Chapter Text
They spend their next date wandering around the park, eating ice cream from one of the ice cream vendors in town; Stiles gets one scoop cookie dough and one scoop strawberry, Derek gets chocolate. Because he’s boring.
After finishing up the ice creams, they end up on one of the benches in one of the more secluded areas (aka the college make out spot during the beginning of the fall and end of the spring semesters), Stiles prattling away about his research because he likes his research and because Derek always looks interested, which is kind of a miracle. Because nobody looks that interested in what Stiles does with his life. Not even Scott, and it’s basically Scott’s life.
And then, finally, Stiles manages to cut himself off, because Derek hasn’t said anything other than some vague mumbles.
“Why don’t you talk much?” Stiles squints at Derek, who’s folding and unfolding the corner of a piece of paper napkin like it personally offended him (or he just really wants him folded). I mean, I know you have things to say, and you’re super intelligent. So why not talk more?”
Derek bends the paper harder, then smooths it, then bends it again. “Because I sound like an incoherent animal.”
That’s a bizarre insult, and a specific one; it must have come from a person. A ballsy person, at that; an animal is basically the most insulting thing you can call a werewolf, and nobody would be surprised if the werewolf ripped your throat out for it. “Who told you that?”
Another fold. “My ex-girlfriend.”
Wow. “Why are you still listening to her, then?”
The paper rips. “She said that, and then three hours later she burned my house down with my family inside.”
“Holy shit.” Derek doesn’t look at him, and shit, Derek. “You’re—you’re Derek Hale, aren’t you? You’re—that means—that means you’re—holy shit.” Why is he just finding out about this now?
Derek blinks at him. “I told you that.”
What? Stiles would definitely remember a thing like that. “No, you didn’t. And, sorry, I just need a minute to freak out, and then we can go back to—” Talking about the most infamous anti-werewolf terrorist in history, whose crime is plastered all over Stiles’s wall. Whose crime was against Stiles’s boyfriend.
“I’d rather not, if it’s okay with you.”
Right. Right. Because she burned Derek’s house down and killed most of his family, and Stiles really needs to work on his empathy because of course Derek doesn’t want to talk about it. “Sorry. I’ll stop—I won’t—Jesus.”
Derek shrinks in on himself, shoulders slumping. “Sorry.”
And now Derek thinks Stiles’s reaction is his fault. “No, no, no, don’t apologize for anything. I just freaked out because that’s a thing that I do, I freak out, and please don’t apologize for that. And I’m really really sorry about your family, and about everything that happened, and I’m making such a mess of this, sorry. I just—” He just doesn’t know what to say, because this is huge. It was one of the biggest terrorist attacks on US soil, and anti-werewolf one with the greatest number of casualties, and Stiles has spent so much time thinking about the attack that he has never really thought about the survivors.
And the girlfriend comment—he had honed in on the burned-the-house-down part, but the girlfriend part explained how Katherine Argent got access to the Hale house. Which Stiles is not going to mention, because Derek probably doesn’t want to be reminded of that.
Derek goes back to fiddling with the paper (and he has two sides to play with now), and great, Stiles really ruined the mood, which is so freaking like him. “I’m going to stop, now. And we can go back to talking about my research. Or Firefly. Or fireflies. Actually, I don’t like fireflies. They’re really creepy. But the show is good. Or—”
Or maybe he should stop talking about this, because Derek is shaking now, trembling, gray-pale and flinching through the muscle tremors like his bones are trying to rattle their way out of him, and shit, Stiles has seen that before, has seen that too many times.
He reaches out to touch Derek’s shoulder, asking, “Are you a—”
And then he’s flying, toppling over the back of the bench; he grabs at the back of the bench and turns the uncontrolled flopping into a controlled flip so he lands crouched on the grass into of flat on his back. When he looks up, cheek throbbing from the blow Derek landed here, Derek is gone.
Stiles stares at the empty bench for a moment, then drops down onto his back so he can stare up at the darkening sky. “Fuck.”
--
Stiles moves to the bench ten minutes later; he considers just staying on the ground, but it’s getting cold, and there’s a stick stabbing him in the neck. And then he calls Scott.
Scott picks up with a, “Hell—oh, God, I’m tired. Hello?”
Something loosens in the pit of his stomach, deep where the fear lives. “Scott. Hi.” He swallows. “I fucked up.”
Scott’s voice switches to Alpha McCall. “Are you injured?”
“No.” Other than his cheek, which is definitely bruised.
“Is anyone else injured?”
“No.” Stiles scrubs a hand across his face. “Not from me, not right now. But—I’m dating Derek Hale.”
Silence. Then, “I thought you had a boyfriend.”
“I do. It’s Derek Hale. I literally just found that out, and then he freaked out and left. Because I fucked up. And I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
“Do you want me to come down there?”
Yes. “No. No, you can’t, because when I go find him I can’t be smelling like some strange alpha.”
“I’m not a strange alpha.”
Oh, Scott. “You are to him. I’ll be fine. I just had to call someone. And uh—upset werewolf. Go after? Don’t?”
Scott sighs. “You’re with him? Like, the two of you are together, really together? Not just some fling?”
“Yeah. I mean, I guess. We haven’t been picking out rings, but yeah, we’re a thing. Or at least I think we’re still a thing, as long as me fucking up didn’t send him running. Well, sending him running more. Like, permanently running. You know what I mean.”
“Then don’t go after him. He’ll come back to you.”
“That’s all well and good, but I can’t stay on a park bench all night, I’ll be arrested for sleeping in public or…something.”
“He’ll find you, Stiles.” Scott laughs. “Who’d have thought I’d been the one reassuring you about your love life? Or about werewolves. You probably still know more about them than I do.”
That’s kind of true, and also kind of sad. “Ask me about werewolf politics, or how to be a human in a werewolf pack, and I can tell you a hell of a lot more. Ask me whether or not to go after my upset werewolf boyfriend after I just found out that his family was killed by the most notorious terrorists since bin Laden, and I…ask you.”
“So when am I going to get to meet your new boyfriend? As your alpha, I mean.”
Stiles snorts. “Right, you’re really going to play the alpha card now?”
“Yep. Yes I am. Bring lover-boy up to Beacon Hills with you next time you head up, so I can make sure he’s on the level.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
“Um.” Scott coughs. “Maybe.”
“Right. I—” Something moves in the corner of his eye, and he shoots to his feet. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Stiles—”
“Bye.” He hangs up the phone and sticks it in his pocket, watching as the figure gets closer. He doesn’t move, because werewolves have a tendency to be a bit weird about not-pack approaching when they’re feeling particularly vulnerable. As Derek probably is, given what Stiles just found out about him.
It takes Derek almost a minute to reach him, and it’s hellish to just stand there and wait, because he’s not a waiting person. He’s a doing stuff person, a moving person, a fidgeting person—sometimes a fighting person, when it gets bad—and so this is really not his skill set.
But then Derek stops in front of him, and the look on his face is heartbreaking as he reaches out and touches Stiles’s cheekbone. And oh hey look, that hurts. He’s definitely going to be bruised tomorrow. “I’m sorry.”
Stiles shakes his head. “No, no, don’t be.” He wants to reach out but doesn’t, not wanting to spook Derek. “What happened to you, it wasn’t your fault, and I didn’t—sometimes I don’t—argh. I’m really bad at this.”
Derek just keeps standing there, one hand on Stiles’s cheek, that heartbroken look on his face, and Stiles can’t take not touching him anymore. So he reaches out, hand slow and shaking a little bit, and puts his hand on the place where his neck met his shoulder. Putting it on his neck would be a bad idea, when Derek is clearly feeling as vulnerable as he is; if they had been together for years, maybe, or were true lovers, but neither is the case.
They stand there for a moment, and then Stiles can’t help himself. “Do you want to say anything?”
A quick shake of his head. Okay.
“Do you want a hug?”
A pause, and then a nod, and Stiles wraps his arms around him and rests his head against his (absurdly muscly) chest, and it’s like hugging a stone, burning hot and totally rigid. And then, slowly, all of the tension drains out of Derek, and he encloses Stiles in his arms like he wants to swallow him up and keep anything else from getting in. Heat blooms on the top of Stiles’s head, and they just stand and breathe.
They make it back to Derek’s apartment eventually, which takes way longer than it would have because Derek insists on walking between Stiles and…everything. It’s a protection thing, and one he didn’t expect from Derek, especially not now and especially not after what just happened. But they do make it back, and Derek shoves the door closed and locks it, then herds Stiles into the bedroom.
His hands are firm, grips a little too tight to be comfortable for a human, but Stiles is okay with that. So okay with that. Because he wants to know if Derek is okay, but he also wants this, as Derek shoves his shirt up over his head, fingers dragging over Stiles’s chest before he pushes Stiles back onto the bed.
Before he get his breath back, Derek is on top of him, one hand grabbing his wrists and pinning them down over Stiles’s head, the other curling around Stiles’s throat as Derek’s mouth latches on to the point under his jaw.
“Ah, Jesus.” Stiles strains ups, reaching for him, but his hands keep him down without trouble. Which is really fucking hot. “Derek, please.”
Derek presses down harder on him, legs pressing between Stiles’s, shoving his knees open. The hand not closed around Stiles’s hand shoves down his pants, closing hot and sharp on his hip; Stiles arches up into it, involuntarily, a noise coming from his throat.
“Derek, Derek, please. Please.” He doesn’t know why this is happening now, why finding out led him to this, but he’s not really up for complaining at the moment. “Come on, please.”
He moves to lick a line down Stiles’s sternum, teeth closing lightly over Stiles’s chest. He’s not saying anything, hasn’t said anything since his apology, which is kind of worrying, but he seems okay, seems okay with Stiles having found out that he’s Derek Ha—
“Motherfucker.” Derek freezes, tension vibrating through his entire body, his grip releasing from Stiles’s hands. “You’re D. Hale. Motherfucker. I love your books.”
Derek is still for another second, then bursts out laughing, his entire body shaking on top of Stiles’s. “Oh my God,” he gasps, head falling to thunk down on Stiles’s chest. “Oh my God.” And then he laughs again, helpless spasms until Stiles can’t help but join in, too.