Chapter Text
Stiles held the electronic tablet in a loose grip, his thumb hovering over the button that would scan his biometrics. He knew he was protected by the hum of the bare walls, in a sanctuary where he alone could hear the recording that had been specifically saved for him– made for him.
He swallowed the lump in his throat before pressing his thumb against the biometric scanner. He released a shaky breath when the screen lit up, revealing a rather tired looking Derek.
Stiles tried to figure out if he could place when Derek had recorded this based off Derek’s appearance.
When had Derek looked this tired? When had the crowned prince of the galactic empire shown such a vulnerable image?
And when had Stiles stopped noticing his husband?
Derek was in his office at the base of the Core, the meticulous details of his accomplishments on display were memorable, though Stiles wasn’t sure he could even name all of them. Derek had once joked that he didn’t even know all of them.
Derek’s fingers pull at the fabric of his uniform, loosening the top chain clasping the pristine fabric into place. He glanced at the camera recording him as if he had briefly forgotten why he started it.
“It’s customary to film these whenever we leave the Core,” was the first thing Derek said.
Even after twelve years of marriage, Stiles still didn’t understand all the Imperial customs and regulations. He had given up on the more niche ones, choosing to fight his battles where they mattered the most–and the appearance of a dutiful foreign spouse was his main priority.
“I think this is the sixth one I’ve filmed for you,” Derek muttered as he relaxed in his seat. “I’ll admit that this one feels more severe somehow.”
Something tightened in Stiles’ stomach at the resignation in Derek’s voice.
Derek was extremely handsome, a genetic guarantee when the Imperial line chose their partners with care and ease. His hair was a darker shade than Stiles’ own. His skin was a flawless sunkissed tone that brightened his features whenever he stood next to Stiles’ own alabaster one. The Empress had once remarked that Derek made Stiles look like a ghost–she had meant it as a compliment to her genetics, and an insult to Stiles’ own.
“The Empire is weak, and my mother knows that,” Derek continued. “She’s pulling at last ditch attempts to make sure she squeezes control back.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And it is working–for now.”
Stiles caught the glint of Derek’s silver wedding bangle against the harsh overhead glow of the base’s lights, the secured chain around Derek’s neck was always barely hidden from view. He absently started to twist his own as he left the tablet to remain on its own stand.
“Regardless of what happens, a war is bound to erupt,” Derek continued. “Whether it is infighting amongst my infinite cousins and aunts and uncles,” there was a contempt in Derek’s voice as he noted those that shared his mother’s blood. “Or a revolt.” He looked up at the camera, as if he could see Stiles sitting there watching him. His beautiful eyes, filled with an array of kaleidoscopes, stared at Stiles as he warned him, “And that makes you dangerous should it be the latter.”
Stiles clenched his teeth. He didn’t understand why anyone would care–he had no bloodright. He had no clan to call his own. He was Derek’s, by all custom and rights his people followed. And part of him always suspected that the Empress knew that was the outcome of their marriage.
The day the Empress accepted the patched up agreement with Stiles’ grandmother, Beacon fell from the crosshairs of her interests and opened a direct line to the rest of the barren Expanse–the one last safe haven her enemies fled to. She gained access to the one conduit she needed, the head of the outlying planets, and all without launching a single dreadnought.
You will sacrifice your pride and bend the knee to them. Your bloodright, your family, will be forfeit. But you will save our people from annihilation .
Stiles’ grandmother’s voice echoed in his memories. He was nothing without Derek now, unless the Empress chose to keep him.
But Stiles knew the truth.
There was a reason Empress Talia Valentine Myrrha Hale had been named the Blood Empress, the Butcher of Planets. She never spared a person if it benefitted her otherwise. Even her own family.
“I can’t tell you what has been happening on the Expanse–beyond Beacon,” Derek finally stated.
It had been the last thing they fought about before Derek left.
Stiles said it had to be important if Talia was demanding it, but Derek simply dismissed the idea. It hurt Stiles, feeling as if his husband didn’t trust him. He was childish in ignoring Derek’s soft goodbye.
It would haunt him as his deepest regret.
“I can’t tell you, Stiles, because I don’t know. Communications have been halted, and official reports have gaps in them that make no sense,” another sigh left Derek. “Whatever is happening, it isn’t going to end well for anyone. And if you are watching this, then I was right about all of it.”
Stiles stopped twisting his wedding bangle, staring at Derek’s image on the tablet.
“Whatever happens–whatever they say happened to me, I don’t think it’s something you can trust,” Derek warned.
A lull dragged on before Derek turned his head to look out the windows of his office. His eyes tracked something happening outside, likely the traffic flying around the inner sanctum of the Core. He brushed his hand over his mouth before pressing his knuckle against his lips.
“It really doesn’t matter what I say,” Derek confessed suddenly. “If you’re watching this, I’m dead. If I’m alive, you’ll never see this.”
Stiles’ brow furrowed, recalling how Derek mentioned it wasn’t the first time he recorded something like this. How many of these had Stiles never seen–was the number truly only six?
“There are things in my life that I regret, Stiles,” Derek began, his gaze still focused away from the camera. But the recording was able to catch the glimpse of guilt furrowing Derek’s brow. “There are arguably too many to count. But I do not regret that day.” He finally turned to look at the camera.
Stiles leaned forward, his hands moving to curl around the tablet as his heart raced.
“That day I met you on Beacon,” Derek recounted, a faint smile curving his lip. “You surprised me. You weren’t afraid. You looked at me and didn’t see the veneer my mother had created and molded for me. You simply took me for the man I was.”
Stiles had just turned twenty-four when his grandmother summoned him on the heels of the Empress’s departure from their grand hall. He was expecting another debrief, to be informed, like his cousins, as to what the Empire demanded of them.
He hadn’t expected to be meeting with just his grandmother and father. He hadn’t expected to be told of his impending marriage to the Empress’s only son, heir to her bloodright and throne. He had argued with his grandmother, confident that there had been a mistake, or possible misinterpretation. His stomach twisted when his father informed him that the Empress asked for him by name.
Asked was a polite term–demanded would have been more accurate.
And Stiles knew why.
Claudia had been a formidable adversary against the Empire’s expansion.
And with her death, the Empress was taking her final trophy.
The closer the Empress could have the only living child of her greatest foe, all the better for her to parade him around like a stuffed prize and reminder. It would be shocking if the Empress didn’t put a collar around his neck.
Stiles sulked for days following his grandmother’s official announcement. He flicked aimlessly through various propaganda reels, catching only brief glimpses of his future husband. He felt a strange relief at the assumption that Derek’s lack of appearance meant he disliked being the center of public attention.
But when Stiles was forced to await Derek in the crushing discomfort of his grandmother’s grand parlor, he felt resigned. It wasn’t until Derek walked in, stopping only a few feet from him as they both stared at each other, that Stiles saw the same resignation. It became easier in that moment for Stiles to offer his hand and greet the stranger that was to be his husband.
“My regret, Stiles,” Derek’s voice was soft as it traveled from the tablet’s speakers, as it often was in the moments he and Stiles shared outside of judging eyes. “Was not treating you as you deserved.”
Stiles was stunned by those words.
He had never expected to have a grand love story. He had fallen quite comfortably into his marriage with Derek when he realized they both excelled at maneuvering around the empress’s chess board without being at each other’s throats. They harmonized and worked together.
Derek hated being used by his mother even more than Stiles. And it became a point of comradery between them.
Though they never tried to force a romance between their union, there were moments when Stiles forgot that their marriage was transactional.
Derek had always been reserved.
He would offer his arm to Stiles whenever in public. He would allow his arm to hold Stiles close, even at the more political of engagements.
And then there were the moments that emboldened Stiles to overstep what many thought of as a spousal duty to be silent. Derek never silenced Stiles–never dismissed him from a meeting. If one knew how to look, there was often a bemused smirk pulling at Derek’s lips when Stiles broke typical protocol and questioned something.
“That night we shared on Beacon,” Derek spoke in an unguarded manner, pulling Stiles’ attention to him. “That was the type of life I wanted to have with you.”
Stiles’ breath caught.
“I found myself loving you, Stiles,” Derek confessed.
Stiles clenched his teeth to stop the wobbling of his bottom lip, his eyes burning with unshed tears.
No, this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. This wasn’t supposed to be the final note in their marriage.
Derek didn’t get to confess that when he couldn’t.
“And if I return…” Derek stopped himself, looking down and away from the camera. “Maybe that’s a promise I’ll keep this time.” He looked up, right at Stiles. “Goodbye, Stiles.” He reached a hand up to press the button that would stop the recording.
And just like that, Derek was frozen–the last image anyone had of Derek alive.
Stiles leaned closer, staring at Derek. He touched his fingertips over the still image as he studied Derek’s features before clenching his eyes shut against the pain of memory.
He remembered that night in Beacon, and counted it as one of the happiest days of his life.
Three years into their marriage and Stiles had gone without the touch of a lover. He heeded his grandmother’s warnings that the Empress would not tolerate an adulterer being married to her heir. He had seen people executed for less crimes against the Empire. It did a great deal of motivation to keep Stiles away from entertaining such thoughts. Though some tried to sway him.
There were some nights in the beginning of their marriage, when he traveled with Derek on dignitary missions, that they shared a bed. Stiles awoke with his limbs flung over Derek like a cephalopod. He had been embarrassed the first time he woke to find Derek already awake, leisurely reading a datapad while waiting for Stiles to stir.
It became a comfort, for them both, to have the touch of another. It took years for Stiles to realize that Derek was just as touch starved. Even the most basic touches had been a leap forward for them–a comfort they could grant one another.
And then, the night in Beacon–the celebration of the Empire’s expansion and the first time Stiles had been home in years–changed things.
Derek had been furious with his mother blindsiding him with a public proclamation of his future military assignments. In front of Stiles’ people, broadcasted across the Empire, Talia carved Derek’s future in iron.
Stiles had slipped his hand into Derek’s, just below the table. He didn’t flinch at the tight grip Derek seemed to subconsciously hold on him, only squeezing back when Derek looked too angered during the Empress’s long speech.
But the Empress was clear in her intentions–Derek would be sent away again, outside the Core to settle a dispute and prove his bloodright to his mother.
It was barbaric and cruel–and Stiles hated her for it.
That night, Stiles had drawn a bath, forcing Derek to relax for once. It was an intimate act, one that Stiles knew spouses had performed for one another, and he had been scared to cross a line at first. But he had been relieved to find the tension leaving Derek’s shoulders as he washed his arms and shoulders with care.
For the life of him, Stiles couldn’t remember how it all happened.
But somehow–perhaps while he was massaging Derek’s muscles, or staring at Derek’s lips–Stiles’ robe was discarded with ease before Derek’s strength lifted Stiles into the tub.
They fucked that night, multiple times.
Stiles loved the feeling of his thighs wrapped around Derek’s waist, the way they came together in frantic movements. He trembled when Derek pleasured him with his mouth–sprawled out on the bed, leg hooked over Derek’s shoulder, his hips in a grip that would leave finger shaped bruises.
A laugh left Stiles’ throat as a moan.
Derek was his husband by law, but the Empress made things very clear on their wedding day–Stiles was to bow to Derek, never the other way.
And yet, Stiles was the altar Derek chose to worship at.
Early the next morning, Stiles woke in Derek’s arms.
It hadn’t made their marriage perfect, but it changed just how lonely they were.
And now, twelve years of duty had been boiled down to one point of regret for Stiles.
He hadn’t told Derek the truth–he wanted them to be the family neither of them ever dreamt they’d be afforded.
But Derek was dead.
And Stiles was a prisoner.
There was no happy ending to their story now.
~*~
“And what did my son leave you?”
As always, the Empress’s tone was clipped with demand. She wasn’t asking Stiles, merely expecting him to explain.
Stiles stared at Derek’s mother. “It was personal,” he stated.
There was a visible shift in the coldness of the room, several of the pages trying their best to act as if their duties were occupying their whole attention and that they didn’t just hear a rebuttal to the Empress’s demands.
As Derek’s widowed spouse, there was nothing the Empress could do to get the parting message from him. But it was an unwritten rule that the Empress got what she wanted, no matter the cost to anyone else.
The Empress coldly looked up at Stiles.
Stiles didn’t flinch under the woman’s scrutiny. He as well passed caring about what the woman could do to him.
“It was the only message he left,” the Empress stated. “I wish to know what my heir had to say.”
Stiles released a heavy breath. He knew it was infuriating the Empress that she had been barred from seeing the recording. And he wasn’t about to betray Derek, even in death. “He expressed regrets.”
The Empress remained silent, her features unchanging as she waited for Stiles to elaborate.
“With respect, Your Royal Majesty,” Stiles bowed his head to hide his features. His voice shook and he knew the others would assume he was crying–though he had cried enough in the privacy of the mourning chamber, he did nothing to dissuade them. “It was intimate.”
The Empress scoffed. “My son wasn’t so soft hearted.”
Stiles’ jaw ticked at her comment. To be soft hearted wasn’t the crime the Empress thought it was. He looked up at her.
“Forget what the recording said,” the Empress dismissed the thought as she stood from behind her desk. “I require privacy,” she announced to the room.
Stiles wasn’t surprised at how quickly the pages moved to vacate the room. He remained standing calmly, looking at the Empress.
The Empress was a gorgeous older woman, well into her centennial years. It had been a mystery why she had waited so long to procreate, though Stiles knew the woman to be selfish in her own greed for power and control. A child meant she could be replaced.
She wore her hair in the traditional mourning style opposed to the tight and pristine updo she typically had. The long blackened curls hanging from her back had only begun to gray in the recent decade. She wore elegant black robes that hung from the curve of her shoulders, draped sleeves parting to make her movements easier.
She still had edicts to sign–lives to control, even in the wake of her son’s death.
Stiles envied her for the show she presented.
“My heir is dead,” the Empress simply stated.
Stiles bit his lip, stopping himself from sarcastically thanking her for pointing out the obvious.
“And you did little to give me another.”
Stiles looked at the Empress in surprise.
Derek had told Stiles before they wed that he did not want a child. And it became clear after a while as to why.
The Empress saw any continuation of her line as a piece on her board, and she would control it for every move.
“Princess Cora is still alive,” Stiles spoke before thinking.
The Empress turned to look at Stiles, a cold venom dripping from her stare. “My daughter has taken it upon herself to cut off avenues of becoming my heir and remains well hidden from my own surveillance.”
Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew Cora had always been the more rebellious of the Hale children. Part of him believed Derek’s obedience to their mother was the protective guard he meant it to be. With Laura dead from a rebellious raid, Derek had been the next in line. And Cora fled as soon as she had been able–Stiles only met her twice before the youngest Hale disappeared.
Stiles’ suspicions rested on her escape having been assisted by Derek.
“Besides, Derek was the heir to my bloodright–that doesn’t change with his death, merely gets placed on another of his blood,” Talia answered. There was something hidden in her tone that convinced Stiles she wasn’t being completely truthful. “Which is why congratulations are in order for you.”
Stiles blinked at her in confusion. “Are you congratulating me for my husband’s death?” He was unable to stop the bluntness lacing his words.
The Empress walked over to her desk, ignoring Stiles’ question. She picked up a datapad, offering it in an outstretched hand to Stiles.
Stiles hesitated, looking at the datapad as if it was a trap. He had learned from his time as the Empress’s trophy. He finally took the datapad when the Empress started to look so annoyed that she might throw the thing at his head. He looked at the document, scrolling down until he saw the very thing that made his blood run cold.
“His birthday will be in a few months,” the Empress concluded. “You’ll be a father instead of a grieving spouse, which I think is appropriate for the morale of the Empire.”
Stiles started to shake, blinking back the tears that blurred his ability to read the words again.
Viable male specimen stabilized from the joined DNA sequences of Derek Valentine Michaelis Hale and Mieczysław Callum Stilinski Hale .
“You stole our DNA to… this isn’t legal. You can’t do this without consent,” Stiles started to argue over his disbelief of the evidence in his hands. It was supposed to be a choice for him and Derek to make.
“Your genetic sequence was collected and processed when your marriage was finalized in the Core, which I’m sure you’ll remember,” the Empress tiredly explained. “And all children of viable blood have their DNA stored upon reaching maturity now. For reasons like this.”
Stiles shook his head. “You can’t–”
“I can!” The Empress’s voice boomed loudly in the quiet room, causing Stiles to flinch at the woman’s anger. She turned a furious gaze on him. “Derek was meant to begin this process years ago, but he refused for too long. I will not allow my legacy to end like this.”
Stiles tightened his hold on the datapad. This child– his child was nothing but an object to her.
“And if we are meant to keep this charade going, you will play your part,” the Empress warned. “You will be the image of a grieving spouse, transitioned into an adoring father. You will help this child keep the peace between the Empire and the Expanse.”
Stiles understood what the Empress’s goal was now. “You’re weak.”
The Empress sneered at Stiles. “Watch yourself. Derek isn’t here to protect you from Imperial law.”
Stiles ignored the tightness in his stomach. “You don’t need your heir to be Derek’s in order to inherit the bloodright–Derek inherited it after Laura’s death. You need the heir to be Derek’s because the people loved him. They know nothing of Cora, but Derek–they idolize him.”
The truth lingered heavily in the room as silence fell over them.
The people of the Empire lived in fear of the Empress, but that didn’t mean they loved her. But Derek–they adored him. Stiles had witnessed it during his first parade beside Derek.
They loved him, especially if the current public grieving was to be believed. Millions of mourners were making pilgrimage to the temple where Derek had been christened. Flowers, trinkets, and prayer beads were all laid at the steel base where a statue was meant to be erected in honor of Derek–at the very center of the Core.
“And with me in the picture, my people will be swayed towards obedience,” Stiles concluded.
“You were never a wasteful match,” the Empress informed Stiles. “Derek was meant to get your cooperation, but it was just another thing he failed at.
The memory of Derek confessing to him in the quiet of their shared resignation sparked from her words–“ A child is leverage to my mother .”
Derek knew what Talia wanted. And he refused to give it to her.
There was so much more happening than Stiles was prepared to handle, especially with a child now entering the equation. And he was facing that alone.
Stiles drew in a breath. He refused to let her see his fear and uncertainty–it would just be one more thing for her to control. “If I’m to be part of this … charade as you called it,” he started, turning to face her as he placed the datapad down on her desk. “I will be in charge of my son’s well being.”
He remembered what Derek told him–that he had been passed around and shuffled from tutor to tutor, almost never seeing his siblings or parents unless it was deemed necessary. Derek wouldn’t want a child– his child–to experience the same upbringing.
It was easier not to have a child than to fight against their exposure to that.
“My son will stay with me,” Stiles firmly stated.
The Empress appeared suspicious of Stiles’ intentions.
“I will make sure he is educated how he must be in order to prepare him to accept Derek’s bloodright,” Stiles offered. “But I will not allow my child to be isolated.”
The Empress scoffed. “You’re in no position to bargain.”
“I am,” Stiles countered. “All I have to do is let the public know the truth.”
For the first time ever since Stiles met her, he witnessed the brief crack in the Empress’s iron veil. He saw the doubt, the momentary worry, that appeared to split the foundation of the woman’s power.
The Empress was afraid of something Derek could have given Stiles.
And that was all the power Stiles needed.
“You are treading on dangerous ground, child.”
“Anything happens to me, the public will know how your son really felt about you,” Stiles threatened. “If you try to keep me from my child, the Empire will know that Derek hated you, and what little good will you have from their love of him will evaporate.”
The Empress lifted her chin. “So that’s what he gave you,” she concluded about the recording. She released an annoyed breath. “Fine. You’ll be allowed to keep the child in your lodgings.”
Stiles kept his face neutral, unwilling to show how relieved he was at the Empress bending to his threat.
“But he will be taught in a similar manner to Derek,” the Empress answered.
Stiles reluctantly nodded in agreement.
“And you will make the announcement of the child’s impending birth,” she added as an afterthought. “You will work with our publicists, and make sure you show grace and gratitude for Derek’s parting gift.”
Stiles’ hands tightened into fists.
This was a gift, but not one Derek had given him willingly. He would live with that knowledge each time he held their son close.