Archive of Our Own

“You can’t be serious.” Stiles frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, not unaware of how he mirrors Derek’s own guarded posture.

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” Derek doesn’t frown, but his eyebrows furrow, creating a deep crease in the skin between them. Stiles opens his mouth, exasperation clear on his features. When he only gets raised eyebrows and a head motion of ‘seriously?’ in response from Derek, Stiles throws his arms up and turns to pace a few steps away.

Derek’s expression drops back into something neutral while he watches Stiles walk in circles around the loft, gesturing every so often in Derek’s direction as if to emphasize a point. After giving Stiles a considerable chunk of patience, Derek rolls his eyes and steps over to the couch, falling back onto it heavily.

“If you don’t want to, that’s up to you. I’m just saying, it might help. And I’m willing to do it.” Stiles stops and turns a pointed look in Derek’s direction.

“What happened to ‘oh, Stiles is so delicate and human, we have to protect him from big bad supernaturals’?” Stiles lets his hands fall heavily to his sides, all too aware that he’s acting like a petulant child. Derek, for his part, ignores the scene Stiles is making.

“I obviously wouldn’t do anything to seriously hurt you.” Derek gives Stiles a hard stare for another beat before his features drop. “Do you think I would?” Stiles is a bit thrown for a loop at the shift. He opens his mouth again but doesn’t say anything.

Of course he doesn’t actually think Derek would, like, hurt him hurt him, but Derek is a werewolf and while, yes, Stiles has had his fair share of throwing down with supernaturals, he’s still not anywhere near strong enough to hold his own against a supernatural without eventual back up. He just isn’t strong enough. He’s still just human.

When Stiles doesn’t respond, Derek’s expression falls further. Shit , he looks like Stiles just kicked a line of puppies or something. Stiles stutters, tries to backpedal out of the hurt he’s caused, but Derek stands and starts heading for the door. Stiles shakes his fists and curses before jogging after Derek’s quick retreat.

“Fuck, Derek, it’s- it’s not like that, really .” Stiles gets a hand around Derek’s bicep and makes an attempt to get Derek to stop. Derek trudges on despite Stiles' surprised hiss at being jerked along. “Derek, seriously, will you just stop for like, five seconds, let me just-“ Stiles huffs and skitters ahead of Derek to try and be an effective blockade. He isn’t.

Derek growls, hand shooting out to catch Stiles by his shirt front as he flails backwards from ricocheting so hard off of Derek’s front. Stiles claws his hands onto any available surface with purchase – namely Derek’s forearm and shirt – as he attempts to regain his dignity, balance, and train of thought.

“Look, Derek,” Stiles lets out a choked off sound of dissent as Derek starts to pull back, tightening his grip to the very unamused werewolf. “It’s not you!” Stiles licks his bottom lip as Derek moves to cross his arms again, an eyebrow quirked. “Not, well, it is, but not like, because it’s you , ya know? It’s-“ Stiles jerks his hand, which he can no longer use to keep a hold on Derek’s forearm.

Stiles finally lets go of Derek completely as he huffs out a dramatic sigh, scrubbing his hands down his face. He takes a second to try and regroup now that Derek is no longer trying to evade him. Derek doesn’t say anything nor attempts to continue his exit. When Stiles finally feels a little less like he’s trying to talk himself out of certain death, he meets Derek’s unimpressed look with unconcealed vulnerability.

“I…don’t really like the idea of fighting with you. I mean, for one, you’re a badass were and I am a puny human still!” Stiles chews his lip, eyebrows scrunched. He can’t bring himself to look at Derek to see his expression, so he keeps his eyes glued to a wall just over Derek’s shoulder.

“You’re nearly as big as I am.”

“Not the point!” Stiles flounders for a moment to find a comfortable position in which to completely close off his body without being obvious about it. He does not succeed and ends up rubbing his face and fidgeting instead.

“The point,” Stiles continues, “is that I just can’t beat you in a fight. And we’re maybe cool now? It seems a little backwards to start fist fighting now.”

“I didn’t offer to fight you because I wanted to hurt you or punish you, Stiles.” Even without seeing his face, Stiles knows Derek is staring at him with an earnesty that always makes him want to wrap the guy in a million blankets and protect him forever.

Stiles jerks in surprise when gentle fingers shoo his own away from his nervously gnawing teeth. He doesn’t protest as Derek cups his cheek so delicately but oh so firmly and perfect that he can’t help but to sag into it, his anxiety easing along the edges. This is new, but Stiles is inclined to let this be a development he lets slide. Especially given that Derek is now – holy shit – so close and personal but without any of the precarious tension that defined their earliest interactions when Derek only knew how to back him against walls with threats and bared teeth.

“You’re pack, Stiles. This, it’s something that werewolves do to provide support and outlet to their packmates.” Derek’s eyes tick back and forth, unable to pick one of Stiles' eyes to focus on. Stiles doesn’t mind. When Derek speaks again, it’s soft, almost intimate between them. “I know you’re not supernatural. You’re not as strong as the rest of us physically, but that doesn’t mean you can’t vent with us.”

Derek lets out a sigh through his nose, drawing Stiles' attention down towards his mouth.

“…Shouldn’t you be offering emotional support or something, then?” Stiles swallows and forces himself to look back up at Derek’s eyes. There’s a beat and then Derek rolls his eyes.

“Do you really want me to offer you emotional support?” Stiles opens his mouth, grimaces, and then groans as he lets his head thunk onto Derek’s shoulder. Derek slides his hand around to cup Stiles' nape. He strokes a thumb along the soft line just behind Stiles' jaw down his neck.

“I still don’t get how physically fighting you is supposed to make me feel better. That seems like, the exact opposite of what you should do with someone who you think needs to work through things.” Stiles feels Derek hum as if considering.

“You only think that because you’re human.”

“I do not believe that werewolves just duke it out to solve all of their problems. I’ve seen you guys bicker before. No way any pack stays together if that’s how you’re supposed to do things.” Stiles desperately wants to wrap his arms around Derek to get the full Derek Hale Hugging Experience™ but he also really doesn’t need to be an impromptu chew toy, so he lets his arms hang limp between them.

There’s a long pause before Derek says anything. Despite being half lulled by the metronomic consistency Derek manages to keep while rubbing his thumb into Stiles' skin, Stiles pulls back so he can gauge Derek’s face. Surprisingly, Derek looks thoughtfully down at Stiles without any sign of his usual werewolf grump. It’s kind of nice, if Stiles had to admit.

“Have you ever destroyed something or acted outside of what is considered socially acceptable because you were upset?” Stiles balks at the question, not having expected that line of questioning by any stretch.

“Uh…yeah, I guess. I’ve had my fair share of scream parties out in the preserve after curfew.” Stiles gets an amused harumph at that.

“Okay, well, did that help?” Derek takes his hand back and Stiles has to force himself not to visibly pout. So he crosses his arms and pouts, obviously.

“Sure. Made it a little easier to not deck people on sight, at least.” Stiles nearly misses Derek’s pointed ‘are you being serious right now’ look. Nearly.

“It’s like that. While it’s frowned on by humans, werewolves value the benefits of physical release to negative emotions. We’re driven by instinct and our bonds to those around us. We don’t really ever develop the need or capacity to verbalize most of the things we feel. Safe spaces to work out the physical manifestations of our problems is as beneficial to us as therapy is to some humans.

“Not only that,” Derek reaches out to nudge Stiles' attention back with fingers on his cheek, “but I know you don’t want to talk about whatever is bothering you.” Stiles attempts to look affronted at the suggestion, but Derek doesn’t waiver.

Stiles hates the certainty in Derek’s eyes and just how much he wants to fall into Derek’s touch and never look back. The conflicting lines of thought give him emotional whiplash.

“You don’t know that.” Stiles finally manages. There’s no bite, no jab in his words. He says them and it’s obvious to both of them that Derek is one hundred percent correct. Derek hums, presses his lips together like he might have to consider Stiles' compelling argument. Stiles would punch him but he’s pretty sure that would just prove a point.

“Actually, I do. I know that, for as much as you never stop talking, you don’t ever talk about the things that weigh on you. I know that how you’re feeling plays a huge role in how you’re doing physically, and,” Derek pauses just long enough to give Stiles a look like he has to squint just a little to fully uncover all of the deepest dredges of Stiles' soul, “I know you want lose it. Let it all go. Prove that you’re not actually as fragile as everyone seems to believe you are, that you’re afraid you are. I can give you that.”

Stiles sucks in a breath through his nose like he’s the one who just gave the very intense, long speech about knowing himself. To be fair, Derek is staring at him with such intent coupled with what Stiles is pretty sure he can count as some sort of weird confession or offer, that he’s lost all capacity to recall how to breathe.

“ God , it sounds like you’re werewolf proposing to me.” Stiles dutifully pretends like he does not notice Derek trip over himself to hide the big ole doe eyes he just gave Stiles. Stiles resolutely tells himself he cannot go from headbutting Derek’s offer to swooning over the prospect of being werewolf proposed to by Derek fucking Hale.

Why do the powers that be hate him so badly?

“Okay, okay , fine.” Stiles tilts his head towards the ceiling and steels himself for the insanity he is about to unleash upon himself. Turning his attention back to Derek – a little rosy along his jaw and ears – Stiles nods. “Sure. Let’s fight. You seem confident, big guy. So let’s see what you’ve got.”

Stiles steps back and shifts his weight to the balls of his feet as he brings his fists up. He knows this is stupid, but stupid has been his tagline for years, so why the fuck not fist fight the guy who he’s had a complicated and very erotic relationship with for the past six years. Not to mention said guy is a fucking werewolf. He’s going to need actual therapy after this.

Derek remains stoically unimpressed as Stiles bounces minutely between his feet. It’s not until Stiles throws caution to the wind and darts out a punch that somehow manages to land hard enough into Derek’s sternum that he coughs out a puff of air that Derek’s mask of indifference shifts into something more intense and prying. Stiles doesn’t get the chance to freak out over the fact that he just punched Derek much harder than he meant to because Derek brings his hands up and sends a fist straight in towards Stiles' bread and butter.

Being a human who’s had to fight tooth and nail to survive against supernatural beings the entirety of his prime developmental years is probably the only reason Stiles does not end up losing teeth as soon as Derek starts throwing punches. He ducks and flinches out of the way, forced to edge his way backwards as Derek presses forward.

There’s a moment when Stiles considers throwing his hands up and spitting out excuses. But there’s something familiar and dangerous about fighting Derek. Stiles is pushed into the instinct driven survival part of his brain. He itches underneath his skin with the desire to push into his primal drive to tear everything apart for his own life.

Derek moves purposefully and attempts to land blows that Stiles knows will do some damage, but Derek’s movements are familiar, predictable. As soon as he notices the pattern, he ducks a swipe and throws himself shoulder first into Derek’s unguarded side. He aims low, hoping he can get Derek’s center of gravity out of balance, but Derek is solid and quickly adjusts after Stiles catches him off guard. Knowing better than to stay within arm’s reach, Stiles retreats.

“How are you going to talk me into fighting and then not actually fight me?” Stiles bites out. Derek hasn’t made any attempts to move forward. Instead, he circles Stiles widely, Stiles all the while trying to keep track of what’s behind him as he keeps Derek within sight.

Derek breathes out a sharp, heavy breath through his nose.

“I’ll genuinely fight you when you do the same.” Derek’s posture starts to relax and his stalking shifts into something almost leisurely. Something vicious and angry flares in Stiles' chest.

“You’re not even trying.” Stiles stops, breathing heavily, before making a beeline for Derek. “Why am I always a fucking joke to you guys?” Stiles throws a punch, leans hard into it. Derek catches his hand and meets him with dilated pupils and an equally fiery expression.

“Why don’t you prove you’re not a joke then?” Derek tilts his head, daring. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to aim for his pretty face with his left fist.

Derek hardly takes a step back from the hit. Stiles watches Derek’s jaw twitch, the way his eyes start to crinkle as he grins something mocking. So Stiles gives in. He sinks head first into that knot behind his ribs that’s been gnawing and growing for years.

Derek actually staggers back a few steps this time after Stiles lets out a guttural, angry yell and rushes him at full tilt. Stiles feels Derek’s immediate grip around the back of his waist and pushes himself to Derek’s right hip. He claws into Derek’s leg and pulls outwards while throwing his weight into Derek’s side. Derek hits the ground on his back hard, but he still has a hold around Stiles' back. Stiles lets go of Derek’s leg and allows Derek to pull him back. The space created as he gets yanked back is enough for him to land a quick succession of flailing punches to Derek’s ribs.

Stiles yells as Derek bodily tosses him to the side across the floor. He manages to roll with the momentum until he flips over a shoulder and lands on his hands and knees. His body shakes with adrenaline and in that moment, hunched and tense on all fours across the floor from Derek, mirroring him and flashing blue eyes, Stiles finally doesn’t feel helpless and fragile. He feels pissed . He feels unhinged.

He feels alone.

He doesn’t allow himself to dwell. Instead, Stiles pushes up to his feet and takes the few long steps to get back into Derek’s face. Derek starts to growl a low sound deep in his chest. Stiles ignores the sound in favor of clawing a hand into Derek’s shirt and swinging again.

Derek knocks Stiles' arm away effectively causing Stiles to stumble step to the side. Derek takes the opportunity to punch Stiles in the side. Stiles hisses out a pained sound as his body tenses from the unexpected shock of pain. But Derek doesn’t stop. He hits Stiles over and over, driving Stiles back in his attempt to evade the quick jabs.

Stiles manages to push through the pain of the next punch enough to get another handful of Derek’s shirt. Before Stiles can do anything with his hold, Derek rams him up against a wall hard enough his skull rattles and a long line cracks down his spine.

“You fucking -“ Stiles thrashes but Derek wraps him in his arms and squeezes him, one of his own arms stuck at his side while the other scratches at Derek’s face and shoulder. Stiles starts to panic as his ribs shift from his flailing. He screams and kicks but Derek doesn’t loosen his grip. Tears start to sting and mix with the sweat in his eyes. Everything is too hot and he can’t suck in enough air and it’s too much . He jerks, sending a painful jolt up his arm, and snaps his head forward to ram into Derek’s.

Stiles hits the floor with a seething curse.

“I’ll fucking kill you !” He starts to roll over, gets his good arm under him when Derek’s hands are back. He doesn’t care anymore. He’s angry. He can’t shove down the hyperventilating, choked sobs that rack his body through nausea and fuzzy vision.

“ Stiles !” Derek tries to get an arm around Stiles but he bowls him over, scrambling to get above Derek. And then he slams a fist down into Derek’s chest. Once. Twice. He beats his frustration down into Derek’s skin until all that’s left is his blubbering and bruised fists.

“You don’t-“ Stiles starts. He heaves in a shaking, wet breath that devolves into useless babbling. He shakes and trembles into Derek’s chest when he sits up and wraps him in a firm but gentle embrace.

“You don’t need me…No one needs me anymore…” Stiles rasps in another series of half breaths as his sobbing starts up again full force. Derek soothes his hands down Stiles' sides and reminds him to breathe with whispers against his scalp.

Eventually, the helpless crying ebbs and Stiles heaves into Derek’s chest as his stinging body catches up to his overwhelmed senses. It’s at this point that Stiles is able to tear himself from the snotty, wet mess he’s made of Derek’s shirt enough to pull back and look at Derek.

His lips tremble as he fights another wave of sobs. He cradles Derek’s face with unsteady hands and licks his own salty lips.

“Everyone’s moving on,” Stiles whispers. His jaw still twitches, and he blinks through streams of tears that still make their way down his face. He knows he looks pathetic like this sobbing in Derek’s lap. “I am a joke.” Stiles nods through a shaky breath, thumbs stroking over Derek’s jaw.

Derek’s eyebrows are knit but Stiles can’t place the look that Derek gives him. That could just be all of the blood, though. While Derek isn’t bleeding anymore, the dark smear of blood from his nose to his chin is a testament to how good Stiles managed to get him with the headbutt. And fuck , that makes Stiles feel so much worse. He told Derek he would kill him.

Stiles' eyes widen in remembrance. His mouth opens. He means to say something. Derek watches his expression with sharp eyes. Eyes that don’t show a hint of anger or upset.

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t, I didn’t-” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to take a breath. “I wouldn’t kill you. Ever.” He blinks through a few more tears but keeps his eyes locked with Derek’s. He needs Derek to know he didn’t mean it. That it was just the heat of the moment. That, given the opportunity to let loose, that’s what he has to say… fuck .

“Derek?” Stiles shakily breathes the word out. Derek continues to just stare. Stiles feels the panic start to creep up his spine again, but before it can settle, Derek nudges him away then stands, pulling Stiles to his feet too in the process.

Derek keeps a solid grip on Stiles' hand as he leads them back across the loft to the couch. Derek falls back onto it with a grunt. Stiles lowers himself onto the cushions numbly. When Derek wraps a careful arm around him and pulls him up to his side, Stiles starts shaking again but doesn’t cry. Tucked securely into Derek’s side, Stiles begins to physically calm, but his mind continues to race and somersault.

Derek doesn’t pry or try to get Stiles to talk as he goes through waves of sniffling and what is undoubtedly an olfactory overload of chemosignals. Eventually, Stiles pulls himself away to leave, apologizing all the way until he’s out the door.

Stiles spends a few days stewing on his fight with Derek. He tries to avoid hanging out with the pack because he feels like shit, but Derek calls him and growls at him to get his ass to the pack meeting at the end of the week that leaves him with no choice but to get his act together. He tries to pretend it doesn’t sting to see the pack together, happy and seemingly oblivious to his plight.

It isn’t until the pack meeting is over and everyone starts to slowly filter out that Scott pulls Stiles to the side to question him.

“Dude, you reek . Like angst. And you didn’t say anything tonight, not even when Jackson stole your spot.” Scott, for all of the growing up he’s done since they graduated, still manages to pull concerned puppy eyes that crumble all of Stiles' defenses. Stiles huffs and crosses his arms.

“ Nothing . I’m fine. Just…working through some stuff.” Stiles taps an unconscious rhythm into his arm as he watches Derek interacting with the stragglers who still haven’t left. Stiles frowns. Everyone is just so…so okay !

“Stiles!” Scott pinches Stiles' arm to get his attention. Stiles hisses and reflexively smacks the back of his hand against Scott’s chest. Scott doesn’t even blink.

“ What ?” Stiles hisses. Scott deflates, starting to look more hurt than concerned. Guilt prods behind Stiles' ribs.

“Is this…does this have something to do with Derek? Or the pack? You don’t…” Scott’s hurt morphs into something hesitant. Stiles keeps his eyes on Scott when Scott looks away. He watches as Scott chews his lip.

Scott’s eyebrows suddenly go up and he whines. The sound is soft, seems to be given up on in the middle of coming out. Before Stiles can turn to figure out why Scott’s pleading puppy look gets worse, Scott’s attention snaps back.

“I’m here to talk. If you need.” Scott’s eyes briefly turn back over Stiles' shoulder. “We care about you, Stiles. You know that, right?” Before Stiles can respond, Scott wraps him in a hug that stings his bruised side. When Scott pulls back, Stiles gives him a suspicious look. He starts to open his mouth to ask why Scott’s being weird and supportive, but Scott just claps his shoulder and turns to leave, throwing a few backwards glances towards the remaining pack. Stiles does the same and, not finding any reason that would explain Scott’s weirdness, decides that he’s ready to leave.

Somehow, despite Stiles' adamant avoidance of the pack – Derek in particular – he ends up right back into the situation that made him start pulling back.

In the weeks since his fight with Derek, the pack has been acting weird. Everyone has been more aggressive towards Stiles, not holding back to reprimand or joke with physical interaction not as tampered down for Stiles' human body. And when they have to save the town from yet another supernatural threat, Stiles is left to fend for himself more and more as the pack hangs back. If he’d thought the pack had moved on without him before, he’s certain now that they’re trying to push him out of the pack. And that tears at him like a chunk being ripped out of him.

Then one night as they’re hunting down a rogue were that’s been prowling their territory, Jackson makes an offhand comment insulting Stiles and he can’t take it anymore. He rounds on Jackson and shoves him as hard as he can. Jackson doesn’t move far and that pisses Stiles off more.

“What? I hurt your feelings, Stilinski?” If this were any normal situation, Jackson’s unconcerned riling wouldn’t mean anything. Stiles would get angry and maybe yell, but tonight is not one of those nights and Stiles is tired of it. He swings his bat and it shatters with the force that it hits Jackson’s chest.  Even in the dark, Stiles can see the stiff forms of the pack as they all stop and look back from their various directions splintering off into the preserve.

Stiles doesn’t care that they’re in the middle of something. Nor does he care that Jackson will probably tear his throat out because he’s an asshole who’s never once cared not to spare Stiles' feelings nor safety. So, he goes in fists swinging.

The pack just watches and stares as Stiles loses himself in trying to overwhelm Jackson. He manages, somewhat, once he decides that he doesn’t care if he seriously hurts Jackson. Like this, bathed in the dark of night in the middle of the woods surrounded by a circle of literal supernatural beings, Stiles loses all sense of his ties to humanity. In that moment, covered in sweat and blood and dirt, he is as much an unfathomable creature of myth as the rest of them.

“Did you just fucking bite me?” Jackson kicks Stiles away with a hiss, fingers moving to cover the back of his neck where the bite in question is likely already healed. Stiles pants hot air, propped back on an elbow in the dirt. His mouth tastes like blood but it has for the past five minutes. Jackson’s blood tastes no different than his own.

Instead of answering the question, Stiles spits and pushes himself onto his palms before springing for Jackson who still looks offput and offended in the dirt. They roll over each other to try and gain an upper hand. After a brief back and forth, Stiles ends up on his back heaving ragged breaths while Jackson pins him by his throat to the ground.

“You’re really fucking annoying, Stilinski,” Jackson sneers down at him. Stiles bares his teeth and manages to jerk a knee into Jackson’s abdomen before Jackson’s fingers tighten around his throat. Stiles rasps a choked laugh through his bloodied teeth.

“You’re not so great either, asshole.” Pressure wells behind Stiles' eyes without adequate air. Jackson growls then pulls away with a harumph. While Jackson presses back into his heels to stand, Stiles coughs at the tickle in his bruised throat. When the coughing dies down enough that he can actually breathe, he sags into the grass.

Jackson pushes past the circle of the pack, prompting the others to slowly break off and continue on their intended paths. Stiles counts the pairs of steps as best as he can from his prone position on the ground. When he counts the last person leaving, he allows himself to finally sink out of his anger tinged adrenaline high.

He aches everywhere. Jackson had not been as kind in his angry jabs as Derek had been. Stiles' jaw pulses hot as if to remind him of the fact. Still, now that he’s alone and more self aware, the lump of anxiety and anger that had clung to him through the night after being called to meet up with the pack has dissolved. His body thrums in the endorphins of letting himself go. Even as he returns to himself enough to feel a twinge of shame at his behavior, it’s mostly overruled by the satisfaction of letting the burden of his thoughts go.

Something strikes him as his breathing slows and he melts into the backdrop of the darkened woods. He feels good . Like, really good. And that leads to guilt worming its way back in. He liked fighting Jackson and, a few weeks ago, he had liked fighting Derek despite the anxiety it had caused him. God , he’s a terrible person!

Stiles knows he shouldn’t feel good about fighting his friends. Even if his friends are assholes that all got turned into supernaturals and then proceeded to grow up and move on into their happy supernatural lives without him. The same assholes who no longer need him to mediate to function as an effective team.

Fucking assholes.

Stiles struggles up into a sitting position, pulling his knees up despite his throbbing torso. Now that he’s expended all of the pent-up energy associated with his anger and feelings of worthlessness, he has nothing left in him but a heavy exhaustion. He doesn’t even have the energy to be mad at the pack for ditching him here. And without that wall of self-imposed distance, Stiles is somewhat grateful for the space and moment to himself. Besides, the pack is entirely capable, and he really is not up for another fight at the moment. Which, of course, is why someone slinks through the underbrush and turns bright points of searing red in Stiles’ direction when he sucks in a surprised breath.

“Oh, what do we have here?” The figure turns, body following their head to face Stiles directly. “You’re not supernatural. What are you doing out here all alone in the woods? Don’t you know it’s a dangerous place for humans?” Stiles can hear the predatory grin more than he can see it in the murky darkness.

Stiles curses and scrambles back. He gets to his feet and bolts without a second thought. Which, maybe a second thought would have been a good idea to have considering that he most certainly cannot outrun an alpha werewolf. And he can’t exactly see in the dark. Without any of the rest of the pack to guide him through the trees, Stiles manages a whopping five steps before he trips and tumbles across the ground.

The alpha must have not expected Stiles to go down so quickly because as soon as Stiles rolls to a stop on his stomach, something huge and dark shoots over him and lands a few yards away. Oh, thank God for being clumsy because Stiles is pretty sure that he would have been downed by the alpha had he not hit the ground and he does not want to think about which body parts he would have undoubtedly lost were that the case.

A howl cuts through the air before the alpha can turn and try for Stiles again. Then there’s another dark mass catapulting over Stiles but this one is much smaller and a sudden wall between Stiles and his untimely death.

“Are you okay?” Erica doesn’t look back as Stiles jumps to his feet, not wanting to be an impromptu hurdle for anymore weres.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Stiles can see the alpha slinking to the side past Erica’s rigid form. If he hadn’t smashed his only weapon on a prick earlier, he would gladly put himself at Erica’s side, but given that he did do that, he hangs back a few steps.

Stiles hears the alpha tut as they all circle.

“I don’t think you and your little friend are going to win this fight, darling.” The alpha purrs into the quiet stillness between them. Stiles jerks with the wave of disgusted chills that racks his body at being called darling. Erica snarls.

Stiles opens his mouth, starts to shoot back an insult like he always does, when the red dots of the alpha’s eyes blink out of existence. Stiles balks for a moment before he realizes that the alpha had been tackled to the ground.

Erica springs forward before Stiles can do anything, leaving him to watch the pile of writhing, snarling shadows grow larger before a high whimper sounds and cuts off. Then the mass stills. Stiles waits and watches tensely. He breathes out a sigh of relief when eyes reflect back at him and none of them are red.

“Stiles!” Someone sidelines Stiles into a hug, narrowly avoiding Stiles' flapping limbs at being caught off guard. There’s another pair of arms and the group of them nearly tumble to the ground together.

“Should’ve known you’d attract the alpha,” Isaac huffs amusedly against the back of Stiles' head. Stiles, still reeling a little from everyone suddenly emerging from the darkness like creeps , gets an arm around Scott while Isaac glues himself along Stiles' side.

“I don’t get how he didn’t notice you guys.” All three of them turn their heads when Boyd steps into bustling area. Boyd eyes the alpha’s limp body on the ground before turning his attention back towards Stiles and his extra two attachments.

“I’m pretty sure he did notice me,” Stiles starts. Boyd gives him a look and Stiles shrugs. He thought it was kind of funny. Before Stiles can ask who exactly Boyd means, someone steps away from the alpha and towards them.

“We hid in the brush. It wasn’t that hard.” Derek crosses his arms and turns his attention towards Stiles who is currently still being smothered between two very handsy wolves. Stiles hisses when an unidentified hand touches his stomach beneath his shirt and someone noses along his neck.

“You two are whores,” Stiles breathes out. He can’t deny that it’s a little nice to be fretted over after weeks of getting the cold shoulder.

“In the brush?” Boyd asks. Derek shrugs at him and Boyd chuckles. “I’m surprised he even came this way since it smells like the whole pack.”

“That’s exactly why. Go where the entire pack was. If he smelled our individual trails, this spot means fewer wolves to confront if any.” Derek says.

“So,” Stiles starts, shifting so he can face Derek and not crane his neck past his leeches, “you’re telling me that some of you just…stuck around? To wait and see if the alpha came this way? Where you knew I was without a weapon?”

Jackson is the next to step into the growing circle from over the alpha’s dead body. Stiles eyes him warily but Jackson bypasses Derek and Boyd to round the cluster around Stiles and shove himself between Scott and Isaac.

“You can hold your own, Stilinski, we’re not stupid.” Jackson’s breath is very hot and very much right in Stiles' ear. Stiles twitches in surprise then feels Jackson’s smug grin slide over the skin of his neck.

“Everyone in this pack is a whore, I swear…” Stiles mutters as Jackson scents him. Of course, his comment only means more bodies pressing into him and touching, scenting and breathing around him.

This entire night has been a hurricane of feelings. Stiles can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that he’s being preened over by the pack now after having just instigated a fight with a pack member while they were trying to track down – oh God – a rogue alpha. His selfish outburst could have easily fucked the entire night up but it didn’t and now he’s the center of a very handsy and very warm group hug. And he feels so relieved…

“If you don’t stop making that face at me, I’m going to bite you like I did Jackson.” Stiles grumbles. Derek chuckles but his ‘I-told-you-so’ expression drops to one of amusement. Stiles shakes his head and turns his head back to Boyd who has decided that the floor is where he’s going to stay. Stiles almost sags in disappointment, but Erica slides off the arm of the couch and holds out her arms like she’s riling an audience. Which she kind of is.

“I won’t go easy on you like Boyd, babe.” Erica shrugs off her cropped jacket then rolls her shoulders. She looks all the part of someone who can and will kick Stiles ass. Stiles licks his dry lips and grins.

“Don’t expect anything less, baby.” They each give grins edging on something feral before they’re cutting in towards each other at a fast pace.

Erica whoops his ass easily and unsurprisingly. Jackson laughs from the couch enough that Scott leans across the floor to punch him in the knee. Erica offers a hand to pull Stiles off of the floor which he takes easily.

“Why do you always go for the kidneys?” Stiles mutters as he rubs the back of his ribs. Erica snarls a laugh then shrugs.

“Why do you always leave your kidneys open to being sucker punched by werewolves?” Stiles scrunches his face and mocks Erica’s tone as he turns to wander back towards the rest of the pack splayed across the living room. When he reaches the couch, he turns to sit on the open arm and watches as Erica drops heavily onto Boyd and Isaac who have settled on the floor together chatting quietly. Stiles can’t help smiling when both Boyd and Isaac immediately reach to wrap Erica up and pull her into their sandwiched bodies where she settles into like it’s home.

“Got all of you nonsense out?” Lydia asks from the small table she sits at typing away on her laptop. She doesn’t turn away from her work, but Stiles doesn’t need her visual reassurance that she’s attentive to what’s happening. He hums in affirmation.

“Yeah. Tired as hell now, though…” Stiles rolls his neck until it cracks.

“I can drive you back to your apartment,” comes from behind Stiles. He turns to find Derek hovering behind him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Stiles lets out a long, considering breath before nodding.

“Yeah, alright. Gotta rest my poor human bones now that Erica’s gnawed on them.” Stiles catches Erica’s raised middle finger from where she’s curled between Isaac and Boyd’s arms, the three looking well on their way to a nap. Lucky assholes.

Stiles stands with a groan and wanders to the table to grab his hoodie. He steps over to Lydia and gives her a quick peck to the forehead, pausing just long enough to see that she’s once again working on her master’s thesis.

“Don’t work too hard,” he murmurs as he pulls back. She turns to smile at him and give him a pat on the cheek.

“Whatever you say, captain.”

The drive back to Stiles' apartment is short and quiet. Derek follows him inside without a word. It’s werewolf habit. Stiles tells himself that, anyway.

The first thing Stiles does once he’s inside is toe off his shoes and pad to the kitchen to turn on his kettle. He moves through the motion of grabbing a mug and digging through his cabinet of pack specific beverage choices to find the tin of Derek’s tea. At least he has the excuse of keeping everyone’s favorites drink options in stock at his apartment. Unfortunately, that doesn’t extend to the werewolf who reappears to join him in the kitchen in a set of comfy clothes Stiles bought specifically for him to lounge in when he came over.

Derek doesn’t say anything outside of grunting answers as to how he wants his tea. When Stiles hands over the steaming cup, Derek wraps it between his hands with a small upward quirk of his lips that does not make Stiles want to swallow his shirt because of how precious and sweet it is.

“Did you watch anymore?” Stiles jumps at the question. Derek raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah, no…no. It’s still on the last episode we watched.” Stiles swallows and edges past Derek to head towards the living room.

“Are you going to change?” Derek follows him with his eyes on his full cup. Stiles nearly runs into him as he turns sharply to head towards his bedroom.

When Stiles walks back out to the living room in sweats and a different hoodie, only a small portion of Derek’s head is visible above the back of the couch. Stiles walks around it and falls down onto the cushions next to Derek. Derek growls noncommittally. Stiles snickers as Derek steadies his tea between his hands.

“Remote’s on the table.” Derek grumbles. Stiles hums and leans forward to grab said remote off of his worn coffee table.

“Need anything else before I play this?” Stiles settles back into the cushions, not at all thinking about how Derek leans into his side. When Derek doesn’t respond at all , Stiles turns his head to look at the grump wolf. Derek doesn’t look at him.

“You know they all figured it out on their own?” Stiles watches Derek’s mouth as he speaks. Then he frowns.

“Who figured what out?” Derek does turn to look at him then. His eyes are soft, moreso given the dim light in Stiles' living room due to the overcast sky outside. Stiles prays that Derek is not paying attention to his stuttering heart.

“The pack. You.” Derek leaves it at that which totally is not infinitely more confusing. Except it’s not and Stiles looks away as he understands.

“So you didn’t just tell everyone to bully me into snapping at someone?” Stiles mutters, frustrated. After the night that the pack took down the rogue alpha, it seemed like suddenly everyone wanted to fight with Stiles. It had been even more confusing and sudden than all of the cold shouldering. He’d just assumed Derek had said something to force Stiles’ hand.

“No. I didn’t.” Derek lower his mug to his lap and reaches out a tentative hand to brush his fingertips along the inside of Stiles’ wrist. “Stiles.” The word is commanding. Stiles huffs and turns back to Derek.

“I know the pack still isn’t, it’s not perfect. No pack ever is, really, but especially not one like ours.” Stiles can’t stop the jolt of chills that runs through him at that. Ours . Derek’s lips flatten but he doesn’t comment. “I don’t…I don’t know what exactly has been holding you back. It’s easy enough to figure out that you’ve…you were upset about the pack.” Derek looks away briefly and it’s like Stiles is looking at someone completely different from the 19-year-old he had met back in high school rather than the 25-year-old he’s looking at now who should still be the same.

“We’ve grown, Stiles. So have you, but it seems like you were pushing away from us. I know that a lot of it is being human.” Derek’s fingers trail down to Stiles’ own, smoothing and squeezing the digits absently. “After everyone graduated, the pack…they started to understand what it means to actually be a pack. Not the loosely bound group we were before.

“Stiles, a pack is built on trust and mutual support. You understand that, right?” Derek’s eyes are questioning, pleading. Stiles nods slowly. Derek returns the action. “So, you understand that we weren’t really a pack back then?” Stiles hesitates and remembers the constant tension and apprehension that went with working with each other. He nods again. Derek smiles, pride clear on his features.

“Good. I knew you would. So a pack can’t be what we were. But we’ve all grown since then. Everyone’s changed and adapted. But you.” A sharp crack of hurt scrapes along Stiles’ body. Derek shakes his head and squeezes Stiles’ hand. “No, listen. It’s okay. You didn’t have the same support the rest of the pack had. They all changed, literally, and you stayed human. And there aren’t really any humans who know what you’ve gone through. Humans can’t offer you the extent of help you need to handle what happens to you.”

The hurt ebbs a little, but Stiles is not liking where this conversation has gone. Derek either doesn’t notice or presses on despite the fact.

“Stiles, you’re pack .” Derek gives Stiles an expectant look. Stiles tries to understand, but he is beyond lost.

“Yeah, Derek…I’m pack…” Derek’s eyebrows shoot up and he nods.

“You’re pack. You don’t, you’re not-“ Derek huffs and pulls his hand back to move to Stiles’ nape. “You’re not a typical human, Stiles. You need physical outlet and you’re headstrong and terrible at interacting with other humans and you fit. You fit with us. You’re pack .” Stiles nods along because Derek sounds so genuine and Stiles knows he’s trying to convey something profound or world changing, but he just isn’t catching on.

“So, you’re saying I’m bad at being human along with being a bad pack member?” Derek glowers at Stiles as if he’s purposely trying to be obtuse. Stiles shrugs in helpless confusion.

“Stiles. What I’m saying is that everyone got better at being supernatural and were able to grow and cope. But everyone expected you to do that through being human. But you can’t do that!” Derek gives Stiles a short shake by his nape. Stiles tilts his head. He might be catching on.

“Because I’m…pack?” Derek nods vigorously.

“You spend all of your time with us. Your existence is shaped by your connection to and interactions with the supernatural. Stiles, you don’t live by human norms, you live by the norms of our pack. And they all figured it out on their own. That’s why they stopped being so careful with you. That’s why they’re willing to fight with you physically now. You’re not the fragile human of the pack anymore. You’re Stiles, werewolf socialized human. You’re not an ‘other’. You’re just one of us, one of the pack.”

It takes Stiles an embarrassing amount of time to process and then an additionally embarrassing amount of time for Derek to pry his hands away from his face after he gets it.

Holy shit .

Derek pulls away to set his mug on the coffee table. Stiles finally lets his hands be moved only to be replaced by Derek’s own. Derek wipes the tears from underneath Stiles’ eyes. Stiles laughs. He laughs and digs his hands into Derek’s sweater when he’s pulled into a tight hug.

He never really got it, being pack. For the longest time, it had been his job to keep the fragile balance of the pack, but that had never been a true pack. His heartache at thinking the pack no longer needed him because he no longer had to fight everyday to keep everyone amicable wasn’t needed. Because the pack became an actual pack and Stiles had still been in it. 

The pack adjusted when they realized that Stiles needed support. And they didn’t talk about it because why would they! Stiles is notorious for being stubborn and just as bad at productive conversation as the born werewolf stroking his back. But Derek had said that, hadn’t he? Werewolves work through instinct and their bonds to their pack. They didn’t talk, they worked through things in physical ways. So, the pack did that…because Stiles is pack. Huh.

“Your tea is getting cold,” Stiles murmurs a few minutes later into the neck of Derek’s sweater.

“You can make me another cup when we’re done.”

“Done with me crying? Or done with watching our show?” Stiles snorts a snotty chuckle. Derek leans back to rest his forehead against Stiles’. Stiles still desperately hopes that Derek is preoccupied enough not to listen to his heart because it has been at least three times as fast as it should be for the past fifteen minutes.

Derek reads over Stiles face with his eyes for a long moment.

“After I kiss you.” The words are soft and measured, but firm. Oh boy, Stiles must be at at least four times a normal heart rate.

“Kiss…me…?” Stiles starts to nod slowly, still processing. “Like…a pack thing?” He doesn’t dare hope that it’s not. Then again, he would way enjoy platonic kissing being a thing the pack does.

“No.” Stiles frowns in confusion.

“Like…?”

“ Stiles ,” Derek says with an edge of annoyance. That’s enough to pull Stiles from his intent staring at Derek’s mouth.

“ What ? After dropping that whole pack bomb on me, are you trying to seriously also tell me that the years of a sexual tension filled relationship where we both would have willingly died for the other one wasn’t platonic ?” Derek breaks out in a fit of laughter at that, effectively breaking the – once again – sexually tense moment. When Derek catches his breath, he smiles a disarmingly beautiful smile at Stiles.

“Yes, Stiles, actually. That is exactly what I’m telling you. Now can I kiss you?” Stiles gapes open mouthed, puffs his cheeks out and purses his lips before making a ‘well, what would you know’ face. Then he leans forward to kiss Derek.

It’s probably stupid to have thought that kissing Derek wouldn’t be the softest, most wonderful thing in all of the existence of everything, but Stiles really was not expecting it to be so pleasantly soft . Derek cradles his face like he’s precious as he presses slow kiss after slow kiss to Stiles’ lips with experimental pressures and angles. By the time Derek pulls back to bat his pretty eyes and smile his goofy grin at Stiles, Stiles is pretty sure he’s been kissed stupid…er.

“How bad do you want that tea?” Stiles croaks out. Derek’s nostrils flare before he laughs again and presses kisses to Stiles’ cheeks between chuckles. Stiles can definitely get used to this.