Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“No, Derek.” Stiles screws his eyes shut and presses the balls of his hands against the closed lids. It feels like a never-ending discussion, and he is so sick and tired of it. He’s surprised by himself and how he hasn’t really snapped yet, how calm he can stay, although he screams, and screams, and screams with frustration on the inside. “How many times do we have to have this discussion, really?”

When he opens his eyes again, Derek is looking at him with an annoyed line to his mouth. “It’s risky,” Derek says stoically but breaks eye contact and stares out the windshield.

Stiles snorts. “Seriously? It’s a fucking gas station, and I’ll just go to pay. Please tell me again why this is risky?”

Derek’s mouth is a thin line. He doesn’t answer.

“Exactly. If it’s risky for me then it’s like running blatantly into a knife when you go. What if the cameras catch your eyes, huh? What if the cashier dude recognizes you?” Stiles goes on, trying desperately to make his point, once again. He knows he’s right, and he’s well aware that Derek knows too. But the stupid werewolf is trying to be the hero again.

“I can put on sunglasses,” Derek suggests which makes Stiles groan in exasperation.

“It’s in the middle of the night, dumbass,” he says, almost yelling. “Apart from the fact that it makes you look like a douche, it does seem strange to run around in sunglasses when it’s pitch black outside. Seriously, what the hell, Derek? Give me the money.”

Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek to hand him the cash, he just grabs it out of his hands and gets out of the car.

One of the two other cars at the station is already leaving and the driver from the second brushes by Stiles when he enters the shop. Stiles is used to this, so he’s not getting anxiety attacks anymore when he has to pay the gas. It’s his task, ever since the beginning and he’s lost count on how often he’s had to argue about this with Derek.

The guy behind the counter chews gum and seems like he’s bored out of his mind. He doesn’t even notice Stiles until they’re facing each other. Stiles puts the money on the counter, waiting for the guy to do his job.

It’s when the guy hands him the change, that shit hits the fan. He squints at Stiles.

“Aren’t you that Stibinski guy?” cashier dude asks. Stiles feels his heart rate pick up at that, swears inwardly, because he’s sure Derek’s heard.

“Who?” He tries for nonchalance. The guy narrows his eyes at him, and Stiles really, really needs to get the hell out of here. He can’t turn and run, it would make him look guilty. The only option is to try and throw the guy off, and at the same time hoping that Derek doesn’t come barrelling in.

“That guy who’s on the run with the homicidal werewolf,” cashier dude clarifies. Homicidal werewolf, huh. Wow, guy’s got some fancy words. Stiles wants to throw something at him. He’s so tired of this bullshit.

“You mean Stilinski,” Stiles answers calmly. His hands are sweating, his heart beats so loud he can hear his blood rushing in his ears, and it takes him so much control not to turn and run. “It’s funny actually. You’re not the first one to ask that. Obviously, we look strangely alike.”

The guy doesn’t seem convinced. Stiles waves before he turns to leave the store. He casts a look to the counter as he walks out and catches how the cashier dude grabs for his phone. Fuck.

Outside, he immediately locks eyes with Derek, who’s staring at him through the shotgun window. Stiles tries to walk over casually but everything in his head screams, Run! He throws open the passenger door and jumps inside, frantically shouting, “Go! Go! Go!”

Stiles feels safer and calmer the instant he’s in the car, leaning back against the seat, drawing in deep breaths and smelling the familiar scent of the car, Derek and himself.

“What happened?” Derek inquires, casting quick glances in his direction. Clearly, he is unsettled, and there is a deep frown on his face.

“What do you think?” Stiles snaps back. He doesn’t mean to but he’s still shaken, and curses himself and that stupid cashier dude. “We need to lose the license plates.”

“We can’t drop them and go without them,” Derek says. “That would draw too much attention.”

“As if the car itself doesn’t draw attention,”  Stiles mutters, tries to swallow down the anger that’s building up in him again. The Camaro is fast and sleek and flashy, and Derek wouldn’t ditch it. They have argued about that too. Stiles gave up fighting Derek for it.

“Stiles.”

“What,” Stiles answers flatly. “The plates are on tape, we need to get rid of them if we don’t want to find ourselves chased any more than we already are.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Derek promises. He reaches out and gently takes Stiles’ hand, entwining their fingers, and rubs soothing circles into his skin. Stiles squeezes lightly, assuring, apologetic. He turns to stare out of the window, watches shadowy outlines flying past him. It’s monotonous, lulling him slowly but steadily into sleep.

***

“What do you mean they’ve sent for a supervisor?” Stiles inquires incredulously. He sits back on the bed, crossing his legs.

It’s been days since Scott has been holed up in one of the rooms in a special wing of the hospital, namely where freshly bitten werewolves go when they get caught. It’s a nice facility, actually, and some members of the staff are werewolves too. The room is large with wide windows, but every windowsill and every threshold that leads out of the building is laced with mountain ash. It makes it impossible for Scott to leave the facility. When Stiles asked a nurse how werewolf staff enters and exits, she bestowed him with a smile that said, Dream on.

“I don’t know, man. They said I need to learn control before I can leave here, so they’ve sent for someone who’ll teach me,” Scott answers. He looks like a sad, lost puppy.

“Why can’t the staff do that? I mean there are some werewolves among them,” Stiles says, and raises his eyebrows. It doesn’t make sense to him. “No need to send for someone.”

“Dude, I have no idea,” Scott replies, shrugging helplessly. Stiles can tell that he’s not okay, although he still can’t deny that he finds it amazing that his best friend is now a freaking werewolf. However, he feels somewhat guilty being so gleeful about it. It’s so damn obvious that Scott is miserable, stuck in here. He’s never wanted this.

It happened about a week ago when Scott left the animal clinic after his shift to drive home, and it happened so fast, Scott said. Later, the authorities said it has been inevitable, that Scott couldn’t have saved himself, and that he should be happy to be alive even if he’s a shifter now. It was a lone Alpha, they said, probably looking for a pack, and when he couldn’t find one he tried building one.

They found the Alpha, and they executed him. It is a crime to bite people without consent, and even with consent there are a lot of rules that have to be followed to make it legal.

Newly bitten werewolves are under supervision until they learn how to control their senses and especially the shift in their everyday life, as well as on full moons.

Scott is the only case in the facility as there aren’t many werewolves in Beacon Hills and its general area, and even fewer cases of non-consensually bitten ones. He has his large room to himself, and he has even a laptop and a phone, both of which he can use freely. Visitors are allowed one at a time, and only with supervision.

“Well. Try to see the bright side of it: you’ll be out of here in no time. I mean, they’ve probably sent for an expert, so you just learn how to reign yourself in, and you’re good to go,” Stiles says cheerily. Scott shoots him a small smile. Stiles knows it’s easier said than done but he tries to stay enthusiastic for his best friend’s sake.

That’s when Eli comes in. “Time’s up, guys,” he says as Stiles sighs, and Scott pouts mournfully. He hates being alone.

“Aw, come on, Eli,” Stiles pleads, although he knows there’s no way he can stay.

“It’s not up for discussion, Stiles,” Eli says firmly but a little apologetically and playfully flashes his blue eyes at Stiles. “I’m sure you can drop by tomorrow again.”

Sighing, Stiles gets up. Scott makes a miserable whining noise in his throat when he hugs him, and clutches at Stiles’ shoulders. He wishes he could make it easier but what can he do?

“I’ll be back tomorrow, buddy,” Stiles promises and then adds, “We’ll talk on Skype tonight, alright?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. Stiles waves before he leaves the room.

He walks down the corridor, and past the check-in desk. A tall, dark guy is standing with his back to him, talking to the nurse. Stiles is already in the elevator when he hears the guy say, “I’m here for Scott.”

The guy turns and throws a look over his shoulder, and locks eyes with Stiles for one second before the elevator doors slide shut. Stiles is pretty sure he has seen him before. 

***

The sky is faintly greyish-blue at the horizon when Stiles wakes up, and Derek has the window on his side rolled down a little, letting the cool, fresh air streaming through the cockpit. He has also covered Stiles with his leather jacket. Stiles buries his nose in the collar, inhaling deeply, letting Derek’s scent wash through him. He squints at the time display on the dashboard, and groans, because it’s just four in the morning.

It’s eerily silent. Derek doesn’t listen to the radio; he only does it for Stiles’ sake when he’s awake. As soon as Stiles falls asleep, he turns it off and listens to the silence, listens to whatever goes through his head, and Stiles thinks that Derek is haunted by all of the (not-so) recent events, by his anger and guilt and desperation.

“Morning,” Stiles slurs as he rubs at his sleepy eyes. Derek shoots him a quick look, with a smile on his lips that’s so tiny it’s easy to miss.

“You should go back to sleep,” he says, and rolls the window back up. “It’s early.”

“Do you want me to take over?” Stiles asks instead, trying to suppress a yawn and failing. “You haven’t slept in two days.”

“I’m good,” Derek replies with a stubborn edge to his voice, eyes stoically on the road. Stiles can see how he grips the steering wheel a slightly bit tighter as if he’s afraid Stiles will rip it out of his hands. It’s ridiculous, really. Stiles has an endless list of things that annoy the shit out of him at times.

“You know, even the big, grouchy werewolf needs to sleep, because contrary to the popular belief of one Derek Hale werewolves don’t run on air and love,” Stiles argues, voice still drowsy but dripping with sarcasm nonetheless. “You can try, of course, but don’t make a bitch face at me when you collapse, and I introduce you to I Told You So.”

Derek makes a bitch face now, setting his jaw and scowling at the windshield.

“I said I’m fine,” he tries again. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“That’s your default answer, and I know you’ve said this to yourself so often you actually believe it,” Stiles grouches. “You should know by now that you’re not alone in this. I’m just trying to help. Let me remind you that when you wrap the car around a tree, I’m not the one who can simply walk away.”

There’s silence.

“But that’s not even the point,” Stiles adds, because it wasn’t his intention to talk some more guilt into Derek. “Why won’t you let me help you? Do you think I’m going to ditch the car? You’re two hundred pounds of pure muscle; how do you think I’m going to get you out of the car without you noticing? Or move you, in the first place.”

Derek actually smirks at that. Asshole. Stiles glares at Derek’s profile hoping to intimidate him into letting Stiles drive for a change. It’s not a surprise that it doesn’t work. Derek is as immune to Stiles’ glare as Stiles is to Derek’s, so there’s no point in trying. He huffs out his annoyance, and yawns.

“Go back to sleep, Stiles,” Derek orders, using his authority voice. Like it would work. Stiles shoots him a dirty look.

It’s definitely not the authority voice that makes him go back to sleep. He can’t help it, his eyes are falling shut again, drowsiness still clinging to him. Stiles is out cold before he can even curse Derek and his infuriating stubbornness.

The next time he comes to it’s because Derek is gently shaking his shoulder, quietly saying, “Stiles, wake up.”

Stiles blinks blearily at him. He feels stiff all over, and it’s hot under Derek’s jacket. “What time is it?” he slurs drowsily, rubbing at his eyes. His mouth feels dry, and he swallows to lose some of the stale taste.

“Quarter past eight,” Derek answers, holding out a cup of coffee. Stiles scrunches up his nose.

“Ew,” he makes. “Not until I brush my teeth.”

Stiles clicks his tongue and gets out of the car. Derek looks unfairly handsome in the golden morning light, and nothing like he’s gone two days without sleep and a minimum of comfort. He’s leaning against the car, holding two cups of coffee, and takes a sip from his own. Stiles leans back into the Camaro, braces his knees on the passenger seat and bends over to get his toothbrush out of his bag. He catches Derek staring at him when he turns back around, and Derek’s eyes are hooded and dark and hungry; Stiles steps away quickly before they end up making out in—

He looks around. They’re in the parking lot of some highway restaurant, and they’re—unsurprisingly—not the only ones.

Stiles makes his way to the restroom to do his morning routine. He splashes cold water onto his face, and looks into the mirror. The thought of how familiar it feels to wake up in a new place every day, to brush his teeth in the restroom of a motel or a restaurant or even in the middle of nowhere hits him, so hard and unexpected, that Stiles grips the edges of the sink and draws in a deep breath. His hair is longer now, unruly; he hasn’t cut it since he left with Derek—it’s too risky to go to a hairdresser—and they need far more important things than a trimmer. Stiles figured Derek likes it but he also figured that Derek likes him for who he is, and not for how he looks like or how he wears his hair. 

When he goes back to the car, he notices the different license plate. He doesn’t know when or where Derek changed them, or where he got them but he thinks it’s better not to know, not to ask. It doesn’t matter, in the end.

“I want you to sleep today,” Stiles says when Derek holds out the cup again. He graciously takes it. Derek looks at him, and Stiles will stand his ground, he won’t let Derek talk his way out of this again. He’s sure Derek will argue but instead he pulls Stiles close, noses at his neck and playfully catches Stiles’ earlobe between his teeth. Stiles shudders, and Derek seems to like it, because there is a pleased, low rumbling in his chest that reverberates through Stiles’ body.

“That can be arranged,” Derek hums into his ear. Stiles has to bite back a moan. He slips out of Derek’s arms.

“No,” he says sternly, and then again, “No. You will sleep. Rest. And nothing else but that.”

Derek pins him with a look that somehow manages to convey both, Make me, and, I’d like to see you try resisting me. It’s unfortunate, really, that Derek knows all too well how easy Stiles is for him, but Stiles is determined not to give in this time.

Stiles just raises his eyebrows, and Derek snorts. They drink their coffee in silence.

***

“Derek Hale?” Stiles asks, and frowns at the TV screen he’s currently sitting in front of. The controller almost slips through his fingers when realization hits him. “Derek Hale!”

“Huh?” Scott shoots him a look from the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t seem to remember.

“He used to live in Beacon Hills too,” Stiles provides helpfully, pushing Scott’s player out of the way for his own benefit. “His family died in a fire years ago. He and his sister were the only survivors, and after that they moved away. I can’t believe he came back here because of you. Why did they send for him?”

“Uh, they said that new werewolves are always trained by Alphas, and apparently Derek is an Alpha, so,” Scott answers. “Accordingly, it also helps accommodating to pack rules. Most werewolves accept their supervisor as their Alpha after finishing the training. You know, so they don’t end up as Omegas. 

“Wait. Wait—what? You have to choose an Alpha?” Stiles asks incredulously, raising his eyebrows. Scott shrugs.

“Well, I do if I don’t want to be monitored all the time. If I don’t choose an Alpha, or become one myself, I’ll be an Omega, and Derek said that I’m better off finding a pack than being an Omega,” Scott explains. “But I can accept the local Alpha as my pack leader too.”

“Whoa, slow down there,” Stiles interrupts, filing away all the information Scott has just given him. “How do you become an Alpha yourself?”

“Derek hasn’t told me but he said it’s unlikely I’ll become one so early after being bitten,” Scott replies, never once taking his eyes off the screen. He’s surprisingly focused for someone who is probably tuned in on everything that’s happening around the facility.

Stiles huffs. “Who’s the local Alpha? What difference does it make if you accept Derek or the local?”

Scott snorts when Stiles wins the game. “Dr. Mason is Alpha of all the werewolves in Beacon Hills. He’s working at the hospital, in surgery I think. That’s why he can’t train me. No time, and all,” he says, rubbing a hand over his hair. He looks a little frustrated when Stiles glances at him. Probably because Stiles has just kicked his ass. “I can stay here when I decide for Dr. Mason to be my Alpha,” Scott goes on. “If I choose Derek, I’ll have to go where he goes.”

Stiles puts his controller down and looks at his best friend. “Well, then the choice is clear, duh,” he says. “I mean why should you follow some guy you don’t know to god knows where just because he trained you?”

Scott smiles at him. “Would you want me to stay?”

Stiles flicks him around the head. It’s probably a telling thing that he dares to hit a werewolf. “Dude. Are you seriously asking me that?” 

Grinning widely, Scott rubs his head.

“Anyway,” Stiles says as they decide switch to Mario Kart, with Scott choosing Mario and Stiles Yoshi. “What’s Derek like?”

Scott raises his eyebrows, intently looking and clicking through the karts, and answers, “Hard to tell, man. He introduced himself yesterday, said something like, ‘The bite is a gift’,” Scott huffs and makes a face that clearly speaks of disagreement, “He said he’d help me, though, and once I figured everything out it will become easier, so.”

“When do you start with the training?”

“Later today.”

They stop talking after that and concentrate on the game. Stiles is delighted to find that Scott’s new werewolf powers have no effect on his gaming. Scott gets run over, hit, pushed out of the way and off some cliffs repeatedly. He curses, rattles his controller. Wario sneers and knocks him over with a red shell.

Scott is breathing hard, and the controller actually cracks. Stiles’ heart starts pounding, icy feeling crawling up his spine. He barely gets a glimpse of claws before Scott is on him. Everything is a blur of colours. 

Stiles tries to get up and stumbles over his own feet in an attempt to get away as Scott’s gold-flashing eyes fix him, lips curled back, revealing his long fangs. His face is twisted into an ugly, aggressive mask, and he looks rabid—inhuman. The growl is loud and shakes Stiles to the core. He curses himself, he should have known better. But it was just Mario Kart, and Scott has never got riled up over Mario Kart.

And then Scott pounces him.

Stiles feels the iron grip on his bicep before he’s hurled back, and someone jumps Scott, and throws him into the opposite wall. There’s the eerie sound of bones cracking, and Scott makes a loud whining noise. Stiles releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding before he peers around the dark frame of the person who came to save him.

Scott is a whimpering pile on the floor, clinging at his arm, and Stiles is sure he’s broken it when he hit the wall. His face is back to normal, though, and he looks pained and confused and scared. Stiles’ heart is still hammering against his chest when he releases a shaky, relieved breath. That’s when Eli and some of the other werewolves of the facility come running into the room.

“Scott?” he asks tentatively. Scott groans in response. Eli and the others get him up to his feet.

“Get him out of here,” hero guy says curtly, and the nurses hurriedly drag Scott away.

Stiles is compiling a sentence that contains both, a complaint and a thank you in his head when hero guy whips around and he finds himself facing a downright terrifying glare. If only he wasn’t as distracted by the eyes and those extremely expressive eyebrows. Stiles takes in the cheekbones and the jawline, and, man, that stubble is just so not fair. He forgets everything he wanted to say.

“What the hell were you thinking,” Derek Hale—who turns out to be hero guy, and, contrary to the stereotypical hero role, doesn’t seem thrilled about it—grinds out, and it’s not even a question. “He could have killed you—this could have been his death sentence too!”

“It was just a game,” Stiles says defensively. Seriously. “It’s not like this was the first time we played it, dude.”

“He’s a freshly bitten werewolf, you idiot,” Derek reminds him—and wow, if there was an award for fierce, angry eyebrows Derek would win it—and he says it like explains everything. Which it probably does when Stiles gives it some thought. “Such things affect him differently now.”

“Oh my god, dude, look, being turned into a werewolf chew toy by my best friend isn’t exactly on the top of my to-do-list, alright?” Stiles says. “It’s not like it was my intention to make him wolf out on me.”

Derek’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, scowling hard. His anger is pretty intimidating. Some tiny part in him frantically tells him to run but he stays where he is, and he’s kind of proud of himself that he doesn’t recoil.

He lets out a startled, totally not unmanly yelp when Derek grabs his arm again and drags him out of the room and down the corridor. His grasp is firm but not painful or bruising, his pace fast, and Derek doesn’t even seem to notice when Stiles tries to dig his heels in against the relentless pull. Stiles squirms and twists, and he should get points for effort, because at least Derek shoots him an irritated look.

Derek pushes him into the elevator, all but gently, and basically punches the ground level button. He braces his hands on both sides of the door and leans forward, blocking the way out, glaring intently at Stiles.

“You’re banned from visiting,” Derek informs him, and his eyebrows look menacing.

Stiles squawks. “What? No! You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.” Derek bares his teeth, and flashes his eyes—red—before he steps back so the elevator doors can slide shut.

Stiles surges forward—stupid werewolf will see what he gets from trying to keep Stiles away from his best friend—but Derek only so much as nudges him, and Stiles is nothing but flying back into the opposite wall of the elevator.

The doors close, and Stiles angrily yells, “I’m not afraid of you, jackass!” 

***

Stiles itches all over when they sit in the restaurant and order breakfast; it’s been a while since someone recognized him, and it sets him on edge again. Derek eats two portions himself, and the waitress they’re served by is making sexy eyes at him every time she comes to refill the coffee. It’s undeniably a good thing that Derek is pretty, apparently it distracts much more than it draws attention to the fact that he’s a wanted werewolf. That doesn’t mean Stiles is not annoyed by all of the women (and men) who constantly try to (not-so-subtly) hit on him.

Despite all of Stiles’ efforts and curses and arguments, Derek wouldn’t let him drive, so when they leave the parking lot, Stiles is silently fuming again. He hates how calm and seemingly untouched and unaffected Derek is by all of this.

Derek tunes into a random radio station while Stiles climbs into the backseat. It’s a hardship, damn this car, but he manages eventually. Derek glares but Stiles ignores him. He knows it drives Derek up the wall when he clambers around the car without a seatbelt on. On a normal day, Stiles would find his worry endearing. Today, Stiles feels passive-aggressive, so he pisses Derek off on purpose. It’s not his best trait, he can’t help it.

He clears some space to sit and starts sorting through the chaos of clothes piled up there. Derek keeps shooting glowering looks through the review-mirror.

“Put a seatbelt on,” Derek orders, and Stiles ducks his head to hide a grin.

“Yep,” he chirps bending down to grab Derek’s bag from behind the driver’s seat. It’s stuffed with dirty laundry and Stiles sighs starting sorting through the clothes that are piled around him. He crams his worn stuff in with Derek’s.

Derek’s voice sounds strained, “Stiles.”

“Gimme a second,” Stiles answers distractedly, digging through an incredible amount of socks—seriously, where are all the socks coming from?

“Now,” Derek grouses, and makes Furious Eyebrows at him.

“Hey, do you know where those socks come from?” Stiles asks incredulously, shaking a pair in his hand. “I don’t even know which of those are yours and which mine.”

“Stiles,” Derek says again, this time plaintively teeth, and Stiles can tell he’s deeply distressed. “Put the fucking seatbelt on. Now.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and says, “I’m fine back here. No need to worry.”

Derek flashes his Alpha eyes at him, and Stiles knows it deliberate, only it has no effect whatsoever. “What if I turn the car around? What if there’s an accident?”

“You? Turning the car around? Yeah!” 

“You can’t just walk away.”

“Oh, now you’re worried about it?” Stiles shoots back, feeling anger rising up in him again. “Why do you think you could cause an accident? And don’t say it’s because you haven’t slept in days.”

Derek gets the sarcasm, and his fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel before his shoulders sag in the next moment. He inhales deeply before quickly glancing at Stiles through the mirror.

They used to yell and argue with each other, screaming themselves breathless in the process, and then spent hours sitting wordlessly next to each other in the car, with Derek clenching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and Stiles staring stubbornly out of the window. Derek stopped yelling a long time ago. They still argue but it’s only half-assed on Derek’s part. He either gives in to Stiles’ constant nagging—and mostly that is what Stiles has settled on: nagging—or vehemently ignores him in favour of doing what he wants (or thinks it’s right) to do.

Stiles misses the yelling sometimes.

“Please,” Derek eventually pleads in a quiet voice.

And just like that Stiles’ anger dissipates. He slumps against the seat and buckles up, seeing the Approving Eyebrows in the rear-view mirror.

Stiles continues sorting through their clothes, throwing the dirty stuff in Derek’s bag, and neatly folding everything else, stuffing it away in another one. Once he’s done with their clothes, Stiles continues picking up the books. He didn’t take his favourite—Timm Thaler—when he threw stuff into his bag, though. Stiles knew from the start that this would probably be a journey without end, without turning around and going back but he hoped and left his favourite book; the one his mother has read so often to him back when he was a child, and he read it countless times after she passed away. He regrets now that he didn’t bring it with him.

He collects the few books they have—most of them they bought along the way—and out them away. They’ve read them so often that the books have lost their appeal and novelty. 

Stiles sighs when he sees the photo of Derek and Laura on the floor behind the driver’s seat. They had neither time nor space to bring along many personal things and Stiles knows that Derek misses his tiny treasures that remind him of his family or happy moments as much as Stiles does. At times, it’s depressing that they have only their memories and nothing else to hold on to, to show and to share. 

He picks up the photograph and carefully tucks it away between the pages of a diary he used to write, back when it all was as exciting as it was terrifying. Stiles thinks it was stupid to be excited about a never-ending road trip, about running away and leaving everything behind for good.

The rest is loose stuff like towels and little samples of shampoo or toothpaste, the chargers to their cheap prepaid phones, maps and empty water bottles.

“We need to find a Laundromat,” Stiles says when he scrambles back to the passenger seat. “Sometimes I think you would end up buying new clothes every time you ran out of your old ones if it wasn’t for me.”

“No, I would just drive around naked,” Derek deadpans and shrugs a little. 

Stiles manages to accidentally smack himself with the plug of the seatbelt. “Oh my god—no. You’d only blind everyone.”

“With my shiny everything?” 

Stiles snorts. “No, you’d dagger them with your shiny death glare then.”

“Ease up on the compliments; I can only take so many.”

There’s a playful smile on Derek’s lips, his default frown is completely gone, and Stiles feels happy all over for a moment. Considering their situation, they don’t have much to be happy about. Stiles can’t help but to draw joy from the tiniest things, it’s what keeps him together, and Derek smiling has always been a thing that’s brought him contentment.

***

“It’s been a month!” Stiles exclaims while flailing his arms around. “A month!”

His father watches him over the rim of the glasses he’s put on to read through his paperwork. He looks unimpressed.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen Scott,” he points out, taking off his glasses to clean them.

“Skype doesn’t count,” Stiles says, affronted. Scott is his best friend and he’s going through a rough phase. He needs Stiles, just as Stiles needs him—because, duh. Skype totally doesn’t count and Stiles bristles at the thought that he even has to elaborate. His dad really should know better. Skyping and actually seeing each other are two totally different things. Again, duh. 

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to sneak into the facility to see Scott but apparently one Derek Hale has enough authority over the staff to keep Stiles from visiting and supporting his best friend. Stiles hasn’t crossed paths with Derek since their first encounter.

Scott doesn’t seem very happy, either. He says the training is somewhat slow-going, and Derek pushes, and pushes, and pushes. Stiles seethes with rage every time Scott talks about it, because Derek doesn’t seem to help at all. After a month of training, his best friend still can’t control his shift, and isn’t even somewhere near it—Scott’s words. Which isn’t actually unusual—also Scott’s words.

Stiles has googled the shit out of it. He had enough time on his hands. Grudgingly, he has to admit that what Scott’s told him is true: it’s not at all unusual that it takes time and patience and a lot of training to get the shifting under control. It’s different for everyone. But there’s one thing Stiles stumbles across on basically every site and every book and every article: in order to control the shift a werewolf has to find an anchor. The anchor could be anything, and it’s also an individual thing.

Scott confirms the anchor thing the next time Stiles talks to him.

Scott’s mom says Scott is better at staying calm now and he can get down from being slightly riled up but also that he still needs another stimulator to transform back to normal once he wolfs out. Namely pain.

So when Stiles rides up the elevator to see Scott the next day, he’s determined to get past the reception. To his surprise, no one sits at the desk, and the floors are empty. Everything is quiet, almost eerily so. It’s not unusual, though, as Scott is the only werewolf ‘in care’ right now, and there isn’t so much staff around. Stiles wanders to Scott’s room to find it empty too. He’s probably training with Derek right now, so Stiles walks one of the long corridors, straining his ears to make out any noises to get an idea where to go to.

He’s rounding a corner when he hears a loud rumbling noise and then a door is flying open, sent crashing again the opposite wall. Stiles doesn’t even have time to realize what’s happening when the feral growl echoes through the corridor and someone tackles him down, hard, pinning him painfully against the cold ground. Struggling only results in more growling that reverberates through Stiles’ whole body, making him tremble, his heart rabbiting in his chest.

Scott is crouching threateningly over him, face fully transformed and eyes glowing yellow—and there’s drool, lots and lots of drool. Stiles is sure—so, so sure—he shouldn’t feel like laughing right now. His best friend is wolfed out, hovering over him with probably every intention of killing him and Stiles feels adrenaline rushing through his veins, his heartbeat is skyrocketing like it’s trying to break through his ribs. And still, there’s laughter bubbling up inside of him, at the sight of a dangerous out-of-control werewolf who drools all over him.

Stiles doesn’t even realize he’s laughing and can’t reign himself in, and it’s so surreal, so idiotic he can’t even begin to explain, yet he simply isn’t able to stop.

“Scott,” Stiles wheezes out, looking up, and Scott seems confused as the yellow seeps out of his eyes, realization flickering across his face.

“Stiles?”

There’s no time for Stiles to answer, because Scott is thrown off of him and someone grabs his arm, dragging him back. A girl in four-inch-heels steps in front of him, her blonde curls bouncing as she walks towards Scott. The clacking sounds of her heels echo loud in Stiles’ ears. She studies her nails with a bored expression on her face, and she doesn’t look at all like she’s scared of Scott. Stiles figures she must be werewolf too, then. He’s still giggling like a total moron.

“Take care of him,” Derek says from behind him, and then two guys appear in Stiles’ field of vision, following the blonde. Both of them throw Stiles a quick look. The lankier one—tall and blonde—looks a little incredulous but faintly amused while the other one—bulky and dark-skinned—clearly expresses that he thinks Stiles is an idiot, all with his face.

Scott doesn’t protest when the girl drags him up to his feet and hurls him away.

Stiles is yanked up. The iron grip of Derek’s hand around his arm shouldn’t feel so familiar, he thinks distantly.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Derek snarls when he manhandles Stiles so he can look at him. Derek’s eyebrows even manage to convey, ‘Why are you here?’ and ‘Who let you in?’ in addition. Stiles tries to pry his arm out of Derek’s hold but it’s hopeless. He just rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to let you bully me into staying away for ever, jackass,” he scoffs. “He’s my best friend and I want to help him. You don’t seem to do a good job.”

Derek looks livid, but instead he yanks him around and walks back the way Stiles came. Derek’s frighteningly silent, and again Stiles can’t do anything against the relentless pull. It’s so fucking frustrating. Werewolves and their stupid strength. Stiles twists around helplessly, tries to dig his heels in, claws at Derek’s hand around his arm but it’s no use. Out of frustration, Stiles jabs a finger into Derek’s side.

Derek jumps so hard that Stiles loses his footing, stumbling forward and almost knocking into Derek. It takes a few seconds for him to process what just happened, and then Stiles is laughing again, so hard his has to brace a hand on Derek’s shoulder to keep himself from toppling over. Stiles can’t even stop to consider for a moment that it’s the worst idea ever to laugh into Derek’s face but—

Derek’s ticklish. The big, scary, stoic werewolf is ticklish. 

The thought alone makes more laughter ripple through Stiles’ frame. Derek shakes off Stiles’ hand from his shoulder watching Stiles holding his stomach while he collapses on the floor. His face is particularly sour, and yet there is a certain helplessness to him, like he has no idea how to react or what to do. Stiles assumes that this hasn’t happened before, and his best guess is that Derek does not appreciate that Stiles discovered this little weak spot.

Stiles is still sitting on the floor laughing when Derek grits out, “You need to leave.” He looks beyond pissed and glares menacingly.

“You wanna try that again?” Stiles asks breathlessly before he draws in a deep breath in an attempt to (a) get some air to breathe and (b) calm himself down. “It’s kinda hard to take you seriously now, dude, you know, when I know you jump sky high when I poke your side.”

Derek looks like he’s seconds away from wringing Stiles’ neck. Again.

“Leave. Now,” Derek tries once more. His glare is impressive, Stiles has to admit but he doesn’t have time to be intimidated, he’s too busy admiring Derek’s strong jawline when he grits his teeth. Man, that jaw in combination with that stubble should be illegal.

“Or what?” Stiles prompts, snapping himself out of his daze.

“Or I’ll rip your throat out,” Derek threatens. There. Stiles wasn’t far off with his assumption.

“Huh,” he says. “That was your second try. You want to go for another one? You know, generous as I am, I grant you three tries.”

Derek hauls him up faster than Stiles can process, and pushes him up against the nearest wall. He’s not gentle but it doesn’t hurt either. Stiles finds his face inches from Derek’s, feeling his breath against his face. For a helpless second, Stiles ogles Derek’s eyes.  His brain oh-so-helpfully provides Central Heterochromia. He’s off guard, not used to a stranger all up in his space. Stiles wonders for a split second what it would feel like to have Derek’s mouth on his throat, but doesn’t delve into it.

“Is this some sort of sick game to you?” Derek sneers, his hands fisted tightly into Stiles’ plaid, pinning him effectively against the wall. “Do you have a death wish?”

Derek doesn’t let him answer. Instead, he continues, “I don’t care. I’m not going to be responsible for your well-being if you keep coming back here and putting yourself out to the danger. And I’m not going to let Scott take the fall for your stupidity. Stay away until he is able to control himself. Leave now or—”

“Or what, huh?” Stiles interrupts, angry now. “Have you thought about that maybe he needs someone familiar around? Obviously, he still needs to find an anchor, and I’m guessing wildly here but you’re not exactly helping, as it seems. He’s my best friend. He means more to me than he probably means to you.” 

Derek briefly seems taken aback. He’s back to glowering in no time, though. “I have no control over him finding an anchor,” he grits out, a frustrated note to his voice.

“That’s why I’m here,” Stiles offers. “I know him better than you do. I don’t want to be a chew toy; I’m not saying I’m going to volunteer to be eaten alive. But if I can help , I’m going to do it, even if it means being around him when he flips. He recognized me earlier. When I said his name. He recognized me.”

Derek isn’t convinced yet. Stiles can tell by the way his mouth is still forming a thin line. His eyebrows are furrowed. “No.”

Stiles clenches his jaw. “You want to play dirty? Fine. I’m going to tell everyone that you are ticklish, and if anyone wants to take you out, they only have to go for your sides.”

Derek narrows his eyes dangerously. “You realize you’re acting like a child whose candy has been stolen, right?”

“I bet your tag-alongs don’t know about your little weak spot,” Stiles answers, unimpressed. It’s a shot in the dark, he doesn’t really know if Derek’s going to take the bait. For all he knows Derek couldn’t care less.

“Stiles,” Derek says warningly, scowl hard on his face. Stiles is stricken by the way his name sounds when Derek says it, the sound skittering down his spine making goose bumps spread along the way. He inhales deeply. It’s when he notices that Derek’s hands, where they’re gripping his shirt, rise and fall with his breathing.

“Try me,” Stiles dares and watches when Derek’s jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. He bares his—human—teeth, in what Stiles thinks is meant to be a threatening manner but seems furious and faintly desperate.

“Fine,” he snarls pointedly, yet he doesn’t move away from Stiles. “If you say so much as only one word or make any indications…”

“Aaaand that was the third!” Stiles says enthusiastically, high fiving himself mentally. Stiles can’t help but grin. He has leverage now, and he knows how to use it, never mind that Derek’s an alpha werewolf. He may appear furious on the outside, but Stiles is sure that underneath he is genuinely scared Stiles might spill his secret. Not that he was seriously up to it. But Derek doesn’t have to know that.

Derek sneers, annoyed, letting go of Stiles and stepping away. “You do as I say. You don’t interfere during the physical training. You don’t try your ideas out on Scott. If you don’t stick to the rules, I’m going to chain you up myself in one of the cells for full moons until you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Kinky,” Stiles says cheekily, and Derek’s face grows even sourer. He turns and stalks back the way they came. Stiles hurriedly follows.

It isn’t until later that day that Stiles realizes Derek knew his name despite the lack of an official introduction.

***

The sun is already halfway set when they get into a town Stiles has never heard of—yet again. It’s dark by the time they find a Laundromat. Luckily, no one is inside, and the streets are almost free of people too.

Stiles rummages in one of the bags until he finds their detergent, throws it in with all of their dirty laundry and gets out of the car. Derek is already lingering at the entrance to the Laundromat, alert, skimming the streets with his eyes. And Stiles can see the tense arc of his shoulders and the firm set of his jaw. They can rarely really relax, and even though Stiles isn’t always one hundred per cent on edge, the thrumming feeling of anxiety and vigilance is permanently there, hiding just beneath the surface.

He reaches for Derek’s hand when he catches up with him, and squeezes lightly. Stiles can only do so much to take something of Derek’s edginess away but Derek relaxes at the touch, and there’s the ghost of a smile around the corners of his mouth.

Stiles has long stopped sorting clothes by colour, he just throws in the entire pile. It doesn’t matter anyway.

After starting the wash cycle he turns around to Derek and says, “Go find a motel we can stay in tonight.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Derek answers, even before Stiles finishes his sentence. Stiles can’t decide whether it’s cute or down right annoying.

“I’m a big boy, I can watch out for myself,” Stiles assures him, rolling his eyes. “You can come back once you’ve checked in.”

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

Stiles draws in a deep breath, reading for yet another discussion, but he sighs instead and lets it go. He doesn’t want to fight with Derek again. And anyway,  he feels safer when Derek is around. Stiles hates how jumpy he gets when Derek isn’t in his direct sight. Derek’s just the same, though.

There was one time when stayed in a motel, and Stiles went out in the morning to get breakfast while Derek was still asleep. By the time he came back, Derek almost knocked Stiles out accidentally when he opened the door to the room the moment Stiles wanted to come in. After that Derek held him close, pressed him against the door and buried his in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles still remembers vividly the rapid beating of Derek’s heart against his chest, and how Derek wouldn’t let him go for a while, murmuring, “Don’t do that again,” over and over in a slightly shaky voice, tinged with desperation and relief. Stiles doesn’t want a repeat of that scene.

So Stiles leans against one of the huge washing machines, considering what he could do while they wait for the clothes to be done. He’s not up for reading the books that are lying on the backseat of the car, and Derek probably doesn’t want to play guessing games with him. Stiles contemplates buying a set of cards so he can teach Derek poker. Surprisingly, Derek can’t play poker for shit; he’s an ace in darts and billiards, however. It’s how they make cash, actually, although Derek has a shitload of it stashed somewhere. How Derek managed to draw so much money so shortly before they had to leave is still a mystery to Stiles but he doesn’t ask. Mostly, Stiles plays poker for fun and not for the money but it also helps him being somewhat independent from Derek; that way Stiles doesn’t have to live off him.

Derek steps in front of him, placing his hands on Stiles’ hips. Stiles feels the heat spreading from where the warmth of Derek’s fingers seeps into his skin, it shoots through his body and leaves him tingling. It isn’t fair, Stiles thinks, how easy he is sometimes, when Derek doesn’t have to do much more than touch him innocently, and Stiles feels like he’s been set ablaze. The dark expression in Derek’s eyes, however, says that this touch isn’t innocent at all, and he knows exactly how Stiles will react.

Derek’s lips are on his before he can even think about it, and Stiles throws his arms around Derek’s neck, pulling him closer and opening his mouth. It’s an invitation Derek takes without hesitation, brushing his tongue against Stiles’. He can’t deny that kissing Derek is still as exciting as it was when he first kissed him, still as breathtaking and hot. Stiles sighs when Derek’s hand slip under his shirt, fingertips ghosting over his skin and leaving burning trails; it makes Stiles’ head spin and his heart pound. He feels flushed all over, and suddenly the warm air around them is a cool sensation on his skin when Derek pushes his shirt further up.

Stiles lets his fingers wander along the waistband of Derek’s jeans all the way to the back. He slides his hands under Derek’s shirt, raking blunt nails slightly over his back, feeling the muscles shift when Derek moves, and Stiles moans helplessly when Derek releases his mouth and latches onto the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. Derek knows how to push his buttons, and Stiles thinks it’s unfair. Derek’s caresses and teasing bites feel so achingly sweet and amazing; his touches consume Stiles and take his breath away, they warm him to the very core, and Stiles feels loved and safe. 

Derek gently tugs on his hair, and Stiles follows the motion, tipping his head back. Derek groans, dark and low, satisfied yet predatory, and it shoots straight to Stiles’ dick. He whimpers at the feathery brush of Derek’s lips to his neck. It’s soul-destroying pleasure and sweet, sweet anguish at the same time, fuelling his arousal, his need for being so intimately close to Derek.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps breathlessly. Seriously, it’s damn hard to stay lucid while Derek is taunting him like that, letting his mouth ghost over his collarbone and still bared throat, keeping a hand in Stiles’ hair and his head firmly tipped back. “We shouldn’t—”

Derek latches onto the hollow of his throat, biting and sucking and licking, and Stiles almost chokes on his words. The humming noise Derek makes is proof enough that he enjoys this way too much. Stiles is onboard but there’s still a small voice in his head  telling him it’s probably not the best idea to make out in a public place.

He tries again, “We shouldnnnnn—ha.”

Stiles moans helplessly when Derek licks a long line from the base of his throat up to the tip of his chin, bucking up and pressing his hips closer to Derek’s. Derek continues biting tauntingly along his jawline.

“You were saying?” Derek prompts, and Stiles can hear the fucking smugness in his voice, the self-satisfied grin on his lips. That bastard. Stiles is about to reply with something snarky but it gets stuck in his throat as Derek slips his thigh between Stiles’ knees, deliberately rubbing it against his crotch. Instead of a coherent answer, a series of little throaty moans and gasps and whines comes out of his mouth.

Stiles grinds down on Derek’s thigh and then up against his hips in retaliation. He can feel the outline of Derek’s hard cock against his leg, and, smirking, Stiles repeats his movement. Derek groans with every time Stiles shifts, and Stiles can’t help but preen a little. However, it doesn’t last long because every noise that escapes Derek’s lips sends hot sparks down Stiles’ spine, and more blood rushing into his already throbbing erection.

“I was saying, we probably shouldn’t get indecent in public,” Stiles manages out eventually. “I don’t want to be arrested with a raging boner and a hand down your pants.”

Derek pushes his thigh higher, watching with hungry eyes as Stiles squirms and gasps, and his voice sounds strained and hoarse when he says, “We’re already indecent. Might as well enjoy it.”

Grinning, he adds, “Well, and there’s an image,” and when Stiles opens his mouth to argue again, Derek grabs his’ legs and guides them around his waist, pushing Stiles effectively up against the washing machine. The hard line of Derek’s dick pushes against his, and Stiles feels like all the air has been pressed out of his lungs.

“Fuck you,” Stiles chokes out breathlessly, tipping his head back again when Derek rolls his hips against him; mouth open for a voiceless moan.

“Can’t. I have to sleep. Doctor’s orders,” Derek mocks, and even though he’s as turned on as Stiles, there is still too much smugness and sarcasm in it. Stiles glowers at him but before he can counter Derek digs his hands into his ass and ruts against him, wringing another string of needy little sounds from Stiles’ mouth.

Derek is licking into his mouth and Stiles can nothing but meet him halfway, momentarily ignoring the nagging voice in his head that won’t shut up. Stiles grinds down every time Derek rocks up, having them fall into a steady but greedy rhythm that is accompanied by a constant stream of breathless moans and gasps. Stiles feels his cock twitch with every groan that comes out of Derek’s mouth, and everything is so hot and burning. A wave of ravishing sparks of pleasure rolls over him, building somewhere low and deep from within, and Stiles throws his head back, banging against the washing machine, and tightens his legs around Derek to make him stop moving. It only makes the friction sweeter, and Derek’s heat is all-encompassing.

“Stop, stop. Stop,” Stiles mewls out pathetically. “Derek—”

Derek makes a distressed sound. He doesn’t completely stop but he slows down considerably, lazily dragging their denim-wrapped cocks against each other and wrings another whimper from Stiles. Gently biting at Stiles’ collarbone, Derek brusquely demands, “Why?”

Stiles trembles when Derek’s tongue swiftly sweeps over the small spot between his collarbones.

“Because I’m not going to cream my pants like some overly horny and embarrassingly needy teenager,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. He hisses when Derek pushes even closer; the friction is getting too much, and Stiles is sure he won’t withstand this for much longer.

“Do it as an overly horny and embarrassingly needy adult then,” Derek suggests—again with the smirk. Fucker. Quite literally. Stiles bites back a groan when Derek rocks up once more, slowly, deliberately, and he makes sure to drag the movement out.

“You shouldn’t offer ideas when you’re humping me, you know, they tend to be undoubtedly pathetic,” Stiles shoots back, dragging his nails down Derek’s back. He’s rewarded with a bodily shudder and a dark, throaty grumble that reverberates through his own chest.

“Why are you even still talking?” Derek asks somewhat incredulously, picking up the pace again.

“Multita—ah—sking,” Stiles sneers. “You should try it sometime.”

Derek grips his hips, hard, holding him in place before starting to rut forcefully against him. Stiles is sure he’ll combust any second now. Derek doesn’t hold back, breathing out greedy moans that are hot-wired to Stiles’ dick and ignite violently ravishing sparks in him. Stiles pushes his hands into Derek’s hair and tugs. There’s another dark sound coming from Derek’s throat but he complies and Stiles buries his face in his neck to bite at the burning skin.

“You feel so good,” Derek whispers hoarsely into his ear, and it’s what tips Stiles over the edge. Stiles’ grip on Derek’s hair tightens as he groans loudly into his shoulder, pressing himself flush against Derek. The orgasm crashes in blissful waves over him. Derek shudders when he comes and the sound he makes sends pleasant flares up Stiles’ spine.

Stiles rests his forehead against Derek’s shoulder while Derek brushes his lips softly against Stiles’ temple. It’s sweet and tender and intimate, and Stiles relaxes into Derek, panting slightly, coming down from his high. Despite the unpleasant, sticky feeling in his pants, Stiles stays still and gingerly brushes with his fingers through Derek’s hair while Derek scatters feathery kisses along his neck and shoulder.

“I can’t believe we did this,” Stiles says eventually when his breathing has evened out. Derek chuckles lightly before he puts him down gently. “You’re even hornier than I am.”

Derek arches an eyebrow at him but doesn’t actually answer. Stiles likes to think it’s because Derek secretly agrees. Admittedly, Stiles enjoys the humping, and even though his days of creaming his pants have been long over before this, he’d still choose making out with Derek over not jizzing his boxers.

“Actually, I couldn’t wait to tap that,” Derek says, deadpan, in a mockery of what Stiles used to say about him when they first started making out.

“I can’t even blame you. Gotta admit I am a hot piece of ass,” Stiles replies and tilts his head to run a hand down the side of his neck. Derek’s eyes follow the motion.

“You’re a fluffy piece of flailing limbs.”

“Aw, dude, you just said ‘fluffy’.”

“I take it all back. You’re a huge pain in the ass.”

Stiles laughs cheekily, grabbing the collar of Derek’s jacket to reel him in and kiss him softly. “You said I’m fluffy.”

“Check your hearing, I said you’re annoying,” Derek responds, fondly though, and places a kiss on Stiles’ forehead.

“Oh come on,” Stiles says, tipping his head a little to brush his lips against Derek’s. “You’d be bored out of your mind if I wasn’t here to badger you every once in a while.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “’Every once in a while’? More like every waking minute.”

Pouting, Stiles asks, “Don’t you enjoy my company?”

Derek leans into Stiles again, pinning him against the washing machine and cupping his jaw before running a thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip. He kisses the pout right off, licking into Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles arches into him.

“I wouldn’t be in a safe place without you,” Derek admits in a quiet voice. Stiles stares at him open-mouthed, unable to form a coherent sentence, let alone a single thought. A furiously warm feeling sweeps through him. Derek isn’t one to confess a lot of things or talk about his emotions, so this is actually something huge.

“You’re not in a safe place, Derek,” Stiles says faintly.

“Maybe not,” Derek agrees. The intensity of his look is almost too much to bear. “I’m in a better place than I could have imagined, though. Your company—you are my safe place.”

“I need fresh pants,” Stiles declares, for a lack of something else to say.

***

“Aw, Scott never mentioned how cute you are,” Erica says, rubbing a hand over Stiles’ buzzed hair. She’s the blonde girl—woman—who dragged Scott away a couple of hours earlier. Her hair falls in loose locks over her shoulders. She has her legs crossed, palms braced on the table she’s sitting on and leans forward slightly, showing off her impressive cleavage. Stiles has a hard time not looking, although it’s clearly what Erica wants. “And you have manners. My, my!”

She cocks her head flashing a blinding smile at him. Stiles doesn’t know whether he should feel flattered or scared. Erica touches her upper lip with the tip of her tongue as she regards him with a faintly predatory gleam in her eyes. It makes him squirm.

Isaac, the lanky, tall guy, smirks wickedly while Boyd just rolls his eyes. The three of them are Derek’s Betas, they’re his pack. These news has Stiles genuinely surprised. For whatever reason, Stiles didn’t think Derek had a pack, and now Scott’s words seem more real: wherever the Alpha goes, the Betas go too.

Derek and Scott have gone…somewhere. Stiles found himself with the three Betas after Derek had agreed to let him help—even though they haven’t discussed anything in particular yet.

“So,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together, just to freeze the next second as Erica trails her finger across his cheek, drawing patterns connecting the moles on his skin. Her fingers come to rest at his chin before she shifts to continue on the other side of his face. Stiles dodges her this time, making her laugh cheerfully.

He clears his throat. “How come you guys are Derek’s Betas?”

Erica’s eyes are still on him. Stiles squirms again. He’s not used that someone pays so much attention to him. Stiles isn’t exactly uncomfortable, having such a beautiful woman as Erica coo over him is actually massaging his ego but…still. It’s weird.

Erica leans back again, flicking her hair over her shoulder and raising her chin. “I used to have seizures,” she answers. “They were getting worse, so my parents and I went through all the legal channels so I could get the Bite. Derek was the one who bit me and trained with me after. I decided to go with him.”

“And your parents are okay with that?” Stiles asks doubtfully.

Shrugging, she says, “It’s part of the deal. They knew I’d have to choose an Alpha when we did all of this paperwork and stuff. They knew this would happen, and they know Derek. It’s fine with them as long as they know I’m with him.”

Stiles is stunned into silence. Admittedly, he doesn’t know Derek personally but it still kind of surprises him to hear someone talk so highly of him. Apparently, Derek is enough of an honourable werewolf to make Erica’s parents sleep easily at night. He didn’t expect that, given the fact that Derek is mostly murderous eyebrows, unfair manhandling and hilariously ticklish—wait, no, that last part is actually in his favour—and ridiculous eyes…dammit! Pissy facial expressions. There, that’s it. Derek Hale, a portrait: murderous eyebrows, unfair manhandling and pissy facial expressions.

Stiles turns around to Isaac. He doesn’t look like he’s thrilled to have to talk about it. Stiles considers moving on to Boyd, because he won’t make anyone talk.

“My dad died when I was sixteen,” Isaac tells him in a quiet but steady voice. “I had two options: foster care or getting the Bite and join a pack. I chose the latter. It’s been almost four years since then.”

Stiles gets the distinct feeling like there’s more to the story. He refrains from pressing, though, and Isaac’s answer is clear enough for him.

Boyd huffs when Stiles looks at him, and shortly explains, “Bitten by a rogue. Derek was the one who trained me, so I stayed with him.”

Stiles nods absently when suddenly something clenches painfully in his chest. Maybe it takes a while for Scott to figure it out how to control all of his newly gained abilities, but what if he chooses Derek as an Alpha in the end too? That would mean he’d leave Beacon Hills as soon as Derek and his pack do, and Stiles would end up separated from his best friend. Stiles hopes that Scott either doesn’t decide to join Derek, or Derek settles down in Beacon Hills; it’s been his home before, so why not?

“So what made Derek agree to let you stay?” Isaac asks then. “He usually doesn’t like to have strangers around.”

“I’m not a stranger,” Stiles protests. Erica snickers, and Boyd just shakes his head.

“You aren’t to Scott but you are to Derek,” he clarifies easily shrugging a little.

“I still can’t decide whether you have balls or are just plain dumb, laughing like a lunatic when a feral werewolf is about to shred you to pieces,” Isaac chimes in. The amused look is back. Erica openly laughs at that.

“He hesitated, though,” Boyd points out deliberately. They turn around to look at him. Stiles seems to be the only one who really is surprised.

Boyd shrugs again. “Scott hesitated when you laughed, and when you said his name, Scott recognized you.”

So Stiles wasn’t the only one who noticed, and he was right about it. He’s sure when Boyd, Isaac and Erica noticed, Derek did too.

“That’s a good thing, right?” He really needs the reassurance.

“It was still stupid,” Erica replies. “You were lucky. Maybe your laughter startled him and it’s why he recognized your voice when you called him.”

“Wow, thanks for the heads up,” Stiles retorts sarcastically. It’s not the answer he has hoped for but it’s still better than nothing.

“Stiles!”

Scott is on him before Stiles can properly react, hugging him tightly.

“Are you okay?” he asks a little frantic, pulling away and gripping Stiles’ shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. “Are you hurt?”

“No, buddy, I’m fine,” Stiles answers. He can’t help but beam at Scott, who smiles right back, eyes bright with relief and excitement, and oh god, it feels so good to finally see his best friend face to face again. He wouldn’t have lasted if he had to wait any longer. Stiles is amazed that he hasn’t gone insane after a month away from Scott.

Before they can start talking about everything that has piled up over the month, Derek grabs for Stiles’ arm and drags him along without a word, and Stiles can only do so much as stumble.

“Dude! What is it with you and the non-consensual manhandling?” Stiles complains. It earns him a dirty look from Derek, a suppressed grunt from Isaac and unashamed laughter from Erica. Derek bestows her with another of his pissy looks but he releases Stiles’ arm and marches on, Stiles in tow.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks as he reluctantly stumbles after Derek. “I swear, if you kick me out again, I’m going to—”

“We’re going to talk about the conditions of your…help.” Derek spits the word out like it’s a dirty thing.

“Why are you dragging me into another room?” Stiles says, annoyed, and tries to twist his way out of Derek’s hold on him. It’s no use, once again. “You have super-hearing.”

“The rooms here are soundproof when the doors are closed,” Derek explains. The way he stops in his tracks and looks at Stiles with his eyebrows drawn together in a threatening way tells Stiles that Derek realized what he just said. And apparently, he thinks it was a mistake. Which Stiles would love to say it wasn’t but…interesting. Soundproof rooms. Derek reads it off his face, obviously, because he looks like he wants to slam him against the next best flat surface. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Stiles looks at him innocently but Derek only narrows his eyes before he turns and starts walking again. When they reach the door of the room Derek deems suitable, he holds it open for Stiles, and follows him inside once Stiles has stepped in. The door closes quietly.

“I thought you already told me your conditions,” Stiles says turning around to Derek.

“Let’s see if you remember them,” Derek replies. Stiles feels like he’s back in school. It’s stupid.

“I do as you say,” he starts, ticking it off on his fingers. “I don’t interfere during physical training—whatever this is supposed to mean—and I don’t try out my ideas on Scott.”

Derek nods curtly, and Stiles even dares to go so far and say that there’s a vague satisfied expression around the line of his mouth. But that might be his imagination.

“First of all, I only agreed to this, because Scott is still reluctant,” Derek says. Stiles stares at him in confusion. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“He still barely accepts that he’s a werewolf now,” Derek elaborates, rolling his eyes like Stiles is completely retarded. “The longer and harder he fights it, the longer and harder it will be for him to learn control.”

Stiles wants to jump and say something about that unintentional innuendo but Derek’s glare is a new way of murderous, and he just swallows what he wanted to blurt out.

“You know him; you’re his best friend, so it’s on you now to make him accept it. Trust me, you want to. If he doesn’t that means he’ll have to stay in here for ever,” Derek continues. “He can’t go back. I get that he didn’t want this but whining and complaining won’t make it go away. He’ll have to accommodate, and I’m here to help him.”

Stiles suddenly starts seeing why Erica, Isaac and Boyd stayed with Derek. It’s not much, sure, but Derek isn’t here to make Scott’s life harder, and—if the Frustrated Eyebrows are anything to go by—he is clearly distressed about the fact that there is little to no progress on Scott learning control. Stiles rubs a hand over his hair.

“You want me to accept his wolflihood?” Stiles asks, just to be sure. The way Derek’s lips curl surly at the last word are answer enough.

“I can do that,” Stiles hurries to say. “Then what?”

“Then he has to find an anchor. It should get easier after that.”

“Why hasn’t he found an anchor yet?”

Derek makes a noise at the back of his throat that conveys his annoyance. “I already told you I have no control about that. Other than that, it has to do with his attitude. He doesn’t really try. He still tries to separate himself from his werewolf aspect, and as long as he keeps doing it, he won’t be able to get it under control.”

“Because the werewolf and Scott aren’t two different…beings but one,” Stiles finishes, and Derek nods. There’s a thoughtful expression on his face now, like he didn’t expect Stiles to say that or to figure it out.

“At least one of us will always be around when you’re with him,” Derek says then. “To keep you safe.”

Stiles isn’t particularly excited about the idea but he gets that it’s necessary, and Isaac, Erica and Boyd don’t seem to be sour jackasses like Derek. He’ll deal.

“One last thing,” Derek says, back to the glaring again. “If you only so much as once do something you’re not supposed to do, I’ll blow this whole thing off, and you’re back to being banned from coming here.”

“Oh my god, dude, relax. I got it.”

“Really?” Derek arches his eyebrows. “I was sure you’d try to make an innuendo out of it again.”

Stiles openly gapes, and a pleased smirk stretches across Derek’s face. He opens the door and walks out then, leaving Stiles alone.

Wow. He takes everything back. He totally doesn’t get why Erica, Isaac and Boyd stayed with Derek. What a dumbass.

***

It’s past midnight when they find a motel and check in. Stiles feels relieved that he can sleep in a bed again. They have been sleeping in the Camaro for a week now, and Stiles gets cranky. No matter how flashy and hot that car looks it’s not made for sleeping in, much less having sex in it. They’ve tried that too.

Stiles pulls out the bag with their freshly washed stuff while Derek grabs the rest of the stuff they need. Everything is quiet around them, and there is not much traffic. Maybe it’s because of how late it is, Stiles can’t tell.

Their room is small but surprisingly clean. The first thing Stiles does is try out the bed, and compared to the seats of the Camaro it’s heavenly. He runs a hand over the blanket. Derek puts the bag down on the small table, and Stiles catches how he inhales deeply a couple of times. Smelling if there’s something weird in here. Maybe they’re a little paranoid. It has saved them a couple of times.

“You,” Stiles says pointing a finger at Derek. “Sleep, now. No discussion.”

Derek smirks tiredly. “Bossy.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Am I granted permission to go take a shower first?” Derek mocks playfully. Stiles narrows his eyes at him. Derek enjoys making fun of him when Stiles starts getting grumpy and bosses Derek around. Mostly, Derek doesn’t mind, he knows better than to start a full-blown. He starts cracking stupid jokes, though.

Stiles waves his hand dismissively, and Derek disappears into the bathroom with a smug grin on his lips.

“Jackass,” Stiles says loud enough for Derek to hear it easily. He gets laughter in response.

Stiles shakes their clean clothes onto the table and sits down before he begins sorting through it and folding everything neatly. It’s something to keep himself occupied, so he doesn’t have to think about what Derek said to him earlier. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable about it; it’s more of the opposite, actually. The feeling Derek released within him is fuzzy and warm and all-around amazing. Stiles only wishes they could actually be safe.

They haven’t been for nine months now.

Derek comes out of the bathroom with only some sweatpants on that hang low on his hips. His hair is damp from the shower, and really, he just looks ridiculous. Stiles wants to lick him all over, trace the droplets that run down Derek’s neck with his tongue and suck—

“Stop,” Derek says intently, eyes fixed on Stiles with a dark expression to them. Stiles eyes flutter from Derek’s neck to his face. “Stop broadcasting or we won’t get much sleep tonight.”

Derek has that look on his face that says he dares Stiles to go on creating dirty, dirty images in his mind. He’d have an excuse to pounce Stiles then, and if the expectant expression on Derek’s features is anything to go by, it’s exactly what he wants. Stiles draws in a deep breath, collecting himself, and swallows. It’s not like he would object if they ended up making out again but he really wants Derek to get some sleep.

“Go to sleep,” he orders eventually, turning back to the clothes. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, and then he hears Derek’s almost silent footsteps as he comes over. His hands slide from Stiles’ shoulders to his neck, fingertips brushing softly over his skin.

“Come to bed with me,” Derek asks gently as his fingers stroke gently over his jaw, his cheeks, down to the front of his neck. It’s an innocent invitation, and Stiles relaxes into the touch. He gets up from the chair and turns to look at Derek.

“In a minute,” he promises before kissing him. Stiles grabs for clean boxers and a shirt as he heads for the bathroom to shower himself. He wants to get it over with quickly but the warm water is a pleasure, and Stiles ends up taking ten more minutes. After that, he can’t get into his boxers and the shirt fast enough. He almost falls face forward on the floor as he stumbles out of the bathroom, and Derek’s chuckle is echoing in his ears. The lights are turned off already, so it takes Stiles a couple of seconds to adjust his sight.

Stiles walks around the bed once he can make out shapes in the dark, and crawls under the sheets, presses himself to Derek. Derek wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, and his hand runs down Stiles’ back and slips under his shirt to draw patterns onto his skin. Stiles lets out a pleased noise, and shuts his eyes. Derek’s lips ghost over his closed eyelids. Lying in bed with Derek feels incredible: sweet and tender and safe, and Stiles goes boneless against him. He can feel Derek relax too, shifting a little and wrapping himself around Stiles. It became a thing a little while after they left Beacon Hills, the way they sleep together, all tangled up and wrapped around each other. Stiles thinks maybe it’s because they’re both afraid the other might disappear, dissolve into thin air if they don’t hold on tightly enough. 

“Good night,” Stiles mumbles against the skin of Derek’s shoulder with his eyes already drooping. Derek makes a pleased humming noise. He’s out cold before he can form another thought, enveloped in Derek’s warm embrace.

Stiles wakes up to Derek trailing his fingers up and down Stiles’ spine, under his shirt. Derek is gazing at him intently, observant and curious. He is relaxed, his lips are soft, and his default frown is nowhere to be seen. Stiles smiles sleepily at him and stretches lazily. He’s hugging his pillow but the blankets cover both of them only from the hips downwards.

“What time is it?” Stiles asks around a yawn.

“Almost eleven,” Derek answers. Stiles makes a surprised sound while Derek flashes him an amused grin.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Not for long. I woke up about ten minutes before you,” Derek says. His hand stops wandering up and down Stiles’ back, instead he places it over his tailbone, fanning out his fingers. Stiles bucks up into the touch a little and buries his face into the pillow for a moment. Lazy mornings are rare and he loves them so, so much. He’s a little surprised that Derek has slept for so long too. Usually, he’s up and about after only a few hours of sleep. Derek doesn’t allow himself the luxury of restful sleep very often.

“Sleep well?” Derek asks, and Stiles stretches again, nodding satisfied.

“Did you?”

Derek smiles softly, and it makes something warm and huge blossom in Stiles’ chest.

“Yeah,” Derek assures him. Stiles wrestles one of his hands out of under the pillow and rakes his fingers through Derek’s adorable bed hair. He crawls closer to Derek before he leans in to kiss him, and Derek meets him halfway.

They stay in bed for a while longer. Stiles loses his shirt in between and Derek peppers his moles with kisses. He bites gently at the bottom of his back before he trails his tongue up Stiles’ vertebrae to the nape of his neck. Stiles can’t prevent the tremble from running through his body. He presses his face into his pillow, arching into Derek’s touch, as his moan is muffled by the cloth. Goose bumps tingle over his skin and he’s gasping for air when Derek lightly blows his breath over the wet stripe he licked over Stiles’ back.

Stiles doesn’t have to stop himself from forming hot sex scenes in his head this time. He gladly gives in to Derek’s kisses and touches, and Derek makes appreciative, pleased noises when Stiles dips down to blow him.

Stiles is shamelessly whimpering by the time Derek’s worked two fingers into him. He’s burning, and hard, almost painfully so, and Derek just wouldn’t touch him.

“Derek, please,” Stiles rasps out, screwing his eyes shut and groaning when Derek slightly rolls his fingertips against this spot. Derek leans closer from where he’s kneeling beside him and mouths at his jawline. Stiles curses at the smug hum Derek lets out. It’s achingly sweet torture that sends sparks through his veins. Stiles goes down on his forearms and then presses his shoulders against the pillow, mashing his face into the cotton. He spreads his legs wider, shuddering when his dick brushes against the sheets. It’s not much friction but it’s better than none at all.

Derek thumbs along his rim where Stiles is stretched around two of his fingers but otherwise he’s stilled his motions. Stiles turns his head to look up at him just to find Derek stare at where his fingers are buried inside of Stiles. He shudders involuntarily. Derek drags his gaze away from Stiles’ ass to look at him, and Stiles can’t help but push back against his hand, urging him on to move.

Only Derek stops moving at all, the expression in his eyes wicked and expectant and Stiles refuses to get impatient, to start begging. But the pressure is right there, right at the edge of ecstatic pleasure, and yet not enough. Stiles loathes Derek’s stamina and stupid werewolf self-control. He grits his teeth as the desire to rock against Derek’s fingers sweeps through him, and is determined to hold out long enough that Derek gets impatient.

Of course Stiles gives in. He’s on the verge of feeling mind-blowingly amazing. If Derek doesn’t want to contribute, fine, Stiles will wreck him anyway. He shoves back against the pressure of Derek’s fingers, and moans in delight when he hits gold. Stiles’ cock drags over the sheets beneath him. It’s a minimum of friction, not enough but taunting all the way, and makes Stiles repeat the movement. He falls into a steady rhythm of pushing back and trying to grind his throbbing erection against the blankets. Derek is rigid next to him. Distantly, Stiles thinks he’s holding his breath, and can’t stop the smirk from forming on his lips.

“More,” he orders around a moan when two of Derek’s fingers aren’t enough anymore. Stiles arches his back deliberately when he hears Derek’s breath hitch in his throat, and then there’s a third finger when he rocks his hips back and Stiles throws his head back, mewling out Derek’s name. Derek mutters a curse under his breath and reaches out to grip his dick with his free hand. Stiles catches his hand with one of his, entwining their fingers so Derek can’t touch himself.

Stiles ruts against Derek’s hand with a constant stream of blatant gasps and moans tumbling out of his mouth while Derek watches him fucking himself on his fingers. His jaw is clenched and his pupils blown wide. Derek’s eyes are practically glued to his ass. Stiles shifts a little and clenches around him, making Derek screw his eyes shut and let out a shuddering breath. It’s satisfying and hot. He grins when Derek catches his eyes, and licks his lips purposely, knowing that it drives Derek crazy. Derek lets out a dark, impatient noise, grumbling low in his chest, and Stiles shoves back hard, keening.

Derek gets behind him without removing his fingers and pulls him up into a kneeling position, pressing his chest flush against Stiles’ back. Stiles whimpers at the loss of friction on his dick but Derek curls his hand loosely around the base of his neck and tips his head back, biting down on his shoulder.

Stiles grinds down on Derek’s fingers the same moment when Derek pushes them in deep to the knuckle, and Stiles cries out a pathetic sound as his orgasm slams through him, making him see blinding white sparks behind closed eyelids, his back bow-string tight. Derek’s lips are at his ear, whispering, “So good, Stiles,” and Stiles wails helplessly.

He’s grossly sweating by the time Derek wrings a second mind-melting orgasm out of him, having nothing but nailed Stiles into the mattress. Stiles feels like he’s floating inches above the bed while he’s lulled into a cloud of comfort and bliss. Derek stretches out next to him, panting but looking as blissful as Stiles feels. Stiles wants to lie in bed with Derek for ever, sated and content, and not moving at all.

“You wrecked me,” he says, trying to catch his breath and attempting to glare at Derek. Derek only so much as arches an eyebrow.

“You drove me crazy fucking yourself on my fingers like that,” he snorts. “You have no idea what you look like. What you do to me.”

Derek reaches out and brushes damp hair away from Stiles’ forehead, massaging tiny circles into his scalp with his fingertips. It’s sweet and soothing, and Stiles lets his eyes fall shut.

“You brought it on yourself,” Stiles points out, opening his eyes again to look at Derek. There is a shark-like grin tugging at the corners of Derek’s mouth; he doesn’t seem bothered at all, more like deeply pleased.

“It was worth every second,” he remarks. Stiles huffs amused.

Once he’s come down from his high, he registers the hunger that quickly grows to a nagging feeling. Stiles sits up and peels away the sheet that stick to his sweaty skin.

“I’m going to get breakfast,” he announces. Derek shoots him an amused look.

“Looking like that?” he says, propping his head up on a hand. He scrunches up his nose. “No one will sell you anything when you look like that…or smell like that.”

“Looking like what?” Stiles asks as he fishes for clean clothes. “What do I smell like?”

“You look…,” Derek hesitates as if searching for the right word. “Porny.”

Incredulously, Stiles echoes, “Porny? I didn’t even know you had that in your vocabulary.”

“Porny,” Derek confirms, ignoring Stiles’ comment, and smugly adds, “And you smell like you’ve just had sex.”

“Duh,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “That’s because I’ve just had sex.”

“Yeah, and it’s showing in every way possible,” Derek informs him, still wearing that extremely self-satisfied expression, like it’s his greatest pleasure to make Stiles look like he came straight out of porn. Stiles grumbles quietly and disappears into the bathroom to grab a quick shower.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror when he steps out of the shower, and he doesn’t look better than before. His hair is still—or again—damp and sticks out in every direction, his skin flushed from the cool water of the shower, and his lips are red and swollen, and yeah—porny.

Derek openly laughs at him when Stiles comes out again. Stiles makes a bitch face at him.

“At least you tried,” Derek comments. “Do you want me to go?”

“You’re hilarious,” Stiles scoffs. He rubs his hands through his hair only to realize that, really, it’s counterproductive. Derek looks gleeful, and Stiles is torn between wanting to smack him and wanting to jump him again. “Like someone would sell you anything.”

“I don’t look like—”

“Like you’ve been thoroughly fucked, yes, thank you very much. No, you look like you came straight out of Photoshop,” Stiles interrupts. “That doesn’t make it better.”

Stiles buries his face in his hands. There’s nothing he can say now to make a valid point, because Derek doesn’t have to do much more than just flash a smile at someone to mostly get what he wants. It’s ridiculous.

Derek pries Stiles’ hands away from his face and gently pulls him closer. He sits on the edge of the bed with Stiles standing between his knees and looks up to him. Stiles runs his fingers along Derek’s jawline.

“It does make a difference,” Derek teases while he rides up Stiles’ shirt with his knuckles and then leans in to mouth at Stiles’ stomach. “Photoshopped against porny, well, let me guess what people in a small town like this would choose.”

Derek latches onto the skin right next to his navel, and Stiles groans before shoving him off. “You’d be surprised.”

Stiles stuffs some cash into his pockets. He waves at Derek who looks damn seductive and comfortable, sprawled out naked on the bed. So not fair.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Try not to attract too many cougars,” Derek advises with a gleeful quirk to his mouth. “I don’t want to have to rescue you from their clutches. It would end up being messy.”

Stiles rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at him before stepping out of the room. It’s a warm, sunny day, and Stiles squints against the sunlight. He saw a bakery last night when they drove to the motel, and it’s not far away.

He rounds a corner and abruptly runs into another person—and suddenly his heart is rabbiting in his chest: the first thing he notices on the other person is badge, US Marshals. Stiles keeps his head down. There are two of them, if the two pairs of shoes are anything to go by, and Stiles feels himself tense. He doesn’t know if they took a whiff of Stiles and Derek being here but even if they’re not in town for them, the Marshals would probably recognize him.

“Sorry,” he mutters and slips past them without looking up. He walks away quickly, pulling out his phone. After months and months of running and hiding and being alert at all times, Stiles’ hands don’t even shake when he sends a text to Derek that only says, Marshals.

“Excuse me,” he hears behind him. Stiles draws in a deep breath and turns around. It’s a dilemma, really. If he just ran, they would come after him, because it is always suspicious when someone bolts as soon as you address them. Turning around to face the Marshals is as stupid. Stiles’ face is most likely to be etched into their brains. Stiles is fucked either way. There is still a slight chance that they just want to point out that he dropped money when he pulled out his phone.

Stiles can pinpoint the exact moment both of the Marshals recognize him. So he does the only thing he can do. He runs.

He curses under his breath, knowing he can’t go back to the motel. Stiles throws the phone away on his way, sprinting past passers-by and trying to use as many alleys and turns as possible.

The hand on his back makes him jump before he’s tackled down and slammed to the ground. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes they don’t find Derek.

***

It’s dark all around and the only thing Stiles hears is Scott’s breathing. Derek has agreed to let him stay overnight, which is a first. The only condition he had was that the door to Scott’s room stays open at all times, and it was something that Stiles (and Scott) didn’t mind agreeing to. It’s been a couple of weeks since Stiles joined the training squad.

“Dude,” Stiles says into the silence. Scott broke Boyd’s arm today after he wolfed out again, and it’s taken a fair amount of violence from Derek to get Scott back on track. Stiles is sure he’ll be haunted by nightmares for at least a week. “It’s been almost two months.”

There’s shuffling coming from Scott’s bed but he doesn’t answer. Stiles has tried to talk to him about this whole Accept Your Inner Werewolf thing but Scott hadn’t taken it well. Maybe it’s not Stiles best idea to bring it out again in the dark of the night. He refuses to keep watching Scott struggle, though.

Eventually, Scott says, “I know.”

“He’s trying to help you,” Stiles adds hesitantly. He can feel Scott glaring daggers at him. “I get that it’s hard but you have to meet him halfway. Derek can’t control you, he can’t do this for you.”

“I know,” Scott says again, louder. “It’s just—I don’t want this. Any of this!”

Stiles sighs. He doesn’t know what to say to make Scott feel better. As excited as Stiles is about his best friend’s lycanthropy, Scott doesn’t share his enthusiasm.

“It’s a given, don’t you think?” Stiles points out then, going for another try. “That Alpha didn’t ask you, I understand that this sucks for you and that this whole thing isn’t easy. But think about Boyd. He was in the same situation. You can’t keep holding onto your I-don’t-want-this-attitude, because the only thing you’ll get from it is an eternity in these rooms.”

Scott huffs indignantly.

“I’m not even kidding,” Stiles continues. “Don’t you think that once you’re past this initial stage of your wolflihood, it’s going to be awesome? Erica, Isaac and Boyd don’t seem to have that hard of life if you ask me. You can continue your life mostly as normal as before.”

“How do you know that?” Scott sounds like a sulky little kid.

“Because Derek and his pack are the prime examples, that’s how. And you’d see it too if you paid attention,” Stiles replies, a little harsher than he intended to. “Being a werewolf doesn’t mean you can’t keep living your life. You just have to learn to control that new side of yours, and once you accept the fact that you’re not doomed, it’s going to be a piece of cake to contain your anger and the shift.”

There’s another silence. Stiles wants to groan in frustration, to shake Scott and make him see past this.

“Piece of cake?” Scott croaks then. He sounds so desperate that something in Stiles’ chest clenches.

“Yeah, buddy,” Stiles answers confidently. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

“You don’t think I’m doomed?”

Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes, fondly nonetheless. “You’re a shifter, dude, not a psychopathic monster.”

“I’ll be there with you, okay? All the way,” he adds after a beat. He turns his head to see Scott beaming at him through the darkness. Stiles smiles back.

Of course it’s easier said than done, Stiles realizes. Scott adopts the smooth and swift motions Derek teaches him rather quickly but pain is still the only thing that brings him back from being wolfed out. Stiles suggests happy childhood memories as an anchor; Scott’s mom when the memories don’t work, and list of several other things. None of it is strong enough.

Derek’s pushed Scott especially far today. The growling is so loud Stiles is barely able to make out any other noise while Scott and Derek go at each other like they’re going to war. Stiles is hovering in the far corner of the training hall when Scott throws Derek off and slams him into a row of bleachers. The cracking of bones is loud and nauseating.

He doesn’t think when he gets up and sprints to where Derek is sprawled out between crashed bleachers. His leg is broken, so badly that Stiles can see the bone sticking out of the flesh. It’s disgusting, really, but Scott’s growling and Derek’s pained noise snap him back into focus.

“What are you doing, idiot?” Derek groans from behind him. “Run.”

“You don’t run away from a dog, he only sees it as an invitation to chase you,” Stiles shoots back. He’s aware he’s comparing Scott to an animal which he isn’t but he has the faint thought that maybe the instinct is the same. Derek snorts, and then lets out a noise that clearly indicates that he’s badly hurt.

“Scott,” Stiles says, and his voice is shakier that he’d like. Scott growl grows a little quieter. Stiles takes a small step forward, and repeats, “Scott,” more firmly this time. The growling stops, and Scott blinks, his eyes go back to normal as he retreats.

Erica comes skittering into the hall then, and is between Stiles and Scott in the blink of an eye.

“You okay?” she asks Stiles, eyes on Scott all the time.

Nodding, Stiles says, “Yeah.”

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice comes out shy. 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m fine, don’t worry,” Stiles answers as he watches how Scott’s face shifts back to normal. Derek grunts quietly, and Stiles turns around to take a look at him. His leg isn’t healed, not even remotely, and there is a remarkable amount of blood pooling on the floor. Stiles suppresses a gag. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“The bone has to be reset,” Erica answers, coming around to kneel beside Derek’s injured leg. Stiles scrunches up his face.

“I thought you guys have supernatural healing abilities.”

Derek rolls his eyes impatiently—he can’t possibly be in so much pain—and Erica smirks at him. “As long as our bones don’t look us in the eyes they can mend themselves without help. If you break your leg like that it has to be reset too before you can put a cast on.”

She grabs Derek’s leg, and Derek shoots her a dirty look. He gnashes his teeth all the while Erica keeps grinning at him.

“On three,” she suggests. Derek nods curtly, visibly bracing himself. Erica snaps the bone back into place even before she counts to two. Stiles winces at the cracking sound, and Derek lets out something that suspiciously sounds like a whine.

“Good as new,” Erica comments as Scott inches closer to them. Stiles watches how the wound on Derek’s leg closes and there’s nothing left but an angry red cut that is fading by the minute. Derek scowls at her but Erica only flicks her hair back and wipes her hands on Derek’s ruined pants. It’s weirdly intimate. Over the course of the last couple of weeks, Stiles has found out that Erica was the first one out of the pack who’s been bitten by Derek, and she’s also second in command. So it’s probably no wonder that they’re close.

“Um,” Scott says coyly. “Sorry.”

Derek shrugs dismissively before he gets up as if he wasn’t seriously hurt just very few moments ago. He grabs for Stiles’ arm again, very loosely this time, and more guides than pushes him out of the training hall. Stiles is too stunned to protest.

“Piss him off,” Derek throws back over his shoulder to Erica, and to Scott, “Try to recall what pulled you back this time.”

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks suspiciously when Derek leads him through the corridors.

“Out,” he responds shortly. Stiles almost stumbles over his own feet and stares openly at Derek. Derek glances at him with raised eyebrows, and Stiles feels the flush creeping up his cheeks when he realizes Derek means they’re getting out of the building.

He clears his throat. “Why?” Dammit, he sounds embarrassingly squeaky.

“I’m testing a theory,” Derek says. Stiles waits for him to elaborate but Derek seems like that was enough of an explanation.

“What theory?” he prompts. Derek huffs. He opens the door that leads outside to the park grounds of the hospital. The facility has an own separated garden.

The cold January air is stinging and Stiles’ breath forms milky clouds. He pulls his hoodie tightly around himself while he follows Derek through the bare garden.

“I think you’re his anchor,” Derek explains. “I may be wrong. It’s possible you were just that lucky.”

“Wow. You really don’t go out of your way to give me a heads up,” Stiles  snarks. Yet his heart stutters a little at the thought he might be Scott’s anchor. That would solve a lot of problems, and it would mean Scott would finally be able to control his shift.

“I’m not here to make you feel better,” Derek replies simply. Stiles shivers and tucks his hands into his armpits. Why Derek had to leave the building will probably remain a mystery for ever but at least he could’ve lent Stiles get his jacket.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re here for bonding experience,” Stiles snorts derisively, and adds, “With Scott.”

Derek frowns disdainfully at him. “Do you think you’re better fit to help him with this?”

“I didn’t say that,” Stiles mutters, pulling up his shoulders. Derek regards him with a guarded expression. He shrugs off his jacket then—a leather jacket which seems to be a Hale Pack Trademark, because Erica, Isaac and Boyd each have one too—and hands it wordlessly to Stiles. Stiles gapes at it for a couple of moments until Derek glowers at him, and Stiles hurriedly takes it. Blissful warmth envelopes him when he slips his arms into the sleeves. Stiles can’t help but hum out a pleased little noise.

“Thank you,” he says, because his parents taught him manners, and watches how a small grin tugs at the corners of Derek’s lips. Stiles inhales the scent the jacket gives off—somewhat earthy and a tiny little bit smoky—and it takes loads of his self-control not to bury his nose in the collar and smell it.

They walk in silence. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, and Stiles doesn’t like it.

“So, uh,” he begins, and clears his throat. “How long did it take the others to gain control and find an anchor?”

“Isaac found his anchor first,” Derek answers easily, shrugging. “It’s taken all of them a while. Sometimes the anchor is something you wouldn’t think of first.”

It’s not the reply Stiles has expected but he takes what he gets. “What’s your anchor? Or is it different for born werewolves?”

Derek frowns at him, and he manages to look both, surprised and annoyed. He doesn’t respond right away.

“It’s not different for born werewolves. We all need an anchor,” Derek tells him finally. Stiles waits for more information but again Derek doesn’t go on. He doesn’t miss the fact that Derek didn’t tell him what his anchor was, and for a moment Stiles ponders if revealing your anchor is a huge deal. Maybe Derek just doesn’t want to tell him, though, and even if Stiles is a little disappointed by that, he refrains from pressing. For all he knows Derek’s anchor could be something embarrassing.

“Isaac was sixteen when you took him under your wing,” Stiles points out then, another thing that kind of surprised him. Derek raises an eyebrow. “Erica and Boyd were around that age too. That’s what they told me at least.”

Derek keeps looking at him, and Stiles finds himself squirming under the scrutiny. Obviously, Derek doesn’t see Stiles’ comment as a prompt for an explanation.

“What made you take on a bunch of teenagers?” Stiles asks after a pause. “I mean, uh, you don’t strike me like a guy who decides to train new werewolves out of the goodness of your heart.”

Derek scoffs at that. He looks faintly sour but Stiles figures it’s not very far off his default expression. Indistinctly, Stiles thinks he’s being unfair, having seen how easy Derek’s Betas are around him.

Derek takes his time answering again. “It’s about power,” he admits and looks directly at Stiles. “They make me stronger.”

 Stiles is actually surprised how unashamed Derek seems to be about this, how he doesn’t give off the vibe of feeling guilty or selfish. He feels the pang of anger at that, clenching his hand into a fist. It’s not even exactly his business but Derek’s here to teach Scott, probably even with the intention to make him pack. 

“Way to go about it,” Stiles mutters, snarky. Derek sneers at him.

“Didn’t you just say I didn’t strike you as a guy who does things out of the goodness of his heart?” Derek counters with a hard edge to his voice. “Well, you’re right. I don’t.”

Stiles stops in his tracks, grinding his teeth, while Derek continues to walk. It’s like he doesn’t care at all. And Stiles has a hard time seeing why Erica, Boyd and Isaac have such a good relationship with Derek when the guy only took on their cases for power and strength, using them for his own benefit. Really, it’s outrageous.

“Why are you such a dick about it?”

Derek turns around to face him, all hard frown and menacing glare. “And who are you to judge me?”

“You’re using them,” Stiles shoots back, accusatory. Derek looks murderous. He’s still some steps ahead of Stiles but he doesn’t close the distance. Stiles is too angry to really care that he’s pissing off an Alpha. What does it matter, anyway?

“What do you know about it, huh?” Derek spits out crossly. “You’re stupidly, mindlessly happy to have a werewolf for a best friend, and your carelessness almost killed you both. You know nothing, Stiles, nothing.”

“Well, fuck you, too,” Stiles snaps, swallowing down the acidic feeling of being called naïve.

“Your quick-wittedness is remarkable,” Derek mocks with a humourless smile on his lips, his tone harsh. Stiles clenches his jaw, frozen in place, and refuses to yield to Derek’s glare. He won’t turn around and bolt like a sulky child. He feels humiliated, and he’s sure that was Derek’s intention.

“You’re clearly not the right person to be an Alpha,” Stiles says bitterly. Derek’s dark expression falters for a moment but he quickly schools it into yet another frown. He looks beyond furious. It’s the first time that Stiles feels fear crushing through him when facing Derek, even though Derek doesn’t lose control, he doesn’t even do as much as let his eyes flash red. His fury is eerily quiet, and it’s more disturbing than anything else. Stiles obviously hit a spot, unintentionally, and still…enough to make Derek look like he’s seconds away from dismembering something, possibly Stiles.

Still, it gives Stiles a sick sense of superiority, and enough of his dignity back, so that he feels safe to turn on his heel and walk back the way they’ve come.