Chapter Text
One Month Ago:
“I think we should go out,” Stiles stated quietly, holding his breath when Derek didn’t respond right away.
Instead, the werewolf opted to furrow his brow, his eyes skimming the next few sentences in the book he was holding before he looked up, then around the library he and Stiles were currently seated in. “We are out,” he responded gruffly, though by the tightening of his jaw and the creaking of the spine of the book in his hands, he knew exactly which kind of out the teen meant.
“On a date,” Stiles clarified, swallowing hard and gripping the pencil in his hands all the more tightly. It snapped abruptly when Derek’s eyes flashed a warning shade of red, which had absolutely no effect on Stiles’ brain-to-mouth filter. “You know, as a couple.”
Derek scowled. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It just…isn’t.”
Stiles could see the other man was struggling, that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to go out with the teen, just that…maybe he thought it was too dangerous. Or he was worried what his dads might think of him. Or he was worried that his dads might be dangerous once they decided what they think of him. Which was absolutely and totally ridiculous because Stiles’ dads were amazing and, yes, sometimes a bit scary but mainly understanding, and they only wanted Stiles to be happy, and this—oh, this—would make Stiles very, very happy. Yes.
Someone from a nearby table shushed them, and Stiles’ face heated as he realized he’d been talking out loud. Again. As usual. Derek was staring at him funny, which could mean so many different things. But his eyes weren’t red, and he didn’t look mad, persay. Just…funny.
“You think I’m afraid of your parents?” he challenged, his tone indignant, but Stiles knew better.
“I know you’re afraid of my parents,” he said adamantly, an unapologetic shrug twitching at one shoulder. “Everyone is.”
Derek’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing to the contrary, his gaze shifting to the book again, where he searched in vain for the place he’d been only a moment before. “Why should we?”
“Go out?” Stiles asked densely. Honestly, he hadn’t expected to get this far into the conversation without Derek storming off. Ripping his throat out. Leaving him to die in the middle of the library. “Um…Because I…like you. And, unless my Adderall dosage is severely out of whack and I’ve been totally misreading things…you like me, too.”
Derek shifted in his seat, closing the heavy book and setting it on the table beside several others. Stiles hadn’t pegged the werewolf as the reading type, but from what he’d found out over the last year with Derek being a little more open about his family and his past, the guy was a total bookworm. And freakishly smart, apparently. Before the fire, he’d been about to graduate high school—at friggin’ fourteen—and wanted to go to med school.
“Yes,” Derek said, interrupting the young man’s thoughts.
“Yes?” Stiles asked incredulously, eyebrows raised. Derek nodded, and the teen cleared his throat. “Just to…clarify… ‘Yes’ meaning I’m totally misunderstanding, or ‘yes’ meaning you like me too?”
Derek stood slowly, taking the few steps around the table, sitting on the corner to Stiles’ right, and leaning into the teen’s space. Stiles didn’t move, didn’t want to move, even with an alpha this close to his throat—his very vulnerable throat, which, when he put some thought into it, was really only a thin layer of tissue stretched over vital breathing instruments and some rather choice, juicy arteries.
“Yes,” Derek repeated, once again breaking Stiles thoughts, before reaching forward to tilt the teen’s chin up with a surprisingly gentle finger and ducking his own head to capture Stiles’ lips in warmth and wet and DerekDerekDerek.
Yes. Yes, he could absolutely see himself falling for someone like Derek Hale—already had fallen, actually; fallen so bad it friggin’ hurt—so, so bad.
“Ouch,” Stiles said absently when Derek pulled away, causing a bewildered look to cross the other man’s face.
Stiles smiled and laughed maybe a little too loudly, maybe a little too hysterically. “Dinner,” he said matter-of-factly, enthusiastically. “And a movie.”
The troubled look left Derek’s face, replaced with amusement and exasperation and something Stiles would very soon come to realize was along the lines of fondness, something Derek had been expressing for a lot longer than the teen had been noticing.
“Okay.”
0 o 0 o 0
One Month Later:
The jolt of consciousness almost made him hurl, his stomach twisting nauseatingly and his head pounding and pounding and –
"Stiles? Stiles, buddy, can you hear me?"
It was his pop's voice, and he sounded worried. Really, really worried. Like my-son-was-on-the-brink-of-death worried. And that kind of worry was worrying. Because that kind of worry meant that Dean would look for something—or someone—to blame. And then probably kill it—or them. More than once.
So...shit.
"Pop?" he asked, swallowing against a throat that was thankfully free of blood and who knew what else. Ugh. Why was that unsettling? Oh, right. He’d been dying. More than likely, he probably had died. And now he was back. And probably—no, definitely—grounded.
"Yeah. Yeah, Stiles, I'm here. Can you open your eyes?"
"Pop," Stiles said again, breathing deep and feeling his abdomen shudder. New skin. New guts. Tissue and liquid literally made from thin air. Everything ached to be stretched and twisted and used until it was just as old as the rest of him. Seriously cool. And seriously gross. "Did you... Did you kill Derek?"
Silence followed his words, and for a moment he feared the worst. And then a sharp chuckle jostled him into reality. White, hot light burned his eyes, and he groaned, bringing his hands up to cover his burning face.
“No, Stiles, I didn’t kill your boyfriend.”
The teen tentatively parted two fingers and squinted with one eye up at the silhouette of his pop. “Are you going to?”
“Are you giving me permission?”
“Dean,” came Castiel’s soft, admonishing tone. Cool fingers were pressed to his forehead, relieving the pain, and Stiles relaxed, lowering his hands and blinking furiously before looking around.
They were in his living room. They were in his living room. All of them, everyone. Well, all except the one person he really wanted to see. Several hopeful faces stared back at him—his uncles and the pack; even Jackson was sulking worriedly behind the rest of them.
“Did I die?” Stiles asked stupidly, feeling the ache of sleep in his bones. He wanted to drop off again, let unconsciousness drag him down until he drowned in his dreams, until Derek was back and safe and his.
“For a moment, yes,” his dad admitted hesitantly, watching him with a bright, careful gaze.
Stiles sighed and rubbed at his face, leaning back onto his elbows. “Am I grounded?”
His pop laughed, relief in the lines on his face, around his eyes. “For the rest of your life, kid.”
Nodding with acceptance—because, really, he kind of deserved it—the teen let his head fall back, mustering up the strength to ask the most important question, the one stuck to the roof of his mouth like a peanut butter and molasses sandwich. Dammit, he was hungry. “Where is he?”
Another silence coated the room, and he wanted to open his eyes so badly, to look his family and friends in the face and demand to know where his boyfriend—his mate—was. Derek was his, and no one was going to keep him from Stiles.
He took a breath to ask again, but cool fingers pressed against his forehead, and he found himself falling deeper into warm, warm sleep. “Derek’s fine,” his dad said, voice distant. “He’ll be here soon. Sleep now, Stiles.”
And Stiles did.
0 o 0 o 0
It was nearly two in the morning before Stiles’ bedroom window slid up, and the teen didn’t need to turn from his position on his bed to know exactly who it was.
He didn’t need to. But he did anyway.
“Derek,” he breathed, sitting up and watching the man straighten in the dark. “Where have you—”
“Are you all right?” Derek interrupted, kicking his shoes off, letting his jacket slide from his shoulders to the floor, and cautiously slipping into the bed. He pressed Stiles back down into the sheets, settling at his side and draping a warm arm around him. Stiles turned and burrowed into him, nestling his head beneath Derek’s chin and shivering at the contrast of the werewolf’s chilled clothes and heated skin. Derek’s shirt smelled of damp and leaves and earth. He’d been in the woods.
“Where did you go?” Stiles asked instead of answering the question. He’d had one first, after all. It was only fair.
Derek hesitated before sighing, one hand running up and down Stiles’ back comfortingly. “I had some business to take care of. It’s done, now.”
“The alphas?”
“Gone,” Derek confirmed, pressing a kiss into Stiles’ hair. “Not coming back.”
“Good,” Stiles said tiredly, hands snaking up beneath Derek’s shirt and fingertips pressing into the tense muscles at his lower back.
“Sleep, Stiles.”
“Okay,” the teen whispered, scrubbing his face against Derek’s chest and grinning, “mate.”
Derek chuckled deeply, and Stiles loved the sound of it with his head pressed to the werewolf’s chest. “Not quite yet” he said, amusement in his tone as he rubbed his stubbled cheek against Stiles’ temple.
Stiles leaned his head back just enough so he could look Derek in the eye, albeit a little cross-eyed. “What do you mean?”
Derek’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Well, there’s…more to it than that, I think. Humans can’t just call themselves married and expect it to be official.”
“So we have to get married?”
“We don’t have to, no,” Derek explained, “though sometimes it strengthens the bond.”
Stiles thought for a moment, his fingers playing idly with the hem of Derek’s t-shirt, which was rucked up around mid-torso. “You mean, like…consummating?”
Derek closed his eyes and brought their foreheads together, wincing like he wished he hadn’t broached the subject at all. “Yes, Stiles. I mean like consummating. Which is not happening.”
A scowl took the teen’s face, and he pushed further away from Derek, teetering on the edge of the bed with only his grip on the other man’s t-shirt to keep him from falling. “Why not?”
“We agreed. Not until you’re ready.”
“Who says I’m not ready?”
“I do,” Derek argued, pushing up onto one elbow and hovering over Stiles with a determined expression. “I’m not pushing you into this. You’re still just a—”
“If you say kid, so help me, Derek Hale, I will throw you out the window myself,” Stiles warned, pushing a finger into Derek’s chest several times for emphasis. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions, and I made this one a long time ago. So don’t you dare try to tell me what I am and am not ready for.”
Derek’s mouth clicked shut audibly, and normally Stiles would have reveled in the knowledge that he’d gotten the last word in with Mr. Last Word Alpha. But he didn’t. Because he could see what Derek was so afraid of, could see why he was holding back.
“I died, Derek,” Stiles said quietly, pressing himself closer and running his fingers through the other man’s hair when a pained expression took Derek’s face. “And I know how scary that is. It scares me every day, knowing you could die, knowing I might never see you again.”
“I just…” Derek faltered, pressing his nose into the space behind Stiles’ ear and inhaling deeply. “I don’t want this to influence our decision. I don’t want you to make a mistake because you think I’m the only one that—”
“You are the only one,” the teen confirmed, fisting the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. “You are, and will always be, the only one.” Derek seemed pleased with the words, humming into the flesh between Stiles’ shoulder and neck. “I’m not rushing because of anything that happened today. I promise you, it’s been on my mind for a while, now. A lot.”
Derek leaned away, studying Stiles carefully. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.” There was no hesitance, and Stiles was immensely proud of himself when Derek grinned ear to ear.
“Okay,” the older man agreed, and Stiles beamed from his very soul. “When?”
“Been thinking about that, too,” the teen said, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and pulling him into a heated kiss.
Derek groaned, hands tightening around Stiles’ hips as he pulled away, breathing heavily. “Not tonight.”
Stiles laughed. “No, not tonight,” he agreed, settling back against the other man contently. Warmwarmwarm, he told himself. “My eighteenth birthday is next month. I want to do it then.”
Derek was quiet for a moment, contemplating, before he nodded. “All right.”
“Really?” Stiles asked excitedly. Not that he’d expected Derek to say no…but, yeah, he’d totally expected Derek to say no.
“Yes, really.” The older man still sounded hesitant. But they had a month. He’d warm up to it. No, he’d really warm up to it. Stiles was absolutely certain.
The teen flipped them so that Derek was on his back and Stiles was straddling his hips and began peppering the other man’s lips with kisses. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
Derek laughed, smiling into the kisses as they came and trying to speak between them. “You need—to get—some sleep.”
Stiles sighed and put his ear to Derek’s chest, closing his eyes. The steady beat of the werewolf’s heart pulsed in his own chest, making his limbs heavy. “Will you stay?”
Derek carefully turned them until Stiles was on his side again, hot breath puffing over the teen’s face as the older man smoothed his hair back. It was getting longer. He might let it grow out a bit.
“Your parents won’t like it,” Derek warned, snuggling against him anyway and pulling a blanket over the both of them.
“I think they’ll let it slide just this once,” Stiles said sleepily, frowning when his fingers came into contact with the rough fabric of Derek’s jeans and tugging at them unhappily.
Derek smiled and obligingly shucked them off. “I don’t think they’ll let this slide.”
“They already know my boyfriend is a werewolf,” the teen countered, yawning and wrapping himself bodily around the older man. “How can it get any worse?”
With a chuckle and a brief press of lips to Stiles’ temple, Derek said, “Just wait until you have to tell them you’re mated to one.”
0 o 0 o 0
Somewhere Fairly Far Away:
“He did not concede,” the injured werewolf said around bloodied teeth, spitting onto the ground and wiping his mouth. His chest heaved from the exertion of running for so long. But he’d had to get here, had to tell their leader, their true leader, what had happened in a silly little town with a silly little boy and his pack.
Clawed fingers drummed a bored beat against a tree. “I can see that.”
“It wasn’t our fault. The boy…His parents….”
“I am aware of who the boy allies himself with,” the leader said quietly, dangerously, and the injured werewolf cowered, crouching and lowering his head. “A hunter and an angel for parents, an alpha as his mate, and his extraordinary gift…I didn’t expect you’d return as victors.” A flash of bared teeth gleamed in the night. “I didn’t expect you’d return at all.”
The injured werewolf’s head snapped up, and he growled low in his throat. “You sent us to be slaughtered,” he accused, his muscles tensing as he readied to spring into attack. “My brothers—”
“Are dead,” the leader said, suddenly behind the injured werewolf, one arm around his neck and squeezing. “Pity that you’re the only survivor, the only…witness.” A snap, then a wet crack, and the injured werewolf lay lifeless on the forest floor, head detached from his body.
“Sire,” a deep voice said from the trees, and the leader gave a small grunt, brushing invisible dust from his shirt sleeve. “What would you have us do?”
“I have business,” the leader stated officially, squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side, “in Beacon Hills.”
0 o 0 o 0
Back in Oblivious Beacon Hills:
Stiles grinned. “I love you, Derek,” he whispered, and the arms around him tightened.
“I love you, too.”