Work Text:
resolution [ˌrɛzəˈluːʃən] n
1. The state or quality of being resolute; firm determination.
2. A course of action determined or decided on.
3. An explanation, as of a problem or puzzle; a solution.
4. In music, the progression of a dissonant tone or chord to a consonant tone or chord.
5. The part of a literary work in which the complications of the plot are resolved or simplified.
6. In physics and chemistry, the act or process of resolving or separating into constituent or elementary parts…
August
It’s been two and a half weeks. He guesses it makes sense. Healing’s been taking a long time because the attack was by another Alpha. There’s no mark on his skin now, but maybe the reparation’s only surface. If he stretches a certain way, he still feels it, a sharp dig. His mom told him once that some wounds never truly heal, that years after getting them, you’re haunted by a phantom pain.
The indentation in Jennifer’s brow deepens.
She is a terrible Florence Nightingale. It isn’t that she doesn’t try. If anything, she tries too much. She told him she couldn’t sew, and she was right, but she still attempted to stitch him up anyway. For two days he had a jagged scar that looked like it belonged on Frankenstein’s monster, and when he quietly pointed that out she went wide-eyed and thanked him for knowing not to say simply ‘Frankenstein’. Didn’t care that he was being cutting, dismissive or rude, just appreciated the literary pedantry in his remark.
She glides her hand over him now, her fingernails glancing against the spot that’s still sore. “Are you okay?”
No, he thinks. I’ll never be okay again.
But that’s too melodramatic, so he nods in response instead.
*
Cora slaps him when she discovers he’s alive. Hard enough she leaves a handprint that lasts for a minute. She narrows her eyes at Jennifer and asks if she’ll be staying. It’s clearly a command to go. But instead of the pale anxiety and babbling he expects, Jennifer smiles, unyielding. Seems she’s used to pissed off teenagers.
Her voice is eerily calm as she says, “That depends on Derek.”
“You can stay,” he says.
“You want me to go?” Cora asks, disbelieving.
“No.” He shakes his head, second-guesses himself. “Maybe you should.”
“Well, I’m not going to,” Cora storms.
In another universe, in another time, this is a typical, amusing sibling exchange. Here, now, it’s further indication that they have no idea how to relate to each other. He wants to keep Cora safe, but he has no idea how to do that. She can’t stay with Peter, and he can’t imagine a world where she gets along with Scott and his friends. She and Isaac hadn’t exactly hit it off when they were both living here in the loft.
“I want to protect you.”
“And I want to protect you, so we’re even.”
That’s the extent of their discussion. Days go by and Cora sends death glares Jennifer’s way. She is apparently unperturbed. Derek thinks about telling her Cora was one of the werewolves that almost ate her. He’s been into self-sabotage for a long time. Something stops him, though, stoppers the words at the top of his throat.
*
He spends time at Jennifer’s apartment. Recuperating.
They kiss, long and hard. The kinds of kisses he hasn’t allowed himself to have. Not since Kate. He loses himself in her sure embrace, and he forgets, for a moment, maybe more. Forgets his burdens, his expectations.
And he’s going to let himself have this. He shouldn’t, it’s one of the worst decisions he’s ever made, but he’s exhausted. He doesn’t know how he’s been struggling through before. The Alpha pack has gutted him, literally and figuratively, and he’s over it, over everything.
The tiny part of him that still clings onto hope clings onto Jennifer.
He learns the places to kiss and touch that make her sigh and arch toward him, and she may be a terrible Florence Nightingale, but she’s an excellent teacher. He holds her gently, one hand on her lower back, her legs wound around his waist. He kisses her with intent, eager against her soft lips and sweet tongue. It’s so easy, surrendering himself to sensation. Mapping her planes, lines and curves. Searching for where she’s most vulnerable.
Jennifer is responsive. She fucks like she talks --- enthusiastic, clever, a little disoriented. Her eyes go hazy when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, her fingers card through his hair. He shudders when she kisses under his jaw, when she straddles him as he lies on the bed, told to keep his hands still against the sheets. She takes from him what she wants and gives him what he needs. And it’s good.
*
Scott turns up at the loft, Stiles in tow. They’re both looking older, weary, but with the assurance of being self-righteous. Derek doesn’t deny the fact he’s been hiding, there’d be no point. Scott is --- different. Muted, less in his face. There’s the ever-present thrum of anger along his nerves, but there’s also relief.
“You should’ve contacted us,” he says, like Derek’s going to heed his barely veiled demands.
“Why?”
Stiles opens his mouth. He’s so good at faking indignation. “We could’ve helped.”
“Could, maybe, but what about would?”
Scott goes stone-faced, deadly calm. It’s impressive, how he’s learning to rein himself in. A month ago, he might have been shouting, pushing, wolfing out. Derek’s was a baptism by fire, but Scott’s has been from increased responsibility.
“You don’t have to be like this,” Scott insists, soft and deploring.
“I don’t have any other way to be.”
The further away Scott stays, the further away everyone else stays, and that’s safe, for now. He won’t allow his weakness to become someone else’s downfall.
He’s aware of his hypocrisy.
“You’re just gonna give up?” Stiles asks, cutting into the glare Derek and Scott have been sharing. “That’s it, no more fight? No more resistance? Because resistance is futile, am I right?”
“No. I won’t be assimilated,” Derek bites back, giving a sharp grin at Stiles’ head-tilt. It’s more a baring of his teeth than anything else.
Scott looks between them, seems a little lost. He settles back on his argument. “This isn’t the answer.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything,” Derek says, voice escalating to shout. “You wander around thinking all problems can be solved with a little covert manipulation, some sweet words and a smile, but this is war, don’t you get that?”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Were you there? Present? Accounted for? I’m not the one that’s made this a battle.”
Scott swallows around whatever he was going to say. He clenches his fists and tenses his shoulders. He rolls his head around, speaks through his teeth. “If we stood together…”
“I would kill someone. Isaac. Boyd. Cora. Right now, I really want to kill you. And it wouldn’t even help the situation, because you refuse to be my beta. See, Scott, you have a fundamental lack of understanding of what this means. You think I’m stronger than I am, or that the idea of untamed potential isn’t as attractive to me as it is, or you’re wilfully ignoring that I killed my own uncle for power.”
“That wasn’t just for power. I get that now.”
“You don’t know how liberating it was slashing his throat, seeing his eyes dim, feeling energy surge up my spine.”
“But surely the fact you don’t want to do it again means ---”
“Nothing. I haven’t actually learned from my mistakes. People never really do. Every second, part of me reasons that it would be so much easier if I did what Deucalion demands. Part of me’s curious about what ripping Isaac and Boyd apart would be like. Part of me thinks my sister is a burden. The temptation is too great. That’s why I didn’t contact you. That’s why I want you to go. Now.”
Scott exhales, long and deep. He shakes his head, gazes at Derek with something other than animosity. It might be pity.
It takes too long for him to walk away. Long enough that Derek’s doubting his decision, thinking maybe he should clutch at what Scott’s offering, meagre and paltry though it seems. But he’s out the door eventually, clattering down the steps, heart elevated but even, scent disappointed.
Stiles hovers in the doorway. “For the record, I’m glad you’re not dead.” Derek’s head snaps up in shock, his lips parting on a question. “I don’t think Scott ever would’ve forgiven himself,” Stiles continues. “He thought it was his fault.”
Of course. How could he think Stiles would mean anything else? He wonders when Stiles will stop seeing the world through a Scott-filtered lens.
“Scott isn’t to blame,” he concedes, not really knowing why.
“I know,” Stiles says. He glances the way Scott left. “I don’t think you are either, this time.”
September
He expects his relationship with Jennifer to be purely physical, giving his body what his mind and heart can’t have --- a connection. But they’re sitting together in the loft as fall light cascades through the window. Jennifer’s side is warm and solid against his own. She’s on her Kindle, he has an actual book; The Druids: A Study in Keltic Prehistory.
He can’t help but observe, “This isn’t horrible.”
“Oh. Thanks. Really. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She glances at him, a mixture of mocking and disbelieving.
“Everything else in my life is,” he explains.
There’s something infinitely grating about sympathy and kindliness, so he can’t stop himself from allowing the corner of his lips to twitch up when Jennifer’s response is to put her Kindle on the ground and give him a faux-pout.
“Poor you,” she says, lilting. “Your life is so tragic, with the magical healing ability, super-fast reflexes, and preternaturally good looks. I’m sure every day is a burden.”
“You have no idea,” he counters.
“No, I don’t. But maybe one day you’ll be able to tell me.”
He examines her, assessing. “You don’t really want to know.”
“Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do. You could always trust me and find out.”
He can’t trust her. Not on this. He doesn’t trust himself. He uses his body where his words fail him and tosses his book over his shoulder, gathers her into his arms.
“You think I’m so easily distracted,” she murmurs, before returning one of his kisses.
“I hope you are,” he admits.
He stops still and stares at the warm smile she gives him in response. It’s been years since anyone has looked at him with any semblance of affection.
Jennifer slides against him, nails scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. She pokes at his shoulder. The injured one, the one that still hurts. But she doesn’t know that, because he doesn’t flinch, and it looks completely mended.
“I am,” she whispers, pressing so tight there may as well be nothing between them. “Distract away.”
*
He should be leaving this alone. He should be avoiding every mention. Ignoring Deucalion’s taunts. But he’s researching. It’s like he has a streak in him a mile wide --- his conscience, in all probability --- telling him that this is his duty. Cora is little to no help, mocking him for being a luddite. He thinks Peter probably knows more about both the Alpha pack and the Darach than he’s letting on. He won’t go to Stiles, because Stiles made it very clear last time they met that he’s not someone to worth caring about, and if he doesn’t have anything useful to contribute, he can get lost.
Deucalion corners him during a trip to the library, cane clicking against the concrete of the sidewalk.
“You aren’t done running, little Alpha?” he purrs.
“It’s my only viable option.”
Deucalion’s hand curls around his forearm. His sense of revulsion itches at his skin as Deucalion postures and grins. “You are so short-sighted.”
“Do the puns about your blindness never bore you?”
“On the contrary, I enjoy them a little more every time they’re said. Just like I enjoy you a little more every time we meet.”
“The feeling isn’t mutual.”
“Shame. You come here a lot, don’t you? And what have you been learning about the Darach?”
“Judging by the fact you’re continuing to pursue me, I’m gonna go with, ‘the same as you – jack shit.’”
“You really don’t play your cards close to your chest, do you, Derek?”
“I don’t see the point.”
“Now who’s making the sight gags.”
Derek huffs out a breath, doesn’t attempt to extract his arm from Deucalion’s claws. “What do you want?”
“You.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
Deucalion is implacable, confident, amused. “Have you heard of Occam’s razor?”
“The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
“Yes. Good boy. I want to acquaint you with its cousin, Hanlon’s razor. Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.”
Derek scans his posture, his gait, tries to listen in to his heartbeat. There’s nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing even to smell, no indication of what Deucalion’s really thinking or feeling. “Is that your twisted way of telling me you forgive me my constant rejection?”
“If that’s how you want to think of it. I wish you luck, Derek, and wait with bated breath for the moment you realize all your troubles could be solved with a touch of acquiescence.”
Deucalion scores a line on the inside of his forearm, turns on his heel and walks with the steady strut of the self-possessed.
That’s it. That’s the moment that Derek’s vague attempts to continue the fray turns into firm resolve.
*
He’s happiest when a week’s gone by without Peter interfering in his life, when days have been spent with Cora sat beside him at the table in the loft, flipping through text books, when he’s gone to Jennifer’s and relaxed. He’s not happy. He’s not sure he knows what that is anymore. But he’s somewhere approaching neutral.
Jennifer doesn’t demand answers, isn’t insistent upon knowing every truth he can’t divulge, but he thinks about telling her, about asking for her assistance. They sit, propped up against her headboard, Jennifer’s cat basking at their feet, exchanging conversation that veers between polite and filthy depending on the day.
He doesn’t know much about her yet, or, at least, not about anything that isn’t physical. There are mutterings about therapy, and something about discontent with siblings and extended family, but even though she can talk a lot, sometimes Jennifer says very little.
He wants to know more about her. Wants facts, obvious and tangible. It’s an unsettling revelation.
Jennifer has her hand resting casually on the inside of his thigh, her head on his shoulder as she complains about grading papers. She laments her students’ inability to evince the deeper themes of the texts they’re studying, their ignorance of common tropes.
“Why do you teach?”
“If you expect me to say it’s because I can’t do, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
“I’m always disappointed.”
Jennifer laughs. He knows it’s genuine because it isn’t one of her attractive laughs. It isn’t coy or bashful. She shows too much of her gums, tips her head back a little, gives a huff that sounds suspiciously like a snort. When she regains herself, she shrugs.
“I guess it’s because I want to change the world, one student at a time.”
“Knowledge is power.”
“Sure. And creativity is innovation. Forced constriction is the beginnings of rebellion,” she says with a smirk. He levels her with a look. “Okay, so that last one is part of the limitations of our current education system, but I insist that learning itself is a noble pursuit.”
“What would you be if you weren’t a teacher?”
“An editor.”
Derek snorts. “Imaginative.”
“I know my strengths. What would you be if you weren’t a werewolf?”
Derek looks up at the ceiling, imagining he can see the stars and the moon. It’ll be full in three days. He can already feel its thrall. “I’ve always been a werewolf. This was never a choice.”
“Okay. But hypothetically, if you could choose?”
He wants to argue that it’s dangerous to consider, that it’s a waste, that it’s cruel, but he keeps thinking about it, mulling it over. Different scenarios flit through his mind. He wasn’t particularly athletic before he reached his teens, used to read and draw and watch TV. Help his dad cook, help his mom build furniture, help his sisters raise hell.
“I’ve always liked using my hands.”
“They’re very capable hands,” Jennifer returns with an impish leer. “Like what?”
“Make stuff,” he says, then, prompted by Jennifer’s insistent nudging, “Woodwork, I guess. Tables. Chairs. Shelves. Anything I wanted.”
“Does being a werewolf prevent you from doing that? Wouldn’t it make it easier?”
It occurs to Derek that Jennifer’s the worst kind of devious --- hiding in plain sight. “If I had the time, perhaps.”
“When you’re not battling the forces of evil.”
They don’t generally talk about it. She doesn’t usually bring it up, and he certainly doesn’t. It’s one of their many unspoken discussions they probably should have had.
“Right,” he says, but it must come out stilted and forced, because her eyes widen and she holds her hands up, placating.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes I spew words. Word vomit with verbs and nouns in place of carrot and corn.”
Derek squeezes his eyes shut, opens them hoping his urge to smile has been repressed. “That’s a very graphic image you’re giving me there.”
“You collapsed against my car with a bloodied hand, slashed clothes, and a torn-out shoulder. The imagery you’ve left me with will flashback through my mind decades from now.”
“Battling the forces of evil takes its toll,” he counters, sliding down the bed and glancing at her, challenging.
She meets him halfway, kissing the side of his neck, his jaw.
“I could do this all night,” she says, rubbing her chin against his chest, sliding her hand down to cup his growing erection.
She isn’t always this tender. It’s nice, having her lightly tease him, having her dictating how quickly this will go.
“Then why don’t you?”
“Some of us have jobs.”
“You could call in sick.”
She sighs, heavily, shaking her head so her long hair sweeps against his abdomen. It tickles. But it doesn’t make him go tense. Doesn’t remind him of another woman, staking her claim. It’s all right.
He realizes in this moment that he’s --- attached. Between a kiss and a conversation he’s managed to devote a small piece of himself to wholeheartedly appreciating this. To wanting to be around Jennifer, to wanting to listen to the sounds she makes when she sleeps, to see her dreamy eyes when she awakes.
He can see little pieces of everyone he cares about in her. Peter's sass, Cora's ferocity, Scott's optimism, Stiles' pragmatism, Isaac's tenacity, Boyd's calm. And he sees the people he still cares for, but who are long gone, too. Jennifer and Laura would have conspired, he thinks. Erica would grow and learn too much, all the brilliant, wrong lessons Jennifer could teach her. His parents would have welcomed her into their home.
“You shouldn’t stay here tonight,” Jennifer says, semi-muffled. “Or I won’t want to get up in the morning.”
“I’ll go,” he assures her.
If only he could assure himself.
*
Scott doesn’t appear exactly surprised when Derek clambers through the window to his bedroom. He arches an eyebrow, pushes out the free chair not occupied by Isaac or Stiles. Isaac won’t look at him straight. He won’t admit to himself that it hurts. It happened due to his machinations, so he only has himself to blame. Stiles insists on catching him up to date with the situation; there’ve been five more deaths than he knew about, bringing the total up to sixteen, with two more coming, according to the pattern. Scott strategizes, stating what they’ve done so far. He admits that they’ve been distracted by Ethan and Aiden.
The consensus is that the Darach is the threat they should be going after in the immediate future. The members of the Alpha pack have made their intentions clear, but they’re biding their time. They’re not continuing to slaughter innocent people, to sacrifice others. They taunt, they try to control, they don’t always succeed.
It’s the difference between an open, gaping sore and a mosquito bite. Both have the potential to kill, but one appears to need more urgent treatment than the other. It doesn’t matter if it’s ultimately a lie. Without any action at all, the result is always death.
November
Allison and Lydia sit on his couch, not so silently judging him. He refuses to care. Cora and Boyd are off to one side, talking intently. They’ve been getting close, Cora says. It’s easier not to hate Boyd when she’s not with him every second of an interminable day. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. Boyd still blames him for Erica’s death. He blames himself too, it’s only fair. He didn’t do enough for his betas and now everything has fallen to wrack and ruin. But Boyd’s talking more, even if it’s to insult Cora, so perhaps it’s a good thing.
There have been symbols randomly appearing all over the school, turning up overnight. Symbols that they have positively identified as Druidic. So they’re going to stake out the grounds, see if they can catch them in the making. They’re coordinating who should go together. So far, the configuration is one werewolf, one human.
He’s been stuck with Stiles. Or Stiles has been stuck with him. They share a glance, equal parts reluctance and resignation.
In Stiles’ Jeep, half an hour goes by before anything is said.
“She’s good for you,” Stiles observes casually, fiddling with the drawstring to his hoodie.
Derek straightens, turns his head. “Who?”
Stiles looks at him as if he’s a troglodyte --- he seriously doubts his intelligence, he’s worried he’s going to get violent, and he’s pretty sure he’s been living under a rock.
“Did you honestly think no one would know? Deucalion knows. Scott spent a week watching Ms Blake’s apartment, worried he was going to strike.”
Well, that’s upsetting. Not shocking, he supposes. But he’s been living in denial for a while now.
“Why did Scott stop? Watching, I mean.”
“Deucalion informed him there was no reason to. That Ms Blake’s death wouldn’t be a tactical advantage. He then threatened Melissa. So then I got to watch her for a couple days. And like I said, she’s good for you.”
Derek stares at Stiles, but it isn’t with the heat he thinks there should be. There’s no threat entangled in it. “I don’t need your opinion on my life, Stiles.”
“No, but you’re gonna get it anyway. Pushing everyone away isn’t the answer, and it looks like you’re finally getting that. So good. That’s all. I’m glad. I like the idea of you one day becoming a real boy.”
“Why do you care?”
Stiles shrugs, averts his gaze back out the windshield. “I just do.”
They don’t see anyone go onto the High School grounds all night and they have all the entrances covered, but in the morning there’s a painted wheel in the center of the gym floor. When he’s recounting its discovery late that afternoon, Scott tells him that Finstock’s meltdown was epic. Scott’s expression is caught between a wide-mouthed smile and a frown and Derek smirks despite himself.
“So they’re being painted elsewhere and showing up at the school because of some Druidic magic,” Derek suggests.
“We always said it was a possibility,” Isaac supplies. He screws his face up, hits the table. “There has to be more that we can do.”
Derek goes to put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, thinks better of it, but the aborted movement is obvious to them all. Isaac wraps his fingers around his wrist and manually places his hand where it was intended, eyes not leaving Derek’s. Derek gives him a light squeeze, crosses his arms against his chest. Isaac watches him carefully.
“Allison, didn’t you say that when you visited Gerard as a kid he had a gigantic library?” Stiles asks, scratching worriedly at his cheek.
“Yeah. Why?” Allison asks, warily.
“The bestiary was our last minute hope when it came to the whole clusterfuck that was Jackson. What if the Argent ancestral library has the answers we need?”
“They packed it all up. Put it in a warehouse and I don’t know where it is. My dad won’t help, he doesn’t want me involved in any of this. He keeps trying to get me to stay away.”
“I could find it,” Stiles says, with such certainty that everyone turns to look at him.
Derek wonders if it’s bravado or confidence.
“That’s it, then, that’s the plan,” Scott states, nodding his head decisively.
“The half-formed, poorly thought-out plan,” Stiles confirms.
Derek thinks he wants to laugh because he also wants to cry.
*
Early on a Saturday morning and Derek slowly awakens to soft sunlight filtering through Jennifer’s blind. He stretches, careful not to jostle Jennifer from her position against his side. Sleep doesn’t seem to have stopped him from feeling weary. It’s bone-deep these days. He watches her as she arches, cat-like, smacks her lips together. It’s funny when she wrinkles her nose, opens her eyes to unerringly find his gaze.
“Hey,” Jennifer says, voice sleep-thick.
“Hello,” he replies, kissing her forehead, her cheek.
Jennifer makes breakfast, messily, a quarter of her precisely measured flour spilling onto the floor.
“You weren’t expecting to be with me all today, were you? I’ve got stuff,” she says, flipping a sweet-smelling crêpe.
“What kind of stuff?” he asks, idly, getting the maple syrup. He also gets a brush and pan to clean up Jennifer’s chaos.
“Appointments. Hair. Therapy. Vet. In that order.”
"What do you go to therapy for?”
"It's personal."
"Okay."
He doesn’t push it. Their relationship relies on them not deliberately making the other uncomfortable and he doesn’t have any right to know, not with how little he’s told her. She chatters about a movie she thinks he’d like --- something, something, by Wim Wenders, which to him just sounds bizarre --- and he gives her an edited version of his week.
They sit at her formica table and eat. He uses a knife and fork, she rolls her crêpes up and eats them by hand. It’s a simple pleasure he’s been denied for so long and he revels in it, in licking at the corner of his mouth to get every last morsel of syrup.
He offers to wash up when they’re finished and Jennifer does nothing to dissuade him. She slides her arms around him, clasping her hands at his waist, rests her head against his upper arm.
"My mother's never hit me, but her words are as cutting as a knife. I don't think it's all her, but, they fuck you up, your mom and dad, they may not mean to, but they do, they fill you with the faults they had, and add some extra, just for you."
"It's my fault my parents are dead. My mistakes, my misplaced trust."
"That's horrible, but this isn't a competition."
He barks out a laugh, flicks her with soap suds. “That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to tell you.”
Jennifer goes tense behind him, but doesn’t say anything. He puts a clean plate in the rack and starts on another.
January
The sacrifices have stopped, but the symbols have started appearing all over town. Some of them glow. Stiles and Allison have found the Argent warehouse and they’ve drawn up a break-in plan. None of them think it will be left undefended, not even forever-hopeful Scott. Jennifer went to her sister’s for Christmas break and he hasn’t spoken to her in over a week.
Derek prowls his loft, alone for the first time in a while, looking for something to occupy his mind. His fingers twitch, symptomatic of his desire. He rereads their plans, re-examines their diagrams. One human, one werewolf, several vehicles. It’s workable. Whether or not it’ll succeed is another matter. Derek’s about to read through the compilation of information Stiles created as easy reference when there’s tell-tale clicking outside his door.
“I think it’s admirable that you’re continuing to try,” Deucalion says. He hands Kali his cane and plants his feet wide. “Aren’t you truly the little werewolf that could?”
“I’m not the only one,” Derek reminds him. He ignores the chill in his bones.
“True,” Deucalion says. “That’s a pity. I had hoped my plan to isolate you from your pack would work, but they’re tenacious ragamuffins, aren’t they?”
Derek involuntarily sucks in a breath. Kali snarls at him, grin feral.
“Did you actually think Deuc wanted you in our pack?” she asks, over emphasizing her incredulity.
Derek assesses them. Lydia’s been saying there’s disharmony in the Alpha pack. She’s been close to Aiden for months and he lets a lot slip. There’s tension showing in their postures, in Deucalion’s drawl.
“I think there’s a reason you’ve come here to tell me this,” Derek returns, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh no, Kali, he’s growing wise.”
“He’s been getting an education.”
“This is disastrous.”
“You aren’t as funny as you think you are,” Derek says, resting back on his heels and waiting for the true reasons they’re here. While he’s sure their mockery is amusing them, they wouldn’t bother coming all this way purely for the opportunity.
“You want to know more about the Darach. It’s coming for all of us. I had hoped it would settle for you, but it’s greedier than I anticipated.”
Derek shrugs a shoulder. “It doesn’t concern me that it’s going after you. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a good thing.”
“But what about the rest of your pack?”
“The one you’ve been terrorizing?”
“The children you turned. The uncle you killed. The sister you abandoned. What about them, Derek?”
“I’m going to let them make their own decisions, and whether or not they choose to stand by me, I’m going to defend them ‘til my death.”
“You’re a fool,” Deucalion roars, his calm exterior ripped to shreds.
He advances, step by menacing step. Kali halts him with a hand on his arm.
“Possibly,” Derek concedes. “But it seems to me you’ve been basing your every move on me refusing to work with others, so I’m gonna do something different for a while.”
They leave without him getting impaled. He’s impressed. He expected more fanfare, more gore. They’re conserving energy. It’s obvious.
He picks up his phone, dials Scott’s number, tells him about the encounter. Scott hums, tuts, says he’ll be right over and doesn’t listen when Derek says it isn’t necessary.
Derek prepares lunch, grabbing chips and hot pockets, plus a pop-tart, because he’s in the mood for sugar. It should take Scott thirty-five minutes to get to his loft, but it only takes him twenty. He skates into Derek’s loft, eyes wide, like he thinks Derek must be bloody and bruised, even though Derek never said he was.
“You really are okay,” Scott says, wonderingly.
“Deucalion and Kali wanted to unnerve me,” he replies. “It didn’t completely work.”
Scott wanders over to the table, opens a packet of chips, talks through his full mouth.
“We were right, then,” he says.
Derek passes him a can of soda. “You were right. The object all along was to divide and conquer.”
Scott, surprisingly, doesn’t rub it in. He looks unbearably smug, but he doesn’t point out that Derek should have listened to him, so Derek doesn’t kick him out when he takes a bite of his pop-tart.
“How was your Christmas?” he asks, lightly, getting another brown sugar cinnamon pop-tart from the pantry.
Scott stops chewing, blinking at him several times. “It was good,” he says, finally, gulping down soda and clearing his throat. “Stiles and his dad came over and we all watched It’s a Wonderful Life. Isaac said you’d made other plans.”
“I did.”
“With Ms Blake?” Scott asks with a little grin.
Derek chooses not to answer in favor of giving him a death stare. “You don’t get to tease me just because you’ve realized I’m fallible.”
Scott cocks his head to the side, smiles oddly. “You’re the one that wanted us to be brothers.”
Derek has no response to that. He’s noticed Scott’s attitude change, but he thought it was all part of what Stiles has jokingly called New and Improved Recipe Scott. He’d thought it was unconnected with him beyond Scott trying to remain calm and collected. There’s an affectionate quality to Scott’s expression that makes him reel.
He nudges into Scott’s side, gently, steals back half his pop-tart.
“You never answered my question,” Scott reminds him.
“And I’m not going to,” Derek replies.
He doesn’t want to admit that he spent the time he could have been spending with his sister, with his pack, alone at the cinema watching foreign language films, in the woods, guarding Beacon Hills’ perimeter.
*
Boyd gets shot in the shoulder by a wolfsbane bullet, Lydia breaks her leg, his hand almost gets cut off, but they get the books from the Argent warehouse. He feels so victorious, he doesn’t even growl when Stiles starts calling him Jamie Lannister. He’s just glad it’s not Luke Skywalker.
It doesn’t pain him like other wounds have, but the skin parts garishly, pulling away, refusing to seal. Deaton shows him how to bandage it, but he bleeds through the bandages so quickly he often doesn’t remember to change them until they’re a dark stained rust.
The next three days are spent healing and reading. Jennifer texts him that she’s back in town, so he goes to her apartment with two of his assigned books. She looks straight at his wrist, then back up, indentation in her forehead deepening. She opens the door wide, is more formal than she’s ever been before.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Water would be good.”
She scrunches up her nose. “I meant alcohol.”
“Alcohol doesn’t work on werewolves.”
“That must be the worst.”
“I’ve never known anything different.” He steps close, cocoons her in his arms. “I’ve missed you.”
Jennifer glances down. When she looks up at him, she smiles, but it’s a smile edged with anxiety. “Really,” she says, brittle.
“I shouldn’t?”
“No --- no, it’s fine. I missed you too. I guess I didn’t expect it.”
Derek moves out from Jennifer’s space, rubs at his wrist. “To miss me?”
“Or for you to miss me.” Jennifer stands, awkwardly, pressing her lips tight together. “What do you think this is?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spent time defining it.”
“Me either. But I know what I don’t want it to be.”
His throat’s tight when he asks, “What’s that?”
“Commitment. Salvation.”
Derek stares at her, hates his idiocy, wonders how he could have let it come to this. He didn’t think he’d ever equate sex with anything more than physical again, but he’s managed it somehow, and now it’s all falling apart.
This time when they fuck, it’s frantic. Jennifer gasps as he groans, she gives a high-pitched squeak as he fingers her. He brings her off again and again, as if to say, ‘this is what you’ll be missing out on.’ Because there’s no doubt in his mind that this is over.
Jennifer isn’t passive. She settles down on his cock like she owns it, bites at his lower lip, pulls his hair to move his mouth exactly where she wants it. She gives him everything, she takes everything, and she makes him shudder and come quicker than he ever has before. No time for cataloging every inch of skin, no patience for memorizing the feel of her clenching around him.
Rather than basking in the afterglow, Derek sits up, pulls on his jeans. “I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I do.”
Jennifer sits up too, her hair in disarray, her scent all sex-sweet, but emotionally bitter. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”
Derek swivels, narrows his eyes. “Tell me, how you did want it to end.”
“Preferably with no broken hearts.”
He faces the wall again, ties up his shoes. His shirt is somewhere in her kitchen. “You flatter yourself.”
“I know you don’t want us to stop seeing each other, that you can’t find the words to tell me. How could you even express it? I’ll eat you up, I love you so?”
Derek bows his head. “It’s not love.”
“No, it’s dependency. And I get that, I do, but it’s not good for me. I can’t handle the weight of someone else’s reliance right now. I struggle with my classes. I struggle with my cat. I wish I could be here for you the way you deserve, I truly do, but I’m not that person.”
Derek stands, heading for the door. He leans against the door jamb, watching her, expression carefully neutral. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. I think you’re laboring under the assumption it’s because you’re too damaged, but it’s me who’s cracked inside,” Jennifer says, rubbing her hands against her raised knees. He wants to say he could be her glue, but it would be a lie. “You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, and you’re using me as a crutch for a psychosomatic wound.”
“So you’re breaking this off. It’s as much for me as it is for you.”
“I’m breaking this off. I don’t really know who it’ll benefit. But I know that it’s something I have to do.”
He leaves without another word.
*
He doesn’t have time to wallow. He can’t lounge in his own misery and self-loathing. There’s work to be done, duty to uphold, and while he sometimes longs for hands holding his hips tight, lips caressing his, a heartbeat to listen to and use as a metronome, he can’t concentrate on that and that alone.
Cora makes him coffee one morning, and that’s when he knows he hasn’t been as stoic and unrevealing as he’d thought. She spends a lot of time with Boyd, though the nature of their relationship is unknown to him. She comes back to the loft with new information and ideas, though, so they must be working sometimes.
She’s at Boyd’s tonight, as Derek lies on his couch and reads, toes digging into the cushion where Jennifer used to sit.
Derek’s eyes actively ache when he puts down his last book. He starts to go through his notes, scrapping the parts that are repetitive, highlighting the pertinent facts. He opens up the laptop Peter gave him and glares at it mistrustfully. He understands the theory of getting everything in electronic form, but the practice pisses him off.
Stiles comes in an hour later, armed with food, a USB drive, and a photo of a page from one of Gerard’s books that he wants to show Derek. He looks at Derek’s pile of scrawled notes, then at him typing with two fingers and a thumb.
“Can I help?”
Derek rolls his head around, sighs. “Why?”
He’s not aiming to be combative, but Stiles has had his fair share of work to do and he doesn’t understand why he’d want more.
“I need to not feel useless,” Stiles says. He continues at Derek’s confused prompting. “I used to be his only knight. Scott’s right-hand man. And now I’m lucky if I’m his left pinkie finger.”
“That’s not how that metaphor works.”
“Pfft, like I care. Anyway, can I?”
“Okay. I could use the assistance.”
Stiles’ eyes go to his; quizzical, surprised. Derek raises an eyebrow in response. Mention it, he thinks. Say something. But Stiles takes what he’s offering and doesn’t whisper a word until half an hour later, at which point, he says he’s finished typing, and asks if there’s anything else.
“You wanna show me that photo?”
“Yes, yes I do,” Stiles answers, fumbling one phone out of his pocket, and then another.
Derek frowns, curious. “You have two phones?”
“One for werewolf mojo and the other for my dad and the school,” Stiles explains, like it isn’t a big deal. Maybe it’s not.
The same symbols that have dominated Beacon Hills are handwritten into the margins, thick and black, and ominous even at this size. Worse when Stiles zooms in.
“The Darach is Gerard,” Derek says, flat.
“It seems likely, doesn’t it? Probable. We’ve suspected that for a while.”
“How does this help us? How do we find him?”
Stiles’s face is pinched and pale. “Yeah, that’s the next part of this immensely sucky adventure.” He gestures to the USB drive. “I found some clues, hidden in stuff that frankly read like satanic verse. The books I got in the supposedly fair division were weird as shit, Derek. They did not seem particularly Druidic at all.”
“We gave them to you deliberately,” Derek lies, eagerly concentrating on Stiles’ overwrought indignation.
“I used to think you were a masochist, but you’re clearly a sadomasochist.”
“I can hear the skip of your heart. You don’t think I’m either of those things,” Derek says with a deliberate smirk.
“I think you’re a bastard,” Stiles returns. “Tell me how even my heart sounds now.”
It’s steady and precise. He shouldn’t be surprised. Derek takes in a breath, puts the USB drive into the side of the laptop, waits patiently as it loads. They work for another two hours.
March
His life becomes a series of stake outs. Some with Stiles, one with Stiles’ friend Danny, who keeps licking his lips when he looks at Derek furtively, and seems to always be on the precipice of asking him a question. The most memorable of them all is the one with Lydia.
She makes him apologize to her. He thinks he knows what he’s apologizing for. He tells her he’s sorry about Peter, and that’s true. She rightly points out that it makes no sense that Peter isn’t pulling his weight. He rightly points out that they don’t really want Peter’s kind of help. They sit in silence for three more hours.
He initially thought it was strange that he’d started to hope he’d be paired up with Stiles, but he’s come to accept it. They invariably end up talking a lot during their stake outs together, and Stiles isn’t always the instigator. It’s relaxed in a way most of their interactions across the year haven’t been, and he doesn’t know if that’s a survival tactic, or whether Stiles has decided he doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t hate Stiles. Hasn’t for a while.
There are times they talk seriously, with Derek opening up more than he ever has before, and then there are other times when Stiles ridicules him for his lack of up-to-date pop culture knowledge.
“Okay, next question,” Stiles demands, drumming his fingers against his steering wheel.
“Kirk or Picard?” he asks, because they’ve exhausted Game of Thrones and Star Wars, and he refuses to ask about Mighty Ships, even though Stiles insisted they watch it last time he was at the loft.
“Neither. Give me Sisko or Janeway any day.”
“I always liked Archer.”
“You did not just say that. Everyone knows Enterprise is the worst.”
“How old were you when you watched it? 7? 8? You can’t appreciate fine details at that age.”
“Try 15, buddy, same age you would’ve been if we’re operating on the assumption you have to watch something in real time. If you weren’t so technologically deprived, you’d know about the wonders of Bluray and Netflix.”
There isn’t much he can argue against that. He doesn’t bother.
“What did you think of the reboot?” Stiles asks, obviously used to his silences, his need for prompts, those moments when he requires new tracks to follow.
“I haven’t seen it.”
“We should totally watch it,” Stiles says, “Sometime soon. The lot of us, I mean. Between all the murder and mayhem, reading and research.”
Derek glances at him because his heart rate has increased, and notices the tips of his ears have gone pink. “I’ll pencil it into my diary.”
*
Ethan and Aiden arrive with Danny and Lydia at his loft one day. He doesn’t think he’s being melodramatic in stating it will take more than, “we were young and Deucalion is very convincing”, to ever trust them. Especially not with the way Cora reacts to them, like she wants to rend them limb from limb. She’s been less aggressive lately, but you wouldn’t know it, from the gnashing of her fangs.
There are two more sacrifices. Not human, this time. Not werewolf either, but selkie. They’re two out of three final sacrifices, according to several of the books they attained from the warehouse. Derek was aware there were other shapeshifters living in Beacon Hills, his parents told him the stories, but the shock of seeing the bodies galvanizes him to action. Stiles thinks he knows where Gerard might be and Derek is ready for battle.
But he wants to see Jennifer, one last time. Reassurance. Longing. Whatever word would fit it best. He climbs up the fire escape to the small balcony attached to her apartment, sits outside her window. He’s only been here once before and that was when they were still doing whatever it was they were doing.
He doesn’t expect her to go outside. Didn’t know that’s why she was walking close. Despite being Spring, it’s cold.
He doesn’t sneak away in time. She startles when she sees him. Her face goes furious and red.
“Why am I not surprised? This isn’t romantic.”
“Wasn’t trying to be romantic.”
“Great!”
“I just wanted to check that you’re safe.”
“How many times?” she asks, tones hard and uncompromising. “How many times have you done this, Derek?”
“Once,” he says. She doesn’t back down and he finds himself shrinking in her glare. “Twice. The first time was months ago, though. Before we… stopped.”
“Then why tonight?”
He can’t answer that without feeling like he’s trying to make her guilty. He can’t explain, because he never told her about the Darach, only supplied her with surface details about the Alpha pack. It wouldn’t be fair. He shrugs, leans against the wall, crosses his arms.
“I was worried.”
Jennifer’s expression softens. “Is there cause to be worried?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ve grown cautious, lately.”
She accepts his, mirrors his position. “How’ve you been?”
“Brilliant. Wonderful. Couldn’t be better.”
“Persistently doing your best Droopy impression, I see.”
Derek squints at her. “Is that why---?”
“God, no, Derek, no. I’ve always loved it when you’re deadpan.” She swallows thickly, gives a delicate frown. “The truth is, I care about you. A little too much, but not nearly sufficient to fix you. It’s taking me forever to see how to mend myself.”
He shouldn’t ask it, doesn’t want to, there’s no reason anymore, but the question spills out anyway. “Why couldn’t we be broken together?
“Because you can be fixed,” Jennifer explains, wrapping her hand around his neck and cradling his jaw with her thumb. “Maybe not completely, but partially. Enough. So that every day doesn’t feel like an ordeal.” She kisses him, soft and sweet, and painful. “And I guess, so can I. Thank you for giving me that, that belief. I always used to think it was impossible, but now I trust in impossible things. Impossible people.”
She smiles, radiant, and he rolls his eyes, but can’t suppress his answering smile. “You’re kind of trite, you realize that?”
“And you’re kind of an asshole,” she says, her smile widening into a grin. “But I like that about you too. I hope you find what you’re searching for.”
“What makes you think I’m searching for anything?”
“It’s the hero’s journey. We’re all searching for something.”
“What are you searching for?”
“That’s an interesting question that you probably should have asked me earlier,” Jennifer says with a laugh. She looks through her window, gazes back at Derek. She relinquishes her hold on him. Figuratively as well as literally. “I’m going to go.”
“All right.”
“You should too.”
Derek nods. “I know.”
“Will you?”
“Yes. Soon.”
She leaves him, he stays a little while longer, and in the morning, the sun rises on a beautiful day that will most likely end in bloodshed.
*
Gerard doesn’t look remotely human anymore. It’s difficult to call it evolution when there’s slime involved. Slime, scales, wings, and pools of coughed up blood. He monologues like he used to, though, which actually isn’t any kind of comfort. The Alpha pack is off to one side, Gerard and his lackeys are on another and the air is filled with mist and the crackle of magic. Derek’s hearing and sight are impaired because of all the energy coursing around, but he can feel strength thrumming through his veins. He hasn’t been completely weakened.
At this point, Derek’s really hoping Deucalion and Gerard will cancel each other out. But he knows he’d never be that lucky. Gerard wants him dead too, wants his threefold revenge. He doesn’t know what the Hales ever did to deserve this man’s rhapsodic vitriol. He doesn’t think there’s a crime that’s bad enough to warrant it.
They’re scattered amongst the trees. They don’t have an attack plan. He strongly considers a suicide mission, but Scott furiously points out that all that would lead to is Gerard becoming stronger.
“If you think no one dies today, you’re unbelievably guileless, Scott,” he hisses back.
“He’s right,” Stiles says. “He’s wearing that pendant I told you about two weeks ago.”
“The one that’s used for soul sucking.”
“Probably only needs one more supernatural death by his hands before he fucking ascends,” Stiles mutters. “And if he looks like this now, I do not want to see him later.”
Stiles was told to wait in the car. Stiles doesn’t listen to orders. Neither does Allison, Lydia, or Danny. Derek doesn’t want their deaths on his conscience, but maybe he’ll score a win and Deucalion will kill him before that’s a possibility.
The twins merge together, but instead of following Deucalion’s lead, join Isaac and Boyd on their part of the clearing.
Cora drags Peter forward and snaps out, “Tell Derek what you told me.”
“Deucalion absorbed souls when he killed his pack and Ennis,” Peter wheezes through bloodied teeth. “Until he ascends, Gerard only has the capacity for a single soul. Things could get messy if he overloads before the ritual is complete. Do some mental arithmetic and maybe you can formulate a plan.”
Derek’s used to rushing in, acting without weighing all the pros and cons. He’s well versed in putting his life on the line, because his life hasn’t meant much to him since the fire. But piece by piece, day by day, he’s learned how to live again. He’s learned how to want, and he wants to wake up tomorrow to the sun shining and the belief that he can keep going. It’s such a facile, basic, human aspiration, but it makes him stop and think. If there’s an option, if there’s a chance, he’ll take it. He may still die today, and perhaps that’s the way things should be, but he’s going to try for a better outcome.
He signals the others to come closer, keeps a look out for a pre-emptive attack.
“We divide and conquer,” he says.
“Right,” Scott says. “Until Gerard and Deucalion have no choice but to fight.”
“We need to incapacitate Gerard’s henchmen.”
“And Kali and Ms Morrell.”
“How do we do it?” Isaac asks, looking prepared, but apprehensive.
“Over time,” Derek decides. “We should stagger our attacks. Conserve energy.”
“Yes,” Stiles says with a fist-pump. “This whole time both Deucalion and Gerard have used these strategies against us, so why don’t we give them a taste of their own medicine?” He glances at Derek, expression intent.
They fan out again. Derek takes down one of Gerard’s henchmen with Allison’s back-up. An hour goes by and he watches two more dragged out of sight. Boyd, Cora, Isaac and the twins take on Kali. He’s about to rush to their defence when she collapses, knocked out. Lydia waves a bottle around, gives one to Isaac to give to him. When he examines it, he can tell it’s a mixture of wolfsbane and chloroform. He pockets it for later use.
He prowls between the trees, hating that he can’t hone in and listen to what’s happening in anything but his immediate vicinity. He’ll never understand why Scott wanted to get rid of his powers. He thinks that will always be a bone of contention between them.
He takes down another lackey, thinks he sees another scuffle ahead. He comes in time to see Stiles and Scott finish tying a guy in combat gear to a tree root.
“Do you know how it’s going?”
“One more henchman to go --- well, woman, actually. And Ms Morrell,” Stiles says.
“I’ve called Dr Deaton. He’s on his way,” Scott adds. “The twins had a close call with Deucalion. They’ve separated and stayed separate, so I don’t know what’s going on there.”
“Allison’s out of arrows so she called her dad and he’s coming too.”
“Basically the entirety of Beacon Hills is about to be involved,” Stiles says with an effusive hand gesture. “I’m tempted to split hairs and dial 911. My father’s got guns.”
“He doesn’t know, does he?” Derek asks.
Stiles shakes his head vigorously. “No.”
“Then don’t involve him. We’ll cope. We’ve been doing well so far.”
Stiles smiles at him, sudden, blinding. He taps Derek’s cheek, fingertips scratching against stubble in a way that’s distinct in sensation. “See what listening to advice can do?”
Scott looks horrified. He herds Stiles away, calls over his shoulder, “Don’t eat him. It’s been very exciting. He’s feeling rambunctious.”
“The PSAT’s over, dude,” Stiles says to Scott. “No more need for Word of the Day.”
“Inconceivable.”
Derek continues to move, flexing his claws, looking for his prey. He thinks he’s stumbled upon her, but he’s caught by the ankle and flung back out into the open. He can’t believe he forgot that Gerard has a tail.
“Time to die, Hale,” Gerard says, spittle flying out with his words. “What a perfect conclusion to your story and a magnificent beginning to mine.”
Derek digs his claws into the tail that’s holding him, but the scales are like armor. He squirms, he writhes, but he’s held fast. He can feel his heart sinking, as surely as if it used to float within his chest. For a few hours there he actually thought they might succeed.
“What’s the point, Gerard? Why do you bother?”
Deucalion comes from behind one of the trees, extends his cane with a quick flick. “It’s a good question, old enemy mine. Why?”
“Because I can,” Gerard replies. “Because watching your loved ones die time and again is an excellent motivator. Because monsters like you have to be stopped.”
“Taken a look in a mirror lately?” Scott yells from off to the side. Derek didn’t see him arrive, but he wishes powerfully that he’d run the fuck away.
“I never killed anyone that didn’t deserve it.”
“Really? There are twenty bodies in the morgue that say otherwise,” Stiles says from a foot behind Scott. Derek roars at his idiocy. Gerard tightens his grip, blocking off his airway.
“That wasn’t killing, that was honoring.”
“It was murder,” Chris Argent says, arrows trained in Gerard’s direction.
They’re all there, now. Everyone ready to watch his summary execution. Everyone poised to die at Gerard’s inauguration. Derek centers himself, gathers all his strength, courage and survival tactics.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the demon wolf?” Derek whispers down at Deucalion. “Do you want a competition to decide who’s the biggest bad when you could stop it from ever being a necessity?”
There’s a flash and a bang. Smoke rises into the air. Gerard’s hold on him loosens, just a fraction, only a tiny amount, but enough that he can dislocate his shoulder, wriggle until he’s falling. He lands with a thump and streaming eyes and doesn’t know who it is ushering him away. There are thrashing sounds, a muffled yell, and then it stops. Everything. Like time has stopped still.
Derek can finally look up and what he sees is Scott driving Deucalion’s cane so hard into his back it vaults him toward Gerard. Gerard snaps, instinctively, fangs sinking into Deucalion’s arm, and then there’s a high-pitched buzz, the world seems to shimmer before his eyes, there’s another explosion --- bigger than the last --- and Derek’s out like a light.
*
He wakes up with the sky a pale purple, two clouds floating just above his head. He struggles to get up, finding Scott peering at him in concern.
“Dr Deaton said we shouldn’t move you,” he says. Derek becomes aware that Stiles is crouched nearby, scratching something into the dirt with a twig. “Everyone else went back home.”
“It worked?”
“They’re both dead. Ethan and Aiden are trying to decide what to do about Kali. Dr Deaton said he’ll deal with Ms. Morrell. Did you know that she’s his sister?”
He shakes his head and the pain is blinding. Scott’s phone rings and he raises an apologetic hand, stalking away as he talks to his mother.
“I’m really glad you didn’t die,” Stiles says, tipping his head back to grin at the rising sun.
“Scott would be inconsolable,” Derek deadpans back.
Stiles tugs on his arm. “So would I. For the record.”
June
Stiles spends hours at his loft. Cora’s glares eventually become less vehement. She doesn’t always rush off to see Boyd. Sometimes they all talk, sometimes they sit in silence. Sometimes he and Stiles are alone and Stiles looks at him like he’s imagining what he could do with him in minute, exacting detail.
Derek wishes it made him uncomfortable. Mostly, it makes him want. He has no idea when that happened. But he’s always been tactile, and Stiles is so quick to respond to a brush against his ankle, a light squeeze of his shoulder, a playful nudge of his hip. It’s… good. Soothing. Warming. Things he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to have again.
“You know that Scott still needs you, don’t you?” he says one day, mock-grimacing at Stiles’ appropriation of his bed.
Stiles is apparently fixing the laptop, but it looks suspiciously like he’s playing Candy Crush Saga.
“Yeah, but you do as well, right?” Stiles asks, more earnest than Derek ever anticipated he could be.
Derek could lie. Stiles wouldn’t definitively be able to hear it. He has keen observational skills, so he might suspect it, but he’d never be able to say for sure. But Derek doesn’t want to. That’s why he tolerates this flagrant abuse of boundaries. He’s grown accustomed to Stiles being near.
“I think Peter purposely gave me a laptop that’s rife with viruses,” he says. It isn’t evasion. Not really.
“I think he put the viruses on here,” Stiles counters. “Not to mention malware, a key logger, and a sound scheme that uses parts of songs by Celine Dion.”
“He’s diabolical.”
“Where is he, anyway?”
Derek settles on the edge of the bed with his newly bought Kindle and shakes his head. “No idea and I’m happy that way.”
It’s bizarre to think he’s not far from the truth.
Stiles goes back to his game, content for the moment. Secure in his place in Derek’s life, in Derek’s home.
In the evening they eat together and Stiles moans sinfully over his Carbonara sauce. Derek doesn’t complain when he puts his feet in his lap and queues up the 2009 version of Star Trek. They squabble over the remote control, share copious amounts of popcorn. And it doesn’t feel wrong, not even a little.
*
The pack has adopted his loft as a second home too. There are pointed remarks about his lack of furniture, his scarcity of nutritious food. They add touches, here and there. He watches it all like an outsider until Scott tries to put a framed copy of his lacrosse jersey on the wall, and then there are harsh words exchanged. Mostly Scott’s.
Isaac moves back in for real and suddenly Derek is yearning for his months of isolation. But not really. Not at all. It reminds him of family, of safe spaces, of a future.
He goes to Home Depot and gathers supplies. Without fresh hell every week to occupy him, he needs something to do, and learning is a noble pursuit. It’s a long process. He discovers he constantly makes measurement errors and then over-corrects. His first table was supposed to be for dining, but it became a very wide coffee table, with a rustic, distressed feel. His set of shelves wasn’t much better. The space between the shelves wasn’t tall enough for DVD and Bluray cases, so they have to be laid flat.
He’s surprised at the absence of jeering on that one, but Boyd says that given how small Derek’s collection is, it makes sense.
He doesn’t think ‘collection’ was a euphemism.
He keeps at it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He gets better, too. It’s been years since he’s worked at acquiring new skills. So much of his athleticism and flexibility was bestowed upon him during adolescence thanks to his genetics. He never learned an instrument and he often found himself falling asleep during Spanish. He doesn’t think he’s gotten far in his Alpha training.
Derek likes the sense of purpose, of accomplishment. He revels in being able to touch and see the energy and effort he’s expended. He likes how useful it is, how there’s a necessity involved. He’s proud of himself for the first time in ages and it’s an addictive feeling.
*
He doesn’t bother to look up when Stiles crashes through the doorway. He focuses his attention on his task. He’s already had to restart three times. He’d rather not do so a fourth.
“You’re making something new,” Stiles says, walking over and stretching his neck around oddly to view it from several angles in one quick survey. “An ottoman? That’s… actually really cool.”
“Thanks for your approval,” Derek murmurs back.
“Can I help?”
“If you want.”
Stiles has worked with him before. He generally avoids giving him access to power tools, because he gets a disturbing light in his eyes, but he’s good with sanding and using a plane. Derek bites his tongue as he remembers Stiles sweaty and covered in sawdust.
“What should I do? What do you need?”
“I need these tacks driven into the backing, like I’m doing on this side. It needs to be tight, even.”
Stiles casts his eyes around, frowns back at Derek.
“You’re monopolizing the hammer, dude. Wanna hand it over? I’m sure you could use the edge of your claw or something.”
“I have two hammers.”
“Two?”
“Yeah. The other one’s over there,” Derek says with a gesture toward the drawer he thinks of as Stiles’. “I thought you might turn up.”
Stiles straightens, then rolls his body forward, like casting off his burdens, shaking away his troubles.
He smiles at Derek; small, private, fond. It makes Derek’s heart thump traitorously fast.
*
They kiss during one of their many movie nights. Stiles makes the first move. He’s jittering with nervous anticipation and Derek wants to tell him it’ll be fine, but he doesn’t know that for sure. All he knows is that he’s been thinking about it for a while, that it’s an expression of understanding as well as physical desire. That Stiles knows exactly who and what he is and still wants to risk it anyway.
Stiles isn’t clumsy like he thought he would be. He shows the kind of grace that his sturdy wrists and delicate collarbone allude to, but rarely achieve. He’s sinuous as he moves against Derek, as he pants against his neck, rubs against his chest. He’s excitable and energetic and encompassing. They haven’t even lost any clothes, yet.
They don’t wait long. Derek peels off his shirt, edges up Stiles’ hem. Stiles pushes him to the bed, clambers over his legs and examines him like he’s a problem to be solved. He asks what Stiles wants, watching intently as Stiles stares down at him through lidded eyes.
Stiles says, “Everything,” but Derek asks for specifics.
“What do you want?” Stiles asks, pursing his lips.
“World peace.”
“Okay, wiseguy, what else?”
“Your lips on my cock.”
Stiles closes his eyes and his lashes become dark smudges against his cheeks. His mouth parts attractively, pink and glistening. “I can do that,” he says softly. “That, I would be happy to provide.”
He slides down Derek’s body and breathes him in. He isn’t entirely tentative, but he isn’t aggressive either. He’s exploratory. Derek doesn’t insist or urge. He allows Stiles the time to mouth up his inner thigh, nuzzle into his groin. He digs his fingers into the sheets when Stiles takes the head of his cock into his mouth and licks around his slit.
Stiles wraps a hand around the base of his cock and starts to jerk him off as well as blow him. He isn’t an expert, but his eagerness makes up for it. He soon figures out what Derek likes best, what makes him arch and groan. He takes full advantage of having Derek at his mercy and Derek thinks he should be concerned, but he’s not, he doesn’t have it in him, he enjoys this too much.
Stiles gives him what he wants and takes what he needs. And it’s good.
August
They sit with their backs against the wall, legs tangled up together over the covers. It’s unbearably hot in the loft and Stiles’ skin glistens invitingly, but Derek’s been thinking; too much, too hard, too desperate to have this be okay.
“Can I talk to you about the fire?” he asks, slowly, like if he measures it out it won’t alert Stiles to impending danger.
It must work, because Stiles is blasé. “Anytime.”
“It wouldn’t clash with your own issues?”
Stiles sets his phone on the side table and gives Derek his full attention. “I’ll have you know I’m a paragon of emotional stability,” he chides. But he must see how serious Derek is, because he nips at his neck and replies again, this time soft and considerate. “It might, but we could work through it together. I’m willing to try.”
“I don’t want to use you as a crutch,” he says.
“That’s a really weirdly specific concern,” Stiles returns, blinking at him. “But it’s okay. We can lean against each other. I’ll be your prop if you’ll be mine.”
Derek talks, telling Stiles one thing at a time, breaking it down. Stiles knew some of it, he can tell, the way his eyes glow bright, how his hand tightens around his wrist. It’s hard to talk about, the words stick in his throat, dig like they’re trying to lance through him, but these kinds of wounds can heal, eventually.