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The lock sits heavy and final in his hand. Stiles can’t quite suppress the shudder that runs through him and has nothing to do with the cold and damp of the basement, when he presses it shut, needing both hands to do it.
“So,” he begins, has to clear his throat and start again. “So what exactly happens, now?” He’s still holding on to the metal padlock and lets it fall back against the door with a clang that makes him wince, turning slightly to glance at Derek.
“I don’t know,” Derek says, palm pressed against the wood as if he can sense his Pack behind it, feeling their absence already. Even Scott’s in there, despite having shown more command over his wolf than the others. Stiles wishes there was somewhere else they could keep them safe, instead of the tunnels underneath the Hale mansion, but there is nowhere. They’ve had a lot of time to look, after all.
“You’ve gotta know something,” Stiles says. There’s a sharp twist in his gut from the forlorn look on Derek’s face. He has it under control when he turns to Stiles, though.
“There’s myths.” Derek presses his lips together in annoyance when Stiles waves a hand, meaning, Yes? And?. “I’ve heard legends, but no one knows for sure. It’s been three hundred and fifty years since the last time a total lunar eclipse fell during winter solstice.” Derek lets his hand drop from the door and he steps back, then turns and walks away without checking if Stiles is following. Which he is because, one, creepy tunnels, and two, Derek has the maglite.
“Well, what happens during normal total eclipses,” of the heart, he nearly adds but these walls look particularly grimy and he’s wearing his new coat.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? How nothing? Normal wolf-out nothing?” he says, trudging up the stairs, “or ––“
“Nothing at all, Stiles,” Derek says as if he’s being particularly slow today which, Stiles thinks, is completely unfair. How is Stiles supposed to know when his only sources are Derek, who’s as free with information as the Illuminati, Scott who still looks surprised when his whiskers pop out during a full moon, and Wikipedia. He’ll probably not mention to Derek how the first thing he came across when he googled werewolf bites was disease.
“Really?” He follows Derek out into the rapidly falling darkness, the fresh air welcome even though it’s freezing. “No claws and teeth, not even if you tried?”
“No.”
“Huh,” he says, pulling his sleeves over his icy fingers as he chews that over. “Well, what happens on winter solstice when there is a full moon, then?”
Derek doesn’t say anything, just takes the steps up his porch three at a time and rolls his eyes as he holds the door for Stiles, who trips over his own feet. He lands hard on the wood, palms stinging.
“Dude,” he complains, it’s too dark but he’s sure there’s a splinter in his hand, “you need to repaint your deck.” He’s hauled to his feet and deposited in the house, where it’s only warmer because of the lack of wind. “So what happens?”
Derek just goes upstairs and Stiles follows, whether he’s invited or not, because the house too is dark as hell. Derek pushes open a door and flicks on a light to reveal a surprisingly cosy living room. “Aw, love what you’ve done with this,” Stiles says because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it. And it might, if the look on Derek’s face is anything to go by. “Hey,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “I mean it, I like it. I didn’t expect sofas and cushions and ––” He gapes because there is one wall covered with row upon row of books.
“It was my mom’s favorite spot in the house,” Derek says behind him, voice quiet and full of longing. Stiles turns to look at him, wants to say something because he knows all about what it’s like to miss a mom, but Derek’s frowning down at the floor as if he hadn’t meant to say that at all.
“Well, I can totally see why,” Stiles says, needing to cover the moment. “With the … charred walls and the … uh, never mind. So what does happen on a full moon during winter solstice?”
“I have trouble keeping control.”
“Um,” Stiles says. “So you’re going to be torn between being unable to wolf out and trouble keeping control of yourself.” He leaves that hanging for a bit. “Why am I here again?”
“Because we need to know what happens,” Derek says. “I need someone here in case I can’t remember in the morning. You are the only one I trust.”
Stiles’ mouth drops open and Derek makes an annoyed snarling noise. He looks down at his hands, which are still completely human, as if they are somehow to blame for the words coming out of his mouth.
“Are you,” Stiles says, taking a step closer, tilting his head to have a closer look at Derek in the yellow lamp light. “Are you having trouble filtering your thoughts, or something? You’re being very talkative all of a sudden. Is this going to be like some truth-serum thing? Is this eclipse going to veritaserum you, because if it is…” He’s grinning madly, can’t help it at the prospect of wheedling all sorts of embarrassing admissions out of the big bad sourwolf, who might not even remember in the morning.
“I can still kill you with my bare hands, Stiles. I don’t need to turn for that.”
“Right,” Stiles gulps, because Derek’s eyes didn’t quite turn red, but they didn’t quite remain human either. “But seriously, how do we know you’re not going to turn and forget who I am and kill me. Or worse. Give me the bite.”
“Why would that be worse?” Derek asks him, before hissing a curse and Stiles is not even going to think about why that question feels like an admission to Derek. “Don’t answer that. I won’t kill you because… you smell of Pack. Of me. You smell… safe.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, for once not even feeling the need to joke about that. He understands it has to cost Derek to say something like that, knowing now that he’s literally had the capability to trust burnt out of him. “Okay yeah, just…” He looks up. Derek is still standing in the same spot, shoulders hunched slightly. “Derek,” Stiles says, taking a step closer, “I’m not making fun of you. Not really, not in a bad way, I’m just trying to understand, okay? What I need to do. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
If Derek can be honest, even if it isn’t by choice, then so can Stiles.
Derek lifts his head and looks at him for a long time before he says, “I know.”
“So now what,” Stiles says, flopping down on the most comfortable couch he’s ever sat on oh my god.
“Now we wait,” Derek tells him. He doesn’t sit down but steps further into the room. “Can I…” his hands clench and unclench slowly. “Can I get you something. To drink.” And well shit, he’s looking at the fireplace and he’s probably remembering a time when that was lit. When there was a family to light it for, to fetch drinks for, brothers and sisters to tease, to argue with.
Stiles hardly ever has moments he wishes he had siblings, but this is one of them. “Sure,” he says, smiling brightly even though he knows his heartbeat is giving him away. “If we’re going to be here all night, then yeah. Tequila?” Derek rolls his eyes but he looks relieved as he disappears into what Stiles assumes is the kitchen.
He comes back with a can of Coke and Ginger Ale, and okay, when did he find out that was Stiles’ favorite? Does he drink it so much he smells of it or something? Derek hands the Ginger Ale over and then sinks down on the ground next to Stiles’ feet, one knee propped up against his chest.
“Can I ask you something?” Stiles says when the silence becomes too much. Derek’s probably hearing birds chirp a mile away but Stiles only hears his breathing and his own thoughts.
“Is there anyway I can stop you without causing bodily harm?” Derek asks with a quirk of his eyebrow that Stiles is just going to take as a full blown grin.
“Not really. And you’re going to give me an honest answer so I’m just gonna take a moment and relish this,” Stiles tells him, grinning maniacally. Derek flexes his hand palm up, just above Stiles’ knee and looks surprised when the claws pop out. They disappear nearly instantly though.
“Did you mean to do that?”
“I didn’t think it’d work,” Derek says, and he sounds worried, but he shakes it off and looks over his shoulder at Stiles. “You were going to ask something.”
“How can you trust me when you hate me?” And wow, that isn’t at all what he was going to say.
“I don’t hate you,” Derek says, looking so genuinely baffled, Stiles just sits there and blinks for a bit.
“But, with all the,” he waves his hands about, “wall banging and growling in my general direction and the scowling when you see my face,” Stiles says weakly. Not his best argument but he feels he can be excused when he’s pinned down by the least hostile expression he’s ever seen on Derek’s face.
“You get under my skin,” Derek grits out, teeth helplessly grinding together at the clearly failed effort of keeping that particular truth behind them.
“I get under–– but how, Derek, I ––“
“Stiles,” Derek interrupts and it’s probably meant to be a growl but it sounds like a whine. Stiles wants to laugh at the noise, but Derek’s eyes are squeezed shut like he’s in pain. “I don’t want to talk about –– Ah.” His Coke clatters to the ground, spilling dark liquid all over the carpet and Derek arches against the couch, head hitting Stiles’ thigh.
“Derek,” Stiles says, “Derek!” He’s curling in on himself and yeah, that’s definitely agony, so Stiles drops to his knees, hands hovering, unsure where to touch, if he’s allowed to. “Derek, what’s wrong, what can I do?”
“The moon,” Derek pants, tugging off his leather jacket and the long sleeved t-shirt underneath, “is rising. Need… to change. Won’t … hurt you. Promise. Help me.” Derek tries to toe off his boots, but Stiles takes a firm grip on one ankle, tugs, then does the other, tossing the boots to the other side of the room. He’s about to freak out about how best to approach unbuttoning Derek’s jeans when Derek drops forward with a grunt, fingers curling into the carpet.
“Okay,” Stiles says, trying to calm his breathing. He’s nervous and he doesn’t think that’ll do wolf-Derek any good. “Okay, I’m here. Go on.” He puts a tentative hand on Derek’s shoulder but Derek flinches away. “Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, leaning away.
“No,” Derek says, voice deeper than usual. “Feels good, just... cold hands.” He takes a hold of Stiles’ wrist, very gently curling clawed fingers around the fragile bones and puts the hand back on his shoulder. It seems to ground him a little so Stiles squeezes reassuringly. Derek’s still breathing hard, but not writhing like he’s fighting anymore. He looks at Stiles, his eyes go red and then his entire body begins to contort. Stiles hears Derek’s jeans rip and he slides away to give him a little more room. There’s a tremor in the air, a thickness like a warning before the first thunderclap of a storm and Stiles blinks.
“Oh my god,” he says quietly. His hands come up and clasp in front of his mouth to keep every single word that comes to mind inside.
He realizes he’s never seen Derek turn since he became Alpha.
“Derek,” he breathes, reaching out and pulling back with a snap when he catches what he’s doing. Derek rises to all fours, slowly, like it’s painful. Or no. That’s not it. He’s trying to be non-threatening. “I’m not afraid of you,” Stiles says, remembering the first time he’d spoken those words to Derek and how different he means them this time. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, reaching out again.
Derek looks nothing like Peter Hale. Maybe the nature reflects the wolf or something, hello lizard-Jackson, because Peter had been a monster. But Derek, Derek looks like an actual normal wolf if you don’t count the red eyes. A normal wolf carefully inching closer until Stiles’ fingers are being snuffled at by a large wet nose. He shakes his head once and then blows a breath through his nose, like a horse. Like a greeting.
“Hey Derek,” Stiles says, “hey. How you doing, big wolf. Big, beautiful wolf. Can I pet… I mean touch… touch you? Is that okay? Can I do that? This... this is, wow, this is so cool.” Derek noses at his palm, then steps closer so Stiles’ hand slides down the side of that large head. The fur is rougher than he expected, but it’s long and warm against his cold hands and he almost takes a handful of it at Derek’s neck before he gets that would be a mighty bad idea. Instead he sets to stroking, long rhythmic swipes along Derek’s flank, and he can feel the rumble of contentment beneath his hand.
“I want points for restraining myself here,” Stiles says. “You have no idea how badly I want to scratch your ears. Or maybe give you a belly rub. God how can you be so cute?” Derek’s ears flatten but there’s no threat in it so Stiles ignores him. Feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do you want a belly rub? I bet you do, you great big pup, go on, roll over and I’ll –– wha––?” For a second he thinks he’s gone too far and he’s going to have his face mauled off by a wolf because Derek is right there, but then Derek’s tongue is wet and rough against his cheek, licking him from his neck all the way to his temple.
“Ew,” Stiles yells, flailing as he’s pushed backwards, landing hard on his back. Derek’s immediately on him, one paw on Stiles’ chest, weighing a fucking ton. Derek’s panting what’s got to be a smile, tongue lolling and then Stiles is being licked all over. “Enough,” he laughs, completely out of breath when he’s done failing at fighting Derek off. “I surrender.” He lifts his arms above his head, trying to catch his breath and Derek gives a content little vibrating sound in his throat and comes to stand over Stiles. They lock eyes for a long time and then Stiles, doesn’t know exactly what makes him do it, but slowly lifts his chin. Ever so carefully, Derek fits his teeth around Stiles’ throat, rumbles his satisfaction and then sits back on his haunches.
“Okay,” Stiles says, sitting up, ignoring the futility of his aiming for casual tone because he knows Derek can hear his uneven heartbeat. “I get it, you win and I smell of dog-breath. But I will scratch your ears one day buddy, you’ll see.”
Stiles slides over to sit with his back against the couch, Derek sitting beside him –– who knew wolves were so huge –– when suddenly Derek’s ears prick up and he looks toward the window, in the direction of where they’d left the others, his Pack. Derek whines softly and Stiles puts a gentle hand between the sharp bones of his shoulders.
“I know,” he says, “they’ll be all right. They’ll be fine. At least we know all that happens is a normal full moon thing. You know what, I can text them, maybe Scott hasn’t turned yet because they’re underground, hang on.”
The reply comes nearly instantly and Stiles sighs in relief, smiles at Derek as he reads it aloud. “Bored out of our brains, but all good. You?” He quickly texts back that Derek’s wolfed out but fine and pockets his phone.
“Back to the waiting game, huh,” he murmurs when Derek lies down, settling his large head on his paws. Stiles reaches out, doesn’t really know he’s doing it until he feels Derek lick his knuckles once, and strokes one of Derek’s paws absently. They’re nearly as big as his hands.
They sit like that long enough for Stiles to start feeling cold again and he’s just wondering what the chances of being tossed out of the window are if he was to curl up beside Derek and snuggle up against his warm fur so he can go to sleep, when Derek howls, high and loud. Stiles pulls his hand back fast, dragging himself and both his feet up on the couch because Derek’s body is contorting again and within seconds he’s lying on the ground, stark naked, face pressed into the carpet.
“Derek,” Stiles whispers, panicked because it looks like he’s not breathing. He drops to his knees and puts his hands on Derek’s back, hisses, “Shitshitshit,” when he doesn’t feel it rise and fall. He carefully turns Derek’s face away from the carpet and leans in to listen. He hears a tiny sigh and he sits back on his heels, dizzy with relief.
There’s an old afghan neatly folded over the armrest of the couch, so he pulls it off and spreads it over Derek, whose skin feels clammy and cold. Stiles shifts until he’s sitting cross-legged by Derek’s head, petting his hair gently, waiting for him to open his eyes.
An hour passes and Stiles is having trouble keeping his eyes open, despite the cold. He contemplates crawling in with Derek under the blanket but that feels too much like taking liberties with all the nakedness Derek has going on, so he grabs Derek’s jacket and a couple of cushions off the sofa instead and settles down, lying face to face.
He sleeps fitfully, isn’t sure if much time passes at all, before Derek stirs and groans.
“Ow,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut tightly before opening them. He’s pushing himself up on his elbows when he sees Stiles looking up at him. “What happened?”
“You changed back,” Stiles says and Derek huffs a not quite laugh.
“Obviously.”
“Yeah but,” Stiles hesitates and sits up, rubbing a hand over his hair. “It was like it wasn’t intentional? Like, you couldn’t help it? And it looked like it hurt. A lot. And then you passed out.”
“I passed out,” Derek repeats, voice flat. He sits up too, wrapping the blanket around his waist. “For how long?”
Stiles checks his watch. “Nearly two hours.”
Derek’s eyes snap to Stiles, his mouth parting slightly. “Two hours?”
“Yeah man,” Stiles says, still feeling a little shaken when he remembers Derek barely breathing. “I thought you were dead, for a second.”
“Maybe I was,” Derek says, which isn’t a comfort at all. “I’m going to put some clothes on, be right ––“
Derek is halfway through the room when he drops to his knees again, clutching his head. “Ah,” he breathes, “Stiles.”
Stiles dashes over to him, puts his hands on Derek’s shoulders. “I’m here,” he says, rubbing the dip above Derek’s collarbones with his thumb. “I’m here Derek, what do you need?” Stiles drops to his knees too, tries to get Derek to look him in the eye, but Derek just squeezes them shut.
“Can’t… change,” he says.
“That’s okay, that’s fine, you don’t have to, Derek, just stay with me, you don’t have to change.”
“Can’t… stay human either.”
“Oh god. What does that mean? Derek? Come on, talk to me, tell me what to do.” Stiles braces himself because Derek is seriously leaning against him now, pushing against his hands, and Stiles can’t hold him like that. He lets his hands slide across Derek’s shoulders, takes most of the weight with his chest so that Derek’s nose is pressed against his throat. It seems to calm him a bit and Stiles runs soothing circles over the triskelion on Derek’s back. Derek starts to nose at his neck and it takes a while before Stiles gets that Derek is pushing against him with intent. He eases them down as carefully as he can, which means he still hits the floor with a thunk because Derek is heavy even when not wolfed out.
Derek is trembling slightly, his hands braced on either side of Stiles’ waist so Stiles grabs the blanket and arranges it over them both, thinking Derek must be cold. But then Derek moves, tugs at the neckline of Stiles’ hoodie so he can mouth at his collarbone, and okay, this is new.
“Derek?” he squeaks. “What are you doing?”
“Skin,” Derek mumbles against his neck, “more skin. Need an anchor. Anger’s not working.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, not knowing what that means but thinking it’s got to be some scent thing. His heart is hammering against his chest, though, and Derek feels it, puts a palm over it and says, Stiles like it’s a magic word that’ll make all their worries go away.
It clearly doesn’t help because Derek is moving his hand beneath the hoodie searching for skin and it feels good in ways that are really inappropriate when one of the party isn’t in his right mind. “All right,” he says when Derek just keeps fumbling with his clothes, “all right, just lemme ––“ he puffs a breath and wriggles out of his coat first, then helps Derek take off the hoodie and t-shirt in one go. “Fuck, it’s cold,” Stiles says through chattering teeth. Derek presses his chest against Stiles, rubs his hands over his sides and just breathes.
It seems to work for a while until Derek goes through this full body shudder that makes Stiles’ teeth knock together. “Oh no,” Stiles says, clinging to Derek’s shoulders, trying to keep him still. “What’s wrong now, Derek, say something.”
“The eclipse,” Derek groans. He throws his head back and there’s blood on his mouth from where he must’ve bitten his lip. “It’s starting. Stiles. Stiles, I need, I need––”
“What, Derek, what do you need, just tell me, okay, anything?” Stiles takes Derek’s face in both of his hands to make him look down. “Tell me what you need,” he repeats, clear. Calm.
“Be my anchor,” Derek says. Stiles has no idea what that means so he does the only thing he can think of. He wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss.
Derek moans in his mouth and then goes boneless with a sigh. Stiles takes this for permission, and he tells himself, sternly, that this is for Derek, when he opens his mouth and lets Derek in.
“Feels good,” Derek says when he comes up for breath and thank god, he sounds a bit more like himself now.
“Yeah?” Stiles whispers, contemplating whether it’s okay to keep rubbing Derek’s back when he’s sporting a semi-on.
“You think it feels good too,” Derek says, lifting his head to squint at Stiles who gives him a befuddled look. The corner of Derek’s mouth lifts and his eyes twinkle as he meaningfully presses his thigh against Stiles groin.
“Oh god,” Stiles whimpers, mortified, “I’m sorry, okay.” He covers his face with both hands. “I can’t help it, I’m not being sleazy, no that’s a lie, this is totally sleazy, you need help and here I am getting hard, I’m disgusting and I’m sorry and is there any chance you won’t remember any of this tomorrow?”
He peeks between his fingers when Derek says nothing.
“Yes,” Derek says after a while, and then, “which is why we’re not going to do anything about it. This time.”
“Okay,” Stiles says weakly. “Okay. This time. That’s, yeah, I can, I can live with that. So um. Are you doing… better… now? Is this, I mean, helping?”
“It is,” Derek tells him, bending down to nuzzle at Stiles’ neck some more.
“Why?”
“You feel safe,” comes the answer, a breath against the curve of Stiles’ ear. “You feel like you’re mine. You keep me in control.”
“Okay,” Stiles says and then he yawns. Derek shifts and next he knows, Stiles is being carried to the couch. Derek arranges them both until Stiles is the little spoon and he laughs. “I really hope you remember this, or tomorrow morning’s going to be awkward.”
“Me too,” Derek says, and Stiles is glad Derek can’t see the stupidly wide smile on his face.