[fic] nobody's fault but mine (chapter two)
Title: Nobody's Fault But Mine (2/?)
Author: akiru_chan
Rating: Mature
Genre and/or Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Spoilers: Spoilers for most of season two.
Warnings: Angst, Sexual Tension, Knotting, Biting, and all around akwardness.
Summary: Stiles has always been good at ignoring his problems. Preferring to wait them out until they are nothing but a distant memory. But when a midnight stroll leads to a nasty scratch to his side, courtesy of Derek, Stiles finds that some things just can't be ignored, not that he doesn't try. Better hearing and improved eyesight, that's something he can ignore for now. The sudden urge to touch and smell Derek? Not so much.
2.
__________
The weekend came with the sharp shrill of the last bell, Stiles shooting from his seat with a little more exuberance than what is probably needed. It earns him a few odd stares, two of which come from Lydia and Scott. He doesn’t really care, it’s the weekend, two whole days of doing nothing but being lazy.
Hell yeah!
Coach is even out with the flu, practice inevitably being canceled. No practice, means Stiles can head straight home and tack on an extra two hours onto his break. He turns to Scott, smiling broadly as they make it out of their class and into the packed halls.
“I’m thinking me, you, our body weight worth of junk food, and Lord of the Rings, extended versions. Tonight, my place. I won’t be taking no for an answer.” Stiles is too busy focusing on the excited skip in his own step to catch the falter in Scott’s. He eventually slows when it seems like Scott isn’t quite keeping up with Stiles’ enthusiasm.
Scott stops altogether and Stiles can already feel the heavy weight of disappointment filling his gut. It isn’t hard to guess what comes tumbling out of Scott’s mouth. “I can’t,” he says. “Derek wants us training. Especially with what happened with Erica. I don’t think he wants a repeat.”
So, okay, it makes sense. Stiles doesn’t want a repeat of this past Wednesday either. Who honestly would? But that doesn’t keep it from being any less disappointing. “So why do you have to go? Aren’t you like, the poster child for in control?” He has to ask, has to hope that he’s found the loophole and that they can both continue on their merry way towards MSG’s, caffeine, and Hobbits.
“Derek wants us all there. It’s a pack thing.”
And of course it is. It’s always a pack thing. Stiles should be used to this by now, but it still doesn’t change the fact that it sucks. For a moment he contemplates inviting himself. He has always been welcomed well enough to the meetings; Derek usually doesn’t acknowledge him more than nodding in greeting, so Stiles assumes it’s fine so long as the Alpha has no qualms. Despite this, Stiles stays quiet. He’s more likely not to go on principle now.
“Well, have fun trying to rip each other’s livers out,” he quips, which earns him a comforting hand on his shoulder. Something he really doesn’t want, and especially not from Scott.
The earnestness in Scott’s eyes is almost annoying, but Stiles finds it within himself not to shrug the friendly touch aside. “Do you want to come with?” Scott asks, and Stiles really wishes he hadn’t.
“Nah, man, I’m good.” Stiles moves out from Scott’s reach, heading out into the front lawn of their school and towards where he’s parked his Jeep that morning. “I need to brush up on my Gollum impression anyways.” He quickly spews out a rather bad rendition of ‘my precious’ that leaves both himself and Scott chuckling.
“Looks like they both finally lost it.” The comment has both of them sobering quickly enough. Stiles sends a miffed looked over his shoulder to where Erica stands cockily next to Isaac.
It’s the first time Stiles has seen her since Wednesday night, and his body is instinctively tensing; the fight or flight reflex scratching at the back of his mind. He quickly shakes it off and turns to fully face the two werewolves. “Hey there, Erica. Good to see you. Relatively.” Stiles finally says, words coated with bravado.
Scott shifts towards them, just as Boyd makes his way over. This is the pack, all drawn together by some invisible force that makes them one. There is a moment were Stiles feels inclined to move closer, to be a part of that. It’s a twitching in his muscles, a pull deep within him. It’s there and gone in an instant, and Stiles is left feeling naked and empty without it.
“It’s good to see you too Stiles. Although this atmosphere isn’t preferable.” Erica stalks closer, all pretense and intimidation. Stiles won’t be fooled by it. “I’m rather partial to moonlit strolls. Aren’t you?”
“So, anyways, the gangs all here. And I’m sure you’re all revving to go chase poor Bambi and Thumper through the thicket, so I think I’m going to head out.” Stiles pointedly ignores Erica, he doesn’t need to have her baiting him, let alone taking said bait. He’s not scared of her. He’s not afraid of what happened in the woods. Last thing he needs is to give her that impression.
It’s Isaac who speaks first, looking slightly surprised. “You’re not coming?” Talk about stating the obvious.
“No, I’m not, but don’t let that stop you from having a blast.” Stiles is already turning around, making his way towards his Jeep. He’ll see Scott later, probably tomorrow if he’s lucky, and he’ll get the rundown on the meeting then. But for now, he has plans, normal, non-werewolf plans.
He’s already at the door of his Jeep when Erica’s laugh has him halting. He knows what‘s coming; the inevitable jibe. He listens and waits for it. “Seems like someone’s scared of the big bad wolf.” And there it is, the tone is lightly mocking, and Stiles really isn’t in the mood for this.
“Do I scare him now?” Erica then says, voice softer.
It’s those words that have the irritation within Stiles deflating. He puffs out a breath and turns quickly on his heel. The pack is a good distance away and he finds himself speaking just a little louder than normal to catch their attention, unnecessary as it may be.
“I’m not scared of you, nor will I ever be scared of you. I just really do have plans tonight.” And it isn’t until four sets of heads turn sharply towards him that Stiles suddenly realizes that something is not right here. Erica is pulling away from Isaac, seemingly having just been talking quietly into his ear. Stiles shouldn’t have been able to hear that. Even if they had been talking at a normal level, it would have been difficult.
Scott looks a little surprised, and perhaps more shaken than the rest. “How’d you…” But he trails off, and Stiles doesn’t feel inclined to stick around much longer. He’s feeling unsettled, and really doesn’t want to look too far into this. Doesn’t want to start putting things together.
“Lip reading. Awesome right?” It’s probably the biggest load of bullshit that’s ever tumbled out of his mouth. Hell, he had his back to them when Erica had been talking, but he doesn’t give them much time to point that little fact out. In seconds he’s within the safety of his Jeep, and pulling out without too much of a backwards glance. He sneaks a peek, the pack is still staring at him; all of them looking vaguely confused.
On the ride home, he makes it a point to forget this ever happened. There is left over pizza in the fridge and an unopened bag of Doritos with his name on it. He’ll drown himself in food, watch movies until his mind is numb, and put all of today behind him.
----------
It’s halfway through The Two Towers that Stiles finds himself with an unscratchable itch. He needs to move, to get out of the house, to do something! His foot alone has been twitching for the past hour, and the amount of soda he’s had is probably not helping. Stiles feels wound tight and finally he’s forced to pause the movie and get the hell out of dodge.
It’s dusk, the moon already in the sky, and the sun past the tree line. He pauses at the door, looking back into the house. His dad is in his office, and probably won’t notice if Stiles slips out for an hour or so. Still, he thinks that his father deserves a little heads up on what his son’s up to, so Stiles leans back in through the doorway, and yells into the house.
“Going out for a bit.” Is all he says, and can’t help but smile at his father’s reply. A simple “be careful” and really, that’s one thing Stiles strives to do for himself, but always fails spectacularly. His life is anything but careful. That’s just not something he needs to be telling his dad.
Stiles bypasses his Jeep, feeling the need to stretch his legs, and hopefully calm the jitter in his limbs. It’s been a long while since he’s walked the streets of the small suburb he lives in. The air is cool, crisp, but dry. Thank god it’s dry. Last thing Stiles wants is another adventure in soggy cold socks. He swears he’s still trying to work feeling back into his pinky toe.
Walks are nice, Stiles thinks. It’s been awhile since he’s been able to walk and not have to worry about something stalking him or being prepared to race for his life. This is peaceful, and it allows Stiles to let his mind wander and think.
Stiles thinks about the past year. He thinks about Scott being bitten, and about Derek Hale. Lying to his dad is a sore spot for Stiles, and he tries not to think on that for too long. Jackson is another subject Stiles rather not think on. He’s been having to deal with the kanima issue far too much as of late.
Maybe thinking isn’t the best past time at the moment. He crosses over towards the woods as soon as he leaves the comfort of the suburbs. Normally Stiles would steer clear of them, not really wanting to court danger at the moment. Not so soon after the fiasco that was the night of the full moon.
The thought brings his hand over the scratch mark at his side. And it’s really only a mark now. Two days later and the wound is almost halfway healed. That’s not normal, Stiles knows this and it’s only one thing on a list of items he’s trying very hard to ignore. They are small things, all of which he could easily write off as fluke or coincident. He can ignore them, along with the voice in his head saying ‘One’s an incident, two’s a coincident, and three’s a pattern‘; which is ten times worse when it’s being said in his father’s voice. But there are inconsistencies from what Stiles does know that give him a reason to push the signs aside. He can ignore them, and maybe, in a months time, this will all be insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
The sound of water startles Stiles from his thoughts. He’s been walking for a while now, he knows that, too caught up in considering what not to think to really know where he’s gone. It’s already dark, and far too similar to Wednesday night for Stiles’ comfort. The moon gives some light here; the trees not as thick. It’s disconcerting how far Stiles has walked without any real acknowledgement, just allowing his feet and instincts to guide him.
Stiles assumes he’s by the creek that runs through the preserve, a boundary line between state property and Hale land. It’s farther west than the house itself, but a little closer to the road. Close but far enough to make the creek secluded and a little eerie. The sound of water keeps the forest from being silent and ominous, nothing like it had been a few nights back. In the distance Stiles can hear a frog chirping in the night. Whether it be a tree frog or of the more aquatic variety, he doesn’t know nor care, it doesn’t make it any less annoying.
He’s so caught up in the nightly chorus, that he doesn’t register the new tempo until it’s creeping up quickly behind him. There is the leap of his heart, and Stiles is turning quickly towards the very obvious sounds of footsteps. How he missed them, he’s not sure. Too solely focused on nature, which now sounds oddly faint, his ears now too focused on the approach of what could possibly be a threat.
Fingers twitch, and there is a tremor of something forcing him to keep his ground. Muscles are already pulled tight as if ready for a fight. The forest suddenly looks brighter and Stiles can see past the trees and instantly relaxes when he spots his stalker. It’s not as surprising as it should be to see Derek there, looking slightly exasperated at finding Stiles.
“You‘re late,” Derek chastises.
Stiles can only look slightly taken aback. Not entirely sure what he’s being accused of being late for and not really knowing why Derek is suddenly here, with him, of all places. “I wasn’t aware there was something for me to be on time for,” Stiles says, being sure to add a little snark to his words.
Derek looks confused then, moving closer and Stiles isn’t liking the way his racing heart settles at the close proximity. “The meeting,” Derek clarifies. “Scott said you weren’t coming, but that’s never stopped you from making an appearance.”
“I wasn’t coming.”
“Then why are you here?” And wasn’t that the million dollar question at the moment.
Why was Stiles here? Maybe because he can’t sit still to save his life and has ended up letting himself just wander. Something tells him Derek probably isn’t going like that answer; considering how late it is and what happened the last time Stiles had wandered around the woods. But when did that ever stop Stiles?
“I was just going for a walk.”
“A walk?” Derek repeats, not looking entirely convinced.
“A walk. You know one of those things people do with their feet and legs? One step after another. Excellent means of transportation. Go places, see things…” Stiles quickly shuts his mouth at the look he is currently getting from Derek. It’s that look where it seems Derek doesn’t know whether to tear Stiles throat out or just walk away.
“Dammit Stiles!” The curse has Stiles jumping back, which only helps Derek to better push Stiles against a tree, hard bark digging into his back and the heat of a body pressing to his front. “Will you ever learn? Don’t go into the woods alone at night!”
Well isn’t this fun, getting lectured like a child. Stiles could only glare up at Derek. “What are you doing here then?” Because it’s a legitimate question. This is a far cry from the actual Hale house, and even further from the old rundown Railroad Depot.
“Because this is where I had everyone meet.” It isn’t hard to see that Derek was quickly loosing patience. He’s towering over Stiles, looking all intimidating and badass. Really, it’s too bad that Stiles had long since been desensitized to Derek’s usual scare tactics.
“And you decided to stay behind and lurk… Because?” Stiles shifts, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable as the heat of Derek bleeds through their multiple layers of clothing to seep into Stiles’ skin. He can’t look up and meet Derek’s eyes, he can’t move because he feels like he can only bring himself to curl further into Derek’s heat instead of inching away.
Stiles knows Derek is staring at him, can feel the pierce of those calculating eyes. “I’m erasing the evidence of us having been here.” The suddenness of Derek’s voice makes Stiles jump, pushing further into the hard chest before him. A tremor rolls through his body and he inhales deeply. There is a moment of silence, neither of them moving; Stiles’ eyes wide with a dawning revelation of what he’s doing and Derek standing like a motionless statue.
They part in a flash. Stiles trips back around the tree, falling on his butt and looking far too disgruntled. Derek just looks confused and a little unsettled but seems to brush it off like it’s an art form. There’s a sudden stillness that seems uncomfortable; even the too loud frogs in the distance don’t seem to register.
It’s only the erratic thump-thump-thump that Stiles can focus on, a sound that’s becoming far too familiar. The stressed sound of a heart beat, one that does not quite match the tick of Stiles’ own heart. His hand is to his chest, heart racing, but still slow against the pounding thump-thump reaching his ears. So if not his then…
Stiles looks up and meets Derek’s eyes. The thump-thump-thump skips and ups its tempo, sounding harder and louder before settling down to an even and steady pace as Derek finally looks away. It’s confusing and so surreal, and Stiles can only tilt his head in wonder.
“It’s getting late.” Once more, Derek’s voice makes Stiles jump. The spell breaks, and he can only blink the haze away. This is happening far too often to Stiles, and he can feel the scared flutter of his heart against the palm of his hand. He swallows and tries not to think about it. Tries not to look at Derek. He doesn’t want him to see the panic, the fear.
“Right you are!” Stiles jumps up, all put on energy and good spirits. He brushes dirt and leaves from himself, and forces a smile the entire time. “Way past my bed time. Best be getting on my way. Have to get my beauty sleep, you know? These looks don’t happen on their own.” He’s babbling, perhaps it’s just a survival instinct of some sort; Stiles has never really bothered to think on it. Right now it doesn’t really matter, because Derek is looking at him with that look of annoyed amusement and things seem to be coming down to a more normal and stable level.
It helps to ease Stiles’ discomfort, and he now feels relaxed enough to move closer to Derek. He swears he can still feel the phantom touch of Derek’s body heat, but Stiles chalks it up to being a little too hyper aware at the moment. There is one more awkward minute; Stiles standing there unsure if he should just leave or wait for Derek’s dismissal.
In the end, he just decides to leave. “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you later? Only hopefully not in any dark woods or alleys, and please not being a creeper in my room,” Stiles pleads, and perhaps it’s just a little too whiney. Not that he really cares.
He gets all of a foot away before there’s a hand on his shoulder stopping all forward movement and Derek is pushing past to lead the way. “I’ll walk you home.” Is all Derek grumbles out, like it’s some annoying task. And really, it probably is in Derek’s humble opinion. Good thing Stiles isn’t interested in Derek’s opinion, humble or not.
“Well, well… It seems chivalry isn’t dead. Who knew Derek Hale was such a gentlemen.” Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the sarcasm there. “I’m going to be the envy of all the single ladies when they hear.”
That last part earns a glare as a silent warning from Derek, and Stiles has to smother a laugh. Maybe he’s being a little too harsh? But seriously, he’s quite capable of walking himself home. He did get here on his own after all. Maybe it would take him a little longer to weave his way out of the woods, but he’d get home eventually!
“Seriously, I can walk home without an escort.” He tells Derek as much.
Derek answers with a growl and Stiles has to shake off the chill that runs down his spine at the sound. It’s starting to get annoying, all these odd little reactions he’s having towards Derek. Maybe he should get to bed early tonight and actually catch up on his sleep. Clearly it’s messing with his head.
Resigning himself to his fate, Stiles obediently follows Derek. He keeps his head down, eyes to the forest floor, watching for exposed roots which were quickly turning into his archenemies. Stiles isn’t going to find himself tripping over another. They wouldn’t get the best of him.
So of course, it only takes a few minutes before his foot catches on a rock and he tumbles forward. And of course he falls straight into Derek’s chest, strong arms holding him up. At this point Stiles would have rather of fallen face first into the cold November earth. He’s almost sure there’s some higher power laughing its ass off right now.
Stiles breathes in the sour smell of sweat, along side an undercurrent of leather, earth, and vanilla. He sniffs again, begrudgingly admitting to himself that it’s pleasant. Ah hell, Derek shouldn’t smell pleasant. Stiles shouldn’t even be thinking he smells good. Why is he even smelling him? Oh god, he’s sniffing Derek.
“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles and launches himself away. He moves quickly forward, walking in no particular direction, just aiming to put some distance between himself and his dignity that he’s left behind to die a slow agonizing death.
Derek calls out to him, very clear humor in his voice. “The road’s this way.”
That halts Stiles. He looks back, sees the direction Derek is pointing, and heads back that way. Looking for all that he’s worth, that he was never going in the wrong direction in the first place. Fortunately Derek doesn’t say a word, even though Stiles is sure he’s still smirking, and thankfully they continue on their way; not another word being spoken between them.
----------
Stiles lays in his bed, curling into the cocoon of blankets and pillows. His eyes are glued to the window, half expecting Derek to come tearing through it at any given second. It’s been over an hour since Derek dropped Stiles back off at home, but he’s still wound, muscles all tight and tense.
He can smell him. Can smell Derek all around him. Stiles’ hands reek of him, although reek wouldn’t be his ideal word choice. It’s not a bad smell, pleasant and comforting in ways Stiles can barely make sense of. It’s that which has Stiles on edge, fighting against his body’s need to relax and fold into the comfort the scent is providing him.
Slim fingers curl tightly into his bedding, and Stiles tries not to breathe in deep, to smell Derek clinging to his hands. It’s almost as if he’s there, and Stiles is shifting his eyes up towards his window once more. Waiting to see a flash of red eyes, something to show that Derek is there. That it’s the man himself that Stiles is somehow smelling, and not the phantom scent clinging to him. It’s somehow a little less disconcerting.
“I’m not doing this!” Stiles is suddenly up, pacing around his room in irritation. “This is all in my head. It’s all psychosomatic.” There is little reason why he should be smelling Derek in the first place, and maybe that’s what bothers Stiles the most. He’s been with Derek often enough, has touched him, without coming home perfumed in essence of Derek. “Oh my god, I just got skunked. Skunked by a werewolf.”
It was about the only thing that made some semblance of sense that Stiles was willing to acknowledge. Okay, so maybe it didn’t make a whole lick of sense, but it was something more than what he had a moment ago. It doesn’t explain the inexplicable comfort Derek’s scent is giving him, but that is a can of worms Stiles is really unwilling to crack open.
It might be months since the last time Derek has imposed real fear into Stiles, but he isn’t going to go so far as to say that he is comforted by Derek’s presence. At least not in non-life threatening cases. And pacing in his room is far from life threatening.
He finds himself sniffing at his hands once more, jerking them away quickly. “Okay, I think I need to shower.” Stiles isn’t about to allow himself to sit around all night indulging in the smell of Derek. That is just a little bit too weird. The guy might be good looking, Stiles can willingly admit to that, but that doesn’t mean he can sit around snorting up another guys scent. There are lines that Stiles isn’t willing to cross into creepiness. He’s not Derek.
The thought pulls a smirk up at the corner of his lips. No one could really beat Derek in creepiness. “Dude’s a grade A creep,” Stiles says to himself as he finally moves out of his room and into the hall. His dad is asleep, making stealth a must. It’s too bad Stiles isn’t ninja material. He knocks into the wall at least three times for no good reason, and bangs the bathroom door closed behind him. It is a valiant effort, just one doomed to failure. In times like these, it’s good that his dad can be a heavy sleeper. A habit he probably acquired from living with a loud son.
Stiles showers quickly, scrubbing hard at his skin and taking care to afford some gentleness to the healing scratch at his side. He glances at it quickly, notes that it looks better than it had previously. It’s healing fast; faster than the nasty paper cut he got the week before. There is a special brand of obliviousness that Stiles uses to ignore that the bruises and scrapes he received along side Derek’s scratch have healed, no evidence of them having ever marred his skin being left behind.
Things like that, Stiles finds, are better left ignored. Everything is fine, everything is normal. Well normal in Stiles’ sense of the word. Which means nothing is normal, and therefore everything goes. So yeah, with realities like that, is there even a need to worry? Stiles doesn’t think so.
The shower is over and Stiles is back in his room, clean and smelling like soap, before he can think anymore on what an abnormality his life has become. Because really, who wants to think about shit like that when it’s-- He looks at the clock on his nightstand. Two-thirteen in the morning.
He yawns, suddenly very tired and very ready to hit the sack. The pile of blankets and pillows look welcoming, and who’s Stiles to keep himself from temptation. Especially where sleep in concerned. He curls up tight, a mimicry of early that night. There is a discomfort there, something very much mental, as he curls in tighter, hands curling into fists right under his nose.
There is only the smell of vanilla soap, sweet, far too sweet. Stiles can’t help but think it lacks something. A woodiness that brings back the reason for Stiles having showered in the first place. The thought is disquieting, but he’s far too tired now to fret over it now. It’s not his fault his brain if sending him conflicting emotions.
Stiles presses closer, unconsciously searching for the scent that had eased away all the tension and stress, as he falls deeper and deeper into sleep. In the wake of the pungent sweetness, he finds a subtle undercurrent of what he’s quickly recognizing as Derek. When Stiles finds that, his whole body relaxes in his sleep and he doesn’t wake up till late morning.
----------
It’s almost noon when Stiles wakes. The sun is up too high and that in itself is odd. Stiles is usually an early riser on weekends, always has been and figures he always will be. Why sleep when there is so much to be done elsewhere? At least that’s how he’s always chosen to rationalize it.
He yawns, stretches, and cracks a few kinks in his joints and back. It feels good, and Stiles thinks he’s more well rested than he’s ever been. Which is awesome. Really it is, but it’s Saturday. And really is there any reason to spend a day off from school laying around in bed all morning? Especially when he’s very much not sick or injured.
No, most definitely not!
Stiles figures he might have broken a world record in the time it takes him to get dressed and head downstairs. His dad is home, watching TV and seemingly making the most of a weekend off work. Well, mostly off work. Stiles knows his dad will probably be heading to the station tonight, but at least they have the day. Which is something.
“Hey sleepy head,” his dad calls, looking up from over the back of the sofa as Stiles comes into the room.
Stiles just sticks out his tongue and moves into the kitchen. “I can sleep in as much as I want.” He huffs, and shuffles through the pantry. It’s late enough for lunch, but his tummy is wanting for something sweetly good in the breakfast variety. So brunch it is!
Three waffles are popped into the toaster, a glass of milk is poured, and sugar free syrup is thrown out onto the kitchen island. Stiles can’t really stand the fake butter he makes his dad buy, so he forgoes it and deals with only the sugar free syrup. Lack of butter is a small price to pay for his dad’s overall health.
He pops his first dose of meds for the day, downing the pill with his milk just as the toaster snaps up with his slightly burnt Eggos. Everything is normal, almost quiet and a slightly standard morning. Well ignoring the fact that it’s working past noon now.
The waffles are finished off well enough, but they leave him slightly less than satisfied. “When do you plan of having lunch?” Stiles calls from the kitchen. He could very well run straight into actually eating lunch, but if at all possible he’d rather sit down and eat it with his dad. It’s not often they get to enjoy meals together. Not with the craziness at the station, and the werewolf or kanima issues Stiles seems to be dealing with constantly.
“We can hit Margie’s if you don’t mind me stopping by a few places in town before hand.”
And that, right there, was why he loved his dad. It only takes them a half hour to get ready before they are out of the house and piling into Stiles’ Jeep. He let’s his dad drive, enjoying being the passenger for once. It’s a rather pretty day, the autumn air nice if not a little chilly. A small part of Stiles hopes that they get a bit of snow this winter. It’s always a gambling hope it seems.
The shops in town are already decked out for Christmas. There are wreaths on doors and Christmas trees in store front windows. They driving into the older part of town, the historic district, with it’s town square and Courthouse at it’s center. Everything seems too festive, and Stiles wonders how much different this Christmas will be. His reach of friends has grown exponentially, and he’s pretty sure his pocket book will suffer for that.
Stiles’ mind is still in a fuzzy pleasant state of holiday cheeriness when the Jeep is pulled next to one of the mom and pop hardware stores. It’s one his dad has been going to as long as Stiles can remember; the old couple who own it having watched Stiles grow with his dad’s every purchase. He remembers when Mrs. Renolds used to give him lollipops. Truthfully, Stiles now thinks it was only a ploy to get him to shut up, and quit asking what every little thing was for.
The smile that has been slipping onto Stiles’ face is instantly stripped as soon as the car door opens, and a rush of cold wind hits him in the face. His reaction is sudden and seems to startle his dad. Stiles whips his head around, looking down the street behind him, following the very prominent scent of vanilla, leather, and woodlands. Breathing in deep, he takes a few steps forward, being pulled by what seems like an invisible string.
“Stiles!” It’s his dad’s voice that seems to snap him out of it. There’s a very embarrassing moment where Stiles realizes that he has been sniffing the air, nose up and looking far too much like a bloodhound on the track of a fox for anyone’s real comfort. He startles back, looking at his dad and then back the way the smell is wafting in from. “Are you okay?”
And no, Stiles doesn’t think he’s okay. Really, Stiles’ thinks he’s off his fucking rocker, but he’s not about to tell his dad that. “I’m fine. Awesome really. I think I might be hungrier that I thought. Swear I can smell Margie’s meatloaf from here.”
It’s doesn’t seem like his dad is quite buying it, and Stiles is really just looking for an escape at this point. Because there is a very large part, extensively large part, of himself that needs to make sure that this isn’t what Stiles is thinking. He needs to prove that what ever this smell is, there isn’t one Derek Hale attached to the end of it. He’s really hoping that he’ll run into that boutique on the corner of Main and 5th and find that it’s their new winter fragrance being pumped into the air to drag in customers.
Stiles really hopes it’s the boutique’s new fragrance. He might even buy it just to use it to make fun of Derek smelling like a woman’s perfume. And Stiles is spacing out again. His dad is staring at him slightly concerned and looking ready to drive them back home without lunch, no passing go, and certainly not collecting two hundred dollars.
“I’m fine! Really!” Stiles backs up, putting some space between himself and his dad. “I’m just going to go… yeah. I’m just going to go see if that place has that thing I want.” His arms are flailing in the air, trying to portray some imaginary item. “You know, that one thing! I’ll be back!” And Stiles is running off down the sidewalk before his dad can say two words about it.
He’s sure to take a quick and careful glance back, slowing his pace when he sees his dad walking into the hardware store, shaking his head as he goes. “That was close,” Stiles says to himself, letting out a relieved breath. He spins on his heal, almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk and moves quickly to catch himself. That would just be his luck, but Stiles doesn’t let that put him off his quest.
Already he can see the boutique, and his heart is speeding up as he comes closer and closer. It’s an anxious excitement, a prospect of things actually turning out to be less than what he feared them to be. Woman with gaudy pink bags come in and out, and the smell only grows stronger as Stiles gets only a few feet away.
He’s just about to reach the first full glass window of the store front when suddenly, almost too subtle for Stiles to have sensed it, the potency of the scent changes. It’s just a little less than it was, the change almost unnoticeable, but now that Stiles has realized it, he can not just un-smell it.
Back tracking, Stiles finds the source of the smell. It’s most definitely not the boutique, but the used bookstore next door. Well isn’t that just a big slap in the face. “I hate you.” He makes it a point to look skyward before focusing back on the innocent enough bookstore. Which innocent it is not. Stiles is not going to be drawn in by the place’s harmless façade.
So of course, Stiles finds himself walking into what will probably be the den of the lion. And why in the hell is he comparing a smell, a very nice smell, to that of a vicious predator? Because, Stiles reminds himself, stranger things have happened.
The bookstore smells old. Underneath the sweet woodiness, there is mold and the smell of ink. For a moment it seems almost overpowering, the combination of two such strong scents. Stiles sneezes, moving quickly through shelves and shelves of books. His feet are leading him again, moving without much prompting, seeming to follow the trail of sweetness.
Further and further he moves, pushing past a rotting door and through a narrow doorway and back into a smaller room stuffed to the ceiling with old leather bound tomes. These books seem to have seen much better days. Some lack proper covers, and some look ready to fall to dust at the slightest touch. He happens to glance at a few of the titles. Most of them are novels that have little meaning to him, but some, a few of the more impressive and worn additions are occult or historical in nature. He recognizes some titles written in Latin, German, and some in languages of an unknown origin.
Stiles feels his fingers itching to touch, the smell suddenly a distant importance. His thumb brushes caked on dust from a spine of a book on herbalism, old and with it’s gold details flaking off. The smell is back then, stronger than ever, just a moment before a very familiar voice has him jumping around in surprise.
“You’re not supposed to be back here.”
Derek is standing in front of him, looking just as shocked as Stiles is. “Oh my fucking god. Do you want to give me a heart attack and don’t answer that. You can’t pop out of nowhere and yell at people. I’m going to die of shock one day, and then what? Who’s window are you going to creep through then? Huh? I’ll tell you right now no one else is going to put up with that sh--”
“Stiles!” And that effectively shuts Stiles up mid rant. Derek is holding a stack of books, placing them down the next second and coming up far too much into Stiles’ personal space. “Why are you here?”
And why does that seem like the most asked question in Stiles’ life at the moment? “Why are you here?” His nose scrunches and just like the night before, Stiles is overcome with the smell that seems to be uniquely Derek’s. Once again, he finds himself pitching forward, moving into the warmth and comfort of the scent.
Derek is the one to move back this time. His eyes flash read and Stiles feels the comfort drain away just as quickly as it has come. “Why are you here Stiles?” Derek’s voice is commanding and makes Stiles fearful in a way that it has not in many months. It’s a tone he’s only heard used on Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and sometimes Scott.
Stiles finds himself shrinking back, compelled to please, to answer. “I don’t know, okay!” At least he can save some of his dignity and keep some bite to his reply. “It’s your stupid fault anyways. You reek man. Like I can’t be within a mile of you and not smell you. Take a bath, or lay off the Bath and Body Works will you? You’re worse than a skunk. Maybe not as bad smelling, but just as annoying.”
“You followed my scent?”
And that right there, hearing Derek say that, drives a nail home. Stiles tracked down Derek, by following his scent, something he should have never of been able to do. Something he hasn’t been able to do since…
All color drains from Stiles face and he’s quickly backing up out of the room. “False alarm. Boutique next door, stinking up the whole town. Should be a felony. It’s been messing with my head. Breathing in too many chemicals and all that.”
“Stiles…”
“Oh, I know what you’re going to say. Silly Stiles, running in and annoying you over nothing. My bad, won’t happen again. I’ll leave you to your reading. Might suggest you update your book clubs reading selection to something from this century, but who’s judging? I’m not. I’m just leaving and… bye.” Stiles is out of the backroom and practically running out of the bookstore in less than a blink of an eye. Finstock would be proud.
It’s almost a blessing when he spots his dad leaning against the Jeep waiting for him. This is normal, this is something he can focus on. It’s just him and his dad, out running errands, going to lunch, and definitely not worrying or thinking about anything remotely supernatural.
“You okay there sport?” his dad asks.
Stiles just wants to scream ‘No, nothing is okay. Everything is wrong. My world is crumbling around me.’ but that would be admitting to something being wrong. And right now, in this moment, Stiles wants to hold on to this moment. To this one normal day, even if after today things might be a little more abnormal than they have ever been before. He swallows thickly, ignores the smell of Derek still surrounding him and smiles bright and happy for his dad.
“I’m good. They were just sold out of my thing. I’m going to just have to come back later to get it. But food! You promised me Margie’s! I expect a chocolate milkshake, curly fries, and their double bacon cheeseburger!”
His dad returns the smile and turns a hopeful look towards Stiles. “Don’t suppose you’ll allow me the same indulgence?”
“Not a chance! I want you to live long enough to see your grandkids.” They both laugh, Stiles being batted on the back of his head as he moves around the Jeep to get into the passenger’s seat. This is how Stiles wants it, and he’ll hold onto it for as long as he can. For his dad’s sake and for his own.
So for another moment more, Stiles sinks into his denial, and it’s never felt so good.
--------
The denial last the rest of the weekend. Which is something Stiles isn’t bargaining on. Scott comes over Saturday night while his dad is at the station. They play Battlefield, watch a few movies they’ve seen a dozen times over, and Stiles makes it a point to keep pack business off the table. Scott is wonderful and proves the point why he’s Stiles’ best friend by keeping the night werewolf free.
When he leaves Sunday morning, Stiles busies himself with chores and homework. His dad comes home for lunch and stays till after dinner. They talk about Lacrosse and Stiles weasels some information out of his dad about how things are going at the station. It’s nice, laid back and a little more than Stiles could hope for. It’s been a relatively great weekend, and in the spirit of all things good that happen to Stiles, it comes to a fucking horribly epic end.
Stiles goes to bed, like any other night. He pointedly does not check on the scratch on his side, and even more pointedly locks his window. Little good it will do him in the end, but it makes Stiles feel a little better. When he closes his eyes, he falls asleep without incident, curled into a ball, and hands pressed closely to his nose.
It’s when Stiles wakes that his world officially crumbles. He’s standing, feet bare, in the middle of the woods. It’s cold, and he’s only in his flannel pants and thin night shirt. For a couple of minutes he can only blink and stare, disoriented and slightly panicked. “What the hell?” He’s in a part of the forest he doesn’t recognize, not that it being pitch black and in the middle of the fucking night helps much.
The more he blinks and focuses his eyes, the better he can see, and at least that is some good news. Although the bad news being that it seems like he can add sleep walking to that long list of things that he’s trying to ignore. He tries to remember coming here, faint flashes of memory being all he has to work with. It’s almost like he’d been in a daze. He remembers leaving through his window, which, once again, “What the hell?” There is the feeling like it’s all been a really weird dream, but here he is, in the woods. Not really pointing at him jumping through a window and cantering out towards the woods being a dream.
Everything is silent while Stiles focuses on his mini freak-out. It seems like his life grants him a few minutes of panicked reprieve until a howl cuts through the night. Stiles stills instantly, intent and waiting. He knows that howl, he’s not sure how or why, but he knows it. That warm sense of comfort and calm washes over him at the sound of it, a vast cry from when last he heard a wolf howl, on the night of the full moon.
The howl comes once more, and Stiles finds himself taking an unknowing step forward. He glares down at his feet, taking a deliberate step back. It’s a pointless endeavor, he knows this, but at least now he can say he tried to stop himself. Before he can think better of it, he goes with his gut feeling and follows the path where the howl had come from. At the very least maybe he’ll find answers there. Answers he knows he doesn’t want, but ones he knows he can’t hide from forever.
Twigs cut at his bare feet and arms, but the pain is gone as soon as it comes. The cold is a distant memory as he moves faster and faster through the woods, feeling impelled to run. So he does just that, racing with the night breeze rushing past and it is exciting; liberating in a way that Stiles can’t really put words to. It’s like breaking free for the first time, and he takes the feeling and the exhilaration with it.
He’s not sure how fast he’s going, faster than he’s ever run before, that much is for sure, but all to soon it’s over. Suddenly he’s overwhelmed by what he knows now to be Derek. The smell of the man is all around Stiles and he knows, even if he can not yet see him, that Derek is just lurking within the dark recesses of trees.
“I know you’re there,” Stiles calls, without even thinking about it. Because Stiles shouldn’t know he’s there. He shouldn’t even be out in the woods. Especially not at night, and very much alone. Derek has told him enough times before, but really, when has that ever stopped Stiles from doing anything.
When Derek stalks out between two tall oaks, Stiles is not in the least bit surprised. In fact he finds it within himself to look slightly smug. Like, ha! I so called it. You can’t hide from me. Or something along those lines.
“Did you track my scent here?” Derek is the one smirking now, all mocking and grim amusement.
Touche, Stiles thinks blandly. “No,” he ends up lying, or half lying. “Just thought I’d take another midnight stroll. Although really, I think we might need to stop meeting like this. People are going to start talking. Sheriffs son having nightly tryst with someone suspected of murder. Oh, I can hear the ladies at the bingo hall gossiping away already. My image of as a good respectable young man will be ruined forever. What ever shall I do?” He says the last part with a southern twang, and maybe that is over the top, but really it’s all just a diversion in one way or another.
It doesn’t seem to dissuade Derek in the least, he’s sauntering up to Stiles, looking far too much like the predator he is. “Don’t you know why you’re here?” he asks Stiles, and just from the tone Stiles can tell Derek already knows the answer to that.
“Late night cardio?” Stiles tries again and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s going to run out of quick witted replies.
“Guess again.”
“Frolicking with the fairy folk?”
“Wrong.”
“Cow tipping?”
“Now you’re not even trying.” Derek looks a little put off, but his eyes only harden all the more. They flash red and Stiles stomach seems to twist into itself. “I called you here Stiles. I called you, and you came.”
“Did you do some sleep walking hocus pocus over the phone? Cause really that’s quite impress--”
Derek growls, cutting him off effectively if nothing else. “Do you know why a wolf howls? Do you, Stiles?”
Of course Stiles knows why a wolf howls. He ran around with werewolves after all. It is one of those essential need to know things. Only now, at this instant, Stiles wishes he hasn’t the foggiest clue why a wolf howled. Ignorance was bliss, and sadly it wasn’t a bliss he was privy to.
“Come on Stiles. I thought you knew this.” Derek prompts, and there is a tremor in his voice that sets Stiles on edge. It’s unsettling, and he finds the same unsteadiness to his own words when he finally speaks.
“They howl to call their pack. To signal their location so the other wolves can find them.” The words feel like lead as Stiles speaks. Each word dropping from his tongue with a bitter taste.
“I called you here,” Derek repeats, stressing ‘called’ in a particular way that Stiles knows just what he actually means by that. “You heard me, and you came.”
Stiles’ eyes go wide and he takes a few steps back. He laughs nervously as he goes, denial still fighting to stay in place even as it’s forcefully being torn away. “No…. no, that’s not…” There’s really nothing to say, and that in itself is infuriating. Stiles always can say something. Spin his words and get out of just about any situation, but no words are forthcoming this time around. His mouth is dry, heart pumping too loud and fast. There is a ringing in his ears, and he knows he’s on the edge of a panic attack, pivoting back a forth as if contemplating the fall.
“Stiles!” Derek is close again, his sweet earthy scent wrapping around Stiles, calming him and luring him into a sense of security. He allows it, hand coming up to brace himself against Derek’s chest and Derek’s own hand comes to wrap around Stiles’ bicep, steadying him and supporting. “Did you get bit?”
Oh god. Stiles is then feeling sick all over again. He feels like he’ll retch all over Derek’s feet if he isn’t careful. The world is spinning and he has to get away. Twisting to the side he empties is stomach with a horrible wet cough, choking on the bile. “No.” It’s all he can get out after a moment, and between dry heaves. “No.”
Derek’s hands are suddenly on him, warm and sure as they pull and press against Stiles. They yank up his shirt and span out against his naked skin. Stiles knows what they are searching for, and he knows Derek will find it just moments before he does. Those warm fingers trace the slightly welted remains of the scratch. It’s hardly there. Hardly noticeable, but for that moment it seems like the most embolden proclamation. Like a death wish written out in red.
“No.” Stiles tries for again, pushing away at Derek. It’s of no use, he’s already far too mentally and physically fatigued to fight. He doesn’t realize he’s crying, not until the smell of salt hits him. Knowing that, as a human, he should never be able to sense such a subtle odor has him crying all the harder.
Stiles’ legs give out from under him and he falls to the forest floor, Derek easing him down as he holds him. Quiet whispers of, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” are given and Stiles wishes, really wishes that that could make all of this better.
The only blessing is that Stiles can hear the steady beat of Derek’s heart. Through every apologetic word, Stiles listens. It might not be much, but not once does Derek’s heart stutter. That, at least, comforts him. It quiets his sobs, and calms his own racing heart. Now if only ‘Sorry’ could actually make any of this better.
“Yeah,” Stiles finally says. “I’m sorry too.”
And if there is a little bit of resentment to Stiles words, he can’t really bring himself to care.
___________
To Be Continued . . .
Author: akiru_chan
Rating: Mature
Genre and/or Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Spoilers: Spoilers for most of season two.
Warnings: Angst, Sexual Tension, Knotting, Biting, and all around akwardness.
Summary: Stiles has always been good at ignoring his problems. Preferring to wait them out until they are nothing but a distant memory. But when a midnight stroll leads to a nasty scratch to his side, courtesy of Derek, Stiles finds that some things just can't be ignored, not that he doesn't try. Better hearing and improved eyesight, that's something he can ignore for now. The sudden urge to touch and smell Derek? Not so much.
2.
__________
The weekend came with the sharp shrill of the last bell, Stiles shooting from his seat with a little more exuberance than what is probably needed. It earns him a few odd stares, two of which come from Lydia and Scott. He doesn’t really care, it’s the weekend, two whole days of doing nothing but being lazy.
Hell yeah!
Coach is even out with the flu, practice inevitably being canceled. No practice, means Stiles can head straight home and tack on an extra two hours onto his break. He turns to Scott, smiling broadly as they make it out of their class and into the packed halls.
“I’m thinking me, you, our body weight worth of junk food, and Lord of the Rings, extended versions. Tonight, my place. I won’t be taking no for an answer.” Stiles is too busy focusing on the excited skip in his own step to catch the falter in Scott’s. He eventually slows when it seems like Scott isn’t quite keeping up with Stiles’ enthusiasm.
Scott stops altogether and Stiles can already feel the heavy weight of disappointment filling his gut. It isn’t hard to guess what comes tumbling out of Scott’s mouth. “I can’t,” he says. “Derek wants us training. Especially with what happened with Erica. I don’t think he wants a repeat.”
So, okay, it makes sense. Stiles doesn’t want a repeat of this past Wednesday either. Who honestly would? But that doesn’t keep it from being any less disappointing. “So why do you have to go? Aren’t you like, the poster child for in control?” He has to ask, has to hope that he’s found the loophole and that they can both continue on their merry way towards MSG’s, caffeine, and Hobbits.
“Derek wants us all there. It’s a pack thing.”
And of course it is. It’s always a pack thing. Stiles should be used to this by now, but it still doesn’t change the fact that it sucks. For a moment he contemplates inviting himself. He has always been welcomed well enough to the meetings; Derek usually doesn’t acknowledge him more than nodding in greeting, so Stiles assumes it’s fine so long as the Alpha has no qualms. Despite this, Stiles stays quiet. He’s more likely not to go on principle now.
“Well, have fun trying to rip each other’s livers out,” he quips, which earns him a comforting hand on his shoulder. Something he really doesn’t want, and especially not from Scott.
The earnestness in Scott’s eyes is almost annoying, but Stiles finds it within himself not to shrug the friendly touch aside. “Do you want to come with?” Scott asks, and Stiles really wishes he hadn’t.
“Nah, man, I’m good.” Stiles moves out from Scott’s reach, heading out into the front lawn of their school and towards where he’s parked his Jeep that morning. “I need to brush up on my Gollum impression anyways.” He quickly spews out a rather bad rendition of ‘my precious’ that leaves both himself and Scott chuckling.
“Looks like they both finally lost it.” The comment has both of them sobering quickly enough. Stiles sends a miffed looked over his shoulder to where Erica stands cockily next to Isaac.
It’s the first time Stiles has seen her since Wednesday night, and his body is instinctively tensing; the fight or flight reflex scratching at the back of his mind. He quickly shakes it off and turns to fully face the two werewolves. “Hey there, Erica. Good to see you. Relatively.” Stiles finally says, words coated with bravado.
Scott shifts towards them, just as Boyd makes his way over. This is the pack, all drawn together by some invisible force that makes them one. There is a moment were Stiles feels inclined to move closer, to be a part of that. It’s a twitching in his muscles, a pull deep within him. It’s there and gone in an instant, and Stiles is left feeling naked and empty without it.
“It’s good to see you too Stiles. Although this atmosphere isn’t preferable.” Erica stalks closer, all pretense and intimidation. Stiles won’t be fooled by it. “I’m rather partial to moonlit strolls. Aren’t you?”
“So, anyways, the gangs all here. And I’m sure you’re all revving to go chase poor Bambi and Thumper through the thicket, so I think I’m going to head out.” Stiles pointedly ignores Erica, he doesn’t need to have her baiting him, let alone taking said bait. He’s not scared of her. He’s not afraid of what happened in the woods. Last thing he needs is to give her that impression.
It’s Isaac who speaks first, looking slightly surprised. “You’re not coming?” Talk about stating the obvious.
“No, I’m not, but don’t let that stop you from having a blast.” Stiles is already turning around, making his way towards his Jeep. He’ll see Scott later, probably tomorrow if he’s lucky, and he’ll get the rundown on the meeting then. But for now, he has plans, normal, non-werewolf plans.
He’s already at the door of his Jeep when Erica’s laugh has him halting. He knows what‘s coming; the inevitable jibe. He listens and waits for it. “Seems like someone’s scared of the big bad wolf.” And there it is, the tone is lightly mocking, and Stiles really isn’t in the mood for this.
“Do I scare him now?” Erica then says, voice softer.
It’s those words that have the irritation within Stiles deflating. He puffs out a breath and turns quickly on his heel. The pack is a good distance away and he finds himself speaking just a little louder than normal to catch their attention, unnecessary as it may be.
“I’m not scared of you, nor will I ever be scared of you. I just really do have plans tonight.” And it isn’t until four sets of heads turn sharply towards him that Stiles suddenly realizes that something is not right here. Erica is pulling away from Isaac, seemingly having just been talking quietly into his ear. Stiles shouldn’t have been able to hear that. Even if they had been talking at a normal level, it would have been difficult.
Scott looks a little surprised, and perhaps more shaken than the rest. “How’d you…” But he trails off, and Stiles doesn’t feel inclined to stick around much longer. He’s feeling unsettled, and really doesn’t want to look too far into this. Doesn’t want to start putting things together.
“Lip reading. Awesome right?” It’s probably the biggest load of bullshit that’s ever tumbled out of his mouth. Hell, he had his back to them when Erica had been talking, but he doesn’t give them much time to point that little fact out. In seconds he’s within the safety of his Jeep, and pulling out without too much of a backwards glance. He sneaks a peek, the pack is still staring at him; all of them looking vaguely confused.
On the ride home, he makes it a point to forget this ever happened. There is left over pizza in the fridge and an unopened bag of Doritos with his name on it. He’ll drown himself in food, watch movies until his mind is numb, and put all of today behind him.
----------
It’s halfway through The Two Towers that Stiles finds himself with an unscratchable itch. He needs to move, to get out of the house, to do something! His foot alone has been twitching for the past hour, and the amount of soda he’s had is probably not helping. Stiles feels wound tight and finally he’s forced to pause the movie and get the hell out of dodge.
It’s dusk, the moon already in the sky, and the sun past the tree line. He pauses at the door, looking back into the house. His dad is in his office, and probably won’t notice if Stiles slips out for an hour or so. Still, he thinks that his father deserves a little heads up on what his son’s up to, so Stiles leans back in through the doorway, and yells into the house.
“Going out for a bit.” Is all he says, and can’t help but smile at his father’s reply. A simple “be careful” and really, that’s one thing Stiles strives to do for himself, but always fails spectacularly. His life is anything but careful. That’s just not something he needs to be telling his dad.
Stiles bypasses his Jeep, feeling the need to stretch his legs, and hopefully calm the jitter in his limbs. It’s been a long while since he’s walked the streets of the small suburb he lives in. The air is cool, crisp, but dry. Thank god it’s dry. Last thing Stiles wants is another adventure in soggy cold socks. He swears he’s still trying to work feeling back into his pinky toe.
Walks are nice, Stiles thinks. It’s been awhile since he’s been able to walk and not have to worry about something stalking him or being prepared to race for his life. This is peaceful, and it allows Stiles to let his mind wander and think.
Stiles thinks about the past year. He thinks about Scott being bitten, and about Derek Hale. Lying to his dad is a sore spot for Stiles, and he tries not to think on that for too long. Jackson is another subject Stiles rather not think on. He’s been having to deal with the kanima issue far too much as of late.
Maybe thinking isn’t the best past time at the moment. He crosses over towards the woods as soon as he leaves the comfort of the suburbs. Normally Stiles would steer clear of them, not really wanting to court danger at the moment. Not so soon after the fiasco that was the night of the full moon.
The thought brings his hand over the scratch mark at his side. And it’s really only a mark now. Two days later and the wound is almost halfway healed. That’s not normal, Stiles knows this and it’s only one thing on a list of items he’s trying very hard to ignore. They are small things, all of which he could easily write off as fluke or coincident. He can ignore them, along with the voice in his head saying ‘One’s an incident, two’s a coincident, and three’s a pattern‘; which is ten times worse when it’s being said in his father’s voice. But there are inconsistencies from what Stiles does know that give him a reason to push the signs aside. He can ignore them, and maybe, in a months time, this will all be insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
The sound of water startles Stiles from his thoughts. He’s been walking for a while now, he knows that, too caught up in considering what not to think to really know where he’s gone. It’s already dark, and far too similar to Wednesday night for Stiles’ comfort. The moon gives some light here; the trees not as thick. It’s disconcerting how far Stiles has walked without any real acknowledgement, just allowing his feet and instincts to guide him.
Stiles assumes he’s by the creek that runs through the preserve, a boundary line between state property and Hale land. It’s farther west than the house itself, but a little closer to the road. Close but far enough to make the creek secluded and a little eerie. The sound of water keeps the forest from being silent and ominous, nothing like it had been a few nights back. In the distance Stiles can hear a frog chirping in the night. Whether it be a tree frog or of the more aquatic variety, he doesn’t know nor care, it doesn’t make it any less annoying.
He’s so caught up in the nightly chorus, that he doesn’t register the new tempo until it’s creeping up quickly behind him. There is the leap of his heart, and Stiles is turning quickly towards the very obvious sounds of footsteps. How he missed them, he’s not sure. Too solely focused on nature, which now sounds oddly faint, his ears now too focused on the approach of what could possibly be a threat.
Fingers twitch, and there is a tremor of something forcing him to keep his ground. Muscles are already pulled tight as if ready for a fight. The forest suddenly looks brighter and Stiles can see past the trees and instantly relaxes when he spots his stalker. It’s not as surprising as it should be to see Derek there, looking slightly exasperated at finding Stiles.
“You‘re late,” Derek chastises.
Stiles can only look slightly taken aback. Not entirely sure what he’s being accused of being late for and not really knowing why Derek is suddenly here, with him, of all places. “I wasn’t aware there was something for me to be on time for,” Stiles says, being sure to add a little snark to his words.
Derek looks confused then, moving closer and Stiles isn’t liking the way his racing heart settles at the close proximity. “The meeting,” Derek clarifies. “Scott said you weren’t coming, but that’s never stopped you from making an appearance.”
“I wasn’t coming.”
“Then why are you here?” And wasn’t that the million dollar question at the moment.
Why was Stiles here? Maybe because he can’t sit still to save his life and has ended up letting himself just wander. Something tells him Derek probably isn’t going like that answer; considering how late it is and what happened the last time Stiles had wandered around the woods. But when did that ever stop Stiles?
“I was just going for a walk.”
“A walk?” Derek repeats, not looking entirely convinced.
“A walk. You know one of those things people do with their feet and legs? One step after another. Excellent means of transportation. Go places, see things…” Stiles quickly shuts his mouth at the look he is currently getting from Derek. It’s that look where it seems Derek doesn’t know whether to tear Stiles throat out or just walk away.
“Dammit Stiles!” The curse has Stiles jumping back, which only helps Derek to better push Stiles against a tree, hard bark digging into his back and the heat of a body pressing to his front. “Will you ever learn? Don’t go into the woods alone at night!”
Well isn’t this fun, getting lectured like a child. Stiles could only glare up at Derek. “What are you doing here then?” Because it’s a legitimate question. This is a far cry from the actual Hale house, and even further from the old rundown Railroad Depot.
“Because this is where I had everyone meet.” It isn’t hard to see that Derek was quickly loosing patience. He’s towering over Stiles, looking all intimidating and badass. Really, it’s too bad that Stiles had long since been desensitized to Derek’s usual scare tactics.
“And you decided to stay behind and lurk… Because?” Stiles shifts, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable as the heat of Derek bleeds through their multiple layers of clothing to seep into Stiles’ skin. He can’t look up and meet Derek’s eyes, he can’t move because he feels like he can only bring himself to curl further into Derek’s heat instead of inching away.
Stiles knows Derek is staring at him, can feel the pierce of those calculating eyes. “I’m erasing the evidence of us having been here.” The suddenness of Derek’s voice makes Stiles jump, pushing further into the hard chest before him. A tremor rolls through his body and he inhales deeply. There is a moment of silence, neither of them moving; Stiles’ eyes wide with a dawning revelation of what he’s doing and Derek standing like a motionless statue.
They part in a flash. Stiles trips back around the tree, falling on his butt and looking far too disgruntled. Derek just looks confused and a little unsettled but seems to brush it off like it’s an art form. There’s a sudden stillness that seems uncomfortable; even the too loud frogs in the distance don’t seem to register.
It’s only the erratic thump-thump-thump that Stiles can focus on, a sound that’s becoming far too familiar. The stressed sound of a heart beat, one that does not quite match the tick of Stiles’ own heart. His hand is to his chest, heart racing, but still slow against the pounding thump-thump reaching his ears. So if not his then…
Stiles looks up and meets Derek’s eyes. The thump-thump-thump skips and ups its tempo, sounding harder and louder before settling down to an even and steady pace as Derek finally looks away. It’s confusing and so surreal, and Stiles can only tilt his head in wonder.
“It’s getting late.” Once more, Derek’s voice makes Stiles jump. The spell breaks, and he can only blink the haze away. This is happening far too often to Stiles, and he can feel the scared flutter of his heart against the palm of his hand. He swallows and tries not to think about it. Tries not to look at Derek. He doesn’t want him to see the panic, the fear.
“Right you are!” Stiles jumps up, all put on energy and good spirits. He brushes dirt and leaves from himself, and forces a smile the entire time. “Way past my bed time. Best be getting on my way. Have to get my beauty sleep, you know? These looks don’t happen on their own.” He’s babbling, perhaps it’s just a survival instinct of some sort; Stiles has never really bothered to think on it. Right now it doesn’t really matter, because Derek is looking at him with that look of annoyed amusement and things seem to be coming down to a more normal and stable level.
It helps to ease Stiles’ discomfort, and he now feels relaxed enough to move closer to Derek. He swears he can still feel the phantom touch of Derek’s body heat, but Stiles chalks it up to being a little too hyper aware at the moment. There is one more awkward minute; Stiles standing there unsure if he should just leave or wait for Derek’s dismissal.
In the end, he just decides to leave. “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you later? Only hopefully not in any dark woods or alleys, and please not being a creeper in my room,” Stiles pleads, and perhaps it’s just a little too whiney. Not that he really cares.
He gets all of a foot away before there’s a hand on his shoulder stopping all forward movement and Derek is pushing past to lead the way. “I’ll walk you home.” Is all Derek grumbles out, like it’s some annoying task. And really, it probably is in Derek’s humble opinion. Good thing Stiles isn’t interested in Derek’s opinion, humble or not.
“Well, well… It seems chivalry isn’t dead. Who knew Derek Hale was such a gentlemen.” Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the sarcasm there. “I’m going to be the envy of all the single ladies when they hear.”
That last part earns a glare as a silent warning from Derek, and Stiles has to smother a laugh. Maybe he’s being a little too harsh? But seriously, he’s quite capable of walking himself home. He did get here on his own after all. Maybe it would take him a little longer to weave his way out of the woods, but he’d get home eventually!
“Seriously, I can walk home without an escort.” He tells Derek as much.
Derek answers with a growl and Stiles has to shake off the chill that runs down his spine at the sound. It’s starting to get annoying, all these odd little reactions he’s having towards Derek. Maybe he should get to bed early tonight and actually catch up on his sleep. Clearly it’s messing with his head.
Resigning himself to his fate, Stiles obediently follows Derek. He keeps his head down, eyes to the forest floor, watching for exposed roots which were quickly turning into his archenemies. Stiles isn’t going to find himself tripping over another. They wouldn’t get the best of him.
So of course, it only takes a few minutes before his foot catches on a rock and he tumbles forward. And of course he falls straight into Derek’s chest, strong arms holding him up. At this point Stiles would have rather of fallen face first into the cold November earth. He’s almost sure there’s some higher power laughing its ass off right now.
Stiles breathes in the sour smell of sweat, along side an undercurrent of leather, earth, and vanilla. He sniffs again, begrudgingly admitting to himself that it’s pleasant. Ah hell, Derek shouldn’t smell pleasant. Stiles shouldn’t even be thinking he smells good. Why is he even smelling him? Oh god, he’s sniffing Derek.
“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles and launches himself away. He moves quickly forward, walking in no particular direction, just aiming to put some distance between himself and his dignity that he’s left behind to die a slow agonizing death.
Derek calls out to him, very clear humor in his voice. “The road’s this way.”
That halts Stiles. He looks back, sees the direction Derek is pointing, and heads back that way. Looking for all that he’s worth, that he was never going in the wrong direction in the first place. Fortunately Derek doesn’t say a word, even though Stiles is sure he’s still smirking, and thankfully they continue on their way; not another word being spoken between them.
----------
Stiles lays in his bed, curling into the cocoon of blankets and pillows. His eyes are glued to the window, half expecting Derek to come tearing through it at any given second. It’s been over an hour since Derek dropped Stiles back off at home, but he’s still wound, muscles all tight and tense.
He can smell him. Can smell Derek all around him. Stiles’ hands reek of him, although reek wouldn’t be his ideal word choice. It’s not a bad smell, pleasant and comforting in ways Stiles can barely make sense of. It’s that which has Stiles on edge, fighting against his body’s need to relax and fold into the comfort the scent is providing him.
Slim fingers curl tightly into his bedding, and Stiles tries not to breathe in deep, to smell Derek clinging to his hands. It’s almost as if he’s there, and Stiles is shifting his eyes up towards his window once more. Waiting to see a flash of red eyes, something to show that Derek is there. That it’s the man himself that Stiles is somehow smelling, and not the phantom scent clinging to him. It’s somehow a little less disconcerting.
“I’m not doing this!” Stiles is suddenly up, pacing around his room in irritation. “This is all in my head. It’s all psychosomatic.” There is little reason why he should be smelling Derek in the first place, and maybe that’s what bothers Stiles the most. He’s been with Derek often enough, has touched him, without coming home perfumed in essence of Derek. “Oh my god, I just got skunked. Skunked by a werewolf.”
It was about the only thing that made some semblance of sense that Stiles was willing to acknowledge. Okay, so maybe it didn’t make a whole lick of sense, but it was something more than what he had a moment ago. It doesn’t explain the inexplicable comfort Derek’s scent is giving him, but that is a can of worms Stiles is really unwilling to crack open.
It might be months since the last time Derek has imposed real fear into Stiles, but he isn’t going to go so far as to say that he is comforted by Derek’s presence. At least not in non-life threatening cases. And pacing in his room is far from life threatening.
He finds himself sniffing at his hands once more, jerking them away quickly. “Okay, I think I need to shower.” Stiles isn’t about to allow himself to sit around all night indulging in the smell of Derek. That is just a little bit too weird. The guy might be good looking, Stiles can willingly admit to that, but that doesn’t mean he can sit around snorting up another guys scent. There are lines that Stiles isn’t willing to cross into creepiness. He’s not Derek.
The thought pulls a smirk up at the corner of his lips. No one could really beat Derek in creepiness. “Dude’s a grade A creep,” Stiles says to himself as he finally moves out of his room and into the hall. His dad is asleep, making stealth a must. It’s too bad Stiles isn’t ninja material. He knocks into the wall at least three times for no good reason, and bangs the bathroom door closed behind him. It is a valiant effort, just one doomed to failure. In times like these, it’s good that his dad can be a heavy sleeper. A habit he probably acquired from living with a loud son.
Stiles showers quickly, scrubbing hard at his skin and taking care to afford some gentleness to the healing scratch at his side. He glances at it quickly, notes that it looks better than it had previously. It’s healing fast; faster than the nasty paper cut he got the week before. There is a special brand of obliviousness that Stiles uses to ignore that the bruises and scrapes he received along side Derek’s scratch have healed, no evidence of them having ever marred his skin being left behind.
Things like that, Stiles finds, are better left ignored. Everything is fine, everything is normal. Well normal in Stiles’ sense of the word. Which means nothing is normal, and therefore everything goes. So yeah, with realities like that, is there even a need to worry? Stiles doesn’t think so.
The shower is over and Stiles is back in his room, clean and smelling like soap, before he can think anymore on what an abnormality his life has become. Because really, who wants to think about shit like that when it’s-- He looks at the clock on his nightstand. Two-thirteen in the morning.
He yawns, suddenly very tired and very ready to hit the sack. The pile of blankets and pillows look welcoming, and who’s Stiles to keep himself from temptation. Especially where sleep in concerned. He curls up tight, a mimicry of early that night. There is a discomfort there, something very much mental, as he curls in tighter, hands curling into fists right under his nose.
There is only the smell of vanilla soap, sweet, far too sweet. Stiles can’t help but think it lacks something. A woodiness that brings back the reason for Stiles having showered in the first place. The thought is disquieting, but he’s far too tired now to fret over it now. It’s not his fault his brain if sending him conflicting emotions.
Stiles presses closer, unconsciously searching for the scent that had eased away all the tension and stress, as he falls deeper and deeper into sleep. In the wake of the pungent sweetness, he finds a subtle undercurrent of what he’s quickly recognizing as Derek. When Stiles finds that, his whole body relaxes in his sleep and he doesn’t wake up till late morning.
----------
It’s almost noon when Stiles wakes. The sun is up too high and that in itself is odd. Stiles is usually an early riser on weekends, always has been and figures he always will be. Why sleep when there is so much to be done elsewhere? At least that’s how he’s always chosen to rationalize it.
He yawns, stretches, and cracks a few kinks in his joints and back. It feels good, and Stiles thinks he’s more well rested than he’s ever been. Which is awesome. Really it is, but it’s Saturday. And really is there any reason to spend a day off from school laying around in bed all morning? Especially when he’s very much not sick or injured.
No, most definitely not!
Stiles figures he might have broken a world record in the time it takes him to get dressed and head downstairs. His dad is home, watching TV and seemingly making the most of a weekend off work. Well, mostly off work. Stiles knows his dad will probably be heading to the station tonight, but at least they have the day. Which is something.
“Hey sleepy head,” his dad calls, looking up from over the back of the sofa as Stiles comes into the room.
Stiles just sticks out his tongue and moves into the kitchen. “I can sleep in as much as I want.” He huffs, and shuffles through the pantry. It’s late enough for lunch, but his tummy is wanting for something sweetly good in the breakfast variety. So brunch it is!
Three waffles are popped into the toaster, a glass of milk is poured, and sugar free syrup is thrown out onto the kitchen island. Stiles can’t really stand the fake butter he makes his dad buy, so he forgoes it and deals with only the sugar free syrup. Lack of butter is a small price to pay for his dad’s overall health.
He pops his first dose of meds for the day, downing the pill with his milk just as the toaster snaps up with his slightly burnt Eggos. Everything is normal, almost quiet and a slightly standard morning. Well ignoring the fact that it’s working past noon now.
The waffles are finished off well enough, but they leave him slightly less than satisfied. “When do you plan of having lunch?” Stiles calls from the kitchen. He could very well run straight into actually eating lunch, but if at all possible he’d rather sit down and eat it with his dad. It’s not often they get to enjoy meals together. Not with the craziness at the station, and the werewolf or kanima issues Stiles seems to be dealing with constantly.
“We can hit Margie’s if you don’t mind me stopping by a few places in town before hand.”
And that, right there, was why he loved his dad. It only takes them a half hour to get ready before they are out of the house and piling into Stiles’ Jeep. He let’s his dad drive, enjoying being the passenger for once. It’s a rather pretty day, the autumn air nice if not a little chilly. A small part of Stiles hopes that they get a bit of snow this winter. It’s always a gambling hope it seems.
The shops in town are already decked out for Christmas. There are wreaths on doors and Christmas trees in store front windows. They driving into the older part of town, the historic district, with it’s town square and Courthouse at it’s center. Everything seems too festive, and Stiles wonders how much different this Christmas will be. His reach of friends has grown exponentially, and he’s pretty sure his pocket book will suffer for that.
Stiles’ mind is still in a fuzzy pleasant state of holiday cheeriness when the Jeep is pulled next to one of the mom and pop hardware stores. It’s one his dad has been going to as long as Stiles can remember; the old couple who own it having watched Stiles grow with his dad’s every purchase. He remembers when Mrs. Renolds used to give him lollipops. Truthfully, Stiles now thinks it was only a ploy to get him to shut up, and quit asking what every little thing was for.
The smile that has been slipping onto Stiles’ face is instantly stripped as soon as the car door opens, and a rush of cold wind hits him in the face. His reaction is sudden and seems to startle his dad. Stiles whips his head around, looking down the street behind him, following the very prominent scent of vanilla, leather, and woodlands. Breathing in deep, he takes a few steps forward, being pulled by what seems like an invisible string.
“Stiles!” It’s his dad’s voice that seems to snap him out of it. There’s a very embarrassing moment where Stiles realizes that he has been sniffing the air, nose up and looking far too much like a bloodhound on the track of a fox for anyone’s real comfort. He startles back, looking at his dad and then back the way the smell is wafting in from. “Are you okay?”
And no, Stiles doesn’t think he’s okay. Really, Stiles’ thinks he’s off his fucking rocker, but he’s not about to tell his dad that. “I’m fine. Awesome really. I think I might be hungrier that I thought. Swear I can smell Margie’s meatloaf from here.”
It’s doesn’t seem like his dad is quite buying it, and Stiles is really just looking for an escape at this point. Because there is a very large part, extensively large part, of himself that needs to make sure that this isn’t what Stiles is thinking. He needs to prove that what ever this smell is, there isn’t one Derek Hale attached to the end of it. He’s really hoping that he’ll run into that boutique on the corner of Main and 5th and find that it’s their new winter fragrance being pumped into the air to drag in customers.
Stiles really hopes it’s the boutique’s new fragrance. He might even buy it just to use it to make fun of Derek smelling like a woman’s perfume. And Stiles is spacing out again. His dad is staring at him slightly concerned and looking ready to drive them back home without lunch, no passing go, and certainly not collecting two hundred dollars.
“I’m fine! Really!” Stiles backs up, putting some space between himself and his dad. “I’m just going to go… yeah. I’m just going to go see if that place has that thing I want.” His arms are flailing in the air, trying to portray some imaginary item. “You know, that one thing! I’ll be back!” And Stiles is running off down the sidewalk before his dad can say two words about it.
He’s sure to take a quick and careful glance back, slowing his pace when he sees his dad walking into the hardware store, shaking his head as he goes. “That was close,” Stiles says to himself, letting out a relieved breath. He spins on his heal, almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk and moves quickly to catch himself. That would just be his luck, but Stiles doesn’t let that put him off his quest.
Already he can see the boutique, and his heart is speeding up as he comes closer and closer. It’s an anxious excitement, a prospect of things actually turning out to be less than what he feared them to be. Woman with gaudy pink bags come in and out, and the smell only grows stronger as Stiles gets only a few feet away.
He’s just about to reach the first full glass window of the store front when suddenly, almost too subtle for Stiles to have sensed it, the potency of the scent changes. It’s just a little less than it was, the change almost unnoticeable, but now that Stiles has realized it, he can not just un-smell it.
Back tracking, Stiles finds the source of the smell. It’s most definitely not the boutique, but the used bookstore next door. Well isn’t that just a big slap in the face. “I hate you.” He makes it a point to look skyward before focusing back on the innocent enough bookstore. Which innocent it is not. Stiles is not going to be drawn in by the place’s harmless façade.
So of course, Stiles finds himself walking into what will probably be the den of the lion. And why in the hell is he comparing a smell, a very nice smell, to that of a vicious predator? Because, Stiles reminds himself, stranger things have happened.
The bookstore smells old. Underneath the sweet woodiness, there is mold and the smell of ink. For a moment it seems almost overpowering, the combination of two such strong scents. Stiles sneezes, moving quickly through shelves and shelves of books. His feet are leading him again, moving without much prompting, seeming to follow the trail of sweetness.
Further and further he moves, pushing past a rotting door and through a narrow doorway and back into a smaller room stuffed to the ceiling with old leather bound tomes. These books seem to have seen much better days. Some lack proper covers, and some look ready to fall to dust at the slightest touch. He happens to glance at a few of the titles. Most of them are novels that have little meaning to him, but some, a few of the more impressive and worn additions are occult or historical in nature. He recognizes some titles written in Latin, German, and some in languages of an unknown origin.
Stiles feels his fingers itching to touch, the smell suddenly a distant importance. His thumb brushes caked on dust from a spine of a book on herbalism, old and with it’s gold details flaking off. The smell is back then, stronger than ever, just a moment before a very familiar voice has him jumping around in surprise.
“You’re not supposed to be back here.”
Derek is standing in front of him, looking just as shocked as Stiles is. “Oh my fucking god. Do you want to give me a heart attack and don’t answer that. You can’t pop out of nowhere and yell at people. I’m going to die of shock one day, and then what? Who’s window are you going to creep through then? Huh? I’ll tell you right now no one else is going to put up with that sh--”
“Stiles!” And that effectively shuts Stiles up mid rant. Derek is holding a stack of books, placing them down the next second and coming up far too much into Stiles’ personal space. “Why are you here?”
And why does that seem like the most asked question in Stiles’ life at the moment? “Why are you here?” His nose scrunches and just like the night before, Stiles is overcome with the smell that seems to be uniquely Derek’s. Once again, he finds himself pitching forward, moving into the warmth and comfort of the scent.
Derek is the one to move back this time. His eyes flash read and Stiles feels the comfort drain away just as quickly as it has come. “Why are you here Stiles?” Derek’s voice is commanding and makes Stiles fearful in a way that it has not in many months. It’s a tone he’s only heard used on Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and sometimes Scott.
Stiles finds himself shrinking back, compelled to please, to answer. “I don’t know, okay!” At least he can save some of his dignity and keep some bite to his reply. “It’s your stupid fault anyways. You reek man. Like I can’t be within a mile of you and not smell you. Take a bath, or lay off the Bath and Body Works will you? You’re worse than a skunk. Maybe not as bad smelling, but just as annoying.”
“You followed my scent?”
And that right there, hearing Derek say that, drives a nail home. Stiles tracked down Derek, by following his scent, something he should have never of been able to do. Something he hasn’t been able to do since…
All color drains from Stiles face and he’s quickly backing up out of the room. “False alarm. Boutique next door, stinking up the whole town. Should be a felony. It’s been messing with my head. Breathing in too many chemicals and all that.”
“Stiles…”
“Oh, I know what you’re going to say. Silly Stiles, running in and annoying you over nothing. My bad, won’t happen again. I’ll leave you to your reading. Might suggest you update your book clubs reading selection to something from this century, but who’s judging? I’m not. I’m just leaving and… bye.” Stiles is out of the backroom and practically running out of the bookstore in less than a blink of an eye. Finstock would be proud.
It’s almost a blessing when he spots his dad leaning against the Jeep waiting for him. This is normal, this is something he can focus on. It’s just him and his dad, out running errands, going to lunch, and definitely not worrying or thinking about anything remotely supernatural.
“You okay there sport?” his dad asks.
Stiles just wants to scream ‘No, nothing is okay. Everything is wrong. My world is crumbling around me.’ but that would be admitting to something being wrong. And right now, in this moment, Stiles wants to hold on to this moment. To this one normal day, even if after today things might be a little more abnormal than they have ever been before. He swallows thickly, ignores the smell of Derek still surrounding him and smiles bright and happy for his dad.
“I’m good. They were just sold out of my thing. I’m going to just have to come back later to get it. But food! You promised me Margie’s! I expect a chocolate milkshake, curly fries, and their double bacon cheeseburger!”
His dad returns the smile and turns a hopeful look towards Stiles. “Don’t suppose you’ll allow me the same indulgence?”
“Not a chance! I want you to live long enough to see your grandkids.” They both laugh, Stiles being batted on the back of his head as he moves around the Jeep to get into the passenger’s seat. This is how Stiles wants it, and he’ll hold onto it for as long as he can. For his dad’s sake and for his own.
So for another moment more, Stiles sinks into his denial, and it’s never felt so good.
--------
The denial last the rest of the weekend. Which is something Stiles isn’t bargaining on. Scott comes over Saturday night while his dad is at the station. They play Battlefield, watch a few movies they’ve seen a dozen times over, and Stiles makes it a point to keep pack business off the table. Scott is wonderful and proves the point why he’s Stiles’ best friend by keeping the night werewolf free.
When he leaves Sunday morning, Stiles busies himself with chores and homework. His dad comes home for lunch and stays till after dinner. They talk about Lacrosse and Stiles weasels some information out of his dad about how things are going at the station. It’s nice, laid back and a little more than Stiles could hope for. It’s been a relatively great weekend, and in the spirit of all things good that happen to Stiles, it comes to a fucking horribly epic end.
Stiles goes to bed, like any other night. He pointedly does not check on the scratch on his side, and even more pointedly locks his window. Little good it will do him in the end, but it makes Stiles feel a little better. When he closes his eyes, he falls asleep without incident, curled into a ball, and hands pressed closely to his nose.
It’s when Stiles wakes that his world officially crumbles. He’s standing, feet bare, in the middle of the woods. It’s cold, and he’s only in his flannel pants and thin night shirt. For a couple of minutes he can only blink and stare, disoriented and slightly panicked. “What the hell?” He’s in a part of the forest he doesn’t recognize, not that it being pitch black and in the middle of the fucking night helps much.
The more he blinks and focuses his eyes, the better he can see, and at least that is some good news. Although the bad news being that it seems like he can add sleep walking to that long list of things that he’s trying to ignore. He tries to remember coming here, faint flashes of memory being all he has to work with. It’s almost like he’d been in a daze. He remembers leaving through his window, which, once again, “What the hell?” There is the feeling like it’s all been a really weird dream, but here he is, in the woods. Not really pointing at him jumping through a window and cantering out towards the woods being a dream.
Everything is silent while Stiles focuses on his mini freak-out. It seems like his life grants him a few minutes of panicked reprieve until a howl cuts through the night. Stiles stills instantly, intent and waiting. He knows that howl, he’s not sure how or why, but he knows it. That warm sense of comfort and calm washes over him at the sound of it, a vast cry from when last he heard a wolf howl, on the night of the full moon.
The howl comes once more, and Stiles finds himself taking an unknowing step forward. He glares down at his feet, taking a deliberate step back. It’s a pointless endeavor, he knows this, but at least now he can say he tried to stop himself. Before he can think better of it, he goes with his gut feeling and follows the path where the howl had come from. At the very least maybe he’ll find answers there. Answers he knows he doesn’t want, but ones he knows he can’t hide from forever.
Twigs cut at his bare feet and arms, but the pain is gone as soon as it comes. The cold is a distant memory as he moves faster and faster through the woods, feeling impelled to run. So he does just that, racing with the night breeze rushing past and it is exciting; liberating in a way that Stiles can’t really put words to. It’s like breaking free for the first time, and he takes the feeling and the exhilaration with it.
He’s not sure how fast he’s going, faster than he’s ever run before, that much is for sure, but all to soon it’s over. Suddenly he’s overwhelmed by what he knows now to be Derek. The smell of the man is all around Stiles and he knows, even if he can not yet see him, that Derek is just lurking within the dark recesses of trees.
“I know you’re there,” Stiles calls, without even thinking about it. Because Stiles shouldn’t know he’s there. He shouldn’t even be out in the woods. Especially not at night, and very much alone. Derek has told him enough times before, but really, when has that ever stopped Stiles from doing anything.
When Derek stalks out between two tall oaks, Stiles is not in the least bit surprised. In fact he finds it within himself to look slightly smug. Like, ha! I so called it. You can’t hide from me. Or something along those lines.
“Did you track my scent here?” Derek is the one smirking now, all mocking and grim amusement.
Touche, Stiles thinks blandly. “No,” he ends up lying, or half lying. “Just thought I’d take another midnight stroll. Although really, I think we might need to stop meeting like this. People are going to start talking. Sheriffs son having nightly tryst with someone suspected of murder. Oh, I can hear the ladies at the bingo hall gossiping away already. My image of as a good respectable young man will be ruined forever. What ever shall I do?” He says the last part with a southern twang, and maybe that is over the top, but really it’s all just a diversion in one way or another.
It doesn’t seem to dissuade Derek in the least, he’s sauntering up to Stiles, looking far too much like the predator he is. “Don’t you know why you’re here?” he asks Stiles, and just from the tone Stiles can tell Derek already knows the answer to that.
“Late night cardio?” Stiles tries again and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s going to run out of quick witted replies.
“Guess again.”
“Frolicking with the fairy folk?”
“Wrong.”
“Cow tipping?”
“Now you’re not even trying.” Derek looks a little put off, but his eyes only harden all the more. They flash red and Stiles stomach seems to twist into itself. “I called you here Stiles. I called you, and you came.”
“Did you do some sleep walking hocus pocus over the phone? Cause really that’s quite impress--”
Derek growls, cutting him off effectively if nothing else. “Do you know why a wolf howls? Do you, Stiles?”
Of course Stiles knows why a wolf howls. He ran around with werewolves after all. It is one of those essential need to know things. Only now, at this instant, Stiles wishes he hasn’t the foggiest clue why a wolf howled. Ignorance was bliss, and sadly it wasn’t a bliss he was privy to.
“Come on Stiles. I thought you knew this.” Derek prompts, and there is a tremor in his voice that sets Stiles on edge. It’s unsettling, and he finds the same unsteadiness to his own words when he finally speaks.
“They howl to call their pack. To signal their location so the other wolves can find them.” The words feel like lead as Stiles speaks. Each word dropping from his tongue with a bitter taste.
“I called you here,” Derek repeats, stressing ‘called’ in a particular way that Stiles knows just what he actually means by that. “You heard me, and you came.”
Stiles’ eyes go wide and he takes a few steps back. He laughs nervously as he goes, denial still fighting to stay in place even as it’s forcefully being torn away. “No…. no, that’s not…” There’s really nothing to say, and that in itself is infuriating. Stiles always can say something. Spin his words and get out of just about any situation, but no words are forthcoming this time around. His mouth is dry, heart pumping too loud and fast. There is a ringing in his ears, and he knows he’s on the edge of a panic attack, pivoting back a forth as if contemplating the fall.
“Stiles!” Derek is close again, his sweet earthy scent wrapping around Stiles, calming him and luring him into a sense of security. He allows it, hand coming up to brace himself against Derek’s chest and Derek’s own hand comes to wrap around Stiles’ bicep, steadying him and supporting. “Did you get bit?”
Oh god. Stiles is then feeling sick all over again. He feels like he’ll retch all over Derek’s feet if he isn’t careful. The world is spinning and he has to get away. Twisting to the side he empties is stomach with a horrible wet cough, choking on the bile. “No.” It’s all he can get out after a moment, and between dry heaves. “No.”
Derek’s hands are suddenly on him, warm and sure as they pull and press against Stiles. They yank up his shirt and span out against his naked skin. Stiles knows what they are searching for, and he knows Derek will find it just moments before he does. Those warm fingers trace the slightly welted remains of the scratch. It’s hardly there. Hardly noticeable, but for that moment it seems like the most embolden proclamation. Like a death wish written out in red.
“No.” Stiles tries for again, pushing away at Derek. It’s of no use, he’s already far too mentally and physically fatigued to fight. He doesn’t realize he’s crying, not until the smell of salt hits him. Knowing that, as a human, he should never be able to sense such a subtle odor has him crying all the harder.
Stiles’ legs give out from under him and he falls to the forest floor, Derek easing him down as he holds him. Quiet whispers of, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” are given and Stiles wishes, really wishes that that could make all of this better.
The only blessing is that Stiles can hear the steady beat of Derek’s heart. Through every apologetic word, Stiles listens. It might not be much, but not once does Derek’s heart stutter. That, at least, comforts him. It quiets his sobs, and calms his own racing heart. Now if only ‘Sorry’ could actually make any of this better.
“Yeah,” Stiles finally says. “I’m sorry too.”
And if there is a little bit of resentment to Stiles words, he can’t really bring himself to care.
___________
To Be Continued . . .