own reflection in, the kind that never actually leaves the showroom and gets waxed and polished every day and specially lit to look really impressive in the commercials, and did you know there was this study done that showed people are more likely to buy cars if they're shiny, and no, Stiles did not read that on Cracked.com, it was a much more impressive source, definitely (It was Wikipedia, referencing a Cracked.com article, but whatever, that's not the point). And his wings—Stiles has never actually seen them extended, because if there's one thing that'll stop Derek showing off, it's the fear of being violently murdered in some kind of mob or crusade, but—what Stiles has seen of Derek's wings is that they're smooth, pale, almost translucent black leather, and strangely delicate despite their vastness. But his eyes are still Derek's eyes, Derek's human eyes in weredragon proportions, a heterochromatic blend of blue, gray, green, yellow, and brown, depending on the light.

Stiles really can't understand the kind of person who sees something like that and thinks, “I'm gonna kill it to impress a princess!” Fucking knights, man, they are not as cool as they are made out to be at all.

Derek stays in the car, because he's still got that little phobia of enclosed spaces, like closets and elevators and stairways and massive three-floor mansions he accidentally burned to the ground at sixteen when his supernatural growth spurt finally set in and What do you know, Derek, looks like you've got your great-great-grandfather's thing instead of the wolf thing. No, that's fine, nephew, that's fine—Look, just stop crying, alright? Good start. And try not to set anything else on fire, if you can manage that. No, come on now, I said stop crying. Don't look so wounded, Derek, you've got to develop a thick skin.

...Get it? A thick skin?

Peter is an asshole, in case that's unclear.

So Derek stays in the car, because at least if he sets the Jeep on fire he's only risking his own life, and no, nope, Stiles is absolutely not letting that pass unchecked.

“Dude, you are not setting my Jeep on fire,” he insists, catching and holding Derek's eye. “Derek, c'mon, man, it's okay. You'll be fine. You'll be bored. I have absolute faith in your boredom. Okay? And also, are you crazy? It will never, ever be only to me if you risk your life, that does not get only status, oh my god. I'm gonna—”

And then there's a warm hand on Stiles' wrist and warm lips against his and Derek Hale is kissing him. And it's careful and searching and god, is there anything Derek can do where he can just let his guard down without fear of spontaneous combustion? Stiles kisses back, and he's saying Trust me, just trust me, and trust yourself, you can do this, and Derek's actually trembling with the effort of holding it together, yeah, let's say that's why he's trembling, pupils blown, lips the very red of harsh kissing, and then he's letting out a long breath and there isn't any fire anywhere in it, and Derek grabs the back of Stiles' neck and pulls him down over him, and Stiles kisses him deep enough to keep the fire down, to keep it buried, kisses a trail all down him, and Derek says—

“Anchor.”

“What?” Stiles says, pausing momentarily, lips less than half an inch from the top of Derek's twitching dick, fingers digging into Derek's impossibly muscular thigh and hip.

“Anchor,” Derek repeats, completely fucking awed. “You're my anchor. I found an anchor.” 

“Your—” It comes to him, eventually. “Like Allison is for Scott?”

Derek scowls. “No. Better,” he says, almost grumpy again, but against Stiles' lips, he admits, “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Cool,” says Stiles, and heads back down south.

“No, I mean—” Derek struggles for the right words, frustrated. “Everyone's supposed to have one. One person or place or thing or idea or concept or memory that keeps their human side in control. But I couldn't find anything, until—”

“Until now,” Stiles repeats. “Until me.” There's an impossible giddiness rising inside of him, mixing with the sweat and lust and adrenaline. “You're in control,” Stiles says, growing a grin against Derek's henley, and why is Derek even still wearing a henley?

“I'm in control,” Derek agrees, and maybe Stiles is imagining it but he's sure, suddenly, that he can hear Derek's heartbeat clearer than ever.

“You're amazing,” he tells Derek's skin, tells Derek, looking up at him and grinning like a lovesick idiot. “See? I told you. You're awesome.”

Eventually, eventually, Stiles breaks from Derek, tries to rearrange himself in the rear-view mirror, and draws him close to kiss him one more time and say, “I'll be right back,” before stumbling, slightly light-headed and struggling not to grin or lick his lips (failure, that plan ends in dismal failure), out of the Jeep and into the hospital, where he catches his breath behind a corner and ponders the best way to get to the computers without Scott's mom seeing him, because chances are Stiles has some kind of glow or something, and Stiles wants to tell his dad about Derek, he does, but he kind of wants Derek to be cleared of murder first, just so the first impression is “What a nice young man who never killed his best friend even if he did bury her in his front yard for reasons that will later be disclosed to me,” and not “Please tell me you're not dating my murder suspect, Stiles,” in that world-weary tone he uses when he thinks Stiles is being particularly unreasonable. So avoiding Scott's mom is kind of imperative right now, which is why Stiles is hiding behind a corner, barely peeking, trying to formulate a game plan and not laugh out loud.

Which is how he hears—

“You don't have to try this hard to impress me,” a woman says. She's smirking so hard Stiles can hear it. “Really, it's okay. You just lead the beta to the high school again, and I'll take him out alone.”

Stiles creeps forward slightly, straining to catch the faint reply. “But I will impress you,” a vaguely familiar voice argues. “I'm getting you a wolf, and I'm getting you a dragon.”

Stiles bites down on his lip.

The woman laughs again, louder, fuller. “It's a fairy-tale, Peter.” Stiles clamps a palm over his mouth to keep from making a very noticeable noise. “Even I know that. There's no such thing as dragons.”

“There is,” Peter insists. “It's rare but it's real. I've only seen two in my life, and one of them is buried in the Hale yard under heavy charms that keep her in her human form—”

Laura, Stiles thinks. Derek's best friend from Brooklyn. After the fire, Derek had to get away from Beacon Hills. He thought he could hide in Scotland, in plain sight, where people have been reporting a strange creature since the sixth century. He didn't expect another weredragon to have the exact same idea, but it was an amazing relief, meeting her, knowing he wasn't totally, completely alone. She said she'd never met another weredragon either, and she'd also been sure she was the only one. Werewolves don't exactly brag about their weredragon kin; in some communities, they're still considered an “abomination,” apparently. Which is pretty rich, if you ask Stiles, coming from werewolves. But Laura was the only weredragon Derek had ever met, and when she came back to Beacon Hills with him, someone killed her. Which—Stiles can't even begin to understand how big a loss that had to be, but certain monologues in Doctor Who took on a whole new significance after Derek told him exactly what Laura meant to him. If The End of Time was sad before, imagine a Master who wasn't actually a giant dick, but a really snarky lesbian whose biggest problem was falling for straight people until one day, weredragon.

Then, just a few days after bringing his friend to Beacon Hills on his uncle's invitation, Derek found her bleeding out in the front yard of his burnt out house. She'd been gutted, he told Stiles later, hands still shaking, and she'd been trying to shift so she could heal, but something was stopping her. She'd sworn there was nothing either of them could've done to fix it, and then, barely breathing, her head in Derek's lap, she told Derek how to bury her so her body would stay human when whatever drug or spell or ward that had been forced on her wore off.

“And the other,” Peter continues dramatically, “is my nephew. My own flesh and blood, Kate.” Stiles wracks his brain for a Kate and comes up blank. “But I'll get him. I'll slay a dragon for you, my princess.”

Once Stiles has finished gagging over the cheesiness of that line, the horror of what Derek's uncle is actually saying finally hits him.

Peter's going to kill—

No.

Peter's going to try to kill Derek. To impress a girl.

Well, fuck that.

Stiles is not about to let that happen. 

He backs up, quickly but carefully, determined to get back to the Jeep and drive Derek straight the hell outta dodge until he has a better plan, but this plan-to-plan hits a snag when he stumbles backwards into Melissa McCall.

“Stiles?” A bemused smile curls the corners of her lips. “What are you doing?” Her brows draw together. “Actually, what are you doing here? Don't you have a lacrosse game?”

Stiles spins through his mental Rolodex for a slightly believable excuse, landing on, “What are you doing here? Why aren't you watching Scott be awesome?”

He immediately feels like shit when Melissa's face falls.

“I would if I could,” she says. “Trust me, Stiles, I want to. But I don't get to pick my hours.”

“No, I know,” Stiles says quickly, still trying to keep his voice down. “I didn't mean- No, actually, I came here to tell you that Scott thinks you're a great mom. The best. So he wanted you to know that in case you were feeling bad about not being able to come to the game.”

“Really,” Melissa says skeptically, but the smile is coming back. “Thank you, Stiles. I don't believe for a second that you missed a game to come here and tell me that, but that's very sweet of you to say.”

Shit.

Well, that's Stiles out of excuses.

“Well, uh, nice seeing you,” he says, and tries just walking past her.

That one doesn't work so well either, because suddenly there's a dark blur flying through the air.

He lands so close Stiles can smell his breath. Surprisingly minty, actually. Stiles was expecting Evil Villain Death Breath, but no.   

“Stiles,” Peter Hale says calmly. “How nice of you to join us.”

After that, a few things happen almost simultaneously:

Kate—or a woman Stiles supposes must be Kate—takes Melissa by the shoulders and pulls her out of sight;

Peter's fingernails grow and thicken into rough, fungus-yellow claws as he smiles a slow, sharp-toothed smile that has Stiles' stomach turning, icy mint breeze be damned;

Stiles stumbles back into Kate, now Melissa-less and carrying an evil-looking shock stick;

And Derek rockets through the doors, roaring, “Stiles!” and gets between Peter and Stiles, and then, noticing Kate, grabs her hands off Stiles' shoulders and uses his tail—his weredragon tail—to flick her off him and throw her down the hall, where her face collides with a very nice framed Monet print and a billboard full of staff notices, then presses his palm—his human palm—to Stiles' chest, pushes him backwards, and roars, “Run!”;

At which point Peter, taking advantage of Derek's turned back, removes a syringe from his pocket and shoves it into his nephew's exposed neck.

Stiles watches, horrified, as Derek topples backwards, and Peter stands over him, claws out, and gets ready to kill him, or maim him, or whatever the fuck is on the Creepy Werewolf Uncle menu for tonight.

But just as Stiles is pretty much literally tasting his own panic-vomit, Peter stops.

He looks across the hall toward Kate, who is knocked out, still face-planted against the wall, and back to Derek, who looks like he's struggling under the weight of his tail, and What the fuck did Peter do to him?

Syringe. He stuck a needle in Derek's neck and pumped him full of something. Stiles stops thinking, stops remembering that he is 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone and Peter is a freakin' werewolf, and rushes Derek's uncle like it’s lacrosse and he’s playing for his life.

Peter doesn’t go down, but he rocks back.

The syringe slips from his claws.

Stiles snatches it up, staring at it and back down at Derek. “What the hell did you do to him?”

“I found a cure,” Peter says placidly. He looks weirdly removed, unfocused, out of it, and creepily calm.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. Peter elaborates. “The serum works by binding the supernatural elements in place, causing a temporary paralysis of all non-human components. It's my life's work, Stiles... Or at least, what remained of my life after my dear human fireball destroyed the rest of it in his sleep."

"Shut up," Stiles says sharply. He hates the look on Derek's face, like he's used to this shit. Like he believes it.

Peter's ignoring Stiles now, content to wrap up his evil monologue for some invisible audience. "Under this treatment he won’t change or breathe fire. His senses are no longer enhanced. Temporarily, Derek is, effectively, human.”

“Laura,” Derek hisses from the ground. “That’s how you killed her. You killed her,” he repeats. His tail twitches, just the very end of it. Peter doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yes, I killed her,” Peter admits conversationally. “I regret it.” He sounds like he’s lying. Stiles is pretty sure he's lying. "It was... wasteful," he adds. 

Stiles really needs to punch him in the mouth. His fist pretty much has blue balls for Peter's smug face.

He's working out the most effective trajectory when Scott's mom gets back from wherever Kate stashed her and just stares.

“That’s—that’s not a tail,” she says, alarm creeping into her voice. “It’s not, right? …Is it?”

“It’s a tail,” Derek says, resigned. “I’m a weredragon.”

Melissa laughs.

“No,” she says, smiling nervously. “No, you’re not. Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not even a word. Stiles?”

 "There's really no lie that can make this go away, is there," Stiles asks. He doesn't bother waiting for a response. “Yeah, it’s a word. ‘Were’ for the manly-man parts—"

“Stiles,” Derek sighs dramatically, managing a weak face-palm, ears going pink.

“And ‘dragon’ for the tail and the fact that when his uncle isn’t poisoning him,” Stiles says pointedly, glaring at Peter, “he’s a dragon.”

“A dragon,” Melissa repeats skeptically. “Okay. I've obviously hit my head after—” She turns to look at Kate. “Who is she?”

“Not that this existential crisis isn’t really, really important and good and shouldn't definitely be addressed with a lot of consideration and maybe an FAQ booklet,” Stiles says, “but Peter’s trying to kill Derek, so let’s, maybe, just… but your thing, definitely hold on to that point for later.”

“Peter is trying to kill Derek,” Melissa repeats. “Who is a dragon. A weredragon.” She shakes her head. “Why didn't I just go to the game?”

“I’m not going to kill Derek,” Peter says, exasperated.

“You’re not?” Stiles asks, not believing that for a second.

“You’re not,” Derek echoes, equally skeptical.

“Of course you’re not,” Melissa says, looking immensely relieved. “Of course he’s not, Stiles.”

“I was going to,” Peter admits.

Melissa puts a hand to the side of her head and closes her eyes.

“You killed my entire family,” Peter tells Derek. “My entire pack.”

“Dude,” Stiles gripes. “That was an accident, asshole.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Peter says, like Stiles is an idiot. “My life was burned away and all I had left was the teenager who lit the match. Trust me, you’d want to kill him too.”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up, no I wouldn’t,” Stiles yelps.

“Even if he killed your father?” Peter presses. “Scott?”

“What are you saying about my son?” Melissa demands, marching up to Peter and pretty much waving her finger in his face.

Peter steps back slightly, as if trying not to get anything on his shoes, and continues, “Your mother?”

Stiles winces.

Derek stops struggling to get up.

Fuck, fuck, that's not—That's a sensitive subject, okay, but Stiles definitely doesn't mean—

He makes a quick comeback.

“How would killing Derek help me, then?” he challenges. “If it was an accident and he was all I had left, I’d be stupidly overprotective, you psychotic dick. I wouldn’t spend my life trying to convince him he's the antichrist and then kill him. Or kill his best friend in the whole world, either.”

Derek’s tail twitches again, a smaller, sharper side-to-side flick. He’s stronger than the dose, Stiles realizes. His movements are already more subtle, more controlled than they were just a couple of minutes ago. He just needs a little more time.

Good thing distraction is Stiles' specialty.

“So where does she come in?” Stiles indicates Kate. “She have a motivation, or is she just a low-level flunkie with some kind of sad, unreciprocated, Bellatrix Lestrange-style crush on you?”

“She loves me,” Peter says fiercely. “That’s why I chose Scott—“

"You chose Scott?" Melissa interrupts icily. 

"Kate wants to help me build—"

Down the hall, Kate lets out a groan.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she says, peeling herself from the wall, leaving a bloody clot on a sign congratulating Dr. Kelly on her first girl. “I’m a hunter, you idiot. I don’t want you to make more wolves. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she reasons to Peter’s suddenly ashen face. “I love my job. It’s fun. And I can play Whack-a-Mole as well as the next girl. But I will never love you. You’re a dog.”

“I’m a werewolf!” Peter snaps back.

“Potato, potah-to,” Kate says, rolling her eyes. “Bestiality is gross. You think I want to fall asleep with a guy and wake up with an animal? That’s just sick.”

“I can control my shift when I’m asleep!” Peter protests, getting more and more agitated. “And I—I created a cure, Kate! I wouldn’t even be—“

“You’re a murderer,” Kate snaps.

“I did it for you!” Peter howls. “To give you a dragon!”

“There’s no such thing as a dragon!” Kate shouts back, exasperated. “It’s just a stupid story that some sad, lonely-“

“There’s one right in front of you!” Peter’s practically shrieking at this point, manic and desperate. “Look at his tail!”

Kate looks.

“Right,” she says slowly. “His tail.”

Stiles brushes dust off Derek's jacket and takes his hand.

He's completely human.

Kate turns to stare at Peter, eyebrows high and mocking. “God, you are just—You know what? It doesn’t matter. You’re a murderer, and by the Code, that makes you a dead dog.” She grins. “And I get to put you down.”

Derek's hands go clammy. 

"Don't!"

Stiles slides his arm around Derek's shoulders just as the shot rings out.

Then Peter's on his knees, chest oozing blood as black as old motor oil.

When Derek speaks, his voice is uneven, his usual roar forced low and hoarse and shaky, like an acoustic cover of itself. Stiles can almost feel the scales shifting like tectonic plates under Derek's skin, every instinct and defense mechanism trying to reshape him into something bigger, stronger, faster, fiercer.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Derek says, shaking slightly as he holds back the shift.

“Wow. You're as crazy as he is.” Kate laughs. “He tried to kill you, moron. He's a monster.”

“You don't know anything about monsters,” Derek says. He's trembling so hard Stiles can't help but imagine him exploding into his dragon form, taking the whole hospital out in a giant ball of flame. Can't help but imagine just how quickly Kate would change her mind about the existence of dragons if this hall turned into a pile of charred rubble.

“Okay,” Stiles says quickly, rubbing Derek's shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring “I'm here, your favorite anchor reporting for duty, stay with me” motion. “Okay, Kate—It's Kate, right? You did your job, and you scarred us all for life, good going. Uh, so it looks like you're done, then, am I right?”

Kate watches Stiles for a minute like she's evaluating his threat level, lowers her gun slowly, and shrugs. “You know me,” she says, flashing a fleeting, sharp-edged smile. “Get in, do the job, get out. You're welcome.”

And with one last long look at all of them, she turns and leaves, casual as anything.

Derek stays very still until he's sure she's gone, then he sinks to his knees by his uncle's side, eyes wide as he takes in the oozing black blood.

“Peter,” he says. The smell of smoke is sharp enough to choke on. Stiles' eyes water as he clings to Derek's shoulder.

He's not exactly sure how anchors work, but Scott seems to have the best control when he can listen to Allison's heartbeat and have her close to him, so Stiles tries that. Of course the black goo seeping from Peter's body has got to be a pretty big distraction from Stiles' heartbeat, and for all Stiles knows, the whole heartbeat thing is just a Scott thing or a wolf thing and not an actual helpful thing to Derek at all, so he just tries to be there at Derek's side, tries to keep his breathing even just in case Derek is keeping track of his heartbeat. His life is pretty fucking weird these days, he thinks, because internal monologues are easier than just staying in the moment when the moment is one of the most important people in Stiles' life imploding so he doesn't explode, so he doesn't destroy what little he has left.

Derek's on his knees, eyes shut tight, breathing raggedly, and Stiles is at his side, trying to stay calm in the middle of it all, trying to help Derek calm down while he's on the verge of panic himself. Scales climb across Derek's skin, and the notches of his spine tighten and lengthen into the beginnings of a tail as something light and leathery rises from his shoulders. He's shuddering so hard Stiles can barely keep hold of him.

Peter gasps, chokes, spits black blood everywhere.

“I'm—” he says. His fangs are out and his voice is wet and distorted. “Derek, I—”

"Don't say a word to him," Stiles snaps. 

“It's okay,” Derek says, low and hollow, a barely-stifled roar. “I get it. I'd want to kill me too.”

Stiles stares at him, horrified. “You don't mean—You really hate yourself that much?”

“I killed my whole family, Stiles.” The scales are spreading faster now, thickening into a smooth, glossy black layer over Derek's skin. “I killed his whole family. All at once. Just by breathing.” His teeth are changing, too, shrinking and sharpening. Whatever anchors do, whatever Stiles supposedly does, it's not working. Derek's losing control.

“That's not your fault,” Stiles tries.

“Yes it is,” Derek snaps. “If I would've gone to sleep that night and never woken up, they'd all be fine. All of them.”

“No they wouldn't,” Stiles says. Derek snorts. "And you would never do what he did, okay, what if it was me? Huh? Would you be okay with killing me? That's what I'm—"

“No,” Peter wheezes. Derek goes still.

“Don't you fucking dare,” Stiles spits at Peter. “He's put himself through hell just fine without your help, and instead of letting him know it wasn't his fault—”

“No,” Peter growls, ignoring Stiles' rant. “They wouldn't.”

Derek hisses through his teeth, scales still rippling into place.

“Listen to me, Derek,” Peter grits out. He's impossibly pale, veins purple against his skin. He looks dead already. “I always knew that fire wasn't your fault.” He growls a little, and then he says, shaky but clear, “I was angry, and you were there, and I had to look at you every day and know you were all I had left, but to be honest, I never really liked—”

He falls backward, spread-eagle, eyes glassy.

Derek's roar shakes the art prints and the billboard on the wall and sends the fliers flying.

That's it. We're all dead, Stiles thinks.

Against the wall, ducking to avoid the glass-cased Monet print rattling above her, Melissa says, “Stiles, what the hell is going on?” Her voice shakes as she approaches Peter, says, “Is he—?”

Stiles closes his eyes, summons his voice strong, and says, "You're in control." He wipes his stinging eyes on his sleeve, searches for the most human part of the weredragon. Derek's face is still mostly human, but scales have climbed his sharp jawline and it's only a matter of time before—

No.

"You're in control," Stiles repeats, forcing himself to believe it. He scrapes the scales on the back of Derek's neck, threads his fingers through Derek's hair. "You're in control." Wrapping his free arm around Derek's neck, he stops still in front of him and looks him in the eyes. "You're in control."

Derek stares blankly over Stiles' shoulder in Peter's direction. In the body's direction. Stiles rocks forward and blocks his view.

"You're in control," he says, and he believes it. There's not a doubt in his mind.

Under him, Derek's tremors are getting worse, the smoke sharper than ever.

Then Derek's eyes find him.

"Stiles," he grits out, shaking himself from Stiles' hold. "Get out."

"I'm not going anywhere," Stiles says calmly.

"Don't be an idiot. Run!" Derek roars. Stiles doesn't budge.

"You're in control," he repeats. Again, again.

"I'm gonna kill you," Derek says shakily. "I killed my whole family, and now—GET OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BEFORE I—!"

"Stop trying to push me away," Stiles says. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I'M NOT PUSHING YOU AWAY, STILES," Derek spits. "I'M TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE."

"You're not going to kill me," Stiles says. Derek lets out a moan. "You're not gonna kill anyone. Just look at me. I'm fine. Just look at me."

Derek looks. His eyes are wide and terrified, but he holds Stiles' gaze.

"Good," Stiles says, keeping his breathing perfectly even. Casual. Nothing to worry about. No one's going to die. Long, steady breath in. Long, steady breath out. "Just keep your eyes on me, man. Everything's gonna be fine. You're in control."

Slowly, slowly, Derek's jerky shuddering turns to trembling, and then to just the slightest tremor. His scales lose their shine and knit back into skin. The protruding bones in his spine shrink to nothing, and his wings shrivel and disappear under Stiles' hands. He's smooth and new and just gently shivering, and Stiles takes Derek's hands between his own and shows them off to him.

"You're in control," he promises, and Derek looks at his completely human hands and up at Stiles like he's never seen them before, like he's never seen Stiles before, like he can't believe his own eyes.

"I'm in control," Derek says, eyes bright, and then he says, "Peter—" and rocks forward against Stiles' chest as Stiles' arms cage around him.

They stay that way until Derek stops visibly shaking, until Stiles' knees go numb under him, until Melissa steps forward to take another look at Peter's body, which is now the body of a large gray wolf, fur damp with black blood. Derek raises his head from Stiles' shirt and watches her as she gets her bag and considers her next move.

“Should I... call Animal Control?” she says uncertainly.

“No,” Derek says. “He's not—” He shakes his head. “He's family. He should get—I'll do the burial. He did all the others.”

“He tried to kill you,” Stiles says. He's not trying to be an ass, he just doesn't get it.

“It doesn't matter. He's not just some animal. He's family.” Derek stands, separates from Stiles. He seems bigger, suddenly, more powerful, like all that dragon mass has been reworked into dense muscle. It's a good look on him. “I'll take care of it.”

While Derek works up a sweat carving out a space in the woods for the last member of his family, Stiles approaches Melissa, who shakes her head, looking slightly dazed.

“Hey,” he says. “How're you doing?”

“Werewolves are real,” she says. “Weredragons are real. How do you think I'm doing?”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, and she grins, and then there's nothing funny about it.

“Can you... not tell my dad?” Stiles asks. “Yet?” he adds at Melissa's look. “I just need some time. We just need some time.”

“He's a murder suspect,” Melissa says, watching Derek dig in sharp, precise angles. “And a weredragon. Which is a real thing.” 

“He didn't do it,” Stiles says, watching with her. “You know he didn't do it.”

Melissa nods slightly. There's no way she missed Peter's confession. There's no way she missed any of it.

“Please,” Stiles pleads. “Just give me a couple days to figure out what to say. I really—”

"You really want your father to like him," Melissa infers.

"That obvious?" Stiles ducks his head. "Yeah, I do. And Derek doesn't need an overprotective father pushing a murder charge on him because all he can think about is statutory."

“Answer me honestly,” Melissa says carefully. “Does Scott know?”

Stiles swallows hard. “Um,” he says. “He—That sounds like a conversation you want to have with him.”

“I'm asking you,” Melissa says, warning all over her voice.

Stiles gulps.

“Uh,” he says. “Actually, he's—He's a werewolf,” he admits quickly. “Peter bit him.”

“Peter bit—” Melissa repeats sharply. “Is he—”

“He's totally in control,” Stiles tries to reassure her. “He's got an anchor, and there's a lot of upsides—”

“An anchor,” Melissa repeats. “Like—what you did for Derek? That's how he stayed in control?”

“I didn't do anything,” Stiles says “Much. It's all—An anchor is like something you focus on to stay in control. It's all his focus.”

“What would've happened?” Melissa asks. “If he lost control.”

“He wouldn't have lost control,” Stiles says. He knows it's true. Derek would sooner have set himself on fire than be the reason anyone else got hurt.

Stiles just showed him that he didn't have to.

“So that fire—”

“He didn't know what he was. He just woke up and it was already over. That won't happen again.”

“And Scott—”

“He's got Allison,” Stiles says. “His anchor,” he elaborates.

“And if she—If they break up?”

“Then he's got me,” Stiles says. “He's always got me.”

“He does, doesn't he,” Melissa says.

“Of course,” Stiles confirms. “We'd figure something out. We always figure something out.”

“Right,” Melissa says, and shakes her head again. “One week,” she says.

It's dark when Derek finishes smoothing the dirt over Peter's grave. Stiles is lounging under a nearby tree, playing Angry Birds on his phone, when Derek clears his throat. He stands up, brushes the dirt off his clothes, and joins Derek, tucking his phone into his pocket and standing by him.

“I should say something,” Derek says.

“Okay,” Stiles says.

They stand there in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder by the freshly-dug grave, until Derek nods once and turns to go.

You were a dick, Stiles thinks. I wish you were less of a dick so Derek could've had an uncle who was less of a dick, but maybe you being a dick will make losing the last family member he had suck a little bit less.

That's really depressing, so Stiles follows it with, Anyway, he has me.

And Scott.

And maybe there are others. Maybe there are more weredragons out there who think they're the only ones in the world, and maybe they'll find us. Or we'll find them.

You did do that one half-decent thing ten seconds before you died, though. So there's that.

“Stiles?” Derek asks. “You with me?”

“A hundred percent, dude,” Stiles says, and stops talking to dead people in his head.

“Stiles, I'm not sure this is a good idea,” John Stilinski says warily.

“Dad, come on. Aren't you always saying you wish we could spend more time together? You never see me anymore?” Stiles spreads his arms wide. “Well, here we are!”

“We're in the woods, Stiles,” John says. “At night. Five days after Dr. Hale went missing.”

“Dad, I swear, it'll all make sense in a couple of minutes.” Stiles puts two fingers between his lips, whistles. “Here, boy!”

“Stiles, I've already told you we're not getting a—”

“I'M NOT A DOG, STILES,” something roars in the dark. John startles, swears, and collects himself. “What the hell was that?”

“C'mon, Derek, play nice,” Stiles says slowly. “My dad's here.”

“YOUR—You're kidding me,” Derek grits out, and then the trees rustle furiously, as if something very, very large is desperately trying to regain human size and shape and locate his clothes to make an at least half-decent impression on his boyfriend's father.

“Surprise!” Stiles yells cheerfully. A very unimpressed Derek jogs over to his side, ears pink, muttering, “I hate surprises.”

“What the hell is going on?” John tries again. “What are you doing with my murder suspect, Stiles?”

Derek shrinks visibly.

“Scott?” Stiles calls out. Still in his pale, furry Alpha form, Scott's entrance is much more impressive.

“What the hell is—What are you doing?”

Stiles hands the wolf a clean t-shirt and jeans. The wolf paws at it, getting it in the first couple of tries, and pads into the woods, returning minutes later shaped like Scott.

John rubs his eyes. “Scott,” he tries, appealing to the more reasonable of the two. “What the hell is going on?”

“He's a werewolf,” Stiles says as Scott says, “Hi, Mr. Stilinski. I'm a werewolf.”

“Uh huh,” John says. “Of course you are. And Mr. Hale?”

“He's a weredragon,” Stiles says. “C'mon, show him.”

Derek huffs out an exasperated breath, takes off his jacket and shirt, and flexes. His wings grow through his wide shoulders and burst open like they were always there, fluttering slightly. John stares.

“Holy crap.” He squints at Derek, steps forward gingerly, and stares some more. “Holy crap.”

Derek looks deeply uncomfortable. It only takes John a couple of seconds to notice.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, stepping back. “I just—You've got wings, son. It's a lot to take in. It's all very X-Men.”

“I've never seen that,” Derek admits.

“Oh, you should,” John says. “Especially the prequel. It's very—” He stops, rubs his eyes again. “And Scott's a wolf? Since when?”

“It's a long story,” Stiles says.

John shakes his head, still slightly dazed.

“Long as it doesn't start with Once upon a time, I've got all night.”

It takes Derek a while to get used to living in a house again, but he's working on it. Having Stiles with him helps, stops him freaking out, stops him trying to leave "before he kills anyone else."

"You're in control, dude," Stiles says blearily, half-asleep, and throws a pillow at Derek's head.

Derek's tail zips out and catches it like a lasso.

"Oh my god, that is so cool," Stiles moans. "You are so cool. Go to sleep. Stop doing cool things and making me want to stay awake, asshole. I have school tomorrow."

"Sorry," Derek says, smirking.

"Yeah right, you big show-off," Stiles grumbles, and buries his face in his—"Shit. Really didn't think that though. Gimme my pillow back."

"You're a bad influence," Stiles tells Derek as they watch the credits roll on X-Men: First Class. "I'm going to sleep right through Chemistry and it's all your fault."

Derek actually looks guilty this time.

"Good thing I don't give a shit," Stiles says, yawning.

"Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek says.

"Make me."

He's supremely unsuccessful.

"This girl is on fi-yaaa!" Stiles sings at two in the morning.

Derek sighs his most dramatic sigh. "Shut up, Stiles." 

"Make me," Stiles repeats.

This time, it's easier.