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Derek thought it’d feel like weightlessness. That’s how it felt after the fire - like so many of the strings grounding him had been cut, like he was one strong breeze away from oblivion.
He coped by holding on to Laura with everything he had. He poured his strength into their connection, not only as sister and brother, but as alpha and beta. Laura was his anchor in every sense of the word, an unbreakable tie, a final stronghold against whatever lay on the other side of humanity.
So when the unthinkable happens and the unbreakable breaks, Derek doesn't understand what he's feeling.
Doesn't understand the crushing pain exploding in every bone, muscles screaming from the strain and mind suddenly empty of everything but the barely conscious cry of too much and I can’t and please.
Doesn't understand that instead of weightlessness, there would be nothing but weight. The weight of his pain, of his loss, of the sudden, inexorable truth of his own isolation.
He doesn't understand it, but he feels it. Feels it until his teeth crack from clenching and his vision tunnels to black. Until his skin tears and the shift rips through his body, bones breaking and rearranging in a last ditch effort to survive the pain.
And then Derek doesn't understand anything at all.
-
They get the call during one of Stiles’ summer emissary lessons.
He’d started training soon after Scott and the pack put Peter down once and for all, unwilling to ignore whatever spark Deaton said he had if it could be used to protect his friends.
They’d started simple – theory of magic, taxonomy of supernatural creatures, duties and traditions of a pack emissary. Only recently has Deaton let him in on the good stuff, all the protective runes and floaty light balls and Harry Potter-esque spells that fill Stiles with shameless nerd joy.
He’s in the middle of practicing his levitation at the vet’s office when “Werewolves of London” rings through the room, shattering his concentration. The jar of dog treats drops back to the table and Stiles sighs as he digs his phone out of his pocket, ignoring Deaton’s disapproving look.
“This better be good, Scotty,” Stiles says. “I was in the middle of kicking gravity’s ass.”
“Oh sweet bro, you finally got it?” Scott asks, dopey grin carrying loud and clear over the line.
“A whole 3 inches, buddy – just you wait, I’ll be floating your furry ass in no time. But what’s up, you know I’ve got wizard training until 6.”
“Sorry man, but I think you’re gonna have to cut it short. We’ve got a problem.”
Stiles frowns, exchanging a glance with Deaton. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.”
He sets the phone on the table and leans back, crossing his arms. “Alright, what’s going on?”
“Isaac and I heard howling during our perimeter run and followed it back to the Hale House. There’s a wolf here and we think it might be an omega, but there’s something wrong with it, dude.” Scott says, voice concerned.
“Like foaming-at-the-mouth, rabies-infested wrong?" Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I don't know dude, maybe. It looks sick – it’s all skinny and dirty and won't respond to either of us. It straight up tried to eat Isaac when he got too close to the porch. And the howls, man, I’ve never heard anything like it.”
Deaton frowns, leaning closer to the phone. “Did they sound aggressive, like it was calling out for reinforcements?”
“No man,” Scott says, “it sounded miserable.”
-
Ten minutes later, Stiles is turning off the main highway and onto the dirt road that leads to the Hale house, hidden but for a blackened chimney rising above the trees. Deaton agreed that the wolf needed further evaluation, but declined to come with Stiles.
“What, you’re just going to send me off on my own to deal with some strange, possibly feral, probably dangerous werewolf?” Stiles had asked incredulously as Deaton handed him a few herbs and bundled him out the door.
“You’re more than capable to handle a single rogue omega, Stiles. And if anything does go wrong, Scott and Isaac will most likely be able to protect you.”
“Most likely?” Stiles had squeaked, but Deaton had already closed the door.
Now, with a sigh, Stiles reaches over to rummage through the lacrosse bag on the passenger seat, double checking he has everything he needs. Mountain ash, mistletoe, rowan, and several types of wolfsbane – enough to incapacitate and more, if needed.
Hopefully it’s not needed.
Stiles can see the wolf standing on the porch as soon as he pulls up, its hulking figure blocking the charred doorway. It's big, way bigger than any natural wolf has a right to be, but undeniably beautiful; almost completely black, marred only by the silvery gray patch on its chest and the tips of its ears, with eyes the same purplish-blue of lightning during a summer storm.
Deaton explained what that color in a werewolf meant in Stiles' very first lesson, and he reflexively tightens his grip on his bag as he eases out of the Jeep. The second he sets foot on the ground, the wolf's head snaps in his direction. It bares its teeth in a silent snarl, and Stiles can't help the shiver that runs through him when he meets the wolf's gaze. There's nothing human in those eyes, but there is something - not quite a familiarity, but an awareness that raises goosebumps on his arms.
The wolf tracks Stiles' movements as he cautiously moves to join Isaac and Scott at the far edge of the clearing.
“Hey,” he greets them quietly, eyeballing the fresh blood on Isaac’s hand. “I take it we haven’t made any progress with Stranger Danger?”
Scott shakes his head. “Not even a little. It nearly took Isaac’s arm the last time he tried to approach.”
Stiles nods and considers his options. The easiest thing would be to sedate it with a mild dose of wolfsbane, but he’d have to get pretty close and he’d prefer to avoid getting his face chewed off today, thanks.
Unfortunately Deaton made it clear that this was part and parcel of being an emissary - the magic and the runes and the occasional threat of death or light maiming included. Stiles sighs in resignation as he slips his bag off his shoulder, digging around till he finds the tin marked ‘wolfy Xanax’ in sharpie. He stands back up and hands the bag to Scott.
“Cover me, dude.”
The wolf starts growling as Stiles advances, scraping its nails against the wood and baring bloody teeth in warning. Stiles hesitates for a moment, internally debating if it wouldn’t be better to set a mountain ash perimeter around the house and call Deaton for backup, when a gust of wind ruffles through his hair and kicks up leaves, swirling in the direction of the house.
The wolf abruptly stops growling, lifting its head to sniff at the air. Whatever it scents makes its eyes grow brighter, a plaintive whine building as it searches for the source.
Stiles takes advantage of the distraction and moves forward, muscles tensed and ready to jump out of the way in case the wolf lunges. But it doesn’t lunge – doesn’t even start growling again. Just sits there with a slightly dazed look on its face, whining high in its throat.
When Stiles gets within arm’s reach and the wolf hasn’t done anything more threatening than aggressively sniff the air, he pauses, slipping the tin of wolfsbane back into his pocket.
“Stiles, what are you doing?” Scott calls from behind, voice filled with concern.
“I just want to try something – give me a second.”
Slowly, Stiles reaches out a hand. The wolf rears back at the movement, eyes wide but making no move to attack. Stiles resists the urge to flinch and keeps his palm flat, trying to project the calm, collected vibes Deaton has so fruitlessly been trying to teach him.
Tentatively, the wolf leans forward, nostrils flaring as it inches closer. Stiles stays still as the wolf bumps its nose against his palm, rubbing against him until Stiles’ hand is cupping its face. He gently rubs a thumb against the wolf’s cheek and makes soothing noises in the back of his throat, taking the opportunity to look the wolf over.
Up close, it looks more pathetic than terrifying. Stiles can see the leaves and ash matted in his coat, the imprint of ribs against its side, only partially hidden behind the tangled fur.
Stiles crouches down, giving the wolf a searching look. “How long have you been on the run buddy? Where’s your pack?”
The wolf gives a small wag of its tail, but no other sign it can understand him.
Stiles frowns, taking in the wolf’s eyes that show alertness, maybe even intelligence, but no recognition. “You can’t shift back, can you? Do you even know who you are?”
“Hey, you calmed him down – awesome!” Scott calls happily behind him, bounding across the clearing. “Should we take him back to Deaton’s or-“
Before Stiles can shout a warning, he's knocked on his ass. The wolf cages Stiles with its body and snarls at Scott, frozen mid-step in front of the porch with eyes comically wide.
Well, comically in a situation where Stiles is less likely to have his face bitten off.
Scott raises his hands in a placating gesture and backs away, grimacing as the growling continues until he's back at the tree line.
Slowly, the wolf lets its hackles drop and turns back to Stiles, pushing its nose under his hand until he resumes stroking over its back. The wolf makes a pleased noise deep in its chest and pushes in closer to snuffle under Stiles’ ear.
"Uh, good Wolfy, good-,” Stiles takes a second to peek under his tail, “boy. I'm not going to hurt you, just relax and we can - oh god, that's your tongue, that is definitely your tongue, c'mon man, at least buy me dinner first," Stiles jokes weakly as the wolf licks at his face.
Stiles can see Scott and Isaac stifling giggles across the clearing and he musters up his best glare - the effect lessened, admittedly, by the 200 pounds of fur perched in his lap.
"Aw, he likes you," Isaac coos, pulling out his phone to send incriminating photos to the rest of the pack.
"I will strangle you with your scarf," Stiles replies calmly, patting the wolf on the head as moves on to his neck.
This close, he can see the dried blood on the wolf's muzzle and paws, the burs tangled in his fur and scratching at his skin. He can't tell how long the wolf has been like this, why he's on his own, but he's willing to bet it's been a long, long time.
"Who are you, buddy?" Stiles asks, ruffling his ears. "What happened to you?"
The wolf just whines against his neck and wiggles closer, licking an affectionate stripe up the side of his face.
-
Spruce.
It’s the wolf’s first coherent thought in longer than he can remember. That’s what the boy smells like - spruce, and the sharp scent of glacial water.
It makes the wolf think of winter in the mountains, cold air biting at his lungs and a stillness only broken by the thunder of avalanches high in the valley. Reminds him of how he and Laura would run through the drifts, leaving a trail of paw prints through the untouched snow.
Laura. The wolf whines with the sudden pain of the memory, mind shying away from the name he hasn’t spoken in months.
As quickly as the thought comes, it leaves again as the wolf buries his nose in the boy’s neck, the tension in his muscles easing as his mind relaxes back into peaceful abstraction.
That lack of distinction has been his saving grace for the past who-knows-how-many weeks, the glorious obliteration that left behind only instinct, and the unmistakable call west.
The wolf didn’t know why he had to go, only that he must, tracking steadily across the country until the days blurred together and time meant nothing but the sun travelling across the sky.
He didn’t know his name, or his past. Didn’t remember what it felt like to walk on two legs, didn’t even realize he could.
He stayed away from the noise and lights of towns, preferring thick forests where he could find them, woods where he couldn’t. He scavenged what he could, but it was a lean season, and he got used to the ever present bite of hunger gnawing at his belly. It beat in counterpoint to the ravages of the tough ground, the pads of his paws burning as they tore apart and stitched together again and again, trapping rocks and dirt under the healing skin.
The entirety of the wolf’s life distilled into the intoxicating simplicity of food, water, sleep, and forward motion. It wasn’t happiness, but it felt like peace. Like salvation.
He only knew he reached his destination when something in him called out, and the trees called back. He followed the pull to the end of the line, to a place that smelled of death, of ash, of blood and pain so strong it’d seeped into the fabric of the land.
He doesn’t know why he is there, doesn’t know what happened, only knows that he belongs here, this place of sadness and loss and anger and death and pain pain pain so much pain crowding his senses and cresting over him until all he can do is throw back his head and howl, mourning a loss he can’t even begin to understand.
But the boy...the boy doesn’t smell of pain, or blood, or ash. He’s a gasp of fresh air in the choked clearing, an unmistakable beacon calling to him like the land. He smells of safety, even as he speaks to the other two, the dangerous ones, wolves wearing human shape and reeking of sweat and adrenaline and fear.
The wolf curls himself closer around the winter boy, reveling in the combination of their scents where his fur brushes bare skin, the boy taking on a breath of the wood smoke that has belonged to the wolf since birth.
Around the edges of his consciousness, another thought takes shape.
Mine.
-
Somehow they manage to wrestle the wolf into the Jeep (somehow mostly involving Stiles feeding him bits of Snickers out of his pocket and Scott and Isaac standing far, far away). Scott agrees to follow them to Deaton’s, and Isaac runs off to find Erica and Boyd - ostensibly to update them on the situation, but Stiles has a sneaking suspicion it’s just to laugh over the rest of the photos.
Stiles keeps the wolfsbane within reach on the drive over, but the wolf doesn’t seem interested in anything but sniffing every inch of the Jeep and sticking his head out the window, periodically returning to shove his face in Stiles’ neck.
Deaton’s waiting for them inside the clinic, and his eyebrows raise slightly when he sees the wolf at Stiles’ side.
“I’m surprised he accompanied you willingly, Scott’s description led me to believe he was feral. You didn’t have to sedate him at all?”
Scott snorts from the far corner, well out of biting range. “Willingly might be a stretch, but Stiles is like, the wolf whisperer or something.”
The wolf snaps his teeth in Scott’s direction without taking his eyes off Deaton, relaxing only minutely when Stiles lays a calming hand on his back.
Deaton’s eyebrows climb further at the gesture, and reach peak elevation as they relate the wolf’s strange behavior at the Hale house.
“Interesting. And you say he’s given no indication of an ability to shift back? Any non-animal behavior?”
Stiles shakes his head. “Nope, nothing – all we know right now is he seems to be alone, must have been travelling at least a couple months based on the buildup of blood and dirt on his paws, and has blue eyes and weird fetish for my neck.”
Deaton frowns, crouching down to look at the wolf. His snout wrinkles as he growls at the vet, showing off his teeth in warning.
Deaton raises his hands in a placating gesture and backs away, turning again to Scott. “Can you describe what he was doing when you first found him, again?”
Scott shrugs. “He was just curled up on the porch right, uh, right in front of where we buried the bodies. We could hear him howling for miles, though – that’s how we found him. That sound, it was awful. We thought he was hurt, maybe even dying.”
Stiles frowns and rests a hand on the wolf’s head, letting him lean against his legs.
“We couldn’t see or smell any injuries, but he wouldn’t really let us approach. Nearly tore off Isaac’s arm when he got too close to the house.”
Deaton nods, silently studying the wolf.
After a minute or two, he turns back to the boys. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but if everything you’ve said is true there is a good chance that this may be Derek Hale.”
Stiles immediately recoils. “Hale? Like Peter Hale? Evil, crazy, psycho, murderer let’s-give-unsuspecting-teenagers-superpowers Peter Hale?”
Deaton nods. “His nephew. I understand you researched the Hale fire while trying to identify Peter, do you remember what you found?”
“Uh, massive family of werewolves, almost all killed in a fire suspected to be set by hunters. Peter survived, and Laura I guess. Until he killed her.” Stiles frowns, remembering the body pale and broken in the forest. It’s an image he sees in his dreams more nights than not, always waking up in a cold sweat sick and filled with guilt. “I didn’t really look much past that.”
Deaton hums, retrieving a book from the corner shelf and paging through it.
“It might be worth a second look, if you have a chance. Beacon Hills has been Hale territory since the Gold Rush. They founded the town and protected the land – specifically the Nemeton – from threats both human and supernatural for generations. I served as their emissary from the time Talia Hale came into power to the night of the fire.”
Deaton's eyes grow somber. “Everyone in the house perished, save Peter. Laura and Derek were on their way home from a basketball game when the fire began. They were too late to save their family, so Laura, as the eldest, inherited the alpha power.”
Deaton scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking older, the bags under his eyes more pronounced. “She was quite young at the time – much too young for that kind of responsibility. She and Derek left Beacon Hills soon after the fire, and I lost touch with them until the events of the past year.”
Deaton turns the book in his hands so Scott and Stiles can see. It’s a photo album, thick and filled with what looks to be generations of Hales. He indicates one photo – a family portrait, date marked around the time of the fire.
Stiles had tried to imagine what Hale house had looked like before it burned once or twice. Figured it must have been grand based on the bones of the house, but hadn’t pictured anything so homey. The house in the photo has rocking chairs on the porch and flower boxes in every window, a spill of young children falling over each other in the front of the group and a bunch of older kids and adults looking on, almost all sharing the same strong bone structure and dark hair of the Hales.
Deaton points to two faces in the back row, a taller girl resting her elbow on a younger boy’s head and grinning, the boy half turned, caught in the moment of shoving her off.
The girl looks familiar, and Stiles flashes again to that mangled body, the pretty face marred by blood and dirt. He flinches, averting his eyes. He doesn’t want to connect this girl, so full of mischief and life, with the unmarked grave in the woods.
“Laura and Derek. They were nearest in age, and had a very close bond, if memory serves.” Deaton says, turning back to appraise the wolf, still pressed against Stiles’ side.
“If my suspicions are correct and this is Derek Hale, the loss of his alpha and only remaining pack mate would have stripped him of his remaining ties to humanity. His instincts would have driven him to return to the last place he felt his alpha or pack, which explains where you found him. What I can’t tell you is how long he has been travelling, or how much of him is truly left.”
Stiles frowns, trying to imagine the amount of pain a person would have to be in to just...lose themselves like that. At his feet, the wolf whimpers and presses closer, sensing his unhappiness.
“It’s alright buddy, we’re gonna get you back to normal,” Stiles says, stroking along his back reassuringly. “We can fix him, right?” he asks, brow furrowing as he turns back to the vet.
Deaton frowns. “I’m not sure. As the most likely cause for his feral state is the loss of an anchor, the obvious solution would be to aid him in finding a new one. While it is theoretically possible for him to accept Scott as his alpha and find an anchor within the pack, it will be incredibly difficult for him to establish the necessary bonds in this form. You’re an unfamiliar pack on his family’s territory, and his every instinct will be to identify you as threats.”
Scott perks up from the corner. “But he likes Stiles, and Stiles is pack! That means he’s at least a little bit human, right? Maybe he’ll come around to us, too!”
“It’s possible,” Deaton says, inclining his head. “His reaction to Stiles is indeed unusual, perhaps due to his humanity, or even his spark. The Hale pack had several human members, with and without magic.”
He turns back to the shelf and pulls out a few older looking books. “I can do some research into alternative methods, contact a few emissary friends to see if they’ve encountered something similar. In the meantime, I suggest you keep him close. I doubt he’s an immediate danger to anyone, but the more time he spends around people, the easier it will be for him to regain his humanity.”
He drops the books on the growing pile on his desk and turns to Stiles. “Since he’s displayed an affinity for you, I want you to try and use your spark to build up the connection. Get a feel for what’s going on in his head, if you can.” He pulls a smaller book from the stack and hands it to him. “This might help."
“Telepathy for dummies?” Stiles jokes as he takes the book. “Be honest, you just want to use me as an in-house pet psychic.”
Deaton lets out a long-suffering sigh and waves them away. “That’s all I can do for you at the moment. Now please, I’m sure you boys have many worthwhile things you could be doing away from my office.”
Scott glances over at Stiles and shrugs, heading back out to the main waiting area. Stiles starts to follow, but pauses in the doorway, glancing at the wolf waiting patiently by his feet. “Can I ask about something?”
Deaton looks up from the books he’s already started perusing. “You've never needed permission before, Mr. Stilinski.”
“His eyes – they’re blue. Do you think...do you think he hurt someone? While he was like this?” Nothing he’d seen or felt indicated the wolf was a threat, but he needed to know for the safety of his dad, his pack.
Deaton shakes his head, smiling sadly. “Derek’s eyes have been blue since before the fire, but that story is not mine to tell. I will tell you, however, that the color of a wolf’s eyes is sometimes more a measure of their emotion than their actions, and Derek Hale has felt more than his share of pain in this lifetime. You are safe with him.”
Stiles nods, wisely deciding not to push. Everyone in the pack has sore spots the others know to avoid; Derek deserves the same courtesy, even if he can’t ask for it himself.
-
Outside the clinic, the wolf makes straight for the Jeep, casting a wary glance at Scott before hopping in and curling up in the passenger seat.
“Sure, make yourself comfortable.” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow. “Alright Scotty, what’s the plan here? Should we bring him to yours?”
“Uh...about that. I’m kind of having Allison over tonight,” Scott says with a sheepish smile. “Maybe you should take him?”
“What, she’s not a dog person? C’mon man, squishy human here, this isn’t exactly my area of expertise.” Stiles frowns, doing his level best to ignore Scott’s puppy eyes.
“But you’re like, the emissary, aren’t you? You’re supposed to deal with other wolves and stuff, right?” Scott asks hopefully.
“Emissary in training, Scotty,” Stiles huffs out, “I don’t know if I’m exactly equipped to handle a fully grown feral werewolf!”
“Nah man, you’ll be fine – he likes you,” Scott says with a dopey grin. “Anyway, I’m running late so...call me if you need me!”
Before Stiles can respond, Scott hops on his bike, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he tears out of the parking lot.
“Best friend card revoked,” Stiles mutters to himself. He turns back to the wolf in his passenger seat with a resigned sigh. “Okay big guy, I guess it’s just you and me. Let’s get you home.”
-
As soon as Stiles opens the door, the wolf – Derek – pushes past his legs and makes a bee-line for the stairs. Stiles sighs and slings his lacrosse bag over his shoulder before chasing after him. He sends a silent prayer of thanks to whoever’s listening that his Dad’s on the overnight shift - he’ll need at least a couple hours to figure out how to explain this one away.
He finds Derek in his room, already burrowed into his sheets and rubbing dirt and leaves all over the duvet.
Stiles groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon Derek, you couldn’t have waited ten minutes until I could give you a shower?”
He drops his bag on the floor and tosses his phone on his desk before turning back to the wolf.
“Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen,” he says, propping his hands on his hips. “We’re going to the bathroom, you’re going to get in the tub, I’m going to shampoo you, and absolutely no one is going to get mauled, capisce?”
Derek looks up at him innocently, one of Stiles’ dirty socks draped over his nose.
Stiles sighs. Scott is going to owe him so hard.
-
It goes better than expected. Granted, Stiles is in his boxers by the end, sopping clothes in a pile on the floor and a dark ring of dirt crusted around the tub. But still, there was no maiming, clawing, or biting, so Stiles is going to chalk it up as a success.
He doesn’t even want to think about some of the things he scrubbed out of Derek’s fur. He must have been on the (figurative) road for months, based on the amount of dried dirt and blood, twigs, and painful looking burs embedded into his skin. It took near half a bottle of Stiles’ shampoo before the water stopped running black as it went down the drain. But Derek never fought him, not even a little; instead, he pushed up into Stiles’ hands as he massaged the soap into his fur, wriggling happily under the water and periodically dousing Stiles with full-body shakes.
Not that he’s complaining, but Stiles can’t figure the wolf out. Deaton had warned that in a feral state, Derek would act similarly to a wolf in the wild, ruled by primal instincts. Crucially, primal instincts that would scream badbadnotgood whenever he came across a stranger. Hell, Stiles has seen what those teeth did to Isaac’s arm for just trying to approach.
That said, it’s a little hard to reconcile the idea of dangerous feral werewolf with the overgrown pup sitting on his bathroom floor, rolling over so Stiles can blow dry his belly. Especially now that all the blood and gore is gone and Derek’s fur is shiny and clean and puffed up from warm air, tongue lolling out as he repays Stiles with long, wet kisses.
“Aw man,” Stiles says, pushing Derek’s snoot away with a hand. “Doggy toothpaste is definitely going on the list.”
He makes it up to the wolf by giving him a good scratch behind the ear, smiling when Derek’s tail starts thumping on the floor. “Are you this much of a marshmallow in real life? I’m gonna be honest, based on your uncle’s patented brand of crazy, I expected something a little bit more...grrr.” Stiles bares his teeth, pawing at the air with finger claws. Derek cocks his head, wolfy brows furrowing.
Stiles sighs and lets his hands drop. His comic genius is criminally underappreciated.
-
Stiles leaves the wolf alone in his room while he goes to take his own shower, giving him strict instructions not to chew on, pee on, or otherwise balls anything up.
As soon as the door closes, the wolf is back in the bed, singularly focused on finding the source of the delicious smell that permeates the room. He buries his snout into blankets, chasing the scent where it’s most pure, unobscured by the sour tang of medication that had lingered in his nose and coated the back of his throat when he first smelled the boy.
There’s something else there too, something not a part of his everyday scent, muted but musky and intoxicating and the wolf wants more. He noses through the sheets until he finds the source, a happy rumble starting in his chest as he buries his face in the scent of sweat and dried release not yet cleaned from the sheets. He wants to roll in it, cover himself in the scent then lick the boy from head to toe until he smells like the wolf’s, too. No – Derek’s. The boy called him Derek. Maybe that was his name.
Derek’s ears prick as he hears the sound of the shower shut off, footsteps walking back across the hallway. He’s at the door like a shot, waiting for his boy. As soon as he steps into the room, Derek is there, sniffing past the delicate scent of soap and growling low at the towel wrapped around the boy’s waist. He backs him against the door and pulls away the offending barrier with his teeth, careful not to catch the boy’s skin. The wolf whines as he chases the scent further, snuffling up the crease of the boy’s thigh and nosing between his legs, breathing hotly over the sensitive skin. There, Derek thinks, wriggling happily and pushing closer. Good. Mate. Mine.
-
Stiles yelps as he pushes Derek’s nose away. “No! Bad wolf!” he shouts, scooping up the discarded towel and darting back into the hallway before the wolf can recover.
Stiles can hear Derek scratching at the closed door, whining when Stiles doesn’t reappear right this second. Stiles leans against the door to catch his breath, wrapping the towel firmly back around his waist and trying valiantly to ignore the way his dick stirs with interest, all teenage boy in its lack of sexual discrimination.
“No,” he tells it firmly. “Absolutely not.”
Stiles shakes his head to clear it and races downstairs to grab the hall phone, punching in Deaton's number from memory.
The vet hums in his typical unhelpful way after Stiles explains the, uh, situation, ignorant of the murder-y vibes the boy is currently projecting in his direction. “I had an inkling when you described his behavior at the Hale house, but this seems to confirm it. What do you know about mates, Stiles?”
Stiles’ mouth goes dry. “Mates? Like...soulmates? C’mon Doc, you’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Not quite soulmates, though some suggest the idea has its roots in the werewolf mate bond. Werewolves as a species are often driven to find a single, fated mate and build their life around them. It’s actually quite common for alpha’s mate to take the role of a second, functioning as an emissary.”
“Peachy,” Stiles says, knocking his head back against the wall. “And you think I’m his why?”
“Wolves generally identify their mates by scent; there is some debate as to why this is, but generally accepted to be a matter of body chemistry, physical compatibility, and – as with all things in the supernatural community – an element of magic. I’ve heard that finding a mate’s scent can be an overwhelming experience, kick starting a wolf’s instincts to mate, protect, and provide.”
Stiles feels his knees go a little weak and plops in the dining room chair, propping himself up on his elbows as Deaton carries on.
“Derek’s behavior at the Hale house – allowing you near, sheltering you against Scott and Isaac, the immediate scent marking – mirrors the behavior one would expect from a wolf and his mate. And now, from what you’ve told me, I’m certain of it. Derek has recognized you as his mate and, in his feral state, is reacting to you based on those intensified primal instincts."
Stiles groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Are you telling me I’m werewolf married now?”
The vet chuckles. “Not exactly the word choice I’d use, but I suppose yes, that’s one way to look at it. The important thing to remember here is that you, as a human, have a choice whether or not you accept the mate bond.”
“And if I don’t?” Stiles asks, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
“I’ll be honest, I know of very few cases in which the mate bond has been rejected – the very nature of the bond guarantees utmost compatibility between mates. But I imagine you could continue through life much the same. You'll only feel the effects of the bond if you open yourself up to it.”
“And Derek?”
Deaton hums consideringly. “Werewolves only ever have one mate; you are Derek’s, and even if you reject the bond, I suspect he will feel the drive to protect and provide for you all his life.”
Stiles blows out a gusty exhale. “Right, so I’m it for him, I get that. But he’s – I mean, he’s functionally an animal right now, Deaton. How am I supposed to know whether I want to accept the bond when our primary form of communication is tail wagging?”
“Oh, I don’t know; there are many ways to get to know a person, and from what I remember of Derek as a young man, he was never overly fond of words.” Deaton tells him, voice laced with amusement. “But be patient – Derek’s feral state is a stress reaction to the loss of his pack and anchor. I suspect, given time, Derek will come back to himself, and the discovery of a mate bond will only help things along.”
After a few more words of encouragement, Deaton hangs up. Stiles leans back in his chair with a groan. Werewolf married. Soulmates. With a guy whose grasp of humanity is...tenuous, to say the least.
Stiles is still a virgin, for god’s sake.
He thunks his head down on the dining room table. God, what is he going to tell his dad?
-
After allowing himself a few minutes to wallow, Stiles puts his big boy pants on (figuratively, that is; he’s still far more nude than he prefers to be when receiving life-altering news) and goes upstairs to face the music.
He finds Derek curled up in the middle of his bed, head tucked under his tail and looking, for all intents and purposes, like the more pathetic kind of squirrel.
“It’s alright, buddy, I’m not mad - but you and me need to have a come-to-Jesus meeting.”
Derek looks up at Stiles with cow eyes, tail giving a tentative thump at the sound of his voice.
Stiles sighs, reluctant fondness rising up in his chest as he collects his clothes and dresses quickly in the bathroom. Stiles naked time was clearly going to be limited as long as his furry suitor was still...furry.
“Ok big guy,” Stiles says, flopping back in his desk chair. “I’m happy for you to stay with me, but we’ve gotta set some ground rules, okay?”
He takes Derek’s tail wag as affirmation.
“Deaton wasn’t clear how much you’ve really got going on in there right now,” Stiles says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Derek's head, “but just try and experience what I’m about to chirp in your lobes, okay cool?”
He pauses, but the wolf doesn’t react. “Alright, not a Pauly Shore fan, noted.”
Stiles takes a deep breath, settling his elbows on his knees. “Okay, so, we’re soulmates. Or something. Deaton wasn’t totally forthcoming with info because that would just be too easy right? But I’m thinking that might be the reason behind your sniffy-sniffy-bad-touch earlier, which is not an excuse okay because consent and boundaries but I get that you’ve kind of lost the plot and are batting more around Balto than Lon Chaney Jr. here but - you’re not getting any of this, are you?”
Derek wolf-grins at him, tail thumping harder against the bed.
Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand over his hair. “Okay, I’ll try to keep this simple. Right now, our number one priority is getting you back to...whoever you are. If and when that happens, we can talk about the whole ‘mate’ thing. But in the meantime, you gotta keep things kosher, man – no sniffing below the belt, or biting my friends, or territory marking anywhere in this house, got it? And in return, I promise to work as hard as I can to get you back to normal. Sound fair, buddy?”
Derek flops over, landing half under the blankets as he presents his belly for a rub.
“Alright, good talk,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes but obediently getting up to pat him.
And if he takes a few photos while he’s at it, maybe sets one of Derek with his eyes shut and tongue lolling out as his phone background, who needs to know?
-
He didn’t think it’d be hard, really, but Stiles never imagined it would be this easy. Things settle into a pattern fast, and Derek slips into his life like he was always meant to be there.
He tells his dad that he’s fostering Derek for Deaton, as part of his summer ‘internship’, and the sheriff more or less believes it (well, tolerates it, at least. That’s the important part).
Each week, Deaton supplies Stiles with a new kind of powder or burning herb meant to facilitate healing and encourage the return of Derek’s human side, but other than making the wolf sneeze adorably when he gets smoke up his snoot, Stiles can’t really tell if they help. Actually, Stiles is pretty sure one of them just made him high, because Derek spent the rest of the night batting at Stiles’ face and honest-to-god purring.
Stiles takes it upon himself to bring Derek the rest of the way with the magic of Netflix, working steadily through both Star Trek: The Original Series and The Next Generation before tackling Stargate Atlantis and Firefly.
They’ve got it down to a science now – Stiles balancing the laptop on his knees and pillowing his head on Derek’s stomach, curled around the top of the bed. More often than not, Derek rests his long snout on Stiles shoulders, huffing into his neck at the funny bits and nudging him with his nose until Stiles feeds him a handful of kettle corn (because Derek’s a snob who made it clear he won’t go for the classic stuff).
Slowly, surely, the imprint of ribs fade from Derek’s side, and the humanity returns to his eyes.
Derek still won’t let anyone but Stiles touch him, but lately he’s taken to lying by the sheriff’s feet when Stiles is away on pack nights. More than once, Stiles comes home to his dad passed out on the recliner in front of a Dodgers’ game, Derek belly-up and snoring beneath him.
Stiles isn't sure what the wolf gets up to while he's at Deaton's every day, but he does know when Derek’s been out in the forest; if the muddy paw prints and dirt tracked across his sheets weren't a giveaway, the litany of dead animals left on the back deck are.
It started small – a squirrel here and there, a couple rabbits. The day a six-point buck showed up, throat cut cleanly through and Derek grinning smugly beside it, Stiles’ dad just sighed and called the local butcher.
They barely had any room left in the freezer from all the meat, but Stiles couldn’t muster up any real frustration – after all, venison was better for his dad than beef, and Derek always looked so proud when he saw them eating it.
Derek proves surprisingly helpful in other ways, too, watching out for him and his dad, taking care of them. More than once, Stiles has come out of a research spiral to Derek’s teeth gently tugging at his t-shirt, quietly but insistently herding Stiles into bed as the clock ticks past 2 a.m.
On the days he forgets his pill and erratic energy betrays itself in the twitching of his fingers and the buzzing in his head, Derek’s there, pill bottle held between his teeth and nose pressed to Stiles’ chest until his heartbeat evens out and his scent returns to normal.
He's there, too, on the nights when Stiles comes home drained from pushing himself too hard in training, spark flickering low inside him. On those nights, Derek just curls around him and lets Stiles bury his face in the soft fur as he vents about his day.
For all he can’t talk, Derek listens like a champ, and Stiles finds himself confessing things – stuff he hasn’t even told Scott.
Late at night, when the house is quiet and his dad's away at work, Stiles talks about his mom, and his worry for his dad, about the supernatural blowback that’s already touched him, and how Stiles isn’t sure how much longer he can protect him.
He talks about the guilt he still has for calling Scott out to the woods that night, the changes he’s seen in his friend since the alpha responsibility was laid on his shoulders. About how he loves Allison, and how great she is for Scott, but how he can’t help but miss his best friend.
He even talks about the jumble of hopes and insecurities that sits in his belly when he thinks about his spark, his future an emissary - how it might be the one thing he can do that no one else can, his singular exceptionality in an existence all too characterized by the ordinary. How he can feel the power like water rushing up from his feet and cooling him to the bone, filling him with a confidence and security he's rarely known.
Stiles tells him all this and more, and Derek, unbelievably, listens.
He doesn’t know if it’s Deaton’s training on using his spark for empathetic communication or some side effect of the mate bond, but sometimes Stiles can swear he gets flashes of, not thoughts exactly, but feelings, emotions from the wolf.
There’s always a swell of warmth after one of his confessions, and a foreign uneasiness in the back of Stiles’ mind while he’s away at training. When he returns, there’s a rush of affection and relief deep in his chest - a kind of joy Stiles would be lying if he said wasn't extremely flattering.
Once, only once, he gets a word. It comes, clear and unmistakable, in the moment just before sleep, his hands buried in Derek's fur where he's curled around him.
Home.
-
He hadn’t realized exactly what it meant at first, finding the boy who smelt so much like safety, like belonging; the boy he knew was his to protect from the moment he scented him on the porch.
The wolf within him doesn't require any more explanation, doesn't question why, or how, or who they are to each other. But the human knows better.
Each minute he spends with the boy, with Stiles, is another tether wrapping around his ribs and pulling him back to humanity, back to an awareness he hasn't felt in months.
For each flicker of awareness, each flash of conscious thought, there’s a single moment of freedom where Derek's whole world is Stiles and happy and not alone. And then reality comes crashing in, a lifetime of memories flooding his mind until he whimpers with the pain of it. It hurts, god, it burns, all that shame and loss and desolation.
But he’s getting stronger.
Can face the pain for a little longer each time, fight against the sweet seduction of animal naïveté for just a few more seconds with Stiles, his Stiles, his mate.
Derek remembers his name first, then his childhood. With it come his parents' stories and his grandmother's fairy tales, all the legends of fated pairs finding each other against all odds Derek had gobbled up with wide eyes.
He remembers the way his mother described it, how she found that scent that called out to her, how her blood called back. How the second she smelled Derek's father, she knew he was hers to keep, as she'd forever be his.
"You'll know it when you find it, Der-bear. There'll be no mistaking it," his mother had said, tucking him into bed. "When you find the person whose scent calls to you, to your very blood and bones, listen. If you listen, if you follow that call, you'll always find your way home."
He remembers growing up obsessed with the idea of a love that powerful, of a belonging he could feel in his bones. He devoured stories of mates from every culture, begged his family for more. Kept his nose to the wind and dreamt of finding his mate around every corner, convinced they would appear if he just looked hard enough.
He remembers believing he found it in Paige. Convinced himself the sweet rose and cardamom that tickled his nose was the call of a lover, that the spark he felt when they touched was fate. And with Peter in his ear, he convinced himself that the only way to complete the bond was to give Paige the bite.
Derek remembers the feeling of her fading out in his arms, blood choked with black, and the withering of something deep inside him as they put her in the ground.
He remembers how he put away his books, stopped asking for stories. Kept his eyes shut and his nose to the ground. And when Kate slithered into his life, he remembers welcoming the distraction she offered, the no-strings-attached arrangement she proposed. He thought he was being clever, thought he’d found the perfect antithesis of love, of mates, of everything he had come to resent.
He was right, in the end.
But that remembering hurts too much, so Derek forgets. Turns his mind to watching, to learning, instead. He learns his mate has a quick mind and a clever tongue, a stubborn streak a mile long and a capacity for loyalty that Derek thinks he’s only just beginning to understand.
He learns Stiles jokes about soulmates, but cries at the end of every rom-com he watches. That he misses his mom every day, and would fist-fight the devil if it meant protecting his dad.
That he's only touched the surface of his power. That he’s more lonely than he'll ever admit, even to himself.
The more Derek learns, the more he loves, and for the first time, he feels uncomfortable in the skin he wears.
He aches to reach out with human hands, human fingers, touch the freckles that trail across his mate’s skin and trace the graceful slope of his nose.
Wonders if his lips are as plush as they look, if they’d fall open in submission beneath Derek’s own.
If he’d bare the soft skin of his neck for Derek’s mark, his claim, accepting the bond like he accepted Derek into his life and his arms and his bed.
Derek wants, and as each day passes, he grows a little bit stronger.
-
As easily as Derek slips into Stiles' life, things fall into place with the pack, too. They spend a couple evenings together a week, occasionally investigating possible non-human crises, but more often just...bonding.
Before Peter Hale and his whole supernatural shitshow, none of them really knew each other that well (bar Stiles and Scott, of course). They were thrown together by chance and circumstance, and things were bound to be a little…touchy for a while. But over a series of lake trips, movie nights, and ill-advised wolfsbane drinking games, Stiles realizes how much he genuinely likes his pack.
It's Boyd’s sense of humor, always ready with a deadpan one-liner when he least expects it. It's Isaac's secret sweetness, quietly angling for pack cuddles despite his aloof act. It's how much fun Erica is, hilarious and intelligent and always game for a prank or a joke or a Marvel marathon.
In the end, it's how well they all fit together when they stop fighting it, strengths and weaknesses balancing each other out until they resemble - dare he say it - an actual pack.
To his eternal shock, none of them give him too much shit for the whole soulmate thing, either.
He’d kept it under wraps, wanted to come to terms with it himself first before offering himself up to the pack to mock. Wanted to protect Derek, too.
But when Stiles springs it on them one day at the beach, they surprise him once again.
Erica and Boyd’s light teasing is belied by their easy acceptance of the idea of mates, the soft looks they exchange when they think no one is looking.
Scott is a little more predictable, his first thought to make sure Stiles isn’t forced into anything he doesn’t want (although his second and subsequent thoughts are definitely about Allison – Stiles is very familiar with that love drunk look, Scottyboy).
Isaac’s response is the most interesting. He stays quiet when Stiles breaks the news, but shoots him unsubtle looks for the rest of the day, lingering after everyone else has gone home.
“Alright buddy, spill.” Stiles says, patting the spot next to him on their favorite picnic table. Isaac avoids his eyes but slides in next to him, sitting stiff and uncomfortable on the wooden seat.
“C’mon man, you’ve been acting weird all day. What’s up?” Stiles asks, rubbing a thumb over the nape of Isaac’s neck – well known to be his weak spot.
As expected, the tension melts out of Isaac at the touch. He leans into Stiles, a supernaturally warm line against his side. “I just...I wanted to ask you something."
Stiles makes a soft, questioning noise in his throat.
"How you know if it’s, you know, real? The mate bond, I mean. Can you feel it too? How can you be sure?" Isaac asks, looking up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
Stiles hums, continuing to stroke over the spot as he thinks.
He’s tempted to say something flippant about how the nose knows, but Isaac wouldn’t ask unless he had a reason, and Stiles isn’t about to sabotage the trust he’s giving him right now.
“I mean, I’m not a wolf so I don’t really - I won’t ever be able to know, the way Derek might. But...there’s definitely something. I was never afraid of him, even when I first saw him, even when I saw his eyes. Like I just knew he’d never hurt me, even when I had every reason to believe he would.” He taps gently on Isaac's arm, a subtle reminder of what they both knew the wolf was capable of.
“Right now, I mean, Derek’s not really – I don't know much about him. I can’t ask him about his favorite song or book or what he does for a living. But I know he's loyal, and loving. Know he's had more than his fair share of pain in his life, but is somehow still fighting. Know he's probably the strongest person I've ever met, even if we haven't actually, you know, met.”
Stiles pauses, rubbing at his cheek as he thinks about it.
He thinks about the rush of warmth he feels seeing Derek curled up next to his dad. The look on the wolf’s face when he’s listening, really listening to everything Stiles has to say, and the long walks in the preserve where Stiles knows he doesn’t have to say anything at all.
He thinks about the photo he has stashed in his wallet, stolen from Deaton’s office and well worn from repeated folding and unfolding. Thinks about the dark-haired boy, half turned from the camera, one dimple on show and laughing as he pushes off his sister. About how he sometimes dreams of a man with the same dark hair and dimples but taller, broader, with the burning blue eyes he would recognize anywhere.
“I don’t know dude, it just feels…right. Like instinct. Like belonging.” He shrugs, not really sure how else to explain it. Not sure he ever could. “Any particular reason?”
Isaac shakes his head, the tips of his ears lightly pink. “Just, you know. Wondering.”
Stiles isn’t blind. He’s seen the way Isaac looks at Scott, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a lot like the way Scott looks at Allison. But if there’s anything Stiles has learned over the past few weeks, it’s that nothing is simple with werewolves - least of all love. Isaac will come to him when he's ready and until then, Stiles won't pry.
Instead, he pulls his pack mate closer, tries to imbue all the comfort and affection he has into the touch. “I think maybe it’s about trust more than anything, man. Trusting myself, trusting the potential. I might never be sure, dude, but I can’t be afraid to try.”
-
When summer begins its slow descent into fall, Stiles takes Derek back to the deathplace.
He's been trying to keep track of days, relearn the normal rhythms of time, so he knows it’s Sunday – the day Stiles doesn’t have to go to Deaton’s, can spend the whole day with Derek walking in the preserve or practicing his magic in the clearing or just laying out in the sun, letting it warm Derek’s fur and draw freckles across Stiles’ skin.
But every time before, Stiles has led them away from the deathplace. Derek could always feel it calling to him just beyond their path - the land he knows he belongs to, the home he can't fully remember. He's tried, he has, but each time he comes close something in him instinctively pulls away, the wolf digging its heels deeper into his psyche until every fiber of his being screams no.
But there's no hesitation in his boy’s path today. He leads Derek right into the heart of it, where the blood is as much a part of the land as the trees.
Stiles smells like unhappiness and anxiety and it sets Derek's teeth on edge. He saw Stiles pack the book, the heavy one he pulled away when Derek tried to bat it open with a paw. Stiles has been reading new books to him each night and Derek likes falling asleep to the sound of his voice, so much deeper and raspier than it has any right to be. But this book Stiles hides from him; shoves into his bag like it’s a cursed thing and reeks of guilt when he looks at Derek after.
Whatever it is, he doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want Stiles in pain, never in pain, not for a second.
The book is bad and this place is bad and Derek doesn’t know what to do.
-
Derek whimpers as Stiles comes to a stop in front of the Hale house.
“It's okay, buddy. I know you don’t like being here, but there’s something we’ve got to talk about,” Stiles says, dropping his bag on the ground as he sits on the porch steps.
He sighs, looking over the wolf at his side.
“I know you’re in there, Derek. It’s been weeks, and I see you more clearly every day, hear you in my head. I know you’re healing, Derek, and you're almost there. But I think there’s something holding you back.” He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “Deaton believes that you being stuck like this has always been a mental, not physical problem; that it's a refuge against a truth you aren't ready to face. But it’s time, Derek. It’s time. As much as you're a wolf, you're human, too, and that’s not something you can turn your back on. Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts.”
Stiles takes a deep breath, his scent choked with misery and shame. “It’s time to talk about your family.”
Derek whimpers, pressing his nose under Stiles’ hand and taking comfort in the way he passes it over his head, presses his thumb into that special spot behind Derek’s ear.
“I know buddy, I know. I’m sorry,” Stiles sighs, trying to find out where to begin. He’d been thinking about it for days, turning it over in his head and unable to deny the unshakeable truth that Derek needed to know, deserved to know.
The thoughts and feelings he’d been picking up from the wolf had gotten progressively clearer, but there was always an undercurrent of frustration, like he was trying to communicate more and couldn’t quite push through.
Stiles had a theory: there was something holding Derek back. Some last ditch protection against all the horror and hurt he'd experienced, and the pain he'd have to face if he ever wanted to live life on two legs again.
He needed to remember his past. And Stiles had to be the one to tell him.
So he starts at the beginning.
He talks about Derek’s family, the house, everything he could dig up in his research. Stiles grew up with it being just his dad and him, but Derek had had so much family – brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and a whole brood of cousins. He talks about how happy they all were, all the stories of love and strength and pack he could wheedle out from Deaton. He shows him the photos in the album he borrowed from the vet, of a young Derek smiling in his basketball uniform, of his parents laughing, wrapped around each other on the back porch. Even the family portrait where he first saw Derek's face, returned to its rightful place within the book.
He talks about the fire, how they still don’t know what happened, but that it broke Peter, somehow. How his body healed but his mind stayed sick, how he turned so many kids in Beacon Hills, how he killed even more. Just like how he killed Laura, when she came to investigate. How they buried her properly, like Deaton said she should be - wrapped in wolfsbane and blessed under the moon, at peace beside her family.
He talks about how they eventually stopped Peter – him and Scott and Deaton and the rest. How Scott inherited Peter’s alpha power and Stiles discovered his spark and how slowly, painfully, they’ve become a pack.
How there’s a place in that pack for Derek, if he wants it. If he wants Stiles.
“Maybe I’m being presumptuous, here,” Stiles says softly at the end of it, closing the album and slipping it back into his bag. “But I want you to stay. I think you might want to stay, too. But you can’t do it like this, not really. I need you. All of you.”
He buries his fingers in the soft fur around Derek’s neck, trying to sooth the tension that’s been building in the wolf since he started talking. “These are memories no one deserves, and I wish they weren’t yours. But they’re part of who you are, Derek, and I don’t think you can come back without them.”
Derek whines, low and plaintive, and the echoing emotion Stiles feels in the back of his head nearly levels him. It’s not enough to call it sadness or regret or even guilt – it’s misery, and it aches down to his very bones.
Stiles can feel the pain building, growing tighter, louder, riding the edge of panic like static in his ears. He reaches out again but the wolf lashes out, a warning growl and flash of teeth that have Stiles instinctively scrambling back, his mind registering predator for the first time.
Before he can recover, Derek is on his feet and racing towards the trees, heedless of Stiles’ frantic calls. He tries to give chase, stumbling through the brush surrounding the clearing, but in seconds he’s already lost sight of him, the wolf a black blur in the fading light.
Stiles tries not to panic, shoves the clamoring anxiety aside as he pulls out his phone to dial Deaton. He starts in as soon as he hears the ‘click’ of the call connecting. “I did it, I told him, and he just ran away. He ran away and - I can’t feel him, I can’t feel him anywhere and he’s not coming back and I tried calling for him and -”
“Slow down, Stiles. What do you mean, you can’t feel him?” Deaton asks, infuriatingly calm.
“I mean he’s just not there, I’m not getting anything - no emotions, no feelings, no presence, nothing.” Stiles rakes a hand through his hair, streaking it with sweat and dirt.
“And you said he ran off after you had the conversation about his past?” Deaton hums. “It could be that he’s blocking you, actively resisting the bond while he processes what you’ve told him. It could be a positive sign, that he’s aware enough to exercise control like that.”
“Or?” Stiles asks, sure there’s another, less optimistic option. There always is, with their lives.
The vet signs. “Or it could mean that he’s reverted to a fully feral state. Perhaps even further gone than when we first found him. But I stress you not to panic, the best thing you can do for him right now is remain calm and stable. It is likely he will return once he has had time to come to terms with the missing parts of his identity.”
“So you think I should just what, twiddle my thumbs and hope he comes back?” Stiles snorts derisively. “Not likely, Doc. If he has gone feral, I’m going to find him, and we’re going to do this again. Do it better. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll try again. And again, and again, until it does. I’m not giving up on him, Deaton.”
“And if he doesn’t want to be found?” Deaton asks, voice dangerously quiet.
“Well that’s too damn bad,” Stiles snarls, pulling the phone away and ending the call.
He shoves his phone back in his pocket and runs his hands over his face, exhaling deeply before lashing out, fist colliding with a nearby tree. His knuckles bloom with pain, but it soothes something within him. He hits out again, and again with his other fist, channeling all his frustration into the punch. His skin catches at the bark, tearing off into bloody trails that sting with dirt.
When his knuckles are shredded and the wood stained with blood, he stops, collapsing against the tree with his chest heaving and forehead pressed against the bark.
He closes his eyes, listening to the rustling of the leaves, birds, all the familiar sounds of the preserve. But there’s no howling, no tell-tale crack of twigs under Derek’s paws, no sign he was ever there at all.
Stiles sighs and opens his eyes. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Deaton is right. Not on the going home and waiting part - there’s no way in hell Stiles is just letting Derek go like that. But panicking won’t help him, and it sure as hell won’t help Derek stay anchored, presuming the bond is still intact. Stiles isn't ready to consider the alternative.
He pushes away from the tree and sets off again through the forest. He could call Scott or one of the others, but if Derek really is feral, a foreign wolf probably would go over as well as it did the first time - which is to say, pretty fucking terrible.
He tries reaching out with his magic instead, letting it flow out and through the ley lines that criss-cross the forest floor, racing along the roots and across the river to see if he can feel something, anything.
But there’s nothing.
So he pushes on, crashing through the underbrush and trying to find all the little meadows and caves Derek took him to, all the secret parts of the forest he may have gone.
He searches long after the sun sets and the shadows stretch across the forest floor. Till it’s dark, so dark he has to use his spark to light his way, tripping over rocks and falling to the packed dirt and his knees and palms are bloodied to match his knuckles.
When his phone is long dead and Stiles stumbles into the clearing around the Hale house for the fifth time, he doesn’t go back into the forest. He waits, fingering his keys as he scans the trees.
His bones ache and his throat is hoarse from screaming, he's been cold so long his body has stopped shivering, the skin on his hands pulls with dried blood, and every time he blinks he can full the weight of the hours dragging him down.
Stiles cups his hands around his mouth and gives one last call, pouring all the frustration, misery, and pain of the last day into it, everything he has.
“DEREK!”
The sound echoes around the clearing, deafening in the silence of the woods.
Stiles waits, fists clenched and straining for a response.
All he gets is the wind in the trees.
-
Ash. He sees it in the air, spiraling on waves of heat that roll through the forest, biting at his tail and licking the back of his neck as he races away. It fills his snout and mats his fur even as it burns and sticks to his skin, and when he throws his head back he can’t tell if it’s with a howl or a yell.
He can hear Laura calling to him through the leaves, her laughter just beyond the river, gone when he crosses. Thinks he sees her hair whipping around the trees, disappearing when he stretches out his fingers to touch – falls back to the ground with paws, claws digging into the moss.
Everything is colliding and Derek can’t tell illusion from reality, wolf from human, the happiness of the past few weeks and the misery of the memories crashing over him. He can only continue, farther and farther into the depths of the forest, unsure if he’s running to or away and unable to stop.
Images flash in front of him - ash on flowers; smoke spiraling into the sky; a rabbit kicking up dirt as he escapes the snap of a wolf’s teeth; blonde hair; holly bushes; blood in the trees, blood in the trees, blood in the -
Stiles. His Stiles. His.
He pushes closer to the scent, driving up against the bark, letting it flood his senses.
It’s thick with grief, warped and nearly obscured, but it’s there. Spruce, sharp and fresh and run through with the bite of a glacial stream racing cold down his veins. Warmth rushes to take its place as he closes his eyes and remembers smooth, mole freckled skin and a fan of dark eyelashes, creased sheets in the morning and fresh coffee, tangling with the ever present smell of magic, of power.
It’s a call, and Derek can’t help but respond, every muscle straining and heart racing so fast the beats blur together as the blood crashes in his veins and he’s screaming with it, the pain of it. His bones crack as they lengthen and change, sending fire through his body as muscles reattach and nerves reform. The white noise building in his ears hits its crescendo, and Derek claws at them, crying out against the unbearable sound.
And suddenly, it resolves - all the scattered parts of him pulled together in one single note, ringing out naked and still in the moonlight.
It's the bond, Derek can feel it, calling to him. He reaches out and touches the dark stains in the wood, human fingers trailing across the splintered bark as he’s flooded with his mate’s misery, Stiles’ misery, his yearning for Derek to come home.
Derek turns away from the tree and begins to run.
-
Stiles sleeps fitfully, sheets gripped in white-knuckled fists as he tosses and turns in the dark. His waking is no more peaceful, shocked upright by the burning in his palms that tells him when the barrier around his house is crossed.
Crossed, but not triggered - he expects Scott or maybe Isaac, coming to check on him. A familiar face, in any case.
The person standing over him is anything but.
Stiles scrambles away, pressing his back against the wall and straining to see the figure silhouetted in the moonlight.
He calls to his spark, weak from the night of use, to pool light in his palm, illuminating the stranger’s face.
Beautiful is the first thing Stiles thinks, even as he takes in the blood and dirt caked along those exquisite cheekbones and matted in the stranger’s dark hair, his full beard. The man is naked, chest heaving and fists clenched like he’s uncomfortable where he stands, but his eyes are clear and bright and intent on Stiles like a starving man at a feast.
His strong chest and corded arms, powerful thighs and calves are all covered in the same deliciously thick, dark hair and Stiles can't help the surge of want that courses through him.
He leans closer, eyes narrowing as he studies the man’s face. He feels like he should know him, has seen him before, an image from some half-remembered dream.
The man moves slowly, never breaking eye contact as he kneels at the side of the bed and reaches out to take Stiles’ hands, cradling them in his own. They’re strong and wide, rough with calluses but infinitely gentle as he rubs a thumb over the ragged skin on Stiles’ knuckles, still covered in dirt and dried blood. The man whines softly in the back of his throat before leaning down, pressing full lips against his skin to soothe the hurt.
And Stiles understands.
Understands why his magic didn’t respond to the man as a threat, why he’s not afraid, why there’s warmth pooling in his chest and spilling out through his veins instead the cold tang of fear.
“Derek,” Stiles breathes out, reaching up to cradle the man’s face in his bloodied hands.
The man closes his eyes, turning into the touch till warm breath ghosts over Stiles’ palm, inhales at the curve of his wrist. He opens his eyes and Stiles can’t breathe, everything he needs to know held in that single moment of recognition and return.
Then Derek pushes forward, and Stiles loses all thought.
“Stiles,” Derek whispers against his mouth, pressing back in to kiss him harder, deeper, a sigh escaping the plush of his lips.
“You came back to me,” Stiles whispers back, thumb trailing along the curve of Derek’s cheekbone, completely foreign yet infinitely familiar.
He lets his hands fall to Derek’s shoulders, tracing down his sides until he can grab his hands, pull him onto the bed. Derek goes willingly, curling around Stiles where he belongs, where he has always belonged. Stiles buries his face in curve of Derek’s neck, reveling in the feeling of warm skin against his, strong arms against his back.
“You called to me,” Derek murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head. “You led me back home.”
Stiles hums, pressing closer. It’s a conversation they need to have, one of many, probably. But now he knows Derek is safe, and whole, and existing where he is existing, they can all wait till morning.
Derek smiles, pulling his boy closer as his breathing evens out, heartbeat slowing in sleep. Stiles, his Stiles, his mate. All the pain in the world would be worth this moment alone.
With that thought in his head, Derek lets his eyes fall shut, more at peace than he has been in years.
-
There’s sunlight streaming through the window, and Stiles is warm. No, not just warm, burning.
He groans, stretching his arms above his head.
“Come on Derek, we’ve talked about this - you, fur-covered uber-furnace; me, not interested in waking up a pool of sweat.” Stiles keeps his eyes shut as he reaches over to push at the body slumped over him, freezing when he encounters smooth, firm skin instead of fur.
His eyes fly open as the events of the last 24 hours catch up with him and he takes in the large man curled around him. Derek, whole, human, touchable Derek.
“Holy shit,” Stiles whispers, reaching out a finger to poke at one stubbled cheek.
Derek grumbles adorably, half-heartedly batting Stiles’ finger away as he rolls over and buries his face in the pillow.
“I thought that was just a weird sex dream!”
A muffled sound comes from where Derek’s face is pressed into the pillow.
“Was that an attempt at speech, big guy?”
“But we haven’t even had sex yet,” Derek rolls over, rubbing at his eyes as he resigns himself to conversation.
“Yet?” Stiles squeaks out, hitting a pitch he’ll go to his grave denying.
Derek frowns, lowering his hands so he can look Stiles in the eye. “I thought that’s where things were going last night, before you fell asleep. Maybe I...did I read that wrong?”
Stiles props himself up on an elbow and cocks an eyebrow. “What, you thought that after spending every second of the past few weeks building up a quasi-psychic soul bond, doing my level best to become your anchor, baring my soul to you in the forest, and spending hours searching for you in the dark that you could just show up in my bedroom with all the stubble and the abs and the romantic hand-kissing and I’d jump right into bed with you?”
Derek’s brows furrow as he looks up at him, gratifyingly reminiscent of Derek-the-wolf’s confused face. He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever he’s going to say is lost as Stiles charges forward, silencing him with a kiss.
He pulls back with a grin. “Good, 'cause you'd be damn right, buddy."
Derek feels the fondness rise in his chest, leaning in to kiss his mate softly, thoroughly. “Are you sure? We can take our time with this, you don’t have to-”
“Do anything I don’t want to do? Don’t worry; I really, really want to.” Stiles pulls away just far enough to stroke his thumb up the curve of Derek’s jaw. “I have dreamt about you, you know. About this, about you in my bed. Kissing you, touching you.”
He leans back in, reinforcing his point.
“And last night, when you ran away...I thought you weren’t coming back. Now I have you, I’m not letting you go for another second.” Stiles scrambles up to straddle Derek’s hips, beaming smugly as he settles against his lap.
Derek’s eyes darken as he anchors his mate with his hands, petting up his sides and thumbing over the ink splatter of moles he finds there. All the indistinct thoughts he’s had towards the boy, all the desire and the longing and the want built up over weeks of waiting hit him all at once. He surges forward, licking a stark line up Stiles’ happy trail to his throat, peppering him with kisses and bites and bruises that will show deliciously purple in a few hours.
Stiles laughs over him, pulling Derek closer and allowing him to nuzzle into his throat. “God, I should have known you’d be a biter.”
He scrapes his nails down Derek’s back and the werewolf shivers, nipping at his throat in retaliation. He can feel the rush of Stiles’ blood there, thick with that scent he knows above all others, heightened by arousal and happiness. Derek thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever smelled - so he tells him.
Derek’s never been a big talker during sex, or even a talker in general. But now, with Stiles all laid out for him, miles of pale skin and mouth-watering scent and emotion, Derek feels the words bubbling up in him in a way they haven’t in years - a desire to speak, to praise, to let his mate know just how much he wants him.
“God Stiles, you don’t know what you do to me. From the second I saw you, the second I smelled you, god, I’ve wanted to devour you. Taste every inch of you. Make you mine.” He continues his path exploring Stiles’ skin, licking down the curve of a shoulder and nosing gently at his collarbone, the sweat pooling there. He sucks an impressive hickey just above, growling deep in his chest at the sight of his mark upon his mate. “I mean it, Stiles. You're the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."
Stiles moans above him, pulling Derek up so he can recapture his lips in a kiss miles filthier than before.
“Clearly you haven’t been near a mirror lately,” he says, nipping playfully at Derek’s mouth. He grinds down on him, pulling back with a shit-eating grin when Derek chokes out his name.
Derek growls as he flips them over, tears off Stiles’ boxers with his claws and dives down to take him in his mouth. Stiles jackknifes at the sudden sensation, but Derek’s already there, pressing him down with a firm arm against his hips.
For someone who hasn’t had a human dick in who knows how many months, Derek certainly knows what he’s doing, Stiles thinks desperately. He's lost in waves of sensation, the wet heat of Derek’s mouth, the delicious scratch of his beard against Stiles’ thighs, that one thing he does with his tongue Stiles is pretty sure is illegal.
When Derek brings one deft hand up to play with Stiles’ balls, he’s a goner. He comes with a shout, one hand squeezing against Derek’s shoulder in warning. It serves only to make the wolf double-down in ferocity, swallowing everything Stiles gives him before surging up to kiss him, sharing the taste.
Stiles never thought that’d be something he was into, but given the valiant stir his dick just made, he thinks it’s probably safe to assume he’s into anything as far as Derek’s involved.
Stiles reaches a hand down to reciprocate, but the wolf shakes his head. Instead, he leans down to bury his face in Stiles’ neck and ruts desperately against the crease between his hip and thigh, the slide eased by sweat and slick.
Stiles touches him everywhere, hands fluttering over his shoulders and thumbing over his nipples, reverently tracing his abs and the cut of his hip. Derek grunts and humps forward harder, setting the edge of his teeth against Stiles neck. He whines in the back of his throat and Stiles just knows what he needs, feels it like he always feels him. He scrapes his nails down Derek’s back and feels him stutter and groan, sticky warmth pooling against his skin.
Derek rumbles low in his chest as he reaches down, rubbing his come into Stiles’ skin. “There,” the wolf says with a satisfied smile. “You smell like me now. Like us. Like mine.”
Stiles stifles a laugh as Derek pushes in to lap at that ticklish spot between his collarbone and neck, chasing the combined scent of mountain air and wood smoke.
He pulls back and looks up at Stiles with puppy eyes to rival Scott’s. “Mine? My mate?” he questions, voice desperate with hope.
Stiles snorts and stays close as he cradles Derek’s jaw in his hands, runs his fingers over the familiar curve of his ears – slightly less pointy, but no less adorable. He kisses him with ineffable tenderness, this beautiful man that came home to him against all odds, gave him something he never even knew he needed.
Stiles pulls back and looks him directly in the eye.
“Yours, you possessive weirdo.”
Stiles laughs as he kisses the pout off Derek’s face, tugging him closer and pulling the blankets over their heads. Sure, they still have to call Deaton and properly introduce Derek to the pack and Jesus, to his dad, but for right now, Stiles is going to nap with his mate.
His real, human, touchable mate.
- Epilogue -
“Werewolves, Stiles? Really?” the sheriff asks with a weary sigh.
Now that Derek is Derek again, and it looks like the crazy train to mate-hood was still firmly on track, Stiles figured it was time to let his dad in on the furry secret.
He’d worked methodically through the events of the past year, tracking the minute changes in his dad’s face as each piece fell into place. Derek was sitting beside him and Melissa had promised to come over after to help him adjust, but this part – this was all Stiles.
“You....don’t sound as surprised as you should.” Stiles lifts his face from where it's buried in his hands.
“I’ve been a cop a lot of years, son, I know when you’re hiding something from me. And I can sure as hell tell when a dog is not a dog and a mountain lion attack is...well, something else,” the sheriff says, raising an eyebrow.
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Stiles asks, frowning.
“I knew you’d come to me when you were ready. But this is it, okay? From here on out, you tell me everything. No more secrets, capisce?"
“Well...maybe one more.” Stiles says, looking over at Derek guiltily.
Ten minutes later, silence reigns in the Stilinski home.
Stiles’ dad is leveling all the force of his sheriff’s glare at Derek, appraising him in the way he’d honed in his 20 years of service (plus 18 of raising Stiles) and not missing a single flinch, tremor, or wrinkle in his shirt.
Derek meets his gaze head on, trying to project all the care and affection and loyalty he has for his mate into the look, how much he owes him, how far he is willing to go for Stiles and the horrors he’s willing to face – this interrogation by no means the least of them.
Stiles twists his hands in his lap as the moment stretches into eternity, berating himself for not making sure his dad took off his service weapon before springing the whole 'mates' thing on him. Sure, Derek would live, but this was his mom’s dining table and bloodstains were a bitch to get out of maple.
The sheriff breaks the tension with a nod, seeming to find whatever he was looking for. He gets up and heads toward the kitchen without a word or a backwards glance at his son. Derek looks pleadingly at Stiles for an explanation, but all he gets is a shrug.
“So, Derek,” the sheriff says, returning with two glasses and a bottle of Kentucky whisky (the good stuff, Stiles notices). “You’re a born werewolf? As were the rest of the Hales?”
“Yes, sir,” Derek answers stiffly, accepting the glass the sheriff hands him.
“And you’d been living ferally in the wild, before Stiles - how did you put it, son - fixed you?”
“That’s correct, sir.” Derek nods again.
“Which he was able to do because you’re supernaturally pre-destined werewolf soulmates, magically bonded for life?”
Derek chokes on the sip he’d just taken, slamming the glass down on the table as Stiles pounds on his back. The sheriff looks suspiciously smug.
“That, um, that is one way to put it. Uh sir.” Derek says once his airways are clear, the tips of his ears bright red.
"And you love him, son?" The sheriff looks steadily at Stiles, trusting him to tell the truth.
Stiles nods, holding his gaze. "I do. I'm not a werewolf, obviously, so I don't really feel the bond the same way he does but...Derek's it for me, Dad."
The sheriff leans back in his seat, sipping leisurely at his drink while his son and his boyfriend squirm in their seats.
“I just have one more question, Derek,” he says, putting the drink down and looking at the man with all the seriousness he can muster. “Are you still a Dodgers fan, son?”
Stiles muffles a desperate giggle behind his hands, manic laughter bubbling up in his chest. He reaches out to kick at Derek’s ankle when he doesn’t respond right away, the wolf frozen in panic.
“Uh, yes I am, sir,” Derek hedges, like he thinks it might be a trick question.
The sheriff smiles wide and friendly. “Then we’ll get along just fine. Welcome to the family.” He extends his hand to shake, inwardly glowing at the werewolf’s bewildered look.
Stiles takes advantage of Derek's distraction to snatch the glass out of his hand, the whiskey burning pleasantly in his throat as he downs it. He grins as he smacks the empty glass on the table with a dull thud, shooting a wink Derek’s way.
After all he's been through this summer, Stiles figures he's more than earned it.