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Once upon a time—for all good fairytales, you know, begin with once upon a time—there was a young wolf who lived alone in the woods. His family was gone, and he was frightened and distrustful, but he was lonely as well; and when his loneliness became too much to bear, he made a new family for himself. Together we will be powerful and strong, he told his cubs, strong enough to stand against any danger.
But one of his new pups had a family of his own, a pack that he would not leave behind for the new. So the wolf's new family grew more quickly than he'd planned, and when they ran it was with humans by their side.
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“Absolutely not.” Derek glares at the teenagers assembled in front of the house. “This is way too dangerous for a bunch of human kids, and I'm not going to be responsible for you. Scott, Jackson, you two come with me; the rest of you, stay here.”
“I'm sorry,” Allison says, stepping forward with narrowed eyes, “did you somehow get the impression we were asking your permission?”
“Look, it's sweet that you want to help your boyfriend, really—”
“Oh my god, would you cut the sexist bullshit?” she snaps. “This isn't about Scott. He and I aren't even . . .” Derek watches her fight to keep her eyes focused on him as she squares her shoulders. “You said Erica and Boyd are in trouble, and I owe them. I'm going; it's as simple as that.”
“You'd be stupid to try to stop her,” Lydia says casually, studying her nails. “Or me. You're going to need a distraction, and I've got a bagful of homemade explosives in the trunk of Jackson's car.”
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“No, I'm not.” She fixes him with the single iciest glare he's ever seen. “In case you haven't noticed, getting left behind and out of the loop tends to lead to me getting mauled, or brainwashed, or—so to hell with sitting at home while the rest of you go off to fight. If I'm going to get hurt, it's going to be because I went on the offensive, not because I didn't have some big strong man around to defend me.” She flicks her gaze over to Jackson. “No offense, sweetie.”
Derek lets the growl that's been building in his chest rumble out, and has the satisfaction of watching everyone come to sharp, nervous attention. “I appreciate that you want to help,” he says shortly. He doesn't, not really, but it seems like the thing to say. “But the alphas aren't like anything you've faced before. They're strong, and they're smart, and they have nearly half this pack captured. It's too dangerous.”
“Right, which is why it makes total sense for you to be refusing more help. What, is this like an alpha power thing—it wasn't your idea, so you have to shoot it down, even if that's idiotic?” Stiles strides forward, but when Derek turns his glare on him he stops, shuffles back half a step. “Look,” he says, holding out his hands like he's getting ready to fend off an imminent attack. “You need us, especially since you've sent Isaac off with Crazy Uncle Peter—great plan by the way, I'm sure there's no way that'll backfire—and just . . . Allison's, like, freakin' . . . Legolas or Hawkeye or something with that bow, and Lydia can probably kill you with her brain, so would you just shut up and let us help already?”
“And what are you bringing to the table here, Stiles?” Derek snaps. “Are you planning to talk the alphas to death?”
For a moment Stiles falters, bravado falling from his face like he's been slapped. The sight makes Derek's stomach twist strangely, but before he can analyze the feeling the kid's chin is lifting along with his hand, keys dangling from his fingers.
“I've got the wheels. Unless you want to try hauling Boyd and Erica out of there on your back, or cramming them into the Camaro, or Jackson's Porsche.”
“We are not taking my Porsche,” Jackson cuts in, and Stiles rolls his eyes theatrically.
“Okay, good, now that we've got that settled. I'm the wheel-man, the one person who actually thought to bring a sensible vehicle for transporting insensate werewolves.” He pauses for a moment. “Wow, that's . . . actually kind of depressing. Well, whatever. The point is, I'm totally useful.”
“He's also the one who managed to figure out where the alphas are holed up,” Scott adds, crossing his arms and actually glaring, himself. “If it weren't for Stiles we wouldn't even know where to go yet.”
“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, more surprised than Derek thinks he ought to be that his best friend has just stuck up for him like that. That twisting knot is back in Derek's gut, and he gives in with as little grace as he can manage.
“Fine,” he snarls, and jabs a finger in their general direction. “But if any of you end up bleeding, I'm not cleaning it up.”
“Yeah, 'cause any of us were counting on that.” Stiles rolls his eyes and stalks towards the Jeep. “And check your math; ten minus two doesn't get you down to half, rabbit-breath.”
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The wolf refused to trust the humans. It was humans that had hunted him and his for generations back, and humans who had killed his family years before. He kept these ones on the edges of the pack, and tried to drive them off, yet their loyalty never wavered. They helped to shield the pack and keep it safe—two girls as fierce as any wolves, and a boy whose heart refused to stray.
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“Oh my god.” Lydia is holding her arms out at her sides as they all straggle into the house. “I need a shower.”
“Upstairs, second door on the left,” Stiles says without looking up from where he's collapsed on the arm of the sofa. That's interesting, Derek can't help but think; just a month ago, he'd have sworn Stiles was incapable of being too tired to drool over the thought of Lydia in the shower. “There are towels under the sink.”
“No way!” Isaac pushes his way past Erica, who's too busy checking the gash in Boyd's arm to do more than take a half-hearted swipe at him. “I called first shower in the car! I've got slime, or mucus, or something all over me.”
“That reminds me—you're cleaning the Jeep tomorrow.” Stiles looks about ready to slide off of his perch; Derek edges closer, trying to figure out which way he'll fall. Meanwhile Lydia has spun on Isaac at the base of the stairs.
“Excuse me, did you kill something with your shoe tonight? No. You're not the only one covered in crap they're rather not think about.” She raises her arms to demonstrate, showing off the impressive streaks of blood and whatever thick brown ichor had spurted out as well when she'd shoved the heel of her stiletto into the shape-stealer's throat. “Now I am going to shower and reevaluate my life choices, and when I come back down there'd better be pancakes waiting.”
“But—”
“Children!” Stiles calls out, straightening abruptly. “Chill out. Lydia, use my dad's bathroom instead—his room's the first door on the right. Isaac, use mine. And try not to use all the hot water, okay guys? I'd like to get cleaned up sometime before morning, too.”
“Hey.” Scott blinks, turning away from Allison with a flush settling over his cheeks. “Did someone mention pancakes?”
“Seriously,” Stiles groans, “what is my life?” But he stands up, more or less steady on his feet, and heads to the kitchen.
“You're actually going to make pancakes?” Derek, still half-expecting him to fall on his face, follows. The last thing he needs is for the pack to be implicated in a fire at the sheriff's house. “While Lydia and Isaac use your showers.”
“Whatever, it's not a big deal; I think we've got a mix around here somewhere. Check that cabinet, would you? I need to wash my hands.”
“You know it's not your responsibility to take care of them,” Derek says, but he's opening the door Stiles pointed to, poking around until he finds the big yellow box. He can hear Stiles's sigh over the sound of running water.
“You know that not everyone does things because they have to, right?” He wipes his hands on a dishtowel and steps over to pluck the box out of Derek's hands. “Anyway, my dad's still at work, and a little bit extra on the water bill isn't going to break us financially, so what's the problem?”
“Man, I'm wired.” Allison slips through the doorway and hops up on one of the kitchen stools, Scott at her heels and the others not far behind. “Anyone else up for a movie? Stiles, what have you got on DVD?”
“Anything but Alien,” Boyd says dryly, and Jackson actually snickers.
“How about—uh.” They all look up at once as the back door opens, and Stiles darts forward to put himself between his friends and the bewildered-looking sheriff. “Hey, Dad.” He looks from the battered, bloody group to the bowl of batter in his hands, and grins hopefully. “Um. Could I interest you in some pancakes?”
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It was the boy that troubled the wolf the most: he thought him foolish, thought him weak, and he feared that soon enough his fidelity would fail. Through years and hardships, however, the boy held fast. He sacrificed and bled, and fought with fearsome rage, and when the wolf would snarl his displeasure the boy more often snarled back than cowered.
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The world pitches and rolls when he shifts, and though Derek fights back a wave of sickness he can't stop the frankly pathetic moan that wrenches its way out of this throat.
“Yeah, you might wanna try not to move too much,” he hears, and opens his eyes in the dim light. He's lying on the battered mattress that's tucked into the least-burned corner of his old room, a familiar shadow sitting beside him. “Deaton says it'll take a while for whatever those hunters hit you with to work itself all the way out of your system,” Stiles informs him. “It's gonna make you kind of shaky. Also, I hit you in the head. With a bat,” he adds helpfully. “In case you were wondering.”
“You—” Derek has to close his eyes again for a minute. “Why?” he finally grits out.
“Oh, I don't know. Maybe because there was a hopped-up manetoa about to eat us all, and the rest of us weren't really on board with your whole run-while-I-distract-it-by-letting-it-eviscerate-me plan.”
“So it's still out there,” Derek says, opening his eyes again just to glare at Stiles, and finds him glaring right back.
“Yeah, it is. And so are all of us, so you know what? I'm calling it a win.”
He can't think. His head hurts too much, and his stomach is too busy roiling for him to be able to manage anything more coherent than another, “Why?”
For several long moments, Stiles simply stares at him, until Derek starts to doubt whether he heard him at all. Then the shadows shift as Stiles shrugs, and he reaches down for something at his feet.
“Maybe I just don't think that Scott or Boyd or Erica should have to figure out how to be an alpha the hard way. They're not ready for it; so I guess we're stuck with you for a while yet. Here.” Derek reaches out automatically, and Stiles presses a bottle of water into his hand, the cap already removed. “You need to hydrate, and get some more sleep.” He reaches down again, and when he straightens his face is lit by the glow of his laptop screen. “Since you didn't have the courtesy to almost die on a weekend, I've got an essay to finish for tomorrow.” Stiles lowers his eyes and begins to type. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
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In time, the wolf discovered that his fear had fallen to respect; the humans had become as fully pack as all his pups, and the boy was somehow at the center, the bond that helped to hold them all together.
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“How are you planning on explaining this to your dad?” Derek leans against the counter and raises his eyebrows at the surprised, almost nervous way that Stiles's head jerks up at the question. “It's a little unusual for a high school senior to be hosting a dinner party, isn't it?” he clarifies.
“Yeah. Um.” Stiles clears his throat and turns his attention back to the stove. “I told him that since I'll be going off to college soon, I should probably start figuring out how to cook some basic stuff.” He casts a glance towards Derek. “I asked if he'd mind me bringing my friends over as guinea pigs.”
“How are you gonna explain it if he finds out I was over here, then?” Derek asks, keeping his voice light even though he's not entirely sure that he's joking. Stiles just rolls his eyes as he screws the cap back onto the bottle of chili powder.
“Don't go fishing for compliments, okay? It's obnoxious. We're . . . friends.” He glances over again. “Friendly. Friendish. Whatever. Hey, how long does it take to cut up a couple of onions?” he yells over his shoulder.
“Almost finished!” Isaac calls back, and something in Derek's chest loosens.
He's trying not to think too deeply about how important it feels to have the rest of the pack involved in making this meal. To make it about bonding, and solidarity, and family, instead of . . . instead of whatever it had felt like to have Stiles preparing food for him and his. He's dragged them all back from that dizzying, terrifying edge, and back into something familiar. The safety of pack, of friendship, of a kitchen warm with food and laughter.
It's time, he thinks, that he set to work on restoring his own house. Long past time.
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In time, respect bloomed into trust. The wolf looked after his human charges, and when he slept he knew that they watched over him in turn. His pack survived, and thrived, and at last he let himself believe that peace had settled in his woods again.
The boy with the unflinching heart he trusted most of all, and trusting, fell in love.
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“So.” Stiles smiles weakly. “Who knew werewolves had such shitty timing?”
“It's not surprising they attacked when they did.” Derek can't take his eyes away from the swollen skin around the cut on Stiles's forehead. He's hardly aware of what he's saying until the words are out of his mouth. “Hormones and endorphins can make a scent more noticeable. Definitely more enticing. When they realized who we were, they must have decided to press the advantage.”
“Is that . . .” Stiles fixes his eyes on the bloodstained washcloth in his hand, absently dabs at his temple again. “Is that why you kissed me back? To lure them out; press a little advantage yourself? I'd understand if—”
Derek's hands lift to cup Stiles's face, holding him in place so that Derek can kiss him before the reassurance is complete. Stiles sighs against his lips, relieved and happy, and Derek drinks in the sound. His head is swimming with the warmth, the scent, the taste of him, the feel of Stiles's arms wrapping around him, of their bodies pressing eagerly together.
“I want you to stay,” Derek finally manages to say, pausing in his exploration of the column of Stiles's neck with lips and tongue and teeth.
“Not really planning on going anywhere right now,” Stiles laughs breathlessly, and Derek makes a frustrated sound.
“Not just tonight.”
“I, uh. You know I'm staying in Beacon Hills. I've got my degree; there's really no reason for me to leave.” There are clever fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Derek's neck, making him shiver. “Um. When you say stay, do you mean . . .”
“With me.”
He presses his lips to Stiles's neck again, over the flutter of his pulse so that he can taste the truth of it when Stiles answers.
“That's pretty much the plan.”
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For more than a year they ran together, boy and wolf, and though they fought as much as ever, the love they bore each other was plain for all to see.
Until one day the hunters came again, and snatched the boy away. And though the wolf gave chase, he fell too far behind. Nothing remained when he arrived but blood and loss and familiar, fearful rage: his mate was dead, and all the light in him extinguished in a blink. The forest rang with his grief as he howled out his vengeance, and all his pack joined in.
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Derek fists his hand in the sweatshirt, tattered and stained but all he has left that still smells like Stiles. He lets himself believe that it always will, that the blood worked its way so deep into the fabric that the scent of it will never shake loose. It terrifies him to think that it will someday—that there will come a time when he'll only have the memory of Stiles's scent; that it will fade the way that all memories must, and he'll have nothing left but a dozen blurry photographs and this helpless, burning rage.
When he throws back his head and howls, he knows that the pack won't come. They know better by now than to come near when he sounds like this, and have the scars he's given them as reminders if they don't. He howls again, pouring his grief into the empty sky before he buries his face in the last traces of Stiles's scent.
They took him, he thinks, and lets the rage build until it drowns out sorrow. They took his mate, and smiled when they told him how he died, and if it takes him to his final breath he'll see the Argents dead for this, he swears.
He'll kill them all.
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And as for what happened to the boy . . .
That, dear children, is another story altogether.