Work Text:
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Stiles’ hands were nervously twitching on top of the threadbare armrest of his couch. Telling his father the truth about what had really been going on around Beacon Hills may have not been the best idea.
“Werewolves, Stiles? You have honestly gotta be kidding me.” His father’s eyebrows were raised extremely high in disbelief. Not that Stiles blamed him. He had been lying an awful lot lately.
“Look dad, I know it sounds crazy, and- and- and-,” Stiles took a calming breath to ease his stutter, in through his nose, and out through his mouth, “and I just really need you to believe me, because I promise this isn’t a joke dad, please-”
Sheriff Stilinski held his hand up to silence his son. His face was pinched up into something ugly, something that Stiles had grown a little too accustomed to recognizing, and Stiles winced at how the facial expression made the already very noticeable stress marks even more prominent.
“Stiles, you have told me a lot of crazy stories before, but this one seriously takes the cake. Did you really expect me to believe this? Do you really think I am that dumb? Are you doing this because your mother died? Or is it because you want attention, because if you do, I can give you some, and I can guarantee it won’t be the kind that you will like.”
Stiles’ hands started shaking harsher. He hadn’t noticed the half empty bottle of whisky on the ground next to the chair his father was sitting in. He hadn’t smelt the alcohol, he hadn't noticed the bloodshot eyes. The worst part of it was that the Sheriff was so accustomed to Stiles’ bullshit that he could call him out on it, even when he was completely drunk off his ass.
Except this time it wasn’t bullshit, and he pretty much needed his father to believe him.
But the way things were looking, Stiles was probably shit out of luck, and he was going to have to come up with a way to bullshit his way out of his dad thinking that he was bullshitting. Great.
Laughing nervously, Stiles slowly began to back out of the room, waving his quivering hands in an elaborate show of spasticness, while beginning one of his endless word vomits as a diversion, “Haha dad, looks like you caught me in the act, no wonder you’re in law enforcement, you’re pretty good at what you do, I was just checking to make sure your detective skills were in tip top shape-”
Stiles had about a split second to realise what was going on before his dad deftly picked up the forgotten whiskey bottle beside his chair and threw it at Stiles with more force and coordination than a drunk was supposed to be capable of, or maybe it was a lucky shot, because it hit Stiles dead on, straight in the chest, and the bottle shattered, spraying miniscule yet sharp pieces of glass all into his face and arms, and that was definitely going to fucking bruise, damnit, and the remnants of the whiskey burned white-hot in the scratches and cuts left by the glass, and oh god, he was covered in blood, it was everywhere. Stiles crumpled to the ground almost immediately after the hit, wincing in pain after he lands in even more glass, and nearly throwing up because he finally began to process that holy god, it was his blood staining the painfully white floors. It took him another few seconds to remember that this wasn’t the only time that this had happened.
His father stood up menacingly, and out of instinct, Stiles covered his head with his arms protectively, expecting another blow from his overwhelmingly angry father.
“Enough,” The Sheriff’s voice was loud and demanding, pushing for obedience even though Stiles had stopped talking about five minutes ago and now was whimpering on the floor in pain.
The Sheriff glared at Stiles as he stumbled out of the room, and Stiles offhandedly wondered where all that agility from earlier went.
~
Stiles winced in pain as he cleaned yet another cut marring his body. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to be able to hide or explain all the extremely obvious scratches on his face and lower arms, and he knew he definitely couldn’t hide the distinct smell of antiseptic, because Scott told him once that the shit stank, and it might have well as been Wolfsbane with the way it fucked with the werewolfs senses, although it didn’t harm them, rather just made them intensely uncomfortable.
He was also currently blatantly ignoring two things; one, the huge ass fucking bruise that had made itself at home on Stiles’ diaphragm, and the fact that it was Sheriff Stilinski who did this to him. He could deal if it was another baddie, roughing him up to get a message to the pack, or even a deranged hunter who’s only purpose and intent is to either kill or harm whoever the fuck he runs into. The fact that his own father decided to join the ‘rough Stiles up’ party was the deal breaker. It didn’t sit properly in his stomach, and Stiles had honestly thought that they were past this part in their lives, but apparently not.
It was fine though. Just as long as he lived in a constant state of denial, he would be okay, because eventually his father would forget and get back to loving his son like before. Probably, at least. The plan had worked out fairly enough every other time, anyway.
So Stiles would come home and lick his wounds while no was around, tell the pack that he had accidentally shattered a glass as an explanation for the cuts, because it wasn’t technically a lie, and he thanked god for allowing him to have a bruise that was at least partially hideable, while he would continue taking care of his dad like always, because although Stiles will remember this, forever, his dad is going to wake up this morning with a bright smile and unknowing eyes, and Stiles has a responsibility, damnit. He promised his mom. So that's why he is going to practice telling the story (lie) to his father first. Stiles couldn’t protect everyone, but he could damn well protect his dad, even if it was from something as seemingly harmless as the truth.
Glaring at his reflection in the mirror, he huffed and swept the rest of the extra bandages into the trash can before heading downstairs to make coffee and a cholesterol friendly breakfast for his dad.
~
It took Stiles about four minutes after he had arrived at school and saw Scott and the rest of the pack to realise he had been a little too paranoid for no apparent reason, because he forgot while Scott, Erica, Boyd, Isaac and Jackson all had spidey senses better than Spidey himself, they were all fucking dumbasses. They ate up his lies about the glass like candy, and the only one who was mildly suspicious was Lydia, because despite all her personality flaws, no one could say she wasn’t a damn genius. Fortunately, her worry was quickly suppressed when he sent her a reassuring smile and a snarky comment about how her shoes looked a little off brand today, to which she instantly snarked back about how he needed a haircut.
The day passed like regular, him getting shoved into a variation of lockers and becoming more than acquainted with the local trash can (thank god it had just been emptied), and Harris gave him his usual attitude, with his usual complementary detention. Life was good- better than good, actually, even kinda peaceful, and Stiles didn’t want to fuck that up, so he politely kept his mouth shut when Jackson called him a loser in front of everyone, and while Scott blew him off for Allison yet again. He didn’t want to ruin today like he ruined everything else. Today would be perfect. Or at least as perfect as a Stiles Stilinski kind of day could go.
Or at least he thought so, until he was dragged into a dark (Harris was an ass, really, because his detentions lasted for 3 hours) and empty classroom and shoved into the wall.
~
Naturally, it was only Derek who decided to sneak up on Stiles like a ninja, and promptly kidnap him right after, and then because Derek was socially constipated, and didn’t know what was communally acceptable and what was not, he shoved his arm so hard into Stiles’ neck that he couldn’t breathe, and then Derek expected him to start answering all of his short but direct questions like Wikipedia. He just made himself at home in Stiles’ personal space whenever he pleased. The nerve of this guy, seriously.
“You. Cuts. Who, and why?”
Stiles was not fucking kidding when he said that this dudes sentences were short. One-worders, actually. Rarely ever made it out of the five word zone.
“Well buddy, I can’t really breathe, and I think you may have forgotten the where, when, and what, the five double-u’s, you know-”
Derek’s arm pressed harder into the soft flesh of Stiles’ nape.
“Answer. The. Questions.”
Each word was emphasized with another push to Stiles’ scruff until he began choking on the already limited air supply that he was receiving, and it was then that Derek seemingly realised what the hell he was doing and dropped him too the floor.
“This is not over.” With that final comment, because Derek always had to have the last word in, the damn drama queen, he pivoted around on his foot and strutted out of the room.
Whatever.
Stiles’ said as much at Derek's retreating back, along with a comment about his overall vagueness.
Derek totally ignored him and continued walking.
Damn werewolves.
~
Derek, unfortunately, was not kidding when he said that the conversation was not over. He was sitting in the brand new desk chair that Stiles had bought last week, idly leafing through the pages of his own designated dictionary for when he came to visit, and the best part was his shoes were off and his feet were placed right next to his laptop on his desk, like they belonged there or something. Stiles had just pulled up in the driveway when he noticed his bedroom light was on, and he had a suspicion that it was probably Derek, and wow, you could probably call Stiles a fucking psychic.
“Get your hairy feet off my desk, thanks, who knows where those things have been, that is a new policy in this household, okay? Seriously, I am being one hundred percent serious right now, Derek-”
“When is the last time you’ve eaten?”
What.
“What.” Stiles said it as eloquently as he thought it.
This was definitely not what Stiles was expecting, he was actually expecting something more along the lines of him getting shoved into the walls and growling and the causing of overall sexual frustration for his poor raging teenage hormones, because Stiles was undoubtedly attracted to Derek, in more ways in one, and especially so when he got all scowly and dominant. So that meant that Stiles knew Derek, that he watched him enough and spent enough time with him to know his patterns, to know his ticking points- and this…
This was unusual, and unexpected.
Derek was all about routine, and this behavior was not apart of the said routine.
Concern…
Concern wasn’t an emotion Derek experienced, or maybe it was, just Stiles was never on the receiving end of it, and anytime he even showed any sign or resemblance of perturbation towards anyone, it was actually just him trying to figure out who the new baddie in Beacon Hills was, so he could cover his own ass and stay out of the line of fire.
It was what he had done earlier.
It was not what he was doing now.
“When is the last time you’ve eaten.”
It wasn’t even a question now, just a demand for an answer, and Stiles would normally be completely troubled by Derek’s lack of psychotic tendencies, but he was too busy pondering over Derek’s kind-of, not really, question.
When was the last time he had eaten?
He honestly couldn’t remember, but the last time he had he knew it wasn’t properly.
Now that he thinks about it- he actually hasn’t eaten much at all over the past few months.
No one had really expressed any unease until now, no one had even attempted to address it.
Logically, Stiles knew that he had lost a lot of weight, because that’s what lack of food does, but he doesn’t feel any different. He doesn’t feel thinner, or lighter, or starved. He just felt stretched out from extreme anxiety and stress and panic attacks and not eating-
Huh.
Now that he thought about it, he stomach was actually aching. He had just thought it was because he was starting to get sick.
It wasn’t like Stiles had purposefully been skipping meals over the past few months. It was because of stress, from trying to keep up with all his schoolwork, keeping his father safe and out of the loop of the supernatural, and researching like a lunatic for the pack. It was hard, attempting to balance all of that.
Stiles blinked his eyes sluggishly from the sudden wave of nausea and just drowsiness that overcame him.
In short, Stiles didn’t have time for trivial things such as eating, or sleep- and wow, Stiles promptly realised he may have been neglecting to sleep as well.
Oops.
Normally, he’d also be adding to the stress by tripping over himself in worry for the only asshole werewolf he had the pleasure of associating with everyday, but after the pool incident, whenever Scott hung up on him whenever Stiles was in desperate need of help, he had realised that there had been a change of priorities for the young werewolf, and that Stiles was no longer a resident on the top of the list.
They still talked in school and whatever, but Scott tried to hide from Stiles as a general rule. It was okay, honestly, Stiles would remain as loyal as a dog, which is funny because Scott is actually supposed to be the dog in the friendship, but whatever. He loved his best friend, and he didn’t blame his friend for falling in love with Allison, the hunter Allison, despite that it was considered associating with the enemy, because everyone had to make mistakes in life, and Scott would learn from said mistakes. Someday.
Besides, every time Stiles tried to help Scott anymore, the conversation always ends with Stiles being bruised, slightly threatened, and more than terrified of his best friend's intentions and capabilities. He was turning into Derek (although Stiles would never pine after Scott like he does Derek, that would just be gross, they are brothers for god's sakes) and that really scared Stiles, because this town only had room for one ruggedly handsome fuck up werewolf, thank you very much.
Stiles rolled his glazed eyes up to look at the fingers snapping repeatedly in the face, and then he remembered he was supposed to be answering Derek.
Stiles stretched his back and blinked rapidly, hoping to expel enough sleepiness for him to talk properly.
“Uh, properly? I don’t think I could tell you, i’m just not hungry anymore, you know? But I had like an apple, yesterday for lunch, so I guess then.”
“Holy shit.” Derek said diligently. A sudden look of realization crossed over his features, before Stiles was being shoved gracefully into a heap on the bed- and who knew being the little spoon could be so nice?
“I’m assuming you haven’t slept properly either?”
Stiles shook his head in confirmation.
Derek’s hot breath huffed over the back of his neck, and his arms tightened around their place on Stiles’ waist. Stiles couldn’t decide if he felt elated or freaked the fuck out, because this situation had just crossed the line from unusual to absolutely completely bat shit fucking crazy.
“Well, you're about to, and tomorrow, you're going to shower, and we are going to Waffle House for breakfast, because I am a shit cook. And stop thinking so hard, you're giving me a headache.”
Stiles was giving Derek a headache? Well Derek could get the fuck over it, because Derek was giving Stiles an aneurysm, because he just said more words in one sentence than he ever had in a single conversation. If you called them conversations, at least. Conversations usually required that the other person actually talked back.
“I’m sorry, it’s just- how did you know I hadn’t eaten? And why are so concerned all of sudden?”
Stiles needed to know the cause of the swift break in pattern.
Derek stiffened behind him, but then Stiles grabbed his left hand, and squeezed, hard, until Derek slowly but surely began to relax again and started talking.
“You don’t smell like curly fries anymore.” Derek replied simply.
Stiles allowed a small smile to tug at his lips at the thought of Derek observing his habits too.
Derek paused to take a deep breathe, right against Stiles’ neck, holy fuck, talk about cold chills and goosebumps, before he continued to speak.
“And to answer your second question- if I don’t take care of you, who will? Not yourself, obviously, your self- preservation is worse than mine; and certainly not Scott or your dad, because you’re the one taking care of them, and no offense, but they’re too blind to notice you need help. You're depriving yourself of sleep and food for everyone else, and you’re always hurt, and I swear to god I will find out everyone who hurt you, ever, and hurt them back, starting with the one who gave you these, because you are MINE.”
He emphasized his point by brushing his fingers over one of the raw scratches, making Stiles moan in discomfort, which caused Derek to growl in anger, hopefully not at Stiles, before pulling Stiles impossibly closer.
Stiles let himself enjoy the warmness pooling in his lower abdomen that came with Derek’s extreme possessiveness before his stomach dropped, because he abruptly remembered, it was his dad who did this to him.
~
In the morning, Derek was gone, and Stiles couldn’t decided if he was relieved or disappointed, because, hello, waffles! before he saw the note on his bedside table, with a twenty dollars laying next to it, that said:
Pack emergency, go get breakfast anyway.
-Derek
Stiles looked at it thoughtfully. Notes were not normal. The choppy words and abrupt ending were. Derek had nice handwriting, for a guy. Much better than Stiles’s handwriting. Now that Stiles had enough time to think about it, he registered Derek’s everything was better than Stiles. Not that Stiles had some deep rooted insecurity where he thought everyone was better than him. Or maybe he did. It didn’t matter, really.
Stiles languidly rolled out of his bed and into the floor with a loud thump.
Ouch.
Yawning and scratching his head- Lydia was right, he actually did need a haircut- he got up and went into the bathroom to start getting ready to go out in public.
~
Stiles actually didn’t end up going to the Waffle House. Instead, he went to a small diner on the outskirts of the town that his mother used to work at. It was more of a spur of the moment type thing, rather than any actual decision- he saw it, and decided he wanted some of their famous homemade pie, and suddenly, here he was. And Stiles knew from personal experience that their pie was completely mouthwatering, especially the blueberry with vanilla ice cream.
He knew all the people who worked there like a second family, because he frequented the diner more than he would like to admit, and although he had an excuse as a kid, because his mom worked there then, but now, to be completely honest, he came here anymore to escape everything that was happening, and he knew that they could tell it too.
He felt bad that he only used the diner as a guilty escape from reality, but the reassuring glances were always enough to make him feel at least a little bit better.
He was greeted by Ethany, one of oldest waitresses at the diner, the second he walked through the door, and the greeting was quickly followed by many others, including ones from Sharon and Debbie, the other two waitresses, Terrance and David, the only two men who worked at the diner, and one from Lisa, the cook.
He took his regular seat at the back of the diner, in the only booth that only had room for two people, instead of the ordinary four. It was also painted a bright and unpleasant yellow, his mom’s favorite color.
That was the rule here, actually. Each new employee had to paint a booth their favorite color, and while most of the booths were nice purples and blues, and the occasional orange or red, the only yellow booth in whole diner was his mother's. And Stiles loved that, he loved that his mother was so beautifully original. That was another reason why he went here.
He also got a discount, but that was besides the point.
He only had to wait a few minutes before Ethany brought him his usual, and within the next ten minutes, he had already shoved it down his throat and had payed before heading out the door to get in his jeep.
The good thing about the place was that it’s location was kind of recluse, and not many people knew about it, and the only reason it stayed in business was because of all the travelers that visited, because the place did have very nice curb appeal.
The bad thing was, there was literally nothing around but woods, and the place was a little too accustomed to travelers, so people were prone to get attacked and mugged around the diner.
Stiles had never really had to worry about it, because no one wanted to mess with some gangly kid, who probably didn't carry more than ten dollars, which false, because he actually carries fifty dollars at all times in case of an emergency, but he wasn't going to tell some crazy mugger that.
That’s why it was only natural that the second Stiles had unlocked his jeep, someone closed their hand around his mouth from behind and suddenly he was being dragged into the woods surrounding the diner.
So much for screaming for help, then.
He was suddenly turned around and shoved into a tree, and Stiles patently decided he was remarkably less horny when his attackers did it than when Derek did it.
The good thing about being slammed into the tree was he got a better look at his attackers, but the downside was that his head bounced of the trunk of the tree so hard he most definitely had a minor concussion.
Derek was gonna flip.
There were two of them, and both were lovely in a I-could-snap-your-neck-by-just-looking-at-you type of way. Both were women, and Stiles took a moment to consider his damaged pride at getting beat up by two women, before he remembered Lydia and how scary she was and he promptly decided women could be as deadly as men before continuing to study them. One had long, extremely red hair, while the other woman’s hair was shorn off, but it was long enough for its color to be identified as albino white, and both wore leather jackets and a little bit too much eyeliner that framed their glowing golden eyes and-
Oh.
Oh.
Derek was going to flip twice as hard now. Two omega werewolves, on his land? There were not enough curse words in the English language to express how literally fucked this situation was.
Their faces were pulled into a nasty scowl, almost predatory, and seriously, were all werewolves the same? Where they all super broody and badass and just extremely terrifying in general?
The red haired one socked him in the face, and that was pretty damn uncalled for, because this was feeling a lot like an interrogation, and they hadn’t even asked him a question yet.
He told them as much and that earned him another punch, but this time to the stomach, and that was undoubtedly the sound of a cracked rib. Fuck.
They both snarled at him when he attempted to speak again, and his mouth clicked shut with an audible snap. The albino one- Stiles was getting really tired of referring to them as their hair colors, he was gonna need names soon, even though he was in position to demand for any right now- licked her very sharp and and very dangerous fangs in an intimidating manner that most certainly worked, before she began to talk in a deep, unrecognizable accent.
“Where is your alpha?”
And wow, seriously? Did Stiles look like a fucking GPS tracking device to them?
“I don’t know.”
They apparently didn’t like that, because the red one punched him again, and how fantastic, there went another rib.
“Seriously?” Stiles wheezed through his pain, and he knew it was bad to provoke exceptionally angry werewolves, but he really couldn’t help himself, “you're not gonna get very much out of me if you keep punching me, because I am a very squishy human that can only take so much force, thank you very much.”
Their whole entire demeanor changed completely after that statement, before the red one smirked and her hand started creeping not so subtly down his stomach towards places that he did not want that hand to go.
“Oh really?” she purred, her face getting closer to his neck to lick over one of the scratches there, and ew, ew, ew. She needed to stop that right now.
His virginity was going to stay intact for at least until he was eighteen, because he had standards, fuck you very much.
The albino nodded and unsheathed one of her claws and drug it down his shirt, slicing the material, and breaking the skin, leaving a small trail of blood. The shirt fell away in tatters, and he was half tempted to reach for it, except he now had two clawed hands creeping down his chest, and there was a pretty big chance he would impale himself on those claws if he so much as moved a muscle.
“We do have other methods of... persuasion.”
Stiles genuinely wanted to throw up. He was about five seconds away from a full blown panic attack, and either the two werewolves in front of him didn’t notice or care because suddenly one was grinding on top of him like the most aroused rabbit on the planet, with her hand shoved down his pants deeper than the grand canyon, how was that even possible, while the other was shoving her tongue so deep down his throat he could feel it in his stomach. Oh god.
Stiles could authentically admit this was the most disgusting and disturbing situation he had ever been in, even worse than that one time with Scott, which he was purposefully not thinking about, because it would make the position he was in even more horrifying.
His efforts to push them off were fruitless, and he didn’t even care that there was still the risk of him getting gutted, he just wanted them off, right now.
Unfortunately, that wish didn’t come true, and they continued to touch him, all over, and again, and again, and again, until they realised their ‘other method of persuasion’ wasn’t working, and then he was shoved to the ground, and kicked once for good measure.
Stiles wasn’t exactly sure how long he lied there, but he did know he need to get up and go home.
But he didn’t.
He just sat there, and sobbed ugly and loudly and freely, because no one was there to tell him to suck it up, and just because he could.
He thought he deserved these tears, at least.
He didn’t feel right in his own body after what they had done to him, in fact, everything just felt wrong, everything had felt wrong for a while, and this had finally just been his breaking point.
He missed his mother, he missed his relationship with his father and Scott, he missed when everything was normal.
Why couldn't everything just be normal again?
~
Stiles finally got up whenever the sun started to descend below the horizon, and he slowly made his way to the jeep.
He had tried to call Scott, and he actually answered this time, but the conversation was cut short when he told Stiles he couldn’t talk because he was with Allison, and then he hung up without giving Stiles a chance to tell him something was wrong.
There were dried teardrops on his face, and he knew from experience that his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but he could honestly care less. He just felt numb, and all he wanted was to go home and sleep for years, but he had to stop somewhere first.
That somewhere happened to be Deaton’s.
~
It was dark by the time Stiles arrived, and Deaton was outside locking up the animal clinic before Stiles had turned the jeep off. Stiles rushed out of his jeep and after Deaton, calling out, “Hey Deaton, wait! Wait!”
The veterinarian paused halfway into his car, before stepping back out and turning around, shouldering his bag back onto his arm.
“Yes, Stiles?” His voice was mildly irritated, like merely being in Stiles presence was draining.
Stiles didn’t care.
“I need a favor.”
Deaton’s eyebrows raised in faint amusement. “Why should I allow you, of all people, a favor?”
Stiles lips pursed. “Humor me.”
Deaton tilted his head in actual curiosity, and he waved his hands in a vague gesture for Stiles to proceed.
“How much mountain ash do you keep on hand?”
“Why?” Deaton had that infuriatingly thoughtful look on his face, like Stiles was some sort of an enigma to be figured out.
Stiles wasn’t an enigma. He was actually a five foot adderall and caffeine fueled ball of sexual frustration and suppressed rage. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and Deaton needed to keep up with the program.
“I’m about done with werewolves, okay? I know this won’t be a permanent fix from the supernatural, but it will give me enough time to think things through without the influence of an emotionally constipated werewolf or my idiot best friend, so I just- I really need some mountain ash.”
It seemed liked Deaton finally discerned the remnants of tears on his face and the large purple bruise right under his left eye, or maybe he just heard the broken tone in Stiles’ voice, because he hesitantly turned around and popped the trunk of his car and pulled out a small ziploc baggie of crushed rowan.
Thank god.
“It’s all I have, but it should be enough to at least border your room. If you come back in a week, I should have another shipment with enough to surround your whole house.”
He dropped the bag into Stiles hands, closed the trunk, and got into his car without a second glance back at Stiles.
“Thanks, I guess.” Stiles told the empty air in front of him before turning around and getting into his own car.
Time to install some werewolf repellant, he thought ruefully.
~
Derek apparently didn’t get the memo that Stiles didn’t want to talk to any werewolves, like, at all, because Stiles woke up to the tapping on his window at the the convenient hour of 3 o’clock in the damn morning. It was mildly exasperating, to say in the least. He flicked the lamp on next to his bed.
“Derek, what the fuck?”
Derek politely ignored his question altogether, and instead asked his own.
“Why can’t I come into your room?”
Stiles briefly considered ignoring Derek’s question too, but then he decided he quite liked his throat where it was, and the mountain ash would only last so long.
“Mountain ash.”
“Why?” Derek’s eyebrows were scrunched up like he had no idea why Stiles would instill the use of mountain ash around his room.
“I needed a break.”
Derek seemed to accept that answer, because he nodded his head before looking at Stiles more intensely before, like he could simply will Stiles into doing whatever it was he wanted him to do.
“Let me in.”
Stiles snorted. Derek was seriously playing perfectly into the stereotype of the big bad wolf.
“Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.” Stiles chortled back.
Derek growled in response to his joke, obviously not finding it funny. Stiles didn’t know why. He had thought it was fucking hilarious.
“This isn’t a joke Stiles. I need to tell you something really important.”
Stiles looked at him skeptically. “Then you can tell me right there, buddy o’pal. I don’t plan on letting anyone in for a while.”
“Stiles, seriously, I really need- I just- just let me in?”
Stiles was about done with all of this complete bullshit. He sighed loudly before pointedly looking at Derek.
“Derek, look at my wall, and tell me how many stars there are on it.”
If Derek was confused before, he was definitely puzzled now.
“Um, none?”
“Exactly, and that is the precise amount of fucks I give right now, okay? So happily prance your little werewolf ass home, because-”
“Stiles damnit, please!”
Stiles stopped midsentence, and allowed his eyes to go wide and his mouth to drop open, because in his entire existence as a human being, he had never heard Derek utter the word please. He pinched the bridge of his nose before he stood up, and walked cautiously towards the window.
“Okay.”
Derek was expectantly looking at him the whole way, until Stiles finally broke the mountain ash line and opened the window.
All of a sudden, Stiles was face to face with a very angry and very mean looking werewolf with very bright glowing eyes.
Why was this situation so familiar? Oh yeah, that’s right. The rogue omegas.
The panic attack Stiles had been fending back for hours came back in full force, crushing his lungs and making him dizzy. His hands were tingly, and his legs unexpectedly gave out from underneath him, and why couldn’t he breathe?
Instead of hitting the floor like anticipated, he was enveloped in warm arms and carefully carried over to the bed where Derek attempted to soothe him enough to calm him down.
It actually worked.
As long as Stiles could remember, the only two people who could talk him down from a panic attack where his mom and himself; not even his dad could do anything.
Maybe Stiles trusted Derek more than he realised.
After Derek was sure that Stiles’s heart rate had calmed down enough, he situated them more precariously on the bed, and started questioning him.
“Why do you smell like you got… intimate,” Derek said the word with utmost distaste, “with the rogue werewolves? And why are you hurt?”
“I really, really, don’t wanna talk about it.”
Derek’s eyes widened in realization.
“Did they-”
“No. God, no. It didn’t get that far, but please, just leave it? And how do you know about the rogue werewolves?”
Derek shook his head in understanding, thank god, and made a noise extremely close to a whimper. This was probably the one time Stiles needed Derek to not completely disregard his request.
“It was the pack emergency I told you about. They're gone, if that’s any condolence.”
It wasn’t, but Derek seemed to know that.
“What- what did you do to them?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Stiles really didn’t.
He smiled at Derek, but it felt fake.
“Anyways, Derek, what did you want to tell me?”
Derek looked like he wanted to push the issue further, just to reassure himself that Stiles was really okay, but he didn’t press. Instead, he chose to answer Stiles’s question.
“I love you.”
Way to drop a fucking bomb, Derek, seriously.
“Excuse me?” Stiles knew it wasn’t the most eloquent thing to say, but what?
“I love you.” Derek repeated it, his expression slowly becoming guarded.
“Why?” Stiles was undeniably confused by now.
Apparently so was Derek. “What do you mean, why?”
“I mean why, because like, you’re this perfect, super awesome werewolf, and I am just me. I thought you didn’t even like me, before yesterday, and-”
“Stiles?” Derek interrupted.
“Yeah?”
“Shut. Up.”
And then Stiles was being kissed, passionately and considerably more pleasantly than he was by the rogue werewolves. It was soft, and wonderful, and Stiles couldn’t breathe, but for an entirely different reason. Whenever Derek finally pulled back, Stiles knew he was panting and flushed, but he could care less, because he just kissed Derek Hale.
Fucking score.
Stiles felt significantly more better than he had earlier that day.
“Of course I like you, idiot. I’ve been trying to tell you that for the past few weeks, by spending more time with you, and I have been trying to help you more lately.”
Which, point. Derek had been spending increasingly more time with him over the last few weeks, but Stiles had just wrote it off as Derek needing research or something. He’d also fixed the jeep more time than Stiles could count, and even explained his math homework to him once, but it’s not like Stiles could’ve known, right?
Damnit.
“Why now, though? And are you telling me we could’ve been making out for weeks?”
Derek almost looked uncomfortable for a second.
“After I smelt you on the rogue wolves, my own wolf just kinda lost control, and I had to see you, you know?” Then he smirked, “And yes Stiles, we could’ve been making out this whole time.”
He briefly stroked his hand through Stiles hair, before pecking him on the lips.
“Now,” Derek’s face lost all traces of previous amusement, “did the same person who gave you those cuts and that bruise I know you're hiding on your chest give you that bruised cheek and those two broken ribs?”
Aw, shit.
Stiles had hoped Derek forgot about those. The cuts were beginning to fade, anyway.
“No, the rogues gave me the broken ribs and and bruised cheek.”
Derek impatiently looked at him. “And the cuts?”
Stiles shook his head. “Nobody.”
Derek growled fervently. “Do not try to protect them, Stiles. They hurt you. Now, who?”
Stiles guiltily turned his eyes away from Derek.
“Stiles, who-” Derek was interrupted from a call downstairs.
“Stiles!” It was the Sheriff.
Holy shit, Stiles thought, slightly relieved. Speak of the devil, however indirectly, and he shall appear.
“Haha, gotta run, Dad is calling,” Stiles laughed nervously.
Stiles dashed madly out of his room and down the stairs, not realizing Derek had noticed the anxious tick in his heartbeat when his dad called his name, and that Derek was now slowly trailing him.
His dad was sitting in the kitchen, calmly flicking through the pages of the gun catalogue that he received weekly.
A glass of alcohol resided in the hand opposite of the one he was using to browse through the magazine.
Shit.
Not now. Derek was here, he would find out, he would hurt his dad-
God apparently decided yes now, because the glass was suddenly flying through the air, and Stiles closed his eyes, preparing for impact, wondering what he had done now, because his dad didn’t even bother to explain- except, the impact didn’t come.
Stiles slowly opened his eyes, and there the glass was, right in front of his face, floating in midair- except it wasn’t in midair, it was being held by a hand, which was attached to an arm, which was attached to a very angry and extremely murderous looking glowy eyed werewolf.
Said werewolf looked at Stiles, and his expression softened subtly.
“Your father gave you those cuts?”
The question was more courtesy than anything, because Derek very well knew the answer to that question, but Stiles shrugged helplessly anyway.
In a split second, Derek had crushed the glass between his fingers and had the Sheriff pinned threateningly to the wall, growlingly furiously in his face.
The Sheriff was probably in some form of shock, because his eyes were glazed over, and he was muttering nonsense about how werewolves apparently were real, but Stiles was more concerned at the prospect of Derek ripping his father's throat out.
“Derek, no!” The shout was pure desperation, but it was enough to give Derek pause, and he turned his head slightly to the right in acknowledgement.
“He’s the only family I have left, Derek, and he’ll get better I promise, Derek, please don’t hurt him, Derek-” Stiles was sobbing so hard by now that he couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, and tears were clogging his vision so much he could barely see, but suddenly, he was being carried to his bed for the second time today, and Derek was murmuring softly in his ear, “Hush Stiles, no, I didn’t kill him, he’s fine, you’re fine, shh..”
He was being tucked into the covers with Derek as a strong presence behind him, whispering comforting words until his heavy sobs turned into weak sniffles and whimpers.
“I won’t kill him Stiles, honest. But I will not allow him to hurt you anymore.”
“Okay.” Stiles was okay with that. He didn’t want to get hurt anymore either.
That single word seemed to pacify Derek enough for him to leave the matter alone for right now, because he pulled Stiles closer to him and snuffled into the back of his ear.
“I love you, Stiles.”
“I love you too, Derek.” And Stiles meant it.