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Twilight.
The bleeding sun has settled in its western cradle, chicken hue ignited into the redness of the final daytime hour, light sprawled forth in shimmering rays that twist across the sky in bloody streaks intermingled with the soft grayness of the nighttime clouds. The cottage fire in the valley still blazes hot, a beacon of death in the coolness of the evening shadows. Bodies strewn in grisly array crackle in the heat of the flames, flesh searing black and blacker still, oozing meat roasting around bones crumbling to embers.
On the hilltop, they kneel side by side, knees pressed down against the cold, hard earth as ants and beetles swarm for shelter in the dry grass. Stiles feels seriously ill, but he maintains his mad grin, clutching the gushing wound in his arm as his teeth chatter in the wind. David stares at him numbly, stupidly, Stiles’ blood still smeared around his mouth, dribbling down his chin and neck, trailing a thin line down his bare chest.
“I told you,” Stiles chokes out, voice ragged as his face pales from blood loss. “I told you I would kill you.”
David looks stupefied for a moment, and then a soft, wry smile appears, replacing the stunned blankness. “That you did,” he says softly, admiringly. After a brief pause, “Where’d you get it?”
“The wolfsbane?” Stiles clarifies, cringing as his arm spasms in pain. “Lydia got it from the Argents. She thought it was for the bullets, but I took some off her when she wasn’t looking.”
David nods calmly. “You used a hypodermic needle, I take it?”
“That’s right,” Stiles groans, pressing his hand against his wrist to try and stop the blood flow. David reaches out suddenly and snatches his arm, bringing it to his mouth and flicking his tongue deep into the bite marks. Stiles yelps and tries to jerk away, but the Alpha holds him steady, licking the wound for a full minute before letting him go.
Stiles breathes heavily, scooting backward quickly to examine himself. The cuts are completely resealed. Only a twin pair of ugly jagged scars remain.
“How did you know I wouldn’t smell it on you?” David asks neutrally, totally nonchalant, as if nothing had just happened.
Stiles stares at him. Then, “I was counting on you smelling it. That’s what the gun was for.”
David’s eyes gleam in appreciation. “Ah. So I would dismiss the smell as residue from the bullets. Clever.”
The werewolf guards are approaching them now, concern and confusion apparent in their expressions. David turns and growls low in his chest, and they stop dead, lowering their heads and backing off in submission.
“You’re not going to kill me?” Stiles asks, rubbing the healed gash in his wrist.
David looks amused. Which...doesn’t make sense. “Do you want me to kill you?”
“No,” Stiles says quickly, brow furrowing. “I just...sort of expected it.”
“Really?” And now David sounds thoughtful. Impressed, even. “Your endgame involved sacrificing your own life for the sake of killing me?”
Stiles shrugs, shivering in the cold. The sunlight has all but faded away entirely by now. “I love my friends,” he answers simply.
David studies him carefully, eerily impassive. He glances to his fellows, communicating something in silence that Stiles can’t quite interpret. Then his eyes flicker back and he smiles broadly, grunting as he rises to his feet. “No time to waste then,” he says airily, gesturing at the car down the way. “Shall we go?”
Rising also, Stiles follows him numbly, lightheadedness overshadowed by confusion and caution. He wonders vaguely if perhaps he died from the bite and this is all a wistful fantasy. That would explain the sudden turn of events more easily than anything else that comes to mind. He spares a final look over his shoulder, biting his lip as he surveys the carnage in the valley, and then he presses on, back turned resolutely on the smoke billowing from below.
“In the front,” David instructs his underlings. “I’ll ride in the back with the boy.”
They step inside and the car kicks to life a second later, pulling into reverse and rolling back through the mud and leaves to the gravel road. Stiles can’t help but notice that they don’t bother with the bag over his face this time.
“You don’t want revenge?” Stiles asks after a few minutes of driving in silence, keeping his voice low even though he knows the werewolves riding up front will be able to hear him.
And now David is flashing that trademark amused smirk that drives Stiles around the fucking bend. “You’ve behaved so maturely, I forget how very young you are,” David says, leaning against the window. Stiles notices that his breathing is starting to get shallower, his palms are beginning to sweat. “You don’t understand how these things work.”
Stiles is seriously conflicted. On one hand, he’s over the moon that, from the look of things, he actually is not going to die tonight. But on the other, his more childish, juvenile side feels a little miffed that David’s robbing him of the joy of his triumph by making it seem inconsequential. “Try me,” he says, crossing his arms. “What don’t I understand?”
David chuckles. “Why would I kill you for doing exactly what I would have done in your position? You followed the path of nature, as I said you would. As we all do. I cannot find fault with you for acting on your animal instincts.” He grins broadly, coughing against his balled fist. “I was wrong in selecting you,” he murmurs. “I thought you had the makings of a mate, but it seems your ambitions are set a little higher than that.” His eyes flash. “You’ll be a great Alpha.”
Jaw clenched, Stiles mutters, “I’ll be different. I’m not like you.”
David shakes his head, smiling serenely. “If you strip away all the excess, you’ll find that none of us are really all that different from one another. And where it counts, you and I are as alike as can be. We’re both willing to do whatever it takes to reach our endgame. We both place the security of our pack above the lives of everyone else. And we are both deeply, painfully aware of how very little this world has to offer people like us.” His smile fades, a look of melancholy materializing unexpectedly. “You’ve come to terms with that more recently, though. Haven’t you?”
Stiles swallows the lump in his throat. He’s not going to cry for his father. Not now. Not in front of this man. “Everything I’ve done,” he grits out, “is to try and help people.”
“Hmmm...” David clucks his tongue sympathetically. “A sweet sentiment, of course, if somewhat trite. But that doesn’t encompass the full picture, does it?” He leans a little closer, and Stiles notices that he’s definitely sweating now. “What you wanted,” David whispers, and Stiles really wants to ignore him, drown him out, “is to return to a sense of normalcy. That’s why you encouraged Derek to assemble a pack out of your friends rather than from adults. Which would have made more sense, I should point out.” His arm snakes around Stiles’ shoulder, pulling him in to speak directly into his ear. “You wanted a family,” he hisses, and Stiles feels a twinge in his heart as the words hit home. “Your father wasn’t enough, and you wanted more. You wanted to belong to something. You wanted more love, more attention.”
“Get off me,” Stiles growls, pushing David away roughly. The gritty quality of his voice startles him, and David waggles his eyebrows mischievously.
“The bite is taking,” he explains. “You’ll be completely turned within the next few hours.” He glances at the digital clock on the dashboard. “How much did you use? The wolfsbane?”
“Enough,” Stiles responds shortly. David smiles indulgently.
“How much?”
“I filled the needle halfway.”
“When did you last use it?”
“The night before I came to see you.”
David nods thoughtfully. “Good thinking. It’ll be flushed out of your system by the time you turn.” He reaches over to pat Stiles’ hand. “You’re going to be just fine,” he says, laughter dancing in his eyes.
His breathing is growing weaker.
***
The street lamp flickers off to the right as Derek watches the night clerk clocking out for a break through the smudged glass window of the motel lobby. Jeff crouches by his side, gnawing on an unlit cigarette as he surveys the closed shade’s of Meredith’s room.
Samuel and Mr. Argent lurk close behind, loading up their guns, obsessively checking and re-checking the sighting on their scopes.
“Clerk’s gone,” Derek says, clearing his throat.
“Light’s are out,” Jeff adds, nodding at Meredith’s window.
They rise as one, looking at one another silently.
“Ready?” Mr. Argent asks. It’s a rhetorical question.
Nothing left to be said.
They emerge from their hiding place behind the row of cars and move together across the parking lot in a horizontal line. Derek feels his blood pounding a rhythm in his veins as the tell-tale clicks of rifle cocking resound against the blacktop pavement.
This is it.
A snarl escapes from his lips, and he feels the change coming as his fingernails extend into sleek claws and his shirt begins to tear at the back, ripping in twain as his spine hardens and his muscles bulge, thick fur darkening the nape of his neck. His eyes burn red, and he charges forward, slamming the full weight of his body against the door, knocking it off its hinges.
There’s another sound - the safety being flicked off - and registering that it’s coming from within the room, Derek follows the path of his moment and slides across the ground, narrowly avoiding the shriek of the high-powered bullets blasting from the double barrel of Meredith’s shotgun. He hears the grunt of pain from behind, followed up by the pungent scent of blood mist as the shot catches Samuel in the lung and sprays shrapnel into the wooding of the wallboards. Meredith is crouched behind the bed in the dark, night-vision goggles strapped to her head. The dial tone of the phone -dangling off its hook on the bedside table - cuts through the cacophony like a mechanical metronome as Meredith wheels on Derek, taking aim and clearing the chamber.
Samuel slumps backward and crashes to the floor, smearing a thick trail of blood on the wall behind him. Mr. Argent steps over his body and flicks on the light switch, simultaneously zeroing in on Meredith’s location and firing off a quick round from his pistol. Two bullets imbed themselves in the floor beside her, one slices through the bedding, sending a flurry of foam up in the air in little flakes. Meredith jerks away, throwing herself flat on her back and out of Argent’s line of sight as the next bullet whips off the tip of her earlobe. Thrown off balance, her next shot misses Derek by inches, blasting a hole in the TV screen, blowing sparks all over the floor.
Derek propels himself out of the way, scrambling into the bathroom alcove, away from the stark scent of wolfsbane-packed shells. Instinctively, Mr. Argent drops behind the bed to reload. Jeff crouches just out of sight in the doorway, covering the exit to prevent Meredith’s escape. Tossing the empty shotgun aside and ripping off the goggles in the sudden brightness of the artificial light, she yanks a revolver out of her breast holster and lifts up the fringe of the bedding, firing off two shots under the mattress. Mr. Argent yelps in pain as one of the bullets slices through his shoulder.
Hearing his cry, Jeff dives into the room, sliding past Samuel’s body across the flattened door and taking aim as he tumbles over to Meredith’s side of the bed. She sees him, whirling the revolver around as his rifle blasts a hole in the wall right next to her head. She gasps in pain as a chunk of wood flies off and pierces a hole in her neck. Her finger spasms on the trigger and the revolver’s discharge sends the gun careening out of her grasp.
But not before it puts a hole directly through Jeff’s skull, sending chunks of brain matter splattering on the wall.
Derek hears Meredith scramble to her feet and white hot rage consumes all rational thought. Fully transformed and seething with bloodlust, he jumps out from his hiding spot to survey the damage.
Meredith is already out of the room, darting across the empty parking lot and clutching the wound in her neck. Jeff and Samuel’s bodies lie side by side in their own filth and juices. Mr. Argent groans as he rises, holding his bleeding shoulder. He looks momentarily startled by Derek’s Alpha form, but he recovers quickly, waving his pistol at the open door.
“Go!” he urges, moving shakily. “I’ll have Victoria come pick me up, don’t let Wakefield escape!”
Derek growls his assent, dashing off without a second glance back.
She’s at the tree line when he makes it past the spotlight of the flickering street lamp. He hears the muffled shouting of the night clerk in the lobby, babbling hysterically on the phone about “shots fired” and “people with guns,” but he keeps his eye on the target.
The woods are thick and dark and the scent of pine and dead leaves pervades Derek’s nostrils as he breathes deep and furious in the cold, but his senses are honed on Meredith Wakefield, and he can pick up the smell of lavender shampoo even above the sweetness of the honeysuckle bushes. He follows the trail, barreling through the undergrowth on all fours, foaming at the mouth like a wild beast.
He pushes up the the muddy slope, bearing down as Meredith reaches the riverbank. She turns on him, screaming in defiance as he tackles her in the reeds. His wolf howls in triumph as his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her bared throat. The sickly-sweet taste of blood fills his mouth, and he laps eagerly at the pooling mess, guzzling the sticky stuff with gusto.
Meredith gurgles wordlessly, eyes bulging with horror and disgust. Her arms flail at her sides, and she reaches into the sock of her boot, producing a dagger and ramming it into the space between Derek’s ribs.
He yelps and leaps away, wrenching the knife out and tossing it into the grass, leaving a trail of matted fur and crimson droplets across the hard earth. Meredith is up in a second staggering into the water with startling speed. Derek stands frozen for a moment, unable to believe she’s still moving. Then she’s ten feet out in the river, body submerging beneath the rippling surface, and he snaps into action diving after her.
The water is thick, impenetrable. Even in the daylight he wouldn’t be able to see through this muck.
He swims to the top after a full minute of searching and gasps for air. The rage begins to subside, and he feels the change kicking in as he comes down from his wolf form, teeth shrinking back to normal size. Coughing up filthy river water, he stumbles back to shore, standing naked with mud seeping up around his toes.
Narrowing his eyes, he closely examines the surface of the water. Meredith is nowhere to be seen.
Derek’s wolf purrs in satisfaction and he breathes a deep sigh of relief.
A wound like that would be impossible to survive for more than a few minutes. Probably even less than that underwater. So it’s over. She’s dead.
He drops to his knees, closing his eyes.
I got her, he thinks. I got her for you, Stiles.
***
By the time the car pulls into the dusty gravel drive of the mining town, it’s apparent to Stiles that their werewolf companions are very much aware of the power shift taking place in the backseat.
The driver’s shoulders are rigid as he grips the steering wheel, and the guard riding shotgun keeps glancing back indiscreetly, soft, frustrated whimpers thrumming low in his chest. It’s clear they’re uneasy and unsure of what to do. And David isn’t helping by leaving them without instruction.
“Return to your tents,” David orders as they all exit the vehicle. His face is deathly pale now, and his posture is slouched and weary, but his voice is as strong as ever, and it holds sway over his pack. They growl in obedience and shuffle off, darting quick looks over their shoulders as they retreat into the night.
“What now?” Stiles asks softly, and David smiles at him fondly.
“Come,” he says, beckoning the boy closer. “Assist me home.”
He wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles notices absently that his hands are human once more, veins bulging blue and icy against the clammy skin. Supporting the Alpha as best he can, Stiles makes his way through the encampment, painfully aware of all the neon eyes observing them curiously from a distance. David snarls at a gathering that dares to sneak closer, and the werewolves dart away in a hurry.
Together, they approach the gaping maw of the mine entrance and, with just a moment’s hesitation, Stiles presses forward, and David hobbles along with him.
“You will make for a great king,” David murmurs, somewhat deliriously as they step down the iron tracks in the torchlight. “You’re smart and cunning. And you’ve got the balls to go for the long con.” His perfect white teeth gleam in the dark. “I imagine it will be some time before you are overthrown.”
“I won’t be a king,” Stiles says through clenched teeth, sweating profusely from the exertion of supporting the heavier man. “That’s not who I am.” He wipes moisture from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “And I won’t be overthrown,” he adds as an afterthought.
David snorts, stumbling slightly as his foot catches on a rock. “Everyone is overthrown eventually,” he retorts knowingly. “Everything ends, boy.”
“Everything changes,” Stiles corrects. “Nothing ends.”
David laughs, deep and wet and pained. “And you accused me of pretension,” he chuckles. “Said I was overly philosophical. ‘Everything changes.’ That’s just a nicer way of rephrasing my position.”
“Maybe so,” Stiles says, brushing off David’s laughter like it’s nothing. “Doesn’t make me wrong. Things do change.”
“That they do,” David agrees seriously. “Things do change.” He stops for a moment, catching his breath, a low and remorseful sigh echoing in the tunnel. “God, how things change...”
Stiles gives him a minute, then starts to move again, dragging the werewolf with him. “What’s it like?” he asks, feeling strangely timid. “Being Alpha?”
David gives him a funny look, perusing him, then shrugs. “Couldn’t say. I’ve been one since I was 15 years old. I can’t remember what it’s like not to be one. There’s probably not a point of comparison, to be honest.”
“15 years old,” Stiles murmurs, bewildered. “Holy shit.” He narrows his eyes, looking up at the Alpha. “Who was your predecessor?” he asks. “Who came before you?”
Who did you kill?
The question goes unspoken, but they’re both very much aware of it.
“My father,” David replies, expression stony and impassive.
Stiles doesn’t ask any more questions.
***
When he slips in through the window, Mr. Argent is sitting shirtless on the kitchen counter, his wife standing at his side with a needle and thread, stitching closed the wound in his shoulder. The red-stained bullet lies conspicuously nearby in a bowl by the sink.
“Is it done?” Argent asks in greeting when he spots Derek emerging from the shadows. “Is she dead?”
Derek nods, and Mrs. Argent sighs in relief.
“I caught her down by the river,” he explains, seeing Mr. Argent’s inquisitive gaze. “Bit her throat open.”
“Bit her?” Mr. Argent asks harshly.
Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “She ran into the river and drowned. Even if the bite did take, there’s no way she survived a wound like that in the water.”
“That’s not a risk we’re willing to take,” Mrs. Argent cuts in, eyes blazing, lips pursed tight.
“I agree,” Mr. Argent mutters, slipping his shirt back on and examining the stitches. He looks at Derek coldly. “We’ve given you more than enough time to fix this thing, Hale,” he says. “We’re not going to stick around any longer.”
“You know that’s a bad idea,” Derek replies evenly, arms folded over his chest. “You saw that phone in the motel room.”
Mrs. Argent frowns, turning to her husband questioningly. Mr. Argent clenches his jaw, seething silently. “We don’t know anything,” he grits out. “There’s no telling who she called, or if she even called anyone. It could have gotten knocked off the hook when we burst in.”
Derek shakes his head. “You don’t believe that.” He turns his focus on Mrs. Argent. “Meredith is dead, but her backup will be here any day now. She’ll have told them where my house is.” He looks at Mr. Argent, half-commanding, half-pleading. “We just have to lure them in. That’s it. Then we can end this. Once and for all.” He rubs his forehead. "You don't have to help anymore. Just stay." The for Scott and Allison goes unspoken.
Mrs. Argent studies him for a second or two, then nods in grudging agreement, turning to raise an eyebrow at her husband. Mr. Argent looks between them, then sighs, shoulders slumping in resignation.
“Two days,” he says firmly. “That’s all we’re giving you. Then we’re out of here.”
Derek nods. “Fair enough.”
He backs away and slips into the shadows, leaving the couple alone in their kitchen with the bullet in the bowl on the counter.
***
The tunnel opens up into the central cavern, and they step out into a vast rotunda resonating with the echoes of steel and iron clashing together in the forge beneath.
Stiles leans over the guardrail, staring down into the workshop where werewolf men and women stand together at the assembly line, pounding metal into weaponry, pouring molten liquid into great stone basins which drip down into grates and trays for the formation of bullets and guns and rifles and daggers.
“Why all this?” he asks, looking up at David. “What’s the point? You’re werewolves.”
“And so we’re required to behave like dumb beasts?” David replies drily, looking over the makeshift factory with more than a hint of pride. “Our ancestors might balk at the path we’ve chosen, but they’re dead and buried, and so whatever opinions they might have had regarding this place are moot and inconsequential.” He looks at Stiles curiously. “Do you think it is better for us to fight with tooth and nail rather than guns? Do you believe it makes a difference, morally or otherwise?”
“No,” Stiles admits, voice soft, eyes sad. “No, it doesn’t matter.” He tightens his jaw. “Killing is killing. It’s unpleasant no matter how it happens.”
“Well you’d better get used to it,” David says, his hand tight on Stiles’ shoulder. “In your line of work, it’s going to unavoidable.”
“It’s not my line of work,” Stiles snaps, almost pushing the werewolf away.
David clucks his tongue in that maddening, superior way of his. “Whatever you say.”
They move on further down the line, away from the central hub and deeper into the earth. After a few silent minutes in the crushing blackness, they come upon a small wooden door that opens to a spiral staircase. Stiles uses his free hand to wrench a torch from its socket on the cobblestone wall and, still supporting David’s weight, he feels his way along the stairs, swallowing hard to ease the mounting pressure in his eardrums.
At the base of the stairway, there is another door. Iron this time, with large metalwork lock holding it closed.
Face white as a sheet, breathing shallower than ever, David lifts a heavy hand to the lock. Using what remains of his strength, he morphs the fingernail of his index finger into the shape of a key, pressing it into the hole and twisting until the latch breaks off. Stiles winces as the lock falls, snapping David’s fingernail off with it, but the Alpha doesn’t make a sound. He just lolls his head forward, urging Stiles onward.
Stepping inside, Stiles holds the torch aloft and blinks to adjust his eyes.
It’s a catacomb; rows upon rows of dusty gravestones, bound together by strands of cobwebs. Stiles shivers in the chill of the deep earth.
“There,” David croaks, pointing to the end of the first line, at an unmarked grave with an open casket.
Stiles takes him there, wordlessly, obediently. Reaching their destination at last, David slumps to the ground, coughing weakly as he pulls himself into the hole. Stiles feels a tightness in his chest. He doesn’t want to watch this man die.
In spite of it all.
“Sit with me a while,” David commands, reclining in his resting place with a detached sense of leisure that feels out of place. “This is as good a place as any for you to wait out your transformation.”
Stiles sits awkwardly, propping the torch up between a pair of nearby boulders.
“How long have you people been here?” he murmurs, staring in awe at the endless grave-sites stretching out into infinite darkness.
David smiles. “I have no idea,” he replies softly.
***
“My mom is going to kill me,” Scott grumbles, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he plops down in Derek’s living room chair. “She’s gonna think someone fucking kidnapped me or something.”
“Make up an excuse,” Derek says sharply, quelling the boy’s complaints with a stern look. He looks around the room, staring individually into the sleepy eyes of all of his pack mates. “Meredith Wakefield is dead,” he announces.
That seems to wake them up a bit.
“When?” Jackson asks. “How?”
“Just a few hours ago,” Derek replies. “Never mind how.” He clears his throat, stepping back to survey the room once more. “We’re almost out of the woods, guys. Just hang on a little bit longer."
“But what else is there?” Danny inquires suspiciously. “If she’s gone, we’re safe. Right?”
Derek shakes his head, and Jackson groans irritably. “What then?” he asks, burying his face in his hands. “What now?”
“She may have managed to call for backup,” Derek admits. “We’ll know for sure in the next couple of days.”
“What do we do until then?” Scott asks, voice no longer tired, completely down-to-business.
“Just wait here,” Derek says, preemptively cutting off Jackson’s whining with a quick glare. “I promise this will all be over soon. We’re almost there.”
God, how he hopes that’s true.
***
There’s a thick, dank musk in the underground cemetery. Stiles feels stifled by it.
“This is an ending unexpected,” David murmurs, eyes rolled back in his head, forcing his words out with whatever strength remains. How he’s still alive, Stiles will never understand.
“My dad’s death was unexpected, too,” he says coldly. It’s immaterial, irrelevant. It has nothing to do with David or his pack, but it’s something to say, and Stiles has nothing else.
David seems to understand anyway, chuckling weakly as his eyelids flutter, fingers spasming at his sides. The blood in his veins is flowing slower now. Stiles can tell; his sense of hearing has grown sharper and sharper still over the course of the hour.
“You’ll do fine,” David says, one eye quirking open to stare up at Stiles. His expression is somber now. It lacks the malice and cunning of usual.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. You’ll do fine. As Alpha. You’re a smart boy.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, glancing at the fading torchlight. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “So you’ve told me.”
“I mean it,” David says, and looking back at him, Stiles sees just how serious he is. “You’ll do great things.”
Weakly, slowly, he lifts a shaking arm and offers his hand to Stiles, silently asking for a simple gesture of comfort.
And Stiles isn’t sure how to feel about this. This man threatened his life, threatened his friends’ lives. Threatened Derek’s life. He tried to take Stiles as a mate, tried to make him his own. He killed those people in the valley, brutally and without mercy. This man has done all of those things.
But it’s unquestionably, unmistakably “this man.” Not “this wolf.” Not “this monster.”
He’s a person, and in the very brief time Stiles has known him, he’s made a mark on his life in ways that few others have. For better or for worse.
So he takes David’s hand, much to the Alpha’s surprise. He takes the man’s hand and holds it firmly while it cools into ice, life slipping away with every passing moment.
“You feel compassion for me?” David croaks bitterly. “Even now?”
Stiles looks him in the eye, unflinching. “We’re no different,” he says truthfully. “Not in all the bullshit ways you’ve been trying to convince me of. But in the ways that count, we’re the same. We’re both people.” He leans in closer, putting his mouth near David’s ear. “That’s something you never understood,” he whispers. “The only difference between you and me is that...you go a little mad sometimes.”
David blinks at him, then grins. “Psycho?”
Stiles smiles back, ruefully. “My dad turned me on to Hitchcock.”
With surprising speed and strength, David reaches around the nape of Stiles’ neck and pulls him down, craning his neck to smash his mouth against the boy’s lips.
Stiles freezes, startled, but doesn’t back away, lets the werewolf have his moment.
Dropping away, David nips punishingly at Stiles’ mouth, leaving a dark bruise.
“You would have been good for me,” he murmurs, half-mocking, half-sincere.
And then he dies.
***
The boys are asleep in the den, and Derek’s sitting out on the porch, wide awake. Alive.
He can still feel the thrill of sinking his teeth into that woman’s neck, can still taste her fear and rage and helplessness. He’s not a sadist, but he can’t deny how much he enjoyed that.
Lost in his thoughts, he starts when Allison emerges from the darkness of the driveway, joining him without warning.
“We should talk,” she says hesitantly, looking through the window to observe the sleeping boys. Her gaze softens when her eyes fall upon Scott.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” Derek asks quietly.
“No,” Allison answers readily, honestly. “But we should talk anyway.”
The corners of Derek’s mouth quirk up in a small, begrudging smile, and he motions for her to sit beside him. “What about?”
She sits, breathing shakily. Derek’s eyebrows narrow in suspicion, waiting for her reply. She looks unsure for a second, then determined. Looking up to meet his eyes, she says, “I want the bite.”
And...okay. That’s not what he was expecting at all.
“Excuse me?” he asks numbly.
Allison sucks on the inside of her cheek, glaring at him. “You heard me.”
“Yeah, I did. But you must have misspoken.” He glares right back. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Look,” she mutters, “I know I’m not your favorite person in the world, and I can assure you that the feeling is mutual.” Her lip trembles slightly. “But my parents are seriously considering leaving Beacon Hills, and I...I need a bargaining chip.”
Ah. The pieces start clicking together in Derek’s head, and he nods in understanding, sighing as well. “Scott?” he confirms gruffly.
She nods. “I’m not going to lose him,” she says sharply, challenging him to defy her. “Not after all this. I can’t” - she shudders - “I can’t let this all be for waste. If we leave now, then what was the fucking point?”
Derek doesn’t say anything, just listens patiently.
“People have died,” she continues, voice strained with exhaustion and anger. “I can’t just leave.”
“Staying won’t make it better,” Derek says, startled by how gentle he sounds. “It won’t give their deaths any more meaning.”
Allison shakes her head vehemently, wetness spotting her eyes. “It can. It can make this place better.” She wipes her eyes, looking back through the window where Scott lies sleeping on the couch. “If I can stay,” she says, choked and pained, “and he and I survive this, then...I dunno. It will be worth it, somehow.” She looks at him, cheeks streaked with tears. “Can’t you understand that? Surviving isn’t enough. If we don’t have love when it’s all over and done with, then what the fuck does any of it matter?”
Derek’s not sure what to say to that.
She wipes her cheeks, clearing her throat. Her expression clears, serious now. “Could you leave Stiles?” she asks softly. “If he and you were in Scott’s and my place? Would any of this be worth it if the only goal was living through it?”
Derek swallows, the words hitting home like a punch to the gut.
Allison rolls back her sleeve, offering him her wrist. “Do it,” she whispers. “It’s the only way.”
Unbidden, as if not in control of his own body, Derek takes her by the arm, bringing her wrist up to his mouth. She stiffens in anticipation as he breathes in her scent, teeth elongating in preparation. Saliva fills his mouth at the prospect, his eyes flashing red as his wolf demands that he take action.
He opens his mouth, scraping his teeth along Allison’s skin. She screws her eyes shut, jaw clenching tight. He’s ready to strike, he’s right there...
...and then...
It’s like the veil being lifted. It’s a moment of clarity, unlike any he’s had since...
Ever, really.
This is his wolf. His wolf. It’s something he owns, something that belongs to him. Not something that controls him, not something that rules his every thought and feeling. He can choose to say no to the instincts of the animal. He can react on his own terms, for his own reasons.
He can choose.
Derek releases Allison’s wrist, letting it fall into her lap gingerly. “I can’t,” he apologizes.
Her eyes pop open and she stares at him, bewildered at first, then furious. “Why not?” she asks angrily.
“You’re too-”
“Oh, no!” she cuts in, eyes on fire. “Don’t you dare give me that crap about being too young.”
“You are,” Derek says, calm in the face of her anger.
“Bullshit, you turned Jackson! And Danny!”
“And I shouldn’t have,” he says, realizing just how true the words are as he speaks them aloud. “You guys are kids, and it wasn’t fair for me to ask so much, so soon in life.” He rubs his forehead. “I know you don’t want to hear this, and believe me when I tell you I know how condescending this is going to sound...but you’re too young to have to make choices like this.”
“Life isn’t fair, Derek,” Allison retorts. “Let’s not insult each other by pretending otherwise.”
He nods. “You’re right. Life isn’t fair. We have to set things right on our own terms. We don’t get any help on that front.” Acting on an impulse, he reaches out and places his hand on her knee. She jerks, startled, but doesn’t swat him away. “Look,” he says patiently, “the answer is no. I’ve made enough mistakes in the past year to haunt me for the rest of my life. And I’m not going to enable you in doing the same.” After a moment’s hesitation, he adds, “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you will find someone else. If you have to leave.”
“Shut up,” she says, eyes watering again. “Don’t you say that to me.”
“It’s true,” he says, firmly but not unkindly. “I was kid once, too, you know. Not that long ago, if I’m being honest with myself. I remember what it’s like to be young and in love.” He bites his lip. “It’s different with you and Scott,” he admits. “It’s different than it was with me. With Kate.” Allison’s eyes widen, realizing what he’s talking about. “But I know that you think you’ll never love anyone like you love Scott. You think that if you have to leave him, you’ll never love anyone again.” He looks at her sharply. “And you’re wrong. I can attest to that. I’m the living proof that it’s possible to find that spark again.”
“Scott’s not her,” Allison whispers.
“Like I said, I know that. And maybe I’m making another mistake here.” Derek straightens up, fixing her with a stern glare. “But if I am, I know I won’t regret it as much as I will if I give you the bite. The answer is no.”
Allison’s mouth works silently, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Standing abruptly, she walks down the stairs without a second look back. “Fuck you,” she spits.
Derek shrugs. “Fair enough.” As Allison marches off the porch into the darkness, he calls after her, “After this is done. When you’re older and wiser, and you’ve had time to think about it...I might reconsider.”
She falters for a second, taking in his words, then continues on without a word.
Derek leans back against the wall of the house, closing his eyes.
***
There’s a thrumming in the deep.
The light of the torch in the catacombs has long since faded, but the shrieks of the child inside linger, echoing in the hollow space with sharp clarity. All of the creatures that dwell beneath the earth can hear his suffering as the night ticks on. The werewolf workers in the underground factory take pause as they cock their ears, listening intently for the distant sound of the moaning boy.
The hours go by, and the blackness give way to daybreak. Rays of light shimmer in from outside the tunnel, casting a soft glow on the cobblestone within.
The transformation is complete.
He rises from the gravesite, a new and whole being, poison flushed from his system, organs purified and running hot. His eyes are radiant in the darkness, and he needs no torchlight to find his way up the spiral stair, striding with purpose up to the surface of the earth.
Miners on the steel tracks stop in awe and wonder as he walks by, naked as the day he was born, tall and proud without a worry in the world. In his right hand he clutches a vase of oil, found lying amidst the treasure and sacraments adorning an ancient tombstone. In his left he holds a candle, small and meek, blowing about in the breeze from the cavern mouth.
He presses on, blinking away the dust that settles in his eyelashes as he moves up through the tunnel. The miners follow behind, unspeaking and at a safe distance. Reaching at last the great stone door, he turns to the throng and motions for a young woman, barely out of adolescence herself, to come forward and assist. Head bowed in reverence, she steps forward and reaches with shaking hands to hook her fingers around the brass doorknob, twisting it open and pulling to grant her leader entrance.
Nodding his thanks, he moves into the room, and the crowd gathers around the doorway, peering within as he approaches the throne.
He stands before it, hatred flickering briefly across his features. Then he takes the vase and pours out the contents. A collective gasp spreads amongst the workers as they understand what is taking place. Stepping back, Stiles holds the candle aloft and tosses it onto the wicker throne.
It ignites.
Flames lick greedily at the woodwork, the strands of hair singing away into naught as the fire burns bright in the dimness of the chamber.
There will be no more werewolf kings.
Stiles turns to face his pack, and his eyes glow with fearsome light. And they are not red, but ultraviolet. And the throng trembles before him, sinking as one to their knees and bowing before him.
A new Alpha has risen.
***
Derek stares pensively out the window, watching the sunrise in the east beyond the canopy of the forest.
“I want you to know I love you,” he says, and it’s barely audible, but he can tell by the sudden quiet in the room that his pack mates heard him. He turns to look at them.
Scott looks confused, Jackson dumbfounded. Danny looks a little suspicious.
Derek feels a swell of affection blossom in his chest. It’s a good feeling. It’s something he’d like to feel more often.
“I mean it,” he tells them, open and sincere. “We’ve been through a lot together. And even though, for the most part, we are not the sort of people who would choose to keep company if given the choice...I’m glad I’m here with you.”
Scott swallows, eyes wide and stunned.
Jackson quirks an eyebrow. “Did you take drugs last night, dude?” he asks carefully.
Derek smiles at him, and the boy looks more bewildered than ever. “I care about you,” he says. He looks at the group once more. “About all of you.”
“What is this?” Danny asks, still suspicious. “Why are you saying this? Why now?”
“Because it’s true,” Derek responds simply. “And because I’ll regret it if I don’t say get another chance to say it.”
“We’re not going to die,” Scott cuts in, eyes hard, but with a soft voice.
“Yeah, man,” Jackson says, clearing his throat. “It’ll be fine.”
Derek closes his eyes, breathing deeply. “You are my pack,” he says, turning back to face the window. “No matter what.” He narrows his eyes against the growing sunlight. “I’ll always protect you. Don’t forget that.”
He doesn’t turn around again, but he can feel their eyes drilling holes into the back of his head, staring at him in stupefied silence.
***
Clothed now, he stands outside on top of the scaffolding next to the gazebo, Lydia at his side. She stares at him, glancing between his impassive gaze and the immense crowd below.
“Are you sure about this?” she whispers, low enough that no one can hear but the two of them. “I feel like we’re throwing away something here.”
Stiles nods, wetting his lips nervously. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Lydia chews on her lip, clearly doubtful, but she backs off, giving him the floor.
The werewolves below stare up in rapt attention.
Clearing his throat, Stiles speaks. “David Moss is dead,” he announces. “I killed him.”
“We know,” one man calls, derisive and skeptical. “We’ve known that since last night.” A few of his fellows grumble in agreement.
“What are we supposed to do now?” a woman shouts from the back. “What are your orders?”
“I have no orders,” Stiles answers, and the crowd murmurs in discontent.
“Well, would you like for us to stand around while you make up your mind?” the man pipes up again. Stiles glares at him sharply, and the man’s smirk crumbles away as he bows his head in submission.
“I’d like for you all to do whatever the hell you like,” he says, addressing everyone. “Anything you want. Leave this place. Go back to your homes, if you have them. Get married, if you aren’t already. Have families. Do something else. Anything. Anything that you weren’t made to do here.”
“You are our Alpha!” another voice cries out, disbelieving and frustrated. Stiles catches the man’s eye and recognizes him as one of the guards from the past night. “You have responsibilities to us! Child or not, you are our leader now, and you have a duty to command!”
“This is not my pack,” Stiles replies, ignoring the shouts of outrage from a few pockets in the throng. “Killing your Alpha hardly makes me one of you. It doesn’t make me anything.”
“Ignorance of how things work does not exempt you from responsibility,” a woman yells at him.
“Shut up!” another woman snarls. “He is our Alpha. Let him speak.”
“I am not your Alpha,” Stiles growls, eyes flaming bright violet. The crowd shies away, cowering. “This is not my pack. This is not a pack at all. It doesn’t matter how you think I ought to be, and it doesn’t matter how things have been done in the past. It doesn’t even matter that you’re werewolves. You’re just a bunch of people who have been conned into being controlled by others who are smarter and crueler than you are.” He takes a deep breath, calming himself. They’re all paying close attention now, dead silent and observant. “Maybe this was a pack at some point or another, but it sure as hell isn’t now. Pack is supposed to be family. You’re supposed to look out for each other. The job of the Alpha is to protect his family. That’s what leadership fucking is. I’m sixteen God damn years old and I understand that shit. It’s time for you all to grow up.”
Motioning to Lydia, he steps down from his perch, sliding down the ladder to the dirt. The horde parts for him, making a path to the gate. He takes Lydia’s hand in his own.
“Go home,” he repeats, gently this time. “Start over. Forget about this place. If you need a pack, go find one that can be good to you. There’s nothing left for any of us here.”
Walking tall, he trudges through the muck and filth with his friend at his side, and together, they pass through the iron bars and out into the forest.
No one follows.
***
The pull up to the Hale house at noon. Ten of them, all donned in checkered shirts and dark caps, tattered blue jeans and hiking shoes.
They’re loaded up on guns, firepower to the max. Rifles and shotguns and pistols and knives. One of them even has a flamethrower.
Ever the blunt one, Jackson voices what the others are thinking. “We don’t stand a chance.” His voice is low, strained with fear, but quietly accepting and peaceful in a way Derek’s never heard him before.
“What now?” Danny asks softly.
“You all go to the basement,” Derek says. “Lock the doors. Wait until you hear the gunfire, then call the cops.” He nods out the window. “I’ll keep these bozos occupied for as long as I can until they arrive.”
They all look at him sharply.
“Hell no!” Jackson says, indignant.
“Not happening,” Danny agrees.
“We’re not going to leave you,” Scott says quietly.
“Don’t even bother arguing,” Jackson interrupts as Derek opens his mouth to respond.
“You’re not sacrificing yourself to save us,” Danny says.
Scott comes up beside Derek, placing a hand on his arm. “We go together,” he says.
And Derek can’t say anything. He’s all out of excuses.
Standing together, they move to the door.
“Ready?” Derek asks. The pack nods in agreement. Derek turns the knob, and the door swings open.
There’s a chorus of clicking, safety switches being flicked off, and Derek steps out into the sunlight, his brethren gathered behind him, backing him up.
If this is how it’s got to end, Derek thinks, I’m glad it’s with friends.
One of the hunters steps forward, spitting on the ground as he raises his pistol. “Derek Hale?” he asks rhetorically, sneering.
“Yes,” Derek says. He can sense Jackson tensing beside him, bristling at the man’s tone, itching for a fight. He growls low in his chest, silently communicating to the boy not to do anything stupid. Jackson hears and backs down, seething silently.
“You gonna make this easy on us?” the man drawls lazily.
Derek’s eyes flash red. “Not a chance in hell.”
***
At the time, Derek thinks that it happens without warning, a deus ex machina unexpected.
Later, he'll realize that’s not quite true.
There’s a long pause beforehand, a stretch of time during which the hunters raise their guns at the ready, taking aim at the chests of the boys in front of the Hale house. And in response, the pack drops to the floor, crouched on all fours with elongating teeth, preparing to make a final stand.
No one pays mind to the sound in the trees, the caw of the blackbirds as they scatter in fear, taking to the sky and casting a shadow over the standoff below as they pass the midday sun. Right on the edge of bloodbath, no one hears the thunder in the forest as the creature looms nearer and nearer, raising up hell as the woodland animals return to their nests and holes and treetop hideaways to escape the oncoming wrath.
Yet they all pay mind - pausing with fingers on triggers and ceasing the aggressive snarling - when the sudden hush wipes out all sound in the clearing. And, as one, they turn with wariness to the edge of the woods, tension palpable in the hot air.
The silence drags, seconds ticking by.
And then the beast emerges.
Derek knows who it is, knows it immediately.
She’s a tower. A colossus of an animal; a werewolf unlike any he’s seen before. Twelve feet tall and broad shouldered, a snarling, seething, raving mad mass of a monster. Her teeth are bared like glistening daggers, drool and foam sopping around the curled corners of her blackened lips. Her eyes are dark and empty, bulging with crazed rage and hunger. Derek feels a chill in his heart, looking into those eyes.
There’s no human behind them. No soul, no mind. Just pure, unadulterated animal instinct.
Her claws unsheathe with a resonant metallic sound, as long and as sharp as swords, curved like machetes and practically vibrating with the need to slay. The thick, matted fur is alive with energy; it bristles and shivers and moves like it’s a living thing in and of itself. Veins bulge forth from every inch of uncovered skin, pumping blood with such rapid speed, Derek’s certain even the hunters can hear the ominous drum beat of the beast’s heart thumping in terrifying tempo.
The werewolf queen rises to full hight, bellowing bloodlust at the bright blue sky. The pack trembles in horror at the noise.
Spurred into action, the hunters wheel around to face the new threat, firing their rifles without pause.
Derek whips around to face the boys, who are staring at Meredith with wide eyes and slack jaws. “Run!” he hisses. “Hide, now!”
They snap out of the reverie and dart for the bushes. Derek follows close behind.
Casting a wild glance over his shoulder, Derek’s stomach lurches as he sees the queen charge at the hunters, indifferent to the bullets piercing her fur, and seizes the man at the front of the line, ripping him in two like it’s nothing at all. A woman screams as a mist of blood showers down upon her, and she drops her gun with a clatter. Clutching her throat as she chokes on the spray, she barely has time to recover before the queen is snatching her up as well, chomping down on her skull with a sickening crunch, compressing her head into mush and ripping it from her body with ease.
Derek gags, pushing aside branches and leaves as he scrambles after his pack. The shrikes in the front yard of the Hale house resonate in his eardrums.
He finds the boys waiting by in the hollow of an oak tree, eyes wide with fear and hearts pounding with adrenaline.
“What the fuck?” Jackson whimpers.
“What is that thing?” Danny asks breathlessly.
Derek fixes his gaze on Scott, who seems the calmest. “Get to the Argents’ house,” he says. “Keep running and don’t look back.”
“We’re not leaving you, remember?” Scott protests, but Derek grips his shoulder hard, forcing him into submission.
“Do as I say,” he snaps.
Scott opens his mouth to argue, but Jackson fists his hand in the back of his shirt and yanks him along. “Come on!” he insists, and Danny’s already started off, headed for the road at high speed. “We’ve got to go now!”
Derek and Scott stare at each other for a few seconds, then Scott grunts in obedience, dashing off up the slope with Jackson at his heels.
There’s a sudden silence, and Derek has time to feel a thrill of dread just before Meredith leaps out from a smattering of trees, tackling him to the ground with manic strength.
Acting on instinct, Derek curls into a ball and places the bottoms of his feet against the queen’s breast, kicking with all his might and sending her sprawling headlong into a rock, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws that crane for his throat.
Derek jumps to his feet, sprinting back in the direction of the house, silently praying that the beast follows him instead of the boys. He’s not disappointed.
Meredith comes barreling after him, all tooth and maw, bloody claws ripping into the earth and catching on vines as she howls the cry of war.
Returning to the clearing, Derek nearly vomits as he stumbles into the carnage. All of the hunters are dead, their bodies lying in pieces all across the yard. The man who had seemed to be the leader is the only one left intact, a single slice line running across his neck. There’s an arm dangling off the roof - and Derek goes through a split second thought process of wondering how it got up there - and a tangle of hair and the pulpy remains of someone’s head lie haphazardly on the porch. Apparently a few of them tried to hide in the house.
Derek almost makes it to the front door, but no such luck. Meredith catches up to him, her claws finally stretching far enough to slash a deep gash in the back of his left leg.
Hollering in pain, he falls to the ground in front of his house, watching as the beast looms above him, silhouetted by the sun.
Derek closes his eyes, lying in the shade of the queen’s shadow.
It might as well be here, he thinks. This is where my family died. It’s only fitting.
The beast stares at him for a moment or two, chest heaving with rage and excitement. The claw comes up, ready to strike.
And then Derek feels a shower of blood come splattering down on his face, and his eyes pop open in time to see five dripping nails protruding through the front of Meredith’s neck. Her eyes bulge in shock, hand dropping uselessly at her side.
And it is a hand now.
Her fur is falling away as well, her teeth returning to normal size as the light fades from her eyes.
All of the anger and energy drains away, and she sinks to the grass with a hand at her throat, mouth open as she vainly gasps for air, blood gurgling from the puncture wounds in her throat.
Derek watches in disbelief as Stiles’ fingernails retract, reverting back to human form. He sees the bite mark on his lover’s wrist and feels a lurch inside his chest.
Stiles kneels by Meredith’s side, his face running through the gauntlet of emotions as he watches her die.
She turns to look at him, eyes widening in surprise. Her mouth opens.
She says something, and Derek thinks he hears the word “Sean?”
And then her eyes roll back in her head, a last exhale escaping from her lips.
Silence falls.
Stiles looks up, torn and weary. “Derek,” he murmurs.
And Derek’s heart can’t take this anymore.
***
“It’s him!” Scott exclaims, and Jackson and Danny are at his side in an instant, pressing their faces in close to read the text message along with him.
In typical Derek fashion, it’s brief and vague:
It’s over. We’re safe.
“That’s it?” Jackson asks indignantly. “No explanation? No details? No fucking phone call?”
Danny, however, drops down in the nearest armchair, relief evident on his face. “It’s over,” he repeats.
Jackson stills, hearing the words again. “It’s over,” he says wonderingly. Danny smiles, laughing shakily.
Scott runs a hand through his hair, and Allison comes over to hug him close. “It’s over,” he whispers into her hair, hugging her back.
Mr. and Mrs. Argent watch from the kitchen, neither of their expressions betraying their own immense relief.
“It’s over,” Lydia agrees, closing the front door behind her with a weary smile.
And everyone rushes forward to meet her.
***
There’s nothing sweet or romantic or tender about this. It’s not slow or gentle, and it’s not about heat or sexiness or lust.
There will time for that later. Now is about comfort. Now is about loss.
They step into the bedroom together, already undressed, already making out like they’ll never get another chance. And they’re barely through the doorway before Derek’s slamming Stiles up against the wall and running his tongue along the line of his jaw to take in the sweet taste he’s ever known, heart hammering in his chest as the boy kisses him back, needy and wanting and broken.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles murmurs, wrapping his arms around the back of Derek’s neck, allowing himself to be lifted as Derek moves to the mattress and throws them both down upon it. “I’m so sorry...”
“Don’t you ever leave,” Derek growls, kissing a trail down Stiles’ chest, fingers twitching at the sound of the teenager’s whimpers. And he’s angry; not at Stiles, or at anyone in particular. Just angry at the whole God damn mess. “Don’t you ever leave me again. I can’t lose you.”
“Never again,” Stiles promises, fisting his hand in Derek’s hair and nipping at his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They don’t even bother to prep for this. One minute they’re rutting up against each other on the dusty mattress in the afternoon heat, and the next Derek’s pushing inside and Stiles is groaning, half from pain and half from pleasure.
Derek pushes in and out with ferocity and vigor, and for a while there, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stop. He’s not sure he’ll ever stop needing to feel Stiles’ heartbeat thundering in his chest as they buck and twist in the sweaty sheets, pheromone scent thick in the air.
They’ve lost so much, and most of it can never come back to them. It’s gone forever, and the world spins on, indifferent to the lives destroyed by the workings of evil.
But they’re here. They’re here, and they’re alive.
And they have each other. And somehow, that’s enough.
Stiles’ wolf growls out, put on edge by the presence of another Alpha so close by. Derek’s wolf growls back. But the wolves’ voices are silenced, kept at bay by the will of their human minds. And after some time, Stiles’ animal instinct quiets down, submitting to Derek’s and accepting him as his Alpha.
Derek sees white, and he pushes over the brink with a soft cry. Stiles follows soon after.
***
“You gave it up?” Derek asks, voice quiet as they lie naked together in the afterglow, his fingers threading through Stiles’ hair, holding the boy close to his body. “All that power?”
“It wasn’t mine to take,” Stiles murmurs, exhausted and content. “It didn’t belong to anyone.”
Derek kisses the top of his head. “You would have handled it better than anyone else. You wouldn’t have let it go to your head. You’re too kind.”
Stiles swallows. “I’m not so sure anymore. Something’s changed.”
“Everything changes,” Derek says, tilting Stiles’ chin so that he can look into his eyes. “But you’re still a sweet boy. Everything you did was to protect your pack. Your family.”
Stiles’ eyes tear up. “That doesn’t make it right.”
Derek hugs him tight, an ache throbbing in his chest. “You did what you thought was right under impossible circumstances. That’s the most you can ask of anybody.” His voice is stern, reassuring. “You’re sixteen, Stiles. You can’t be too hard on yourself. No one should have to go through the things you have, and I can’t think of a single person, young or old, who could have handled the situation better. Don’t doubt that.”
Stiles chuckles, broken and watery. “I knew it,” he mumbles.
“What?” Derek frowns.
Stiles smiles. “You’re a nice guy.”
And Derek doesn’t even punch him.
***
Standing later on the porch in the night, Stiles turns to Derek, eyes somber and tired. “You know we still have one thing left to deal with, right?”
Derek nods. Sighs. “Yes,” he says. “I know.”
He closes his eyes.