tricksters make this world

[wldnst]

part 2

Derek goes to Stiles’ that night.

“Someday you’re going to interrupt something,” Stiles says. “I have people over.”

Derek looks at him.

“I could,” Stiles says. “I’m not at your beck and call.”

“I met with the otters,” Derek says, sitting down.

“Wow,” Stiles says. “You definitely could not have told me this over the phone.”

“They say there’s an Anguilla,” Derek says. “It was in the cove, but they think it’s come inland--”

“A--what?” Stiles asks. He drums his fingers on the table.

“A sea serpent,” Derek presses. “That can take human form.”

Stiles frowns.

"I would’ve thought you would find those more in the Atlantic,” he says finally.

Derek looks at him.

“Everything’s everywhere,” Derek says, finally.

Stiles nods.

“The story--they have red hair, for one. Supposedly female, but they aren’t really supposed to be shapeshifters, either, so I’m not sure how much stock I’d put in that,” Stiles shrugs. “‘Twilight’ somehow got them associated with vampires, but they’re not. Vampires, I mean. That’s all I’ve got, though they’re really kind of outside my specialty. You’re lucky I remember this shit at all. I could check the databases--I’ve got access to some sweet databases now.”

“Do that,” Derek says.

“What’s the magic word?” Stiles asks. Derek remembers a time when he Stiles saying stuff like that made Derek want to punch him. It still kind of does.

“Please do the thing with the databases,” Derek says, pointedly protracting the first word.

“Don’t take that tone with me young man,” Stiles says, but he goes into the bedroom and comes back with a laptop.

“So you’re going to sit here,” Stiles says, opening his laptop and beginning to type. “This brings me right back. Are you going to peer over my shoulder, too? Read the dictionary? There’s one on the bookcase in the corner. Also a thesaurus. Also a--no, there’s not an encyclopedia, that would be a lie.”

Derek pulls a chair around besides Stiles, leaning forward to look at the screen.

“Seriously,” Stiles says. “This is like advanced googling. It’s not cool to watch. If you want I can bust out the World of Warcraft, which I actually haven’t played since high school--er--college. But. Or Minecraft, have you played Minecraft?”

Stiles is clicking through a series of screens, typing again, and Derek can’t get a clear idea of what he’s even doing. His angle on the screen is bad, and so he watches Stiles from the corner of his eye instead: the freckling of moles across his pale skin, the upturned tip of his nose and the mouth he’s perpetually unable to keep shut cast in the weird, silvery glow of the laptop screen.

“Anything I find is going to be academic as shit,” he says. “Just so you know. And that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily true to life. The Argent family monster book will probably be more helpful, since these people just chill in their ivory towers all day.”

“Yeah, Scott and Allison are doing that,” Derek says.

“Delegation, very nice,” Stiles says. “I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t delegate this one to Scott, ‘cause that seemed to be your old m.o.” He pauses, “Okay, there are three articles that even mention Angu-whatever, and that’s after I tried two different spellings just to be safe. The abstracts are--not promising.”

“Not promising?” Derek asks.

“It’s a story to keep kids from going down by the ocean,” Stiles says. “Possibly to explain dangerous tides. Blah-di-blahblah. Nothing about killing it dead. Or--” Stiles pauses, and Derek leans forward to look over his shoulder, trying to get a better angle on the screen by aligning his face with Stiles’.

“Seriously, dude, personal space,” Stiles says. “It’s a thing. There’s something here, about associations with seaweed and ah--fire.”

“Fire,” Derek repeats, and Stiles points at the screen.

“Fire for killing,” he says. “Because, ‘The Anguilla may be a manifestation of sublimated fears, and while some have proposed a relationship to riptides--works cited et al.--an alternative may actually be seaweed, which, while usually benign, could entangle in much the same way a serpent might. This also explains a legend that has emerged suggesting that fire can keep the Anguilla at bay.’”

“Fire,” Derek repeats. It should probably surprise him more that they haven’t encountered something like this before, something they needed to kill by fire. Stiles turns to look at him, and it only takes a few moments for the pieces to click into place--Derek can see it happening on Stiles’ face.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. Shit.”

Derek twists his mouth into a tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah,” he says. Stiles reaches out one hand and pats him gingerly on the shoulder.

“It’s probably--” he starts. “You have the rest of the pack, you know? I mean, of course you do, you’ve had them for years now.”

It’s such a strange cocktail of emotions, because--fire. He’s not afraid of it, exactly, but there have been times when he’s seen plumes of smoke rising on the horizon and felt fear or something like it running down his spine like a rill, visceral and quick. Thinking about it now, about a fire big enough to kill something--and there’s Stiles’ hand, still there, and Stiles’ arm hooked around his shoulders, as it wasn’t before, and Stiles is leaning against him, smelling more like Beacon Hills, like home, than he did when they first got back, and it’s--grounding. Derek soaks that in for a moment, that sense of calm, before he shakes Stiles’ arm off, shakes himself off.

“Yes,” he says.

“Maybe the bestiary will say something else,” Stiles says quietly. “I’d go with that over this nonsense. The references they used are from, like, ‘67, and no one’s referenced them, so they clearly aren’t reputable.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles quirks his lips into a small smile.

“Worth a try, right?” he says.

“You aren’t a very good liar,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I was actually kind of aware of that, after about the seventh time I spent fifteen minutes giving my father a really elaborate explanation for something only to realize he was just listening to see what shit I would come up with, because it was entertaining. And I am pretty entertaining, but, you know, I guess my nostrils do this thing, and my hand does this other thing, and you have your internal heart monitor, anyway, and, seriously, I have very little control over my nostrils.”

“You have very little control over your nostrils,” Derek repeats.

“That’s what you took away from that,” Stiles says. “Okay.”

“Speaking of, want to tell me about your special relationship with those werewolf books?” Derek asks, moving away from Stiles and putting his arms on the table so he can lean forward.

“Not particularly, no,” Stiles says. “I don’t feel that bad for you.”

“Boyd thinks those books are a little--suspicious,” Derek says.

“Blaming Boyd for your suspicions now,” Stiles says. “Cool. But I haven’t read them, so how exactly are they suspicious?”

“You haven’t read them,” Derek says. “You read ‘Twilight’ for ‘research.’”

“I did do that,” Stiles says. “A long time ago. Before the databases. Remember the databases, Derek?”

“Vaguely,” Derek says. “They live in the computer, right?”

Stiles laughs.

“Your jokes are funnier because they’re always such a surprise,” he says, grinning. “Except when they suck. Then they still suck.”

Stiles gets up from the table and shoves his chair in.

“Well, this has been fun,” he says. “Kind of. Weirdly. But life goes on--ob-la-di, ob-la-da--and I expect your pack’s going to want you home, and I actually wanted to get some more writing done tonight, so.”

“So,” Derek says, getting up himself.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Drive safe, look out for soulless gingers of the shapeshifting variety. Not Lyds, obviously, but I think she’s still in Massachusetts, and as far as I know she’s still just a medium and keeps to her own shape.”

“Does she let you call her Lyds to her face?” Derek asks as they move toward the door, and Stiles grins.

“No. No she does not,” Stiles says. “Sometimes I use it over the phone and then she hangs up on me. It’s a fun game. Also a convenient way to end uncomfortable lines of questioning. Though she usually just calls me back.”

“Thanks Stiles,” Derek says. “For your--research.”

“Don’t say research so skeptically,” Stiles says. “Thanks for interrupting my evening and warning me about the shapeshifting sea monster.”

Derek pauses in the doorway and looks back at Stiles. He’s not small, he’s not really a small person, but he looks it sometimes, like Derek can see through him to his human infrastructure, all the breakable bits, the rate at which he won’t heal.

“You could come with,” Derek says. “Come stay at the house, with the pack. We have extra rooms. Just until we get this sorted.”

“I really don’t think it’ll come after me dude,” Stiles says. “I’m pretty sure--”

“Did you learn nothing from, what, four years enmeshed in pack business?” Derek asks. “These things--they go after anyone. We have no idea what this one wants.”

“Maybe it wants the pack, then, and I’d be less safe there,” Stiles says. “We don’t even really know what it can do, either.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “I’m not asking you to join the pack or anything. Just stay in the house until we figure this out. There are more of us, it’s safer.”

“I have Scott on speed dial,” Stiles says, and there’s a stubborn set to his jaw. It’s one Derek has seen at one point on each of his betas’ faces. It took him a long time to learn how to deal with it.

“Okay,” Derek says, and shrugs.

Stiles pauses and looks at him like he’s trying to find the trap.

“Okay,” Stiles echoes. “Great, then. I’ll see you later.”

“Call Scott,” Derek says, and Stiles nods minutely, standing very still in the doorframe.

“You’ve changed,” Stiles says.

“People do,” Derek says. “People do that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says. “I just kind of expected you to put me in a headlock and drag me there.”

“I can still do that,” Derek says. “If you want.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Stiles says. “Thanks, though.”

“If you change your mind, you know where we are,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I guess I do.”

Derek walks back to his car slowly, dragging his feet through the places where the streetlights pool up on the sidewalk. It only takes a few moments before there’s a clatter of feet on the stairs, and Derek doesn’t need to turn around to know Stiles is standing in the street behind him.

“I know you’re trying to play me,” Stiles says. When Derek turns around he’s shrugging on a jacket. “And I want you to know that you didn’t, really, but I kind of want to see what the bestiary had to say, and we really need to figure out what this Anguilla could possibly want in coming ashore, because now the thought’s in my head and I can’t just leave it there.”

Derek pauses, and Stiles looks at him.

“Well?” he says. “Where’s your car? You are giving me a ride, aren’t you?”

Derek shrugs and keeps walking, and Stiles catches up with him and matches his stride, keeping his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“You don’t need anything?” Derek asks.

“Nothing but the clothes on my back,” Stiles says. “Seriously, one night, what am I supposed to bring? I can sleep in my boxers. You guys have extra toothbrushes? I bet you do. I bet you buy bulk packs of toothbrushes at, like, Costco, and have them all in a cabinet under the sink.”

Derek’s not entirely sure why that’s mock worthy, but it’s true.

“It was Boyd,” he says, unlocking the car while Stiles goes around to the passenger side. “He set up the Costco card. And bought the toothbrushes.”

“Boyd is a responsible adult,” Stiles says, sliding in. “It’s amazing you found one. I am shocked and slightly appalled, because I was under the impression that werewolves are supposed to make extremely poor life choices.”

“And that’s why a werewolf is your best friend,” Derek says. “That’s definitely a poor life choice.”

“Ouch,” Stiles says. “I feel so--insulted. I’m going to cry real tears tonight, Hale. So many that you’ll be able to smell them from down the hall.”

“I don’t want to smell any of your bodily fluids, Stiles,” Derek says.

“Aw,” Stiles says. “Don’t worry, I won’t jizz on the sheets.”

Derek chooses not to dignify that with a response, though he should’ve known that if he gave Stiles an opening he would take it and then take it a bridge too far.

“Brainstorming session,” Stiles says when they reach the edge of town and pull into the woods. “What would an Anguilla want in Beacon Hills?”

“To kill us,” Derek says.

“That’s hardly creative,” Stiles says. “The legends say it eats children. Maybe it to devirginize high school students. Maybe it wants to attend high school. Maybe it really enjoys watching lacrosse. Maybe it wants to buy a surfboard.”

“The otter I met at the hardware store made surfboards,” Derek says.

“You met an otter at the hardware store,” Stiles says. “And you didn’t think this was relevant information? Was it adorable?”

“He was human shaped,” Derek says.

“And adorable?” Stiles asks. Derek gives Stiles a sidelong look that he hopes conveys his disinterest in answering that question, and Stiles says, “Eyes on the road, dude, precious cargo.”

“You’re precious cargo, now?” Derek asks.

“Or you might be,” Stiles says. “Don’t sell yourself short Derek, geez. Plus, if you die, who will be Alpha?”

“Boyd,” Derek says without really thinking about it.

“I’m telling Scott,” Stiles says. “Remember when you were all, ‘Scott, you aren’t joining my pack because you’re Alpha of your own pack, blah blah blah, Scott you’re an excellent leader, Scott please be my friend except I don’t really trust you at all?’”

“No,” Derek says.

“And then you were all, ‘Fuck you Stiles, why did you tell your dad about werewolves, and suddenly Scott was trustworthy because Stiles is the least trustworthy, Stiles is a traitor to all werewolfkind,’” Stiles continues. “That was a thing that happened.”

“That’s not exactly how I remember it,” Derek says stiffly, because after that he had still asked Stiles to join the pack and Stiles had said no. Stiles shrugs.

“Oh. Well maybe I’m mixing you up with another Alpha, then.”

They’re quiet, after that. Derek doesn’t know what Stiles doing--he’s turned away from Derek, so Derek can just see the curve of his neck and the rim of his ear, he’s got one arm against the window and he’s tapping his fingers against the armrest in a quick, staccato beat, and when they stop at a four-way Derek glances to his right and can see Stiles is facing forward and worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

Of course Stiles saw it differently; it’s really no surprise. But the way he talks about it--Derek had thought Stiles wanted to leave, refused to commit to the pack. Stiles makes it sound like he’d been pushed out. By Derek. Rejected. Also by Derek. That would explain the part where he kept in touch with everyone but Derek. Not that--Derek doesn’t have a Facebook. But has an e-mail address and, as everyone has been reminding him, a phone.

They pull into the drive and walk up to the house without talking. Stiles takes the porch steps two at a time, and Derek pushes the door open ahead of him. Scott, Allison, and Isaac are watching TV, and Stiles immediately plops down beside Isaac and says, “Oh, Firefly! this is my favorite episode.”

“Hey Stiles,” Allison says.

“What’re you doing here?” Scott asks, peering up.

“Staying the night,” Stiles says. “For important safety reasons.”

Derek steps in front of the TV.

“Did Boyd tell you about our meeting with the otters?”

“Was watching that,” Isaac says placidly.

“Yes, he told us,” Allison says. “The bestiary recommends fire, but says it’s unusual for Anguilla to leave the water wholesale.”

“We still need a motive,” Stiles says. “Means, motive, opportunity.” He ticks them off on his fingers.

“Yes, Stilinski, we know your dad’s a cop,” Isaac mutters, fishing the remote out of the couch cushions and pausing the DVD player or Netflix or whatever it is.

“Sheriff,” Stiles corrects. “So, anyone have any ideas?”

“We haven’t even seen the thing,” Isaac says. “Call me back when it starts eating people.”

“Isaac, is there anyone new at the school? New students? New teachers?” Derek asks. “Redheads?”

“Uh, no,” Isaac says. “Move.”

Derek sighs and moves, goes upstairs and makes up the bed in the spare room, then goes back downstairs and sits beside Stiles.

“Third door on the left,” he says.

Stiles turns to him and blinks.

“Okay?”

“Spare bedroom,” Derek says.

“Bathroom’s the first door on the left,” Scott says brightly.

“I have been in this house before guys,” Stiles says. “But okay, thanks everyone. Would anyone care to tell me which towels are the spares? Or about your hoard of toothbrushes?”

“Left drawer under the sink on the toothbrushes,” Isaac says.

“Towels are in the linen closet behind the bathroom door,” Allison adds. “Anything that’s there is clean.”

“Well,” Stiles says. “Now that that’s all taken care of.”

Isaac restarts the video. Derek doesn’t usually sit and watch this stuff, but it’s pretty good, good enough that when Stiles falls asleep and drools on his shoulder Derek doesn’t bother waking him. Derek’s enjoying this, and Stiles has already seen it, anyway.

When it is over and Derek nudges Stiles awake, he shakes a little and rubs his head against Derek’s shoulder before blinking blearily up at him.

“Oh,” he says, pulling back too quickly, and Derek’s side is suddenly void of warmth. “Oh, sorry. And I accused you of personal space invasion.”

Derek doesn’t respond, just gets up and says, “I’m going to bed.” Isaac smirks at him, another of those jokes Derek doesn’t understand or want to understand, anyway.

Derek wakes up to the smell of pancakes, and when he goes downstairs he finds Stiles in the kitchen, wearing yesterday’s clothes but showered and smelling like pack, like them as individuals and also like their soap, the cheap stuff Boyd buys at Costco. It is--Derek’s not sure how to articulate what it is, but somewhere in his chest his wolf is satisfied.

“I can lend you clean clothes,” Derek says, sitting down and watching Stiles’ back.

“So could Scott, and they would probably fit better,” Stiles says. “Or Allison, though last time we did that the fit was a little snug, especially in the pants. Thanks, but I’m good.”

“You making pancakes for everyone?” Derek asks because he’s not wondering when or why Stiles wore Allison’s pants. Stiles shrugs.

“That’s the plan,” he says. “If I run out, it’s your fault for not having enough eggs.”

“I’m sure it is,” Derek mutters.

“Seriously, how much do you guys spend on food a year?”

“Enough,” Derek says. “Do you really want to get into finances here?”

“No,” Stiles says. “Probably not.”

The rest of the pack comes tumbling downstairs, and the pancakes go quick. It’s not really a surprise. Stiles gets a ride back into town with Erica, but he promises to come back for the night--”And I’ll bring my own clothes this time,” he tells Derek. “And I’ll nose around about anyone new who’s shown up in town.”

It’s strange to have Stiles around again, home with the pack at night. He throws off the entire cooking schedule--throws off the entire point of the cooking schedule--by insisting that he’ll be cooking dinner on arbitrary nights. No one minds, though, because if Stiles isn’t precisely a good cook, but he’s at least on par with Isaac, and he’s a different cook, which is what really counts.

On the second day Derek runs into Muir at the hardware store, buying wood. Stiles is along--wanted to ride along for no reason Derek would fathom, and he’s looking at paint chips and trailing after Derek listlessly when Muir appears.

“Hello again,” Muir says mildly, and Derek gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I hear you spoke with my aunt and the rest.”

“Yes,” Derek says. “Yes, we did.”

“Well, good on you then,” Muir says, and Derek nods once before Stiles emerges behind him.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “Who’s this?”

“Muir Douglas,” Derek says, nodding. “Muir, Stiles.”

“Pleasure,” Muir all but purrs, and Stiles is looking between Derek and Muir strangely, but he stays behind Derek instead of stepping forward.

“Certainly,” Stiles says. “Good to meet you.” He coughs. “It’s certainly good to meet you.”

Muir nods, and Stiles nods, and you could cut the tension--what sort of tension Derek isn’t sure--with a knife before Derek finds himself guiding Stiles away.

“That the surfing otter?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods. “Not adorable. Weird.”

Derek shrugs.

It’s strange, the way none of this is coming together right or easy. The Anguilla should have done something by now, but it hasn’t--it isn’t, and they can’t just wander around Beacon Hills hoping to encounter a redhead person they’ve never seen before that smells of the sea. No one’s dying, the pack is living safe and easy. The only suspicious thing happening at the moment are those novels, and Derek has a pretty fair inkling as to who wrote them, if anyone associated with the pack wrote them. He just--can’t be bothered. Or, he probably should be bothered, but he figures it can wait until this Anguilla thing is resolved, which, at the rate it’s going, may be never. Maybe the Anguilla wants to live peacefully amongst them. Maybe the Anguilla has already left town and moved up or down the coast--and wouldn’t that be nice, a situation resolving itself for once.

Derek highly doubts the Anguilla has moved up or down the coast. Situations never resolve themselves. Neat and easy is for other people.

Which is why it’s kind of a relief when Isaac bursts into the house that evening and says, “We have a redheaded transfer student! She’s been homeschooled until now, and no one’s seen her parents.”

“Finally,” Stiles says, rubbing his head, and Derek has to agree.

“What now?” Isaac asks, plopping himself down on the couch. “Nothing’s happened, so do we try to take preventative measures, or do we do...something else?”

Derek genuinely doesn’t know. If this girl isn’t the Anguilla they can’t do anything.

“Did you meet her?” Derek asks. “How did she smell?”

“Like seaweed,” Isaac confirms. “Really strongly.”

“Am I the only one who thinks this seems too obvious?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Erica says from her perch on the armrest of the chair Boyd’s sitting on.

“No,” Boyd says, and Stiles turns to look at him.

“You see it, too?” Stiles says, then turns towards Isaac and Derek. “No attacks, then we get a really, really, painfully obvious Anguilla. Or something that looks like one. Doesn’t that seem suspicious?”

“You’re more paranoid than Derek,” Erica says. “Seriously? Why?”

“Because,” Stiles frowns and looks at Boyd.

“A trap?” Boyd hazards.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “A trap. With bait.”

Derek looks between Boyd and Stiles, who are looking at one another, both obviously lost within their own heads.

“Did you get her address?” Derek asks Isaac.

“What do you take me for?” Isaac says, frowning. “Yeah, she’s out on Ocean Drive.”

“Obvious,” Stiles says ominously. “So obvious.”

“He’s right,” Boyd adds.

“And, seriously, how does an Anguilla afford Ocean?” Stiles asks. “Those houses are mad fancy, and has anyone moved away recently?”

“Maybe she has family money,” Erica says. “Like Derek. Some of the houses on Ocean are vacation homes no one really lives in, there could’ve been one in the family for awhile and no one would’ve really noticed.”

“Hmm,” Stiles hums thoughtfully. “I never really thought of Anguilla being a family thing, but--”

“I think we should go out to the house,” Derek interjects. “Boyd, Erica, Isaac, we’ll take the Camaro. Stiles, stay here.”

Stiles’ eyes flash to meet Derek’s, widening.

“But,” he says.

“We had an agreement,” Derek says. “Remember?”

“You got me involved in pack business!” Stiles says. “You have me living here. I have a toothbrush.”

“He does,” Boyd says. “It’s purple. It smells like him.”

Derek knows.

“Thank you, Boyd,” Stiles says. “Boyd noticed.”

“It’s safer if you stay here,” Derek says.

“Unless the Anguilla knows you’re coming and circles back around,” Stiles says.

“Scott and Allison will be home soon,” Derek says. “We’re just going to check things out, we’ll be back soon.”

Stiles lifts his chin and flares. His eyes are such a light brown they’re practically gold, practically supernatural, and Derek fully acknowledges the irony of holding that thought in his mind when his eyes could, very easily, be flashing red.

“I could help,” Stiles says. “I’ve been helpful in the past. I could help.”

“It will be safer if you don’t,” Derek says. “For everyone. And this is just--a preliminary investigation.”

“So then it’s no big to bring me,” Stiles says. “For a preliminary investigation.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Derek doesn’t know what was in his tone, but Stiles recoils as if hit.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and his own voice is quiet, there’s something that’s drained out of him. “Okay. It’s still like this. I see. I have work to do anyway.”

Derek doesn’t, not really.

“Boyd,” Stiles continues, turning to Boyd. “Represent for me here, alright? Don’t let them tear anyone or anything’s throat out with their teeth unless this girl transforms into a sea serpent before your very eyes and, like, tries to bite a chunk out of someone. Something’s weird about this and--I don’t know.”

Stiles gets up and goes upstairs, and Boyd kind of shrugs and looks to Derek, who is feeling a little--but maybe Stiles is trying to play him. But also like Stiles isn’t, like something just happened that is deeply, deeply, strange and confusing to Derek.

“Let’s go,” he says, looking at the others.

“Wait,” Stiles says, clattering down the stairs. “Give me the address so I know where to send Scott and Allison and my Dad when you guys don’t come back.”

Isaac looks at Derek, and Derek nods once. Isaac rattles off the numbers.

“Don’t follow us,” Derek says.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to,” Stiles says flatly. “Really not interested.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause after that, and then Boyd gets up and walks to the door, and the others follow. When they get in the car Isaac gives Derek the house number but otherwise it’s quiet, and Derek knows something happened back there, but he’s not sure what.

“He could’ve come,” Erica says.

“He’s not pack,” Derek says. “If something had happened--”

“Except when you treat him like he is,” Erica says. “Which is most of the time.”

Oh. Oh.

It’s kind of obvious when Erica says it, which might explain why everyone goes silent after that. Probably also because they don’t want to talk about it, because Derek is on a thin blade’s edge between being okay and being not okay at all, after that conversation with Stiles, after the way Stiles had looked at him, all dark gold eyes and pink cheeks and righteous anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Erica’s right. If Stiles isn’t pack he doesn’t need to stay at the house with them, but--it had made sense, at the time. Stiles needed to be kept safe, because he was--

Derek didn’t know what he was. He didn’t trust Stiles, but he felt like he should protect him. And he didn’t know what that meant. Or he did, he could feel its meaning on the edge of his mind, but there was no time for that, now.

The Anguilla’s house on Ocean Drive is one of the big ones, nestled in along the cliffs just south of Sunday Cove, with a driveway that they drove past twice before actually seeing it. Derek parked along the road, in a gravel pull-out that people used to hike down to the beach. It would look suspicious, but less suspicious than the driveway, and if the Sheriff saw it and not one of his deputies he would probably turn a blind eye.

They shift and lope through the woods towards the house. The lights are out and the house looks empty, though when they nose around Derek catches the scent of seaweed, stronger even than the nearby ocean, commingled with something human. There have been at least two more people near the house in the past few days, as far as Derek can tell, but the real problem is that no one’s there now.

It’s Isaac who tracks one of the scents to a rickety staircase that leads towards the shore, and then they all follow him down. Stairs are clumsy on four legs, but everyone makes it down to the shore without tumbling, which Derek counts as a plus. The minus is that it’s high tide and the scent leads straight into the water. Even assuming whatever--whoever--it was hadn’t shifted, they could easily have walked below the tideline to where ever they were going.

Derek retreats back into the trees and sits down, and the others gather around him.

“Are we waiting?” Isaac asks.

“Yes,” Derek says.

“The glamorous lives of a pack of werewolves,” Isaac mutters, and lies down on his back. “Wake me up when something happens.”

Boyd and Erica go off to the side, presumably to make out, and Derek settles back against the trunk of a tree, watching the shore and the staircase as his thoughts wend their way, inevitably, back around towards Stiles.

This is what Derek knows about himself: he’s a werewolf, the Alpha of a small pack that has recently been kind of a disaster but is doing alright for itself, now. He owns a landscaping business. All his blood relations are dead, and that’s something he would rather not see happen again.

From here he can hear the heartbeats of his betas, quiet and present around him in the woods, steady as the lapping of the waves. But Scott and Allison are missing. And Stiles, Stiles is missing too, his heartbeat erratic and human and completely alive.

This is what Derek knows about how he feels about Stiles: he wants to make sure Stiles is safe. But Stiles isn’t pack, and Derek isn’t sure who a person is to him that he wants to keep safe but that isn’t pack--that isn’t already committed to him, to Derek, as their Alpha. Because anyone who isn’t could betray him, and by betraying him, hurt the pack.

And his pack trusts Stiles, but Derek--Derek’s not sure if he can, but he wonders if he does, already.

He listens to the heartbeats around him, listens to his own heartbeat, the steady line of himself that is so omnipresent he rarely hears it, and then he hears a fifth.

He shakes Isaac awake and gets to his feet. Boyd and Erica emerge from the woods to join them, arms loose at their sides, and the person--the other heartbeat--Derek can smell them, now, human and salt and sea, and they’re standing by the shore.

It is a red-haired girl, sixteen if she’s a day, and Derek signals for the pack to stay back while he steps out of the treeline. She turns around.

“Alpha Hale,” she says. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Have you?” he asks.

“I can see your pack back there,” she says. “They can come out of the woods. Little dogs can come out of the woods.”

Derek looks at her, and holds up a hand to signal the betas to hold back.

“What do you want?” he says, slowly.

She laughs, wavering.

“Didn’t the otters tell you?” she says. “Bones, of course. I’m something of a collector.”

“You haven’t done much collecting,” Derek says, the girl’s lips twist into a sharp-toothed grin.

“I’ve been waiting,” she says, stepping forward, and Derek is waiting for her to shift, for her to grab him and pull him towards the ocean, but she just--stands there, like she’s waiting, too.

Derek growls, and the girl’s smile widens. Derek can hear, behind him, his betas stepping forward--he trusts Boyd to hold them back.

“You’re a cute little dog,” says the girl. “With a cute little litter of cute little pups. Do you know any tricks?”

Derek’s still waiting.

“I can see why Kate liked you,” says the girl, and that--that was it what Derek’s been waiting for, and he is--he can feel his control stripped away, he can almost see the tattered vestiges of it, and he’s shifting and leaping, leaping and shifting, and the girl is starting to laugh, but she’s still human-shaped, which is wrong somehow. The human in Derek is skidding to a halt, is saying no, and Derek can hear Boyd saying something similar, but Derek can’t hear it over the roaring in his ears.

Derek doesn’t even know where Stiles comes from, just that he’s there, throwing himself in front of Derek before anyone in the pack can reach them, and Derek is slicing his side and Stiles is tumbling onto the rocks and there’s a--sound--when the side of Stiles’ head hits on the rocks and even Derek’s wolf feels guilty and Stiles is saying--something--and there’s blood on Derek’s claws, and it smells like Stiles.

“She’s an otter,” Stiles says. “She’s a--it’s a trap.”

Derek pulls back, pulls out of himself and into his other self. Stiles is clutching at his side, still talking. The girl--the girl is an otter, she’s already shifted and is rushing towards the water.

“Stiles, what the hell?” Derek asks, because he can’t help himself, even as he realizes he should be with Erica, who has rushed forward and is pressing her shirt against Stiles’ side and helping him to his feet.

“An otter--” Stiles says. “Muir Douglas. Came by the house. Wanted the pack records, territory maps, thought you’d be gone. They were--they were trying to get you to break truce, so the Argents could drive you out. Wanted--land. I called Dad, had him check land deeds, and this house belongs to the Douglas family and is listed as their primary residence.”

Derek is a little bewildered.

“They provoked me,” Derek starts to say. “They--”

“The otters--couldn’t attack, just needed something to say you’d harmed--peaceable creatures,” Stiles says.

“We need to get him to the hospital,” Erica hisses, lifting Stiles to his feet. “He’s a human.”

Stiles is human. Derek slides in against his other side, and with Stiles between them he and Erica navigate him to the steps.

“I can walk,” Stiles says, but he stumbles a bit, and Isaac says, “Obviously you can’t.”

“I couldn’t--” Stiles says. “Scott and Allison were too far away, wouldn’t make it on time, and I think if you touched her they would’ve had enough. There’s no Anguilla.”

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek says, mostly to humor him. If he’s talking, he’s alright, and Erica is pressing her shirt into his side, but Derek can smell the metallic scent of human blood, of Stiles’ blood, right there, and Stiles’ arm is heavier than it should be across Derek’s shoulders.

“She--” Stiles says. “Kate. Still?”

Derek doesn’t entirely know what Stiles is asking, or why, and he can feel the bodies of his pack pressed close around him, like they can stop this. Even if Derek did know what Stiles was asking, he’s not sure what the answer is.

“Let’s get you up these stairs,” Derek says.

“There’s a first aid kit,” Stiles says. “Under the passenger seat.”

There is a first aid kit under the passenger seat in Stiles’ Jeep, when they get to it. It’s parked in front of the house, haphazardly, the driver’s side door still ajar and the keys dangling in the ignition. Derek just hopes the battery’s live.

Isaac knows first aid, or enough first aid to wrap bandages tightly around Stiles’ chest once they’ve peeled his shirt off.

“They aren’t deep,” Isaac says.

“See?” Stiles mutters. “I’ll be fine.”

“Unless you have a concussion,” Erica gripes. “Quick, someone shine a flashlight in his eyes, don’t let him fall asleep.”

“I don’t,” Stiles mutters with the confidence of someone who--might have an concussion. “Boyd, call my dad and tell him I’m fine. See, I remembered that, I probably don’t--”

They have him lying across the back seat, and Stiles is trying to prop himself up to keep talking, but eventually he just slumps back while Boyd goes off to make the call. Isaac does actually find a flashlight in Stiles’ glovebox, and shines it in his eyes and claims his pupils are dilating normally, though Derek isn’t sure how Isaac knows this.

“Just take me home,” Stiles says. “To a bed.”

The cuts aren’t deep, and the keys are in the ignition, so Derek hands the keys to the Camaro off to Boyd and drives Stiles back to the house, carries him up the stairs and puts him into bed, helps him out of his pants and covers him over with blankets, then brings a spare chair into the room, props his legs up on the bed, and goes to sleep himself.

Scott shakes him awake, his head stooped over Derek in the dark room.

“What happened?” he asks. “Allison and I--Stiles called, but we were too far away.”

“He’s okay,” Derek says. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

Scott looks at him for a moment, like he’s thinking, then shakes his head.

“I need to give him stitches,” Scott says. “I--called Isaac, I stopped by Deaton’s and brought the stuff.”

Derek vaguely thinks that they probably shouldn’t have a vet--not even a real vet, one in training--treat their human, especially not when Scott’s mother is a nurse, but he just shifts in his uncomfortable chair, trying to shake the sleep--the whole evening, really--from his head enough to think clearly.

“Okay,” he says.

Scott gives him a strange look, and Derek moves towards the bed to shake Stiles awake.

“Scott’s here,” Derek says. “He’s going to give you stitches.”

Stiles’ eyes, looking up at Derek, are huge and bright in the dim light that’s filtering in from the hallway, his lashes casting strange shadows on his cheeks.

“Oh my god, Scott, I’m not a chihuahua,” Stiles says, and laughs weakly. “Help me with these bandages, okay?”

Derek helps Stiles up and then sits on the bed with his hand on Stiles’ shoulder while Scott stitches him up, and every time Stiles winces it lances through Derek to somewhere buried inside his chest, somewhere that aches like a wound.

“Okay,” Scott says, and between the three of them they sit Stiles up and redo his bandages.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Stiles says, and forcibly flops himself back onto the bed. Derek returns to his chair, and Scott gives him one last cryptic look before leaving the room.

Derek wakes up twice in the night and again when light is slanting through the blinds and Stiles is blinking at him from the bed.

“Did you sleep here?” he asks.

“I cut you,” Derek says. “I--how do you feel?”

Stiles stretches and rolls himself over, pushing down the blankets and running one hand along the bandages on his side.

“Not great,” he says. “But alright. Probably could change the bandages. Or eat breakfast. Or some combination thereof.”

It smells like breakfast, Derek realizes.

“Downstairs, then?” he asks, and Stiles nods.

“There should be a clean shirt in the top drawer of the dresser, if you could grab one,” he adds, and Derek turns around and takes one out, tosses it to Stiles, who pulls it on before getting up. Derek looks at him questioningly, and Stiles shrugs.

“I’m really alright,” he says. “Enough to walk, at least.”

“What happened at the house last night?” Derek asks when they’re at the breakfast table. “With Muir?”

Stiles shrugs.

“He didn’t expect anyone to be here,” Stiles says. “And I--ah--have a gun.”

Everyone looks at him, at that, though Boyd, Scott, and Allison at least look unsurprised.

“I didn’t use it,” Stiles says. “I just had it. Did you guys--my dad’s the sheriff, I can shoot a gun. I’m licensed and everything. Boyd’s seen me at the range! And Allison!” Stiles pauses. “So I asked him what he thought he was doing, and then I told him to leave before I shot him. I may have implied that I had Argent bullets, which I don’t. And then I called Dad to ask about the house, and then Scott, and then I went out to Ocean.”

“Where’d he go?” Derek asks, and Erica grins a little viciously across the table at Boyd.

“We found him,” she says.

“You didn’t--” Stiles starts, but Isaac shakes his head.

“What do you take us for?” he asks. “We aren’t feral. We just reminded him whose territory this is.”

“Muir said the otters had been here longer,” Stiles says. “And they don’t like predators. He called you land seals.”

“Land seals,” Derek repeats, and Stiles shrugs.

“Predators,” he says. “Like seals. Sharp teeth. I don’t know. I know most of your records burned--Muir must be some kind of dumbass for not knowing that--but it is possible one of your ancestors like, ate an otter? And there’s been this weird one-sided feud going on that you don’t know about?”

“No,” Derek says. “Otter tastes like shit.”

“And you know that without eating them,” Stiles says, and there’s a bit of his normal sarcasm there. “Okay.”

After breakfast Derek follows Stiles up to the bedroom, where Stiles sits on the bed and says, “I guess since you’re here you can help me put on new bandages.”

He sounds resigned, and doesn’t wait for a reply before he pulls off his shirt and begins unwrapping the bandages that are already there. He’s so slim--his shoulders belie the narrowness of his chest, his hips. Derek still can’t believe--he shouldn’t have, he thinks, he shouldn’t have hurt Stiles.

But Stiles has always been stronger than anyone could expect him to be.

“You don’t really need to take care of me, you know,” Stiles says distantly. “I’m not pack. I could go to my dad’s.”

“You were injured on pack business,” Derek says. “By me.”

Stiles seems to sink a little, like that was still the wrong answer, and Derek doesn’t--doesn’t quite.

“Kate,” Stiles says, quietly, hands still holding the package of bandages in his lip. “Still?”

Derek looks up at Stiles.

“Not Kate,” he says. “But what she did.”

Stiles nods, just once, and then holds out the fresh bandages.

When Derek gets close he can see that Stiles’ side is scabbing over, can see the shape of the jagged cuts that were left in the wake of his claws, and it makes him wince, just a little. When he brushes his fingers across it he can feel Stiles shiver.

“Your tattoo,” Derek says, pausing on Stiles’ back and putting one hand up to touch it, almost involuntarily. Stiles tenses under his touch, and Derek is surprised at the strong surge of emotion that small reaction raises in him.

“It’s Jörmungandr,” Stiles says, still holding still. “Loki's child. Trickster's child, but he holds the world together. I got it my senior year of college, because it just--made sense, somehow. I just finished an undergraduate thesis on trickster figures. And I wouldn’t get a coyote, because I’m not a wolf. And I don’t know what I am, exactly, but Jör--he made sense.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, to any of it.

When Derek finishes with the bandages Stiles is looking off into the middle distance at nothing in particular.

“Thanks,” he says, kind of distantly, like he’s thinking about something else. “I think I’ll go back to sleep.”

Derek waits.

“Please leave,” Stiles says softly.

Derek leaves.

Derek goes out to work in the greenhouse, because it’s easier than staying in the house and trying to listen to Stiles’ heartbeat and see if he’s awake yet. Back there there’s not much to hear but plants, and it’s a little clearer that way. Plants--every sound a plant makes makes physiological sense, pure and emotionless.

Erica comes out to join him because she’s only working a half day at the coffee shop. She’s quieter than she ever is.

“Boyd told me he thinks Stiles wrote those books,” she says in one breath, not looking at Derek.

Derek grunts, because he’s not sure if he wants her to go on or not, but Erica takes it as an invitation to continue.

“Have you thought about what that might say?” she asks. “About Stiles? The human protagonist joins the pack, and everyone’s happy.”

“He didn’t want to,” Derek says.

Erica shrugs.

“I’m not, like, a literary theorist or anything, just saying. If Stiles did write those books you should probably use them for insight into Stiles’ psyche instead of looking constipated whenever you try to figure out if he’s pack or not.”

“And if he didn’t?” Derek asks.

“Then I owe Isaac twenty bucks and free macchiatos for a week,” Erica says. “Whatever.”

“Who does Isaac think wrote it?” Derek asks.

“Monkeys on typewriters,” Erica shrugs. “But that’s Isaac. Also, I think he was just giving me shit.”

“Probably,” Derek agrees, and considers this while he goes back to his plants.

“Or you could always ask Stiles,” Erica says. “But I’ve always preferred the direct approach.”

The problem is, Derek doesn’t know the question, and he’s not sure even Stiles could answer a question Derek doesn’t know how to ask.

Stiles is sitting out on the porch when Derek gets back to the house, with a mug of hot chocolate in his hands and his legs curled up beneath him.

“Boyd made it for me,” he says, when he sees Derek sniffing the air. “If you catch him he might make you one.”

Derek sits down on the steps in front of Stiles and puts his arms on his knees.

“Thank you, Stiles,” he says, which is probably something he should’ve said hours earlier.

“It wasn’t--” Stiles starts, and then Derek can hear him shake his head like he’s shaking something off. “You’re welcome.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Stiles shifts in his chair.

“You know,” he says. “A person can be loyal to the pack without being in it.”

That’s all he says. That’s it. But he says it so carefully, like he wants to make sure he shapes the words right, that Derek knows it’s important.

“I think I’m learning,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t reply, but Derek can hear his heartbeat settle, can hear Stiles behind him alternately blowing and sipping on his hot chocolate.

“We aren’t all Kate Argent,” Stiles says softly.

“I know,” Derek says, but part of him wonders what the ‘we’ is that Stiles is including himself in, because Stiles isn’t a Hunter and Kate Argent was, because Stiles isn’t a lot of things Kate Argent was. Not trying to sleep with Derek, for one, and that thought--something small inside Derek responds to that thought, the idea of Stiles trying to sleep with him, with a little thrill that Derek doesn’t want to examine.

They sit like that for awhile longer, until Stiles finishes his mug of hot chocolate and sets it down and then a bit past then, without talking.

“Do you need to go see the otters again?” Stiles asks eventually.

“No,” Derek says. “I imagine they know where we stand.”

“So less than adorable, than,” Stiles says, a little dryly. “I guess I forgot how closely related otters and weasels are.”

“Guess so,” Derek replies, and then it’s quiet again.

“I think I’m going to go back to my apartment tomorrow,” Stiles says.

“Okay,” Derek says, because he’s starting to accept that he can never, ever, tell Stiles what to do.

“So that’s settled, then,” Stiles says, and he sounds a little disappointed, like maybe he expected Derek to protest.

It’s only after Stiles leaves that Derek reconsiders his conversation with Erica, wonders if he needs to read those books again, read them with Stiles in the forefront of his mind instead of in the back. Because he and Stiles are okay now, he thinks, but when Stiles car pulls out of the drive his heart twists a little like it’s a lemon and all the juice is being squeezed out of it, and he doesn’t understand.

The problem is, he can’t find their copies. There might be one in the room where Boyd’s sleeping, but they’re not in the living room or in Erica’s or Isaac’s rooms, and that might be what brings Derek to Scott and Allison’s room in the far corner of the house.

There is a copy of ‘Omega’ on the desk, in hardback. It’s sitting there utterly innocuous, but it’s sitting there, and the wolf on the cover is gazing up at Derek. The jacket is metallic--the softcover copies Erica bought didn’t have metallic covers--and the wolf’s eyes actually glint.

Derek picks the book up, turns it over in his hands. If Scott and Allison had a copy (and of course they shared a copy, they’re Scott and Allison, Scott picked a vet school based on proximity to archery ranges) why didn’t they share it with the rest of the pack?

When he opens it to the fly-leaf, there’s an inscription in a spiky scrawl: “Hey, Scott, ole buddy ole pal, this one’s for you. Thanks. -N. D. Stiles”

Derek stares at it for a minute and a half before he goes downstairs, still holding the book, and tells Isaac he’s going out.

“Clubbing?” Isaac asks, looking up from his book. “Because--”

“No,” Derek says, and then he’s out the door.

He uses the fire escape. There’s no good reason for him to use the fire escape, except that he’s annoyed and it feels good to swing himself up from the ground onto the platform outside Stiles’ kitchen window. The lights are out and the windows are closed and Stiles--isn’t home?--but the next windows look like they’re Stiles’ bedroom and one of those is open.

Derek slips in. Stiles is definitely not home, so Derek turns on the desklamp and sits down to wait. Stiles’ desk is a mess, which is about what Derek would have expected of Stiles: there’s some sort of novelty mug holding pens, there’s a laptop, there’s a pile of photographs of Stiles being a ham with people Derek has never seen in his life, there’s a postcard from Bolivia from someone named Patricia. And there is, underneath an ugly cast iron paperweight shaped like a slice of pizza (where do you even buy that?), a manuscript. The word ‘Alpha’ is neatly centered on the cover sheet, and Derek had intended to reread ‘Omega’ while he was waiting, but this is new, and, well, he wants to find out what happens more than he wants to gain insight into Stiles’ psyche, apparently. He’s not sure what that says about himself, but he figures if he doesn’t mess up the pages too much Stiles will never need to know.

He’s only a quarter way in before he realizes that Erica was right, that Bishop and the Alpha--James, his name is James--are being set up for some sort of endgame romance, and Derek doesn’t even know how that makes him feel. The only thing Derek shares with James, as far as he can tell, is his position in the pack, but it still makes Derek wonder why, if Stiles had ever thought that was a possibility, between them, because Derek--hadn’t. Not good or bad, just hadn’t.

It’s the little things, with Bishop and James, these fictional simulacrums of themselves. They’re spending more time together. They seem attuned to one another, in small, quiet ways, and Bishop has already dwelled inordinately on the physical description of James, Derek realizes, on details to do with the shape of his shoulders and the color of his eyes, the way his hair looks after he runs a hand through it in exasperation.

It makes sense, in the novel, in the way things make sense in novels.

It still makes Derek wonder. Not just about Stiles--about himself. About the inordinate amount of time he’s spent trying to define the color of Stiles’ eyes, for one.

He’s still mulling it over when he hears a key turn in the lock, and then Stiles is walking down the hallway, the cadence of his footsteps on floorboards uniquely Stiles, and Derek just sits and waits until the bedroom door swings open and Stiles physically recoils before turning towards the open window.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says, once the startle in his heartbeat has settled.

Derek holds up the copy of ‘Omega.’

“I found this in Scott and Allison’s room.”

“And that belongs to them, so you should probably give it back,” Stiles says, sitting down on the bed like he knows what’s coming, because he probably does. “It was a gift.”

“This is why you’ve been lying,” Derek says.

“Like a rug,” Stiles replies. He sounds tired. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not, really. At all. And I kind of thought you knew anyway.”

“I know,” Derek says. “I did. But I didn’t--know.”

“Now you know what it’s like to be me,” Stiles says.

“What does that mean?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks up at him.

“What do you think, Derek?” Stiles says. “You can’t keep going back and forth. I can’t keep going back and forth, not if--” Stiles shakes his head. “I came back to Beacon Hills because I sort of wanted to stay, you know?” Derek didn’t know. “It’s home.”

“And?” Derek asks, because Stiles is acting like he finished that thought.

“And I wanted to be around the pack again,” Stiles says softly. “But I couldn’t--can’t--you don’t trust me, you want me to move into the house, you don’t trust me again, you’re worried about me--it’s a classic case of mixed signals, Derek, but it’s--this--isn’t just me and you. Your pack members are my friends, and you don’t just get to decide for them, who I am to them.” Stiles pauses and takes a breath, like he’s shoring himself up for something. “Just because you can’t decide who I am to you.”

“I don’t--” Derek starts.

“Trust me?” Stiles asks. “Because this was the last remaining secret, I think.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “I don’t know.”

And he wonders if that’s true, about all the secrets being out in the open, now, if there’s not one secret left that involves Stiles feeling a distant glimmer of arousal around Derek, for Derek, if it’s not possible that Stiles’ questions about Kate have don’t have to do with Stiles wanting to--wanting something--with Derek. And, gods, Derek has never felt more fucked up than he does right now, sitting at Stiles’ desk and staring across the room at Stiles and trying to put all the pieces together so they fit, so Derek doesn’t break Stiles more than he’s already broken him, because Stiles is the only human, only human, and he seems so normal sometimes that it makes Derek’s teeth ache with want. He had always thought that was envy, some deep-seated vein within him that wanted normalcy, but he’s beginning to wonder if it’s some deep-seated vein within him that wants Stiles, just Stiles, who left town and left the pack and left Derek and came back this person, grown into his skin and his sense of humor and himself and kind of beautiful for all of that.

Stiles’ face, across the room, is patient and inscrutable, which are two words Derek doesn’t remember associating with Stiles.

“Stiles,” he says. “I don’t know who you are to me.”

Stiles looks at him, and his mouth is open just slightly, and it’s only that, that gap between two pink lips, that makes Derek think he can continue, that he’s not all wrong.

“Stiles,” he says, and he can hear his own voice dropping lower. “What could we be?”

Stiles blinks, and that’s the Stiles knows, the one who’s scrutable.

“Um,” he says, licking his lips. “Do you want the menu?”

Derek nods, slow and careful, and a smile starts to tease at the corner of Stiles’ lips, his eyes.

“I had kind of figured--” he says. “This is going to make me sound easy. But you read that--” Stiles nods towards the manuscript, pages still spread across the desk “--so I think we’re on the same metaphorical page here. The menu is anything, really.”

Neither of them move, for a heartbeat, two or three.

“The prices run a little steep, though,” Stiles continues quietly. “You have to stay. Not forever, if you don’t want to--but you can’t run away from me, Derek. And you can’t push me away. I know--you’re you. I don’t expect any less. But I’m me. And we--god, Derek--we could be good, I think.”

“Good,” Derek echoes. “That’s what’s on the menu, then?”

“That’s what’s on the menu,” Stiles says, voice steady. “Are you--ah--ordering? Because if you aren’t--even if you are, really--I have to say this metaphor is starting to get weird for me.”

Derek’s moving across the room when Stiles is half done, leaning forward to bracket him in with his arms, to get their faces close together so Derek can breathe Stiles in and take another stab at figuring out what color his eyes are, definitively.

“Careful,” Stiles mutters into his mouth. “Left side, still healing.”

“I know,” Derek says. “You think I would forget?”

“No,” Stiles says. “No, actually, I didn’t. And I probably shouldn’t be reminding you when I think we were going to--”

Derek kisses him. And Stiles--Stiles makes a muffled effort to continue the sentence, his lips forming words against Derek’s, but then he starts to make a concerted effort, apparently, to get his tongue into Derek’s mouth, fisting his hands in Derek’s t-shirt and pulling them so close together that Derek is worried he is going to hurt Stiles, somehow, but then Derek settles his hands on Stiles’ hips--just to steady them, really, and suddenly Stiles has his thigh hooked around Derek and is rolling them over, pushing Derek down into the mattress.

“This will be better for my side,” he mutters into Derek’s shoulder, where he’s in the process of doing something indescribable with his tongue, and also decimating the collar of Derek’s t-shirt. Derek doesn’t mind because the position puts him even with the moles on Stiles’ cheek, and he presses his nose and his mouth against Stiles’ the skin of Stiles’ cheek, all soft and stubble, and breathes him in and wonders what he waited so long for, and somewhere in the place between his gut and his heart his wolf is curling up and bedding down for the night--maybe for longer--right here, right here, right here.

.epilogue

Stiles moves into the pack’s house in the fall, when there are wildfires ripping through the hills and Derek has trouble sleeping through the night without Stiles curled into his chest. They use the Hale Landscaping truck and Stiles’ Jeep, and Stiles mostly sits at the bottom of the steps of 43 Oak Street, talking to Maisey about his nice young man and telling the pack really, not to worry, nothing he owns is that valuable, anyway, they should probably just dump all the furniture at Goodwill when Derek frowns at them and tells them not to break anything.

“What the hell is in this, anyway?” Erica asks, setting a cardboard box on the sidewalk. “Bricks? Seriously, if you aren’t going to help--”

“He doesn’t need to help,” Derek interjects.

“I was just talking to Maisey!” Stiles says. “Because I’m her favorite tenant, and I’m moving.”

“This box, Stiles,” Erica says, kicking the corner of it, and Stiles blushes a little.

“Those are--they just came yesterday guys, it was supposed to be a surprise--”

“What,” Erica says, and suddenly she’s on her knees and ripping the box open.

“The galleys of ‘Alpha,’” Stiles finishes somewhat helplessly. “Um, yeah.”

“You totally withheld this information because you knew we wouldn’t help you move until we finished reading it you manipulative little--” Erica mutters.

“Derek’s already read it, so he would’ve helped me,” Stiles says, getting up and going to wrap an arm around Derek’s waist. “Wouldn’t you have, babe?”

Derek’s not entirely sure when he became okay with being called ‘babe,’ it was probably sometime between the first time Stiles put his tongue up his ass and the first time for--other things. Derek throws an arm across Stiles’ shoulders and says, “Yeah, probably.”

“Ugh, you guys,” Erica says. “Bishop and James totally get together in this one, don’t they, and I’m not even going to be able to enjoy it because it’ll be, like, a gratuitous picture of Derek and Stiles’ relationship. You’re the worst, Stiles, seriously.”

“What’s this?” Isaac asks when he and Boyd come down the stairs carrying a table. He looks down at the box, at the book in Erica’s hands. “Stilinski, seriously, fuck you.”

“It was going to be a reward!” Stiles protests. “For when you guys finished.”

“I don’t even want to read it anymore,” Isaac says.

“Shut up, you totally do,” Stiles says. “Lying liarface.”

“This is the last of it, actually,” Boyd says, hefting the table into the bed of the truck in one easy motion that leaves Maisey eyeing him in a way Derek’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see. “You guys ready?”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles says. “I was born ready.”

And then he pulls away from Derek, but he catches Derek’s hand in his own and turns back grinning before pulling him towards the Jeep, and Derek’s pretty sure that, yeah, he was too.