Lock All The Doors Behind You 3/3
Title: Lock All The Doors Behind You 3/3
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.
Stiles sits on the couch and fumes, while they help Jackson to Derek's car. Erica's driving the Camaro until Derek wants it back, or until he's capable of driving again. He's not sure how they decided that, maybe they rock-paper-scissored for it or something?
Stiles ignores Derek, pointedly and obviously, in a way even Derek has to notice. He's angry, and he wants him to know it. Judging by the way he won't stop quietly whining in his throat, and putting his nose on Stiles's shoulder, he's getting the point across. When Derek brings him a book, and pushes it into his armpit Stiles rolls over and stares at the back of the couch. Until Derek slinks off, and sinks into a crouch by the door, staring out at the rain.
Scott comes in cautiously, warily treading the floorboards. But Derek doesn't so much as look at him. So he shoves Stiles's foot out of the way and sits on the couch next to him.
"He was protecting you, you know that right?"
Which is bullshit, because five minutes ago Scott wants Derek's balls in a vice, and now suddenly he's defending him?
Stiles sighs and throws himself onto his back.
"He nearly ripped Jackson's arm off. Jesus. I forgot how - I forgot how scary he was when he's doing his thing."
He rubs a hand over his face, and his forehead is still sweaty-damp. He hates how he's still shaking a little bit, stupid with adrenaline, because he knows better. He knows what Derek's capable of. He never forgot, he just didn't think about it, and maybe he should have been thinking about it.
"He's getting better," Stiles says weakly. "He looks confused sometimes, in the way that people do, you know?"
Scott nods. "Yeah, I mean, I can see."
They both look at Derek, who's not exactly the poster boy for progress at the moment. He's still in the doorway, quietly growling at the outside world, mouth, chin and throat streaked bloody. He looks savage.
"Jackson is a lot to throw at a person," Scott offers tentatively. "We forget sometimes, because we've known him forever but he can be -"
"An asshole?" Stiles says.
"I was going to say confusing, but yeah, that works too."
"I don't know what happened to him -" Stiles stops. "But I'm pretty sure it was bad, like awful levels of badness."
"Are you ok to stay here with him?" Scott asks, and pointedly tips his head towards Derek. Stiles can't help but frown at that. The whole thing with Jackson may have been brutal and kind of terrifying, but Derek has never hurt him, has never even tried to, or even done it accidentally.
"Yeah, I'll be fine, and I don't think I should leave him by himself right now. I'll text my dad and tell him I'm staying with you. Honestly, what's one more lie at this point."
Scott looks like he wants to hug him, and sure they do that sometimes, but it's not really a thing. He might have done it as well, but his eyes cut sideways to Derek, and he seems to think better of it. What with Derek making a habit of viciously savaging people today. And Stiles can be pissed at him for that too.
"I'll be back tomorrow, are you going to do the mountain ash after I'm gone?"
Stiles can hear the 'tell me you're going to do that, or I'm going to feel bad about leaving,' which Scott doesn't say.
He nods. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."
"Just be careful." Scott's all frown and worry, and Stiles feels bad, again, about not worrying more about what Scott has going on right now. He should have asked more, he should have let him vent more. Scott doesn't deal well with being thrown into things. But he's trying, Stiles can see that he's trying. He's doing the responsible thing, and if Erica, Boyd and Isaac are any indication he's doing ok. But nothing's happening at the moment, no rogue werewolves, no magical threats, or mythological monsters.
Scott shoulders his bag, and heads out across the creaky floorboards, and Stiles knows that they can't keep Derek here forever. This can't go on indefinitely.
Derek creeps over to the edge of the couch, when Scott's too far away to hear any more. He rests his face against the edge of Stiles's. Stiles can feel the rasp of stubble, and the flare of breath against his skin.
"No, you're not forgiven - and stop licking me that's not helping." He pushes at Derek's solid chest, and Derek lets himself be pushed away, though there's a little huffy noise which tells him he doesn't want to go. "You have no idea how completely unnecessary that was today. Animals play-fight all the time, and Jackson didn't hurt me. You're being a possessive, over-reacting dick."
Derek whines - he literally whines at him. Before slinking close again, and Stiles has an arm, and half a chest, full of extremely heavy, impossibly hot werewolf.
He finds himself dragging his fingers through Derek's hair, feeling frustrated, and fragile, and helpless.
"Your pack misses the hell out of you, you know that? I kind of miss you too. The grumpy version of you who knew words. Granted, not many but you knew some. Sooner or later Scott's going to step in some deep shit, and I need you there to back him up, preferably while wearing pants, and knowing your own name."
Derek shoves his face into Stiles's neck, and huffs a sigh at him.
"Apology accepted," Stiles says grudgingly.
*****
Tuesday morning is grey and heavy, and feels like thunderstorms, which seems appropriate. Stiles feels a bit like a thunderstorm himself. Because he realises that he's been going about this all wrong. He's been letting Derek do whatever he wants. He hasn't been pushing. He needs to push.
He drags Derek out of his nest, when he gets to the house, and all the way down into the kitchen. Where he moves him into a chair, and them hikes himself up onto the table in front of him.
"Ok, we'll start off simple. Because I know you're not exactly working on all cylinders."
Stiles takes a deep breath, and looks Derek in the eye.
"Stiles." Stiles taps his own chest. Then he picks up Derek's hand, and very carefully lays it against his chest as well. "Stiles."
Derek looks at him like he's waiting for the punchline, or possibly some sort of squeaky toy.
"Come on, Tarzan, I know you can do this, you have vocal chords. You've been talking for twenty odd years."
He squeezes Derek's wrist.
"Stiles."
Derek's fingers curl under his own, tug at his shirt.
"No, we're not playing, and you can't just slam into me whenever you want my attention any more. I'm putting my foot down. You're going to say my name. Because that's how it's going to go from now on. You don't get anything unless you can say my name."
Scott's not here, so he can't do him - no, he totally can, what the hell is he talking about? Derek's a werewolf. He hops off the table, wanders into the living room and picks up Scott's bag. Then he takes it back into the kitchen, and shoves it under Derek's nose.
"Scott," he says firmly.
Derek sniffs the bag, and then tries to see if there's anything edible in it. Stiles tugs it back, until Derek's fingers are just tucked round the edge.
"Scott."
He's not sure if it will make things more of less difficult, that their names begin with the same letter. Whether Derek will get confused, or just not be able to differentiate between the two. Stiles has never taught anyone to speak before.
"Scott."
Derek snorts in his direction, and one of the straps on Scott's bag snaps.
This might take a while.
By four o'clock Stiles has a headache, and his throat's bone dry. Derek got bored of the game early, and then led him a merry chase around the house, only settling after lunch when Stiles shoved him to the floor, and then sat on him, until he deigned to let Stiles babble words at him, over and over.
The sky's getting darker, thunderstorm rolling in.
Stiles only means to lay on the couch for five minutes, but the next thing he knows someone's shoving him. He recognises the jittery, slightly too-hard jostling of someone who's still learning about having arms.
"How many times, Derek, you don't need my help to take the pants off, they're elasticated."
"Stiles."
Stiles is awake immediately, sitting up and blinking - and whoah, it got dark.
"Derek?"
Derek's half-knelt in front of him, all messy hair, and eyes which aren't entirely there.
"Stiles." It's a grate, too hard on the t, and strange catching s's. Not quite Derek, but something closer to Derek than not-Derek. He hadn't imagined it then, holy shit, holy shit.
"Oh my God, dude, you made a word. You made a word, you're fucking awesome."
Derek rumbles, because Stiles's excitement is pretty obvious. He's clutching at Derek's huge, naked arms, and Derek's shoving a nose in his ear. Stiles thinks the fact that he's no longer weirded out by that is probably a bad sign. But he's too busy laughing and smacking him in celebration.
And then there's an almighty flash of lightning.
Derek gives a low, barking rush of sound, and he's hauling Stiles off the couch, and towards the door. Stiles stumbles and slams into the wall, winces and flails to stop himself falling. Derek's already reached the front door.
"Derek, we can't fight the thunderstorm," Stiles starts. But the words are mostly drowned out by the roaring crack of thunder rolling overhead. "And if we did I really don't think we'd win."
Derek's down the porch steps now, settling in the grass to watch for the next flash of light.
"Animals are supposed to hate thunderstorms," Stiles points out, trying to blow rain out of his eyes. "They're supposed to hide under tables and stuff."
No one seems to have told Derek that though, because he's standing in the middle of the lawn, eyes half shut, face running with water. Stiles can't help but drift closer, full into the rain, which is cold, but still kind of amazing anyway.
"We're getting soaked, you know that right?"
"Stiles," Derek agrees.
Stiles can't help grinning.
"Yeah, that's never going to get old."
He's watching the sky, so he misses Derek moving, but suddenly there's biting pressure at his jaw again, sliding up to scrape against his mouth, and Stiles is pulling away with a sputtered noise of protest.
"Oh my God, really? Why am I not surprised that thunderstorms do it for you."
Derek's face is scrunched in the rain, running wet, and he looks so stupidly happy. Like biting Stiles on the face, and standing around in a freakin' thunderstorm was all it took to make Derek happy, and honestly Derek has never been happy. Stiles didn't even know Derek knew how to be happy. This is the saddest happy thing Stiles has ever seen.
Ugh. Fine. Stiles sighs, and very slowly eases closer.
"Yes, the rain is awesome, you are awesome. If you tell anyone about this I will deny it, I will deny it furiously."
Derek doesn't even hesitate to lick at the trail of rainwater, where it's running off the edge of Stiles's jaw, all teeth and enthusiasm and complete lack of elegance. He follows it up to the corner of Stiles's mouth with a low, rumble of noise. Stiles pulls a face, and snorts under the tickling drag of a tongue, shakes his head, rain water flicking everywhere. Then he scratches at Derek's soaking wet hair and shoves him away.
"Don't think this means I'm into you, because I'm not. Pretty as you are, there is a tragic IQ imbalance here."
Derek hums against his skin.
"It would never work out," Stiles says with a laugh. "And I kind of miss the grumpy dude your face belongs to. No offence."
*****
Wednesday is warm again, and damp grass or not, Derek doesn't want to stay inside.
He barks Stiles's name and tugs on his arm, and Stiles is kind of regretting teaching it to him now. Because Derek has already worked out that it's Kryptonite, and is now making Stiles do all the things. Until he's too tired to move any more, and he ends up leaning back against one of the worm-eaten porch struts, playing Plants versus Zombies.
Derek slopes from the porch to the grass, briefly disappears into the woods to see if he can terrorise something into bleeding, he comes back happy enough, with leaves in his hair, and mud on his chin. He always demands some sort of attention, before he disappears again, to do god knows what. Stiles is starting to have sympathy for those parents that say 'I just took my eyes off them for a minute.' Though he's hoping Derek isn't going to fall into a well, or get eaten by a bear or something.
Stiles is trying to read about feral children on his phone, when Derek comes back, and he moves a knee so Derek can slump over him. He fidgets until Stiles lifts a hand, absently scratching Derek's hair. Until Derek twists, and Stiles gets the grate of stubble under his nails instead - and the noise Derek's making changes completely.
His eyes drop half shut and, oh my God, this is officially the best thing ever. Stiles doesn't stop the lazy scratching, and there's a soft rumble that's not quite a purr, but something like it, something deep and pleased. And that is so weird, listening to a semi-happy noise come out of Derek's throat, face completely relaxed, eyes sleepy. Derek has so many facial expressions, and Stiles is pretty sure that once he's back to normal he's never going to see any of them again. He'll go back to the gloomy, perpetually angry, I-am-disappointed-in-the-whole-world, face that he'd worn for most of their encounters.
"Dude, I'm going to miss your face. I really am. I'm kind of going to miss your complete disregard for personal space as well. Which sounds weird, I know. But this weirdly affectionate you is kind of hilarious. Also, y'know, who doesn't like hugs - not that you're technically hugging, you're mostly just making me smell like you, or using me as a resting post, or possibly to cool off on my lower body temperature."
Still kind of feels like hugs all the same.
It's not - ok, maybe it is a little weird, but he's getting used to this. He knows that Derek's going to come back eventually, and he wants him to. He wants Derek to be ok, and have all his brain. Because there's a pack in desperate need of an Alpha. Also, this is Beacon Hills, there's going to be some sort of threat eventually and Derek can't deal with it like this.
He's still going to miss him though.
Scott texts him at lunchtime asking him if there's any change, and Stiles doesn't ask about the sudden impatience. The way there's a strangely unhappy sort of disappointment when he sends back a cautiously worded, 'I'm not sure, trying some new things.' Which Scott's obviously taking as a no. He can take it as a no. But Stiles takes it like a kick in the ass. Which is a language he speaks.
He spreads a hand on Derek's skin, which is sun-warm and smooth under his fingers.
"I think we need to increase your vocabulary." He says it like it's an apology, and there must be something in the words, because Derek looks at him, attentive and curious, even if he isn't focused. Stiles misses that focus. He'd thought once that Derek's face was blank. But that hadn't even been close. Derek's face had been a fucking landscape painting. He'd never noticed it. But he misses all the weird variations and hints that he had going on. Derek's face had become familiar, for all its grumpy inability to articulate. Stiles had grudgingly, but surprisingly quickly let Derek slip from 'possible enemy' to 'possible friend.' Once he realised Derek was the way he was for a pretty good reason, and he wasn't unbendable, you just had to put the lever in the right place, and push really, really hard.
"Shall we start with 'yes,' and 'no,' and 'please?' Though I'm not sure you knew what 'please' meant when you had all your brain cells."
"Stiles," Derek murmurs against his leg. Which Stiles pretends sounds reluctant and annoyed.
"You have absolutely no interest in conjugating verbs at all, do you? Dude, I don't blame you, words are complicated and there are a lot of them, and to be brutally honest, you weren't all that fond of them when you knew what most of them meant."
Derek makes another rumbling noise in his throat.
"I get it, believe me. Life is way easier like this isn't it?"
Derek snorts against his hand and - that's kind of gross.
*****
Thursday morning starts with Stiles bending over the sink, trying to wash blood out of three t-shirts, two sooty curtains and a towel. With only a box of dubiously old laundry detergent, that he found liberally coated in dust. He has no idea how long it's been since someone tried to do washing in this house, he feels a little weird about that, if he thinks about it too much.
Derek is pushing his face into the back of Stiles's neck, all pressure, and wet mouth, and inquisitiveness. Stiles elbows him away without thinking about it.
"Seriously, you're the one who insists on taking dead animals to your nest made of clothing and furnishings. You only have yourself to blame when I steal half of it to wash the blood and entrails off. Seriously, who sleeps on entrails? You can rub yourself all over it again when it's clean. You're not sleeping in a gore-encrusted mess of animal fluids. That shit does not fly in the Stilinski household. Which this is not, obviously. But my point is made."
Derek makes a distracted noise, but he's not trying to steal any of his stuff back, just leaning his weight on Stiles's back, in a way that seems vaguely purposeful. There's a low growl rattling around somewhere in his throat.
"You're not getting any of them back until they're clean. Why don't you go bite something."
Derek pushes at his hips, tries to get him lower, like he wants to bracket Stiles with his thighs -
Oh my God.
Stiles is flailing his way out from under Derek's weight. Because that is not playful, that is very much not the playful variety of contact.
"No."
He ends up smacking Derek in the face with a wet t-shirt.
"Dude, there is a strict no mounting policy in the kitchen," Stiles gets out, and his throat is doing this weird, clicking, hoarse thing. He isn't sure whether to laugh hysterically, or make it absolutely clear how very much that is not happening. "Or anywhere else in the house. Seriously, I will roll up a newspaper, I'm not even fucking joking."
He doesn't even know if that was a sex thing or not, and he's trying very hard not to think the phrase 'dominance mounting,' it had been awkward enough listening to the wildlife documentary's dry voiceover explain it with his dad in the room.
Derek just looks really confused.
*****
Scott shows up early on Friday, looking like hell. Stiles is going to bet money that the governor hasn't agreed to a last minute pardon. Well shit, he thinks.
But that's wrong isn't it? This isn't something other people get to decide, they're not here. Stiles is here, and he's the one who's going to decide what happens and what doesn't.
"Derek, pants," Stiles says firmly.
Derek makes a low, grumbling noise, and then rises to his feet, stalks his way upstairs to find some.
Scott looks surprised.
"We came to a compromise on the pants," Stiles explains.
Derek comes back down the stairs, wearing sweats, though the waistband is shoved indecently low. He makes himself comfortable on the cushions he's dragged off the other chair. Because Stiles can't convince him to sit down like a person. Derek seems confused about what shape his legs are. Though it's totally working for him, so maybe it's a werewolf thing.
Scott wipes his palms on his jeans and sighs.
"It's been - it's been nearly two weeks. Deaton thinks -"
"I know what Deaton thinks," Stiles says stiffly. "What do you think?"
Scott looks pained.
"Look there are strange werewolves out there. We need Derek, not crazy Derek, actual Derek. I know you're trying, I do. But I can't - I'm not exactly very good at this. I'm not making good decisions. I have a curfew. How am I supposed to be an Alpha with a curfew. I need help here. I need Derek, or I need you."
Stiles stands up, tugs on Derek's arm until he shuffles closer
"Who's that?" he says, and points at Scott, hopes to God that Derek isn't feeling willful.
Derek's jaw works for a second.
"Scott," he bites out.
"Holy shit!" Scott drops his bag, and stares.
"Who am I?" Stiles points at himself.
"Stiles."
Stiles puts a hand down and finds the bag shoved against the edge of the couch. He drags one out at random.
"And what's this?"
Derek reaches a hand out, and claims it for himself. "Book." There's a snap of teeth on the k, Stiles was going to work on that, he just needs more time.
Stiles exhales roughly, and squeezes Derek's shoulder.
"Yeah, you're awesome. Good job."
Scott comes closer. "Oh my god, he's talking." He looks so surprised he comes closer than he usually dares to Derek, and Derek's next exhale stirs his hair. "He's talking."
Stiles shrugs, like it's no big deal, even though it is. It's a huge fucking deal, and it's taken him a couple of days, solidly pestering the hell out of Derek, pinning him still, following him from room to room, naming things, pointing at things.
"He's making words, there's only a few, but it's closer, it's closer, and it's something. He's doing this, Deaton doesn't have to - look, I figured it out, ok. I figured out what could do this. I'm thinking electricity, lots and lots of electricity. Maybe he did this to protect himself or maybe it happened by accident, or maybe whoever had him knew what they were doing. Hunters probably, I mean he was gone for almost a month. Can you even imagine? I figure he got the worst of it when he tried to escape, when he managed to escape. And I think Deaton's smart enough to know that it could work the other way."
Scott winces, and Stiles doesn't even feel smug because he wanted to be wrong, he really did.
"But, just, no, I'm not going to let him strap Derek down and put him through exactly what did this to him. He's coming back, but he's not coming back like that. I can do this." He's shaking a little bit, anger, or stress, or something. He can't make himself stop.
Scott comes close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles relaxes, and maybe that was all he wanted, just for Scott to get this.
"Dude, you know I've got your back," Scott says quietly. "I've always had your back, every single day we've been friends. For the amazing things, and the incredibly stupid things. You know I trust you. If you say you can do something you always do it, and that's good enough for me."
Which is just like Scott, he can be a dick for weeks, and then suddenly he'll say crap like that, and make it all ok.
*****
Saturday night is cold again, like the Summer just can't decide what it wants to be from one minute to the next. Stiles looks over the top of his book, but Derek isn't curled at the end of the couch, or sleeping under Stiles's dangling arm. He hasn't seen Derek for a while. He sets the book down and goes wandering.
Stiles finds him at the top of the stairs again, curled over that dark, wet stain on the floorboards. It's horrible, Stiles had walked over it without even thinking about it before, and now he can't walk over it at all. Because that used to be someone, and he doesn't know who, but he thinks Derek knows, that Derek can tell in some sort of awful way. But he can't process it at the moment.
Stiles thinks he's full of things he just doesn't have the words for, and for the first time he feels awful about having to give him some. About making Derek feel it all over again. Because bringing Derek back means bringing all of this back, and no one should ever have to deal with something like this twice.
"Derek, Derek, come on, you don't want to sit here." Stiles pulls at his shoulder.
"No," Derek says simply. Because of course the first thing he does with his words is use them to win arguments. But it sounds gutted out of him, as if it's still painful to turn feelings into words. So Stiles stops pulling and just holds him for a second.
"Ok, dude," Stiles says quietly. "Ok."
He kneels down with him, shoulder pressed to Derek's.
"I know there's a huge part of you that doesn't want to remember. But I think you should come back. You have to come back. I'm not going to let you stay there forever, because I'm stubborn like that, and though I do kind of like the idea of teaching you how to fetch a ball as payback for all the times you were an asshole, or smashed my head into a steering wheel, we need you to come back."
Stiles sits there at the top of the stairs, leeching body heat out of Derek, until night turns into morning.
*****
Stiles is so tired he just drives home, and falls into his own bed. He spends most of Monday morning under the sheets, protesting the drizzly, grey clouds, that seem to want to aimlessly wander across the sky today. He vaguely registers his dad yelling something just before he leaves, but his brain must have decided it wasn't important, because he can't remember what it was.
He should probably get up. Derek will want to go investigate the woods if it rained in the night. Then he'll come back and drip all over Stiles's clothes. So he might as well just put on the same one's he wore yesterday.
When his phone goes he drags it under the sheets, rather than attempt to commune with the day until he's ready.
"Yeah."
"He's back, he's talking, he's him again." Scott isn't even stopping for breath. "He called Isaac at six this morning. He scared the freakin' hell out of him, and we couldn't believe it."
Scott's frantic rush of words has Stiles fighting his way out of the sheet, and nearly falling off the bed.
"What!?"
"Derek's back, he's totally himself again. Which was kind of scary. What did you do to him last night? I mean you must have done something, but you'd already gone home. Derek said you'd gone home."
Stiles is sitting up now, flailing his way into his jeans, phone squashed between cheek and shoulder.
"Did someone tell him what the hell happened?"
"Dude, we didn't have to, he remembers everything." There's more after that. Scott rambles on, voice gradually getting higher, and there's probably important stuff there that Stiles needs to know. Something about Lydia, and the mountain ash circle, and Jackson.
But Stiles is still stuck on that one line.
He remembers everything.
Derek remembers everything.
Stiles hangs up on Scott - while he's still rambling - and drops his phone on the dresser. Then he goes through a mental checklist of all the reasons that it's very bad that Derek remembers the last two weeks. Of all the things Stiles did, and all the things he said. Things he never would have said or done if he'd known - if he'd thought Derek would ever remember. He gets to forty, and then lays face-down on the bed, wondering how horrible it would be to suffocate himself to death. Wondering if it's even possible to suffocate yourself to death like this.
He stays in his room for four hours, ignoring his phone every time it goes. He can't do any more than that. He's genetically incapable of staying still in one place for more than four hours.
So he just gets in the Jeep and drives.
Scott tries to call him six times after he leaves, then sends him a series of text messages, veering from worried to annoyed, to worried again, and finally to some sort of pissed-off sympathy.
Three hours later there's one text on his phone from Derek.
'Get to my house, now.'
It's nice to see that Derek hasn't lost any of his charm.
*****
Derek is waiting on the porch, he's probably been waiting there since Stiles got close enough to hear. But Stiles doesn't care. He can wait a little longer. He can wait until Stiles can actually open the door of his Jeep and get out.
Derek has regained the ability to wear shoes with his pants, also, shirts and jackets. He has also regained the ability to contort his face into an expression of intense anger.
Crap. Stiles is immediately filled with a confusing mixture of relief and dread. It's not a good combination. They churn sickeningly together. Derek is Derek again. Which is so much more complicated than four words could adequately explain.
He's familiar and depressing, but sort of satisfying at the same time, like Stiles fixed him, even though that's probably not true. His brain probably just decided enough was enough. Or maybe he fell through a floor and smashed his head. Anything could have happened. He doesn't look happy about being himself again, which isn't as surprising as it probably should be.
Derek is...coming down the steps towards him.
"Stiles," Derek says stiffly, and yeah, he must be broken because he even missed that tone of voice.
Not like he's going to say as much.
"I think I miss the other you already," Stiles says, with a sort of jittery uncertainty. "At least I would have gotten a hello, or ok, knocked on my ass on the lawn - same thing really. Since manners weren't exactly your strong point. Not that they ever were your strong point. It's good that you're you again. Unless you're planning to murder me, in which case I would like to retract my earlier enthusiasm."
Derek stops at the bottom of the stairs, and Stiles is close enough now to see that there isn't just anger on his face. There's embarrassment there too, and something else, quickly bitten down on and pushed away.
"I should wring your damn neck," Derek says, like he's genuinely thinking about it.
Yeah, that's an awesome start.
"Oh my God, I wasn't exactly going out of my way to humiliate you, you know. You were the one who was doing an awesome job of that on your own. I was trying my very best to keep the humiliation to a minimum. I wasn't expecting a thank you, but the uncontrollable rage is a bit much, don't you think?"
Derek's bitch face wavers slightly, like he knows Stiles has a point, but he's too angry to give it to him.
"Do you have any idea how hard it was to leave the house, to just go into town?" he bites out.
Stiles has no idea what he's talking about. Because mountain ash isn't supposed to do anything other than keep things in or out, there aren't supposed to be side effects. There aren't side effects, and someone clearly got rid of the whole circle. Lydia, he's assuming.
"And that's my fault? How the hell is that my fault?"
"Because you completely fucked up my instincts," Derek shouts, and he makes it sound like Stiles did it on purpose.
"Screw you." Stiles is angry now, because maybe he wasn't expecting a thank you, but this is bullshit. "I was doing the whole thing blind, you know that. I was making wild guesses, and stumbling around in the dark, because it's not like you ever tell us anything, ever. Next time, we'll leave you in the ruined corner of your house, covered in blood, with a knife sticking out of your back. I sincerely apologise for giving a shit about you."
He's doing a pretty good job of storming off, when Derek is suddenly right there, catching at his arm and pulling him to a stop.
"Don't leave, don't fucking leave, that's not what I want. You were always leaving, and I couldn't work out how to get you to stay. You put that damn circle up, and I could smell you but I couldn't follow you. It drove me crazy." Derek stops, draws in a breath, and then lets it go. He drops Stiles's arm, and takes a step back, shoves his hands into his pockets.
"I didn't know anything," Stiles says, and he doesn't know whether it's an explanation or an apology, maybe both. "I was mostly letting you do whatever you wanted, so don't put this on me."
"Do you know how much I want to touch people now?" Derek says stiffly. "I spent two weeks -" he grits his teeth, and forces himself to continue. "I spent two weeks with you just touching me, all the time. I was drowning in the smell of you, and it feels wrong that you're over there right now. I hate that, do you understand."
Stiles thinks that Derek could maybe look a little less horrified about that. It isn't like Stiles is going to take it personally or anything.
"Yeah, I mean your face is kind of telling me that loud and clear. Which is why I'm staying over here. But is that so bad - I mean the touching part," Stiles asks. "You've never really been a fan, but you're a werewolf, and it's probably not good to avoid people, and - I mean you could try it? Erica and Isaac touch people all the time. They'd probably want you to, y'know, touch them in a reassuring sort of way more. Start with handshakes or something. It's not the end of the world, right? And then if you don't want to touch them you could, I don't know, wean yourself off of it. Try aversion therapy, or whatever, something. Only, no, don't do that, because that would be messed up."
Derek glares like Stiles doesn't get it.
Stiles throws up his hands.
"Dude, it's not like I broke you, you just had a holiday, like a responsibility-free, slightly embarrassing romp through the woods. Which we will never tell people about it, or bring up again. You can forget all about it, you can pretend it never happened, apologise to your Betas, and Jackson, for trying to eat them, relearn how to loom in corners, scare people from afar, and go back to being the grumpypants we all know and love."
Derek sighs, all the air just going out of him.
Just like that, Stiles gets it. It's huge, and insane, and he figures he's the dumbest person in the whole world. But he gets it.
"Wow, this is a lot harder when you can't just bite me on the face, huh?" he says slowly.
Derek looks straight at him, frustrated and angry and embarrassed, and Stiles didn't really need it confirmed, but oh my God, that is absolutey confirmation.
"Will you shut up about that. It felt really simple at the time. You protected me, and I thought you were mine." Derek grits his teeth. "And I'm aware of how that probably sounds to you, but it's different for us. The things you did - you didn't even know you were doing them, and it was so easy. You made it easy, Jesus, I'm sorry about - I'm sorry that I -"
"Tried to mount me?" Stiles offers, because, yeah, he definitely remembers that part. He's trying really, really hard not to grin, and completely failing.
"You're fucking enjoying this," Derek snaps, voice hard and angry. But Stiles doesn't even think it's real anger any more. It's more like defensive anger. It's an anger that wants to push more than it wants to bite.
"I looked after you for nearly two weeks, and sometimes I thought I'd never get to talk to your grumpy face again, so yes, yes, I am fucking enjoying this," Stiles snaps, breathlessly.
He's shivering and he doesn't know whether it's relief or anger any more, or maybe sadness. Because there's a little of that too, and he doesn't even know why.
"I did the best I could," Stiles says, helplessly, because it still feels like he needs to say something. "I'm sorry if I fucked that up, but you weren't exactly offering tips. And I was against it when the others wanted to try wiring you up, and electrocuting you. Which I think I should get points for or something, because clearly that wasn't necessary."
Something in Derek's jaw twitches, like he just resisted a whole-body flinch.
"I figured that was what happened to you?"
Derek's jaw works for a second, and then he nods stiffly.
"I'm sorry, really, but you were the one who picked me, Derek. I did not pick you. You would have been safe with one of the others."
"No." Derek shakes his head. "I wouldn't, that's the whole point. You were the only one that was safe. That would make the smart decisions, and you didn't take advantage - you didn't do anything at all while I was vulnerable." He sighs again, shuts his mouth, like he's saying way too much already. "Now this whole thing is a mess, my head is a mess, and I have no idea what to do with it."
Stiles can hear his own heart beating. The rush of it inside his own ears. It makes him feel dizzy and drunk, and recklessly brave.
"I could read you a story," he suggests slowly. "You could bite me on the face. We could see where it went."
Derek glares at him, like he's impossible, like he thinks Stiles is playing with him.
Stiles just looks at him.
Then suddenly Derek's closer, all tight mouth and hard eyes, and expression of quietly banked rage.
Stiles braces himself for...something.
But Derek just leans in, shifts his nose and mouth into the warmth of Stiles's cheek, and just breathes him in.
Stiles opens his mouth to speak - and Derek's moving, slotting their mouths together. It's still angry, rough in a way that feels more furious than sexy. It feels a lot like Derek is still yelling at him, if he's being honest with himself, and that really makes no sense at all. But Stiles is doing nothing to stop him. Because it's Derek, and Derek is kissing him. Until he isn't, because his mouth slides down, and to the right, and then he fucking bites him, and it's nothing like the friendly, cautious attempt that he'd been using to make them extra-special friends for the last two weeks. No, Derek sets his teeth against Stiles's jaw and digs them in, and Stiles makes an odd, gurgling, protesting, pained noise in the back of his throat. Because, Jesus, there will almost certainly be a mark there.
Then Derek's gone, glaring at him like he hasn't just bitten him on the face like a crazy, werewolf person.
"Ow," Stiles complains, loudly and accusingly.
Derek doesn't say a word, he just stomps back into the house.
He leaves the door open.
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.
Stiles sits on the couch and fumes, while they help Jackson to Derek's car. Erica's driving the Camaro until Derek wants it back, or until he's capable of driving again. He's not sure how they decided that, maybe they rock-paper-scissored for it or something?
Stiles ignores Derek, pointedly and obviously, in a way even Derek has to notice. He's angry, and he wants him to know it. Judging by the way he won't stop quietly whining in his throat, and putting his nose on Stiles's shoulder, he's getting the point across. When Derek brings him a book, and pushes it into his armpit Stiles rolls over and stares at the back of the couch. Until Derek slinks off, and sinks into a crouch by the door, staring out at the rain.
Scott comes in cautiously, warily treading the floorboards. But Derek doesn't so much as look at him. So he shoves Stiles's foot out of the way and sits on the couch next to him.
"He was protecting you, you know that right?"
Which is bullshit, because five minutes ago Scott wants Derek's balls in a vice, and now suddenly he's defending him?
Stiles sighs and throws himself onto his back.
"He nearly ripped Jackson's arm off. Jesus. I forgot how - I forgot how scary he was when he's doing his thing."
He rubs a hand over his face, and his forehead is still sweaty-damp. He hates how he's still shaking a little bit, stupid with adrenaline, because he knows better. He knows what Derek's capable of. He never forgot, he just didn't think about it, and maybe he should have been thinking about it.
"He's getting better," Stiles says weakly. "He looks confused sometimes, in the way that people do, you know?"
Scott nods. "Yeah, I mean, I can see."
They both look at Derek, who's not exactly the poster boy for progress at the moment. He's still in the doorway, quietly growling at the outside world, mouth, chin and throat streaked bloody. He looks savage.
"Jackson is a lot to throw at a person," Scott offers tentatively. "We forget sometimes, because we've known him forever but he can be -"
"An asshole?" Stiles says.
"I was going to say confusing, but yeah, that works too."
"I don't know what happened to him -" Stiles stops. "But I'm pretty sure it was bad, like awful levels of badness."
"Are you ok to stay here with him?" Scott asks, and pointedly tips his head towards Derek. Stiles can't help but frown at that. The whole thing with Jackson may have been brutal and kind of terrifying, but Derek has never hurt him, has never even tried to, or even done it accidentally.
"Yeah, I'll be fine, and I don't think I should leave him by himself right now. I'll text my dad and tell him I'm staying with you. Honestly, what's one more lie at this point."
Scott looks like he wants to hug him, and sure they do that sometimes, but it's not really a thing. He might have done it as well, but his eyes cut sideways to Derek, and he seems to think better of it. What with Derek making a habit of viciously savaging people today. And Stiles can be pissed at him for that too.
"I'll be back tomorrow, are you going to do the mountain ash after I'm gone?"
Stiles can hear the 'tell me you're going to do that, or I'm going to feel bad about leaving,' which Scott doesn't say.
He nods. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."
"Just be careful." Scott's all frown and worry, and Stiles feels bad, again, about not worrying more about what Scott has going on right now. He should have asked more, he should have let him vent more. Scott doesn't deal well with being thrown into things. But he's trying, Stiles can see that he's trying. He's doing the responsible thing, and if Erica, Boyd and Isaac are any indication he's doing ok. But nothing's happening at the moment, no rogue werewolves, no magical threats, or mythological monsters.
Scott shoulders his bag, and heads out across the creaky floorboards, and Stiles knows that they can't keep Derek here forever. This can't go on indefinitely.
Derek creeps over to the edge of the couch, when Scott's too far away to hear any more. He rests his face against the edge of Stiles's. Stiles can feel the rasp of stubble, and the flare of breath against his skin.
"No, you're not forgiven - and stop licking me that's not helping." He pushes at Derek's solid chest, and Derek lets himself be pushed away, though there's a little huffy noise which tells him he doesn't want to go. "You have no idea how completely unnecessary that was today. Animals play-fight all the time, and Jackson didn't hurt me. You're being a possessive, over-reacting dick."
Derek whines - he literally whines at him. Before slinking close again, and Stiles has an arm, and half a chest, full of extremely heavy, impossibly hot werewolf.
He finds himself dragging his fingers through Derek's hair, feeling frustrated, and fragile, and helpless.
"Your pack misses the hell out of you, you know that? I kind of miss you too. The grumpy version of you who knew words. Granted, not many but you knew some. Sooner or later Scott's going to step in some deep shit, and I need you there to back him up, preferably while wearing pants, and knowing your own name."
Derek shoves his face into Stiles's neck, and huffs a sigh at him.
"Apology accepted," Stiles says grudgingly.
*****
Tuesday morning is grey and heavy, and feels like thunderstorms, which seems appropriate. Stiles feels a bit like a thunderstorm himself. Because he realises that he's been going about this all wrong. He's been letting Derek do whatever he wants. He hasn't been pushing. He needs to push.
He drags Derek out of his nest, when he gets to the house, and all the way down into the kitchen. Where he moves him into a chair, and them hikes himself up onto the table in front of him.
"Ok, we'll start off simple. Because I know you're not exactly working on all cylinders."
Stiles takes a deep breath, and looks Derek in the eye.
"Stiles." Stiles taps his own chest. Then he picks up Derek's hand, and very carefully lays it against his chest as well. "Stiles."
Derek looks at him like he's waiting for the punchline, or possibly some sort of squeaky toy.
"Come on, Tarzan, I know you can do this, you have vocal chords. You've been talking for twenty odd years."
He squeezes Derek's wrist.
"Stiles."
Derek's fingers curl under his own, tug at his shirt.
"No, we're not playing, and you can't just slam into me whenever you want my attention any more. I'm putting my foot down. You're going to say my name. Because that's how it's going to go from now on. You don't get anything unless you can say my name."
Scott's not here, so he can't do him - no, he totally can, what the hell is he talking about? Derek's a werewolf. He hops off the table, wanders into the living room and picks up Scott's bag. Then he takes it back into the kitchen, and shoves it under Derek's nose.
"Scott," he says firmly.
Derek sniffs the bag, and then tries to see if there's anything edible in it. Stiles tugs it back, until Derek's fingers are just tucked round the edge.
"Scott."
He's not sure if it will make things more of less difficult, that their names begin with the same letter. Whether Derek will get confused, or just not be able to differentiate between the two. Stiles has never taught anyone to speak before.
"Scott."
Derek snorts in his direction, and one of the straps on Scott's bag snaps.
This might take a while.
By four o'clock Stiles has a headache, and his throat's bone dry. Derek got bored of the game early, and then led him a merry chase around the house, only settling after lunch when Stiles shoved him to the floor, and then sat on him, until he deigned to let Stiles babble words at him, over and over.
The sky's getting darker, thunderstorm rolling in.
Stiles only means to lay on the couch for five minutes, but the next thing he knows someone's shoving him. He recognises the jittery, slightly too-hard jostling of someone who's still learning about having arms.
"How many times, Derek, you don't need my help to take the pants off, they're elasticated."
"Stiles."
Stiles is awake immediately, sitting up and blinking - and whoah, it got dark.
"Derek?"
Derek's half-knelt in front of him, all messy hair, and eyes which aren't entirely there.
"Stiles." It's a grate, too hard on the t, and strange catching s's. Not quite Derek, but something closer to Derek than not-Derek. He hadn't imagined it then, holy shit, holy shit.
"Oh my God, dude, you made a word. You made a word, you're fucking awesome."
Derek rumbles, because Stiles's excitement is pretty obvious. He's clutching at Derek's huge, naked arms, and Derek's shoving a nose in his ear. Stiles thinks the fact that he's no longer weirded out by that is probably a bad sign. But he's too busy laughing and smacking him in celebration.
And then there's an almighty flash of lightning.
Derek gives a low, barking rush of sound, and he's hauling Stiles off the couch, and towards the door. Stiles stumbles and slams into the wall, winces and flails to stop himself falling. Derek's already reached the front door.
"Derek, we can't fight the thunderstorm," Stiles starts. But the words are mostly drowned out by the roaring crack of thunder rolling overhead. "And if we did I really don't think we'd win."
Derek's down the porch steps now, settling in the grass to watch for the next flash of light.
"Animals are supposed to hate thunderstorms," Stiles points out, trying to blow rain out of his eyes. "They're supposed to hide under tables and stuff."
No one seems to have told Derek that though, because he's standing in the middle of the lawn, eyes half shut, face running with water. Stiles can't help but drift closer, full into the rain, which is cold, but still kind of amazing anyway.
"We're getting soaked, you know that right?"
"Stiles," Derek agrees.
Stiles can't help grinning.
"Yeah, that's never going to get old."
He's watching the sky, so he misses Derek moving, but suddenly there's biting pressure at his jaw again, sliding up to scrape against his mouth, and Stiles is pulling away with a sputtered noise of protest.
"Oh my God, really? Why am I not surprised that thunderstorms do it for you."
Derek's face is scrunched in the rain, running wet, and he looks so stupidly happy. Like biting Stiles on the face, and standing around in a freakin' thunderstorm was all it took to make Derek happy, and honestly Derek has never been happy. Stiles didn't even know Derek knew how to be happy. This is the saddest happy thing Stiles has ever seen.
Ugh. Fine. Stiles sighs, and very slowly eases closer.
"Yes, the rain is awesome, you are awesome. If you tell anyone about this I will deny it, I will deny it furiously."
Derek doesn't even hesitate to lick at the trail of rainwater, where it's running off the edge of Stiles's jaw, all teeth and enthusiasm and complete lack of elegance. He follows it up to the corner of Stiles's mouth with a low, rumble of noise. Stiles pulls a face, and snorts under the tickling drag of a tongue, shakes his head, rain water flicking everywhere. Then he scratches at Derek's soaking wet hair and shoves him away.
"Don't think this means I'm into you, because I'm not. Pretty as you are, there is a tragic IQ imbalance here."
Derek hums against his skin.
"It would never work out," Stiles says with a laugh. "And I kind of miss the grumpy dude your face belongs to. No offence."
*****
Wednesday is warm again, and damp grass or not, Derek doesn't want to stay inside.
He barks Stiles's name and tugs on his arm, and Stiles is kind of regretting teaching it to him now. Because Derek has already worked out that it's Kryptonite, and is now making Stiles do all the things. Until he's too tired to move any more, and he ends up leaning back against one of the worm-eaten porch struts, playing Plants versus Zombies.
Derek slopes from the porch to the grass, briefly disappears into the woods to see if he can terrorise something into bleeding, he comes back happy enough, with leaves in his hair, and mud on his chin. He always demands some sort of attention, before he disappears again, to do god knows what. Stiles is starting to have sympathy for those parents that say 'I just took my eyes off them for a minute.' Though he's hoping Derek isn't going to fall into a well, or get eaten by a bear or something.
Stiles is trying to read about feral children on his phone, when Derek comes back, and he moves a knee so Derek can slump over him. He fidgets until Stiles lifts a hand, absently scratching Derek's hair. Until Derek twists, and Stiles gets the grate of stubble under his nails instead - and the noise Derek's making changes completely.
His eyes drop half shut and, oh my God, this is officially the best thing ever. Stiles doesn't stop the lazy scratching, and there's a soft rumble that's not quite a purr, but something like it, something deep and pleased. And that is so weird, listening to a semi-happy noise come out of Derek's throat, face completely relaxed, eyes sleepy. Derek has so many facial expressions, and Stiles is pretty sure that once he's back to normal he's never going to see any of them again. He'll go back to the gloomy, perpetually angry, I-am-disappointed-in-the-whole-world, face that he'd worn for most of their encounters.
"Dude, I'm going to miss your face. I really am. I'm kind of going to miss your complete disregard for personal space as well. Which sounds weird, I know. But this weirdly affectionate you is kind of hilarious. Also, y'know, who doesn't like hugs - not that you're technically hugging, you're mostly just making me smell like you, or using me as a resting post, or possibly to cool off on my lower body temperature."
Still kind of feels like hugs all the same.
It's not - ok, maybe it is a little weird, but he's getting used to this. He knows that Derek's going to come back eventually, and he wants him to. He wants Derek to be ok, and have all his brain. Because there's a pack in desperate need of an Alpha. Also, this is Beacon Hills, there's going to be some sort of threat eventually and Derek can't deal with it like this.
He's still going to miss him though.
Scott texts him at lunchtime asking him if there's any change, and Stiles doesn't ask about the sudden impatience. The way there's a strangely unhappy sort of disappointment when he sends back a cautiously worded, 'I'm not sure, trying some new things.' Which Scott's obviously taking as a no. He can take it as a no. But Stiles takes it like a kick in the ass. Which is a language he speaks.
He spreads a hand on Derek's skin, which is sun-warm and smooth under his fingers.
"I think we need to increase your vocabulary." He says it like it's an apology, and there must be something in the words, because Derek looks at him, attentive and curious, even if he isn't focused. Stiles misses that focus. He'd thought once that Derek's face was blank. But that hadn't even been close. Derek's face had been a fucking landscape painting. He'd never noticed it. But he misses all the weird variations and hints that he had going on. Derek's face had become familiar, for all its grumpy inability to articulate. Stiles had grudgingly, but surprisingly quickly let Derek slip from 'possible enemy' to 'possible friend.' Once he realised Derek was the way he was for a pretty good reason, and he wasn't unbendable, you just had to put the lever in the right place, and push really, really hard.
"Shall we start with 'yes,' and 'no,' and 'please?' Though I'm not sure you knew what 'please' meant when you had all your brain cells."
"Stiles," Derek murmurs against his leg. Which Stiles pretends sounds reluctant and annoyed.
"You have absolutely no interest in conjugating verbs at all, do you? Dude, I don't blame you, words are complicated and there are a lot of them, and to be brutally honest, you weren't all that fond of them when you knew what most of them meant."
Derek makes another rumbling noise in his throat.
"I get it, believe me. Life is way easier like this isn't it?"
Derek snorts against his hand and - that's kind of gross.
*****
Thursday morning starts with Stiles bending over the sink, trying to wash blood out of three t-shirts, two sooty curtains and a towel. With only a box of dubiously old laundry detergent, that he found liberally coated in dust. He has no idea how long it's been since someone tried to do washing in this house, he feels a little weird about that, if he thinks about it too much.
Derek is pushing his face into the back of Stiles's neck, all pressure, and wet mouth, and inquisitiveness. Stiles elbows him away without thinking about it.
"Seriously, you're the one who insists on taking dead animals to your nest made of clothing and furnishings. You only have yourself to blame when I steal half of it to wash the blood and entrails off. Seriously, who sleeps on entrails? You can rub yourself all over it again when it's clean. You're not sleeping in a gore-encrusted mess of animal fluids. That shit does not fly in the Stilinski household. Which this is not, obviously. But my point is made."
Derek makes a distracted noise, but he's not trying to steal any of his stuff back, just leaning his weight on Stiles's back, in a way that seems vaguely purposeful. There's a low growl rattling around somewhere in his throat.
"You're not getting any of them back until they're clean. Why don't you go bite something."
Derek pushes at his hips, tries to get him lower, like he wants to bracket Stiles with his thighs -
Oh my God.
Stiles is flailing his way out from under Derek's weight. Because that is not playful, that is very much not the playful variety of contact.
"No."
He ends up smacking Derek in the face with a wet t-shirt.
"Dude, there is a strict no mounting policy in the kitchen," Stiles gets out, and his throat is doing this weird, clicking, hoarse thing. He isn't sure whether to laugh hysterically, or make it absolutely clear how very much that is not happening. "Or anywhere else in the house. Seriously, I will roll up a newspaper, I'm not even fucking joking."
He doesn't even know if that was a sex thing or not, and he's trying very hard not to think the phrase 'dominance mounting,' it had been awkward enough listening to the wildlife documentary's dry voiceover explain it with his dad in the room.
Derek just looks really confused.
*****
Scott shows up early on Friday, looking like hell. Stiles is going to bet money that the governor hasn't agreed to a last minute pardon. Well shit, he thinks.
But that's wrong isn't it? This isn't something other people get to decide, they're not here. Stiles is here, and he's the one who's going to decide what happens and what doesn't.
"Derek, pants," Stiles says firmly.
Derek makes a low, grumbling noise, and then rises to his feet, stalks his way upstairs to find some.
Scott looks surprised.
"We came to a compromise on the pants," Stiles explains.
Derek comes back down the stairs, wearing sweats, though the waistband is shoved indecently low. He makes himself comfortable on the cushions he's dragged off the other chair. Because Stiles can't convince him to sit down like a person. Derek seems confused about what shape his legs are. Though it's totally working for him, so maybe it's a werewolf thing.
Scott wipes his palms on his jeans and sighs.
"It's been - it's been nearly two weeks. Deaton thinks -"
"I know what Deaton thinks," Stiles says stiffly. "What do you think?"
Scott looks pained.
"Look there are strange werewolves out there. We need Derek, not crazy Derek, actual Derek. I know you're trying, I do. But I can't - I'm not exactly very good at this. I'm not making good decisions. I have a curfew. How am I supposed to be an Alpha with a curfew. I need help here. I need Derek, or I need you."
Stiles stands up, tugs on Derek's arm until he shuffles closer
"Who's that?" he says, and points at Scott, hopes to God that Derek isn't feeling willful.
Derek's jaw works for a second.
"Scott," he bites out.
"Holy shit!" Scott drops his bag, and stares.
"Who am I?" Stiles points at himself.
"Stiles."
Stiles puts a hand down and finds the bag shoved against the edge of the couch. He drags one out at random.
"And what's this?"
Derek reaches a hand out, and claims it for himself. "Book." There's a snap of teeth on the k, Stiles was going to work on that, he just needs more time.
Stiles exhales roughly, and squeezes Derek's shoulder.
"Yeah, you're awesome. Good job."
Scott comes closer. "Oh my god, he's talking." He looks so surprised he comes closer than he usually dares to Derek, and Derek's next exhale stirs his hair. "He's talking."
Stiles shrugs, like it's no big deal, even though it is. It's a huge fucking deal, and it's taken him a couple of days, solidly pestering the hell out of Derek, pinning him still, following him from room to room, naming things, pointing at things.
"He's making words, there's only a few, but it's closer, it's closer, and it's something. He's doing this, Deaton doesn't have to - look, I figured it out, ok. I figured out what could do this. I'm thinking electricity, lots and lots of electricity. Maybe he did this to protect himself or maybe it happened by accident, or maybe whoever had him knew what they were doing. Hunters probably, I mean he was gone for almost a month. Can you even imagine? I figure he got the worst of it when he tried to escape, when he managed to escape. And I think Deaton's smart enough to know that it could work the other way."
Scott winces, and Stiles doesn't even feel smug because he wanted to be wrong, he really did.
"But, just, no, I'm not going to let him strap Derek down and put him through exactly what did this to him. He's coming back, but he's not coming back like that. I can do this." He's shaking a little bit, anger, or stress, or something. He can't make himself stop.
Scott comes close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles relaxes, and maybe that was all he wanted, just for Scott to get this.
"Dude, you know I've got your back," Scott says quietly. "I've always had your back, every single day we've been friends. For the amazing things, and the incredibly stupid things. You know I trust you. If you say you can do something you always do it, and that's good enough for me."
Which is just like Scott, he can be a dick for weeks, and then suddenly he'll say crap like that, and make it all ok.
*****
Saturday night is cold again, like the Summer just can't decide what it wants to be from one minute to the next. Stiles looks over the top of his book, but Derek isn't curled at the end of the couch, or sleeping under Stiles's dangling arm. He hasn't seen Derek for a while. He sets the book down and goes wandering.
Stiles finds him at the top of the stairs again, curled over that dark, wet stain on the floorboards. It's horrible, Stiles had walked over it without even thinking about it before, and now he can't walk over it at all. Because that used to be someone, and he doesn't know who, but he thinks Derek knows, that Derek can tell in some sort of awful way. But he can't process it at the moment.
Stiles thinks he's full of things he just doesn't have the words for, and for the first time he feels awful about having to give him some. About making Derek feel it all over again. Because bringing Derek back means bringing all of this back, and no one should ever have to deal with something like this twice.
"Derek, Derek, come on, you don't want to sit here." Stiles pulls at his shoulder.
"No," Derek says simply. Because of course the first thing he does with his words is use them to win arguments. But it sounds gutted out of him, as if it's still painful to turn feelings into words. So Stiles stops pulling and just holds him for a second.
"Ok, dude," Stiles says quietly. "Ok."
He kneels down with him, shoulder pressed to Derek's.
"I know there's a huge part of you that doesn't want to remember. But I think you should come back. You have to come back. I'm not going to let you stay there forever, because I'm stubborn like that, and though I do kind of like the idea of teaching you how to fetch a ball as payback for all the times you were an asshole, or smashed my head into a steering wheel, we need you to come back."
Stiles sits there at the top of the stairs, leeching body heat out of Derek, until night turns into morning.
*****
Stiles is so tired he just drives home, and falls into his own bed. He spends most of Monday morning under the sheets, protesting the drizzly, grey clouds, that seem to want to aimlessly wander across the sky today. He vaguely registers his dad yelling something just before he leaves, but his brain must have decided it wasn't important, because he can't remember what it was.
He should probably get up. Derek will want to go investigate the woods if it rained in the night. Then he'll come back and drip all over Stiles's clothes. So he might as well just put on the same one's he wore yesterday.
When his phone goes he drags it under the sheets, rather than attempt to commune with the day until he's ready.
"Yeah."
"He's back, he's talking, he's him again." Scott isn't even stopping for breath. "He called Isaac at six this morning. He scared the freakin' hell out of him, and we couldn't believe it."
Scott's frantic rush of words has Stiles fighting his way out of the sheet, and nearly falling off the bed.
"What!?"
"Derek's back, he's totally himself again. Which was kind of scary. What did you do to him last night? I mean you must have done something, but you'd already gone home. Derek said you'd gone home."
Stiles is sitting up now, flailing his way into his jeans, phone squashed between cheek and shoulder.
"Did someone tell him what the hell happened?"
"Dude, we didn't have to, he remembers everything." There's more after that. Scott rambles on, voice gradually getting higher, and there's probably important stuff there that Stiles needs to know. Something about Lydia, and the mountain ash circle, and Jackson.
But Stiles is still stuck on that one line.
He remembers everything.
Derek remembers everything.
Stiles hangs up on Scott - while he's still rambling - and drops his phone on the dresser. Then he goes through a mental checklist of all the reasons that it's very bad that Derek remembers the last two weeks. Of all the things Stiles did, and all the things he said. Things he never would have said or done if he'd known - if he'd thought Derek would ever remember. He gets to forty, and then lays face-down on the bed, wondering how horrible it would be to suffocate himself to death. Wondering if it's even possible to suffocate yourself to death like this.
He stays in his room for four hours, ignoring his phone every time it goes. He can't do any more than that. He's genetically incapable of staying still in one place for more than four hours.
So he just gets in the Jeep and drives.
Scott tries to call him six times after he leaves, then sends him a series of text messages, veering from worried to annoyed, to worried again, and finally to some sort of pissed-off sympathy.
Three hours later there's one text on his phone from Derek.
'Get to my house, now.'
It's nice to see that Derek hasn't lost any of his charm.
*****
Derek is waiting on the porch, he's probably been waiting there since Stiles got close enough to hear. But Stiles doesn't care. He can wait a little longer. He can wait until Stiles can actually open the door of his Jeep and get out.
Derek has regained the ability to wear shoes with his pants, also, shirts and jackets. He has also regained the ability to contort his face into an expression of intense anger.
Crap. Stiles is immediately filled with a confusing mixture of relief and dread. It's not a good combination. They churn sickeningly together. Derek is Derek again. Which is so much more complicated than four words could adequately explain.
He's familiar and depressing, but sort of satisfying at the same time, like Stiles fixed him, even though that's probably not true. His brain probably just decided enough was enough. Or maybe he fell through a floor and smashed his head. Anything could have happened. He doesn't look happy about being himself again, which isn't as surprising as it probably should be.
Derek is...coming down the steps towards him.
"Stiles," Derek says stiffly, and yeah, he must be broken because he even missed that tone of voice.
Not like he's going to say as much.
"I think I miss the other you already," Stiles says, with a sort of jittery uncertainty. "At least I would have gotten a hello, or ok, knocked on my ass on the lawn - same thing really. Since manners weren't exactly your strong point. Not that they ever were your strong point. It's good that you're you again. Unless you're planning to murder me, in which case I would like to retract my earlier enthusiasm."
Derek stops at the bottom of the stairs, and Stiles is close enough now to see that there isn't just anger on his face. There's embarrassment there too, and something else, quickly bitten down on and pushed away.
"I should wring your damn neck," Derek says, like he's genuinely thinking about it.
Yeah, that's an awesome start.
"Oh my God, I wasn't exactly going out of my way to humiliate you, you know. You were the one who was doing an awesome job of that on your own. I was trying my very best to keep the humiliation to a minimum. I wasn't expecting a thank you, but the uncontrollable rage is a bit much, don't you think?"
Derek's bitch face wavers slightly, like he knows Stiles has a point, but he's too angry to give it to him.
"Do you have any idea how hard it was to leave the house, to just go into town?" he bites out.
Stiles has no idea what he's talking about. Because mountain ash isn't supposed to do anything other than keep things in or out, there aren't supposed to be side effects. There aren't side effects, and someone clearly got rid of the whole circle. Lydia, he's assuming.
"And that's my fault? How the hell is that my fault?"
"Because you completely fucked up my instincts," Derek shouts, and he makes it sound like Stiles did it on purpose.
"Screw you." Stiles is angry now, because maybe he wasn't expecting a thank you, but this is bullshit. "I was doing the whole thing blind, you know that. I was making wild guesses, and stumbling around in the dark, because it's not like you ever tell us anything, ever. Next time, we'll leave you in the ruined corner of your house, covered in blood, with a knife sticking out of your back. I sincerely apologise for giving a shit about you."
He's doing a pretty good job of storming off, when Derek is suddenly right there, catching at his arm and pulling him to a stop.
"Don't leave, don't fucking leave, that's not what I want. You were always leaving, and I couldn't work out how to get you to stay. You put that damn circle up, and I could smell you but I couldn't follow you. It drove me crazy." Derek stops, draws in a breath, and then lets it go. He drops Stiles's arm, and takes a step back, shoves his hands into his pockets.
"I didn't know anything," Stiles says, and he doesn't know whether it's an explanation or an apology, maybe both. "I was mostly letting you do whatever you wanted, so don't put this on me."
"Do you know how much I want to touch people now?" Derek says stiffly. "I spent two weeks -" he grits his teeth, and forces himself to continue. "I spent two weeks with you just touching me, all the time. I was drowning in the smell of you, and it feels wrong that you're over there right now. I hate that, do you understand."
Stiles thinks that Derek could maybe look a little less horrified about that. It isn't like Stiles is going to take it personally or anything.
"Yeah, I mean your face is kind of telling me that loud and clear. Which is why I'm staying over here. But is that so bad - I mean the touching part," Stiles asks. "You've never really been a fan, but you're a werewolf, and it's probably not good to avoid people, and - I mean you could try it? Erica and Isaac touch people all the time. They'd probably want you to, y'know, touch them in a reassuring sort of way more. Start with handshakes or something. It's not the end of the world, right? And then if you don't want to touch them you could, I don't know, wean yourself off of it. Try aversion therapy, or whatever, something. Only, no, don't do that, because that would be messed up."
Derek glares like Stiles doesn't get it.
Stiles throws up his hands.
"Dude, it's not like I broke you, you just had a holiday, like a responsibility-free, slightly embarrassing romp through the woods. Which we will never tell people about it, or bring up again. You can forget all about it, you can pretend it never happened, apologise to your Betas, and Jackson, for trying to eat them, relearn how to loom in corners, scare people from afar, and go back to being the grumpypants we all know and love."
Derek sighs, all the air just going out of him.
Just like that, Stiles gets it. It's huge, and insane, and he figures he's the dumbest person in the whole world. But he gets it.
"Wow, this is a lot harder when you can't just bite me on the face, huh?" he says slowly.
Derek looks straight at him, frustrated and angry and embarrassed, and Stiles didn't really need it confirmed, but oh my God, that is absolutey confirmation.
"Will you shut up about that. It felt really simple at the time. You protected me, and I thought you were mine." Derek grits his teeth. "And I'm aware of how that probably sounds to you, but it's different for us. The things you did - you didn't even know you were doing them, and it was so easy. You made it easy, Jesus, I'm sorry about - I'm sorry that I -"
"Tried to mount me?" Stiles offers, because, yeah, he definitely remembers that part. He's trying really, really hard not to grin, and completely failing.
"You're fucking enjoying this," Derek snaps, voice hard and angry. But Stiles doesn't even think it's real anger any more. It's more like defensive anger. It's an anger that wants to push more than it wants to bite.
"I looked after you for nearly two weeks, and sometimes I thought I'd never get to talk to your grumpy face again, so yes, yes, I am fucking enjoying this," Stiles snaps, breathlessly.
He's shivering and he doesn't know whether it's relief or anger any more, or maybe sadness. Because there's a little of that too, and he doesn't even know why.
"I did the best I could," Stiles says, helplessly, because it still feels like he needs to say something. "I'm sorry if I fucked that up, but you weren't exactly offering tips. And I was against it when the others wanted to try wiring you up, and electrocuting you. Which I think I should get points for or something, because clearly that wasn't necessary."
Something in Derek's jaw twitches, like he just resisted a whole-body flinch.
"I figured that was what happened to you?"
Derek's jaw works for a second, and then he nods stiffly.
"I'm sorry, really, but you were the one who picked me, Derek. I did not pick you. You would have been safe with one of the others."
"No." Derek shakes his head. "I wouldn't, that's the whole point. You were the only one that was safe. That would make the smart decisions, and you didn't take advantage - you didn't do anything at all while I was vulnerable." He sighs again, shuts his mouth, like he's saying way too much already. "Now this whole thing is a mess, my head is a mess, and I have no idea what to do with it."
Stiles can hear his own heart beating. The rush of it inside his own ears. It makes him feel dizzy and drunk, and recklessly brave.
"I could read you a story," he suggests slowly. "You could bite me on the face. We could see where it went."
Derek glares at him, like he's impossible, like he thinks Stiles is playing with him.
Stiles just looks at him.
Then suddenly Derek's closer, all tight mouth and hard eyes, and expression of quietly banked rage.
Stiles braces himself for...something.
But Derek just leans in, shifts his nose and mouth into the warmth of Stiles's cheek, and just breathes him in.
Stiles opens his mouth to speak - and Derek's moving, slotting their mouths together. It's still angry, rough in a way that feels more furious than sexy. It feels a lot like Derek is still yelling at him, if he's being honest with himself, and that really makes no sense at all. But Stiles is doing nothing to stop him. Because it's Derek, and Derek is kissing him. Until he isn't, because his mouth slides down, and to the right, and then he fucking bites him, and it's nothing like the friendly, cautious attempt that he'd been using to make them extra-special friends for the last two weeks. No, Derek sets his teeth against Stiles's jaw and digs them in, and Stiles makes an odd, gurgling, protesting, pained noise in the back of his throat. Because, Jesus, there will almost certainly be a mark there.
Then Derek's gone, glaring at him like he hasn't just bitten him on the face like a crazy, werewolf person.
"Ow," Stiles complains, loudly and accusingly.
Derek doesn't say a word, he just stomps back into the house.
He leaves the door open.
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3