It All Comes Down To You
Title: It All Comes Down To You
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 2600
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Derek doesn't know how to do this like a person. He's never been good with words.
AN: Fourth in the Milkshakes and Matchsticks series.
Derek hadn't expected it to be so loud.
The inside of his head had been quiet for a long time, all edges and anger, sometimes suffocating but always his own. When he'd first become an Alpha, when he'd first started to build his own pack, the noise had been a promise, a beginning. Being an Alpha means being aware of all the wolves in his territory. Even the ones who aren't his, who don't want to be his, skirt the edges, willing to help but not to stay, not to commit, not to belong.
His pack is all noise at the moment - and yes, there's strength in it, there's power in it. But there's no peace, it's a faltering, discordant mess. No one is settled. Derek's not naive enough to think there won't be something new on the horizon eventually, something that will threaten and shake and bite at them, and at the moment their unity is a tattered, miserable thing.
Derek fully expects Peter to betray him at some point too, now, or later. He's not the same, not all there, something broken and put back inside the same skin. It's easy enough to see that parts of him are missing - like they're missing from Derek. The difference is that Peter doesn't seem to care, leaving the gaping holes as they are. But he still feels familiar - for all that he smells like smoke and lies - and Derek finds himself keeping his distance. Because the urge to tear into him is not all that much stronger than the urge to lean into his space, ask him to make sense of things, ask him what he should do. But Derek knows he can't allow himself to do that. That he can't show Peter weakness.
Boyd and Erica are still quiet and guilty, apologies made, acceptance back into the pack given. Though they're still not willing to admit that they were wrong, that they didn't make what they thought was the best decision at the time. Derek has been telling himself that they're young, they don't know any better. But he knows it doesn't matter, because he still feels it, he feels that betrayal like sharp stones inside his chest. He never would have run, it wouldn't have been a question of not doing it, every cell in his body, right down to the marrow would have said stay.
The fact that Derek ultimately wasn't good enough for the loyalty of the wolves he'd made - tells him he needs to try harder, that he needs to be better. Because when it came down to it they hadn't trusted him to protect them.
Isaac's a quiet, lean shape by the train, waiting, waiting to be told what to do, not just obedience there but trust as well. Trust is more complicated, and something Derek wants, though he still isn't sure if he deserves it, or if he can give it back. But Isaac is loyal, and that makes the noise grate a little less.
Jackson isn't here - Jackson is learning from Scott, who's still determined to stumble his way blindly through this without Derek. But he seems to pick up allies almost by accident, winning loyalty with a combination of hopeless naivety, and a genuine desire to protect people, while making stupid decisions on the way. Derek could hate him for that, but Scott is almost impossible to hate. All he manages instead is some sort of frustrated, jealous pride, though Scott isn't even his. Because Scott's all heart and optimism, but he manages to make that something other than weakness. Derek knows Scott would fight to the death if he had to, to protect the things he cares about. If Derek had Scott - if he really had his loyalty, he thinks this would be easier.
They're all learning their own lessons, sometimes better than the ones he's trying to teach them, but how can Derek blame them when he's stumbling his way through most of this as he goes? Sometimes he feels a hundred years old, watching people make old mistakes, over and over. But sometimes he still feels like a kid who knows nothing at all, and he desperately wants someone to tell him what to do. Which path to take, how to make this work, what he's supposed to do next.
On bad days he thinks everyone knows what they're doing but him - and he feels like he's constantly fighting to make sure no one sees that. Because no one would follow him if they knew. So he pushes and he demands, and he holds on too tight, and he layers over the noise with his own. Being an Alpha shouldn't just be about intimidation and violence, but Derek doesn't know how to do anything else - or maybe that's just the only thing that comes easy. He knows how to be angry, he knows how to train people for war, for the very worst that could happen. Derek knows that his best just wasn't good enough. That he's going to have to be more, going to have to try harder, carve off pieces of himself if need be, to prove that he can do it, that he's strong enough. Because if Derek can't do this then what the hell is he good for?
His phone vibrates in his pocket, an ugly shake of sound and jittery motion. He digs it out, sees Stiles's name and thinks - can't help but think - what's gone wrong now?
He takes a breath, and thumbs it open.
Hey, do you want to go see a movie with me?
There's no way to misinterpret that. But Derek finds himself trying to think of one anyway, reading it over and frowning. Until he has no choice but to accept that it must mean exactly what it says. He's not sure what to do with that. He realises he's been holding his breath for almost a minute, heartbeat slowly climbing. He lets it out, forces himself to relax. He's been trying not to think about Stiles and now - he should have known really, because Stiles never does what's expected of him.
His thumb hovers over the 'delete' button. He's the Alpha and he can't. He has responsibilities, he can't have distractions. He holds his phone for so long the screen goes dark, message gone.
The last time he saw Stiles he was pressed into red leather, elbows balanced on the shiny surface of the table, smear of milkshake on his lower lip. His hands had left his glass on every fourth word, demonstration or gesticulation, or a little of both.
The noise Derek had been hearing ever since he first killed Peter had almost been drowned out by Stiles's own brand of movement and sound. The rush of breath and speech, happy enough to work under its own steam. Ceaseless and curious, but never expecting anything from him, never demanding anything. Something like normal, or what Derek could remember of it, most of it was too different, and too long ago, to try and compare the two. But it hadn't been bad, and though he'd forgotten a lot of the words for things that weren't bad he still remembered. Derek had indulged in it, felt a little like a thief. Sitting there drinking melted ice cream, and trying to catch the edges of his anger before wondering why - what did he need it for, in a diner full of slow people that smelled like pie, and ice cream, and contentment?
It had been different, and there had been no talk about anything recent, no talk about anything personal, as if, even at speed, Stiles was carefully sorting his words and deciding which one's were safe. Derek had appreciated that, and he'd been compelled to try and show something like gratitude, but it had been a long time since he'd done that too. He'd shared his food, strangely irritated when Stiles didn't react like he should. But he had no reason to. He's human - and for all that Derek can see and hear and smell so much, he's never been good at predicting what people will do. Been worse at predicting why people do what they do. He'd found himself judging Stiles. Young and soft, but clever and unafraid, willing to push, to protect, willing to say no, willing to risk for him - against all sense, or logic. All the things Derek needed, that he'd been trying to piece together to form a whole, pulling and pushing to make his pack work, in angry, frustrated desperation.
But then Derek had caught himself watching the slow twist of long hands instead, the bend of a pale throat, and the curve and un-curve of Stiles's mouth, flare of breath, sticky-sweet.
Unexpected and sharp and dangerous. Derek had stopped breathing and thought, is that what this is about?
It'd been been a while since his first instinct hadn't been to tear that feeling to pieces. Though he probably should have done, because Stiles is sixteen, and human, and already in far too deep. But then Stiles had found somewhere that his noise and Derek's could meet in the middle. A stilted, clumsy space where Derek found his voice. He'd found himself talking to fill the silence, trying to keep the awkward flow of words going. He had no idea how Stiles found it so easy, and he knew how clumsy his own attempts were. Anger coming far too easily, when embarrassment probably should have been a better fit, floundering for something to say with a savage sort of frustration that had to have been so obvious. But Stiles hadn't seemed to mind, he'd smiled like he'd never expected Derek to even try. Coaxing opinions out of him like he knew what to do with them, treating them like they mattered in some way. Derek hadn't talked to anyone in a very long time. It had been strangely easy to breathe all of a sudden.
Derek had only asked Stiles to come because he'd agreed to it, stupidly, in the dark, to a boy too drunk to know any better, too drunk to even remember. And maybe that was an excuse - maybe. Because no one had ever asked Derek before, and Stiles had been so happy about his grudging, barely audible assent. It had seemed wrong to break his word. One milkshake, Derek had thought he could put up with one milkshake, and a few minutes of stiff, uncomfortable company. He could do that. But it hadn't been that at all.
He hadn't expected it to be almost-familiar, in a way that he'd forgotten conversation could be. In a way that hurt a little bit, like using rusted over parts of himself. But he'd wanted more of it anyway - and he'd missed it when it was gone.
He'd assumed the whole thing would be done with. That his obvious inability to even form basic sentences, or have any idea of the right way to act would make sure of it. Even Derek knows that threats and insults are not part of dating etiquette. Nor is disappearing at the end of it without a word, as if you want nothing more than to get away. But he'd thought it would be for the best. Stiles would drift back to where he belonged, and Derek back to his responsibilities, to the decisions he'd made, to make the best of them - no, to try and make something better of them, and if he'd taken a little of that calm with him then there was no one to call him on it.
Derek had never expected anything else. People have been interested in Derek. They've been interested for as long as it took them to get a look underneath the surface. He's seen people physically recoil away from him, ordinary people with their muted senses, who shouldn't have been able to tell anything about him. Even they'd known he was too damaged to be worth it. But Derek had made himself very good at not caring.
He's given Stiles every reason not to be interested, more than most even. But now there's this, hopeful, completely unexpected - eleven words. Derek doesn't know how to do this like a person. He's never been good with words. Laura was always the one who knew what to say.
He shoves his phone back in his pocket and heads outside. He stalks the perimeter in long, slow strides. There's nothing threatening for miles, but there's the cold air, and the tread of his own feet and it's quiet enough. He reminds himself of all the reasons it wouldn't work, he tells himself all the ways it would go wrong, of all the ways he would ruin Stiles. He doesn't go back inside until he's been through every horrible one of them.
All the members of the pack have gone still, carefully watching him. They can feel the tension but they're not sure what it's for, whether it's something they have to react to.
Derek ignores them, makes sure they know it's nothing they need to concern themselves with. He slips his phone back out and opens the message again. It hasn't changed. Casual, quietly hopeful, Derek isn't even sure Stiles is expecting a reply. He needs to say no. Stiles is a sixteen year old boy, and he doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know what Derek is, or what he's even asking, not really.
It shouldn't be this difficult to say no.
No.
There, there it is, stark and simple, two letters, no chance of misinterpreting that. No way Stiles could think he's mistaken about the meaning. But Derek knows the abrupt dismissal isn't fair.
Stiles, no, I can't.
Even that feels like weakness, like giving too much away. Though out of context it means nothing at all.
We can't do that.
Simple admission, not weak. No way of misinterpreting that either. Though something tells Derek that Stiles will question it anyway. He'll want to know why. Something firmer then.
It's not happening.
His thumb hovers over the button, so close, almost touching. It sounds right to him but something tells him it's still wrong - too brief, too sharp. He knows how hard it is to judge tone from words. Derek doesn't mean it cruelly, but he thinks Stiles will take it that way anyway. Derek's never cared if people take offence before. This is complicated already, and he's never been good at complicated. Complicated always ends badly.
He tries to make it better.
This is a bad idea. I don't know what I'm doing.
There's far too much truth in that.
You're sixteen, and I will fuck this up.
Derek deletes that in one, heavy stab.
I'm sorry.
He deletes that one too.
I'm not what you think I am.
If he tries to do this then things will be expected of him, things Derek doesn't think he can do. It would be easier for both of them if he stops it here.
Forget it happened.
Something about that pulls his upper lip back from his teeth. Because clearly Stiles hasn't forgotten. The tentative question, offered so casually, like it's nothing at all, like it could just be that simple, as if anything could ever be that simple. After everything that's happened between them, Stiles shouldn't even want this.
Derek knows that the right thing to do is to say no.
But no one has ever asked Derek to go anywhere. No one has ever wanted to spend time with him for no reason at all. No one has ever known who he is, and what he is - what he's done - and still wanted him. He already knows what the rest of his life is, an endless series of cold nights, and buildings that smell like dust and oil and smoke, training for anything, for everything, always watching, waiting for someone, something, to find a weakness and tear his house down. Derek just wants to stop thinking about that for a while.
He wants something - he wants something else.
His thumb moves, deletes and then retypes.
Ok
He sends it, then squeezes his phone until it cracks sharply under his fingers.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 2600
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Derek doesn't know how to do this like a person. He's never been good with words.
AN: Fourth in the Milkshakes and Matchsticks series.
Derek hadn't expected it to be so loud.
The inside of his head had been quiet for a long time, all edges and anger, sometimes suffocating but always his own. When he'd first become an Alpha, when he'd first started to build his own pack, the noise had been a promise, a beginning. Being an Alpha means being aware of all the wolves in his territory. Even the ones who aren't his, who don't want to be his, skirt the edges, willing to help but not to stay, not to commit, not to belong.
His pack is all noise at the moment - and yes, there's strength in it, there's power in it. But there's no peace, it's a faltering, discordant mess. No one is settled. Derek's not naive enough to think there won't be something new on the horizon eventually, something that will threaten and shake and bite at them, and at the moment their unity is a tattered, miserable thing.
Derek fully expects Peter to betray him at some point too, now, or later. He's not the same, not all there, something broken and put back inside the same skin. It's easy enough to see that parts of him are missing - like they're missing from Derek. The difference is that Peter doesn't seem to care, leaving the gaping holes as they are. But he still feels familiar - for all that he smells like smoke and lies - and Derek finds himself keeping his distance. Because the urge to tear into him is not all that much stronger than the urge to lean into his space, ask him to make sense of things, ask him what he should do. But Derek knows he can't allow himself to do that. That he can't show Peter weakness.
Boyd and Erica are still quiet and guilty, apologies made, acceptance back into the pack given. Though they're still not willing to admit that they were wrong, that they didn't make what they thought was the best decision at the time. Derek has been telling himself that they're young, they don't know any better. But he knows it doesn't matter, because he still feels it, he feels that betrayal like sharp stones inside his chest. He never would have run, it wouldn't have been a question of not doing it, every cell in his body, right down to the marrow would have said stay.
The fact that Derek ultimately wasn't good enough for the loyalty of the wolves he'd made - tells him he needs to try harder, that he needs to be better. Because when it came down to it they hadn't trusted him to protect them.
Isaac's a quiet, lean shape by the train, waiting, waiting to be told what to do, not just obedience there but trust as well. Trust is more complicated, and something Derek wants, though he still isn't sure if he deserves it, or if he can give it back. But Isaac is loyal, and that makes the noise grate a little less.
Jackson isn't here - Jackson is learning from Scott, who's still determined to stumble his way blindly through this without Derek. But he seems to pick up allies almost by accident, winning loyalty with a combination of hopeless naivety, and a genuine desire to protect people, while making stupid decisions on the way. Derek could hate him for that, but Scott is almost impossible to hate. All he manages instead is some sort of frustrated, jealous pride, though Scott isn't even his. Because Scott's all heart and optimism, but he manages to make that something other than weakness. Derek knows Scott would fight to the death if he had to, to protect the things he cares about. If Derek had Scott - if he really had his loyalty, he thinks this would be easier.
They're all learning their own lessons, sometimes better than the ones he's trying to teach them, but how can Derek blame them when he's stumbling his way through most of this as he goes? Sometimes he feels a hundred years old, watching people make old mistakes, over and over. But sometimes he still feels like a kid who knows nothing at all, and he desperately wants someone to tell him what to do. Which path to take, how to make this work, what he's supposed to do next.
On bad days he thinks everyone knows what they're doing but him - and he feels like he's constantly fighting to make sure no one sees that. Because no one would follow him if they knew. So he pushes and he demands, and he holds on too tight, and he layers over the noise with his own. Being an Alpha shouldn't just be about intimidation and violence, but Derek doesn't know how to do anything else - or maybe that's just the only thing that comes easy. He knows how to be angry, he knows how to train people for war, for the very worst that could happen. Derek knows that his best just wasn't good enough. That he's going to have to be more, going to have to try harder, carve off pieces of himself if need be, to prove that he can do it, that he's strong enough. Because if Derek can't do this then what the hell is he good for?
His phone vibrates in his pocket, an ugly shake of sound and jittery motion. He digs it out, sees Stiles's name and thinks - can't help but think - what's gone wrong now?
He takes a breath, and thumbs it open.
Hey, do you want to go see a movie with me?
There's no way to misinterpret that. But Derek finds himself trying to think of one anyway, reading it over and frowning. Until he has no choice but to accept that it must mean exactly what it says. He's not sure what to do with that. He realises he's been holding his breath for almost a minute, heartbeat slowly climbing. He lets it out, forces himself to relax. He's been trying not to think about Stiles and now - he should have known really, because Stiles never does what's expected of him.
His thumb hovers over the 'delete' button. He's the Alpha and he can't. He has responsibilities, he can't have distractions. He holds his phone for so long the screen goes dark, message gone.
The last time he saw Stiles he was pressed into red leather, elbows balanced on the shiny surface of the table, smear of milkshake on his lower lip. His hands had left his glass on every fourth word, demonstration or gesticulation, or a little of both.
The noise Derek had been hearing ever since he first killed Peter had almost been drowned out by Stiles's own brand of movement and sound. The rush of breath and speech, happy enough to work under its own steam. Ceaseless and curious, but never expecting anything from him, never demanding anything. Something like normal, or what Derek could remember of it, most of it was too different, and too long ago, to try and compare the two. But it hadn't been bad, and though he'd forgotten a lot of the words for things that weren't bad he still remembered. Derek had indulged in it, felt a little like a thief. Sitting there drinking melted ice cream, and trying to catch the edges of his anger before wondering why - what did he need it for, in a diner full of slow people that smelled like pie, and ice cream, and contentment?
It had been different, and there had been no talk about anything recent, no talk about anything personal, as if, even at speed, Stiles was carefully sorting his words and deciding which one's were safe. Derek had appreciated that, and he'd been compelled to try and show something like gratitude, but it had been a long time since he'd done that too. He'd shared his food, strangely irritated when Stiles didn't react like he should. But he had no reason to. He's human - and for all that Derek can see and hear and smell so much, he's never been good at predicting what people will do. Been worse at predicting why people do what they do. He'd found himself judging Stiles. Young and soft, but clever and unafraid, willing to push, to protect, willing to say no, willing to risk for him - against all sense, or logic. All the things Derek needed, that he'd been trying to piece together to form a whole, pulling and pushing to make his pack work, in angry, frustrated desperation.
But then Derek had caught himself watching the slow twist of long hands instead, the bend of a pale throat, and the curve and un-curve of Stiles's mouth, flare of breath, sticky-sweet.
Unexpected and sharp and dangerous. Derek had stopped breathing and thought, is that what this is about?
It'd been been a while since his first instinct hadn't been to tear that feeling to pieces. Though he probably should have done, because Stiles is sixteen, and human, and already in far too deep. But then Stiles had found somewhere that his noise and Derek's could meet in the middle. A stilted, clumsy space where Derek found his voice. He'd found himself talking to fill the silence, trying to keep the awkward flow of words going. He had no idea how Stiles found it so easy, and he knew how clumsy his own attempts were. Anger coming far too easily, when embarrassment probably should have been a better fit, floundering for something to say with a savage sort of frustration that had to have been so obvious. But Stiles hadn't seemed to mind, he'd smiled like he'd never expected Derek to even try. Coaxing opinions out of him like he knew what to do with them, treating them like they mattered in some way. Derek hadn't talked to anyone in a very long time. It had been strangely easy to breathe all of a sudden.
Derek had only asked Stiles to come because he'd agreed to it, stupidly, in the dark, to a boy too drunk to know any better, too drunk to even remember. And maybe that was an excuse - maybe. Because no one had ever asked Derek before, and Stiles had been so happy about his grudging, barely audible assent. It had seemed wrong to break his word. One milkshake, Derek had thought he could put up with one milkshake, and a few minutes of stiff, uncomfortable company. He could do that. But it hadn't been that at all.
He hadn't expected it to be almost-familiar, in a way that he'd forgotten conversation could be. In a way that hurt a little bit, like using rusted over parts of himself. But he'd wanted more of it anyway - and he'd missed it when it was gone.
He'd assumed the whole thing would be done with. That his obvious inability to even form basic sentences, or have any idea of the right way to act would make sure of it. Even Derek knows that threats and insults are not part of dating etiquette. Nor is disappearing at the end of it without a word, as if you want nothing more than to get away. But he'd thought it would be for the best. Stiles would drift back to where he belonged, and Derek back to his responsibilities, to the decisions he'd made, to make the best of them - no, to try and make something better of them, and if he'd taken a little of that calm with him then there was no one to call him on it.
Derek had never expected anything else. People have been interested in Derek. They've been interested for as long as it took them to get a look underneath the surface. He's seen people physically recoil away from him, ordinary people with their muted senses, who shouldn't have been able to tell anything about him. Even they'd known he was too damaged to be worth it. But Derek had made himself very good at not caring.
He's given Stiles every reason not to be interested, more than most even. But now there's this, hopeful, completely unexpected - eleven words. Derek doesn't know how to do this like a person. He's never been good with words. Laura was always the one who knew what to say.
He shoves his phone back in his pocket and heads outside. He stalks the perimeter in long, slow strides. There's nothing threatening for miles, but there's the cold air, and the tread of his own feet and it's quiet enough. He reminds himself of all the reasons it wouldn't work, he tells himself all the ways it would go wrong, of all the ways he would ruin Stiles. He doesn't go back inside until he's been through every horrible one of them.
All the members of the pack have gone still, carefully watching him. They can feel the tension but they're not sure what it's for, whether it's something they have to react to.
Derek ignores them, makes sure they know it's nothing they need to concern themselves with. He slips his phone back out and opens the message again. It hasn't changed. Casual, quietly hopeful, Derek isn't even sure Stiles is expecting a reply. He needs to say no. Stiles is a sixteen year old boy, and he doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know what Derek is, or what he's even asking, not really.
It shouldn't be this difficult to say no.
No.
There, there it is, stark and simple, two letters, no chance of misinterpreting that. No way Stiles could think he's mistaken about the meaning. But Derek knows the abrupt dismissal isn't fair.
Stiles, no, I can't.
Even that feels like weakness, like giving too much away. Though out of context it means nothing at all.
We can't do that.
Simple admission, not weak. No way of misinterpreting that either. Though something tells Derek that Stiles will question it anyway. He'll want to know why. Something firmer then.
It's not happening.
His thumb hovers over the button, so close, almost touching. It sounds right to him but something tells him it's still wrong - too brief, too sharp. He knows how hard it is to judge tone from words. Derek doesn't mean it cruelly, but he thinks Stiles will take it that way anyway. Derek's never cared if people take offence before. This is complicated already, and he's never been good at complicated. Complicated always ends badly.
He tries to make it better.
This is a bad idea. I don't know what I'm doing.
There's far too much truth in that.
You're sixteen, and I will fuck this up.
Derek deletes that in one, heavy stab.
I'm sorry.
He deletes that one too.
I'm not what you think I am.
If he tries to do this then things will be expected of him, things Derek doesn't think he can do. It would be easier for both of them if he stops it here.
Forget it happened.
Something about that pulls his upper lip back from his teeth. Because clearly Stiles hasn't forgotten. The tentative question, offered so casually, like it's nothing at all, like it could just be that simple, as if anything could ever be that simple. After everything that's happened between them, Stiles shouldn't even want this.
Derek knows that the right thing to do is to say no.
But no one has ever asked Derek to go anywhere. No one has ever wanted to spend time with him for no reason at all. No one has ever known who he is, and what he is - what he's done - and still wanted him. He already knows what the rest of his life is, an endless series of cold nights, and buildings that smell like dust and oil and smoke, training for anything, for everything, always watching, waiting for someone, something, to find a weakness and tear his house down. Derek just wants to stop thinking about that for a while.
He wants something - he wants something else.
His thumb moves, deletes and then retypes.
Ok
He sends it, then squeezes his phone until it cracks sharply under his fingers.