Lock All The Doors Behind You 1/3
Title: Lock All The Doors Behind You 1/3
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Spoilers: 2x12
Warnings: Violence, very slight dub-con
Word Count: 25,000
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He has no idea what you're supposed to say when you find one of your...werewolf acquaintances, completely out of their mind, growling like they're about to see what your insides taste like. There's no handbook for this. Stiles is thinking that if he survives he might write one.
AN: Written for the 'Deprogramming' square, for hc_bingo.
Stiles accepts the fact that Scott said he'd only be five minutes. But lunch waits for no man. So Stiles has already made a significant dent in his own, by the time Scott fills the seat in front of him. He looks like he ran the whole way, practically vibrating with thoughts he has to share. Stiles doesn't think it's important enough to stop eating. There's a very short list of things which rank above delicious foodstuffs, and Lydia is quite clearly fine. She's three tables over, oozing superiority and perfection.
"Derek's missing," Scott opens with. Which isn't quite important enough to stop eating. Though Stiles is surprised enough to stop chewing for a second, that's the best the grumpy werewolf is going to get.
"What do you mean missing? Is that actually missing, or just more subtle in his lurking than usual?" Because if Derek just decided to stop jumping out at people, or hovering ominously at the nearest tree line, Stiles is pretty sure no one would ever see him. It's possible he does that on purpose, since Stiles figures he's perfectly capable of stalking people without their knowledge.
"Erica and Boyd say they haven't seen him for almost a week." Scott dumps his stuff on the chair next to him without looking, and half of it promptly falls off.
"Maybe it's on purpose," Stiles suggests, because that's honestly the first thing that pops into his head. "Maybe he's avoiding them, they're the worst problem children ever, and they ran away from home, remember. You probably can't, like, return werewolves to the store if you realise you made a bad life choice."
Scott pouts, which he absolutely shouldn't do, because it makes him look all of twelve years old. Also, Stiles was in no way including Scott in the werewolves that should be returned. Scott's a keeper.
"He's their Alpha, he wouldn't abandon them." Scott says it like he knows for certain, and Stiles is briefly irritated because this is clearly one of those feelings Scott gets that he doesn't think Stiles would understand. Werewolf intuition or something - definitely not werewolf indigestion. Because Scott would absolutely know the difference.
"I'd abandon them," Stiles says without hesitation. "I'd leave them on a doorstep, in a basket. I might, at a push, leave a note." Stiles takes the opportunity to half fill his mouth - only half, so he can still talk and eat at the same time. "Though the note probably wouldn't be complimentary."
Scott actually looks physically pained, face all scrunched up, and it's been a while since Stiles had seen that face show up for anyone but Allison. Stiles sighs and puts what's left of his sandwich down.
"Dude, why do you care anyway? Why don't you just enjoy the moment. I'm sure he'll show up somewhere eventually, when you least expect it, like your bedroom, or my bedroom, or some dark, shadowy corner. And, yes, I realise how much I just made Derek sound like a sex offender there. But, really, he only has himself to blame."
"Seriously, Stiles, I'm worried. If there's something out there that can take out Derek."
Loath as he is to admit it, Scott has a point.
"Tall, dark and grumpy is kind of our yardstick of badass," he allows. There was something to be said for having a yardstick of badass around when you needed one. Though at a push Stiles would admit that wasn't all Derek was good for. "Did Peter do something?"
Scott shakes his head.
"He was the first person I thought of. He's still out of town."
Stiles grunts, and stabs his straw into his juice.
"Hey silver lining. Did you check the woods?" Whenever they lose something it's almost always in the woods, or near the woods, or buried in the woods. Though Stiles isn't going to mention that, because it probably won't be helpful. He really hopes nothing is buried in the woods.
Scott's already nodding.
"I checked the house, I checked the woods -"
"All of the woods? There are a lot of woods." There are not only a lot of woods, but a lot of land around the woods, creeks, possibly caves as well. There are a lot of places to get lost, and never be seen again. Or possibly be eaten by a bear. Could Derek get eaten by a bear? Stiles has never really thought about a bear/werewolf match-up before. Not that he wants to see one because that would just be wrong. Hypothetically awesome - but wrong in real life.
Scott rolls his eyes. "Yes, all of the woods."
Stiles gives him a pointed look.
"Did you check Allison's basement?"
Scott glares at him for a millisecond, then sighs, and now he's wearing his face of resolve and maturity. It's new so he doesn't really have a handle on it yet. "Allison said it wasn't her. She said she didn't have anything to do with it."
Stiles manages a dubious sideways squint, in response to that. Because he likes Allison, he really does, but she's kind of proven she is terrifyingly good at using her powers for evil. Better than Stiles would have ever imagined she could be. Her face-heel turn had kind of proven that, and a half-evil Allison is still pretty freakin' scary. So scary that she's still doing the whole 'I'm sorry I tried to horribly injure you all with sharp instruments,' a month later. There were even muffins, I'm-sorry-I-tried-to-kill-you, muffins. Which were delicious. Stiles is friends with too many people who've tried to kill him to feel like he can judge. Which sounds terrible, when he puts it like that. He has awful friends and he's clearly already doomed.
Scott frowns.
"She didn't - she didn't smell like him, I checked. I don't think either of them have been hunting since - well, you know." He shrugs, because, yeah, they don't have to fill in the end of that any more. But Scott still sounds like he wasn't happy about checking out Allison's story.
"I'm very proud of you for your uncharacteristic suspicion," Stiles tells him, and gives him a cookie, because he deserves it.
*****
Derek continues to be a no-show for the next week, then the week after. Scott spends days in class staring off into the distance and frowning, as though he might catch a glimpse of Derek on the horizon. Which is really disturbing, and makes him look like he's gone insane, or that he's about to start shouting that someone's house is on fire. Stiles is genuinely starting to worry about him. He's also starting to worry about Derek too. Which proves the world is ending or something. No one should get attached to Derek, Derek is mean, and aggressive, and he sucks all enjoyment and happiness out of the world. But Stiles is worried about him anyway. You can't have life-saving adventures with someone, and not worry about them. No matter how much of a dick they could be.
"Dude, he's not your Alpha any more, why are so antsy?"
"I don't know," Scott says, honestly sounding like he doesn't, while he buries his nose in textbook after textbook, like he can replace the smell of wrongness with the scent of paper and hormonal teenagers. "I don't know, maybe it's the fact that there's no Alpha around." He shakes his head, and shifts in his chair like his skin doesn't fit right.
Stiles tries not to think about what that means, if it's some sort of proof that Derek isn't coming back. Which is stupid, because of course Derek is coming back. He leans further over the back of the chair, wood digging into his ribs.
"What do we do if something worse shows up? Is there still a pack without Derek?"
Scott shakes his head again, face scrunched and helpless.
"Do you, like - have to take over Alpha duties?" Stiles says around a pen. "Run off interlopers? Make sure Isaac and Erica eat all their vegetable, maybe keep a leash on Uncle McCreeps-a-lot?"
Scott's face scrunches impossibly further. As if he doesn't even want to roll that thought around in his head.
"Yeah, I know how you feel man, you're way too young to be a dad."
"Stiles, this is serious."
Stiles sighs, because, yes, yes, it probably is.
"I know, he'll show up. He always shows up."
Erica, Isaac and Boyd find them twice after school, all scowls and questions. If anything they seem worse than Scott, restless, like they can't stay still, like they're desperate for something. Stiles had mostly been joking, but the way they look at Scott, as if he'll tell them what to do. It doesn't bode well. There is ill boding. Stiles has a foreboding feeling about the whole thing. And he's officially used the word 'bode' too much there, and it doesn't even make sense any more.
"Maybe he just had to leave for a while, secret Alpha business. It's not like he tells us anything about that. It's not like he tells us anything. This is why he needs to tell us things. So we can avoid the unnecessary fretting when he takes off without telling anyone." Stiles throws his arms out, gesturing, as best as he can at the current Derek-less state of the world.
"Does Derek seem the type to abandon his pack to you?" Scott's worried eyebrows are going to stay that way. It's a genuine fear that Stiles has.
But, yeah, Stiles has to admit, Scott's right. No matter how horrible his kids can be, Derek would stick it out. Derek wouldn't leave unless someone made him, unless he didn't have a choice. Stiles doesn't want to say what they're both thinking. It's pretty obvious by now that something bad has probably happened. The question is, what are they going to do about it?
"So we look for him, right?" Stiles says firmly. "We retrace his steps, where's the last place we saw him lurking?"
Scott looks at him blankly.
"I don't know, I haven't really seen him much lately. I just...noticed when he was gone."
Stiles does the inquisitive eyebrows at him, but Scott just shrugs in a way that isn't helpful at all.
"You noticed he was gone even though you haven't really seen him. Is that another wolf thing?"
Scott's always been easily frustrated, but he's forcing it back now, Stiles can see it happening.
"I guess. I should have been paying more attention. I was so busy worrying about Allison. I never even thought something could happen. Not so soon after Jackson and the kanima and everything."
"When did we see him last? Did you even talk to him after the whole - the whole Gerard thing?"
Scott frowns, and there's a blend of guilt and anger there, churning together in one expression.
"No, I figured if anything new showed up he'd come to me. Or let me know or -" he shrugs.
Stiles exhales, loud and noisy.
"Ok, so this might be tougher than I thought. Does his phone have GPS, can we track his phone somehow? You'd have to go to Danny for that. Because I'm pretty sure I'm officially all favoured out. He likes you better anyway."
"I can ask," Scott says. "I'll ask him next time I see him."
*****
Stiles is halfway through a dream involving a library bookcase attempting to eat him, when his phone starts vibrating. He's already reaching for it, before he's fully shaken off the crushing pressure of murderous, bound volumes and sharp paper. He manages to knock half his stuff onto the floor, body still not as well trained as his brain to react to night-time disruptions. He squints at the screen in the darkness, before he hits the button. It's three in the morning. On a Saturday.
"Someone better be actively being murdered."
"Stiles!"
He was joking, but it occurs to him, with a horrible sort of realisation, that someone genuinely could be being murdered. That's his life now.
"We found Derek." Scott doesn't sound happy. He sounds out of breath, and a little panicked, through the phone. There's a mess of noise in the distance that sounds like the dry, cracking splinter of wood, and then someone shouting. "Stiles you need to get here." Scott's moving, Stiles can tell by the jerky nature of his words. He also knows Scott well enough to know that he has no idea what to do.
Stiles fights his way out of the sheets, phone jammed between ear and shoulder, already trying to find his jeans, before his eyes have properly adjusted to the dark.
"Is he -"
"He's alive, we're at his house - just get here."
Scott hangs up, before Stiles can ask any questions.
Which is how Stiles ends up at the Hale house at four in the morning on a Saturday. The creepy burnt-out house in the woods is starting to lose some of its sinister allure due to familiarity.
"Scott?" Stiles calls his name before he realises that may be an epically bad idea. It may in fact be the worst idea ever, because there are werewolves who can hear the rustle of leaves from across town, and Stiles isn't even trying to be quiet. Though he feels like if this is the sort of situation that involved quietness, and things possibly trying to eat them, then Scott would have mentioned it. Only he probably wouldn't have. Scott is awful at need-to-know information. Which doesn't make Stiles feel any better about the fact that something is growling. Something is growling loudly enough that he can hear it from outside, the slow, lawnmower grate that sounds like it's coming from a huge animal that desperately wants to rip something apart. Stiles has no idea how he didn't hear it before.
"Stiles."
It's Scott's voice, quietly careful, as if he doesn't want to make too much noise, but Stiles thinks he can hear the thready note of panic anyway, and he's taking the porch steps two at a time, skidding through door frames.
"Stop. Don't move."
There's something about the desperate, hissed-out command that has Stiles freezing in place, foot still half-raised off the floor. Scott's pressed to the side of the door, looking like he's trying to mime a wince. He reaches out for Stiles's wrist, and doesn't relax until he has hold of it. His fingers are hot and sweaty.
The raw, deep growling is coming from the back of the room. Stiles can just make out a low, pale, folded-over shape in the very corner, the slices of half-moon light digging through the walls are just enough that he can pick out quick, jerky heaves of skin.
"Is that Derek?" Stiles whispers incredulously.
Scott doesn't say a word, because it is, it obviously is.
"Oh my god, what the hell -"
"I don't know," Scott says over him, voice thin and worried. "I don't know. He's not - he's not talking he's just doing that." Scott's voice goes lower, so low Stiles can barely hear it. "Something's the matter with him, he's not acting like a person, he's not even acting like he knows who I am."
Stiles shakes his head, can't look away from the shape in the corner, that looks like Derek and yet really, really doesn't at the same time.
"When did you get here?" He whispers over
"A couple of hours ago. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to deal with this." Scott's very slowly shaking his head, fingers tightening and relaxing on his wrist. Stiles gets the feeling he's thinking about dragging Stiles back out of the house again.
They'll deal with this the same way they deal with everything else, Stiles guesses, stumble around in the dark until they find a light switch, or something bites them. He's really hoping this isn't a biting situation.
"Also, he's naked," Scott adds, like it's a secret that he's a little embarrassed about.
"Yes," Stiles says. "Yes, he is naked, thank you. I noticed that."
Derek's not just naked, he's a mess. He looks like he dug himself out of the ground - and it doesn't look like it was easy. He's caked in dirt, the only clean thing in the dark is the glint of his teeth, all five million of them, if Stiles is any judge. "What the hell happened to him?"
"I don't know -" Scott sounds pained. "I saw him in the woods, and I followed him here. He wouldn't let me close. He didn't even try and change back to human. He's been there ever since."
"Making that noise," Stiles suspects.
"Pretty much. Sometimes it's worse, sometimes it gets sort of quiet and sounds like it hurts." Scott's mouth goes pinched in sympathy.
Derek's shoulders are hunched up, and he's backed into the wall. There's a glint of something bright, jutting up out of the skin of his shoulderblade, just to the left of his spine.
"What the hell is that?" Stiles whispers, he doesn't know why he's whispering, it's not like everyone can't still hear him anyway. But something about the low rumble coming from the back of the room is telling his lizard brain that not drawing attention to himself is a very good thing.
"I think it's a broken knife."
"He has a broken knife in his back and no one thought to take it out?" Stiles says sharply.
Scott throws his hands up in slow motion. "You think we didn't try? By all means go over there and take it out."
Stiles takes one look at the glare of red eyes in the darkness, and the edge of teeth, bared and absolutely ready to rip into soft, human flesh and decides that, no, staying over here is kind of fine by him after all.
"What about Erica, Isaac and Boyd, they're his pack, why aren't they here?"
"They were here," Scott says. "I called them straight away. It didn't exactly go well."
Stiles takes a cautious step closer to Scott, barely a shuffle on the floorboards.
"Define 'didn't go well.'"
"Erica had to drag Boyd out because Derek pretty much chewed his arm off, and Isaac had to heal a load of broken ribs, and a bunch of claw marks. Derek just attacked them, and he wouldn't stop snarling until they left."
Stiles goes cold all over, and restrains the very real urge to thump Scott in the arm. If he wasn't worried about a possible terrible mauling, if he dares to make any sudden movement, he might have done it.
"Oh my God, and you tried to make me go over there?"
"I didn't try and make you," Scott says, which is a lie. "Besides he's growling at me, he's not growling at you. "
"Probably because he thinks I'm breakfast. He thinks you've brought him breakfast, and breakfast is not threatening. You don't growl at breakfast, you just eat it. Thanks, by the way, for making me take-out, I appreciate that."
Scott's guilty face is a thing to be treasured, but this really isn't the time. Stiles can still feel the sweaty grip of Scott's hand, the way his fingers are just a fraction too tight.
"You probably just smell familiar." Scott looks like he's guessing. "And you're not a werewolf. I don't think he wants other werewolves near him, because he's injured, and vulnerable and kind of -"
They both look at Derek's face.
"Not at home right now?" Stiles offers, and honestly that's the politest way he could have phrased it.
"Yeah," Scott says awkwardly, like he still doesn't know what that's all about.
"So, I smell familiar, but not in that threatening, werewolf way, in the tasty, delicious meat sort of way?"
"No - I mean well, yes -"
Stiles throws him a horrified look.
"That's not the important part," Scott says hurriedly, like he hasn't just admitted that there's the vague possibility that Stiles smells delicious on a daily basis, and not in a fun and/or sexy way. This is the sort of thing Stiles thinks should have been shared sooner. Or possibly never shared at all. Considering his social circle is now eighty percent werewolves.
"Not the important part? There's a feral werewolf, who may or may not want to devour my internal organs fifteen feet away."
"You're not a threat."
Scott's guessing again, Stiles can tell by the helpless little shrug. Scott is officially no longer allowed to make decisions which may have an impact on Stiles's ability to keep breathing. Scott is no longer allowed to make decisions, period. No decision making for Scott.
"No, I'm not a threat, what I am is incredibly fragile and breakable."
"We have to do something."
Derek's still growling, but he's sunk into a lower crouch, he doesn't look like he's prepared to lunge and bite through anyone's ribcage any more. Which isn't as comforting as you'd think.
"What exactly am I supposed to do, go over there, stick my hand out, and hope he doesn't decide to eat it?"
Scott shrugs.
Stiles boggles at him, there's no other word for it.
"Oh my God, that was your plan wasn't it. You're the worst, the absolute worst, you know that?"
Scott at least looks guilty about being the worst.
"Of all the stupid plans -" Stiles realises he's already pushing his sleeves up. He's already looking at Derek, like he's judging exactly how far he can go before he's officially within lunging distance. "Did I tell you that your plans are stupid? Because I feel like I should do that more, maybe on a daily basis."
"You usually have a better plan," Scott says, which is true. He's watching Stiles inch himself forward, towards the dirty mass of teeth and claws in the corner. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."
"It's a little late for that, isn't it?" Stiles says peevishly, and keeps moving.
"Stiles?"
Stiles is already shuffling himself right into Derek's eyeline - like he wasn't watching them the whole time anyway - and seriously the first hint of a growl and he's out of there. It doesn't help that Scott's making that soft, whining noise in his throat, like Stiles is going to get his arm torn off, and Scott's going to have to explain that to his dad. Stiles likes his arms, and he would very much like them to remain where they are. He takes a few more steps, and he's definitely within lunging distance now. He kind of holds his hand out, he feels both ever so slightly terrified, and like a total idiot at the same time, and they're two emotions that do not make happy bedfellows.
Derek tips his head up a fraction, and Stiles freezes. He chances a look at Scott, who's holding his breath by the wall, hands spread like he might have to attempt to try and claw Stiles back towards him, and, yes, thank you, that's a brilliant reminder of how dangerous this is. Though Stiles does take some comfort in the fact that Scott would absolutely do it, his own safety be damned.
Somehow between one breath and the next, Stiles has his fingers against Derek's shoulder. It's slippery with sweat, not as warm as Stiles is used to the werewolves being. He exhales and puts the slightest pressure on the skin.
"Hey, Derek," he says helplessly, because he has no idea what you're supposed to say when you find one of your...werewolf acquaintances completely out of their mind, growling like they're about to see what your insides taste like. There's no handbook for this. Stiles is thinking that if he survives he might write one.
Derek's face is wrong. There's nothing recognisable there at the moment, no blend of human emotion, or even familiar anger. There's just this. His eyes are wrong too, wet red, like they've been bleeding, with huge, dark pupils. His upper lip is still curled back from his teeth - and there are currently a lot of teeth - but mostly he has his eyes, and his teeth, focused on Scott.
"Should I pet him?" That hadn't sounded so bad inside Stiles's head.
Scott looks at him like he's an idiot.
"Well I'm sorry, but I don't have a clue what to do with feral werewolves. And also, more importantly, we will never tell Derek that I asked whether I should pet him, never."
Scott sighs, and then shrugs - and that's a big fucking help, thank you Scott. Stiles takes a deep breath, shifts his hand, and sort of pats Derek's shoulder, in a gentle and completely non-threatening sort of way.
"No offence, Derek, but you're a mess. What the hell happened to you, dude?"
Derek tips his head forward, just a little, and Stiles can't help it, he very carefully lifts his hand and settles it in Derek's hair. It's soft and prickly at the same time, and there are flakes of red brown near the skin. The low bass rumble that had been going continuously drops low, and then stops completely.
Stiles swallows and lets his hand go still.
"Is that a good sign or a bad sign," he whispers, because he knows Scott can hear him.
"It's good," Scott says on the end of an exhale. "It's definitely good."
Stiles can't help the shaky little noise of relief he makes. Derek's sniffing his hand now, in a curious and completely non-threatening, but still kind of disturbing, sort of way.
"If he sniffs my ass I'm going to fucking kill you," he tells Scott through his teeth.
Scott makes a choked noise in his throat, which sounds like amusement, and also horror. Derek curls a lip in his direction. Which is definitely more disturbing when his face is like that.
"Why isn't he changing?" Scott asks, like Stiles is supposed to know this stuff. Why does everyone expect him to know these things? He's not the werewolf whisperer - feral werewolf petting notwithstanding.
Stiles shrugs. "Maybe he still feels threatened," he guesses. "Or maybe he needs some sort of emotional control to put that away and he doesn't have any right now."
The floorboards creak, and Stiles can track Scott's progress at the far side of the room by Derek's eyes.
Derek's back is hot and sweaty under the grim coating of dirt and old blood - and judging by the amount of old blood Derek has had worse than a knife in the back during the past three weeks.
"I'm going to need to get this out," Stiles says slowly.
Derek's watching him now - and that is more than a little terrifying from this close - his eyes are bright crimson, and Stiles remembers, belatedly that you're not supposed to look a dog in the eye. Because it will take that as an invitation to rip your face off. He's pretty sure that thinking of Derek as a dog in this situation probably isn't helping either.
"Dude, it's nasty, and it's broken. I don't give a crap whether you're a werewolf or not, that's just asking for some sort of horrible infection." He lifts his hand, until it's hovering over that red glint of metal.
The growl goes high, wavers over the line from warning to threatening, and every single hair Stiles has stands straight up. He's pretty sure he's going to get his face bitten if he get any closer.
"Stiles." Scott's panicky little girl voice is way too high, and is not doing anything good for his nerves.
"Ok, ok." Stiles slowly draws his hand away, and manfully doesn't lose control of his bladder. "Ok, no touching the horrible gaping wound. We'll leave it to fester, that's awesome. Congratulations on your life choices, Derek, which are awesome as always."
Derek stares at his hand, then at him, then at his hand again. When he seems to be satisfied that Stiles isn't going to yank the thing out when he's not looking he settles down again.
"Could we drug him, do you think?" Stiles says quietly. "Patch him up while he's unconscious?"
Scott's face goes through some sort of horrified wince.
"Should you be saying stuff like that where he can hear you?"
Stiles pointedly looks from Derek to Scott, though he doesn't think Scott gets it.
"I'm pretty sure Derek doesn't understand a word I'm saying right now," he says carefully.
"I don't even know if you can drug us. We don't know what's already in his system. I don't think he'd let us anywhere near him with wolfsbane. Besides, look at him, I'd pretty sure he'd just shrug off anything we gave him. I could ask Deaton, but other than that...?" Scott shakes his head. "I don't know."
"We can't just leave him like this?" Stiles says sensibly. Because Derek is, to put it bluntly, a freakin' mess.
"I don't think he's in any danger. It might be best to just wait until...he's feeling like himself again."
"You think that's going to happen?"
Scott looks at him, and there's a frown between his eyes that says he doesn't have a clue. He takes a step forward -
- there's an arm around Stiles waist, dragging him back across the floor, knees grating on the floorboards, and he just fucking knows he's going to have splinters in the palm of his hand. He ends up curled under the muddy arch of Derek's body, and the grip is tight enough to force all the air out of him. The growl is back, dry and deep, and Stiles tenses up completely, and braces himself for - something.
"Stiles," Scott says sharply - and Stiles can tell by the way he hunkers down and tenses, that Scott is actually going to do something amazingly stupid. Which he really wants to be touched about, because Scott is the best, he is. But that doesn't change the fact that Scott is going to get his throat ripped out if he tries, and that is unacceptable.
"Stay there," Stiles says, he tries for firm, but it comes out choked. "Don't move, just don't move."
Scott, thank God, listens to him, though he clearly doesn't want to. It's only because he trusts him. Stiles doesn't even know if he trusts himself right now. Derek is panting, damp with sweat, and he smells like a dead thing. He drags Stiles closer, arm tightening to seriously air-reducing levels, because Scott still looks like he really wants to try something. Stiles can feel the noise Derek's making vibrating through his back, and that's still pretty fucking scary.
"Holy shit, seriously, Derek, gonna need to breathe - Scott, back up, he's going to crush me."
Scott takes a step back.
"Derek." Stiles smacks his arm with a fist and, yes, for a second he can't believe he did that - but Derek relaxes the arm. Enough that he can kind of sag to his knees, but not enough for him to slip out of it, and Stiles swears, with feeling.
"I am not your goddamn chew toy," he wheezes out.
"Stiles?"
"We're good," Stiles says weakly. Which is...probably true? He very carefully tilts his head to the side to check. Derek doesn't look like he's planning anything homicidal. He looks like an angry dog backed into a corner, one that's been kicked so many times it'll bite anything that comes close. Everything except Stiles, apparently.
"Congratulations, you're his favourite," Scott says, he sounds like he doesn't know whether to be relieved, confused or horrified.
"Hooray," Stiles says, with a complete lack of enthusiasm. He chances another careful smack. "Come on, Derek, let me go. Scott has no intention of murdering me."
Derek grumbles, but Stiles is able to wriggle out of his grip, without anything terrible happening.
Stiles take one look as his shirt, and the mess Derek's arm and chest has made of it, and wrinkles his nose.
"Holy shit," Scott says breathlessly, like Stiles hadn't been the only one in danger of peeing themselves.
"Wow, yeah, that wasn't pleasant at all." Stiles cautiously backs up a couple of steps, and Derek doesn't attempt to drag him back, or do anything creepy.
Scott looks unsure whether to reach out and touch him or not.
"He came home, right? That has to mean something." Scott can go from fear to hopeful enthusiasm so quickly that it's almost funny.
"Not really," Stiles says. "I mean dogs go back to the last place they were sick. So I wouldn't read too much into it."
"I can't stay here. My mom will be home soon." Scott looks worried, and it's amazing how he can put his mom being mad, and Derek tearing his throat out into the same vague category. "I should at least look as if I wasn't out all night. I can't get grounded with this going on. Your dad -"
"He's working the early shift," Stiles says, and the more times he says that the less guilty he feels. "He should have left already."
Stiles gets a good look at Scott's constipated face of guilt and immediately gets it. He doesn't like it, at all, but he gets it. He really only has himself to blame. He should be harder to talk into things, especially things of a dubious and supernatural nature.
He nods.
"You want me to Derek-sit don't you?"
At least Scott looks guilty about it.
"Just make sure no one comes. He's not exactly up to dealing with anything at the moment."
"On the contrary, I think he's more than up to dealing with things. It's just probably not going to involve a lot of conversation. Biting, and mauling, and blood, and loud noises, yes, conversation, not so much."
"Which will in no way end badly for us." Scott shouldn't be allowed to use sarcasm. He always overdoes it.
Stiles knows he's going to cave, he knows it.
"Just so you know, if Derek decides to eat my insides out while you're gone we're officially no longer friends."
Scott now looks horribly conflicted about leaving, as if he's actually afraid he might come back to find Stiles's insides eaten out. Stiles decides he's going to hate him a little bit, just for a while.
"Bring some food, something that smells delicious to you, and nothing like my young, supple flesh. And some clothes maybe, I'm thinking clothes would be a good look for him right now," Stiles suggests.
"He doesn't look like he's in the mood to get dressed."
"It would make me feel so much better. Because I usually demand at least a very nice dinner before I let people press their naked bodies against me."
"There's probably some clothes here." Scott gestures towards the upstairs, what there is of it, and where Stiles doesn't really want to go, in case he falls through a floor or something. "I mean he used to stay here, and he left in a hurry so..." he shrugs.
He watches Stiles all the way to the door, face creased in guilt at being forced to abandon him, then he's gone and the full enormity of the situation sinks in like a lead weight.
"Shit."
Stiles decides that the first thing they're going to do is not find clothes. Stiles is pretty sure Derek had the water turned back on, if nothing else, and there's no getting around the fact that Derek can't stay like this. This is disgusting. But Stiles doesn't even know whether Derek will let him put him in the shower, or whether it will be a disaster of dog-bathing proportions, complete with optional biting. Still, Derek smells like someone dragged him through an abattoir and then rolled him in a field to dry, and there's no way Stiles is going to be able to deal with that smell. He has no idea how Derek is dealing with it, because it must be a thousand times worse for him.
It's a good job Scott's no longer here to tell him what a monumentally bad idea it is. He has no trouble at all imagining what face Scott would pull if he had any idea what Stiles was thinking. It would be the aneurysm face, definitely that one. He'd probably deserve it too.
Stiles wraps a hand round Derek's arm and very carefully pulls.
"Ok, umm, come on - come."
He takes a couple of tugs before Derek figures it out, which is lucky because there is absolutely no way that Stiles is moving Derek without his help. He must be curious enough - or maybe he's just bored of the corner of the room, because he follows him.
He follows him upstairs without complaint. Stiles had thought he might have trouble with the stairs, but he just dig his claws into the wood, and takes them three at a time.
Derek is apparently amenable to being pushed into the bath. Which is also unexpected. Though that may end up being the easy part. Stiles is absolutely prepared - probably prepared - for flailing, and growling, and angry protest, maybe even a little mauling. He's steeling himself for it. Derek doesn't do any of those things. The water rushes on with a heavy 'clunk,' and Derek just tips his head away from the flow of water, and looks savagely miserable. It's kind of sad and horrible. Stiles almost feels guilty - but the water flows gritty and awful, against the white sides. Blood and skin and dirt - and what look like little shards of bone, and Stiles just doesn't want to know. It takes him a second to realise he's going to have to help, that he's going to have to do something other than just tilting the spray in helpful directions.
And then once he's started - once he's made a clean spot - he can't stop. It's like some sort of terrible compulsion.
The one downside with Derek being mostly clean, is that he looks considerably more naked. Seriously there's a lot of naked going on. Stiles is trying to look at him without actually looking at him. Which is really hard considering he's trying to wash him. So he mostly concentrates on the safe parts, while occasionally apologising, and promising to blot things from his memory - or to try very hard to blot things from his memory. If anyone asks him what Stiles did at half past four on a Saturday morning he can say that he shampooed Derek Hale. This is his life now.
There's a quiet and very wet, snort when he gets shampoo in an eye, but there's mostly no complaining.
"I had no idea you could be even less loquacious than you already were," Stiles tells him, and resists the urge to do ridiculous things with Derek's hair, now he has it all shampoo-ified. Because it's right there, and he's already got his hands in it. Instead he tips him into the spray, and watches it all flatten and go dark.
Derek flinches a little when the water runs over the blade still embedded in his back, and Stiles winces in sympathy.
"Derek, you've got to let me take this out."
Stiles eases him back, and gestures at the shine of metal. He mimes pulling it out, and Derek just stares at him blankly. Right, ok, he's really not getting any of this is he.
"Ok, seriously, I'm just going to do it." He lays a hand on a shoulderblade and it twitches, quiet grumble starting in the back of Derek's throat. "It's ok, it's fine, I'm going to get it out of you and you will feel so much fucking better, I promise."
The grumble stops, and he moves slightly closer.
"I'll be as quick as I can, if you promise not to eat me, ok? There's a mutual promise of as little pain as possible. Because you can heal from whatever this thing has done, but I can't heal from you savaging me, you know that. You knew that, when you weren't having a werewolf Tarzan moment?"
The metal's slippery with blood and water, and the skin's been trying to heal over it, cutting itself open every time Derek moves, every time his shoulder heaves under a breath. It's almost impossible to grip, and Derek's growling like a bear, like the possibility that he's going to turn and sink his teeth into Stiles's throat is still an option here. Oh my God, please let that not be an option.
"Don't eat me," Stiles says carefully, in what he knows definitely isn't a calm and relaxed tone of voice. "Don't eat me, we're all cool. I'm just going to yank this fucking huge piece of metal out of you." Stiles gets a grip on it, finally, fingertips digging through old blood and new, and he tugs it up, through layers of muscle and skin, and it doesn't want to come. It's pretty intent on staying in there. There's a low, wet tone to the growl now, and Stiles doesn't know whether to keep pulling or get to a safe distance. But he's never been very good with those self-preservation decisions, so he keeps pulling.
Inch by inch the knife comes, in a wash of blood.
"Not going to be sick," Stiles mutters under his breath. Though he's not entirely sure that isn't false bravado, because it's much longer than he was expecting. It must have broken off right near the handle. He has a horrible, visceral mental image of it grinding against Derek's ribs and lungs, for hours, or longer, days maybe. "Not going to be sick." His voice sounds breathy and faraway.
And then it's done, and he has a handful of heavy metal, hot and slick in his palm. He tosses it, instinctively, as far away as he can, listens to it clatter against one of the walls.
"Yeah, we're good, see, I told you." He tilts Derek a little, so the water can wash the wound clean. It's already healing, the skin's closing already. He leaves Derek there for a second, while he pokes in one of the charred cupboards. "Ok, so you have towels, right? You must have towels, where would you keep towels? Probably not around anything burnt because they'd probably just get all gross - "
There's the sound of skin skidding on tile, and then Stiles has a face full of water droplets, and Derek is out of the bath and already wandering off, all wet footprints, dripping skin and phenomenal ass - and this is not what Stiles signed up for today. It's really not.
Though he does eventually find some sweats piled on a chair in one of the bedrooms.
Derek is resistant to the idea of pants. It's like trying to put a dress on a cat. A very strong, six foot tall, cat. The pants don't survive the experience, and it's pretty humiliating for everyone involved. This had been much easier with Jackson.
Though, to be fair, he'd been unconscious.
*****
Scott makes a racket coming in. Stiles doesn't know why he bothers, because Derek's been staring at the front door, lips pulled back from his teeth, for five minutes.
Stiles lets him in, because he's not entirely sure Derek knows how to work door handles any more, and Scott's hands are mostly full. Scott looks at Derek first, possibly to see if he's going to be eaten. But there's still just the teeth, and what Stiles likes to think of as an air of smug disdain, as if Derek has already proven he could savage Scott into little pieces if he wanted to.
Scott peers at Derek over the bags. It takes him a second to work out what's different.
"He's clean. How the hell did you do that - and, holy crap, you pulled the knife out." The bags are sliding down Scott's body, shock rendering him unable to hold anything. So Stiles takes them from him. "Are you crazy he could have killed you?"
"Hey, you left me with a dirty werewolf with a knife stuck in him, dude, what did you think I'd do? My decision-making skills and yours, really not the same."
"He's still naked," Scott points out.
"I'm not a miracle worker," Stiles says with a sigh. "Though that was number three on my list. I attempted to get him into pants. None of us came out of that with our dignity intact, so I think we're both just pretending it didn't happen." He looks at Derek. "I'm pretending it didn't happen. I suspect Derek thinks he won in some way."
Scott shakes his head.
"I'm not sure I even want to know."
"You don't," Stiles assures him. "Believe me, you don't - and as for the not eating me thing, yeah, thank you, since you're the one that left me with an Alpha werewolf who currently thinks he's a wild animal."
Scott comes close enough to tug open the bags Stiles set on the kitchen table. Which apparently is close enough that teeth becomes noise.
"Oh, shush," Stiles says, waving a hand at Derek without even looking. "He brought you food, we don't growl at the people who bring us food."
Derek's still growling, but now it's lower, more of a complaint at Scott's closeness than a genuine threat.
Scott eyeballs him sideways, sort of confused, as if he has no idea how Stiles does that, and it's worrying him that he doesn't know. Scott's wearing that pout - the one that says 'I'm the one who's a werewolf, how come you know everything?'
"Did you get what else I asked for?"
"The mountain ash, yeah." Scott digs in one of the bags, for the sturdy jar he'd picked up from Deaton. "What are you going to do with it?"
Stiles rolls the jar in his hand.
"I'm going to ring the house, because I'm assuming the last thing we want is for a naked, feral werewolf, who's not all there in the head, to be running around the woods savaging anything he doesn't like the look of. That wouldn't get any sort of attention we don't want, or anything. Honestly, do we really think Derek wants that going on his record?"
"He's not going to like being trapped here."
Stiles winces.
"Yeah, I know, I can totally see how that would be a bad thing. But it's not as if he has awesome processing power at the moment, and I think Derek is going to like coming back to himself in jail for multiple murders and indecent exposure even less - I'm just guessing."
Scott gives a sort of helpless, full-body shrug. Then slumps against one of the cabinets.
"Why does this stuff keep happening to us, seriously? It's not like we go out of our way to invite this stuff. Being a werewolf is hard enough, I'm seriously not prepared for any of this. How are we supposed to prepare for just anything to happen?"
Stiles shakes his head, short noise that's not a laugh, even if it sounds like one, breaking out of his throat.
"We're not, we're teenagers, we shouldn't be dealing with any of this shit. We should be neglecting our homework, getting drunk in the woods, pining over girls and fighting over who broke the XBox controller. Instead we get feral werewolves, witches, possibly psychotic hunters out to cut people in half." Stiles shrugs. "Honestly, you think I deal with any of this, or do you think I just flail my way through it, while trying to get bruised as little as possible. Have a psychotic break later while locked in my own bathroom." He gives another not-laugh.
Scott stares at him in silence for a long handful of seconds.
"I would be so screwed without you, you know that right?" he says, with feeling.
"And yet you left me with Derek," Stiles reminds him.
"He likes you," Scott protests. The 'he doesn't like me,' is kind of assumed there.
"You're a terrible person. You're lucky you're already my best friend." Because Stiles is awesome, and he doesn't abandon his friends.
Scott sighs, and does that stupid smile. The one Stiles is incapable of hating, because it's just that dumb.
"Let me see what you got."
Scott has brought steak, and Derek clearly knows he's brought steak, because he's suddenly upright, and pushing into Stiles's back, with all the clumsy enthusiasm of someone who thinks he's in charge. But doesn't have the words, or the ability to use thumbs, to back it up.
Stiles elbows him.
"Ah - no, the people who understand how packaging works get to eat first."
Scott throws him a dubious look.
"He's still the Alpha, technically, or rather he thinks he is. Even though he's not really doing what he's supposed to," he says awkwardly. "I don't think we get to eat until he's done,"
Stiles laughs and shakes his head.
"Dude, no, that's not happening. I'm starving. Please tell me you brought something that doesn't bleed?"
Scott pulls out a huge bag of chips, and a sandwich, and sets them on the table.
"This is why we're friends," Stiles points out.
Scott has tugged one of the steaks out of its packaging, and is eyeing it with a confused expression. There is absolutely nothing confused about the way Derek is looking at it, and if Stiles wasn't in the way he suspects it would already be half-eaten, along with most of Scott's hand.
"How am I supposed to - umm?" Scott gestures with the meat, in a sort of hilarious wave-y way.
"You could probably just throw it on the floor," Stiles says with a shrug.
"That's kind of disgusting," Scott points out.
"What are you going to do, give him a plate and some cutlery?" Stiles gestures to where Derek's claws have already half ruined the kitchen floor - what was left of the kitchen floor anyway.
Scott sighs, and then tosses it across the kitchen, and then looks completely ashamed of himself.
They both watch with a sort of horrified fascination.
"Y'know," Scott starts. "I've never actually been this freakin' terrified of him, and yet at the same time, I'm not sure I can ever look him in the face again without laughing."
Stiles nods helplessly. "I know right, it's insane."
Derek makes a horrible noise, as if to remind Scott that if he even thinks about trying to get his half-eaten steak back he'll eat him as well. The noise stops when Scott pulls another one out of the bag, turns into that 'hopeful dog,' expression. It makes Stiles snort messy laughter through his nose.
Though when Stiles pulls open the chips and starts eating them, Derek comes close enough to bash against his leg, and then he's doing the whole 'glaring with his mouth open' thing. In a 'hey, what are you eating, and why don't I have some, I should totally have some,' kind of way.
"Oh my God, fine." Stiles snags one chip out of the bag, and holds it out - and really he should have known that was the quickest way to get drool and steak juice all over his hand. Though to be fair Derek doesn't look like he's enjoying it much. Maybe Scott is a freak, for being a werewolf who enjoys delicious, cheese-dusted snacks. Derek leaves them to their cheesy snacks, they leave Derek to the steak, which he seems much happier about. Everyone is happy.
Stiles outlines his plan to put a barrier of mountain ash round the house, which Scott doesn't really protest against, because he's been following Stiles's plans pretty successfully for the past ten years or so. Though Stiles can still tell that he's not entirely convinced.
"Do we know how long until he gets back to normal? Do we know if he can get back to normal? What if his brain was, like, damaged permanently or something?"
Stiles hadn't even thought about the possibility that Derek might just be gone, and this is all that's left. He doesn't want to think about it.
"Of course he can get back to normal, I mean he's still there. He's still Derek."
"I could ask Deaton to check on him."
Stiles is weirdly unhappy with that, though he's not sure why.
"I don't know how Derek would react to Deaton."
"If he stayed outside the barrier?"
"I think I should probably test it first. I feel like we shouldn't be trusting the safety of anyone to my ability to believe in something on the fly. I have the attention span of a happy dog."
"Why not? You did it last time, and it totally worked."
The fact that Scott has faith in him is an awesome thing that Stiles isn't entirely sure he deserves. But he's not going to say it.
"You nearly got killed," Stiles reminds him. "Just so you know, I am against you getting killed, in any way." He sighs. "But, yeah, if you want to tell him what's going on. Just ask him what he thinks, ok?"
They both look at Derek, who's made a bloody mess of the floor, that Stiles will probably have to clean up. He's protecting the last steak out of the bag. But he looks at Stiles, like he's thinking about leaving it for him, which Stiles gets the feeling is kind of a huge deal.
"No, you eat it, I'm good with my delicious cheese, knock yourself out."
Scott shoulders his bag, and Stiles gives him a one-armed hug - which makes Derek growl, low in the back of his throat, like he thinks Scott might try and steal him or something.
"I really wish he'd stop doing that," Scott complains.
"I think he's imprinted on me, like a baby duckling."
Scott huffs laughter against his ear.
"No, dude, I think you're his baby duckling."
Ugh, that sounds so awful, and is also so not true.
"You are a cruel friend," Stiles says, but Scott laughs and hugs him back.
"Are you going to be ok here?"
"Yes, I won't pull out any knives, or make any sudden movements which will get me eaten, I swear. I'll sort out the whole mountain ash circle later, and try and keep him at least round the house. I mean I know this probably isn't the best place to put him, when his head isn't on straight, what with all the pretty horrific memories that might come back. But it's also the only place that's familiar. Also, way out in the middle of nowhere, so the neighbours won't call the cops about the wild, naked man growling on the lawn. Because, yeah, the cops are my dad, and I really do not need my dad to show up and catch me with a naked Derek Hale."
Scott nods like he understands the many, many ways in which that would be bad.
"Text me, like, every couple of hours." Scott doesn't add the 'if you do not text me I will assume you have been murdered,' but it's kind of assumed.
"Ugh, fine."
When Scott's gone Stiles does his best to clean dead cow off Derek, using a wet cloth he found near the sink. Then he uses it to try and clean the floor. Which accomplishes nothing but moving the blood, and soot, and pieces of broken tile and plaster and dust around. He makes a clean spot, and then feels bad about the fact that he's just going to leave it. This house is just one huge tragedy of sadness. No amount of effort could ever make it anything else.
He takes the jar of mountain ash outside, and Derek follows, looking oddly so much more naked outside.
"You realise you're probably breaking some sort of public indecency law," Stiles tells him. "And now I have seen so much more of you than you're probably comfortable with. I feel like I should apologise but, dude, it's like you're not even trying." He walks a circle around the property, to the tree line, so there's enough space that Derek doesn't feel trapped in the house. Derek follows him, making odd noises, which Stiles can't translate, little coughs in his throat. He has no idea whether they mean Derek wants to play, or whether he's afraid Stiles is going to go wandering off into the woods on his own.
When Stiles has finished he very cautiously takes a step over the line, then another. Derek makes to follow him and - stops. He blinks and takes two steps back, and then growls viciously at the empty space between them.
"Ok, ok, I was just testing it." Stiles steps back over the line, throws his arms out to show Derek that he can reach him again.
Derek digs his claws into Stiles's shirt, barely pricking through to the skin, and he pulls him back inside.
"You're such a baby, not wanting to be left on your own," Stiles tells him.
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3//
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Spoilers: 2x12
Warnings: Violence, very slight dub-con
Word Count: 25,000
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He has no idea what you're supposed to say when you find one of your...werewolf acquaintances, completely out of their mind, growling like they're about to see what your insides taste like. There's no handbook for this. Stiles is thinking that if he survives he might write one.
AN: Written for the 'Deprogramming' square, for hc_bingo.
Stiles accepts the fact that Scott said he'd only be five minutes. But lunch waits for no man. So Stiles has already made a significant dent in his own, by the time Scott fills the seat in front of him. He looks like he ran the whole way, practically vibrating with thoughts he has to share. Stiles doesn't think it's important enough to stop eating. There's a very short list of things which rank above delicious foodstuffs, and Lydia is quite clearly fine. She's three tables over, oozing superiority and perfection.
"Derek's missing," Scott opens with. Which isn't quite important enough to stop eating. Though Stiles is surprised enough to stop chewing for a second, that's the best the grumpy werewolf is going to get.
"What do you mean missing? Is that actually missing, or just more subtle in his lurking than usual?" Because if Derek just decided to stop jumping out at people, or hovering ominously at the nearest tree line, Stiles is pretty sure no one would ever see him. It's possible he does that on purpose, since Stiles figures he's perfectly capable of stalking people without their knowledge.
"Erica and Boyd say they haven't seen him for almost a week." Scott dumps his stuff on the chair next to him without looking, and half of it promptly falls off.
"Maybe it's on purpose," Stiles suggests, because that's honestly the first thing that pops into his head. "Maybe he's avoiding them, they're the worst problem children ever, and they ran away from home, remember. You probably can't, like, return werewolves to the store if you realise you made a bad life choice."
Scott pouts, which he absolutely shouldn't do, because it makes him look all of twelve years old. Also, Stiles was in no way including Scott in the werewolves that should be returned. Scott's a keeper.
"He's their Alpha, he wouldn't abandon them." Scott says it like he knows for certain, and Stiles is briefly irritated because this is clearly one of those feelings Scott gets that he doesn't think Stiles would understand. Werewolf intuition or something - definitely not werewolf indigestion. Because Scott would absolutely know the difference.
"I'd abandon them," Stiles says without hesitation. "I'd leave them on a doorstep, in a basket. I might, at a push, leave a note." Stiles takes the opportunity to half fill his mouth - only half, so he can still talk and eat at the same time. "Though the note probably wouldn't be complimentary."
Scott actually looks physically pained, face all scrunched up, and it's been a while since Stiles had seen that face show up for anyone but Allison. Stiles sighs and puts what's left of his sandwich down.
"Dude, why do you care anyway? Why don't you just enjoy the moment. I'm sure he'll show up somewhere eventually, when you least expect it, like your bedroom, or my bedroom, or some dark, shadowy corner. And, yes, I realise how much I just made Derek sound like a sex offender there. But, really, he only has himself to blame."
"Seriously, Stiles, I'm worried. If there's something out there that can take out Derek."
Loath as he is to admit it, Scott has a point.
"Tall, dark and grumpy is kind of our yardstick of badass," he allows. There was something to be said for having a yardstick of badass around when you needed one. Though at a push Stiles would admit that wasn't all Derek was good for. "Did Peter do something?"
Scott shakes his head.
"He was the first person I thought of. He's still out of town."
Stiles grunts, and stabs his straw into his juice.
"Hey silver lining. Did you check the woods?" Whenever they lose something it's almost always in the woods, or near the woods, or buried in the woods. Though Stiles isn't going to mention that, because it probably won't be helpful. He really hopes nothing is buried in the woods.
Scott's already nodding.
"I checked the house, I checked the woods -"
"All of the woods? There are a lot of woods." There are not only a lot of woods, but a lot of land around the woods, creeks, possibly caves as well. There are a lot of places to get lost, and never be seen again. Or possibly be eaten by a bear. Could Derek get eaten by a bear? Stiles has never really thought about a bear/werewolf match-up before. Not that he wants to see one because that would just be wrong. Hypothetically awesome - but wrong in real life.
Scott rolls his eyes. "Yes, all of the woods."
Stiles gives him a pointed look.
"Did you check Allison's basement?"
Scott glares at him for a millisecond, then sighs, and now he's wearing his face of resolve and maturity. It's new so he doesn't really have a handle on it yet. "Allison said it wasn't her. She said she didn't have anything to do with it."
Stiles manages a dubious sideways squint, in response to that. Because he likes Allison, he really does, but she's kind of proven she is terrifyingly good at using her powers for evil. Better than Stiles would have ever imagined she could be. Her face-heel turn had kind of proven that, and a half-evil Allison is still pretty freakin' scary. So scary that she's still doing the whole 'I'm sorry I tried to horribly injure you all with sharp instruments,' a month later. There were even muffins, I'm-sorry-I-tried-to-kill-you, muffins. Which were delicious. Stiles is friends with too many people who've tried to kill him to feel like he can judge. Which sounds terrible, when he puts it like that. He has awful friends and he's clearly already doomed.
Scott frowns.
"She didn't - she didn't smell like him, I checked. I don't think either of them have been hunting since - well, you know." He shrugs, because, yeah, they don't have to fill in the end of that any more. But Scott still sounds like he wasn't happy about checking out Allison's story.
"I'm very proud of you for your uncharacteristic suspicion," Stiles tells him, and gives him a cookie, because he deserves it.
*****
Derek continues to be a no-show for the next week, then the week after. Scott spends days in class staring off into the distance and frowning, as though he might catch a glimpse of Derek on the horizon. Which is really disturbing, and makes him look like he's gone insane, or that he's about to start shouting that someone's house is on fire. Stiles is genuinely starting to worry about him. He's also starting to worry about Derek too. Which proves the world is ending or something. No one should get attached to Derek, Derek is mean, and aggressive, and he sucks all enjoyment and happiness out of the world. But Stiles is worried about him anyway. You can't have life-saving adventures with someone, and not worry about them. No matter how much of a dick they could be.
"Dude, he's not your Alpha any more, why are so antsy?"
"I don't know," Scott says, honestly sounding like he doesn't, while he buries his nose in textbook after textbook, like he can replace the smell of wrongness with the scent of paper and hormonal teenagers. "I don't know, maybe it's the fact that there's no Alpha around." He shakes his head, and shifts in his chair like his skin doesn't fit right.
Stiles tries not to think about what that means, if it's some sort of proof that Derek isn't coming back. Which is stupid, because of course Derek is coming back. He leans further over the back of the chair, wood digging into his ribs.
"What do we do if something worse shows up? Is there still a pack without Derek?"
Scott shakes his head again, face scrunched and helpless.
"Do you, like - have to take over Alpha duties?" Stiles says around a pen. "Run off interlopers? Make sure Isaac and Erica eat all their vegetable, maybe keep a leash on Uncle McCreeps-a-lot?"
Scott's face scrunches impossibly further. As if he doesn't even want to roll that thought around in his head.
"Yeah, I know how you feel man, you're way too young to be a dad."
"Stiles, this is serious."
Stiles sighs, because, yes, yes, it probably is.
"I know, he'll show up. He always shows up."
Erica, Isaac and Boyd find them twice after school, all scowls and questions. If anything they seem worse than Scott, restless, like they can't stay still, like they're desperate for something. Stiles had mostly been joking, but the way they look at Scott, as if he'll tell them what to do. It doesn't bode well. There is ill boding. Stiles has a foreboding feeling about the whole thing. And he's officially used the word 'bode' too much there, and it doesn't even make sense any more.
"Maybe he just had to leave for a while, secret Alpha business. It's not like he tells us anything about that. It's not like he tells us anything. This is why he needs to tell us things. So we can avoid the unnecessary fretting when he takes off without telling anyone." Stiles throws his arms out, gesturing, as best as he can at the current Derek-less state of the world.
"Does Derek seem the type to abandon his pack to you?" Scott's worried eyebrows are going to stay that way. It's a genuine fear that Stiles has.
But, yeah, Stiles has to admit, Scott's right. No matter how horrible his kids can be, Derek would stick it out. Derek wouldn't leave unless someone made him, unless he didn't have a choice. Stiles doesn't want to say what they're both thinking. It's pretty obvious by now that something bad has probably happened. The question is, what are they going to do about it?
"So we look for him, right?" Stiles says firmly. "We retrace his steps, where's the last place we saw him lurking?"
Scott looks at him blankly.
"I don't know, I haven't really seen him much lately. I just...noticed when he was gone."
Stiles does the inquisitive eyebrows at him, but Scott just shrugs in a way that isn't helpful at all.
"You noticed he was gone even though you haven't really seen him. Is that another wolf thing?"
Scott's always been easily frustrated, but he's forcing it back now, Stiles can see it happening.
"I guess. I should have been paying more attention. I was so busy worrying about Allison. I never even thought something could happen. Not so soon after Jackson and the kanima and everything."
"When did we see him last? Did you even talk to him after the whole - the whole Gerard thing?"
Scott frowns, and there's a blend of guilt and anger there, churning together in one expression.
"No, I figured if anything new showed up he'd come to me. Or let me know or -" he shrugs.
Stiles exhales, loud and noisy.
"Ok, so this might be tougher than I thought. Does his phone have GPS, can we track his phone somehow? You'd have to go to Danny for that. Because I'm pretty sure I'm officially all favoured out. He likes you better anyway."
"I can ask," Scott says. "I'll ask him next time I see him."
*****
Stiles is halfway through a dream involving a library bookcase attempting to eat him, when his phone starts vibrating. He's already reaching for it, before he's fully shaken off the crushing pressure of murderous, bound volumes and sharp paper. He manages to knock half his stuff onto the floor, body still not as well trained as his brain to react to night-time disruptions. He squints at the screen in the darkness, before he hits the button. It's three in the morning. On a Saturday.
"Someone better be actively being murdered."
"Stiles!"
He was joking, but it occurs to him, with a horrible sort of realisation, that someone genuinely could be being murdered. That's his life now.
"We found Derek." Scott doesn't sound happy. He sounds out of breath, and a little panicked, through the phone. There's a mess of noise in the distance that sounds like the dry, cracking splinter of wood, and then someone shouting. "Stiles you need to get here." Scott's moving, Stiles can tell by the jerky nature of his words. He also knows Scott well enough to know that he has no idea what to do.
Stiles fights his way out of the sheets, phone jammed between ear and shoulder, already trying to find his jeans, before his eyes have properly adjusted to the dark.
"Is he -"
"He's alive, we're at his house - just get here."
Scott hangs up, before Stiles can ask any questions.
Which is how Stiles ends up at the Hale house at four in the morning on a Saturday. The creepy burnt-out house in the woods is starting to lose some of its sinister allure due to familiarity.
"Scott?" Stiles calls his name before he realises that may be an epically bad idea. It may in fact be the worst idea ever, because there are werewolves who can hear the rustle of leaves from across town, and Stiles isn't even trying to be quiet. Though he feels like if this is the sort of situation that involved quietness, and things possibly trying to eat them, then Scott would have mentioned it. Only he probably wouldn't have. Scott is awful at need-to-know information. Which doesn't make Stiles feel any better about the fact that something is growling. Something is growling loudly enough that he can hear it from outside, the slow, lawnmower grate that sounds like it's coming from a huge animal that desperately wants to rip something apart. Stiles has no idea how he didn't hear it before.
"Stiles."
It's Scott's voice, quietly careful, as if he doesn't want to make too much noise, but Stiles thinks he can hear the thready note of panic anyway, and he's taking the porch steps two at a time, skidding through door frames.
"Stop. Don't move."
There's something about the desperate, hissed-out command that has Stiles freezing in place, foot still half-raised off the floor. Scott's pressed to the side of the door, looking like he's trying to mime a wince. He reaches out for Stiles's wrist, and doesn't relax until he has hold of it. His fingers are hot and sweaty.
The raw, deep growling is coming from the back of the room. Stiles can just make out a low, pale, folded-over shape in the very corner, the slices of half-moon light digging through the walls are just enough that he can pick out quick, jerky heaves of skin.
"Is that Derek?" Stiles whispers incredulously.
Scott doesn't say a word, because it is, it obviously is.
"Oh my god, what the hell -"
"I don't know," Scott says over him, voice thin and worried. "I don't know. He's not - he's not talking he's just doing that." Scott's voice goes lower, so low Stiles can barely hear it. "Something's the matter with him, he's not acting like a person, he's not even acting like he knows who I am."
Stiles shakes his head, can't look away from the shape in the corner, that looks like Derek and yet really, really doesn't at the same time.
"When did you get here?" He whispers over
"A couple of hours ago. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to deal with this." Scott's very slowly shaking his head, fingers tightening and relaxing on his wrist. Stiles gets the feeling he's thinking about dragging Stiles back out of the house again.
They'll deal with this the same way they deal with everything else, Stiles guesses, stumble around in the dark until they find a light switch, or something bites them. He's really hoping this isn't a biting situation.
"Also, he's naked," Scott adds, like it's a secret that he's a little embarrassed about.
"Yes," Stiles says. "Yes, he is naked, thank you. I noticed that."
Derek's not just naked, he's a mess. He looks like he dug himself out of the ground - and it doesn't look like it was easy. He's caked in dirt, the only clean thing in the dark is the glint of his teeth, all five million of them, if Stiles is any judge. "What the hell happened to him?"
"I don't know -" Scott sounds pained. "I saw him in the woods, and I followed him here. He wouldn't let me close. He didn't even try and change back to human. He's been there ever since."
"Making that noise," Stiles suspects.
"Pretty much. Sometimes it's worse, sometimes it gets sort of quiet and sounds like it hurts." Scott's mouth goes pinched in sympathy.
Derek's shoulders are hunched up, and he's backed into the wall. There's a glint of something bright, jutting up out of the skin of his shoulderblade, just to the left of his spine.
"What the hell is that?" Stiles whispers, he doesn't know why he's whispering, it's not like everyone can't still hear him anyway. But something about the low rumble coming from the back of the room is telling his lizard brain that not drawing attention to himself is a very good thing.
"I think it's a broken knife."
"He has a broken knife in his back and no one thought to take it out?" Stiles says sharply.
Scott throws his hands up in slow motion. "You think we didn't try? By all means go over there and take it out."
Stiles takes one look at the glare of red eyes in the darkness, and the edge of teeth, bared and absolutely ready to rip into soft, human flesh and decides that, no, staying over here is kind of fine by him after all.
"What about Erica, Isaac and Boyd, they're his pack, why aren't they here?"
"They were here," Scott says. "I called them straight away. It didn't exactly go well."
Stiles takes a cautious step closer to Scott, barely a shuffle on the floorboards.
"Define 'didn't go well.'"
"Erica had to drag Boyd out because Derek pretty much chewed his arm off, and Isaac had to heal a load of broken ribs, and a bunch of claw marks. Derek just attacked them, and he wouldn't stop snarling until they left."
Stiles goes cold all over, and restrains the very real urge to thump Scott in the arm. If he wasn't worried about a possible terrible mauling, if he dares to make any sudden movement, he might have done it.
"Oh my God, and you tried to make me go over there?"
"I didn't try and make you," Scott says, which is a lie. "Besides he's growling at me, he's not growling at you. "
"Probably because he thinks I'm breakfast. He thinks you've brought him breakfast, and breakfast is not threatening. You don't growl at breakfast, you just eat it. Thanks, by the way, for making me take-out, I appreciate that."
Scott's guilty face is a thing to be treasured, but this really isn't the time. Stiles can still feel the sweaty grip of Scott's hand, the way his fingers are just a fraction too tight.
"You probably just smell familiar." Scott looks like he's guessing. "And you're not a werewolf. I don't think he wants other werewolves near him, because he's injured, and vulnerable and kind of -"
They both look at Derek's face.
"Not at home right now?" Stiles offers, and honestly that's the politest way he could have phrased it.
"Yeah," Scott says awkwardly, like he still doesn't know what that's all about.
"So, I smell familiar, but not in that threatening, werewolf way, in the tasty, delicious meat sort of way?"
"No - I mean well, yes -"
Stiles throws him a horrified look.
"That's not the important part," Scott says hurriedly, like he hasn't just admitted that there's the vague possibility that Stiles smells delicious on a daily basis, and not in a fun and/or sexy way. This is the sort of thing Stiles thinks should have been shared sooner. Or possibly never shared at all. Considering his social circle is now eighty percent werewolves.
"Not the important part? There's a feral werewolf, who may or may not want to devour my internal organs fifteen feet away."
"You're not a threat."
Scott's guessing again, Stiles can tell by the helpless little shrug. Scott is officially no longer allowed to make decisions which may have an impact on Stiles's ability to keep breathing. Scott is no longer allowed to make decisions, period. No decision making for Scott.
"No, I'm not a threat, what I am is incredibly fragile and breakable."
"We have to do something."
Derek's still growling, but he's sunk into a lower crouch, he doesn't look like he's prepared to lunge and bite through anyone's ribcage any more. Which isn't as comforting as you'd think.
"What exactly am I supposed to do, go over there, stick my hand out, and hope he doesn't decide to eat it?"
Scott shrugs.
Stiles boggles at him, there's no other word for it.
"Oh my God, that was your plan wasn't it. You're the worst, the absolute worst, you know that?"
Scott at least looks guilty about being the worst.
"Of all the stupid plans -" Stiles realises he's already pushing his sleeves up. He's already looking at Derek, like he's judging exactly how far he can go before he's officially within lunging distance. "Did I tell you that your plans are stupid? Because I feel like I should do that more, maybe on a daily basis."
"You usually have a better plan," Scott says, which is true. He's watching Stiles inch himself forward, towards the dirty mass of teeth and claws in the corner. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."
"It's a little late for that, isn't it?" Stiles says peevishly, and keeps moving.
"Stiles?"
Stiles is already shuffling himself right into Derek's eyeline - like he wasn't watching them the whole time anyway - and seriously the first hint of a growl and he's out of there. It doesn't help that Scott's making that soft, whining noise in his throat, like Stiles is going to get his arm torn off, and Scott's going to have to explain that to his dad. Stiles likes his arms, and he would very much like them to remain where they are. He takes a few more steps, and he's definitely within lunging distance now. He kind of holds his hand out, he feels both ever so slightly terrified, and like a total idiot at the same time, and they're two emotions that do not make happy bedfellows.
Derek tips his head up a fraction, and Stiles freezes. He chances a look at Scott, who's holding his breath by the wall, hands spread like he might have to attempt to try and claw Stiles back towards him, and, yes, thank you, that's a brilliant reminder of how dangerous this is. Though Stiles does take some comfort in the fact that Scott would absolutely do it, his own safety be damned.
Somehow between one breath and the next, Stiles has his fingers against Derek's shoulder. It's slippery with sweat, not as warm as Stiles is used to the werewolves being. He exhales and puts the slightest pressure on the skin.
"Hey, Derek," he says helplessly, because he has no idea what you're supposed to say when you find one of your...werewolf acquaintances completely out of their mind, growling like they're about to see what your insides taste like. There's no handbook for this. Stiles is thinking that if he survives he might write one.
Derek's face is wrong. There's nothing recognisable there at the moment, no blend of human emotion, or even familiar anger. There's just this. His eyes are wrong too, wet red, like they've been bleeding, with huge, dark pupils. His upper lip is still curled back from his teeth - and there are currently a lot of teeth - but mostly he has his eyes, and his teeth, focused on Scott.
"Should I pet him?" That hadn't sounded so bad inside Stiles's head.
Scott looks at him like he's an idiot.
"Well I'm sorry, but I don't have a clue what to do with feral werewolves. And also, more importantly, we will never tell Derek that I asked whether I should pet him, never."
Scott sighs, and then shrugs - and that's a big fucking help, thank you Scott. Stiles takes a deep breath, shifts his hand, and sort of pats Derek's shoulder, in a gentle and completely non-threatening sort of way.
"No offence, Derek, but you're a mess. What the hell happened to you, dude?"
Derek tips his head forward, just a little, and Stiles can't help it, he very carefully lifts his hand and settles it in Derek's hair. It's soft and prickly at the same time, and there are flakes of red brown near the skin. The low bass rumble that had been going continuously drops low, and then stops completely.
Stiles swallows and lets his hand go still.
"Is that a good sign or a bad sign," he whispers, because he knows Scott can hear him.
"It's good," Scott says on the end of an exhale. "It's definitely good."
Stiles can't help the shaky little noise of relief he makes. Derek's sniffing his hand now, in a curious and completely non-threatening, but still kind of disturbing, sort of way.
"If he sniffs my ass I'm going to fucking kill you," he tells Scott through his teeth.
Scott makes a choked noise in his throat, which sounds like amusement, and also horror. Derek curls a lip in his direction. Which is definitely more disturbing when his face is like that.
"Why isn't he changing?" Scott asks, like Stiles is supposed to know this stuff. Why does everyone expect him to know these things? He's not the werewolf whisperer - feral werewolf petting notwithstanding.
Stiles shrugs. "Maybe he still feels threatened," he guesses. "Or maybe he needs some sort of emotional control to put that away and he doesn't have any right now."
The floorboards creak, and Stiles can track Scott's progress at the far side of the room by Derek's eyes.
Derek's back is hot and sweaty under the grim coating of dirt and old blood - and judging by the amount of old blood Derek has had worse than a knife in the back during the past three weeks.
"I'm going to need to get this out," Stiles says slowly.
Derek's watching him now - and that is more than a little terrifying from this close - his eyes are bright crimson, and Stiles remembers, belatedly that you're not supposed to look a dog in the eye. Because it will take that as an invitation to rip your face off. He's pretty sure that thinking of Derek as a dog in this situation probably isn't helping either.
"Dude, it's nasty, and it's broken. I don't give a crap whether you're a werewolf or not, that's just asking for some sort of horrible infection." He lifts his hand, until it's hovering over that red glint of metal.
The growl goes high, wavers over the line from warning to threatening, and every single hair Stiles has stands straight up. He's pretty sure he's going to get his face bitten if he get any closer.
"Stiles." Scott's panicky little girl voice is way too high, and is not doing anything good for his nerves.
"Ok, ok." Stiles slowly draws his hand away, and manfully doesn't lose control of his bladder. "Ok, no touching the horrible gaping wound. We'll leave it to fester, that's awesome. Congratulations on your life choices, Derek, which are awesome as always."
Derek stares at his hand, then at him, then at his hand again. When he seems to be satisfied that Stiles isn't going to yank the thing out when he's not looking he settles down again.
"Could we drug him, do you think?" Stiles says quietly. "Patch him up while he's unconscious?"
Scott's face goes through some sort of horrified wince.
"Should you be saying stuff like that where he can hear you?"
Stiles pointedly looks from Derek to Scott, though he doesn't think Scott gets it.
"I'm pretty sure Derek doesn't understand a word I'm saying right now," he says carefully.
"I don't even know if you can drug us. We don't know what's already in his system. I don't think he'd let us anywhere near him with wolfsbane. Besides, look at him, I'd pretty sure he'd just shrug off anything we gave him. I could ask Deaton, but other than that...?" Scott shakes his head. "I don't know."
"We can't just leave him like this?" Stiles says sensibly. Because Derek is, to put it bluntly, a freakin' mess.
"I don't think he's in any danger. It might be best to just wait until...he's feeling like himself again."
"You think that's going to happen?"
Scott looks at him, and there's a frown between his eyes that says he doesn't have a clue. He takes a step forward -
- there's an arm around Stiles waist, dragging him back across the floor, knees grating on the floorboards, and he just fucking knows he's going to have splinters in the palm of his hand. He ends up curled under the muddy arch of Derek's body, and the grip is tight enough to force all the air out of him. The growl is back, dry and deep, and Stiles tenses up completely, and braces himself for - something.
"Stiles," Scott says sharply - and Stiles can tell by the way he hunkers down and tenses, that Scott is actually going to do something amazingly stupid. Which he really wants to be touched about, because Scott is the best, he is. But that doesn't change the fact that Scott is going to get his throat ripped out if he tries, and that is unacceptable.
"Stay there," Stiles says, he tries for firm, but it comes out choked. "Don't move, just don't move."
Scott, thank God, listens to him, though he clearly doesn't want to. It's only because he trusts him. Stiles doesn't even know if he trusts himself right now. Derek is panting, damp with sweat, and he smells like a dead thing. He drags Stiles closer, arm tightening to seriously air-reducing levels, because Scott still looks like he really wants to try something. Stiles can feel the noise Derek's making vibrating through his back, and that's still pretty fucking scary.
"Holy shit, seriously, Derek, gonna need to breathe - Scott, back up, he's going to crush me."
Scott takes a step back.
"Derek." Stiles smacks his arm with a fist and, yes, for a second he can't believe he did that - but Derek relaxes the arm. Enough that he can kind of sag to his knees, but not enough for him to slip out of it, and Stiles swears, with feeling.
"I am not your goddamn chew toy," he wheezes out.
"Stiles?"
"We're good," Stiles says weakly. Which is...probably true? He very carefully tilts his head to the side to check. Derek doesn't look like he's planning anything homicidal. He looks like an angry dog backed into a corner, one that's been kicked so many times it'll bite anything that comes close. Everything except Stiles, apparently.
"Congratulations, you're his favourite," Scott says, he sounds like he doesn't know whether to be relieved, confused or horrified.
"Hooray," Stiles says, with a complete lack of enthusiasm. He chances another careful smack. "Come on, Derek, let me go. Scott has no intention of murdering me."
Derek grumbles, but Stiles is able to wriggle out of his grip, without anything terrible happening.
Stiles take one look as his shirt, and the mess Derek's arm and chest has made of it, and wrinkles his nose.
"Holy shit," Scott says breathlessly, like Stiles hadn't been the only one in danger of peeing themselves.
"Wow, yeah, that wasn't pleasant at all." Stiles cautiously backs up a couple of steps, and Derek doesn't attempt to drag him back, or do anything creepy.
Scott looks unsure whether to reach out and touch him or not.
"He came home, right? That has to mean something." Scott can go from fear to hopeful enthusiasm so quickly that it's almost funny.
"Not really," Stiles says. "I mean dogs go back to the last place they were sick. So I wouldn't read too much into it."
"I can't stay here. My mom will be home soon." Scott looks worried, and it's amazing how he can put his mom being mad, and Derek tearing his throat out into the same vague category. "I should at least look as if I wasn't out all night. I can't get grounded with this going on. Your dad -"
"He's working the early shift," Stiles says, and the more times he says that the less guilty he feels. "He should have left already."
Stiles gets a good look at Scott's constipated face of guilt and immediately gets it. He doesn't like it, at all, but he gets it. He really only has himself to blame. He should be harder to talk into things, especially things of a dubious and supernatural nature.
He nods.
"You want me to Derek-sit don't you?"
At least Scott looks guilty about it.
"Just make sure no one comes. He's not exactly up to dealing with anything at the moment."
"On the contrary, I think he's more than up to dealing with things. It's just probably not going to involve a lot of conversation. Biting, and mauling, and blood, and loud noises, yes, conversation, not so much."
"Which will in no way end badly for us." Scott shouldn't be allowed to use sarcasm. He always overdoes it.
Stiles knows he's going to cave, he knows it.
"Just so you know, if Derek decides to eat my insides out while you're gone we're officially no longer friends."
Scott now looks horribly conflicted about leaving, as if he's actually afraid he might come back to find Stiles's insides eaten out. Stiles decides he's going to hate him a little bit, just for a while.
"Bring some food, something that smells delicious to you, and nothing like my young, supple flesh. And some clothes maybe, I'm thinking clothes would be a good look for him right now," Stiles suggests.
"He doesn't look like he's in the mood to get dressed."
"It would make me feel so much better. Because I usually demand at least a very nice dinner before I let people press their naked bodies against me."
"There's probably some clothes here." Scott gestures towards the upstairs, what there is of it, and where Stiles doesn't really want to go, in case he falls through a floor or something. "I mean he used to stay here, and he left in a hurry so..." he shrugs.
He watches Stiles all the way to the door, face creased in guilt at being forced to abandon him, then he's gone and the full enormity of the situation sinks in like a lead weight.
"Shit."
Stiles decides that the first thing they're going to do is not find clothes. Stiles is pretty sure Derek had the water turned back on, if nothing else, and there's no getting around the fact that Derek can't stay like this. This is disgusting. But Stiles doesn't even know whether Derek will let him put him in the shower, or whether it will be a disaster of dog-bathing proportions, complete with optional biting. Still, Derek smells like someone dragged him through an abattoir and then rolled him in a field to dry, and there's no way Stiles is going to be able to deal with that smell. He has no idea how Derek is dealing with it, because it must be a thousand times worse for him.
It's a good job Scott's no longer here to tell him what a monumentally bad idea it is. He has no trouble at all imagining what face Scott would pull if he had any idea what Stiles was thinking. It would be the aneurysm face, definitely that one. He'd probably deserve it too.
Stiles wraps a hand round Derek's arm and very carefully pulls.
"Ok, umm, come on - come."
He takes a couple of tugs before Derek figures it out, which is lucky because there is absolutely no way that Stiles is moving Derek without his help. He must be curious enough - or maybe he's just bored of the corner of the room, because he follows him.
He follows him upstairs without complaint. Stiles had thought he might have trouble with the stairs, but he just dig his claws into the wood, and takes them three at a time.
Derek is apparently amenable to being pushed into the bath. Which is also unexpected. Though that may end up being the easy part. Stiles is absolutely prepared - probably prepared - for flailing, and growling, and angry protest, maybe even a little mauling. He's steeling himself for it. Derek doesn't do any of those things. The water rushes on with a heavy 'clunk,' and Derek just tips his head away from the flow of water, and looks savagely miserable. It's kind of sad and horrible. Stiles almost feels guilty - but the water flows gritty and awful, against the white sides. Blood and skin and dirt - and what look like little shards of bone, and Stiles just doesn't want to know. It takes him a second to realise he's going to have to help, that he's going to have to do something other than just tilting the spray in helpful directions.
And then once he's started - once he's made a clean spot - he can't stop. It's like some sort of terrible compulsion.
The one downside with Derek being mostly clean, is that he looks considerably more naked. Seriously there's a lot of naked going on. Stiles is trying to look at him without actually looking at him. Which is really hard considering he's trying to wash him. So he mostly concentrates on the safe parts, while occasionally apologising, and promising to blot things from his memory - or to try very hard to blot things from his memory. If anyone asks him what Stiles did at half past four on a Saturday morning he can say that he shampooed Derek Hale. This is his life now.
There's a quiet and very wet, snort when he gets shampoo in an eye, but there's mostly no complaining.
"I had no idea you could be even less loquacious than you already were," Stiles tells him, and resists the urge to do ridiculous things with Derek's hair, now he has it all shampoo-ified. Because it's right there, and he's already got his hands in it. Instead he tips him into the spray, and watches it all flatten and go dark.
Derek flinches a little when the water runs over the blade still embedded in his back, and Stiles winces in sympathy.
"Derek, you've got to let me take this out."
Stiles eases him back, and gestures at the shine of metal. He mimes pulling it out, and Derek just stares at him blankly. Right, ok, he's really not getting any of this is he.
"Ok, seriously, I'm just going to do it." He lays a hand on a shoulderblade and it twitches, quiet grumble starting in the back of Derek's throat. "It's ok, it's fine, I'm going to get it out of you and you will feel so much fucking better, I promise."
The grumble stops, and he moves slightly closer.
"I'll be as quick as I can, if you promise not to eat me, ok? There's a mutual promise of as little pain as possible. Because you can heal from whatever this thing has done, but I can't heal from you savaging me, you know that. You knew that, when you weren't having a werewolf Tarzan moment?"
The metal's slippery with blood and water, and the skin's been trying to heal over it, cutting itself open every time Derek moves, every time his shoulder heaves under a breath. It's almost impossible to grip, and Derek's growling like a bear, like the possibility that he's going to turn and sink his teeth into Stiles's throat is still an option here. Oh my God, please let that not be an option.
"Don't eat me," Stiles says carefully, in what he knows definitely isn't a calm and relaxed tone of voice. "Don't eat me, we're all cool. I'm just going to yank this fucking huge piece of metal out of you." Stiles gets a grip on it, finally, fingertips digging through old blood and new, and he tugs it up, through layers of muscle and skin, and it doesn't want to come. It's pretty intent on staying in there. There's a low, wet tone to the growl now, and Stiles doesn't know whether to keep pulling or get to a safe distance. But he's never been very good with those self-preservation decisions, so he keeps pulling.
Inch by inch the knife comes, in a wash of blood.
"Not going to be sick," Stiles mutters under his breath. Though he's not entirely sure that isn't false bravado, because it's much longer than he was expecting. It must have broken off right near the handle. He has a horrible, visceral mental image of it grinding against Derek's ribs and lungs, for hours, or longer, days maybe. "Not going to be sick." His voice sounds breathy and faraway.
And then it's done, and he has a handful of heavy metal, hot and slick in his palm. He tosses it, instinctively, as far away as he can, listens to it clatter against one of the walls.
"Yeah, we're good, see, I told you." He tilts Derek a little, so the water can wash the wound clean. It's already healing, the skin's closing already. He leaves Derek there for a second, while he pokes in one of the charred cupboards. "Ok, so you have towels, right? You must have towels, where would you keep towels? Probably not around anything burnt because they'd probably just get all gross - "
There's the sound of skin skidding on tile, and then Stiles has a face full of water droplets, and Derek is out of the bath and already wandering off, all wet footprints, dripping skin and phenomenal ass - and this is not what Stiles signed up for today. It's really not.
Though he does eventually find some sweats piled on a chair in one of the bedrooms.
Derek is resistant to the idea of pants. It's like trying to put a dress on a cat. A very strong, six foot tall, cat. The pants don't survive the experience, and it's pretty humiliating for everyone involved. This had been much easier with Jackson.
Though, to be fair, he'd been unconscious.
*****
Scott makes a racket coming in. Stiles doesn't know why he bothers, because Derek's been staring at the front door, lips pulled back from his teeth, for five minutes.
Stiles lets him in, because he's not entirely sure Derek knows how to work door handles any more, and Scott's hands are mostly full. Scott looks at Derek first, possibly to see if he's going to be eaten. But there's still just the teeth, and what Stiles likes to think of as an air of smug disdain, as if Derek has already proven he could savage Scott into little pieces if he wanted to.
Scott peers at Derek over the bags. It takes him a second to work out what's different.
"He's clean. How the hell did you do that - and, holy crap, you pulled the knife out." The bags are sliding down Scott's body, shock rendering him unable to hold anything. So Stiles takes them from him. "Are you crazy he could have killed you?"
"Hey, you left me with a dirty werewolf with a knife stuck in him, dude, what did you think I'd do? My decision-making skills and yours, really not the same."
"He's still naked," Scott points out.
"I'm not a miracle worker," Stiles says with a sigh. "Though that was number three on my list. I attempted to get him into pants. None of us came out of that with our dignity intact, so I think we're both just pretending it didn't happen." He looks at Derek. "I'm pretending it didn't happen. I suspect Derek thinks he won in some way."
Scott shakes his head.
"I'm not sure I even want to know."
"You don't," Stiles assures him. "Believe me, you don't - and as for the not eating me thing, yeah, thank you, since you're the one that left me with an Alpha werewolf who currently thinks he's a wild animal."
Scott comes close enough to tug open the bags Stiles set on the kitchen table. Which apparently is close enough that teeth becomes noise.
"Oh, shush," Stiles says, waving a hand at Derek without even looking. "He brought you food, we don't growl at the people who bring us food."
Derek's still growling, but now it's lower, more of a complaint at Scott's closeness than a genuine threat.
Scott eyeballs him sideways, sort of confused, as if he has no idea how Stiles does that, and it's worrying him that he doesn't know. Scott's wearing that pout - the one that says 'I'm the one who's a werewolf, how come you know everything?'
"Did you get what else I asked for?"
"The mountain ash, yeah." Scott digs in one of the bags, for the sturdy jar he'd picked up from Deaton. "What are you going to do with it?"
Stiles rolls the jar in his hand.
"I'm going to ring the house, because I'm assuming the last thing we want is for a naked, feral werewolf, who's not all there in the head, to be running around the woods savaging anything he doesn't like the look of. That wouldn't get any sort of attention we don't want, or anything. Honestly, do we really think Derek wants that going on his record?"
"He's not going to like being trapped here."
Stiles winces.
"Yeah, I know, I can totally see how that would be a bad thing. But it's not as if he has awesome processing power at the moment, and I think Derek is going to like coming back to himself in jail for multiple murders and indecent exposure even less - I'm just guessing."
Scott gives a sort of helpless, full-body shrug. Then slumps against one of the cabinets.
"Why does this stuff keep happening to us, seriously? It's not like we go out of our way to invite this stuff. Being a werewolf is hard enough, I'm seriously not prepared for any of this. How are we supposed to prepare for just anything to happen?"
Stiles shakes his head, short noise that's not a laugh, even if it sounds like one, breaking out of his throat.
"We're not, we're teenagers, we shouldn't be dealing with any of this shit. We should be neglecting our homework, getting drunk in the woods, pining over girls and fighting over who broke the XBox controller. Instead we get feral werewolves, witches, possibly psychotic hunters out to cut people in half." Stiles shrugs. "Honestly, you think I deal with any of this, or do you think I just flail my way through it, while trying to get bruised as little as possible. Have a psychotic break later while locked in my own bathroom." He gives another not-laugh.
Scott stares at him in silence for a long handful of seconds.
"I would be so screwed without you, you know that right?" he says, with feeling.
"And yet you left me with Derek," Stiles reminds him.
"He likes you," Scott protests. The 'he doesn't like me,' is kind of assumed there.
"You're a terrible person. You're lucky you're already my best friend." Because Stiles is awesome, and he doesn't abandon his friends.
Scott sighs, and does that stupid smile. The one Stiles is incapable of hating, because it's just that dumb.
"Let me see what you got."
Scott has brought steak, and Derek clearly knows he's brought steak, because he's suddenly upright, and pushing into Stiles's back, with all the clumsy enthusiasm of someone who thinks he's in charge. But doesn't have the words, or the ability to use thumbs, to back it up.
Stiles elbows him.
"Ah - no, the people who understand how packaging works get to eat first."
Scott throws him a dubious look.
"He's still the Alpha, technically, or rather he thinks he is. Even though he's not really doing what he's supposed to," he says awkwardly. "I don't think we get to eat until he's done,"
Stiles laughs and shakes his head.
"Dude, no, that's not happening. I'm starving. Please tell me you brought something that doesn't bleed?"
Scott pulls out a huge bag of chips, and a sandwich, and sets them on the table.
"This is why we're friends," Stiles points out.
Scott has tugged one of the steaks out of its packaging, and is eyeing it with a confused expression. There is absolutely nothing confused about the way Derek is looking at it, and if Stiles wasn't in the way he suspects it would already be half-eaten, along with most of Scott's hand.
"How am I supposed to - umm?" Scott gestures with the meat, in a sort of hilarious wave-y way.
"You could probably just throw it on the floor," Stiles says with a shrug.
"That's kind of disgusting," Scott points out.
"What are you going to do, give him a plate and some cutlery?" Stiles gestures to where Derek's claws have already half ruined the kitchen floor - what was left of the kitchen floor anyway.
Scott sighs, and then tosses it across the kitchen, and then looks completely ashamed of himself.
They both watch with a sort of horrified fascination.
"Y'know," Scott starts. "I've never actually been this freakin' terrified of him, and yet at the same time, I'm not sure I can ever look him in the face again without laughing."
Stiles nods helplessly. "I know right, it's insane."
Derek makes a horrible noise, as if to remind Scott that if he even thinks about trying to get his half-eaten steak back he'll eat him as well. The noise stops when Scott pulls another one out of the bag, turns into that 'hopeful dog,' expression. It makes Stiles snort messy laughter through his nose.
Though when Stiles pulls open the chips and starts eating them, Derek comes close enough to bash against his leg, and then he's doing the whole 'glaring with his mouth open' thing. In a 'hey, what are you eating, and why don't I have some, I should totally have some,' kind of way.
"Oh my God, fine." Stiles snags one chip out of the bag, and holds it out - and really he should have known that was the quickest way to get drool and steak juice all over his hand. Though to be fair Derek doesn't look like he's enjoying it much. Maybe Scott is a freak, for being a werewolf who enjoys delicious, cheese-dusted snacks. Derek leaves them to their cheesy snacks, they leave Derek to the steak, which he seems much happier about. Everyone is happy.
Stiles outlines his plan to put a barrier of mountain ash round the house, which Scott doesn't really protest against, because he's been following Stiles's plans pretty successfully for the past ten years or so. Though Stiles can still tell that he's not entirely convinced.
"Do we know how long until he gets back to normal? Do we know if he can get back to normal? What if his brain was, like, damaged permanently or something?"
Stiles hadn't even thought about the possibility that Derek might just be gone, and this is all that's left. He doesn't want to think about it.
"Of course he can get back to normal, I mean he's still there. He's still Derek."
"I could ask Deaton to check on him."
Stiles is weirdly unhappy with that, though he's not sure why.
"I don't know how Derek would react to Deaton."
"If he stayed outside the barrier?"
"I think I should probably test it first. I feel like we shouldn't be trusting the safety of anyone to my ability to believe in something on the fly. I have the attention span of a happy dog."
"Why not? You did it last time, and it totally worked."
The fact that Scott has faith in him is an awesome thing that Stiles isn't entirely sure he deserves. But he's not going to say it.
"You nearly got killed," Stiles reminds him. "Just so you know, I am against you getting killed, in any way." He sighs. "But, yeah, if you want to tell him what's going on. Just ask him what he thinks, ok?"
They both look at Derek, who's made a bloody mess of the floor, that Stiles will probably have to clean up. He's protecting the last steak out of the bag. But he looks at Stiles, like he's thinking about leaving it for him, which Stiles gets the feeling is kind of a huge deal.
"No, you eat it, I'm good with my delicious cheese, knock yourself out."
Scott shoulders his bag, and Stiles gives him a one-armed hug - which makes Derek growl, low in the back of his throat, like he thinks Scott might try and steal him or something.
"I really wish he'd stop doing that," Scott complains.
"I think he's imprinted on me, like a baby duckling."
Scott huffs laughter against his ear.
"No, dude, I think you're his baby duckling."
Ugh, that sounds so awful, and is also so not true.
"You are a cruel friend," Stiles says, but Scott laughs and hugs him back.
"Are you going to be ok here?"
"Yes, I won't pull out any knives, or make any sudden movements which will get me eaten, I swear. I'll sort out the whole mountain ash circle later, and try and keep him at least round the house. I mean I know this probably isn't the best place to put him, when his head isn't on straight, what with all the pretty horrific memories that might come back. But it's also the only place that's familiar. Also, way out in the middle of nowhere, so the neighbours won't call the cops about the wild, naked man growling on the lawn. Because, yeah, the cops are my dad, and I really do not need my dad to show up and catch me with a naked Derek Hale."
Scott nods like he understands the many, many ways in which that would be bad.
"Text me, like, every couple of hours." Scott doesn't add the 'if you do not text me I will assume you have been murdered,' but it's kind of assumed.
"Ugh, fine."
When Scott's gone Stiles does his best to clean dead cow off Derek, using a wet cloth he found near the sink. Then he uses it to try and clean the floor. Which accomplishes nothing but moving the blood, and soot, and pieces of broken tile and plaster and dust around. He makes a clean spot, and then feels bad about the fact that he's just going to leave it. This house is just one huge tragedy of sadness. No amount of effort could ever make it anything else.
He takes the jar of mountain ash outside, and Derek follows, looking oddly so much more naked outside.
"You realise you're probably breaking some sort of public indecency law," Stiles tells him. "And now I have seen so much more of you than you're probably comfortable with. I feel like I should apologise but, dude, it's like you're not even trying." He walks a circle around the property, to the tree line, so there's enough space that Derek doesn't feel trapped in the house. Derek follows him, making odd noises, which Stiles can't translate, little coughs in his throat. He has no idea whether they mean Derek wants to play, or whether he's afraid Stiles is going to go wandering off into the woods on his own.
When Stiles has finished he very cautiously takes a step over the line, then another. Derek makes to follow him and - stops. He blinks and takes two steps back, and then growls viciously at the empty space between them.
"Ok, ok, I was just testing it." Stiles steps back over the line, throws his arms out to show Derek that he can reach him again.
Derek digs his claws into Stiles's shirt, barely pricking through to the skin, and he pulls him back inside.
"You're such a baby, not wanting to be left on your own," Stiles tells him.
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3//