And Dwell Beneath My Shadow
Title: And Dwell Beneath My Shadow
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,693
Summary: Derek is not stupid. He gets why Stiles puts up with him. It's clear every time Stiles looks at him, the spicy scent of lust and arousal Stiles's body can't help but put off. It doesn’t surprise him. Not at all. Derek knows what he looks like, knows that his face and his body are more than enough to compensate for his shitty personality. Stiles wants him more than he is annoyed by him. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not anything to be amazed over, nothing to write home about. Stiles isn't the first-- and most likely won't be the last-- hormone soaked teen who has panted over Derek.
"Dude, you are such a dick," Stiles says, slamming his laptop closed.
Derek doesn't reply, just watches as the teen gathers up his belongings and shoves them haphazardly into his backpack. When he's got it zipped closed, Stiles lets out a long sigh, then glances up at Derek, stares at him like he's trying to find the answer to some momentous question. Derek stares back, keeping his face blank. Stiles glares, like he's expecting something else, some other response, then shakes his head and shoulders his bag with another loud sigh.
"Whatever," he says, his voice angry and tight, his body putting off stay the fuck away vibes. Stiles shakes his head again, then turns on his heel. He's out of the room, bounding down the stairs, and out of the house faster than should be possible for a gangly human. Derek listens to the front door slam, to his footsteps as he crunches his way across the gravel, to the harsh sound of the kid's Jeep turning over. He doesn't move, barely breathes, wondering if this time is the last time. If he's finally pushed too far.
Derek snorts, annoyed with the emo path his thoughts have taken. He rights the empty water bottle Stiles knocked over in his haste to get the fuck away and tells himself it doesn't matter. Either Stiles comes back or he doesn't. Nothing he can do about it now. And, honestly, if Stiles can't take a little well intentioned criticizing every now and then, there really is no hope for them in the long run. Not that Derek's expecting there to be a long run or anything. He's not that stupid.
"He's right, you know," Lydia says, breaking into his thoughts. She's leaning against the doorjamb, watching him with something like pissed off concern in her eyes.
Derek growls at her, but she just makes a kissy face at him and fluffs her hair, because Lydia is the Queen Bitch of their pack and she knows it.
"You're a complete dick to him. Like, all the time. I don't know why he puts up with it. I would dump your ass, if it were me."
"Fuck off." Derek doesn't even fight the wolf back, just lets it come out and play, fangs and claws popping out.
Lydia rolls her eyes. "Scary," she mocks. "But, whatever. It's your life. If you want to chase him off, go right ahead. Lord knows I won't stop you. Just don't come crying to me when you lose him, is all."
Derek snarls, snapping his teeth at her in a way that ought to make her bare her neck, but just makes her smirk at him instead.
"Okay, okay." She fluffs her hair again like she knows how much her doing that pisses him off. "Backing off now with my tails between my legs. No need to go all Alpha male on little old me. I'm done with the 'look at your life, look at your choices' speech for today." She lifts a shoulder as if to say "I tried" and then pushes off from the doorjamb and walks down the hall to her room.
Derek listens to her door shut and then the soft hum of her computer coming to life. He looks down at his hands, rounded now with blunt human nails on their tips, and tries to ignore the frantic beating of his pathetic heart.
*
Derek is not stupid. He gets why Stiles puts up with him. It's clear every time Stiles looks at him, the spicy scent of lust and arousal Stiles's body can't help but put off.
It doesn’t surprise him. Not at all. Derek knows what he looks like, knows that his face and his body are more than enough to compensate for his shitty personality. Stiles wants him more than he is annoyed by him. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not anything to be amazed over, nothing to write home about. Stiles isn't the first-- and most likely won't be the last-- hormone soaked teen who has panted over Derek.
But Stiles is the first-- and probably will be the last-- that Derek has panted over in return.
Because Stiles is... Stiles. Loud and obnoxious and an arrogant little shit to boot.
The kid drives Derek wild, with the way he runs his mouth. Lipping off to Derek like it's nothing, like Derek couldn't gut him without breaking a sweat. He smiles at Derek when he's being his most annoying, mouth wide and eyes bright, like he gets off on it, thrills on the possibility that Derek will lose his shit and slam into him. And when Derek does... God, and the way Stiles smells, like heat and sex and happiness. So damn pleased with himself for being able to get a rise out of the older man. It's enough to make Derek's wolf howl, makes him want to bite and mark and claim.
But that's not all it is. Not just confidence and sex and the warm thrill of the chase. There's so much more to him than that. Like the way Stiles always knows how to bring the pack together. And how he shows up on Derek's porch on nights he knows they are running with six packs of cheap beer and stupid movies. Or the way he plans last minute BBQs, searing meat and corn on the grill he dragged out from god knows where. It's beat to shit and looks like it's going to explode, but the food it produces still tastes good. And when he tosses himself on Jackson, starting a puppy pile whenever the surly teen looks like he's at the end of his rope.
He spins fantasies about the future, like they will all still be together, like they'll make it through somehow. He goes on about what Scott and Allison's babies will be like, about how bad ass Lydia's future mate will be. About how awesome it will be when Jackson finally gets over his Big Gay Freak Out and tells Danny how he really feels. And when Stiles talks, Derek can almost see it happening. God, Derek wants it to happen. For the years to pass and Stiles to still be at his side, smiling at him like he's everything Stiles ever wanted, instead of just that hot older guy Stiles's can't keep his hands off of.
It’s the way he feels all tucked up next to Derek, snuggled into his arms like he belongs there. The way his eyes light up when he sees Derek walk into a room, the way he always wants to be around Derek, even when Derek is in a foul mood and more likely to snarl at him than smile. How he holds tight to Derek in the night, clinging to Derek like it means something, this thing they have going on between them. How he whispers Derek name, eyes wide and mouth panting, a second before he comes.
It’s sour morning kisses and knowing looks and swats at Derek’s hand when Derek tries to steal cookie dough. It’s his laugh, loud and carefree. The way he looks at the world like it’s his to do with what he wants.
And it is. Really, it is.
Because Stiles is smart, smarter than anyone gives him credit for. Yeah, he babbles like no one's business, but there's always something clever hidden in his waterfall of words. He sees the connections other people miss, gets the big picture when everyone else is bogged down in the details. The kid's got some brains on him. The sort of brains that aren't meant for a life in a small, suck ass town like Beacon Hills.
No, Stiles can do way better than that. Will do way better, if Derek has a say in it.
He’ll do better than Derek too, someday. Find someone who can laugh all loud and carefree with him, who can smile instead of scowl. Someone who lights up for him, who is affectionate all of the time, instead of just in bed. Someone who deserves him, who will treasure him and make him feel special. Someone who can give him all the things Derek wants to give him, but knows he never can.
*
They are not-fighting in the kitchen, snarling at each other in quite undertones that the rest of the pack can still hear. Stiles is angry, his eyes filled up with righteous indignation, as he rails against the newest restrictions Derek has put on the pack.
“You don’t have to follow my rules. You’re not pack. You don’t have to be here,” Derek finally snaps, because it’s the truth. Stiles isn’t pack. Not really, no matter how much Derek might want him to be. There is nothing keeping Stiles with them. Nothing except his friendship with the pack and his more and more infrequent visits to Derek’s bed.
Stiles winces back like Derek’s hit him, mouth falling open as he pulls in a harsh breath. “Wow,” he says finally, the smell of hurt seeping out of his skin. He stares at Derek for a long moment, hands clenching and unclenching. “Wow,” he repeats, softly.
Derek feels panic rising up in him, clawing at his throat. It makes him want to howl, to wrap his arms around Stiles and tell the kid that he was wrong, that Stiles belongs. But Derek doesn’t do that, he just leans in close and says, “I’m the Alpha here, Stiles. Me. This is my pack and I’ll run it however I see fit. I thought you understood that, but if you don’t, there’s the door.” His voice is low and gruff, none of the fear that is clogging his throat showing at all.
“I know that it’s your pack.” Stiles’s face has taken on a pinched look, his shoulders are sloping. “I just thought,” he trails off with an ugly laugh. “Yeah, well, clearly I thought wrong. Way to go, Stiles.”
Derek resists the urge to lick his lips, to ask Stiles what he thought. Instead he gives the kid another hard look. “We done here?”
Stiles nods half-heartedly. “Yeah, we’re done alright.”
The possible double meaning of the words sends Derek’s pulse skyrocketing. “Good,” he grits out, pretending like nothing is wrong. “Come on, we’re missing the show.”
“Like you care,” Stiles replies, the words hollow with none of the teasing that normally colors his tone.
“It’s pack movie night. Of course I care.” He steps forward into Stiles’s space, darts out to lick behind Stiles’s ear. “Sit with me.” It’s not a question, but it still comes out far more vulnerable than Derek likes.
Stiles lets out a little huff of air, his eyes look sad and his mouth is still tight. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, looking far too hesitant for Derek’s comfort. Derek’s stomach hurts and his skin feels too tight. He growls, deep in his throat, and jerks away from Stiles.
“Or don’t. Whatever makes you happy,” he says like he doesn’t give a shit, like the thought of Stiles leaving, of Stiles walking away from him, isn’t tearing him apart inside.
“Do you even care what makes me happy?” Stiles asks, his voice small, his body smelling like bitterness and disappointment.
Derek doesn’t answer, just shoves past him as he moves into the living room where the rest of the pack is gathered. He growls at the teens lumped together on the couch and they scatter, leaving him prime seating in front of the wide screen TV.
He glances over his shoulder to where Stiles is standing, all hunched up and defensive in the doorway. His wolf whines, wanting to go to the kid and nuzzle against him. Derek ignores it, growling instead. Stiles gives him a look that makes the wolf whimper. Derek growls again, glancing expectantly at the empty spot next to him, then back at Stiles.
Stiles closes his eyes briefly, then nods. "I'm coming," he says, his body still radiating unhappiness as he crosses the room. He's tense when he sits down, holding his body away from Derek like he can't stand the thought of touching him, and that simply won't do. Derek gives into the wolf, wrapping an arm around the kid's shoulders and snuffling at his neck until Derek feels the tension start to drain out of him.
"Isn't it nice when Mommy and Daddy are fighting," Lydia says in an undertone and Derek jerks away from Stiles's neck long enough to snap his teeth at her. She laughs, because Lydia is afraid of nothing, and then goes back to watching whatever crap movie the teens have settled on for the night's entertainment.
But the damage has been done.
Stiles pushes him away, fidgets on the couch until there is good three inches of space between them, and pretends to be riveted by the mind numbing shit on the TV. They spend the rest of the night like that, not touching, and when Allison leaves, Stiles heads out with her.
*
After that Stiles stops spending time one on one with Derek.
The kid still shows up for pack events, he's there on Derek's couch every Saturday for pack movie night and has never yet missed a full moon run, but it's clear that whatever it was they had between them is done.
Derek's personality has finally outweighed his face in whatever cost benefit analysis Stiles had going on. And he accepts that. It was bound to happen eventually. Better now, when Derek still had some small amount of dignity to fall back on.
The pack is unhappy about it, hell, Derek is unhappy about it, which is probably what's making the rest of the pack cringe and whine, but that's life. Things don't always work out.
And now they can all just move the fuck on.
*
"Hale."
Derek closes his eyes and fights the urge to growl. Of course he couldn't just get his groceries in peace. Of course not. Of course he's going to have to run into Stiles's dad while pushing a cart full of meat and toilet paper. God, this is the last thing he wants to do is deal with right now. But he's a grown man and grown men face their mistakes instead of running away from them, so he turns around and gives the sheriff a bland look. "Can I help you?" he asks as politely as is possible.
The sheriff rubs his jaw, looking awkward as hell. Well, that makes two of them then. He sighs and nods, concern stamped on his face. "I want to talk to you about your, erm, relationship with my son."
Derek clears his throat, not sure how exactly to tell Stiles's dad that there is not a relationship for them to discuss, thank you very much, but the older man continues before Derek can say anything.
"I know he's an adult now and can do what he wants. And I know that you didn't start anything up with him until he eighteen, for which I am extremely grateful, so don't worry on that account. It's more," the man runs a hand down his face. "I'm concerned about his future. He's got a solid year and a half in at the local junior college, and that means he should be thinking about transferring to one of the State schools. Only problem is, he's not. A kid like Stiles, he's got the smarts. He could go places. And I don't mean any disrespect to you, son, but I hate to see him being held back because of, well, you know."
"Stiles is a bright kid," Derek agrees easily. "I've always thought he was meant for better things than a small town life."
The sheriff narrows his eyes. "You have, have you?"
Derek nods. "Look, you don't have any reason to believe me, but I want nothing but the best for you son. He's an amazing young man with so much potential. I don't even think he realizes how much potential he's got. It kills me, watching him waste away here. If it were up to me, he would have gone straight to a real college. Not that there is anything wrong with taking the junior college route, but Stiles can do better than that. He can make something of himself, if he only applies himself a little."
Derek lets out a frustrated growl, shaking his head. "He's got so much going for him. It pisses me off, the way he just blows off his future. What does he think, that he'll be content to hang around my place and work at the local video shack for the rest of his life?" Derek shakes his head again. "Hell no, he's not. But try telling him that. See where that gets you." He can't help the bitterness that colors his words.
"Sounds like you've given him the talk about his future a couple of times yourself," the sheriff says wryly, his mouth twitching up at the corners.
"Go ahead and laugh," Derek tells him. "That's what the rest of those brats he hangs out with did." He scowls at the memory. "Idiots, the lot of them. I don't know why I keep them around."
"They aren't bad kids," the sheriff says with a smile.
Derek lifts a shoulder. "Yeah, tell me that when they are eating you out of house and home. Bunch of freeloaders. I'd kick 'em out, except I pity them too much."
The sheriff laughs out right. "Sure you do. Same way you pity my son, huh?"
Derek growls in spite of himself. "I do not pity your son."
The sheriff sobers in an instant. "No, I can see that you don't." He nods to himself. "So, I have your support on Stiles going away to college then?"
"For all the good it will do you," Derek replies.
"Hum." The older man scratches his cheek and nods again. "Good talking to you, son," he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder.
Derek grunts out a reply, not relaxing until the other man has made his way out of the store entirely.
*
Derek waits for the inevitable fallout from his little chat with Stiles’s father. He waits and waits and waits. But nothing happens. And nothing keeps on happening for weeks and weeks. Until nearly a month has passed and Derek forgets what he’s waiting for.
Which is, of course, when what he’s forgotten to be waiting for occurs.
*
"Just what, exactly, did you say to my father?" Stiles demands, hands on his hips as he scowls at Derek from his front porch when Derek drags himself home after a long day at the autoshop.
Derek barely has the energy to snap his teeth at him.
"Don't go all sour wolf on me," Stiles snaps back, his eyes hard and unfriendly. "You are going to sit your ass down and tell me what the hell is going on."
Derek rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands while inside him his wolf is whining, begging Derek to close the distance between them. As if Stiles would be happy for that to happen. "What do you want?" he asks wearily, dropping onto the porch swing like he's made out of lead.
Stiles snorts. "Like you don't know."
"Actually, I don't. I assume it has something to do with the conversation I had with your father, oh, I don't know, a month ago. But who the fuck knows when it comes to you, Stiles?"
"A month ago?" Stiles twitches where he stands, body brimming with nervous energy. "He made it sound like you spoke to him, I don't know, yesterday or something. But, of course, he would. Huh." His voice drifts off and he stares into space for a bit.
Derek watches him covertly. God. He's pathetic. He shakes himself and pushes up off the swing.
"Where are you going?" Stiles asks, pulled out of whatever thought train he was on.
"I'm going into my house. You got a problem with that?"
Stiles makes a face. "Yeah. I do. We are kind of in the middle of a conversation here."
"Are we?" Derek raises his eyebrows.
"Don't be a dick. You know we are."
Derek rolls his shoulders. "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say inside," he says. He tries the front door and finds it locked, not surprising. Most of the pack works later hours than he does. He fishes out his key and then opens the front door, his back itching from the weight of Stiles's stare. "You coming in," he asks when the kid doesn't instantly follow him inside.
"Yeah." Stiles moves slowly, his face wrinkled up in a frown.
“Mind if I take a shower?” Derek asks as he sets his wallet and keys on the hall table.
For a moment Stiles looks like he’s going to object, then he blows out a breath and nods. “Go ahead. I don’t want to throw you off your groove.”
Derek doesn’t know if he should be upset or pleased that he gets the reference, and settles, instead, on ignoring it completely. “Make yourself at home,” he says as he heads for the stairs.
When he comes back down, freshly washed and in a clean set of clothes, he finds Stiles humming to himself and frying something on the stove.
“This will be done in a sec,” he calls out over his shoulder, flashing a quick grin at Derek.
The scene is so familiar that Derek is crowding up behind him, wrapping his arms around Stiles’s waist and nuzzling at his neck before he even realizes what he’s done. Stiles yelps, of course he does, jerking away from Derek with a muffled curse, and Derek suddenly feels like eviscerating something. Because of course Stiles doesn’t want him touching him. Derek doesn’t have that right any more. Derek’s not allowed.
He backs up quickly, a whine coming out before he can stop it.
"Dude, what the fuck," Stiles says angrily, his hand cupping the side of his neck protectively.
Derek has nothing to say for himself, just ducks his head and whines again. Because his life fucking sucks.
“Stop looking at me like I’m going to kick you,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing the hand that was cupping his neck on his jeans, like he’s wiping away Derek’s touch. “God, only you could Bad Touch someone and make them feel guilty about it.”
“You should go,” Derek says, retreating to the far side of the kitchen.
Stiles looks at him like he stupid. “Um, no. We are having this conversation. I don’t care what stunts you pull. But, dude. That was low.”
Derek doesn’t reply, just moves across the room to the breakfast nook. He pulls out a chair and settles himself in it, determined not to be the one to break the uncomfortable silence between them.
Stiles licks his lips and then sighs. He moves back to the stove, prods the contents of the pan in front of him, and lets out a satisfied sound. He turns off the fire, moves to the cabinets and pulls out two plates. He splits the food into two even piles, then sets the empty pan in the sink. Stiles picks up the plates and moves towards the table. He deposits one in front of Derek and the other at the seat across the table from him before heading for the fridge. Stiles studies the contents for a moment before pulling out a beer for Derek and a soda for himself. He leaves them on the counter while he gets a couple of forks and knives, then picks them up as he heads back to the table. When he hands over the beer and silverware, Stiles is careful not to touch Derek at all.
Derek, for his part, tries to ignore how the domesticity of the scene scrapes at his insides, tries to pretend like it doesn't matter. Like this isn't a mockery of every pathetic fantasy of coming home to Stiles he's ever had. He pokes at his plate of chicken and onions, unable to stomach the thought of actually eating it.
"It's not that bad," Stiles teases. "I mean, it's not bleeding the way you like it, but hey, no risk of salmonella either. That's gotta count for something."
Derek scowls down at his plate before taking a bite. It tastes good, the chicken has a perfect sear and the onions are just the way he likes them, but he might as well be chewing on glue for all the enjoyment he gets out of it.
"Try not to look so damn miserable, would you?" Stiles's mouth is quirked up like he's trying not to smile.
Derek takes a long drink of his beer. He runs a finger along the rim when he sets it down, staring at the brown glass instead of at Stiles. "Can we just get this over with?"
Stiles clears his throat. "Dude, could this be any more awkward?" he asks with a forced laugh. Derek does not reply. Stiles clears his throat again and then pushes back his chair. "Look, I don't know what you told him-- Jesus, I don't even know why the two of you were talking-- but my dad," he trails off with a shake of the head.
"Your dad what?" Derek prompts when the silence has stretched out too long.
"My dad thinks you are amazing. The best thing since sliced bread. God, he thinks the sun shines out of your ass and that I should hold on to you. You." Stiles gives him a dirty look. "What the hell, Derek. Did you have to do a snowjob on my father? I mean, come on. Did I really need to hear him sing your praises? Because breaking up with you didn't suck enough."
Derek growls at that, his vision flashing red.
"Oh no you don't. You do not get to wolf out on me now." Stiles slaps the table with the palm of his hand. "Seriously, that was a shitty thing to do. An epically shitty thing to do. What did you say to him, Derek? What did you tell him that made him think that you could possibly care about me? For fuck's safe, my dad thinks you are in love with me. Do you have any idea how awkward that is? How am I supposed to tell him that we aren't together anymore? And that, when you get down to it, what we were to each other was little better fuck buddies?"
Stiles makes a frustrated noise. "My dad wants us to go to dinner together next Friday. To talk about my future or something. Shit, the way he was going on, I wouldn't be surprised if he has us a hop, skip, and a jump away from being married and adopting Asian babies." Stiles lets out a panicked laugh. "So how the fuck am I supposed to tell him that none of that is going to be happening? That you don't even like me all that much? I," he cuts off with something that sounds suspiciously like a sob, burying his face in his hands as he takes a shuddering breath. "Not cool," he says from behind his hands. "Not cool at all, man."
Derek watches him helplessly, the wolf panting and begging inside him, wanting to offer comfort where none is desired.
“Say something,” Stiles says. “Don’t just sit there looking bored.”
The words make something inside of Derek snap. “Bored?” he snarls. “You think I look bored? My fucking mate rejects me, ignores me for months, even when he’s in the same room as me, then comes into my house, cooks me a dinner, and starts nattering on at me about how he no longer wishes to be connected to me and the interpretation he chose to make of my expression is boredom?” Derek roars the last word, shoving the table and flipping over his chair. “Do I look bored to you now, Stiles?” he rages, slipping into full Alpha mode between one breath and the next.
“No,” Stiles says quietly, “you don’t.”
Derek howls, not in the least bit appeased by Stiles’s words. “Get out of my house,” he commands. “You don’t get to come in here and tell me how little you think you mean to me. Not when you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t want me. So get the fuck out and do not come back!” He howls again, dropping into a crouch as he glares at Stiles.
Stiles pushes his chair back and stands. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He sucks on his lower lip, worrying at it with his teeth, then takes a cautious step back from the table. “Derek,” he says carefully as he moves slowly towards the Alpha, his head ducked in submission.
Derek snarls at him, snapping his teeth in warning, but Stiles ignores him, coming closer as Derek retreats until he finds himself pressed up against a wall.
“Derek,” he says again, one hand moving up to brush against Derek’s muzzle. Derek lets out a high pitched whine before rubbing against Stiles’s hand. “Your mate?” Stiles questions, voice laced with confusion while his body pumps out the rich scent of hope and desperation.
Derek jerks back from his touch, whining again. "No," Derek shakes his head. He can’t have this conversation. Can’t let Stiles know how much he means to him. Derek panics, snarling again.
“Please,” Stiles’s says, reaching his hand out again and Derek slaps it away.
He bends his legs, pushes off and jumps over and around Stiles, rushing for the exit, ignoring Stiles's pleas for him to stop, to come back.
*
Derek runs until his legs are aching, his breath coming in fits and gasps. He runs until day turns into night, until when he howls, there is no one in range able to hear.
He makes himself a den in the soft sand of the high desert, burrowing deep enough that the sun's rays barely touch him in the morning. He contemplates heading back, but quickly rejects the idea. He needs time alone to think, to come to peace with everything that has happened. His pack knows well enough how to handle his absence, provided he doesn't stay gone longer than a week or two, and so there is no pressing reason to go back until he is ready.
Derek spends most of his days sleeping, hidden out of sight, and all of his nights running. He heads east until the desert becomes boring, then north until he hits the mountains the half the state. He hunts when he's hungry, drinks water when he's thirsty and avoids any hints of civilization. After four days, he no longer feels the urge to run. After six, he decides to head back home.
*
"Welcome back, handsome," Lydia says around a yawn.
Derek ignores her, pushing past her to head for the stairs. She mutters something unflattering about him, but Derek doesn't stop, just keeps on walking until he's reached his destination.
He splashes water onto his face before he pisses. Then flushes, washes his hands, and brushes his teeth. With the most pressing necessities out of the way, he turns on the shower, twisting the knobs to as hot as possible. Once inside, he scrubs himself nearly raw before lathering up his hair. It takes longer than he would like for the water to run clean, but then Derek's been in Alpha form for going on ten days now, and being filthy sort of goes with the territory.
He stays under the spray until the water goes cold, then twists the knobs to turn it off and shakes himself dry. He drips a bit as he exits the bathroom, but it's his house and his floor and he doesn't really give a shit. All he cares about right now is sleeping in the comfort of his bed. Everything else can just fade the fuck away, as far as he's concerned.
The only problem with that is, someone is sleeping in his bed.
Derek snarls as he flips on the light, unhappy and not concerned about Stiles knowing it. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asks as he yanks the covers off of the teen.
"Sleeping," Stiles answers groggily. "Or at least I was."
"Yeah, I got that part. What I don't understand is why you were doing it in my bed."
Stiles blinks at him in confusion, then smiles wide. "'Cause you're my mate," he answers. Derek snarls again, but Stiles just keeps smiling. He yawns behind his fist, eyes squinching shut, and then pats the bed besides him. "Come to bed, sour wolf," he says.
“I don’t like to repeat myself,” Derek starts, trying to keep his voice low, “so I’m not going to ask again. Why are you in my bed?”
“Technically, that’s the first time you’ve asked me that question outright,” Stiles says, flopping onto his side and giving Derek a know-it-all grin. “But, dude, I’ve already answered you. I’m in your bed because I’m your mate. You said I was. You did. Right before you ran away. And I figured, what the hell, you have to come back at some point, right? So I stayed. Here. At your house. Waiting for you. And here you are. Um, like, a week and a half later, but whatever. You’re here and I’m here and the bed’s here. So why don’t you join me in it, huh? And we can work out all that other stuff in the morning.”
“All that other stuff?” Derek asks, his eyebrows quirking up.
“Yeah,” Stiles yawns again. “The complicated stuff. You know, where I go on about how you never told me you cared about me and you give me your bullshit reasons for why that was the case and then I say that I don’t care, I love you anyway and you say you love me too and then we make out? Or at least that’s what I’ve been hoping happens anyway. It could go the other way. The way where there is more shouting and less kissing and, well, I hope it doesn’t go that way. But if it does, that all good too, because you’re my mate. And that means that I get to keep you, no matter how stupid you are.”
“How stupid I am?” Derek scowls at that. “What about you? You do some pretty stupid shit too, Stiles.”
“Sure, I do. Sometimes. But not like you. You’re the one that’s mean.” Stiles frowns, rubbing at his eyes before reaching for the covers. “You’re the one that’s always pushing me away, telling me to fuck off and die.”
Stiles tugs at the covers that are still bunched in Derek’s hand. Derek stares down at him for a moment, then sighs and lets them go. Stiles makes a contented noise and pulls them up to his chin.
“Come ‘ere,” he says sleepily, patting the bed again.
Derek lowers himself slowly onto the bed, sitting sideways with his back to Stiles. “I never told you to fuck off and die,” he says softly.
Stiles runs a hand down his back, petting Derek like he’s Stiles’s dog. “Not with your words, maybe, but with your face. Dude. Your face says so much. Like, you have a look for everything. Seriously, you have about six different ‘Shut the fuck up, Stiles’ frowns alone.”
“Six different frowns?” Derek, turns so that he can stare at Stiles. “You don’t think you are exaggerating there?”
“Naw,” Stiles shakes his head and then burrows his cheek into the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’ve got that one frown where it’s just your lips sort of tugging down a bit, that one means that you’re kinda annoyed, but kinda amused, but really you just want me to shut up already. And then there’s the one where you frown all the way, with mouth wrinkles and all, which, dude, you are going to get such deep lines if you keep that shit up. Anyway, that frown, with mouth wrinkles, means that I’m being really, really annoying about something, but you’re not mad yet. Then you’ve got the one with the mouth wrinkles and your angry eyes. That one means you are pissed as hell and I should probably apologize like right away, even if I don’t know what I said that pissed you off.”
He yawns again. “And, um, there’s the one where you lower your eyebrows in a line, like Cro-Magnon man or something. And that’s the one you do when you’re about to slam me against a wall. Oh! And there’s the one you give me when you are going to slam me against a wall, but in a totally good way. Like, where you really just want to kiss the hell out of me but don’t know how to say it so you sort of frown at me like I’m crazy for talking when we should just be macking and you kind of whimper a little and then hello there wall and super hot, turned on werewolf.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows and squirms a little on the bed. “I like that 'Shut the fuck up, Stiles' frown best of all.”
“That was only five.” Derek says as he turns towards Stiles completely, reaches out hesitantly and runs a finger down Stiles’s cheek.
“Hum?” Stiles says distractedly as he presses his face against Derek’s hand.
Derek smiles at the way Stiles is nuzzling up against him. “That was only five frowns.” Derek holds up his other hand and ticks them off on his fingers. “The half-amused half-annoyed one, the one with mouth wrinkles, the one with mouth wrinkles and angry eyes, the Cro-Magnon man one, and the I want to kiss you one. Like I said, only five.”
“Oh.” Stiles squirms some more, wiggling his way over until he is curled around Derek, his head resting in Derek’s lap. “Okay, so you have five different 'Shut the fuck up, Stiles' frowns then. Not six. My bad. Point still remains, your face does your speaking for you. And it’s, um, kind of mean sometimes.”
“My face doesn’t mean to be,” Derek says softly. “My face, like the rest of me, really, really likes you. All the time. Even when it’s frowning.” Derek thinks for a moment, then adds, “Especially when it’s frowning.”
“That’s nice,” Stiles replies, his words slurring a little with sleep. “I really, really like your face too.”
Something inside of Derek curdles at the words and he pushes Stiles’s head out of his lap. “Yeah,” he says dejectedly, “I know.”
Stiles flails a little, opening his eyes wide in an attempt to wake himself up. “What’s wrong,” he says loudly, face wrinkled up in concern. “That’s not your happy voice. I know your happy voice and that wasn’t it at all. Don’t be mad, Derek. Please.”
“I’m not mad,” Derek answers resignedly. “Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.” He pushes off the bed and flips off the light before heading for the door.
“No, don’t go,” Stiles pleads, and Derek hears the springs of the bed creak as he flails about some more. “Stay with me. I’m your mate. You said I was.”
He sounds desperate, on the edge of tears and it’s all Derek can do not to rush back to the bed. He hunches his shoulders and ignores the way his wolf is whining. “I’ll talk to you in the morning,” he says, and then he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.
*
Derek heads down to the living room and sprawls out on the couch. He wraps an arm around one of the pillows and buries his face in it, trying his hardest not to think about Stiles, all warm and welcoming in his bed. His wolf whines at him, begging to be allowed back up the stairs, but Derek ignore it, hunkering down on the couch.
He tosses and turns, restless and unhappy as the night slowly passes.
*
“Wake up.”
Derek growls, flipping over onto his side and pressing his face into the back of the couch.
“No, really dude, you’ve got to wake up.”
“Fuck off,” he mutters into the cushion.
There is a loud sigh, and then the weight of another body pressing up against his. “Fine, we’ll do it like this then. I’ll just lay here next to you and talk and talk until you can’t take it anymore. And then you’ll get up and I’ll make you breakfast and we can finish the conversation we keep not having like normal people.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Derek says, relaxing back into the warmth of Stiles’s body.
“Yes, it does. It makes perfect sense. And it’s what we are doing.” His breath is warm on Derek’s neck. “So, about last night,” he begins.
Derek snarls, then rolls over, tossing an arm over Stiles and dragging the kid roughly under him, so that when he finished the move, Stiles is flat on his back with Derek nestled firmly between his legs.
“Never mind last night, let’s do this instead,” Stiles says happily, reaching up to wrap his arms around Derek’s neck. His lips brush hungrily against Derek’s mouth as the room fills up with the spicy scent of his arousal.
“No,” Derek jerks back as far as he can go, glowering down at Stiles.
“Why not?” Stiles tugs at his neck, trying to pull him down. “Dude, what gives? You love kissing me. I’ve got super kissable lips. And a candy tongue.”
“What the hell have you been reading?” Derek asks.
“Cheap romance novels,” Lydia calls from the dining room. “The type with girls in tattered dresses on the covers. And he’s been watching period dramas too. It’s been torture.”
“Don’t you say a word more, you philistine!” Stiles twists and bucks under Derek clearly trying to break free so he can run her down or something. Derek keeps him pinned for his own safety.
Lydia cackles like she knows exactly what's going down on the couch. Probably because she does. “Seriously, Derek, he subjected us to four different versions of Jane Eyre. Just fuck him already, for all our sakes.”
“Shut up,” Derek says before ducking down to nip at Stiles’s neck. “And you, stop moving.”
Stiles moans and squirms against him, because Stiles always does the opposite of what Derek tells him too.
“Are you fucking him yet?” Lydia asks, her voice filled with evil delight.
Derek growls as he pushes off of Stiles and bounds into the dining room. Lydia gives him a bland look, which morphs into a yelp when he crowds up into her space, pinning her to her chair. “You. Leave. Now. And take your pinhead ex with you too.” He raises his voice at the end so that Jackson can’t help but hear.
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Jackson shouts from his room at the back of the house, his words accompanied by a loud thump and frantic scrambling. Derek grins because that’s the way it ought to be, never mind that Jackson will roll over for anything.
Lydia shoves at his chest. “Get out of the way and I’ll leave too. I didn’t really want to witness him sobbing for your cock anyway.”
“You’d sob for it too, if you ever had it in you,” Stiles snarks back from the living room and Derek fights the urge to groan.
“Can we please not talk about my cock right now,” he says as he pulls back from Lydia.
Lydia makes a bitch face at him. “I never want to talk about your cock again, thanks.” She picks up her plate and heads for the kitchen.
“You’re a fucking liar, Lydia,” Stiles shouts back. “You want to talk about his cock all the time. You even asked me what it tastes like.”
Lydia hisses and throws the plate into the sink so hard Derek’s surprised it doesn’t smash. “Shut up, Stiles” she grits out. “Or I’ll start sharing some of your secrets. And won’t that be fun? I wonder what Derek will think if I tell him all the juicy details about your date with that guy in your Organic Chemistry class.”
“Lydia, no!” Stiles rushes into the room, his eyes wide. “Dude, what the fuck is your problem?” He gives her a bitch face of his own as he hurries to Derek’s side. “Don’t listen to her, Derek. She’s crazy. You know she’s crazy.”
Derek backs away from him, his heart like ice in his chest. “You went on a date.”
“We were broken up, it didn't mean anything. I swear.” Stiles paws at his shirt, a panicked look on his face.
Derek slaps his hands away. “You went on a date,” he repeats, feeling dead inside. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He nods to himself. He should have expected it. Of course Stiles is dating other people. People more on his level who are closer to his age and who share similar interests.
It’s for the best, really. Sure, it hurts like a knife in the gut, but it’s for the best. Stiles needs to move on, needs to find someone who's a better match for him than Derek is. Derek nods again and says as much out loud.
“No.” Stiles shakes his head violently as he clutches at Derek’s shirt, his body putting of frantic vibes. “Don’t say that. You can’t say that. I’m your mate.” His voice breaks on the last word and he buries his face against Derek’s chest. “You can’t say that,” he repeats, his breath hot and moist against the thin cotton of Derek’s undershirt.
“Oh my fucking god, are you serious?” Lydia snarls. “Derek, get the fuck over yourself. Stiles is ass over elbows for you. Look at him, he’s about to lose his shit over there. And you’re being what? A martyr? Or something? Seriously, what the fuck is your problem? Sure, Stiles is annoying as shit, but you seem to like it. Hell, you get off on it. So just bite him already. Everyone knows he's your mate anyway, so why not just make it official. Jesus. This isn’t rocket science.”
Derek wants to snarl back at her, but what’s she’s saying makes sense, damnit. So he just grunts and gives her his best fuck you face.
Lydia throws her hands up in the air at that and growls. “Fine, whatever. Be noble and self-sacrificing and fucking miserable. Make him whimper and whine and beg for it. I don’t care. It’s not like I’m the one who is going to be mateless for life because of stupid fucking boy pride. God, I'm glad I don't have a dick. I'd probably be just as clueless as you.” She storms out of the room and down the hall, slamming the front door in her wake.
Derek snarls as he hears her pull out. “God fucking damnit.”
Stiles’s arms tighten around him and the kid rubs his face against Derek’s chest like he’s the werewolf. “I’ll beg for it,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “If that’s what it takes. I will. I’ll get on my knees and beg. I’ll do anything, just please. Let me have this. Let me have you. For real this time. No holding back, no pushing me away. No telling me that I’m not pack.” He pushes up, mouths at Derek’s neck. “I love you, you stupid fuck. You. And no one else.”
Derek’s wolf howls inside, happy and panting with its satisfaction, but Derek just shakes his head. “You don’t, you can’t.”
“The hell I can’t,” Stiles slaps at his chest, angry and fired up. “I love you, Derek Hale. I want to marry you, damn it, so the whole world knows you’re mine. I want your stupid scowling face to be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I see before I fall asleep at night. I want to listen to your terrible emo rock music and watch your stupid indie foreign films. I want to smell you all rank after a run, have you rutt against me in the kitchen because you can't control yourself. God, I want to hear you laugh at my expense and see what you look like when you’re fifty and not so fucking perfect any more. Please, Derek.”
“But why?” Derek can’t help but ask. “Why me? You’re so smart and funny and, god, you could have anyone. Why me?”
“I could have anyone?” Stiles scoffs. “Excuse me, what? I’m skinny and spastic and terrible at social interaction. You’re the one who is amazing. Just look at you.”
Derek snorts. “Yeah. Look at me. Pretty face, pretty body. Personality like corrosive acid. Not much on offer, if you’re basing your choice on anything other than the physical.”
“What?” Stiles jerks back, his face a study of confusion. “Are you high? Seriously right now. I mean, yeah, sure. You look like sex on a stick. But that’s just the wrapping paper, baby. You’re a hell of a lot more than that. You have to know that.”
Derek huffs out a bitter laugh, his hands squeezing Stiles’s shoulders. “A hell of a lot more than that? Yeah, right.”
"Dude, you are such a catch. Don't even pretend like you aren't. Even if you looked like fossilized dinosaur dung, you'd still be a catch." Stiles pins him with a fond look. “Because you’re strong and loyal and smart. You pull people together without even trying. And, dude, you are super squishy underneath that gruff, crunchy exterior. Kind of like one of those Ferrero Rocher chocolates.”
“Did you just compare me to a chocolate?”
Stiles nods eagerly, a smile spreading across his face. “Dude, it’s like the perfect analogy. Because Ferrero Rocher chocolates are, you know, all prickly and,” his hands skim up Derek’s back as he rubs his cheek against the underside of Derek’s jaw, “and they smell delicious and you just have to lick them and they sort of rasp against your tongue and then you bite into them and, god, they taste like heaven-- all sweet and crunchy and creamy in your mouth-- and you, Derek Hale, you are exactly like that.”
And then he’s kissing Derek, licking into his mouth, and it’s all Derek can do not to devour him. His hands come up to clutch at Derek’s shoulders and he moans, low in his throat. Derek’s grip shifts to Stiles’s hips, tugging him closer. He bites and sucks at Stiles’s lips as he rocks against him.
“God, yes,” Stiles pants and Derek moves from his mouth to his neck, tugging aside Stiles’s shirt so he can worry at his collarbone. “Please, bite me,” he begs. “Mark me, Derek. Make me yours.”
Derek doesn’t pause to think, just lets the wolf free. He feels his teeth elongating and opens his mouth wide, nipping gently at the sensitive skin of Stiles’s throat.
“Please,” Stiles whimpers, angling his head to give Derek better access.
“If I do this, it’s forever,” Derek warns, his lips brushing against the smooth skin.
Stiles swallows hard, then nods once. “I, yes. Forever. I want you forever. I want this forever. You and me, together with our pack. That's kind of the point. Have you even been listening to anything I've been saying? Because, yeah. That's what I want. I would fucking tattoo it on my forehead if I thought that would get through to you. Please, Derek. Give it to me.”
And Derek does. He bites down hard, savoring the taste of Stiles’s skin, the spicy smell of his arousal and the thrust of Stiles’s hips against his own.
*
The following Sunday finds them at Stiles’s father’s house, eating spaghetti bolognese and talking about possible colleges. Stiles wants somewhere close, his father wants somewhere good and Derek doesn’t care at all, just so long as Stiles is happy.
A.N.: Most of the fics I've read in the Teen Wolf fandom have Derek being this super awesome hot sauce god who rocks on with his bad self while Stiles flutters around feeling insecure for various reasons. And that's perfectly nice and lovely and all, but I sort of wanted to flip that on its head. Because, really, Stiles is the most bad ass, resourceful dude in Beacon Hills and, well, Derek is as grumpy as he is pretty. So... why not play with that?
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,693
Summary: Derek is not stupid. He gets why Stiles puts up with him. It's clear every time Stiles looks at him, the spicy scent of lust and arousal Stiles's body can't help but put off. It doesn’t surprise him. Not at all. Derek knows what he looks like, knows that his face and his body are more than enough to compensate for his shitty personality. Stiles wants him more than he is annoyed by him. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not anything to be amazed over, nothing to write home about. Stiles isn't the first-- and most likely won't be the last-- hormone soaked teen who has panted over Derek.
"Dude, you are such a dick," Stiles says, slamming his laptop closed.
Derek doesn't reply, just watches as the teen gathers up his belongings and shoves them haphazardly into his backpack. When he's got it zipped closed, Stiles lets out a long sigh, then glances up at Derek, stares at him like he's trying to find the answer to some momentous question. Derek stares back, keeping his face blank. Stiles glares, like he's expecting something else, some other response, then shakes his head and shoulders his bag with another loud sigh.
"Whatever," he says, his voice angry and tight, his body putting off stay the fuck away vibes. Stiles shakes his head again, then turns on his heel. He's out of the room, bounding down the stairs, and out of the house faster than should be possible for a gangly human. Derek listens to the front door slam, to his footsteps as he crunches his way across the gravel, to the harsh sound of the kid's Jeep turning over. He doesn't move, barely breathes, wondering if this time is the last time. If he's finally pushed too far.
Derek snorts, annoyed with the emo path his thoughts have taken. He rights the empty water bottle Stiles knocked over in his haste to get the fuck away and tells himself it doesn't matter. Either Stiles comes back or he doesn't. Nothing he can do about it now. And, honestly, if Stiles can't take a little well intentioned criticizing every now and then, there really is no hope for them in the long run. Not that Derek's expecting there to be a long run or anything. He's not that stupid.
"He's right, you know," Lydia says, breaking into his thoughts. She's leaning against the doorjamb, watching him with something like pissed off concern in her eyes.
Derek growls at her, but she just makes a kissy face at him and fluffs her hair, because Lydia is the Queen Bitch of their pack and she knows it.
"You're a complete dick to him. Like, all the time. I don't know why he puts up with it. I would dump your ass, if it were me."
"Fuck off." Derek doesn't even fight the wolf back, just lets it come out and play, fangs and claws popping out.
Lydia rolls her eyes. "Scary," she mocks. "But, whatever. It's your life. If you want to chase him off, go right ahead. Lord knows I won't stop you. Just don't come crying to me when you lose him, is all."
Derek snarls, snapping his teeth at her in a way that ought to make her bare her neck, but just makes her smirk at him instead.
"Okay, okay." She fluffs her hair again like she knows how much her doing that pisses him off. "Backing off now with my tails between my legs. No need to go all Alpha male on little old me. I'm done with the 'look at your life, look at your choices' speech for today." She lifts a shoulder as if to say "I tried" and then pushes off from the doorjamb and walks down the hall to her room.
Derek listens to her door shut and then the soft hum of her computer coming to life. He looks down at his hands, rounded now with blunt human nails on their tips, and tries to ignore the frantic beating of his pathetic heart.
*
Derek is not stupid. He gets why Stiles puts up with him. It's clear every time Stiles looks at him, the spicy scent of lust and arousal Stiles's body can't help but put off.
It doesn’t surprise him. Not at all. Derek knows what he looks like, knows that his face and his body are more than enough to compensate for his shitty personality. Stiles wants him more than he is annoyed by him. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not anything to be amazed over, nothing to write home about. Stiles isn't the first-- and most likely won't be the last-- hormone soaked teen who has panted over Derek.
But Stiles is the first-- and probably will be the last-- that Derek has panted over in return.
Because Stiles is... Stiles. Loud and obnoxious and an arrogant little shit to boot.
The kid drives Derek wild, with the way he runs his mouth. Lipping off to Derek like it's nothing, like Derek couldn't gut him without breaking a sweat. He smiles at Derek when he's being his most annoying, mouth wide and eyes bright, like he gets off on it, thrills on the possibility that Derek will lose his shit and slam into him. And when Derek does... God, and the way Stiles smells, like heat and sex and happiness. So damn pleased with himself for being able to get a rise out of the older man. It's enough to make Derek's wolf howl, makes him want to bite and mark and claim.
But that's not all it is. Not just confidence and sex and the warm thrill of the chase. There's so much more to him than that. Like the way Stiles always knows how to bring the pack together. And how he shows up on Derek's porch on nights he knows they are running with six packs of cheap beer and stupid movies. Or the way he plans last minute BBQs, searing meat and corn on the grill he dragged out from god knows where. It's beat to shit and looks like it's going to explode, but the food it produces still tastes good. And when he tosses himself on Jackson, starting a puppy pile whenever the surly teen looks like he's at the end of his rope.
He spins fantasies about the future, like they will all still be together, like they'll make it through somehow. He goes on about what Scott and Allison's babies will be like, about how bad ass Lydia's future mate will be. About how awesome it will be when Jackson finally gets over his Big Gay Freak Out and tells Danny how he really feels. And when Stiles talks, Derek can almost see it happening. God, Derek wants it to happen. For the years to pass and Stiles to still be at his side, smiling at him like he's everything Stiles ever wanted, instead of just that hot older guy Stiles's can't keep his hands off of.
It’s the way he feels all tucked up next to Derek, snuggled into his arms like he belongs there. The way his eyes light up when he sees Derek walk into a room, the way he always wants to be around Derek, even when Derek is in a foul mood and more likely to snarl at him than smile. How he holds tight to Derek in the night, clinging to Derek like it means something, this thing they have going on between them. How he whispers Derek name, eyes wide and mouth panting, a second before he comes.
It’s sour morning kisses and knowing looks and swats at Derek’s hand when Derek tries to steal cookie dough. It’s his laugh, loud and carefree. The way he looks at the world like it’s his to do with what he wants.
And it is. Really, it is.
Because Stiles is smart, smarter than anyone gives him credit for. Yeah, he babbles like no one's business, but there's always something clever hidden in his waterfall of words. He sees the connections other people miss, gets the big picture when everyone else is bogged down in the details. The kid's got some brains on him. The sort of brains that aren't meant for a life in a small, suck ass town like Beacon Hills.
No, Stiles can do way better than that. Will do way better, if Derek has a say in it.
He’ll do better than Derek too, someday. Find someone who can laugh all loud and carefree with him, who can smile instead of scowl. Someone who lights up for him, who is affectionate all of the time, instead of just in bed. Someone who deserves him, who will treasure him and make him feel special. Someone who can give him all the things Derek wants to give him, but knows he never can.
*
They are not-fighting in the kitchen, snarling at each other in quite undertones that the rest of the pack can still hear. Stiles is angry, his eyes filled up with righteous indignation, as he rails against the newest restrictions Derek has put on the pack.
“You don’t have to follow my rules. You’re not pack. You don’t have to be here,” Derek finally snaps, because it’s the truth. Stiles isn’t pack. Not really, no matter how much Derek might want him to be. There is nothing keeping Stiles with them. Nothing except his friendship with the pack and his more and more infrequent visits to Derek’s bed.
Stiles winces back like Derek’s hit him, mouth falling open as he pulls in a harsh breath. “Wow,” he says finally, the smell of hurt seeping out of his skin. He stares at Derek for a long moment, hands clenching and unclenching. “Wow,” he repeats, softly.
Derek feels panic rising up in him, clawing at his throat. It makes him want to howl, to wrap his arms around Stiles and tell the kid that he was wrong, that Stiles belongs. But Derek doesn’t do that, he just leans in close and says, “I’m the Alpha here, Stiles. Me. This is my pack and I’ll run it however I see fit. I thought you understood that, but if you don’t, there’s the door.” His voice is low and gruff, none of the fear that is clogging his throat showing at all.
“I know that it’s your pack.” Stiles’s face has taken on a pinched look, his shoulders are sloping. “I just thought,” he trails off with an ugly laugh. “Yeah, well, clearly I thought wrong. Way to go, Stiles.”
Derek resists the urge to lick his lips, to ask Stiles what he thought. Instead he gives the kid another hard look. “We done here?”
Stiles nods half-heartedly. “Yeah, we’re done alright.”
The possible double meaning of the words sends Derek’s pulse skyrocketing. “Good,” he grits out, pretending like nothing is wrong. “Come on, we’re missing the show.”
“Like you care,” Stiles replies, the words hollow with none of the teasing that normally colors his tone.
“It’s pack movie night. Of course I care.” He steps forward into Stiles’s space, darts out to lick behind Stiles’s ear. “Sit with me.” It’s not a question, but it still comes out far more vulnerable than Derek likes.
Stiles lets out a little huff of air, his eyes look sad and his mouth is still tight. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, looking far too hesitant for Derek’s comfort. Derek’s stomach hurts and his skin feels too tight. He growls, deep in his throat, and jerks away from Stiles.
“Or don’t. Whatever makes you happy,” he says like he doesn’t give a shit, like the thought of Stiles leaving, of Stiles walking away from him, isn’t tearing him apart inside.
“Do you even care what makes me happy?” Stiles asks, his voice small, his body smelling like bitterness and disappointment.
Derek doesn’t answer, just shoves past him as he moves into the living room where the rest of the pack is gathered. He growls at the teens lumped together on the couch and they scatter, leaving him prime seating in front of the wide screen TV.
He glances over his shoulder to where Stiles is standing, all hunched up and defensive in the doorway. His wolf whines, wanting to go to the kid and nuzzle against him. Derek ignores it, growling instead. Stiles gives him a look that makes the wolf whimper. Derek growls again, glancing expectantly at the empty spot next to him, then back at Stiles.
Stiles closes his eyes briefly, then nods. "I'm coming," he says, his body still radiating unhappiness as he crosses the room. He's tense when he sits down, holding his body away from Derek like he can't stand the thought of touching him, and that simply won't do. Derek gives into the wolf, wrapping an arm around the kid's shoulders and snuffling at his neck until Derek feels the tension start to drain out of him.
"Isn't it nice when Mommy and Daddy are fighting," Lydia says in an undertone and Derek jerks away from Stiles's neck long enough to snap his teeth at her. She laughs, because Lydia is afraid of nothing, and then goes back to watching whatever crap movie the teens have settled on for the night's entertainment.
But the damage has been done.
Stiles pushes him away, fidgets on the couch until there is good three inches of space between them, and pretends to be riveted by the mind numbing shit on the TV. They spend the rest of the night like that, not touching, and when Allison leaves, Stiles heads out with her.
*
After that Stiles stops spending time one on one with Derek.
The kid still shows up for pack events, he's there on Derek's couch every Saturday for pack movie night and has never yet missed a full moon run, but it's clear that whatever it was they had between them is done.
Derek's personality has finally outweighed his face in whatever cost benefit analysis Stiles had going on. And he accepts that. It was bound to happen eventually. Better now, when Derek still had some small amount of dignity to fall back on.
The pack is unhappy about it, hell, Derek is unhappy about it, which is probably what's making the rest of the pack cringe and whine, but that's life. Things don't always work out.
And now they can all just move the fuck on.
*
"Hale."
Derek closes his eyes and fights the urge to growl. Of course he couldn't just get his groceries in peace. Of course not. Of course he's going to have to run into Stiles's dad while pushing a cart full of meat and toilet paper. God, this is the last thing he wants to do is deal with right now. But he's a grown man and grown men face their mistakes instead of running away from them, so he turns around and gives the sheriff a bland look. "Can I help you?" he asks as politely as is possible.
The sheriff rubs his jaw, looking awkward as hell. Well, that makes two of them then. He sighs and nods, concern stamped on his face. "I want to talk to you about your, erm, relationship with my son."
Derek clears his throat, not sure how exactly to tell Stiles's dad that there is not a relationship for them to discuss, thank you very much, but the older man continues before Derek can say anything.
"I know he's an adult now and can do what he wants. And I know that you didn't start anything up with him until he eighteen, for which I am extremely grateful, so don't worry on that account. It's more," the man runs a hand down his face. "I'm concerned about his future. He's got a solid year and a half in at the local junior college, and that means he should be thinking about transferring to one of the State schools. Only problem is, he's not. A kid like Stiles, he's got the smarts. He could go places. And I don't mean any disrespect to you, son, but I hate to see him being held back because of, well, you know."
"Stiles is a bright kid," Derek agrees easily. "I've always thought he was meant for better things than a small town life."
The sheriff narrows his eyes. "You have, have you?"
Derek nods. "Look, you don't have any reason to believe me, but I want nothing but the best for you son. He's an amazing young man with so much potential. I don't even think he realizes how much potential he's got. It kills me, watching him waste away here. If it were up to me, he would have gone straight to a real college. Not that there is anything wrong with taking the junior college route, but Stiles can do better than that. He can make something of himself, if he only applies himself a little."
Derek lets out a frustrated growl, shaking his head. "He's got so much going for him. It pisses me off, the way he just blows off his future. What does he think, that he'll be content to hang around my place and work at the local video shack for the rest of his life?" Derek shakes his head again. "Hell no, he's not. But try telling him that. See where that gets you." He can't help the bitterness that colors his words.
"Sounds like you've given him the talk about his future a couple of times yourself," the sheriff says wryly, his mouth twitching up at the corners.
"Go ahead and laugh," Derek tells him. "That's what the rest of those brats he hangs out with did." He scowls at the memory. "Idiots, the lot of them. I don't know why I keep them around."
"They aren't bad kids," the sheriff says with a smile.
Derek lifts a shoulder. "Yeah, tell me that when they are eating you out of house and home. Bunch of freeloaders. I'd kick 'em out, except I pity them too much."
The sheriff laughs out right. "Sure you do. Same way you pity my son, huh?"
Derek growls in spite of himself. "I do not pity your son."
The sheriff sobers in an instant. "No, I can see that you don't." He nods to himself. "So, I have your support on Stiles going away to college then?"
"For all the good it will do you," Derek replies.
"Hum." The older man scratches his cheek and nods again. "Good talking to you, son," he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder.
Derek grunts out a reply, not relaxing until the other man has made his way out of the store entirely.
*
Derek waits for the inevitable fallout from his little chat with Stiles’s father. He waits and waits and waits. But nothing happens. And nothing keeps on happening for weeks and weeks. Until nearly a month has passed and Derek forgets what he’s waiting for.
Which is, of course, when what he’s forgotten to be waiting for occurs.
*
"Just what, exactly, did you say to my father?" Stiles demands, hands on his hips as he scowls at Derek from his front porch when Derek drags himself home after a long day at the autoshop.
Derek barely has the energy to snap his teeth at him.
"Don't go all sour wolf on me," Stiles snaps back, his eyes hard and unfriendly. "You are going to sit your ass down and tell me what the hell is going on."
Derek rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands while inside him his wolf is whining, begging Derek to close the distance between them. As if Stiles would be happy for that to happen. "What do you want?" he asks wearily, dropping onto the porch swing like he's made out of lead.
Stiles snorts. "Like you don't know."
"Actually, I don't. I assume it has something to do with the conversation I had with your father, oh, I don't know, a month ago. But who the fuck knows when it comes to you, Stiles?"
"A month ago?" Stiles twitches where he stands, body brimming with nervous energy. "He made it sound like you spoke to him, I don't know, yesterday or something. But, of course, he would. Huh." His voice drifts off and he stares into space for a bit.
Derek watches him covertly. God. He's pathetic. He shakes himself and pushes up off the swing.
"Where are you going?" Stiles asks, pulled out of whatever thought train he was on.
"I'm going into my house. You got a problem with that?"
Stiles makes a face. "Yeah. I do. We are kind of in the middle of a conversation here."
"Are we?" Derek raises his eyebrows.
"Don't be a dick. You know we are."
Derek rolls his shoulders. "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say inside," he says. He tries the front door and finds it locked, not surprising. Most of the pack works later hours than he does. He fishes out his key and then opens the front door, his back itching from the weight of Stiles's stare. "You coming in," he asks when the kid doesn't instantly follow him inside.
"Yeah." Stiles moves slowly, his face wrinkled up in a frown.
“Mind if I take a shower?” Derek asks as he sets his wallet and keys on the hall table.
For a moment Stiles looks like he’s going to object, then he blows out a breath and nods. “Go ahead. I don’t want to throw you off your groove.”
Derek doesn’t know if he should be upset or pleased that he gets the reference, and settles, instead, on ignoring it completely. “Make yourself at home,” he says as he heads for the stairs.
When he comes back down, freshly washed and in a clean set of clothes, he finds Stiles humming to himself and frying something on the stove.
“This will be done in a sec,” he calls out over his shoulder, flashing a quick grin at Derek.
The scene is so familiar that Derek is crowding up behind him, wrapping his arms around Stiles’s waist and nuzzling at his neck before he even realizes what he’s done. Stiles yelps, of course he does, jerking away from Derek with a muffled curse, and Derek suddenly feels like eviscerating something. Because of course Stiles doesn’t want him touching him. Derek doesn’t have that right any more. Derek’s not allowed.
He backs up quickly, a whine coming out before he can stop it.
"Dude, what the fuck," Stiles says angrily, his hand cupping the side of his neck protectively.
Derek has nothing to say for himself, just ducks his head and whines again. Because his life fucking sucks.
“Stop looking at me like I’m going to kick you,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing the hand that was cupping his neck on his jeans, like he’s wiping away Derek’s touch. “God, only you could Bad Touch someone and make them feel guilty about it.”
“You should go,” Derek says, retreating to the far side of the kitchen.
Stiles looks at him like he stupid. “Um, no. We are having this conversation. I don’t care what stunts you pull. But, dude. That was low.”
Derek doesn’t reply, just moves across the room to the breakfast nook. He pulls out a chair and settles himself in it, determined not to be the one to break the uncomfortable silence between them.
Stiles licks his lips and then sighs. He moves back to the stove, prods the contents of the pan in front of him, and lets out a satisfied sound. He turns off the fire, moves to the cabinets and pulls out two plates. He splits the food into two even piles, then sets the empty pan in the sink. Stiles picks up the plates and moves towards the table. He deposits one in front of Derek and the other at the seat across the table from him before heading for the fridge. Stiles studies the contents for a moment before pulling out a beer for Derek and a soda for himself. He leaves them on the counter while he gets a couple of forks and knives, then picks them up as he heads back to the table. When he hands over the beer and silverware, Stiles is careful not to touch Derek at all.
Derek, for his part, tries to ignore how the domesticity of the scene scrapes at his insides, tries to pretend like it doesn't matter. Like this isn't a mockery of every pathetic fantasy of coming home to Stiles he's ever had. He pokes at his plate of chicken and onions, unable to stomach the thought of actually eating it.
"It's not that bad," Stiles teases. "I mean, it's not bleeding the way you like it, but hey, no risk of salmonella either. That's gotta count for something."
Derek scowls down at his plate before taking a bite. It tastes good, the chicken has a perfect sear and the onions are just the way he likes them, but he might as well be chewing on glue for all the enjoyment he gets out of it.
"Try not to look so damn miserable, would you?" Stiles's mouth is quirked up like he's trying not to smile.
Derek takes a long drink of his beer. He runs a finger along the rim when he sets it down, staring at the brown glass instead of at Stiles. "Can we just get this over with?"
Stiles clears his throat. "Dude, could this be any more awkward?" he asks with a forced laugh. Derek does not reply. Stiles clears his throat again and then pushes back his chair. "Look, I don't know what you told him-- Jesus, I don't even know why the two of you were talking-- but my dad," he trails off with a shake of the head.
"Your dad what?" Derek prompts when the silence has stretched out too long.
"My dad thinks you are amazing. The best thing since sliced bread. God, he thinks the sun shines out of your ass and that I should hold on to you. You." Stiles gives him a dirty look. "What the hell, Derek. Did you have to do a snowjob on my father? I mean, come on. Did I really need to hear him sing your praises? Because breaking up with you didn't suck enough."
Derek growls at that, his vision flashing red.
"Oh no you don't. You do not get to wolf out on me now." Stiles slaps the table with the palm of his hand. "Seriously, that was a shitty thing to do. An epically shitty thing to do. What did you say to him, Derek? What did you tell him that made him think that you could possibly care about me? For fuck's safe, my dad thinks you are in love with me. Do you have any idea how awkward that is? How am I supposed to tell him that we aren't together anymore? And that, when you get down to it, what we were to each other was little better fuck buddies?"
Stiles makes a frustrated noise. "My dad wants us to go to dinner together next Friday. To talk about my future or something. Shit, the way he was going on, I wouldn't be surprised if he has us a hop, skip, and a jump away from being married and adopting Asian babies." Stiles lets out a panicked laugh. "So how the fuck am I supposed to tell him that none of that is going to be happening? That you don't even like me all that much? I," he cuts off with something that sounds suspiciously like a sob, burying his face in his hands as he takes a shuddering breath. "Not cool," he says from behind his hands. "Not cool at all, man."
Derek watches him helplessly, the wolf panting and begging inside him, wanting to offer comfort where none is desired.
“Say something,” Stiles says. “Don’t just sit there looking bored.”
The words make something inside of Derek snap. “Bored?” he snarls. “You think I look bored? My fucking mate rejects me, ignores me for months, even when he’s in the same room as me, then comes into my house, cooks me a dinner, and starts nattering on at me about how he no longer wishes to be connected to me and the interpretation he chose to make of my expression is boredom?” Derek roars the last word, shoving the table and flipping over his chair. “Do I look bored to you now, Stiles?” he rages, slipping into full Alpha mode between one breath and the next.
“No,” Stiles says quietly, “you don’t.”
Derek howls, not in the least bit appeased by Stiles’s words. “Get out of my house,” he commands. “You don’t get to come in here and tell me how little you think you mean to me. Not when you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t want me. So get the fuck out and do not come back!” He howls again, dropping into a crouch as he glares at Stiles.
Stiles pushes his chair back and stands. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He sucks on his lower lip, worrying at it with his teeth, then takes a cautious step back from the table. “Derek,” he says carefully as he moves slowly towards the Alpha, his head ducked in submission.
Derek snarls at him, snapping his teeth in warning, but Stiles ignores him, coming closer as Derek retreats until he finds himself pressed up against a wall.
“Derek,” he says again, one hand moving up to brush against Derek’s muzzle. Derek lets out a high pitched whine before rubbing against Stiles’s hand. “Your mate?” Stiles questions, voice laced with confusion while his body pumps out the rich scent of hope and desperation.
Derek jerks back from his touch, whining again. "No," Derek shakes his head. He can’t have this conversation. Can’t let Stiles know how much he means to him. Derek panics, snarling again.
“Please,” Stiles’s says, reaching his hand out again and Derek slaps it away.
He bends his legs, pushes off and jumps over and around Stiles, rushing for the exit, ignoring Stiles's pleas for him to stop, to come back.
*
Derek runs until his legs are aching, his breath coming in fits and gasps. He runs until day turns into night, until when he howls, there is no one in range able to hear.
He makes himself a den in the soft sand of the high desert, burrowing deep enough that the sun's rays barely touch him in the morning. He contemplates heading back, but quickly rejects the idea. He needs time alone to think, to come to peace with everything that has happened. His pack knows well enough how to handle his absence, provided he doesn't stay gone longer than a week or two, and so there is no pressing reason to go back until he is ready.
Derek spends most of his days sleeping, hidden out of sight, and all of his nights running. He heads east until the desert becomes boring, then north until he hits the mountains the half the state. He hunts when he's hungry, drinks water when he's thirsty and avoids any hints of civilization. After four days, he no longer feels the urge to run. After six, he decides to head back home.
*
"Welcome back, handsome," Lydia says around a yawn.
Derek ignores her, pushing past her to head for the stairs. She mutters something unflattering about him, but Derek doesn't stop, just keeps on walking until he's reached his destination.
He splashes water onto his face before he pisses. Then flushes, washes his hands, and brushes his teeth. With the most pressing necessities out of the way, he turns on the shower, twisting the knobs to as hot as possible. Once inside, he scrubs himself nearly raw before lathering up his hair. It takes longer than he would like for the water to run clean, but then Derek's been in Alpha form for going on ten days now, and being filthy sort of goes with the territory.
He stays under the spray until the water goes cold, then twists the knobs to turn it off and shakes himself dry. He drips a bit as he exits the bathroom, but it's his house and his floor and he doesn't really give a shit. All he cares about right now is sleeping in the comfort of his bed. Everything else can just fade the fuck away, as far as he's concerned.
The only problem with that is, someone is sleeping in his bed.
Derek snarls as he flips on the light, unhappy and not concerned about Stiles knowing it. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asks as he yanks the covers off of the teen.
"Sleeping," Stiles answers groggily. "Or at least I was."
"Yeah, I got that part. What I don't understand is why you were doing it in my bed."
Stiles blinks at him in confusion, then smiles wide. "'Cause you're my mate," he answers. Derek snarls again, but Stiles just keeps smiling. He yawns behind his fist, eyes squinching shut, and then pats the bed besides him. "Come to bed, sour wolf," he says.
“I don’t like to repeat myself,” Derek starts, trying to keep his voice low, “so I’m not going to ask again. Why are you in my bed?”
“Technically, that’s the first time you’ve asked me that question outright,” Stiles says, flopping onto his side and giving Derek a know-it-all grin. “But, dude, I’ve already answered you. I’m in your bed because I’m your mate. You said I was. You did. Right before you ran away. And I figured, what the hell, you have to come back at some point, right? So I stayed. Here. At your house. Waiting for you. And here you are. Um, like, a week and a half later, but whatever. You’re here and I’m here and the bed’s here. So why don’t you join me in it, huh? And we can work out all that other stuff in the morning.”
“All that other stuff?” Derek asks, his eyebrows quirking up.
“Yeah,” Stiles yawns again. “The complicated stuff. You know, where I go on about how you never told me you cared about me and you give me your bullshit reasons for why that was the case and then I say that I don’t care, I love you anyway and you say you love me too and then we make out? Or at least that’s what I’ve been hoping happens anyway. It could go the other way. The way where there is more shouting and less kissing and, well, I hope it doesn’t go that way. But if it does, that all good too, because you’re my mate. And that means that I get to keep you, no matter how stupid you are.”
“How stupid I am?” Derek scowls at that. “What about you? You do some pretty stupid shit too, Stiles.”
“Sure, I do. Sometimes. But not like you. You’re the one that’s mean.” Stiles frowns, rubbing at his eyes before reaching for the covers. “You’re the one that’s always pushing me away, telling me to fuck off and die.”
Stiles tugs at the covers that are still bunched in Derek’s hand. Derek stares down at him for a moment, then sighs and lets them go. Stiles makes a contented noise and pulls them up to his chin.
“Come ‘ere,” he says sleepily, patting the bed again.
Derek lowers himself slowly onto the bed, sitting sideways with his back to Stiles. “I never told you to fuck off and die,” he says softly.
Stiles runs a hand down his back, petting Derek like he’s Stiles’s dog. “Not with your words, maybe, but with your face. Dude. Your face says so much. Like, you have a look for everything. Seriously, you have about six different ‘Shut the fuck up, Stiles’ frowns alone.”
“Six different frowns?” Derek, turns so that he can stare at Stiles. “You don’t think you are exaggerating there?”
“Naw,” Stiles shakes his head and then burrows his cheek into the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’ve got that one frown where it’s just your lips sort of tugging down a bit, that one means that you’re kinda annoyed, but kinda amused, but really you just want me to shut up already. And then there’s the one where you frown all the way, with mouth wrinkles and all, which, dude, you are going to get such deep lines if you keep that shit up. Anyway, that frown, with mouth wrinkles, means that I’m being really, really annoying about something, but you’re not mad yet. Then you’ve got the one with the mouth wrinkles and your angry eyes. That one means you are pissed as hell and I should probably apologize like right away, even if I don’t know what I said that pissed you off.”
He yawns again. “And, um, there’s the one where you lower your eyebrows in a line, like Cro-Magnon man or something. And that’s the one you do when you’re about to slam me against a wall. Oh! And there’s the one you give me when you are going to slam me against a wall, but in a totally good way. Like, where you really just want to kiss the hell out of me but don’t know how to say it so you sort of frown at me like I’m crazy for talking when we should just be macking and you kind of whimper a little and then hello there wall and super hot, turned on werewolf.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows and squirms a little on the bed. “I like that 'Shut the fuck up, Stiles' frown best of all.”
“That was only five.” Derek says as he turns towards Stiles completely, reaches out hesitantly and runs a finger down Stiles’s cheek.
“Hum?” Stiles says distractedly as he presses his face against Derek’s hand.
Derek smiles at the way Stiles is nuzzling up against him. “That was only five frowns.” Derek holds up his other hand and ticks them off on his fingers. “The half-amused half-annoyed one, the one with mouth wrinkles, the one with mouth wrinkles and angry eyes, the Cro-Magnon man one, and the I want to kiss you one. Like I said, only five.”
“Oh.” Stiles squirms some more, wiggling his way over until he is curled around Derek, his head resting in Derek’s lap. “Okay, so you have five different 'Shut the fuck up, Stiles' frowns then. Not six. My bad. Point still remains, your face does your speaking for you. And it’s, um, kind of mean sometimes.”
“My face doesn’t mean to be,” Derek says softly. “My face, like the rest of me, really, really likes you. All the time. Even when it’s frowning.” Derek thinks for a moment, then adds, “Especially when it’s frowning.”
“That’s nice,” Stiles replies, his words slurring a little with sleep. “I really, really like your face too.”
Something inside of Derek curdles at the words and he pushes Stiles’s head out of his lap. “Yeah,” he says dejectedly, “I know.”
Stiles flails a little, opening his eyes wide in an attempt to wake himself up. “What’s wrong,” he says loudly, face wrinkled up in concern. “That’s not your happy voice. I know your happy voice and that wasn’t it at all. Don’t be mad, Derek. Please.”
“I’m not mad,” Derek answers resignedly. “Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.” He pushes off the bed and flips off the light before heading for the door.
“No, don’t go,” Stiles pleads, and Derek hears the springs of the bed creak as he flails about some more. “Stay with me. I’m your mate. You said I was.”
He sounds desperate, on the edge of tears and it’s all Derek can do not to rush back to the bed. He hunches his shoulders and ignores the way his wolf is whining. “I’ll talk to you in the morning,” he says, and then he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.
*
Derek heads down to the living room and sprawls out on the couch. He wraps an arm around one of the pillows and buries his face in it, trying his hardest not to think about Stiles, all warm and welcoming in his bed. His wolf whines at him, begging to be allowed back up the stairs, but Derek ignore it, hunkering down on the couch.
He tosses and turns, restless and unhappy as the night slowly passes.
*
“Wake up.”
Derek growls, flipping over onto his side and pressing his face into the back of the couch.
“No, really dude, you’ve got to wake up.”
“Fuck off,” he mutters into the cushion.
There is a loud sigh, and then the weight of another body pressing up against his. “Fine, we’ll do it like this then. I’ll just lay here next to you and talk and talk until you can’t take it anymore. And then you’ll get up and I’ll make you breakfast and we can finish the conversation we keep not having like normal people.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Derek says, relaxing back into the warmth of Stiles’s body.
“Yes, it does. It makes perfect sense. And it’s what we are doing.” His breath is warm on Derek’s neck. “So, about last night,” he begins.
Derek snarls, then rolls over, tossing an arm over Stiles and dragging the kid roughly under him, so that when he finished the move, Stiles is flat on his back with Derek nestled firmly between his legs.
“Never mind last night, let’s do this instead,” Stiles says happily, reaching up to wrap his arms around Derek’s neck. His lips brush hungrily against Derek’s mouth as the room fills up with the spicy scent of his arousal.
“No,” Derek jerks back as far as he can go, glowering down at Stiles.
“Why not?” Stiles tugs at his neck, trying to pull him down. “Dude, what gives? You love kissing me. I’ve got super kissable lips. And a candy tongue.”
“What the hell have you been reading?” Derek asks.
“Cheap romance novels,” Lydia calls from the dining room. “The type with girls in tattered dresses on the covers. And he’s been watching period dramas too. It’s been torture.”
“Don’t you say a word more, you philistine!” Stiles twists and bucks under Derek clearly trying to break free so he can run her down or something. Derek keeps him pinned for his own safety.
Lydia cackles like she knows exactly what's going down on the couch. Probably because she does. “Seriously, Derek, he subjected us to four different versions of Jane Eyre. Just fuck him already, for all our sakes.”
“Shut up,” Derek says before ducking down to nip at Stiles’s neck. “And you, stop moving.”
Stiles moans and squirms against him, because Stiles always does the opposite of what Derek tells him too.
“Are you fucking him yet?” Lydia asks, her voice filled with evil delight.
Derek growls as he pushes off of Stiles and bounds into the dining room. Lydia gives him a bland look, which morphs into a yelp when he crowds up into her space, pinning her to her chair. “You. Leave. Now. And take your pinhead ex with you too.” He raises his voice at the end so that Jackson can’t help but hear.
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Jackson shouts from his room at the back of the house, his words accompanied by a loud thump and frantic scrambling. Derek grins because that’s the way it ought to be, never mind that Jackson will roll over for anything.
Lydia shoves at his chest. “Get out of the way and I’ll leave too. I didn’t really want to witness him sobbing for your cock anyway.”
“You’d sob for it too, if you ever had it in you,” Stiles snarks back from the living room and Derek fights the urge to groan.
“Can we please not talk about my cock right now,” he says as he pulls back from Lydia.
Lydia makes a bitch face at him. “I never want to talk about your cock again, thanks.” She picks up her plate and heads for the kitchen.
“You’re a fucking liar, Lydia,” Stiles shouts back. “You want to talk about his cock all the time. You even asked me what it tastes like.”
Lydia hisses and throws the plate into the sink so hard Derek’s surprised it doesn’t smash. “Shut up, Stiles” she grits out. “Or I’ll start sharing some of your secrets. And won’t that be fun? I wonder what Derek will think if I tell him all the juicy details about your date with that guy in your Organic Chemistry class.”
“Lydia, no!” Stiles rushes into the room, his eyes wide. “Dude, what the fuck is your problem?” He gives her a bitch face of his own as he hurries to Derek’s side. “Don’t listen to her, Derek. She’s crazy. You know she’s crazy.”
Derek backs away from him, his heart like ice in his chest. “You went on a date.”
“We were broken up, it didn't mean anything. I swear.” Stiles paws at his shirt, a panicked look on his face.
Derek slaps his hands away. “You went on a date,” he repeats, feeling dead inside. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He nods to himself. He should have expected it. Of course Stiles is dating other people. People more on his level who are closer to his age and who share similar interests.
It’s for the best, really. Sure, it hurts like a knife in the gut, but it’s for the best. Stiles needs to move on, needs to find someone who's a better match for him than Derek is. Derek nods again and says as much out loud.
“No.” Stiles shakes his head violently as he clutches at Derek’s shirt, his body putting of frantic vibes. “Don’t say that. You can’t say that. I’m your mate.” His voice breaks on the last word and he buries his face against Derek’s chest. “You can’t say that,” he repeats, his breath hot and moist against the thin cotton of Derek’s undershirt.
“Oh my fucking god, are you serious?” Lydia snarls. “Derek, get the fuck over yourself. Stiles is ass over elbows for you. Look at him, he’s about to lose his shit over there. And you’re being what? A martyr? Or something? Seriously, what the fuck is your problem? Sure, Stiles is annoying as shit, but you seem to like it. Hell, you get off on it. So just bite him already. Everyone knows he's your mate anyway, so why not just make it official. Jesus. This isn’t rocket science.”
Derek wants to snarl back at her, but what’s she’s saying makes sense, damnit. So he just grunts and gives her his best fuck you face.
Lydia throws her hands up in the air at that and growls. “Fine, whatever. Be noble and self-sacrificing and fucking miserable. Make him whimper and whine and beg for it. I don’t care. It’s not like I’m the one who is going to be mateless for life because of stupid fucking boy pride. God, I'm glad I don't have a dick. I'd probably be just as clueless as you.” She storms out of the room and down the hall, slamming the front door in her wake.
Derek snarls as he hears her pull out. “God fucking damnit.”
Stiles’s arms tighten around him and the kid rubs his face against Derek’s chest like he’s the werewolf. “I’ll beg for it,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “If that’s what it takes. I will. I’ll get on my knees and beg. I’ll do anything, just please. Let me have this. Let me have you. For real this time. No holding back, no pushing me away. No telling me that I’m not pack.” He pushes up, mouths at Derek’s neck. “I love you, you stupid fuck. You. And no one else.”
Derek’s wolf howls inside, happy and panting with its satisfaction, but Derek just shakes his head. “You don’t, you can’t.”
“The hell I can’t,” Stiles slaps at his chest, angry and fired up. “I love you, Derek Hale. I want to marry you, damn it, so the whole world knows you’re mine. I want your stupid scowling face to be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I see before I fall asleep at night. I want to listen to your terrible emo rock music and watch your stupid indie foreign films. I want to smell you all rank after a run, have you rutt against me in the kitchen because you can't control yourself. God, I want to hear you laugh at my expense and see what you look like when you’re fifty and not so fucking perfect any more. Please, Derek.”
“But why?” Derek can’t help but ask. “Why me? You’re so smart and funny and, god, you could have anyone. Why me?”
“I could have anyone?” Stiles scoffs. “Excuse me, what? I’m skinny and spastic and terrible at social interaction. You’re the one who is amazing. Just look at you.”
Derek snorts. “Yeah. Look at me. Pretty face, pretty body. Personality like corrosive acid. Not much on offer, if you’re basing your choice on anything other than the physical.”
“What?” Stiles jerks back, his face a study of confusion. “Are you high? Seriously right now. I mean, yeah, sure. You look like sex on a stick. But that’s just the wrapping paper, baby. You’re a hell of a lot more than that. You have to know that.”
Derek huffs out a bitter laugh, his hands squeezing Stiles’s shoulders. “A hell of a lot more than that? Yeah, right.”
"Dude, you are such a catch. Don't even pretend like you aren't. Even if you looked like fossilized dinosaur dung, you'd still be a catch." Stiles pins him with a fond look. “Because you’re strong and loyal and smart. You pull people together without even trying. And, dude, you are super squishy underneath that gruff, crunchy exterior. Kind of like one of those Ferrero Rocher chocolates.”
“Did you just compare me to a chocolate?”
Stiles nods eagerly, a smile spreading across his face. “Dude, it’s like the perfect analogy. Because Ferrero Rocher chocolates are, you know, all prickly and,” his hands skim up Derek’s back as he rubs his cheek against the underside of Derek’s jaw, “and they smell delicious and you just have to lick them and they sort of rasp against your tongue and then you bite into them and, god, they taste like heaven-- all sweet and crunchy and creamy in your mouth-- and you, Derek Hale, you are exactly like that.”
And then he’s kissing Derek, licking into his mouth, and it’s all Derek can do not to devour him. His hands come up to clutch at Derek’s shoulders and he moans, low in his throat. Derek’s grip shifts to Stiles’s hips, tugging him closer. He bites and sucks at Stiles’s lips as he rocks against him.
“God, yes,” Stiles pants and Derek moves from his mouth to his neck, tugging aside Stiles’s shirt so he can worry at his collarbone. “Please, bite me,” he begs. “Mark me, Derek. Make me yours.”
Derek doesn’t pause to think, just lets the wolf free. He feels his teeth elongating and opens his mouth wide, nipping gently at the sensitive skin of Stiles’s throat.
“Please,” Stiles whimpers, angling his head to give Derek better access.
“If I do this, it’s forever,” Derek warns, his lips brushing against the smooth skin.
Stiles swallows hard, then nods once. “I, yes. Forever. I want you forever. I want this forever. You and me, together with our pack. That's kind of the point. Have you even been listening to anything I've been saying? Because, yeah. That's what I want. I would fucking tattoo it on my forehead if I thought that would get through to you. Please, Derek. Give it to me.”
And Derek does. He bites down hard, savoring the taste of Stiles’s skin, the spicy smell of his arousal and the thrust of Stiles’s hips against his own.
*
The following Sunday finds them at Stiles’s father’s house, eating spaghetti bolognese and talking about possible colleges. Stiles wants somewhere close, his father wants somewhere good and Derek doesn’t care at all, just so long as Stiles is happy.
A.N.: Most of the fics I've read in the Teen Wolf fandom have Derek being this super awesome hot sauce god who rocks on with his bad self while Stiles flutters around feeling insecure for various reasons. And that's perfectly nice and lovely and all, but I sort of wanted to flip that on its head. Because, really, Stiles is the most bad ass, resourceful dude in Beacon Hills and, well, Derek is as grumpy as he is pretty. So... why not play with that?