Lock All The Doors Behind You 2/3

[entangled_now]

Title: Lock All The Doors Behind You 2/3
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.


Derek doesn't sleep, Stiles has to follow him from room to room, bumping into a shitload of things, because he can't see a thing in the dark, unlike some people.

It's exhausting, and he's genuinely worried that Derek will never get tired, and Stiles will just collapse in some random hallway that smells like charred wood. Derek seems intent on leading him around like he's showing him things, all aggressive pushes, holes pricked in his shirt, and bumps from behind, that turn into weird, messy sniffs against his ear.

Though Stiles does eventually fall asleep on the musty old couch, before he thinks to wonder whether it's a good idea or not. With Derek roaming around like a feral wild man -

He wakes up in complete darkness, with a mouth that tastes like death, and not a single clue where Derek is. He wanders back the way they'd come, not actually worried, keeping an eye out for the glow of red in the dark, or the gleam of far too much naked skin. Or the sound of claws on wood. It's like being in a horror movie, only with less screaming.

He eventually finds Derek at the top of the stairs, curled over in a crouch. There's a brittle, stained area of black wood on the floor, and Stiles's stomach rolls a little when he realises exactly what it is. He drifts close to Derek on silent feet, though he knows Derek can hear him. He carefully lays a hand on the curve of his shoulder. Derek doesn't react to it at all. Stiles doesn't know how long he's been there, but his skin is cold. He lets his fingers spread and move up to the back of Derek's neck, squeezes, just a little.

"This really isn't a good place for you, you know that?"

Derek's breathing too heavily, like he's on the edge of something huge and terrifying. Stiles honestly isn't sure whether he should push him over the edge, or draw him back from it. They both feel like awful decisions - but Stiles feels like - it feels like he's protecting Derek to draw him away.

"Derek." Stiles tugs at his arm, but Derek is like a statue of confused misery, immovable. "Come on, you don't want to be here, dude, not when you're missing the ability to compartmentalise." Stiles tugs again, and Derek's body goes loose, he lets Stiles pull him back to his room.

He doesn't settle though, he just prowls the corners, shoulder occasionally bumping into Stiles's knee, until Stiles pats his skin, or scratches his head. Working his way through yawn, after yawn.

Stiles doesn't mean to fall asleep again, at around three in the morning, but he does. This time in the cracked, half-collapsed mess of an old bed.

When he struggles his way out of it, it's already well into morning. Derek's watching him from not very far away at all, chin balanced on the tattered blankets.

Stiles's clothes smell like smoke.

*****

Stiles goes home long enough to shower and change, rumple a few things, so his dad's reassured that he's been there, and isn't dead in the woods somewhere. It doesn't feel like much, but he doesn't want to feel guilty about that right now. He makes promises to himself for later. He'll do better, he'll make more time for his dad, he'll find a way to tell fewer lies, without talking to him less.

But for now - for now he has to deal with Derek.

He texts Scott when he gets out of the shower. Half-formed idea already in the back of his head.

*****

When he gets back to the house, Scott's leaning against a tree, just outside the circle of mountain ash, bag dangling from one hand. There's a low growl coming from the interior of the house. It's an unhappy growl, and Stiles hadn't really thought about the consequences of leaving Derek alone. He couldn't get out of the circle, and it doesn't really matter if he breaks anything in there. But leaving him in the house, by himself, considering what happened there. Stiles hadn't thought about what that could do.

"Even without the line, he wouldn't have let me in without you here," Scott complains.

"He's still the same then?" Stiles tries not to look as disappointed as he feels. "I was kind of hoping spending time in the house would flip that switch in his brain that said 'be a person.'"

Scott sighs and shakes his head, then shrugs.

"Has he been growling the whole time?" Stiles asks.

"He mostly stopped once he heard you coming, this is quiet," Scott says flatly. "I know I complain about ordinary Derek a lot, but, dude, I like this one even less."

"He's lost his mind and he thinks you're a scary werewolf." Stiles pronounces 'scary werewolf' in a way that makes Scott pull a face at him. A 'you are being immature' face. Which is like a pot/kettle thing, so he's not even going to pretend to care. "You should be flattered."

Scott doesn't look flattered. Stiles would have thought he'd be happy about someone thinking he was a scary werewolf.

"I'm sixteen, I don't need my life to be this crazy."

Stiles wants to protest that now Scott knows how it feels. But he can recognise this particular flavour of anger. It comes from frustrated pining.

"Allison still doesn't want to see you, huh?"

Scott glares at him, and then sighs and hands the bag over.

"I'll come back about six."

Stiles isn't sure whether to be angry, or to gape in disbelief. Either way, what the hell?

"Seriously, you're leaving again?"

"I'm meeting Isaac, we're trying to work something out while Derek's...y'know. It's not easy, I'm not actually an Alpha, and I know even less than Derek does. But I think it's helping them. Having someone to sort of be in charge, which, ok, I'm not really good at. But I think it's better than just leaving them on their own to deal with it." Scott shrugs.

"Why do I get Derek duty? Why do I always get Derek duty?" Stiles complains.

Scott shrugs again, helplessly, and then he's just gone. Before Stiles can even sigh dramatically. Werewolves are the worst.

Stiles isn't sure whether Scott's too far away to hear him or not.

"I have a life you know," he shouts anyway. Oh my God though, does he? Does he have a life which doesn't consist of werewolves, and their crazy, crazy problems.

Derek huffs at him as soon as he sees him, like he's utterly betrayed that Stiles was gone for three hours. But the moment he throws himself awkwardly on the couch Derek pins him there, by simply sprawling on top of his legs. He grumbles complaint low in his chest, and there is far too much sniffing for Stiles to be even a little bit comfortable with. There may even be licking, Stiles can't tell because his hair's in the way. It feels like licking.

"You weigh a ton," Stiles tells him, but he pats Derek awkwardly, because he doesn't know if he even understands the whole 'going away and coming back,' thing. Stiles doesn't exactly have a degree in animal psychology, not that Derek is an animal, not really. Shit, this is confusing. Derek's back and his hair is covered in plaster, and Stiles finds himself brushing at it, and picking bits out of Derek's hair. "What on earth were you doing, just rolling on everything? And I was gone for three hours. I do have a life that doesn't involve werewolves and their problems, as I keep trying to tell everyone. But, hey, while I've got you here, I got you something."

When Stiles had told Scott what he wanted, he'd looked at him like he was insane. Which, ok, it had sounded kind of stupid when he explained it, but Stiles has been thinking about this, and it's totally worth a shot. He smacks Derek, until he turns to look at him.

"You're not an animal, you know you're not an animal. I know you're not an animal. So I figure we'll work on that assumption, and just strike out for some middle ground, ok? I don't even care what Scott thinks, this is an awesome idea and you'll appreciate it, when you know how to appreciate things again. Or maybe you won't, maybe you'll just glare at me and growl something about how I don't belong in your business, I don't know. Grumpy you is exceptionally grumpy."

Derek makes what Stiles decides is an agreeable noise into his hoodie, and Stiles pats him on the head for it.

"I know right? It's like you're walking around with a stick up your ass all the time. I understand about the whole tragic history. But you should make friends. We could be friends. We kind of are friends, I think. But I'm doing like ninety five percent of the work. You can't just put all your efforts into life-saving you know. Which, ok, that's awesome, but you can't be socially inept forever. You have to, spread your wings, like a butterfly, say hi occasionally, maybe ask someone out for coffee, make a joke - not a scary one, where it sounds like you're being deadly serious, but a proper one. Also, smiling, you could learn smiling. I saw you fake one, so I know you know how."

Stiles fishes in the bag Scott had given him, and sorts through the blocky, colourful little books. One of them has balloons on the front. He flips it open, all card-thick pages, bright pictures and big text. He half-stands it on his thighs, so it's somewhere in front of Derek's face. If he wants to pay attention to it. Stiles is really hoping he does, since that's the whole point of this.

"John has a red balloon," Stiles reads.

Derek's staring in the general vicinity of the book, and he doesn't try and eat it, which is something - Stiles likes to think it's a good something.

"Look, there's John with his red balloon - I know it looks nothing like a balloon but it's a kid's book - I figure the artist was about six so we have to cut them a little slack. A starving six year old artist. There's literally no way to judge him and not feel guilty."

Stiles remembers that they're supposed to be starting with small words, and he needs to stop rambling.

He flips to the next page.

"Ben has a blue balloon." Stiles points at the blue balloon, in case that helps.

He turns the page again.

"Sam has a yellow balloon - these kids are clearly the life of the party."

Derek keeps moving, restlessly, against his side, and Stiles is force to move sideways, until he's slumped against the arm of the couch, with Derek sprawled heavily over his legs. The book's mostly tilted in front of his face. He seems to be comfortable now though, breath flaring hotly through the denim of Stiles's jeans.

Stiles reads the thrilling story of how the three boys take their balloons out, meet a dog, and gradually lose their balloons in a series of tragic accidents. He doesn't think much of the twist ending.

He looks down to see if any of this is making it through Derek's head. But Derek's eyes are shut, mouth pressed open and messy into Stiles's thigh. He's making quiet, exhausted noises on every breath. And his face is completely human, he'd shifted back at some point, when Stiles wasn't looking. But more importantly, Derek is asleep. Derek is asleep on him.

"You have got to be shitting me?"

Stiles lets the book fall back against his backpack.

He'll try again tomorrow.

*****

He spends Sunday night in his own bed, because he's damned if he wants to spend another night sinking into the gloomy, almost-softness of a broken bed, in a room someone probably died in. No offence to Derek's family, but the house is creepy as hell, and if there ever turns out to be actual, real life ghosts, then that place is going to be full of them. And, yes, he hates the fact that he's actually considering whether ghosts exist, in a deadly serious way. He's genuinely weighing up the possibility of a world where at least fifty percent of all ghost stories are true. Because if ghosts exists then he knows damn well that eventually he'll meet one of them - and it'll probably be evil, because their luck is shit - and just, no, he doesn't want to think about it.

When he gets back to the house he discovers that Derek has made himself some sort of weird nest in the upstairs bedroom, blankets and clothes pulled together into a tangled pile. One of Stiles's shirts has made its way in there too. Which, ok, it's fine, he really didn't want it that much anyway. The pile smells warm, and slightly unpleasant, but at least Derek's sleeping now. That has to be something.

Also, Derek has clearly spent most of the morning rolling around outside, and he's covered in mud and leaves and bits of twig. He's a complete and total disaster of dirt. And after his enthusiastic hello, which involves far too much headbutting - which, ow, seriously - and sniffing - still pretty humiliating - Stiles is almost as bad.

He drags Derek upstairs, and puts the Hale house's shitty water pressure to the test once again. Derek still refuses to put on clothes afterwards, and it's really hard to get a towel round someone with super strength. So Stiles just says, fuck it, and lets him bound around the house dripping wet. It should look more ridiculous. It's completely unfair that Derek only looks, like, ten percent ridiculous.

When he's eighty percent dry, Stiles pins him still, and reads him 'The Thunderstorm That Scared The Mountain.'

He does the sound effects too. He chooses to believe that Derek's impressed.

He stays awake this time at least.

*****

When he gets to the house at ten on Tuesday morning there's a dead animal on the porch. Which says a lot about Derek's current mental state. It's the biggest fucking deer Stiles has ever seen, and its mangled, ripped-apart throat is just as gruesome as he would have expected it to be.

It looks at Stiles with its sad, dead eye.

"Awesome," he says flatly, and lets his bag slide down his arm and hit the floor. "I'm so not up to dealing with this right now."

He leaves it there. If Derek wants it he can eat it outside.

He wanders his way through the house, and he recognises the scatter of the things he left here, poked through and dotted with claw marks. But the house is empty, and Stiles has that brief worry again that Derek has somehow gotten past the line of mountain ash, and gone out into the woods. Maybe gotten himself shot, or mauled a person, or run into traffic. But then Derek's right there when he reaches the kitchen, coming from nowhere and looming into his personal space, skin wet with dew, spotted with bits of grass. He's breathing like he's been running, like he's been chasing, all heaves of muscle and weirdly open expression. Seriously, his whole face is relaxed in a way that almost looks happy. Which shouldn't look so disturbing, but Stiles has genuinely never seen Derek look happy about anything - and then suddenly Derek's so much closer. There's a hot rush of breath, and then wet, biting pressure against Stiles's jaw, and the corner of his mouth, that makes him flail away with the shock of it.

"Wow, ok, that is completely gross. You killed a deer with that mouth."

And the side of his own mouth is now covered in spit. He carefully wipes it off with his sleeve. Derek is still a huge, damp, naked weight that's mostly crushing him into the table. Stiles pushes at Derek's chest, and it's like trying to push rock, until Derek relents with a grunt, and sways backwards.

"Hi, to you as well," Stiles says. "And, oh my God, I'm going to get you into pants today if it kills me, and I mean that literally. There will be pants or there will be blood - hopefully not mine." He wants to glare at Derek so that he knows he's serious. But Derek is - there's no other word for it - Derek is smiling. His mouth is open and stretched at the corners, teeth a flash of white. He looks - he looks so different, Derek has never been this, Derek's face has probably never done this. Which is kind of a shame, because he definitely has the face for it. He has the sort of face that should look this happy all the time.

"That is so wrong," Stiles tells him, but he can't help smiling back. It's the shock of it, probably. He sort of pats him in the general chest area, because he did good. Derek smiling is good. Also, it's weirdly nice for someone to be happy to see him. Not because they want something, just generally happy to see him. "Seriously, though, pants."

Derek follows him up the creaky, half-broken stairs, and into the room Stiles is assuming he's been using. It's charred, and dusty, and one of the walls has a big freakin' hole in.

"You really should renovate you know. Or at least knock the whole thing down and start over. You're just punishing yourself living in it like this. Having Peter around as well, that's like extra bonus creepy points. And honestly, I don't want to know what he's doing while you're on a mental vacation, even though I suspect that in some way I probably should. Because not knowing what Peter is up to is not a comfortable brain space to be in."

There are still sweats on the chair. Stiles gets the feeling he's going to have to send Scott out to buy more if this goes as well as he thinks it will. He picks a pair up and turns around.

Derek's crouched behind him, head low, mouth slightly open, like he's ready to play a game or jump on something. It looks hilarious, and a reckless, mischievous part of Stiles kind of wants to get sidetracked by seeing what he could do with that.

"No, no games, pants - we can maybe play later, if you put the pants on."

Stiles throws the sweats over his shoulder, and catches Derek by the arms, encouraging him upright.

"There we go, now sit in the chair." He pushes him helpfully. He doesn't think sitting is a natural movement for Derek at the moment, but he seems willing to do what he's told to see what comes next.

Stiles drops to his knees and tugs Derek's feet over.

"Oh my God, your feet are a mess, what have you been running through?"

Stiles wrangles both of them into the sweats, and then pins them still with his hands, so Derek can't twist straight out of them.

"No, behave. We're wearing pants today. Everyone will be very impressed. They will be in awe of my powers."

He pins Derek's legs still with an elbow while he tugs them up to knee level - and Derek's already trying to squirm his way out of them, with an irritated sort of noise.

"Hey, no," Stiles's snaps, and Derek's legs go still, enough that he feels confident in flailing upright and pulling Derek with him. Then Stiles is tugging the waist up awkwardly with one hand, while Derek tries to wriggle free. It's a little - oh my God, Stiles is so glad that Derek is never, ever going to remember this. But Derek ends up with his waistband mostly where it's supposed to be, for the first time in four days.

Stiles is pretty damn impressed with himself.

"Congratulations, you have graduated to pants."

Derek doesn't look as happy as Stiles thinks he should be, having not grasped the achievement here.

"Please keep them on, it's not that you aren't a fabulous specimen of manliness, because you are, you're an amazing specimen of manliness. But there should be an element of mystery."

Derek's doing the lip curling thing, pushing at the grey material with the heel of his palm. Stiles catches his hands and squeezes them, and Derek lets him keep them with an odd sort of look on his face. So, yes, they need a distraction, they need a distraction right now.

"Hey, we can have book time now, you like book time."

Stiles pulls him into the living room, and it's clear Derek does not enjoy the whole 'walking in pants,' experience. Stiles digs behind the sofa cushion and finds the collection of books. He pulls up the little green one he picked yesterday.

Derek sniffs the book, and then immediately claims his position sprawled over Stiles's lap

The story of Bamber the Mouse, who ate everything, until he almost burst, is less impressive than the balloon story, or the story about the thunderstorm that scared the mountain. Derek falls asleep half way through again. Stiles sighs and lets the book fall, and drops a hand into Derek's stupid hair.

"This would be a lot easier if you showed some sort of sign that you were getting it. I'm not asking for words. I'm just - dude, at the minute I'm getting the feeling you're just associating the couch with nap time. It's not that I don't appreciate nap time, I'm lazy and your shoulder makes an awesome PSP rest, but seriously. You're going to have to work with me here."

He lets his head thunk back against the arm of the couch, and absently scratches his fingernails across Derek's scalp.

-

Three hours later there are a pair of sweats tangled around one of the table legs in the kitchen.

"God damn it!" Stiles says, narrowly avoiding spraying bits of sandwich everywhere.

"What?" Scott asks almost-panicked, around his own sandwich. He'd brought them with him, as an apology for abandoning Stiles to play temporary Alpha.

"Is it so hard to just wear the pants?" Stiles snaps.

Scott considers the angrily scrunched ball of grey fabric.

"At least you're trying, I guess. I mean eventually he'll be in a pants-wearing mood again. He'll probably be grateful that you at least attempted to preserve his dignity."

Stiles barks laughter, because that's the funniest thing he's heard all day.

"You haven't been here, trust me, there is no dignity. Dignity has left this place, and there's only embarrassment, humiliation and confusion in its place. Be glad you're out there with your temporary ducklings, and I'm the one in here trying to teach Derek about pants, and trying not to get slapped in the face by - oh my God, we're not talking about that. How is it then, being a temporary Alpha?"

Scott looks at him, like he doesn't know whether to deal with the first part of that speech, or the last.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," Scott confesses at last. "It's kind of terrifying."

"Join the club," Stiles moans.

"Erica doesn't take me seriously, Boyd doesn't really say anything, Jackson's being a dick, and Peter keeps looking at me."

Stiles really only gets one thing from that sentence.

"Peter's back?"

"Yeah," Scott says miserably. "With the looking, and I don't want him there, but I can't do anything about it."

"I haven't seen him," Stiles says, because that's what you expect of Peter. You expect him to be lurking around. In much the same way as Derek. Only Derek's lurking has a sort of creepy-protective vibe to it sometimes. Whereas Peter's lurking has more of a creepy, sexual assault and crazy, vibe, all the time.

Scott shifts uncomfortably.

"Dude, Derek doesn't want us here. You have no idea what that threat-growling thing does when you're a werewolf. It goes all the way through you, makes all your insides stand on end." He shudders. "Erica, Isaac and Boyd want to come, because Derek's still the Alpha, they can still feel him. Only he's not really up to being one at the moment. I don't think he even knows they're his pack. I'm trying, but it's really...it's really hard."

He checks the time on his phone.

"I should go, I - it's easier when they're not on their own for too long."

Stiles waves a hand.

"It's fine, Derek's been acting weird today anyway, fidgety and restless, and also hugely enthusiastic. He totally bit me on the face to say hello this morning." Stiles resist the urge to wipe at it again with a sleeve, on reflex, though he's glad he resisted the urge, because his sleeve is almost certainly now dirtier than his face.

When he looks up Scott looks horrified, and Stiles is forced to reassure him.

"Not like proper biting, not scary, werewolf biting, there was no blood, mostly drool, ok, like, ninety percent drool and ten percent teeth. It was really nothing."

Scott's still looking horrified, like that explanation really didn't help at all.

"What? No, seriously I'll be fine. Go."

"No, I think I should definitely stay," Scott says, and he's doing the genuinely alarmed face now, that never means anything good.

"What? What is it?"

"The face biting thing - not really a food thing," Scott admits.

"Bad thing?" Stiles asks, and Scott's wearing that constipated look he gets, when he honestly doesn't know how to answer a question. Because all the answers will get him in trouble.

"I may have accidentally done that to Allison, once or twice."

"Oh my God, it is a bad thing," Stiles says slowly.

"Not bad just..." Scott stops, does an awkward little face scrunch, and then flounders.

Stiles gestures with a hand.

"No, please, finish that sentence. I would love to know how it ends."

"He's just being friendly, really friendly. He's not thinking like Derek, he's confused, he's -"

"He's making overtures of a sexual nature isn't he?" Stiles says, because he might as well pull Scott out of the hole, before he gets to the bottom. It's what he does.

"I think - maybe, a little bit." Scott winces.

There shouldn't be any wincing involved, wincing does not fill Stiles with confidence.

"It's not aggressive," Scott adds. "At least now you know he doesn't want to eat you."

Stiles glares at him.

"Not in a - not like you're food. There won't be any eating of your limbs...or any of your internal organs -"

"Oh my God, stop talking," Stiles says, because he's just making it worse now.

In the end Scott leaves, because Allison texts him, and tells him she wants to talk, and clearly the chance to see Allison is more important than Stiles's virtue. Stiles is fairly sure that Allison just wants to see if they can be friends. She clearly wants to have the friends conversation. But he doesn't want to kick Scott when he has that hopeful look on his face. That's just a special sort of cruel.

Derek doesn't do anything remotely threatening. He falls asleep in his creepy nest, possibly exhausted after a day of deer hunting, and children's stories.

*****

Isaac and Erica visit on Wednesday.

Well, ok, Stiles says visit. But he only knows something's up when Derek spends most of the morning prowling from back door to front, giving disagreeable little chuffs. Stiles knows it's not Scott, because he's already familiar with the way Derek reacts to Scott. Though it's not like he can ask Derek what's up. 'What is it Lassie, who's out there?' So he just keeps a wary eye on the woods.

Isaac and Erica show up by the road, just before lunch, looking awkward and uncertain. Derek growls at them, but it's more of a brief, perfunctory growl, which turns into a thick little noise of complaint, when Stiles just wanders out of the house, and past the line of ash to greet them.

Derek's wearing pants today, so far. He's still in something of a Schroedinger's pants stage. Meaning when Stiles isn't looking there's a fifty-fifty chance whether Derek's wearing them or not. They haven't exactly been preparing for visitors. If he'd known he might have tried for underwear too. He would almost definitely have tried to wash the bits of dead rabbit off Derek's neck.

Erica doesn't look at Stiles when she shuffles closer to the house, her eyes are fixed where Derek's prowling the edge of the line behind him. There's a wavering noise in his throat now, like he's not sure whether he wants to growl at them or not.

Isaac looks nervous, but hopeful.

"Scott didn't think it was a good idea yet," he says quietly. "But we just wanted to see him. We wanted - it was kind of bad the other day, and Scott said you were helping him so...." He does look behind Stiles then, and Isaac's face is expressive enough that Stiles can tell he's not sure whether to be disappointed or not. It's clear he wanted some sort of obvious improvement. Though, considering the last time they saw Derek he was naked, dirty and trying to maul them, Stiles thinks this is pretty good.

"Yeah, I really have no idea, but I'm trying my best," Stiles admits, he gestures towards Derek and then shrugs. "Deaton told Scott that our best chance right now was just to wait and see if Derek's brain healed on its own."

"And if it doesn't?" Erica says, from where she's crept in behind him.

Stiles looks at her, and the way she says it - Stiles had known that they missed Derek. It was to be expected, they were his pack, Derek had made them. But Stiles had never really felt it before. He can feel it now. The way they want to go over to him. The way they still want Derek to tell them what to do. Even though he's in no condition to do that right now.

"He said something about encouraging it, but judging by the way Scott said it I'm guessing I don't even want to know, that I am so much happier not knowing. Unless absolutely necessary." Absolutely necessary would be 'never' if Stiles had his way.

Derek's crouched just behind the line now, frowning, and there's something human about the expression. Something frustrated.

"Ok, I know this is going to sound insane, and possibly ever-so-slightly creepy, but you need to hug me," Stiles says simply.

Isaac's face scrunches.

"What?"

"He doesn't remember people, exactly, but I think he knows what smells familiar. He calmed down around Scott once he smelled like me, and I smelled like him. So, it's kind of working, you have to get him used to new things gently, just do it."

Isaac shrugs, leans in and wraps his arms around Stiles. He's tall, and it's awkward and kind of weird. Because Stiles doesn't really know Isaac that well, and Isaac doesn't really seem to know how to hug. Erica sighs, and reluctantly plasters herself to Stiles when Isaac pulls away. She hugs him hard, it's like a firm, manly hug that steals his breath for half a second. He's crushed somewhere between breasts and hair, and she smells kind of amazing. Derek's growl goes extra crispy for the Erica hug.

They both watch as Stiles walks back over the line, to stand next to Derek. Derek huffs, like he's offended Stiles would even want to go over there and make himself smell like them. Then he hauls Stiles close, and does his grumbling complaint mostly into Stiles's ear while trying to drape himself over him like a cape, a very heavy cape.

"See, Isaac and Erica are fine, we know them. You made them."

Derek's not baring his teeth at them any more, which is something.

"If I break the circle you can probably come over, only if he starts making the threat noise -"

"We know," Erica says before he can finish. She snorts. "Trust me, we'll know if we need to get the fuck out of there."

"He attacked us before," Isaac says, and there's a little stiffness, and a lot of hurt there. Stiles feels for him, he does.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he was out of his mind at the time. He's - well I'm not going to say 'better' because he's clearly not. But he's not as bad as he was."

"He's clean," Erica points out. "And he's wearing clothes. That's definitely better."

Stiles flails a little with his hands, in a way that he thinks is supposed to convey that the art of getting someone dressed was more difficult to master than he expected. Or possibly it's just vague flailing that means nothing.

"We're still working on the clothes. He doesn't understand them yet, and he objects to them with extreme menace. So don't be surprised at some point if he's - er - not wearing clothes any more. Oh, and everything in the circle is kind of his, so just be aware of that. In fact, it's probably easiest if you just treat him like a big, vicious dog."

Erica looks pissed about that.

Stiles holds his hands up.

"Oh, believe me, I know exactly how that sounds. But he nearly took a chuck out of Scott's arm when he startled him the other day, and he's actually almost used to Scott. I know you can heal, but this is Derek, and you know how much damage he can do when he's actually in control of himself.

"Yeah, we do," Erica says quietly. "Do you?"

Stiles ignores that, and cautiously opens the circle.

Derek gives an unimpressed snort, and then shoves Stiles towards the house.

Stiles, Erica and Isaac sit on the crumbling porch, drinking the sodas Scott has been half filling the kitchen with. They're warm, because there's no refrigerator, and no power. Stiles is going to complain about that at some point, when Derek's capable of doing something about it. Derek leans against Stiles, shoulders flexing, occasionally he makes grumbling noises in Isaac and Erica's direction. But he doesn't try and bite anyone. Stiles is putting this firmly in the 'excellent progress' column.

Isaac's fiddling with something on the stairs, and it takes a second for Stiles to recognise what it is, to take in the blocky pages, and the colourful little boy waving on the front.

"The Thunderstorm that Scared the Mountain?" Isaac reads, his eyebrow goes up in surprise, but the corner of his mouth is twitching too.

Stiles honestly isn't sure whether to feel embarrassed about that or not. It hadn't really mattered when Scott knew, but Isaac and Erica are different.

"He likes that one, he made me read it twice," he says defensively.

Erica's laughing.

"I had that book as a kid."

They flip open the book, and read it in silence together, while Stiles drinks warm soda and suffers through Derek's sweaty wriggling against his shoulder. It doesn't take very long for them to finish turning the pages.

"You got him kid's books, seriously?" Erica still sounds more amused than anything else.

Stiles shrugs.

"I was hoping he'd remember what words were."

"Is it working?" Erica passes the book back, and Stiles takes it from her.

"I don't know, I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm surprised he hasn't eaten me yet."

"You really don't know do you?" Erica laughs. "If you had any senses at all -"

"Erica." Isaac's voice is suddenly tense.

"What?" She shrugs.

"I'm pretty sure that wouldn't help right now," Isaac says quietly.

She looks at Stiles, in a way that he thinks is supposed to mean something - possibly not something complimentary.

"Ugh, you're probably right."

"Hey, thanks for inviting me to this conversation I don't get to be a part of," Stiles complains, and his jostling dislodges Derek, who doesn't seem to care, he just makes himself comfortable on Stiles's folded knee.

*****

Friday is too hot to stay indoors.

Derek is restless and playful, and Stiles isn't entirely sure that he always remembers Stiles isn't as strong as him. He's trying to avoid any awkward moments where he's broken accidentally. But it's hard to occupy a two hundred pound werewolf, who wants to playfully hunt things down, and pounce on people.

So Stiles says, fuck it, and breaks the line of mountain ash, watches him disappear into the woods, and hopes to hell that Derek doesn't do anything stupid.

It turns out he shouldn't have worried, because Derek keeps reappearing every five minutes. As if he can't understand why Stiles doesn't want to come with him.

Stiles falls asleep in the sun, without really meaning to.

When he wakes up there's a dead rabbit staring at him from two inches away.

"Oh my God, I hate you."

*****

He puts the circle back up overnight, since he doesn't want Derek following him home, and he thinks there's probably a good chance that he would do exactly that. Stiles isn't going to put his dad in danger like that, and anyway there's really no way he can explain it all to him, not without the whole waterfall of werewolves, and kanimas, and Peter Hale coming out with it. So, no, Derek gets to overnight at his fabulous, crumbling, burnt-out mansion. Which he's clearly fine with. It's not like he had taste before he turned into the poster boy for 'actually raised by wolves.'

But Stiles takes it down again the next day, because Derek proved that he wasn't willing to go too far. Maybe Stiles has sort of accidentally established that everything inside the circle is his territory, and everything outside is, he doesn't even know, hunting grounds? The rest of the world? Here, there be dragons?

Also, Scott and Erica and Isaac can come as they please this way. Which is good for Derek, company is good for him, company which he seems less inclined to eat as the days go by. What's the opposite of aversion therapy, he can't remember? That's what they're doing, don't eat people, get treats.

Stiles is on the couch, eating chips, when Derek bashes into his shoulder like he wants his attention.

"Hey, dude, what's up?" He turns his head to look at him, bag of chips crushed against his chest by a lazy forearm.

Derek's brought him 'The Boy Who Lost A Shoe.' He drops it on Stiles's chest, pushes down on it, hard enough for Stiles to make a surprised, wheezy noise.

Stiles stares at the book. As far as he can remember this is the first time Derek has actually picked something up, like he remembered how hands worked, and brought it to him.

He dusts cheese dust off his fingers.

"Come on then."

Derek slumps his huge frame over Stiles's legs, arm hanging off the edge, knee jammed into the back of the couch. He doesn't look comfortable at all, but he seems happy enough.

The book's about a boy who loses one of his shoes, and then wanders the animal kingdom trying on all their shoes instead. None of them fit, obviously. Stiles honestly can't tell if Derek appreciates the story or not, he mostly stares at him without blinking, though he does snort messily at Stiles's tiger noise. Which he tries not to be insulted by. Because Stiles isn't built for menacing noises. But he thinks he's doing a pretty badass job anyway.

"Shut up, my tiger roar is awesome."

When he gets to the end of the book he lets it fall shut on his chest.

"And let that be a lesson to you, not to steal shoes from animals. they don't appreciate it. Also, animal feet render the whole thing an exercise in frustration."

There's a creak of floorboards, and Stiles looks up, startled, because Derek hasn't moved. Scott's giving them both a weird look from inside the doorway, and ok, fine, the way Derek's sprawled on top of him might be considered...might be considered something. If he wasn't currently a huge puppy.

"Er, this isn't what it looks like," Stiles says. Because that's literally the first thing that comes into his head.

"I don't even know what this looks like," Scott says, though judging by his disturbed expression, he's currently thinking about what it looks like.

"Hey, I push him off and he just comes back, what do you want me to do, hit him with a rolled up newspaper - would that actually work? Do you think? Do you have a rolled up newspaper?"

"I'm a little humiliated for him right now," Scott admits.

"Why?" Stiles gestures expansively. "Look he's wearing pants and everything. Which was not easy, believe me."

"You domesticated him," Scott hisses, like it's a dirty word. Which is kind of hilarious. "Do you have any idea how terrifying that is?"

"He's house-trained too."

Scott's face spasms, and that genuinely looks like it hurts, until it settles into something that's all horror and morbid curiousity.

"Don't ask me," Stiles says, before he can even open his mouth. "Seriously, just never ask me about that, ever."

"How is this not weird for you?" Scott demands. "I mean you've always been good at dealing with things, even when you're freaking out. But this is - this is pretty crazy even for us. And it's Derek."

"You think this isn't weird for me?" Stiles stares at him. "Dude, this is so weird. This is many kinds of weird, and uncomfortable and occasionally humiliating. It is all of those things. But we kind of owe Derek. And, though I'm pretty sure he's going to be super-mad when someone tells him about this later. I'm just glad he's not wherever he was getting knives shoved into him any more. I can cope with a few dead rabbits, and the occasional invasion of personal space. Even if Derek does weigh a ton. An actual ton, I swear."

Scott makes a noise.

"Umm, you do realise you're -."

Stiles rolls his head on the arm of the couch, and frowns over at him.

"What?"

Scott gestures at where Stiles's fingers are still moving in Derek's hair. He hadn't even noticed.

"Oh, right."

He pointedly lifts his hand out of the depths of it. There's a pause, and then Derek grunts, and tries to get it back again. Stiles relents with an irritated noise.

"Oh my God," Scott says, like he can't believe the pair of them. "My mistake, he's apparently domesticated you."

Stiles flips him off. Which just makes Scott laugh. But then something occurs to Stiles.

"Hey, he didn't freak out when you showed up, he must have heard you. But apparently you got a free pass today."

Scott shrugs.

"Maybe he just doesn't care any more, maybe I'm not interesting enough to eat."

Stiles moves his legs as well as he can around Derek's huge, immovable weight, until there's more space in the middle of the couch. "Dude, come over here."

Scott looks at him like he's just asked him to eat razor blades. Which, no, Stiles really shouldn't laugh at that, it's cruel.

"Come on." He waves again, more aggressively, until it almost looks like flailing.

"Are you sure?"

"He didn't even huff at you when you sat down."

Scott looks warily at Derek's stretched body.

"I will grab him if he moves, I swear," Stiles promises.

Derek watches Scott the whole way. Until he sits down by Stiles elbow. Then Derek turns his back on him, and ignores him completely.

Stiles can't help the grin, or the little punch in the arm.

"See, he's adopted you too!"

"Am I accidentally in his pack again?" Scott says, in a half annoyed and half defeated sort of way.

"To be fair he's probably not expecting much of you this time. Maybe a steak every once in a while, belly rubs, you could bond over 'The Boy Who Lost A Shoe.'"

Scott glares at him.

"I'm not rubbing anything," he says loudly, and it turns out that 'scandalised' is his best facial expression ever.

"He likes it, you know. I found it out completely by accident. It's like a superpower. Especially if you want him to drop something." It had been kind of awesome finding that out. Scott should be way more impressed than he looks right now.

"Oh my God, I don't need to know this." Scott actually half-lifts his hands, like he's going to put his fingers in his ears. Which is hilarious.

*****

Sunday evening brings the person Stiles least wants to see to the house.

He knows someone's there ten minutes before they show up. There's just no sneaking up to the property now. Derek's crouched on the porch, as soon as the sun goes down, making noises like he wants to kill something, and Stiles leaves his sandwich on the kitchen table, and heads out there, stands in the dark, hands shaking a little. Because he doesn't want to meet anyone Derek would make that noise for.

Until Stiles sees Peter, and then he's just angry.

Peter Hale is standing on the edge of the circle, boots almost touching it, and he's dressed up, in a way that no one is when they take a night-time stroll through the woods.

"What do you want?" There's no way he can come past the line, no way. But Stiles can't help glancing down anyway.

Derek has learnt that he can't go past it, but he doesn't seem sure whether Peter can or not. The growl he throws in his direction is ragged, low, and intense.

"Interesting," Peter says. "There's something to be said for the cold, hard honesty of the completely feral."

Derek stretches and tenses in his direction, as if he doesn't like Peter's voice, and is more than prepared to make it stop, savagely and enthusiastically, if only he comes close enough.

"He's not completely feral," Stiles protests, hand dropping instinctively to touch Derek's shoulder.

Derek makes a low, grating, threat noise which does its best to prove him wrong.

"You shouldn't be surprised he's pissed. You killed his sister, and then tried to kill all of us."

Peter smiles, all teeth and amusement, and that makes Stiles want to punch him in the face, so badly.

"Oh, I have no doubt there's a great deal of repressed rage and violence in there for me. But mostly he's growling at me because I frighten you," Peter says, and his eyes drift briefly from Derek to Stiles.

Derek's growl goes cracked, and Stiles really doesn't like the way Peter's looking at him. He does his best to shove Derek behind him, and the growl cuts off, surprised almost, before starting again, deeper and harder.

Peter's eyebrows both go up.

"This is very interesting." His head tips slowly to the side. "But I shouldn't be so surprised."

Stiles ignores that, because it's clear Peter wants him to ask.

"Do you have anything useful to offer? Do you know what could have happened to him?"

Peter drops the sinister smile, brow furrowing like he's thinking about it.

"I'm not sure, severe head trauma, torture, we can heal almost anything but very occasionally we heal...wrong. Sometimes we don't want to heal at all." He stops talking, mouth going thin. "And on that note I think I shall go, before he loses patience, and tries to get through the line and disembowel me, whether you approve or not. We wouldn't want him to hurt himself."

Stiles wishes, just for a second, that the line wasn't there.

Peter throws them both one last amused look, like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking, and then disappears into the trees.

Stiles stays there all night to make sure he doesn't come back. Derek sits by the door until morning, unsettled and tense, he refuses to be quiet.

*****

Monday is hot again. The pack has drifted into Derek's territory, more through a genuine desire to see him, Stiles thinks, than any sort of plan. Even Jackson is wandering around grumpily in the distance. Pretending that being a werewolf is impossibly tedious. Because Jackson can't be happy about anything. Boyd is drifting quietly somewhere, like he does. Stiles thinks people underestimate Boyd's ability to be stealthy, it's probably better than Derek's. Peter isn't here though, Stiles is neither surprised nor unhappy about that. He thinks - going by the way Derek had reacted to him at the weekend - he'd get his face bitten off if he showed up.

"You're lucky it's Summer vacation, or I'd have to go to school, you do know that?" Stiles tells the huge shape slumped over his feet. Derek grumbles complaint when he twitches one of them. But his toes are going to sleep, people underestimate how heavy Derek is, he's all muscle, and seventy percent of that muscle is on top of Stiles's shins.

"You do realise he probably can't understand a word you're saying," Isaac says, as if he thinks he's being helpful, or that Stiles didn't know that already.

Isaac and Erica are sprawled out next to him. Erica's foot is actually touching Derek, which Stiles thinks is probably progress.

"Hey, he likes story time, so he knows what words are at the very least. We're working our way up from 'knowing what words are,' to 'making them ourself.'" Stiles likes talking to him anyway. He likes the way Derek looks at him like he's paying attention, whether he understands the words or not. He likes the way there are little snorty noises, and grumbles, that may not be coherent answers, but make him feel like he's having a conversation anyway.

"And how's that going?" Isaac asks.

"There are no words as yet, it's a slow process. Did I not mention the pants before?" Stiles gestures with one, sweeping arm movement, towards Derek's huge, slumped shape, which is indeed wearing pants. There are pants in the equation. "Does no one appreciate what a huge step the pants were?"

"I'm genuinely sad that you didn't tape the whole thing," Erica says, and she looks genuinely sad too. But Stiles doesn't think Erica should have video evidence of anything. She's crafty and knows her way around a computer. There's no way that could end well.

"No, no we do not need video evidence of that. But he's going to need pants when he comes back. I'm doing a public service."

"I don't know," Erica says. "I'm kind of not missing Derek's training regime."

"Isn't Scott doing the whole substitute Alpha thing?" Stiles flings an arm towards where Scott is, like he's throwing a dart.

Isaac judges how far away Scott is, and how distracted he is.

"Scott thinks his regime is tough," he says quietly. "We're not going to tell him otherwise."

"He's a puppy," Erica agrees.

Stiles spends the next few minutes sniggering at the thought of it, and trying to stop his left foot from falling sleep in Derek's armpit.

"It's been more than a week," Erica says suddenly. "Scott told us what Deaton said, that if he wasn't back, then there were things he could try."

"Yeah, he made those things sound like they were more of the kill-or-cure variety, and I'm pretty sure Derek's been tortured enough already," Stiles says stiffly.

"Stiles, we need him -"

"Just give me more time. He's getting better, there's more of him than there was before." He slithers his feet free, and Derek grumbles like Stiles moved on purpose, sliding across the grass to find a damp patch of shade next to Isaac. Stiles groans annoyance, and flails an arm in Isaac's direction. "Don't let him roll in the mud. I do not want to give him another bath."

Isaac raises an eyebrow.

Erica bursts out laughing.

Stiles winces.

"Yes, I am aware of how that sounds. But I think he does it on purpose, he keeps rolling in things. I think he likes the whole shampooing thing - Oh my God, please do not tell him I said that when he's sane again." Stiles looks over to where Scott and Jackson are having an argument over - he doesn't even know, but probably not the same thing they started arguing about two hours ago. Stiles isn't going to pretend he has werewolf hearing. It's all fractured words and noise to him. He thinks this is probably what Derek feels like watching them now. All noise and movement and smells. Derek's still lazing in the grass, half asleep, or possibly pretending to be asleep and actually stealthily aware of everything. Stiles isn't entirely sure. But he stands and brushes grass off his jeans, wanders over to Scott. If nothing else he can provide arguing power. Jackson tends to get bitchy and wander off if people gang up on him.

Scott's arguing face is a weird combination of angry, helpless and stubborn expressions. Which sometimes makes him look stupid as hell, but he wins a surprising number of arguments that way, so maybe it's a superpower that kind of works for him. He doesn't win arguments with Stiles, because Stiles is immune to Scott's faces, all of his faces - most of his faces. Everything except the really sad ones, that make him look like a confused puppy. Which are weirdly less effective now he is an actual puppy. He has no idea how that works.

"Hey," Stiles says, when he's close enough to catch all of the words. "What's going on?"

"Scott thinks we should tell Argent about Derek," Jackson says, like he already knows what Stiles's reaction is going to be.

"Excuse me?" Stiles turns on Scott. "You can't be serious."

Scott glares at Jackson, and Stiles tries not to think about how Scott might have done it anyway, without even telling him. He can't think that, because he'd be too mad for words if he thought that was true. Jackson just lifts his eyebrows at Scott, as if to say 'yeah, you're all on your own explaining your way out of this one.'

"I know you're trying, Stiles, I do. But he's an Alpha and he's out of control. I'm not going to let Mr Argent do anything to him. I just want to let him know what's going on." The explanation is hurried out, like Scott already knows how mad Stiles was going to be about the idea.

"Are you serious? Do you hear yourself? You're not going to let him do anything?"

"I'm trying to protect people," Scott protests, and no one should pout like that when you're effectively talking about turning over sensitive information to a guy who's only one bad day away from wanting them all dead.

"No, you're trying to score points with Allison."

Scott's whole face creases up in angry denial.

"That's not fair."

"No, it is, it's completely fair." Stiles tries to pull back some of that anger, because it's not helping. "Look, I know you fucking hate not being around her, I do. I know you just want to fix it all, and you think this is like a bridge of something. A sharing bridge or something. I get that. But you're not just fucking Derek over here. It's all of us. I mean, my God, me and Jackson agree on something. It's like the end of the world."

"Maybe you're trying to grab power, Scott," Jackson says over Stiles's shoulder. "Maybe you're enjoying yourself, and you want to play Alpha for a little longer."

Stiles throws his hands up.

"Ok, I'm rethinking my earlier opinion, where I thought Jackson was right. Now I just think he's an idiot."

Jackson turns around and thumps him. He doesn't do it that hard, for a werewolf, it's a brief, smarting vibration through Stiles's shoulder.

But suddenly there's a huge, pale shape just filling the space between them, noise like something's tearing in two. Stiles can't even process it, it happens that fast. Jackson's on the ground, and Derek's teeth just punch down through his shoulder, almost too fast to see, and there's a grisly wet burst of blood, and the sharp crack of bone.

Stiles goes cold all over.

"Derek, fuck, Derek, stop, stop, stop." Stiles's hysterical yelling makes everyone freeze. Derek stops trying to chew his way through Jackson's shoulder, and gives a low, wet snarl.

"Drop," Stiles says, because he doesn't know what the fuck else to say. He's shaking, and that's a mess of anger, and fear, and cold disbelief.

Red eyes roll towards him, and then Derek's jaws unlock with a crack, stretch open. Blood runs from his open mouth, and Stiles swallows reflexively, and then regrets it.

Jackson gives a shaken, gutted noise of pain, but doesn't try and move. Everyone else has gone impossibly still. Stiles thinks the whole lot of them probably smell like a circle of fear.

"Jackson, are you ok?" Stiles's voice is half the volume he means it to be.

Jackson's swearing, teeth clenched and bright with his own blood.

"No, I am not fucking ok -" he stops talking when Derek twists his head and snarls at him.

"Oh my God, fuck, you're going to be ok, he's going to be ok, right? Stiles asks, though he's not sure who he's asking. He stumbles close enough to lay his hands on Derek's skin, where it's bare and hot, and jumping with every breath.

Erica looks at Stiles like he's insane, like she's thinking about lurching forward and trying to drag him away, no one else even breathes.

"Come on, get off him," Stiles says cautiously. Not entirely sure if he'll do as he's told. But Derek stretches back into his grip, skin sliding through his hands. Stiles pushes him in the direction of the house. But he doesn't move, he doesn't even turn. His eyes are still flicking between Stiles and the half-circle that makes up the rest of the pack.

"Stiles, he's not going to go without you," Scott says eventually, slow like he's only just realised it himself, and Stiles thinks, fuck. He loops a hand round Derek's wrist and pulls, and when they get close enough to the house he forces him to sit on the broken porch.

Erica and Scott are helping Jackson sit up. He's shock-pale, spattered with droplets and lines of blood, and his arm is hanging at a sickening, horrible angle. It's one of the worse things Stiles has ever seen, and it makes him want to throw up. He knows that Jackson's a werewolf, and he can heal it all. But Derek's an Alpha, so it's going to take time.

Derek whines quiet, angry confusion.

"Don't even talk to me right now," Stiles says flatly.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3