Belief is a Wise Wager
Title: Belief is a Wise Wager
Summary: Stiles accepts a new job (thanks to Mayor Laura Hale), in a new town and inadvertently starts a war, but it’s not his fault. Honestly.
Warnings: None
Rating: Mature
Chapters: 14/?
Notes: I swore up, down and whatever other direction that I wouldn’t post another WIP, yet here it is! I just feel like I’m more motivated to work harder once I’ve posted.
PS AO3
1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7|8| 9| 10|11| 12| 13|
-
“Derek?” Laura calls into the walkie-talkie, there’s no answer.
“Derek?” Stiles whispers into his walkie-talkie. Just because the line went dead doesn’t mean it’s a good sign. Derek may be the one that’s injured, not Gerard.
Stiles starts to panic, his heart rate speeding up and it feels like his chest is tightening, closing in around him. Any pain he felt, from his head, his sides disappear when the only thing he can think about is Derek. If Derek’s hurt and Gerard isn’t dead (Stiles doesn’t stop long enough to think too in depth about that - his morals and ethics seem to have long since vanished) which means that he may be attacking the rest of the village. Stiles’ mind wanders to Scott and Melissa, Isaac, Boyd even Erica.
He feels a firm grip on his shoulder, anchoring him to the present time and not let his mind wander. It’s Luke.
“’m here,” Derek’s voice cackles through the speaker and Stiles sags in relief against Luke. Luke doesn’t even grunt or complain just lets Stiles leans on him, supporting him. He sees Laura, in front of him is relieved as well but she doesn’t have the luxury of sagging against anyone, or have anyone support her - she’s still got her gun pointed at the Verdun people.
“You can leave now,” Chris speaks rather dryly his hand still crossed over his chest.
There are a few protests from some of the people behind him, some of his residents and neighbours but he shoots them a glance that screams ‘don’t fuck with me, not now,’ before he looks back at Laura.
“I didn’t know about Gerard’s plans, what he planned to do to my sister,” Chris’ eyes harden at that, angry, “I didn’t know what you did to my sister. But I also didn’t know what Kate did. I’ve had every intention of agreeing and living to the treaty that was signed all those years ago.”
“And now?” Laura questions.
“If you’re asking if I plan on attacking your village anytime soon, I’m not,” Chris cracks, “you have your village and people to attend to, and I have my own town and people to attend to. Let my people come back unharmed and for now we’ll go on as the previous treaty was signed until we’re able to come to an agreement.”
“Let’s go,” Laura nods her head towards the other werewolves and Stiles. She turns around to walk away, the other werewolves not turning their backs, watching the Verdun people as if they expect them to start shooting, raining down bullets at any minute.
“Oh and Hale?” Chris calls, Laura turns around before he speaks again, “My daughter and that McCall kid is not happening.”
Laura actually snorts, surprised that she can even find any sort of humour in any of this, “easier said than done.”
-
The group don’t have to walk back through any more tunnels, taking twists and turns in the dampness of the underground. It’s starting to get lighter outside now, dawn is soon arriving and Stiles can’t even remember when he last slept. He doesn’t really pay attention but he can hear the rest of the pack, mainly Laura talking about how they can hear the Verdun residents trekking back through the woods to their property. They take a different route so their paths don’t cross.
Although the Verdun residents are going back to their town in defeat, it doesn’t mean they’re not on edge and blame Wulfstan for the death of Gerard. Even though Chris is presumably the new leader of Verdun, he may not have had time to talk to them, explain everything or however he plans to handle the situation. The last thing they need is a mini-war on their hands in the middle of the forest, when it’s supposed to be over, done and dusted with.
“Oh my God,” Stiles breaths when he steps back into Wulfstan, and he feels as if he’s coming home. It should be a scary though, that he loves this place so much after growing up in Beacon Hills, surrounded by his friends and family. But now Wulfstan has become his home and family, not pseudo-family or home. “It looks like an actual war zone.”
The barn fire is out but it’s charred black, little gold embers still flying around in the smoke from the fire. It smells like burning wood and varnish, not the relaxing smell of a fire burning in the fireplace. Windows of various stores are broken, lamp posts knocked over, benches broken in half or threatening to wobble over at any minute. There’s a large gaping hole on the floor in the middle of the gazebo at the centre of the village. Somehow, there’s even a car rammed right through the window at the diner, the ‘Luke’s Diner’ sign unhinged from where it used to be, swinging back and forth.
“Dammit,” Luke mutters angrily when he sees his establishment, taking in the rest of the town, “we should have attacked first, been on the offence,” he says to no one in particular.
“Not now,” Laura sighs, “we can’t get down each other’s throats, now is the time we’re supposed to be working together.”
Stiles doesn’t listen to the rest of Laura’s speech, he finds himself wandering in the direction of the doctor’s office. He doesn’t know where Derek is, hopes he’s there - but he’s not going to start running around the village screaming Derek’s name as much as he might want to.
He walks into the doctor’s office and it’s not as busy as he thought it would, he thought there’d be more people rushing about, tending to people to patch them all up but he supposes it’s a good sign that there’s aren’t many people, maybe that means everyone is okay, or going to be okay.
He sees Melissa look up from where she’s just emerged from the supply closet carrying a bunch of medical supplies and she visibly sighs, her eyes lighting up.
“Stiles sweetie, thank God! Are you okay? You look a little pale; let me take a look at you.”
“I’m fine,” Stiles mumbles waving his hand in the air, “I need to find Derek.”
“Stiles,” Melissa warns.
“I need to find Derek.”
“And what good will that do if you crumple over from your injuries?” Melissa reprimands grabbing Stiles by the scruff of his shirt as he tries to walk past her and up the stairs. She leads him through an open door and makes him sit on the examination table.
Once she examines his head and is satisfied that there aren’t any serious injuries, Melissa tells him that she’s going to lift up his shirt to look at his injuries. Stiles looks down at where his stomach and chest is not exposed and is startled by the reddish-blue bruises that are scattered over his side. He’d felt a constant pain in his side but didn’t think there were any bruises, let alone that large of one.
“I need to check for internal bleeding,” Melissa informs him as her gloved hands gingerly touch his stomach, she presses down and Stiles winces in pain but she continues to do so. She asks him if he’s feeling weak, light-headed or if he’s thrown up. Stiles answers truthfully, that he’s tired but he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the injury as much as it has to do with his lack of sleep.
Melissa nods her head brining Stiles’ shirt back down to cover his bruises, she explains that if he vomits and sees blood, or if he pees and sees blood to come back quickly but other than that she thinks he’ll be fine and that there’s no internal bleeding.
“I know I can’t convince you to go home and get the rest you need,” Melissa sighs, “Derek should be upstairs.”
Stiles nods his head eagerly saying thanks and brings Melissa into a hug before he hops off the examination table and heading towards the stairs as fast as his legs will let him.
-
“I said I’m fine,” Derek grumbles to someone.
It doesn’t take Stiles long to follow that voice before he finds Derek lying down on a cool, metal table. He doesn’t bother to knock or announce himself, just barges in and gasps when he sees Derek’s injuries. His shirt is ripped into tatters, barely clinging to his body, there’s blood all over his chest, his hands, even his pants. There’s no way to tell whether it’s his owns or someone else’s. He also looks as pale as a ghost; the only colour is his greenish hazel eyes.
“Oh no you don’t,” Scott reprimands in the same way his mother did - like mother, like son. “I need to check your injuries and make sure you don’t have aconite poisoning. Stiles have you gotten looked at? If not, out!”
“I have,” Stiles nods his head as he walks over to where Derek’s laying, “you okay?” He can’t help but reach his hand out to touch Derek - but he doesn’t know where to put his hand, there’s just so much blood everywhere. He goes for Derek’s shoulder first, before he settles on Derek’s hand, who cares about the blood?
“Are you?” Derek counters taking Stiles’ hand in his own, his eyes tracking over Stiles as if he’s taking inventory. Stiles half expects Derek to start counting his fingers and toes. “What happened to your wrist?” Derek growls, trying to sit up only to be pushed back down by Scott.
“Oh, this?” Stiles says looking at his wrist, he’d completely forgotten about that. There’s a hand shaped red bruise wrapping around his wrist, he’d forgotten it was even there the pain hardly registering compared to his other injuries, “it was from Ian,” Derek lets out yet another growl but Stiles talks over him, “it was from when I was helping Scott, Ian got shot with a bullet with that magical werewolf drug, whatever the fuck that stuff is. But he didn’t mean to do it.”
Stiles stands there in silence as Derek lays on the table as Scott looks over him, content in just being near each other. Scott finally snaps the gloves off of his hand and tells Derek he’s free to go. Not that he needs to be told twice because he’s up and off the table in seconds ready to bolt out of the door. Stiles has to scramble after him.
“Are you going to go find Laura?” Stiles asks following him down the stairs.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Do you want to come back to mine and rest for a bit?” and Stiles really does mean rest because there’s no way he’s up for any sort of action at the minute as much as he might entertain the idea.
“No.”
“Then where are you going?”
“Listen I just need to clear my head for a minute,” Derek stops and sighs, not making any sort of eye contact at Stiles, he barely even looks in his direction. “You could have gotten hurt,” Derek mutters almost too quietly.
Stiles snorts before he can stop himself and Derek finally snaps his gaze towards Stiles. “It’s a little late to have this sort of realisation dawn on you Derek. It’s over now, you’re fine, and I’m fine.”
“Go home Stiles,” Derek sighs, “and get some rest.”
Stiles is about to object, reach out for Derek to stop him but Derek’s too fast and he’s running off in the direction of the village centre. Stiles may be pissed, but he’s also tired and in no mood to go traipsing around the village to find Derek, to only feel like he’s talking to a brick wall. Instead he heads back in the direction of his house, shedding out of his clothes, ignores the bruises on his body and crashes in bed. If anyone wants to find him, they won’t have to look very far - but they may have trouble trying to wake him.
-
The next time Stiles wakes up it’s after 3 in the afternoon and although he feels even more exhausted than before he can’t fall asleep again. He tosses around in his bed for a few minutes before he throws the covers off.
He turns the shower on, making sure it’s not too hot, tentatively stepping into the tub and washing his body, his hands careful over the bruises getting rid of any sweat and dirt lingering on his body. After his shower he strips the bed sheets even though it’ll get rid of the faint traces of Derek and shoves it in the washing machine before he dresses and is out the door.
There are people milling about in the centre, picking up pieces of garbage, shards of glass and other broken remnants and throwing them in a garbage bag. There’s a table set up near the gazebo with Luke behind it, a large coffee urn - the one he used at the Christmas party - set up as he hands out coffee and other snacks to the people cleaning up.
Stiles predictably finds Laura near the Town Hall, Boyd of course right at her side.
“Where’s Derek?” he asks.
“Somewhere around helping out,” Laura looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t expand.
“Oh. Well what can I do to help?” Stiles offers.
Boyd hands Stiles a black garbage bag and a pair of gloves, Stiles takes them putting on the latex gloves.
“You can help with the trash pickup,” Laura instructs, “Scott should be somewhere around here if you want to find him.”
“Got it,” Stiles nods as he walks off in any direction his eyes scanning for Scott. “Hey,” Stiles stops after he’s taken a few steps turning around to face Laura, “how is everyone? Were there any uh, casualties?”
“All of our people are fine and the only Verdun body was Gerard. Mostly everyone is just scraped and bruised,” Laura answers. Stiles nods his head and leaves.
Once he does find Scott, he doesn’t know how many hours they spend outside, freezing cold with only the smell of Luke’s coffee that’s any comfort as they help clean up. They don’t talk about anything of importance, just little bits to keep themselves entertained.
Stiles tries but fails not to let his eyes scan over the village square looking for Derek. He doesn’t see him anywhere in sight despite seeing most of the other residents.
-
Over the next few days Stiles still hasn’t heard from Derek, but he has seen him. In the days after the fight Laura has organized and ordered everything so that they can start to rebuild the broken parts of the village. New wood is ordered to fix up the barn, benches and gazebo flooring, sheets of glass for Luke’s diner, new lamp posts for the streets, and a bucket load of tools.
She groups everyone together, some to fix one thing or another, while some of the people that work at the school including Erica try and keep the kids entertained in the school by trying to get them back into their regular routine. Which is made up of lots of grumbles about having to go to school and having homework. Laura reminds the village that the sooner they get back into a normal routine the sooner everyone will stop being on edge.
“All I’m saying,” Stiles grumbles as he has a pair or work gloves on attempting to help lift the large sheet of glass with Scott, Luke and Kirk by his side, “is that Derek has been AWOL. I mean I get the village is in shambles and our relationship or lack thereof isn’t of the utmost importance but to completely avoid me is fucked.”
“To the left,” Luke barks as the whole group move the sheet of glass to the left as they try and slot the window into its rightful place. They’ve managed to move the car that crashed through the window, towing it to Gypsy’s. Right, Luke is the last person that wants to overhear any village gossip - he despises it all. But between all the work being done and how exhausted Stiles has been, he hasn’t had much time to see Scott.
“I hardly need to point out that Derek isn’t Mr Forthcoming,” Scott reminds Stiles.
“You’re right,” Stiles laughs, “have you spoken to Allison?” Stiles whispers to try and change the topic.
Scott grimace, shoos Stiles a few feet down as he picks up a broom and hands another to Stiles. They start to brush the sidewalk which doesn’t do much other than move the snow about making even more of a mess - but it makes them look busy at least.
“No, I haven’t tried calling or texting her though, and she hasn’t contacted me.”
“Well between the two of us, one of us needs to be happy and you’ve known Allison longer than I’ve known Derek so if you guys can’t make it work then all hope is abandoned.”
“You don’t come from a family of hunters,” Scott huffs pushing the broom onto Stiles’ boots as a joke, “and it doesn’t work like that, does it?”
“No, it really doesn’t,” Stiles sighs. He looks up from where he’d been pushing snow back and forth, across to the gazebo and he can see Derek. Derek’s looking at him, a hammer in hand before he looks away and starts to pound at a piece of wood in front of him, a little harder than probably strictly necessary.
Stiles props the broom up against the side of Luke’s Diner, taking one step off of the sidewalk and onto the road towards the gazebo when he sees Derek hand a piece of wood to one of the other guys and stalks off in the complete opposite direction of Stiles. So much for talking.
-
Stiles ends up seeing and talking to just about every other villager besides Derek. Luke’s diner has reopened for business and although things are still being rebuilt things are getting back to some sort of normalcy. People are crowding around the tables again, ordering coffee and pies and trying to move on. The rest of the gang are usually in the Diner, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Scott, Rory and Lane - but never Derek.
Every time Stiles steps into the diner his eyes scan the whole room, trying to see if maybe Derek’s huddled in a corner by himself, but he’s never there. The stupid thing about werewolf heightened senses is it makes it easier for Derek to hide or avoid Stiles, while Stiles flails about the village looking for him. The only thing stopping him from banging on the Hale house is he doesn’t want to disturb Laura - she has enough to deal with, without having to deal with her younger brother’s drama (again).
Stiles refuses to have some sort of inferiority complex, to second guess himself if Derek really does like him - he knows Derek does. He said as much in so many words the night the war started and Stiles know it wasn’t some sort of ‘I may die, let’s bone it out’ confession. It was an honest to God ‘I like you’ confession, no matter how begrudging it was for either of them to admit it.
So no, Stiles refuses to wallow and slip back into old habits where he doesn’t think he’s good enough. He likes Derek, he’s good enough for Derek just as Derek is good enough for him, and he fucking stuck around to fight a god damn war (albeit a short one) - if that doesn’t scream dedication, Stiles doesn’t know what does, short of a tattoo of course.
-
Stiles is in bed once again stalking his old friends Facebook pages and clicking through old photos late one night when he can’t fall asleep. He doesn’t do it to inflict pain on himself or anything, just out of plain curiosity. Before he knows it he’s scrolling through old photos on his own page and can’t help but smile when he sees photos of him and his dad.
There are older ones from his high school graduation, Stiles with his cap and gown on with that lopsided goofy grin, with his dad in his Sheriff’s uniform with an arm around Stiles with a huge smile like the proud father he is. There’s more from Stiles’ university graduation, much with the similar pose.
He clicks through to another album that’s of him and his father on a camping trip (the one and only time they did that), the tent in the background as Stiles tries and fails miserably to start the campfire. He can even remember hearing his dads laugh as Stiles muttered, swore and managed to burn his finger in the process. He remembers mentioning it to his father, taking off a few days from work so they could go. He remembers it was after a particular hard case for his father involving one drug gang or another that led to a shoot-out. It had made headlines in the Beacon Hills newspapers and surrounding towns - because since when was little old sleepy Beacon Hills known for drug gangs?
The rivalry turned into a shootout on the main street of Beacon Hills and Stiles’ father ended up having to shoot one of the gang members who refused to put his weapon down, flailing his gun about like he was going to shoot. The gang member died instantly, falling to the ground in front of dozens of onlookers who didn’t know better than to get the hell away from the danger. Stiles had even been there, home for the weekend from university. Blood had started pouring out of his body, the rest of the gang members were arrested, the deceased one put into a body bag and taken to the coroner’s office.
Despite Stiles’ father being the sheriff, it didn’t mean that he fired his gun at men every other day. He didn’t live in a big city like New York or LA; they hardly had much use to shoot their guns, only dealing with petty crimes, some murders but no shootouts. Until that one afternoon. It had hit Stiles’ father rather hard, he had to give his statement, go through a review of what happened to make sure it was all up to standard practice - but at home he was depressed, feeling down on himself, going on about how there had to have been another way.
Stiles had tried to reassure his father that he did the right thing, had the sheriff not shot the gunmen then he could have fired his gun and shot an innocent bystander, hell he could have shot Stiles. That’s when Stiles convinced his dad to go on the camping trip, it eventually helped bring him out of his funk and return to work, back to the sheriff’s office.
He sits up with a jolt, his laptop tumbling off of his stomach where it was resting, now lopsided on the bed when it hits him. How could it have taken Stiles so long to figure out? He looks at the clock, sees its past 1am but he doesn’t care. He pulls on a pair of track pants over his boxers, throws a sweater on and is out the door running towards the Hale house.
-
He stumbles up the steps to the Hale house and starts to bang on the door. He doesn’t see any visible lights on, on the main floor or upstairs.
“Derek,” he knocks, “c’mon I know you’re in there,” he bangs on the door that little bit harder.
The door flies open to reveal one very angry looking Laura in a sleep dress with a robe on. Her eyes flash red and Stiles takes a tentative step back, he should have thought his plan through. Derek does live with his sister after all.
“It’s 1:30 in the morning Stiles,” she growls.
“I need to talk to him,” Stiles hesitates, “he’s been avoiding me. Has he been avoiding me because he wants to or was he persuaded by someone else?” Stiles folds his arms over his chest to look at Laura. He knows Laura probably only has to flash her eyes again, step a foot forwards and it would be enough to intimidate Stiles. He knows Laura was sceptical about Stiles, about Stiles and Derek. But considering everything that could have gone wrong has already gone wrong, well.
“It’s your head,” she sighs stepping to the side to let Stiles in. Once Stiles is in, stomping the snow off his boots and taking them off, she shuts the door and heads back upstairs.
Stiles doesn’t actually even know where Derek’s room is; only ever been on the main floor. But Laura waves her hand at a closed door and continues on down the hallway shutting her own door with a bang.
“I’m coming in,” Stiles knocks on the door once before he turns the doorknob. He’s amazed that the door doesn’t slam back right in his face like the high schooler that Derek’s been acting like lately, but at least Stiles knows why.
He walks in, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, the only light illuminating the room is the moon. He sees a lump on the bed, with the covers pulled right over Derek’s head. That is not enough to get Stiles to leave.
“Go away,” he hears Derek mutter from under the covers.
That isn’t enough to get Stiles to leave either.
“So, you’re pretty lucky that I’m not stupid or self-deprecating enough to think that you avoiding me is about me, and not you,” Stiles speaks over Derek as he wanders around Derek’s room, his hands tracing over things, the wardrobe, a picture frame, the tarot cards Stiles bought him. Stiles can’t help but smile at that, as he picks up the cards turning them over in his hands.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Gerard.”
Derek throws the covers off of himself to sit up, looking at Stiles; his eyes flash their light blue before returning to their normal colour.
“Now you really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek growls.
Stiles shrugs, leans against the dresser putting the cards back exactly where he found them.
“I’m a cop’s kid.”
“So?”
“So,” Stiles drawls out, “I’m a cop’s kid from a small town, clearly not as small as Wulfstan, but you know. Anyway, not a lot of high crime happens in Beacon Hills, so when an officer has to kill someone, it leaves an impact, a pretty lasting impression.”
Derek blinks at him, not daring to move the only other movement is him flexing his toes, not daring to say anything.
“That was your first time killing someone Derek,” Stiles sighs and it’s not a question.
“I’m a werewolf.”
“Hear me roar,” Stiles mutters before he pushes himself off of the dresser and walks towards Derek’s bed. He sits at the end and it’s a small blessing that Derek doesn’t growl or tell him to move. “To my knowledge,” Stiles continues, “wolves don’t hunt unless necessary, like for food, not just for sport.”
“We’re not-”
“Now, you’re going to tell me you’re not an actual wolf,” Stiles cuts over Derek trying to speak, “but go with me here, considering a few weeks ago I thought this shit was just make believe. What were the alternatives here? Call the police, because sure they won’t throw all of Wulfstan, myself included into a psych ward when you start blabbing about werewolves, not to mention you wouldn’t reveal the village secret. Let Gerard live and somehow he still manages to call the shots?”
Derek doesn’t answer him, just swallows his Adam’s apple bobbing. Stiles sighs and rests his hand on Derek’s ankle, running his fingers through Derek’s leg hair for nothing other than a distraction. Although it seems to work because Derek visibly sighs, leaning back against the headboard.
“My father killed someone,” Stiles tells him as he goes on to retell the story to Derek about the drug gangs.
“Your father is the sheriff through,” Derek tells him, “was the sheriff, sorry,” he corrects himself.
“It’s okay,” Stiles assure Derek, “and it’s not like you guys even have a police station here, right? So you guys are basically self-policed same thing, right? It was a matter of kill or be killed and not just you, you big oaf of a martyr but everyone else in the village. Erica, all the kids, Isaac, need I go on?”
“It doesn’t freak you out, what I did?” Derek asks looking at Stiles with such large, innocent eyes that Stiles’ heart clenches a little. His hand tightens on Derek’s ankle, “it should.”
“Initially yeah,” Stiles admits, “not the you killing part, just the concept of killing and how Laura seemed to talk about it with such ease. But hearing it and living it are two completely different things. When it came down to it, when I saw the fire, those bombs, it all changed. The only concern I had was to survive, and if that means to kill, then so be it.”
Derek closes his eyes, letting his head thump against the headboard as he takes slow, even breaths. Stiles crawls up the bed to sit beside Derek, his hand patting on Derek’s thigh.
“Hey, you believe me don’t you?” Stiles asks.
“Yes,” Derek answers not opening his eyes but his large hand covers over where Stiles’ hand is on his thigh giving it a squeeze.
“Good, now can we pass out, please?” Stiles asks wiggling out of his track pants and chucking them on the floor. Derek’s eyes suddenly fly open at the movement, to watch Stiles undress. He watches as Stiles lifts the sweater over his head.
Stiles can hear Derek gasp, when the sweater is over his head and he drops it on the floor. Derek’s seen the bruises.
Derek’s hand reaches around to cup Stiles’ face, so that they’re facing each other. He leans forward, opening his mouth to kiss Stiles. Stiles can feel Derek’s hand brushing against Stiles’ cheek as Stiles opens his mouth in return. He groans and Derek is suddenly pulling Stiles down so he’s on his back, as Derek hovers over him. His mouth is back on Stiles like he can’t bear to break any sort of contact.
He runs his mouth across Stiles’ cheek, up to his earlobe as he nibbles on it and Stiles can’t help but let out a full out groan. Derek continues his path, running his mouth down Stiles’ jaw, nipping as he goes. He feels Stiles’ hand snake into his hair and before he knows it, Derek’s on his back and Stiles is on top, straddling Derek’s thighs.
Derek lets out a huff, because hey werewolf strength and he’s at the disadvantage. Stiles settles himself on Derek’s thighs, just content to look at Derek.
Derek can’t help but let his eyes track down to the bruises across Stiles’ sides and stomach; they’re turning that ugly black-ish blue. He gingerly runs his fingers across the bruises careful not to prod or poke, just to feel. He runs his hands up Stiles’ chest, touching like he’s making sure Stiles is all in one piece, not a figment of his imagination about to disappear. He takes Stiles’ hand to look at the bruise wrapped around his wrist, turning his hand over and over, looking.
“They’re just bruises,” Stiles shrugs on top of him, “they’ll fade.”
And they will, they’ll fade, cease to exist anymore and in a few weeks or months Stiles will forget they’ve ever been there. The pain he felt when he got them, when he moves to stretch or walk will be a distant memory. But the bruises Derek carry the bruises that aren’t visible - those are the ones that hurt the most. Those are the ones that never heal, they’re the kind that you can’t see, can’t poke to feel the physical pain. Instead it’s emotional pain, something that never really fades or leaves.
Stiles leans forwards, kisses Derek’s forehead, runs his mouth down and kisses the tip of Derek’s nose, farther down to peck at his lips. He continues his path down, kissing every part that his mouth can reach, his neck, his pecks, his sternum, his stomach, and his hips. It’s not about sex, it’s not about who can reach their orgasm first, who can please who the most. It’s about showing that you care, that you understand without having to speak any words. His hands run across the same path that his mouth wanders and he can feel Derek shaking beneath him, feel his startled, ragged breaths, the way his abs shake, his legs shake like he’s trying not to fall apart completely.
Stiles wants to show Derek that it’s okay, it’s okay to fall apart because Stiles will be there to put the pieces back together, will always be there to put the pieces back together.
Derek thinks that maybe Stiles was a necessary evil, the kind that doesn’t want information for subterfuge - not like, her. The kind of evil that brings out all his insecurities and fears but not to laugh or mock but to show that it’s okay, it’s acceptable and normal. The kind that makes you reopen old wounds, pry the stiches apart so that you can learn from your mistakes, move on. Move on without being held back like a ship moored, anchor dropped.
Stiles settles back on his side of the bed lying on his side as he rearranges Derek so that Derek is the little spoon the curve of his ass fitting perfectly with Stiles’ groin, their legs tangled together. His hand runs up and down Derek’s bare chest, soothing.
“You’re not just a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Stiles whispers against the back of Derek’s neck as they fall asleep.
Summary: Stiles accepts a new job (thanks to Mayor Laura Hale), in a new town and inadvertently starts a war, but it’s not his fault. Honestly.
Warnings: None
Rating: Mature
Chapters: 14/?
Notes: I swore up, down and whatever other direction that I wouldn’t post another WIP, yet here it is! I just feel like I’m more motivated to work harder once I’ve posted.
PS AO3
1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7|8| 9| 10|11| 12| 13|
-
“Derek?” Laura calls into the walkie-talkie, there’s no answer.
“Derek?” Stiles whispers into his walkie-talkie. Just because the line went dead doesn’t mean it’s a good sign. Derek may be the one that’s injured, not Gerard.
Stiles starts to panic, his heart rate speeding up and it feels like his chest is tightening, closing in around him. Any pain he felt, from his head, his sides disappear when the only thing he can think about is Derek. If Derek’s hurt and Gerard isn’t dead (Stiles doesn’t stop long enough to think too in depth about that - his morals and ethics seem to have long since vanished) which means that he may be attacking the rest of the village. Stiles’ mind wanders to Scott and Melissa, Isaac, Boyd even Erica.
He feels a firm grip on his shoulder, anchoring him to the present time and not let his mind wander. It’s Luke.
“’m here,” Derek’s voice cackles through the speaker and Stiles sags in relief against Luke. Luke doesn’t even grunt or complain just lets Stiles leans on him, supporting him. He sees Laura, in front of him is relieved as well but she doesn’t have the luxury of sagging against anyone, or have anyone support her - she’s still got her gun pointed at the Verdun people.
“You can leave now,” Chris speaks rather dryly his hand still crossed over his chest.
There are a few protests from some of the people behind him, some of his residents and neighbours but he shoots them a glance that screams ‘don’t fuck with me, not now,’ before he looks back at Laura.
“I didn’t know about Gerard’s plans, what he planned to do to my sister,” Chris’ eyes harden at that, angry, “I didn’t know what you did to my sister. But I also didn’t know what Kate did. I’ve had every intention of agreeing and living to the treaty that was signed all those years ago.”
“And now?” Laura questions.
“If you’re asking if I plan on attacking your village anytime soon, I’m not,” Chris cracks, “you have your village and people to attend to, and I have my own town and people to attend to. Let my people come back unharmed and for now we’ll go on as the previous treaty was signed until we’re able to come to an agreement.”
“Let’s go,” Laura nods her head towards the other werewolves and Stiles. She turns around to walk away, the other werewolves not turning their backs, watching the Verdun people as if they expect them to start shooting, raining down bullets at any minute.
“Oh and Hale?” Chris calls, Laura turns around before he speaks again, “My daughter and that McCall kid is not happening.”
Laura actually snorts, surprised that she can even find any sort of humour in any of this, “easier said than done.”
-
The group don’t have to walk back through any more tunnels, taking twists and turns in the dampness of the underground. It’s starting to get lighter outside now, dawn is soon arriving and Stiles can’t even remember when he last slept. He doesn’t really pay attention but he can hear the rest of the pack, mainly Laura talking about how they can hear the Verdun residents trekking back through the woods to their property. They take a different route so their paths don’t cross.
Although the Verdun residents are going back to their town in defeat, it doesn’t mean they’re not on edge and blame Wulfstan for the death of Gerard. Even though Chris is presumably the new leader of Verdun, he may not have had time to talk to them, explain everything or however he plans to handle the situation. The last thing they need is a mini-war on their hands in the middle of the forest, when it’s supposed to be over, done and dusted with.
“Oh my God,” Stiles breaths when he steps back into Wulfstan, and he feels as if he’s coming home. It should be a scary though, that he loves this place so much after growing up in Beacon Hills, surrounded by his friends and family. But now Wulfstan has become his home and family, not pseudo-family or home. “It looks like an actual war zone.”
The barn fire is out but it’s charred black, little gold embers still flying around in the smoke from the fire. It smells like burning wood and varnish, not the relaxing smell of a fire burning in the fireplace. Windows of various stores are broken, lamp posts knocked over, benches broken in half or threatening to wobble over at any minute. There’s a large gaping hole on the floor in the middle of the gazebo at the centre of the village. Somehow, there’s even a car rammed right through the window at the diner, the ‘Luke’s Diner’ sign unhinged from where it used to be, swinging back and forth.
“Dammit,” Luke mutters angrily when he sees his establishment, taking in the rest of the town, “we should have attacked first, been on the offence,” he says to no one in particular.
“Not now,” Laura sighs, “we can’t get down each other’s throats, now is the time we’re supposed to be working together.”
Stiles doesn’t listen to the rest of Laura’s speech, he finds himself wandering in the direction of the doctor’s office. He doesn’t know where Derek is, hopes he’s there - but he’s not going to start running around the village screaming Derek’s name as much as he might want to.
He walks into the doctor’s office and it’s not as busy as he thought it would, he thought there’d be more people rushing about, tending to people to patch them all up but he supposes it’s a good sign that there’s aren’t many people, maybe that means everyone is okay, or going to be okay.
He sees Melissa look up from where she’s just emerged from the supply closet carrying a bunch of medical supplies and she visibly sighs, her eyes lighting up.
“Stiles sweetie, thank God! Are you okay? You look a little pale; let me take a look at you.”
“I’m fine,” Stiles mumbles waving his hand in the air, “I need to find Derek.”
“Stiles,” Melissa warns.
“I need to find Derek.”
“And what good will that do if you crumple over from your injuries?” Melissa reprimands grabbing Stiles by the scruff of his shirt as he tries to walk past her and up the stairs. She leads him through an open door and makes him sit on the examination table.
Once she examines his head and is satisfied that there aren’t any serious injuries, Melissa tells him that she’s going to lift up his shirt to look at his injuries. Stiles looks down at where his stomach and chest is not exposed and is startled by the reddish-blue bruises that are scattered over his side. He’d felt a constant pain in his side but didn’t think there were any bruises, let alone that large of one.
“I need to check for internal bleeding,” Melissa informs him as her gloved hands gingerly touch his stomach, she presses down and Stiles winces in pain but she continues to do so. She asks him if he’s feeling weak, light-headed or if he’s thrown up. Stiles answers truthfully, that he’s tired but he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the injury as much as it has to do with his lack of sleep.
Melissa nods her head brining Stiles’ shirt back down to cover his bruises, she explains that if he vomits and sees blood, or if he pees and sees blood to come back quickly but other than that she thinks he’ll be fine and that there’s no internal bleeding.
“I know I can’t convince you to go home and get the rest you need,” Melissa sighs, “Derek should be upstairs.”
Stiles nods his head eagerly saying thanks and brings Melissa into a hug before he hops off the examination table and heading towards the stairs as fast as his legs will let him.
-
“I said I’m fine,” Derek grumbles to someone.
It doesn’t take Stiles long to follow that voice before he finds Derek lying down on a cool, metal table. He doesn’t bother to knock or announce himself, just barges in and gasps when he sees Derek’s injuries. His shirt is ripped into tatters, barely clinging to his body, there’s blood all over his chest, his hands, even his pants. There’s no way to tell whether it’s his owns or someone else’s. He also looks as pale as a ghost; the only colour is his greenish hazel eyes.
“Oh no you don’t,” Scott reprimands in the same way his mother did - like mother, like son. “I need to check your injuries and make sure you don’t have aconite poisoning. Stiles have you gotten looked at? If not, out!”
“I have,” Stiles nods his head as he walks over to where Derek’s laying, “you okay?” He can’t help but reach his hand out to touch Derek - but he doesn’t know where to put his hand, there’s just so much blood everywhere. He goes for Derek’s shoulder first, before he settles on Derek’s hand, who cares about the blood?
“Are you?” Derek counters taking Stiles’ hand in his own, his eyes tracking over Stiles as if he’s taking inventory. Stiles half expects Derek to start counting his fingers and toes. “What happened to your wrist?” Derek growls, trying to sit up only to be pushed back down by Scott.
“Oh, this?” Stiles says looking at his wrist, he’d completely forgotten about that. There’s a hand shaped red bruise wrapping around his wrist, he’d forgotten it was even there the pain hardly registering compared to his other injuries, “it was from Ian,” Derek lets out yet another growl but Stiles talks over him, “it was from when I was helping Scott, Ian got shot with a bullet with that magical werewolf drug, whatever the fuck that stuff is. But he didn’t mean to do it.”
Stiles stands there in silence as Derek lays on the table as Scott looks over him, content in just being near each other. Scott finally snaps the gloves off of his hand and tells Derek he’s free to go. Not that he needs to be told twice because he’s up and off the table in seconds ready to bolt out of the door. Stiles has to scramble after him.
“Are you going to go find Laura?” Stiles asks following him down the stairs.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Do you want to come back to mine and rest for a bit?” and Stiles really does mean rest because there’s no way he’s up for any sort of action at the minute as much as he might entertain the idea.
“No.”
“Then where are you going?”
“Listen I just need to clear my head for a minute,” Derek stops and sighs, not making any sort of eye contact at Stiles, he barely even looks in his direction. “You could have gotten hurt,” Derek mutters almost too quietly.
Stiles snorts before he can stop himself and Derek finally snaps his gaze towards Stiles. “It’s a little late to have this sort of realisation dawn on you Derek. It’s over now, you’re fine, and I’m fine.”
“Go home Stiles,” Derek sighs, “and get some rest.”
Stiles is about to object, reach out for Derek to stop him but Derek’s too fast and he’s running off in the direction of the village centre. Stiles may be pissed, but he’s also tired and in no mood to go traipsing around the village to find Derek, to only feel like he’s talking to a brick wall. Instead he heads back in the direction of his house, shedding out of his clothes, ignores the bruises on his body and crashes in bed. If anyone wants to find him, they won’t have to look very far - but they may have trouble trying to wake him.
-
The next time Stiles wakes up it’s after 3 in the afternoon and although he feels even more exhausted than before he can’t fall asleep again. He tosses around in his bed for a few minutes before he throws the covers off.
He turns the shower on, making sure it’s not too hot, tentatively stepping into the tub and washing his body, his hands careful over the bruises getting rid of any sweat and dirt lingering on his body. After his shower he strips the bed sheets even though it’ll get rid of the faint traces of Derek and shoves it in the washing machine before he dresses and is out the door.
There are people milling about in the centre, picking up pieces of garbage, shards of glass and other broken remnants and throwing them in a garbage bag. There’s a table set up near the gazebo with Luke behind it, a large coffee urn - the one he used at the Christmas party - set up as he hands out coffee and other snacks to the people cleaning up.
Stiles predictably finds Laura near the Town Hall, Boyd of course right at her side.
“Where’s Derek?” he asks.
“Somewhere around helping out,” Laura looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t expand.
“Oh. Well what can I do to help?” Stiles offers.
Boyd hands Stiles a black garbage bag and a pair of gloves, Stiles takes them putting on the latex gloves.
“You can help with the trash pickup,” Laura instructs, “Scott should be somewhere around here if you want to find him.”
“Got it,” Stiles nods as he walks off in any direction his eyes scanning for Scott. “Hey,” Stiles stops after he’s taken a few steps turning around to face Laura, “how is everyone? Were there any uh, casualties?”
“All of our people are fine and the only Verdun body was Gerard. Mostly everyone is just scraped and bruised,” Laura answers. Stiles nods his head and leaves.
Once he does find Scott, he doesn’t know how many hours they spend outside, freezing cold with only the smell of Luke’s coffee that’s any comfort as they help clean up. They don’t talk about anything of importance, just little bits to keep themselves entertained.
Stiles tries but fails not to let his eyes scan over the village square looking for Derek. He doesn’t see him anywhere in sight despite seeing most of the other residents.
-
Over the next few days Stiles still hasn’t heard from Derek, but he has seen him. In the days after the fight Laura has organized and ordered everything so that they can start to rebuild the broken parts of the village. New wood is ordered to fix up the barn, benches and gazebo flooring, sheets of glass for Luke’s diner, new lamp posts for the streets, and a bucket load of tools.
She groups everyone together, some to fix one thing or another, while some of the people that work at the school including Erica try and keep the kids entertained in the school by trying to get them back into their regular routine. Which is made up of lots of grumbles about having to go to school and having homework. Laura reminds the village that the sooner they get back into a normal routine the sooner everyone will stop being on edge.
“All I’m saying,” Stiles grumbles as he has a pair or work gloves on attempting to help lift the large sheet of glass with Scott, Luke and Kirk by his side, “is that Derek has been AWOL. I mean I get the village is in shambles and our relationship or lack thereof isn’t of the utmost importance but to completely avoid me is fucked.”
“To the left,” Luke barks as the whole group move the sheet of glass to the left as they try and slot the window into its rightful place. They’ve managed to move the car that crashed through the window, towing it to Gypsy’s. Right, Luke is the last person that wants to overhear any village gossip - he despises it all. But between all the work being done and how exhausted Stiles has been, he hasn’t had much time to see Scott.
“I hardly need to point out that Derek isn’t Mr Forthcoming,” Scott reminds Stiles.
“You’re right,” Stiles laughs, “have you spoken to Allison?” Stiles whispers to try and change the topic.
Scott grimace, shoos Stiles a few feet down as he picks up a broom and hands another to Stiles. They start to brush the sidewalk which doesn’t do much other than move the snow about making even more of a mess - but it makes them look busy at least.
“No, I haven’t tried calling or texting her though, and she hasn’t contacted me.”
“Well between the two of us, one of us needs to be happy and you’ve known Allison longer than I’ve known Derek so if you guys can’t make it work then all hope is abandoned.”
“You don’t come from a family of hunters,” Scott huffs pushing the broom onto Stiles’ boots as a joke, “and it doesn’t work like that, does it?”
“No, it really doesn’t,” Stiles sighs. He looks up from where he’d been pushing snow back and forth, across to the gazebo and he can see Derek. Derek’s looking at him, a hammer in hand before he looks away and starts to pound at a piece of wood in front of him, a little harder than probably strictly necessary.
Stiles props the broom up against the side of Luke’s Diner, taking one step off of the sidewalk and onto the road towards the gazebo when he sees Derek hand a piece of wood to one of the other guys and stalks off in the complete opposite direction of Stiles. So much for talking.
-
Stiles ends up seeing and talking to just about every other villager besides Derek. Luke’s diner has reopened for business and although things are still being rebuilt things are getting back to some sort of normalcy. People are crowding around the tables again, ordering coffee and pies and trying to move on. The rest of the gang are usually in the Diner, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Scott, Rory and Lane - but never Derek.
Every time Stiles steps into the diner his eyes scan the whole room, trying to see if maybe Derek’s huddled in a corner by himself, but he’s never there. The stupid thing about werewolf heightened senses is it makes it easier for Derek to hide or avoid Stiles, while Stiles flails about the village looking for him. The only thing stopping him from banging on the Hale house is he doesn’t want to disturb Laura - she has enough to deal with, without having to deal with her younger brother’s drama (again).
Stiles refuses to have some sort of inferiority complex, to second guess himself if Derek really does like him - he knows Derek does. He said as much in so many words the night the war started and Stiles know it wasn’t some sort of ‘I may die, let’s bone it out’ confession. It was an honest to God ‘I like you’ confession, no matter how begrudging it was for either of them to admit it.
So no, Stiles refuses to wallow and slip back into old habits where he doesn’t think he’s good enough. He likes Derek, he’s good enough for Derek just as Derek is good enough for him, and he fucking stuck around to fight a god damn war (albeit a short one) - if that doesn’t scream dedication, Stiles doesn’t know what does, short of a tattoo of course.
-
Stiles is in bed once again stalking his old friends Facebook pages and clicking through old photos late one night when he can’t fall asleep. He doesn’t do it to inflict pain on himself or anything, just out of plain curiosity. Before he knows it he’s scrolling through old photos on his own page and can’t help but smile when he sees photos of him and his dad.
There are older ones from his high school graduation, Stiles with his cap and gown on with that lopsided goofy grin, with his dad in his Sheriff’s uniform with an arm around Stiles with a huge smile like the proud father he is. There’s more from Stiles’ university graduation, much with the similar pose.
He clicks through to another album that’s of him and his father on a camping trip (the one and only time they did that), the tent in the background as Stiles tries and fails miserably to start the campfire. He can even remember hearing his dads laugh as Stiles muttered, swore and managed to burn his finger in the process. He remembers mentioning it to his father, taking off a few days from work so they could go. He remembers it was after a particular hard case for his father involving one drug gang or another that led to a shoot-out. It had made headlines in the Beacon Hills newspapers and surrounding towns - because since when was little old sleepy Beacon Hills known for drug gangs?
The rivalry turned into a shootout on the main street of Beacon Hills and Stiles’ father ended up having to shoot one of the gang members who refused to put his weapon down, flailing his gun about like he was going to shoot. The gang member died instantly, falling to the ground in front of dozens of onlookers who didn’t know better than to get the hell away from the danger. Stiles had even been there, home for the weekend from university. Blood had started pouring out of his body, the rest of the gang members were arrested, the deceased one put into a body bag and taken to the coroner’s office.
Despite Stiles’ father being the sheriff, it didn’t mean that he fired his gun at men every other day. He didn’t live in a big city like New York or LA; they hardly had much use to shoot their guns, only dealing with petty crimes, some murders but no shootouts. Until that one afternoon. It had hit Stiles’ father rather hard, he had to give his statement, go through a review of what happened to make sure it was all up to standard practice - but at home he was depressed, feeling down on himself, going on about how there had to have been another way.
Stiles had tried to reassure his father that he did the right thing, had the sheriff not shot the gunmen then he could have fired his gun and shot an innocent bystander, hell he could have shot Stiles. That’s when Stiles convinced his dad to go on the camping trip, it eventually helped bring him out of his funk and return to work, back to the sheriff’s office.
He sits up with a jolt, his laptop tumbling off of his stomach where it was resting, now lopsided on the bed when it hits him. How could it have taken Stiles so long to figure out? He looks at the clock, sees its past 1am but he doesn’t care. He pulls on a pair of track pants over his boxers, throws a sweater on and is out the door running towards the Hale house.
-
He stumbles up the steps to the Hale house and starts to bang on the door. He doesn’t see any visible lights on, on the main floor or upstairs.
“Derek,” he knocks, “c’mon I know you’re in there,” he bangs on the door that little bit harder.
The door flies open to reveal one very angry looking Laura in a sleep dress with a robe on. Her eyes flash red and Stiles takes a tentative step back, he should have thought his plan through. Derek does live with his sister after all.
“It’s 1:30 in the morning Stiles,” she growls.
“I need to talk to him,” Stiles hesitates, “he’s been avoiding me. Has he been avoiding me because he wants to or was he persuaded by someone else?” Stiles folds his arms over his chest to look at Laura. He knows Laura probably only has to flash her eyes again, step a foot forwards and it would be enough to intimidate Stiles. He knows Laura was sceptical about Stiles, about Stiles and Derek. But considering everything that could have gone wrong has already gone wrong, well.
“It’s your head,” she sighs stepping to the side to let Stiles in. Once Stiles is in, stomping the snow off his boots and taking them off, she shuts the door and heads back upstairs.
Stiles doesn’t actually even know where Derek’s room is; only ever been on the main floor. But Laura waves her hand at a closed door and continues on down the hallway shutting her own door with a bang.
“I’m coming in,” Stiles knocks on the door once before he turns the doorknob. He’s amazed that the door doesn’t slam back right in his face like the high schooler that Derek’s been acting like lately, but at least Stiles knows why.
He walks in, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, the only light illuminating the room is the moon. He sees a lump on the bed, with the covers pulled right over Derek’s head. That is not enough to get Stiles to leave.
“Go away,” he hears Derek mutter from under the covers.
That isn’t enough to get Stiles to leave either.
“So, you’re pretty lucky that I’m not stupid or self-deprecating enough to think that you avoiding me is about me, and not you,” Stiles speaks over Derek as he wanders around Derek’s room, his hands tracing over things, the wardrobe, a picture frame, the tarot cards Stiles bought him. Stiles can’t help but smile at that, as he picks up the cards turning them over in his hands.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Gerard.”
Derek throws the covers off of himself to sit up, looking at Stiles; his eyes flash their light blue before returning to their normal colour.
“Now you really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek growls.
Stiles shrugs, leans against the dresser putting the cards back exactly where he found them.
“I’m a cop’s kid.”
“So?”
“So,” Stiles drawls out, “I’m a cop’s kid from a small town, clearly not as small as Wulfstan, but you know. Anyway, not a lot of high crime happens in Beacon Hills, so when an officer has to kill someone, it leaves an impact, a pretty lasting impression.”
Derek blinks at him, not daring to move the only other movement is him flexing his toes, not daring to say anything.
“That was your first time killing someone Derek,” Stiles sighs and it’s not a question.
“I’m a werewolf.”
“Hear me roar,” Stiles mutters before he pushes himself off of the dresser and walks towards Derek’s bed. He sits at the end and it’s a small blessing that Derek doesn’t growl or tell him to move. “To my knowledge,” Stiles continues, “wolves don’t hunt unless necessary, like for food, not just for sport.”
“We’re not-”
“Now, you’re going to tell me you’re not an actual wolf,” Stiles cuts over Derek trying to speak, “but go with me here, considering a few weeks ago I thought this shit was just make believe. What were the alternatives here? Call the police, because sure they won’t throw all of Wulfstan, myself included into a psych ward when you start blabbing about werewolves, not to mention you wouldn’t reveal the village secret. Let Gerard live and somehow he still manages to call the shots?”
Derek doesn’t answer him, just swallows his Adam’s apple bobbing. Stiles sighs and rests his hand on Derek’s ankle, running his fingers through Derek’s leg hair for nothing other than a distraction. Although it seems to work because Derek visibly sighs, leaning back against the headboard.
“My father killed someone,” Stiles tells him as he goes on to retell the story to Derek about the drug gangs.
“Your father is the sheriff through,” Derek tells him, “was the sheriff, sorry,” he corrects himself.
“It’s okay,” Stiles assure Derek, “and it’s not like you guys even have a police station here, right? So you guys are basically self-policed same thing, right? It was a matter of kill or be killed and not just you, you big oaf of a martyr but everyone else in the village. Erica, all the kids, Isaac, need I go on?”
“It doesn’t freak you out, what I did?” Derek asks looking at Stiles with such large, innocent eyes that Stiles’ heart clenches a little. His hand tightens on Derek’s ankle, “it should.”
“Initially yeah,” Stiles admits, “not the you killing part, just the concept of killing and how Laura seemed to talk about it with such ease. But hearing it and living it are two completely different things. When it came down to it, when I saw the fire, those bombs, it all changed. The only concern I had was to survive, and if that means to kill, then so be it.”
Derek closes his eyes, letting his head thump against the headboard as he takes slow, even breaths. Stiles crawls up the bed to sit beside Derek, his hand patting on Derek’s thigh.
“Hey, you believe me don’t you?” Stiles asks.
“Yes,” Derek answers not opening his eyes but his large hand covers over where Stiles’ hand is on his thigh giving it a squeeze.
“Good, now can we pass out, please?” Stiles asks wiggling out of his track pants and chucking them on the floor. Derek’s eyes suddenly fly open at the movement, to watch Stiles undress. He watches as Stiles lifts the sweater over his head.
Stiles can hear Derek gasp, when the sweater is over his head and he drops it on the floor. Derek’s seen the bruises.
Derek’s hand reaches around to cup Stiles’ face, so that they’re facing each other. He leans forward, opening his mouth to kiss Stiles. Stiles can feel Derek’s hand brushing against Stiles’ cheek as Stiles opens his mouth in return. He groans and Derek is suddenly pulling Stiles down so he’s on his back, as Derek hovers over him. His mouth is back on Stiles like he can’t bear to break any sort of contact.
He runs his mouth across Stiles’ cheek, up to his earlobe as he nibbles on it and Stiles can’t help but let out a full out groan. Derek continues his path, running his mouth down Stiles’ jaw, nipping as he goes. He feels Stiles’ hand snake into his hair and before he knows it, Derek’s on his back and Stiles is on top, straddling Derek’s thighs.
Derek lets out a huff, because hey werewolf strength and he’s at the disadvantage. Stiles settles himself on Derek’s thighs, just content to look at Derek.
Derek can’t help but let his eyes track down to the bruises across Stiles’ sides and stomach; they’re turning that ugly black-ish blue. He gingerly runs his fingers across the bruises careful not to prod or poke, just to feel. He runs his hands up Stiles’ chest, touching like he’s making sure Stiles is all in one piece, not a figment of his imagination about to disappear. He takes Stiles’ hand to look at the bruise wrapped around his wrist, turning his hand over and over, looking.
“They’re just bruises,” Stiles shrugs on top of him, “they’ll fade.”
And they will, they’ll fade, cease to exist anymore and in a few weeks or months Stiles will forget they’ve ever been there. The pain he felt when he got them, when he moves to stretch or walk will be a distant memory. But the bruises Derek carry the bruises that aren’t visible - those are the ones that hurt the most. Those are the ones that never heal, they’re the kind that you can’t see, can’t poke to feel the physical pain. Instead it’s emotional pain, something that never really fades or leaves.
Stiles leans forwards, kisses Derek’s forehead, runs his mouth down and kisses the tip of Derek’s nose, farther down to peck at his lips. He continues his path down, kissing every part that his mouth can reach, his neck, his pecks, his sternum, his stomach, and his hips. It’s not about sex, it’s not about who can reach their orgasm first, who can please who the most. It’s about showing that you care, that you understand without having to speak any words. His hands run across the same path that his mouth wanders and he can feel Derek shaking beneath him, feel his startled, ragged breaths, the way his abs shake, his legs shake like he’s trying not to fall apart completely.
Stiles wants to show Derek that it’s okay, it’s okay to fall apart because Stiles will be there to put the pieces back together, will always be there to put the pieces back together.
Derek thinks that maybe Stiles was a necessary evil, the kind that doesn’t want information for subterfuge - not like, her. The kind of evil that brings out all his insecurities and fears but not to laugh or mock but to show that it’s okay, it’s acceptable and normal. The kind that makes you reopen old wounds, pry the stiches apart so that you can learn from your mistakes, move on. Move on without being held back like a ship moored, anchor dropped.
Stiles settles back on his side of the bed lying on his side as he rearranges Derek so that Derek is the little spoon the curve of his ass fitting perfectly with Stiles’ groin, their legs tangled together. His hand runs up and down Derek’s bare chest, soothing.
“You’re not just a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Stiles whispers against the back of Derek’s neck as they fall asleep.