Not Your Boy

naughtbutscars:

Well. 

That was the fucking opposite of what he wanted to happen. Pendulum swing from ideal. Diametrically averse. Worst Case Scenario. 

Stiles is poised, coiled, spring loaded tension running down his forearms, his spark wild and tight. He’s watching too hard. So naturally he doesn’t manage to mask his flinch when the glass shatters, even if his eyes are no longer entirely on the table. He figured he’d been staring long enough, but he can’t untether himself. 

At least he heard it. 

Quick glances give him only fragments, a napkin pressed to a palm with the stark bright cherry of blood on it. 

The wicked edges of the shattered glass, tips like claws. 

Derek will heal. 

Or he won’t. 

Depends on the wolfsbane strain, really. 

Stiles is going to fucking strangle him. After he shoves some wolfsbane up his nose. 

He studiously refuses to make eye contact. A flick of his eyes to the side, as if the TV hanging in the corner by Derek’s head has caught his attention. The Mets dropping a routine ground ball is hardly news. He knows, if he does look, he won’t be able to look away. And that he’s liable to do something too idiotic to name.

But he can’t help it. Never has been able to when it comes to this damn werewolf, and his eyes slide too far, and he’s gutted. 

One, two, sucker punch. Even when you knew it was coming. 

It’s like when you first put your hand under the hot water in the kitchen sink. Shocking, then comforting, then quickly dissipating as you snatch your hand back. Derek’s eyes, that disconcerting hazel edged with green, are on him and him alone. Derek’s nostrils flare wide, and there’s a clench to his jaw that looks like pain. 

His phone twitches in his pocket, but he can’t look away. Eight years has done nothing to dull the pull. 

God, Derek looks wrecked. To any idiot at any bar, he looks like he’s drunk himself six ways from Sunday under the table, like whatever cab takes him home might have to peel him off the seats later. Like he’s easy. 

There’s dread, hope, the killer cocktail of betrayal and trust and Stiles takes a deep breath that tears him open as it goes down. 

Though he almost splinters the goddamn bar when Derek breaks eye contact, rolls his shoulders, almost like he does before a shift - how can you still remember that? - and takes drink #2 down his throat. 

There’s something clinical about the way Derek takes out his wallet, drops an absurd stack of bills on the table, like he’s trying too hard to make his fingers work and christ on a cracker Stiles should really stop staring. 

He switches to the depths of his remaining beer, and takes a long, long drink from the pint glass. Leaves only the foam, and watches Derek’s shoulders duck out the door. 

‘Think I’m gonna grab his number.’ He winks at the bartender, drops a few singles, and taps the wood. There’s a flare in his fingertips, and he hopes the charm holds for as long as it takes to make it to the alley. 

God, he’s so livid he can’t fucking see straight. 

Where’ve you been sleeping sourwolf? In the fucking den? Snuggled up tight to those monsters? 

Do you have any sense of self preservation at all? 

Or was it burned out of you. 

He pinches the yew and sage, sewn into the pocket of his boxers. Sparks it, drops it at the entrance to the alley. For privacy, if only for a few moments. The smell of rotten bananas, and decaying cardboard is overwhelming, and he tugs the collar of his flannel up to flank his face. 

Just like every other time. Derek Hale manages to find himself connected to the fucking worst people alive. 

He’s suddenly, irrevocably blinded and white hot with anger, with something too petty to name. 

He almost decks him. Before he even gets close, he’s swinging up, trying to catch Derek’s jaw, a pressure point that with the right weight around it, even Stiles can make him feel. The ‘bane will only make it easier. And Stiles throws his entire body into it, wild. But he only fists into the leather and feels it bunch, creak under his hands, as he maneuvers Derek against the grimy, damp wall of the alley. He watches the bunched napkin, dark with Derek’s blood, fall and turn translucent in the runoff of the gutter above as his own knuckles scrape the crumbling brick.  

“What the FUCK WHERE YOU THINKING?” It’s whisper-harsh. He’s heaving under his own panic, lets the tidal wave break.

“No. Don’t speak. Don’t say anything at all because the only possible explanation for this kind of monumental fuck up is that you weren’t thinking. You weren’t thinking at all. Jesus fucking christ, Derek. You took one look at the fucking ‘functioning’ switch in your brain and said ‘eh, fuck it’ and threw it down the garbage disposal, just like you did every goddamn time, with Beacon Hills, with the pack, with -

And here’s where his voice breaks. And if anything, he only feels more dark and bitter, can smell the bane, and the vodka, and knows Murph is going to be right on their heels in mere moments. But Derek is real. Real and solid under his hands, warm and breathing. And Stiles can’t let him go. 

The shove knocks out Derek’s air and pulls his next breath in greedy, drinking in smoke and sour from a thousand intimate moments spent in this spot between strangers. His body goes easy with the movement, shoulders bracing and hips canting, the cool of the brick seeping out sobering through his jacket while the hands at his front fight to pull him further into some hazy dream.

He wants to melt into it.

His eyes feel too big in his head, catching and sliding over the blur-sharp focus of Stiles’ face. A patch of broken lip pulling the skin there darker, too-bright eyes filled up with too-bright emotions, every lash a blade that sweeps dizzying on each blink. Confused beats of breath, bursts of sound and jagged silence. Sharp jaw and sharp words, angry hands pushing and clutching in ways Derek can’t help but roll with, like a ship riding some wild storm.

It feels real. There’s a pulse in the air he’s spent six years searching for and he could lose himself in it, feel it match the dizzy sway under his feet, guide the rhythm of his breaths and burn away the wrong of the Alphas’ touch, their scents clinging to his skin like claim…

But it’s not real. Can’t be.

The world feels hazier suddenly, damp light blurring out the world’s edges. Derek’s breath pulls in sour-smoke and misery –– a thousand nights and a thousand strangers drowning sorrows out here alone ––  and wonders what to do with the mental break he’s clearly having. Wonders if it matters at this point, or if it’s better just to fall into it. Does this strain of wolfsbane pull dreams to life for him? Is he really standing out here with some stranger? Or when he lifts a hand to knuckle clumsy across Stiles’ cheek, is he really touching open air?

It doesn’t seem likely, not with the warm soaking out from those fists, the way Stiles’ eyes flash with anger and things not-quite anger, words rising and bursting in fits like something pulling from deep inside him. Hell, if this is some demon-spawn summoning up fantasies to lower his guard before feeding, Derek thinks it might deserve the win. Everything about this is right, down to those snapped out words, familiar in a way he’s never let himself think he was missing…

Except for one thing. One stupid, vital thing that stops this all from being real.

The air smells like everything except Stiles.

“…This a dream?” The words crystalize in the air and hang fragile for a second, until his own huffed breath shatters them. Dreams don’t tell you they’re dreams, and tricks don’t admit their lies either.

But it’s a good dream, if that’s what it is, so Derek lets himself lean into it. Just for a second, hand falling heavy from Stiles’ cheek to his shoulder, head tilting until he’s pulling nothing in too-heavy breaths off the line of Stiles’ throat. He feels loose in his bones, twists slow until his back’s hitting open air, Stiles’ body a warm line between him and the bricks. The heartbeat’s there, Derek’s nose skimming over the pulse point, and Stiles’ shoulder is a shocking sort of broad under the press of Derek’s palm.

“Don’t disappear.” He’d never say that out loud, never bare that much, but it doesn’t matter here. There’s a throb in his hand and a dizzy ache in his temple and whatever lie or delusion this is, he can let himself pretend, “just for a second.” Can let himself have this small spark of weakness.

A hazy image of himself alone in the alley, body curled around nothing, forehead pressed to the wall, has him smirking bitter against Stiles’ collar. His nose drags a line again, a little rougher with some half-formed spite.

“For a second,” he mumbles, “Almost thought you were real.”

He doesn’t know how his body betrayed him like this. He meant to fucking deck him. But the werewolf had gone too easy - syrupy slow with the movement as he met the wall. Derek’s chest is heaving against Stiles’ forearms, desperate panting breaths hot as they break against his face. 

Just like you did with the pack. With me. 

There’s a moment of ringing silence, but for the drip of dirty rain water and the muffled distant music from the bar. 

Even as Stiles breathes ragged and shattered, head hanging between his arms as if to put some illusion of distance between them he feels Derek shift unsteadily and his anger flares again, solar and searing. 

“How the fuck-” He stills, caught off guard and instinctually frozen like prey as Derek lifts a marionette hand, eyes wide so Stiles can see the sliver ring of the summer green around the blank blackness of his pupils. 

It’s bitterly gentle, a little clumsy as his fingers skim the hollow of his cheek and the edge of his jaw. Dazed and hazy, even as blood drips down his wrist, and Stiles grits his teeth so hard he thinks he cracks a crown. This is not the Derek Hale he came for, and it only serves to heighten his barely sheathed panic.

Start the car, or I’m gonna rip your throat out. With my teeth. 

There’s a thin whisper instead, delicate and cautious and Stiles aches in confusion, his sternum tight as his anger starts to fall out of him. A dream, not a nightmare.  

“Wha— no. Derek.” But Derek shakes his head and exhales, like he’s sloughing off water, trying to shake himself back into reality. Stiles crumbles a little more, narrows his eyes. Acutely aware of how Derek’s body is canted towards his. Easy. 

Dereks’ hand falls and his body seems to follow it of its own accord as he twists them, as he curls forward, nose pulling up Stiles’ throat like he’s doing a goddamn line of cocaine off his larynx. Stiles swallows convulsively as he’s forced to tilt his head up. He drops his grip, not needing to tether them so tight, as Derek is clearly not letting him go. 

The whole moment has thoroughly fucked with Stiles’ brittle equilibrium. He was cresting on righteous indignation, but he’s adrift as Derek curls tight around him. Their knees press together, and the press of his palm on his shoulder softens. 

“Derek.” He shakes the werewolf, tries to rattle something loose in his primal canine brain. 

“Derek...”

Derek’s panting hard, and Stiles doesn’t fight it, can feel Derek leaning his whole body weight on him like a drunk on the subway. He presses one hand against the back of Derek’s skull, fingers twisted in ink-dark hair,  a sorry attempt to ground him against the effects of the ‘bane. 

He knows what Derek’s missing. And he knows he can’t. He can’t risk it here, in this alleyway, their sneakers picking up the froth of tossed dishwater. Even if the scent would dissipate over the next few hours. The moment stretches thin, and snaps slowly. 

“You’ve got some fucking nerve.” He shoves, far harder than before, though the ‘wolf is heavier than he looks.  He feels sharp, knife-ready. “Don’t disappear. Don’t disappear, he says. You’re telling me -” He finally wriggles his way out, leaves Derek half propped on his shoulder, ready to carry him out of the alley if he has to. But Derek seems to be moving of his own volition, though Stiles can see the effort it takes.  

His phone buzzes in his pocket - 3 texts, and goes silent.

“Jesus christ. I’m right here, you asshole. They haven’t managed to kill me yet, though Beacon Hills really did try. Flesh and blood. Pale skin and sarcasm. I’m like a gnat. This is what you get for irresponsibly downing drinks with suspicious characters.”  But the retort has far less bite than intended. And Stiles ruthlessly compartmentalizes the residual ache in his chest at the empty loneliness in Derek’s sigh. 

Almost thought you were real. 

They only have a few more moments of peace before the sigil wears off. 250 different species of aconitum, and they’re all locked up in the safe house. Or in Stiles’ kit, but that’s blocks away. 

naughtbutscars:

Danny Māhealani, 10:08 PM: What Danny Māhealani, 10:08 PM: Stiles. What the fuck. Danny Māhealani, 10:09 PM: There is protocol for this. You can’t just text us that. What happened? Who is it?  What the fuck, Stilinski. This was supposed to be recon.

His heart is kick drumming itself out of his chest, his palms are sweaty enough that he drops one of the beers on the bar.

It doesn’t shatter, but it’s a hair trigger miss.

He can’t even hear the wail of the guitar from the jukebox over the frenetic pounding in his temples and his phone is buzzing a hole in his pocket.

He was 18 the last time. It’s been six years since he’s seen Derek Hale and the wound opens fresh and ragged. It feels better than it should. There’s warmth there, somewhere under the ripped darkness of panic.

Derek’s eyes are closed, have been closed, lashes long and shadowed in the hollows of his eyes — where have you been sleeping, sourwolf? — the line of his throat going relaxed, his hands curling neatly in what could be pleasure and every revolting hunch Stiles had about those beers roars to the forefront of his mind.

We’ve got to get you out of here. An echo of another time, body splayed on the floor of a hospital elevator.

Trevor Fox, 10:09 PM: Stiles? What’s the play? What’s the problem? You gotta give us something here, man. Trevor Fox, 10:09 PM: Exit strategy? We’ve got civilians. Please tell me you’ve got some Harry Potter shit up your sleeve.

He knew. He knew this job was going to go sideways, could feel it in his spine when he walked in, and now it’s fucked upside down, inside out, and backwards to hell.

In the grimy light the targets on the other side of the table curl into each other, soft words and knife edge smirks as Derek stays too still.

Stiles counts his breaths. Watches the rise and fall of Derek’s chest beneath that stupid leather jacket. He can’t even believe he missed it.

Danny Māhealani, 10:09 PM: Neither of us are armed. Danny Māhealani, 10:10 PM: STILES.

If telepathy were real, there would be sirens blaring in that big bearded head of his with Stiles signature attached. Telepathy should be real. Why in the hell isn’t it real yet. Everything would be one thousand times fucking easier if Stiles could verbally roast and crackle Derek with his mind.

Derek looks wrong. Like someone blurred him out, smudged his edges, woke him up halfway, tipped him just a little bit sideways, made him languid and slow and open and it’s a look Stiles vehemently wishes he’d never seen on Derek Hale. Not like this. It’s unnatural to the point of obscenity, something to look away from in its intimacy. The werewolf has always been incredibly reactive, always the first to recognize a threat — hypervigilance — his mind supplies, before he clamps that door shut. If Stiles thinks about it too hard he’ll delve into truths about Derek he’s always easily shunted into latent corners of his brain.

Derek’s eyes are open now, pupils blown, eyelashes tangled impossibly together and it tosses something panicked and nasty into Stiles’ ribcage.

Derek has never, ever, willingly given up control.

Danny Māhealani, 10:12 PM: Stilinski, give us something. Stiles, 10:12 PM: New ID. Don’t move.

There are fifteen civilians now. Two, no, three exits. God fucking damn it, Derek.

He spits out a text to Danny, trying to maneuver the chess pieces. Trying to perform a surgical extraction while his hands are shaking.

Stiles, 10:13 PM: Laced beers. Confirmed. Four weres.  

His fingers are on the sigil, picking, picking, picking at the splinters in the wood.

It’s too soon.

Stiles, 10:14 PM: Murph. We’ve got a 302.  

Everything has sped up, clarity from the adrenaline making Stiles shiver under the sweat, making his vision sharpen, making his frenetic compulsive need to do something manifest like static in the air. The bullshit glasses are sliding down the bridge of his nose, as he watches Copperhead and Trueblood.

He tastes blood, realizes he’s torn off a piece of skin in worrying his lips.

They’ll scent that if they’re close enough.

Fuck, this is going to be so much paperwork.

Trevor Fox, 10:14 PM: Do we need a kit?

Derek is talking, and his tongue looks too thick in his mouth. Nothing of the acerbic bite, of the thin lipped assertion of before, his eyes are too wide. Too split open and vulnerable.  

The beers are drowning in condensation on their coasters, but he physically can’t stomach the idea of turning his back on the werewolves at the table.  His phone is his only tethered distraction.

Ashton Kutcher is basically helping himself to the brown liquor behind the bar, and Stiles wants to take the whole dart set to the back of that dirty blond head.

Stiles, 10:15 PM: Un-sub 2/2, black hair, 6′0, roughly 200 lbs, short facial hair. Age range 28-30, no visually defining features.

It’s luck. It’s absolute pure luck that it’s Stiles at the bar right now, not Danny, not Trevor, not anybody else from their unit, who’d do this the right way.

You’re smarter than that, son. Coincidence happens for a reason.

God, he’s eighteen again and doesn’t have a wrench to slam into the interior of Roscoe. He’s angry, and backed into a corner, and about to do something stupid because he has no choice. How did this happen?

There is going to be a long talk in here somewhere. Hours. Days even. Preferably a thorough verbal lashing ending with the words ‘MAKE BETTER DECISIONS’ tattooed on Derek’s forehead, after he makes sure there’s no lasting damage from whatever arcane strain of wolfsbane is now infiltrating Derek’s bloodstream. After he barricades the idiot into his own personal panic room, because Derek Hale should apparently never be let loose in the world. It’ll only end with Stiles having to break every rule to keep him alive.

FUCK. Fuck fuck fucking fuck shithole fuck.

Derek wets his lips, leaves his mouth slightly open as he looks up at the looming, lanky AK with drinks in hand and tips just a little too far. There’s a grin, the kind that frat boys give their brothers after they wobble from a keg stand, and Stiles hates him.

TB and CH rise, the grace of predators writ all over their perfect balance — god they’re not even trying to be subtle — and it looks like a punctuation mark. Time’s up.

Derek is rising like a marionette, slowly and then all at once as he’s pulled into the other man’s arms. It looks like violence, the way they embrace.

The two of them scent mark Derek, blatant and teasing, Stiles has seen it enough, studied it enough to know what they’re doing and Derek is still moving too goddamn slow. He tips his head, almost chases the contact and Stiles is going to be sick.

There’s lipstick on a stubbled jaw.

The jalapeño lights flutter wildly for a heartbeat, go too bright and then dim.

Danny Māhealani, 10:20 PM: We saw that. Danny Māhealani, 10:20 PM: Give us something. Anything. We’re blind over here.  

Stiles is losing the sightline on the two targets as they head towards the door and he is so FUCKED. Murphy is gonna make him hand in his goddamn badge. The hell if she makes him part with his gun.

They take the main entry, Stiles makes brief eye-contact with Trevor and gives a smarmy salute fit for a millennial techie.

Stiles, 10:21 PM: Tail them.

He takes a deep breath, knocks the beers over before he lets it all the way out. They soak quickly into his flannel as the bartender rolls her eyes and ducks to get a rag. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Danny and Trevor slip discreetly out,  He jumps as the wire taped to his chest shorts out. That’s going to leave an electrical burn. Add it to his scars.

There are going to be so many questions. Hours of questions. He’s going to recite back the rule book page by page if he has to. But every atom in his body is in overdrive, something primal and protective surging up the back of his throat.

He’s taking a hell of a chance. He’s got no background to go on with the side-kick, the instigator still lingering. But Derek’s eyes still aren’t focusing properly, Ashton Kutcher is laughing with a straw in his mouth and Stiles chest still feels fractured.

He’s barely holding himself back.

There’s surety there, in the pit of his gut, heavy and tar-like in its insistence and he looks up, takes the rag…

“Derek.” It’s a whisper, cracked and quiet and it’s nothing short of an exhale carried out of him. The only way to soothe a skittish animal. But he wills it across the varnished wood, floats it gently through the bar-sour bass-heavy air so the werewolf can hear it.  

Rolls the proverbial dice and hopes this isn’t going to cost them everything.

The Alphas’ energy lingers after they disappear through the doors, vibrating across Derek’s skin, down some intangible path to his core that’s been dormant for half a decade. Silent, thought dead, now shivering itself awake to the half-hinted promise of not alone pack family––

He fights down the urge with an effort. He’s not some needy pup looking to bare his belly for a master’s hand. He’s an omega. He’s fine being an omega.

And even if he decided he wanted pack again… it wouldn’t be them.

The thread of a drumbeat catches him and he steadies himself on it, lets his eyes sink closed to the slightly off-rhythm pulse that seems out of sync with the rest of the bar’s music. It’s good though, grounding. Feels more familiar than the song.

“They’re pretty cool, huh?” The voice from his side startles him, and he blinks open fast enough that the dim lights of the bar feel blinding. Squinting down, he finds Zach seated back in the booth, sucking down Derek’s drink and eyeing the Amaretto like he’s not sure he’s brave enough to snatch it. “Got this umph, y’know? Energy. You can tell they’re going places.” He lifts his glass up, tipping it off his brow in a mock salute. “Seemed to like you, too. I never got a kiss.”

Derek’s cheek itches with the echo of brushed lips. Claim or threat, he knows it was meant to unsettle him. It did its job; there’s a shiver he can’t quite shake out.

“Drink it,” he says instead, fighting the urge to scrub at his cheek. Reaches out to slide the amber liquid toward Zach. His friend laughs.

“I mean, right? You’ve got no clue what I paid for these, ok? This bar’s not exactly known for its fine liquor. This isn’t even top shelf stuff; this is like back room, under the mattress, VIP-only and only if you promise your newborn’s kidney to––”

The world shatters on a whisper, the barest breath that shouldn’t mean anything, means… too much. Impossible and intangible and more real than anything else in this bar. Rushed air and a too-common name and amber liquid spreading out over the dark table top, mixing with crimson until the “what the fuck, man?” registers and he notices the glass shards in his palm.

“Derek.”

That was––

An anchoring beat.

It’s not…

Zach’s on his feet now, stance casually blocking Derek from the rest of the bar as he grabs his hand, tugs the shard out. Glossy amber watches him too knowingly from the tabletop and Derek’s next too-deep breath pulls in liquor and blood, sweat and strangers and not one hint of what he’s looking for.

His palm’s not stitching shut and Zach’s pressing a wad of napkins to the wound, hissing sympathetically like Derek can even feel it. Like it’s even real to him now. There’s a buzz in his skin so much deeper than blood vessels, an eight year old wound torn open and he’s not sure what to make of the burn.

But he’s not here, in this shadowed space two thousand miles away, through a door Derek had closed and known no one would ever reopen, outside that town that was hell and happiness back before all the happiness had been bruised out of him. This isn’t his world; there’s no place for him here.

“––can’t hold your ‘bane, can you? Gotta say, as your honorary big brother, I feel like I failed you somewhere along the––”

Glossy amber stares out at him and the deja vu’s almost dizzying. The crest of a wave hanging for an infinite heartbeat until a familiar tha-thump crashes him into the reality of pale skin flecked with a pattern of moles like sense-memory, brown hair loose and mussed and long enough to fist into. The floor seems to sway him forward a half-step, and he’s breathing too deep in a way that must look like pain but he just can’t get enough air to make that image feel real in front of him.

There’s a stain on his shirt Derek wouldn’t have dreamed up and a slightly unshaved patch under his chin. The shape of his jacket leaves his whole body seeming broader and Derek loses himself for a second, trying to place the boy he remembers pressing to a door inside this man’s physique… but that thought pulls him too close to places he doesn’t dig into and he blinks away out of habit. Finds Zach’s face again instead.

His friend’s watching him in a way that feels like a question so “I’m fine,” falls out, a shrug rolling trust me/sourwolf-tension from his shoulders. He lifts the last drink from Mara’s spot in the booth and starts passing it to Zach, but the glint of amber on the table tugs up tear-damp pleading eyes, a strong hand on his shoulder, and it ends up burning down his throat instead. Coffee and vodka curl through his veins with the help of the wolfsbane and save him go rattles through him. Those eyes watching too-wide and too long before turning away.

The last time he’d really looked at them. He’s lived a lifetime since then.

A dozen twenties drop on the table just past the pool of crimson-tinged amber and Derek’s folding the wallet back into his pocket in careful movements, not letting the sway of the room or the pull of those eyes unbalance him. He needs to be careful here. Needs to keep his worlds from colliding. He’s spent too long on this, risked too much to let Zach see him interact with a human in any way other than anger.

…Stiles has survived too much to let bad timing and Derek pull him into this mess.

“Buy yourself a bottle,” he says. “I’m heading out.” He sees Zach’s brows pinching toward argument and lifts his still bleeding palm, red pooling at the heart of the brown napkins. “Had enough excitement for tonight.”

“Shit,” Zach says, and the pinch in his brows is slipping back toward concerned now. “Yeah, you need to burn off the ‘bane before that heals. Want me to walk you home?”

Derek’s dry look must be sober enough to convince him, because he sweeps the bills off the counter and throws his hands up in surrender.

“Fine, cool, I’ll celebrate for the both of us. I’ll let you know when the bosses are in touch. Shouldn’t be long, though, they like to move fast and plan big.”

“Can’t wait.” But Zach’s turning away with a wave and Derek’s eyes are back on Stiles, hanging on him too long before angling his head just barely toward the side door. He wets his lips, coffee and vodka and a buzz of anticipation burning down his throat on the next swallow, and then he’s turning away, pushing out into the cool air of the alley, sinking his spine back against a wall that smells of cigarette smoke and old sex, and waiting for Stiles to follow. 

Well. 

That was the fucking opposite of what he wanted to happen. Pendulum swing from ideal. Diametrically averse. Worst Case Scenario. 

Stiles is poised, coiled, spring loaded tension running down his forearms, his spark wild and tight. He’s watching too hard. So naturally he doesn’t manage to mask his flinch when the glass shatters, even if his eyes are no longer entirely on the table. He figured he’d been staring long enough, but he can’t untether himself. 

At least he heard it. 

Quick glances give him only fragments, a napkin pressed to a palm with the stark bright cherry of blood on it. 

The wicked edges of the shattered glass, tips like claws. 

Derek will heal. 

Or he won’t. 

Depends on the wolfsbane strain, really. 

Stiles is going to fucking strangle him. After he shoves some wolfsbane up his nose. 

He studiously refuses to make eye contact. A flick of his eyes to the side, as if the TV hanging in the corner by Derek’s head has caught his attention. The Mets dropping a routine ground ball is hardly news. He knows, if he does look, he won’t be able to look away. And that he’s liable to do something too idiotic to name.

But he can’t help it. Never has been able to when it comes to this damn werewolf, and his eyes slide too far, and he’s gutted. 

One, two, sucker punch. Even when you knew it was coming. 

It’s like when you first put your hand under the hot water in the kitchen sink. Shocking, then comforting, then quickly dissipating as you snatch your hand back. Derek’s eyes, that disconcerting hazel edged with green, are on him and him alone. Derek’s nostrils flare wide, and there’s a clench to his jaw that looks like pain. 

His phone twitches in his pocket, but he can’t look away. Eight years has done nothing to dull the pull. 

God, Derek looks wrecked. To any idiot at any bar, he looks like he’s drunk himself six ways from Sunday under the table, like whatever cab takes him home might have to peel him off the seats later. Like he’s easy. 

There’s dread, hope, the killer cocktail of betrayal and trust and Stiles takes a deep breath that tears him open as it goes down. 

Though he almost splinters the goddamn bar when Derek breaks eye contact, rolls his shoulders, almost like he does before a shift - how can you still remember that? - and takes drink #2 down his throat. 

There’s something clinical about the way Derek takes out his wallet, drops an absurd stack of bills on the table, like he’s trying too hard to make his fingers work and christ on a cracker Stiles should really stop staring. 

He switches to the depths of his remaining beer, and takes a long, long drink from the pint glass. Leaves only the foam, and watches Derek’s shoulders duck out the door. 

‘Think I’m gonna grab his number.’ He winks at the bartender, drops a few singles, and taps the wood. There’s a flare in his fingertips, and he hopes the charm holds for as long as it takes to make it to the alley. 

God, he’s so livid he can’t fucking see straight. 

Where’ve you been sleeping sourwolf? In the fucking den? Snuggled up tight to those monsters? 

Do you have any sense of self preservation at all? 

Or was it burned out of you. 

He pinches the yew and sage, sewn into the pocket of his boxers. Sparks it, drops it at the entrance to the alley. For privacy, if only for a few moments. The smell of rotten bananas, and decaying cardboard is overwhelming, and he tugs the collar of his flannel up to flank his face. 

Just like every other time. Derek Hale manages to find himself connected to the fucking worst people alive. 

He’s suddenly, irrevocably blinded and white hot with anger, with something too petty to name. 

He almost decks him. Before he even gets close, he’s swinging up, trying to catch Derek’s jaw, a pressure point that with the right weight around it, even Stiles can make him feel. The ‘bane will only make it easier. And Stiles throws his entire body into it, wild. But he only fists into the leather and feels it bunch, creak under his hands, as he maneuvers Derek against the grimy, damp wall of the alley. He watches the bunched napkin, dark with Derek’s blood, fall and turn translucent in the runoff of the gutter above as his own knuckles scrape the crumbling brick.  

“What the FUCK WHERE YOU THINKING?” It’s whisper-harsh. He’s heaving under his own panic, lets the tidal wave break.

“No. Don’t speak. Don’t say anything at all because the only possible explanation for this kind of monumental fuck up is that you weren’t thinking. You weren’t thinking at all. Jesus fucking christ, Derek. You took one look at the fucking ‘functioning’ switch in your brain and said ‘eh, fuck it’ and threw it down the garbage disposal, just like you did every goddamn time, with Beacon Hills, with the pack, with -

naughtbutscars:

Stiles weasels his way into the furthest few groupings of stools on the edge of the bar. He’s basically sitting next to the trash can. Might as well be inside it for all that it reeks. There’s a joke in there somewhere but he’s too buzzed with static energy to make it.

He’s significantly closer to the back booth though, and thumbs the keyboard on his phone as he waits for the bartender to move back towards him.

This close and the short hair above Stiles’ nape stiffens. A human reaction to the unconscious instinct that should be shouting danger, Will Robinson! He learned far too long ago to stubborn his way past it.  

Stiles, 9:53 PM: Trueblood and Copperhead confirmed. Visuals match what we’ve cobbled together from the past few probes. 

His wire will pick up their conversation better than his puny human ears can at the moment, never mind that the tech exists where he could be hearing it in real time too. Unfortunately it’s being fed directly to the surveillance outpost they’ve set up in the abandoned 5th floor apartment across the street. Picked apart and put back together again once they’ve filtered out the ambient noise.

He never gets to play with the fun toys. Not after Tuscaloosa.

Danny Māhealani, 9:53 PM: You’re gonna get made. And the bartender is ignoring you…?

Stiles, 9:54 PM: Stilinski curse, man. 

Stiles watches from the edges of his periphery, only slightly hampered by the prop glasses the tap the beers are poured out of. The pint glasses disappear below the bar, tucked out of site from the regulars and the beer that pours out is thick, dark and bitter looking. He’d bet his badge that it’s laced, and he wonders if DHLK knows. If he’s a willing participant, or if he’s about to be another careless casualty in a list that’s pages too long.

Stiles, 9:59 PM: Wolfsbane brews. 

Danny Māhealani, 9:59 PM: Celebratory…? Doesn’t bode well. First pass, but looks like they’re the only shifters in this place.   

God, it’s infuriatingly dark in this fucking bar.

He’s only catching glimpses. Can only take impressions from body language, and the way the new man is leaning back in the booth, dark jeans kicked out in front of him isn’t sitting right.

He twitches, fingers thumbing and tracing the charm that’s been inked impermanently into his skin at his pulse point. It’ll dissipate in a few hours, they haven’t perfected it yet. Stiles hasn’t perfected it yet. It’s Mountain Ash in his blood stream, just enough to block his natural scent. He’ll still smell like the beer, the smoke from the bar, his detergent from the last time he washed his clothes… which, come to think of it, was probably way too long ago, fuck it when was the last time they went on a laundry run? 

Danny Māhealani, 9:59 PM: What’s the civilian exit strategy?

Stiles can feel the trembling touch of his spark, reactive and seeking an outlet the way it has been for weeks, as pulled tight as he’s been. They’re so damn close. He needs something to do with his hands, needs to swing the odds of this rat race in their favor. He pulls his penknife from the sleeve of his flannel and in a few strokes cuts a thumbnail sized sigil into the soft wood on the underside of the counter in the space of a breath. He puts the slights push of his spark into it, feels it flare to life and settle. 

Even with their technology these days, few things are as effective as a just the quick physical touch of a sigil. Probably an unnecessary risk, leaving a trace of himself on the scene, but when has he ever edged on the right side of the rules? 

Ashton Kutcher heads back to the bar to grab… new beers? He’s left his own on the table, notably. 

Danny Māhealani, 10:02 PM: I saw that.

Murph would be having a fit if she had the visuals. 

He chances another casual glance over his left shoulder, as if re-assessing the bar while he waits for the fickle attention of the person in charge of his beer intake. Copperhead - aptly and appropriated named by Stiles, of course - who is more visible on the edge of the booth is looking like Leather Kink is a pork chop about to be barbecued and masticated by her perfect white teeth. Stiles grimaces.

He’s almost impressed by the audacity of the two of them. Anybody with functioning eyeballs can see this is a goddamn interview, the body language of the casual power-trip versus the way DHKL’s hands are clenching beneath the table in fits and starts. And yet when he looks around nobody at the bar is paying the slightest attention. It’s truly mind-boggling, what average people miss when it’s right in front of them.

Werewolves, man. 

There’s a crystallized moment of tension, before Copperhead laughs bright and long and the energy around the table shifts. 

The new target turns his head slightly, wary wryness writ into the very way he leans over the glass, and Stiles catches just the edge of his profile before he is tipping his head back, throat working as he swallows.

No. 

There’s a body on the floor of the elevator and Stiles knows in the space between heartbeats and he’s running, skidding on the linoleum and squeaking his sneakers, rib cage like barbed wire, tumbling to a fall next to his prone body before his brain catches up with his instinct.

Scott’s carrying someone slung across his shoulders, and the size is all wrong, but he looks up and Stiles is shocked out of his skin in recognition.

No. 

A dark profile etched in agony as blood paints the rocks out among the scorpions in Mexico. It’s those nightmares that he still can’t shake off. Takes him full minutes to come back to himself and remember that there was no death that night.  

He knows his heartbeat has stuttered. It’s kicking itself a hole in his chest. 

It’s not possible. He knows. He knows. The minute Stiles had access to the FBI database, he looked. Scott had always needled at him how he couldn’t let it go. 

The longer he thinks about it, the less he can breathe. 

Derek Hale’s trail of existence disappears in the middle of the summer of 2012. 

A week after Braeden and Derek left Beacon Hills on the back of her bike. 

It’s not possible. It’s not fucking possible. This is his brain’s own hopeful ideation. Running on too little sleep, too many canned double-shots and far too many blurry and eviscerated crime scenes. Too many missing kids. This is his brain conjuring up comforting hallucinations from a time when someone else had the answers, someone else was driving the get away car. 

The bartender finally makes eye contact and Stiles fumbles his order, his mind already tracing contingency plans, already re-routing what they know. And what they thought they knew. 

And what he is going to be asked to do.  

Stiles, 10:07 PM: We have a problem. 

The bitter burn settles low in Derek’s belly, spreading out warm in a way that feels sweet and uncomfortable all at once. Like sliding into a warm bath, muscles aching… with a predator’s fangs a foot from your throat.

He knows that some people enjoy this feeling. Chase it. Knows the rest of the patrons in this bar are shelling out money right now for this exact sensation –– to feel loose and easy in their skin, harshness of the world pleasantly blurred out for a while, limbs not quite their own and lips more honest than ever. Maybe in another life, he would have enjoyed it too. If he hadn’t known that blurring out the world just gave it a chance to sneak up and shatter you.

If control hadn’t been the only thing he had left.

His eyes are closed, he realizes, and blinks them open quick. The bar seems to slide lazily in his vision, unaware of his panic. Mara’s smirk is a slash of white in the dim room, her curls too dark but the smile familiar, predatory, and for a second he’s sixteen again, cornered against a wall with his heart beating too fast. He’s twenty-two, chained up while a tongue licks a taunting stripe up his abs.

He forces in a slow breath, like that’ll help the bitter poison work through him faster. Counts out the patter-fast drumbeats coming from the bar’s jukebox, and lets the rhythm of it steady him.

He’s not sure if he lost seconds or hours to the panic-warm curl of the drug. Can’t get a read from Damian’s assessing eyes or Mara’s hungry gleam. Their glasses sit empty, but their perfect aura of control hasn’t altered.

“Feel that,” Mara’s purring, almost like Derek’s not there to hear them. And maybe he hasn’t been. Maybe they’ve been talking for a while now, absently assessing him, while he swam through the burn of wolfsbane and one single drink. “Hates losing control, this one.”

The song on the jukebox has changed, but the soothing rhythm of the drumbeat hasn’t. Derek latches onto it. Uses it to hold himself steady.

“Few years back a dark druid used magic to make me… trust her.” It’s not the same thing, and it’s sure as hell not what set his need for constant control into being, but it’s still an honest enough answer. He lifts his brows, feels gratified when they seem to obey the command without argument. “I’ve never seen much benefit in drugging myself helpless.”

Mara’s head tilts, the slow drag of her eyes making his skin crawl. He’s starting to think it’s intentional. Testing his limits, his reactions.

“Such a lone wolf way of thinking, isn’t it?” His lips feel too dry. He fights the urge to wet them compulsively. “Always alert. Never let down your guard. But then… that’s what pack’s for.”

The word melts down under his skin, rushing over the rhythm of that steady drumbeat. It feels like an offer. Not the offer he’d come here for but… The wolfsbane’s gone molten in his veins and his next breath drags too deep, air tasting like Alphas in a way that makes him want to bare his throat instead of snarling.

His eyes feel too wide. He doesn’t move.

“Zach’s not a part of your pack.”

“Zachary… has his uses,” Damian concedes. His cheek rubs absent and familiar against Mara’s palm and Derek can’t pull his eyes from the contact. “But pack is such a significant bond, isn’t it. One really has to earn their way in.”

The meaning seeps in slow. Derek drags his gaze away with a too-quick blink. Not an offer, then. Just an incentive.

He tells himself the twist in his gut is just wolfsbane burning.

There’s a pause, then, just long enough for the words to sink under his skin, and then a shadow’s falling between them.

“White Russian,” Zach says cheerfully, setting a glass in front of Mara. “Amaretto, and… “ sliding a third glass in front of Derek, brows going up questioningly: “Jack and coke?”

Something in Derek’s expression makes him grin, falling down into the booth next to him. “Cool, I’ll have it.”

But Damian’s rising smoothly from his seat, his hand going out gracefully to help Mara stand as well.

“Thank you, Zachary, but it’s time we be on our way.” Zach’s back on his feet in a second. Derek follows more slowly, and lets Damian guide him back into an echo of their earlier embrace. It feels more dangerous this time, somehow, his mind slightly too slow and the memory of Mara’s palm raking easy through Damian’s hair. “This meeting was most satisfactory,” he says as he pulls back, and Derek’s too focused on him to notice Mara closing in from the right until her lips are brushing his cheek.

“We’ll be in touch,” ripples out against his shiver, and then they’re linking arms, moving to the door.

Danny Māhealani, 10:08 PM: What Danny Māhealani, 10:08 PM: Stiles. What the fuck.  Danny Māhealani, 10:09 PM: There is protocol for this. You can’t just text us that. What happened? Who is it?  What the fuck, Stilinski. This was supposed to be recon. 

His heart is kick drumming itself out of his chest, his palms are sweaty enough that he drops one of the beers on the bar. 

It doesn’t shatter, but it’s a hair trigger miss. 

He can’t even hear the wail of the guitar from the jukebox over the frenetic pounding in his temples and his phone is buzzing a hole in his pocket. 

He was 18 the last time. It’s been six years since he’s seen Derek Hale and the wound opens fresh and ragged. It feels better than it should. There’s warmth there, somewhere under the ripped darkness of panic.

Derek’s eyes are closed, have been closed, lashes long and shadowed in the hollows of his eyes — where have you been sleeping, sourwolf? — the line of his throat going relaxed, his hands curling neatly in what could be pleasure and every revolting hunch Stiles had about those beers roars to the forefront of his mind. 

We’ve got to get you out of here. An echo of another time, body splayed on the floor of a hospital elevator. 

Trevor Fox, 10:09 PM: Stiles? What’s the play? What’s the problem? You gotta give us something here, man. Trevor Fox, 10:09 PM: Exit strategy? We’ve got civilians. Please tell me you’ve got some Harry Potter shit up your sleeve. 

He knew. He knew this job was going to go sideways, could feel it in his spine when he walked in, and now it’s fucked upside down, inside out, and backwards to hell. 

In the grimy light the targets on the other side of the table curl into each other, soft words and knife edge smirks as Derek stays too still. 

Stiles counts his breaths. Watches the rise and fall of Derek’s chest beneath that stupid leather jacket. He can’t even believe he missed it. 

Danny Māhealani, 10:09 PM: Neither of us are armed. Danny Māhealani, 10:10 PM: STILES. 

If telekinesis were real, there would be sirens blaring in that big bearded head of his with Stiles signature attached. Telekinesis should be real. Why in the hell isn’t it real yet. Everything would be one thousand times fucking easier if Stiles could verbally roast and crackle Derek with his mind. 

Derek looks wrong. Like someone blurred him out, smudged his edges, woke him up halfway, tipped him just a little bit sideways, made him languid and slow and open and it’s a look Stiles vehemently wishes he’d never seen on Derek Hale. Not like this. It’s unnatural to the point of obscenity, something to look away from in its intimacy. The werewolf has always been incredibly reactive, always the first to recognize a threat — hypervigilance — his mind supplies, before he clamps that door shut. If Stiles thinks about it too hard he’ll delve into truths about Derek he’s always easily shunted into latent corners of his brain.

Derek’s eyes are open now, pupils blown, eyelashes tangled impossibly together and it tosses something panicked and nasty into Stiles’ ribcage. 

Derek has never, ever, willingly given up control.

Danny Māhealani, 10:12 PM: Stilinski, give us something.  Stiles, 10:12 PM: New ID. Don’t move. 

There are fifteen civilians now. Two, no, three exits. God fucking damn it, Derek.

He spits out a text to Danny, trying to maneuver the chess pieces. Trying to perform a surgical extraction while his hands are shaking. 

Stiles, 10:13 PM: Laced beers. Confirmed. Four weres.   

His fingers are on the sigil, picking, picking, picking at the splinters in the wood. 

It’s too soon. 

Stiles, 10:14 PM: Murph. We’ve got a 302.  

Everything has sped up, clarity from the adrenaline making Stiles shiver under the sweat, making his vision sharpen, making his frenetic compulsive need to do something manifest like static in the air. The bullshit glasses are sliding down the bridge of his nose, as he watches Copperhead and Trueblood. 

He tastes blood, realizes he’s torn off a piece of skin in worrying his lips.

They’ll scent that if they’re close enough.

Fuck, this is going to be so much paperwork. 

Trevor Fox, 10:14 PM: Do we need a kit? 

Derek is talking, and his tongue looks too thick in his mouth. Nothing of the acerbic bite, of the thin lipped assertion of before, his eyes are too wide. Too split open and vulnerable.  

The beers are drowning in condensation on their coasters, but he physically can’t stomach the idea of turning his back on the werewolves at the table.  His phone is his only tethered distraction. 

Ashton Kutcher is basically helping himself to the brown liquor behind the bar, and Stiles wants to take the whole dart set to the back of that dirty blond head.

Stiles, 10:15 PM: Un-sub 2/2, black hair, 6′0, roughly 200 lbs, short facial hair. Age range 28-30, no visually defining features.

It’s luck. It’s absolute pure luck that it’s Stiles at the bar right now, not Danny, not Trevor, not anybody else from their unit, who’d do this the right way. 

You’re smarter than that, son. Coincidence happens for a reason. 

God, he’s eighteen again and doesn’t have a wrench to slam into the interior of Roscoe. He’s angry, and backed into a corner, and about to do something stupid because he has no choice. How did this happen? 

There is going to be a long talk in here somewhere. Hours. Days even. Preferably a thorough verbal lashing ending with the words ‘MAKE BETTER DECISIONS’ tattooed on Derek’s forehead, after he makes sure there’s no lasting damage from whatever arcane strain of wolfsbane is now infiltrating Derek’s bloodstream. After he barricades the idiot into his own personal panic room, because Derek Hale should apparently never be let loose in the world. It’ll only end with Stiles having to break every rule to keep him alive. 

FUCK. Fuck fuck fucking fuck shithole fuck.

Derek wets his lips, leaves his mouth slightly open as he looks up at the looming, lanky AK with drinks in hand and tips just a little too far. There’s a grin, the kind that frat boys give their brothers after they wobble from a keg stand, and Stiles hates him. 

TB and CH rise, the grace of predators writ all over their perfect balance — god they’re not even trying to be subtle — and it looks like a punctuation mark. Time’s up. 

Derek is rising like a marionette, slowly and then all at once as he’s pulled into the other man’s arms. It looks like violence, the way they embrace. 

The two of them scent mark Derek, blatant and teasing, Stiles has seen it enough, studied it enough to know what they’re doing and Derek is still moving too goddamn slow. He tips his head, almost chases the contact and Stiles is going to be sick.

There’s lipstick on a stubbled jaw. 

The jalapeño lights flutter wildly for a heartbeat, go too bright and then dim. 

Danny Māhealani, 10:20 PM: We saw that.  Danny Māhealani, 10:20 PM: Give us something. Anything. We’re blind over here.  

Stiles is losing the sightline on the two targets as they head towards the door and he is so FUCKED. Murphy is gonna make him hand in his goddamn badge. The hell if she makes him part with his gun. 

They take the main entry, Stiles makes brief eye-contact with Trevor and gives a smarmy salute fit for a millennial techie. 

Stiles, 10:21 PM: Tail them. 

He takes a deep breath, knocks the beers over before he lets it all the way out. They soak quickly into his flannel as the bartender rolls her eyes and ducks to get a rag. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Danny and Trevor slip discreetly out,  He jumps as the wire taped to his chest shorts out. That’s going to leave an electrical burn. Add it to his scars.

There are going to be so many questions. Hours of questions. He’s going to recite back the rule book page by page if he has to. But every atom in his body is in overdrive, something primal and protective surging up the back of his throat. 

He’s taking a hell of a chance. He’s got no background to go on with the side-kick, the instigator still lingering. But Derek’s eyes still aren’t focusing properly, Ashton Kutcher is laughing with a straw in his mouth and Stiles chest still feels fractured. 

He’s barely holding himself back.

There’s surety there, in the pit of his gut, heavy and tar-like in its insistence and he looks up, takes the rag...

“Derek.” It’s a whisper, cracked and quiet and it’s nothing short of an exhale carried out of him. The only way to soothe a skittish animal. But he wills it across the varnished wood, floats it gently through the bar-sour bass-heavy air so the werewolf can hear it.  

A silk-thin welcome settles over the shadowed booth, and Derek makes no effort to relax into it. He can feel the claw-sharp edges underneath, raking light across the surface, searching for any imperfection, any loose thread, to shred through. Seeking blood.

It would be stupid to relax because of a few smiles and a too-familiar hug. This is an interview –– the final challenge in a weeks-long process of trial by fire. Failure to impress at this point means failure to wake up tomorrow.

He settles back on the worn wood bench, drinking in the silence until the woman flicks a copper ringlet behind her shoulder and speaks.

“You have an impressive resume, Derek. I can call you Derek.” There’s no question implicit in her words, and Derek doesn’t bother answering. Crimson lips curl, dark eyes drifting down his chest and lingering. “But it takes more than a prime pedigree and a few impressive feats to join our cause.”

“Impressive,” Derek echoes, a hint of question in the word. He wonders what rumors have come out of Beacon Hills over the years, and what part he’s been assigned to them. Damian’s lips twitch, almost scolding, as though admonishing him for playing down his supposed achievements.

“You understand…” The man settles so that one arm stretches across the back of the booth, behind his companion’s head. It feels strangely like a claim on the space –– on the bar, the entire city –– completely unconcerned about anyone who might overhear. “Our operation is strictly invite-only, for those we believe share our… unique, refined sensibilities. And we believe you have been approached before, on similar grounds, to less than favorable results.”

“Rumor has it that you stood against Deucalion in his attempts to form a better tomorrow for our kind,” the woman cuts in more clearly, her manicured nails scraping a shallow line across the rough, worn surface of the table.

Derek’s breaths stall. There’s blood on his hand, suddenly, a lifeless weight in his arms, and he manages to hold back the compulsive urge to scrape his palm against the line of his jeans to shake the echo off. He’s sure the Alphas pick up on the stalled impulse anyway.

“Deucalion was looking out for Deucalion.” The words fall out carefully even. “Not our kind. It was a selfish vendetta that got two of my pack killed. And god knows how many others from the packs that came before mine.”

“He was killing wolves,” Damian confirms. “And you haven’t?”

Derek meets his eyes steadily.

“None that weren’t coming after me first.”

The gaze locks for a long moment, and then the woman coos fondly.

“Oh, he’s noble. I like that.”

“He’s loyal, Mara.” Damian corrects, eyes not moving off Derek. “That’s admirable, as long as it’s to the right cause.”

A shadow falls over the table and then Zach’s standing next to them, passing out drinks in heavy, clear pint glasses.

“Best in house,” he offers, winking in a way that has Derek lifting the drink warily, sniffing.

“Wolfsbane?”

Zach grins, bright and easy, and Derek remembers why a grieving Laura had latched onto him to help her discover joy in life again.

“Why drink if you’re not gonna drink, right?” Three unimpressed faces stare up at him. “…I’ll get beers.” And then he’s gone again. Derek watches him go, eyes traveling along the bar, until Damian’s next words pull his focus back.

“Tell us about your eyes.” A worn hazel gaze lands back on the Alpha. He inclines his head, continuing: “Zachary tells us they were blue when he first knew you. That was before your family’s murder was avenged.”

Derek’s jaw tics. There’s a throb in his temple that might be from the wolfsbane.

“My first girlfriend was human.” An echo of dark eyes, pained, makes him pause. Damian nods, all empathy that doesn’t sink an inch past the surface.

“There’s a certain appeal to fragility. We’ve all been there at some point.”

The woman –– Mara –– scoffs faintly, swirls her drink, a derisive gaze skating toward the bar.

“Some of us were born there.”

Derek nearly follows her gaze back toward the bar where it’s surely settled on Zach, but Damian’s eyes have gone expectant again. So he huffs out a bored breath, shrugs.

“My uncle helped me realize I couldn’t be with a human. We’d never be happy unless she turned. So I found an Alpha willing to bite her.” His teeth click, gaze flitting away. “It didn’t take. She was dying in my arms, so I finished it.” It’s a weight in his lungs, in his veins. There’s a pounding in his skull, distracting. A steady throb out of sync with the rhythm of his own heartbeat. He shakes it off, cuts his gaze back to Mara. “Then the next human I dated murdered almost my entire family. Kind of turned me off the idea.”

“Of humans,” she purrs back. “Or dating?”

He smiles, as bright and false as her flirting.

“Women.”

A startled pause and then she bursts out laughing, loud and bright, head falling back and loose curls bouncing.

“Oh, wit.” She curls a hand through Damian’s hair, gripping absent and possessive. It’s a pack movement, beyond lovers or family, and for a lingering moment Derek aches for the longing of such casual contact.

There’s a rhythm outside his head somewhere, pounding. Distracting, familiar in a way that feels like home. Like a half-remembered song. Like a–– “Take him,” Mara continues. “We could use that.”

“I tend to agree.” Damian’s eyes have sunk heavy as he watches Derek, leaning into the contact of Mara’s palm. “If only for the sake of having someone you can’t wrap around those wicked fingers.” He leans forward, lazy and languid, shaking off Mara’s hand. Fingers wrap around the mug. “And as Zachary has failed to return with an adequate beverage…” He lifts the cup expectantly. “To a long and prosperous relationship.”

One last test. Derek’s hand curls around his own mug. To see how much he truly trusts his companions; if he’s willing to lower his guard, his defenses, his healing ability in front of them. A guilty soul wouldn’t drink; wouldn’t take that risk.

He wonders fleetingly if this had been planned; if Zach had been told to bring the laced drinks. Decides it really doesn’t matter.

“To a better future,” he replies, clicks the mugs, and lets the drug burn down his throat.

Stiles weasels his way into the furthest few groupings of stools on the edge of the bar. He’s basically sitting next to the trash can. Might as well be inside it for all that it reeks. There’s a joke in there somewhere but he’s too buzzed with static energy to make it.

He’s significantly closer to the back booth though, and thumbs the keyboard on his phone as he waits for the bartender to move back towards him.

This close and the short hair above Stiles’ nape stiffens. A human reaction to the unconscious instinct that should be shouting danger, Will Robinson! He learned far too long ago to stubborn his way past it.  

Stiles, 9:53 PM: Trueblood and Copperhead confirmed. Visuals match what we’ve cobbled together from the past few probes. 

His wire will pick up their conversation better than his puny human ears can at the moment, never mind that the tech exists where he could be hearing it in real time too. Unfortunately it’s being fed directly to the surveillance outpost they’ve set up in the abandoned 5th floor apartment across the street. Picked apart and put back together again once they’ve filtered out the ambient noise.

He never gets to play with the fun toys. Not after Tuscaloosa.

Danny Māhealani, 9:53 PM: You’re gonna get made. And the bartender is ignoring you...?

Stiles, 9:54 PM: Stilinski curse, man. 

Stiles watches from the edges of his periphery, only slightly hampered by the prop glasses the tap the beers are poured out of. The pint glasses disappear below the bar, tucked out of site from the regulars and the beer that pours out is thick, dark and bitter looking. He’d bet his badge that it’s laced, and he wonders if DHLK knows. If he’s a willing participant, or if he’s about to be another careless casualty in a list that’s pages too long.

Stiles, 9:59 PM: Wolfsbane brews. 

Danny Māhealani, 9:59 PM: Celebratory...? Doesn’t bode well. First pass, but looks like they’re the only shifters in this place.   

God, it’s infuriatingly dark in this fucking bar.

He’s only catching glimpses. Can only take impressions from body language, and the way the new man is leaning back in the booth, dark jeans kicked out in front of him isn’t sitting right.

He twitches, fingers thumbing and tracing the charm that’s been inked impermanently into his skin at his pulse point. It’ll dissipate in a few hours, they haven’t perfected it yet. Stiles hasn’t perfected it yet. It’s Mountain Ash in his blood stream, just enough to block his natural scent. He’ll still smell like the beer, the smoke from the bar, his detergent from the last time he washed his clothes… which, come to think of it, was probably way too long ago, fuck it when was the last time they went on a laundry run? 

Danny Māhealani, 9:59 PM: What’s the civilian exit strategy?

Stiles can feel the trembling touch of his spark, reactive and seeking an outlet the way it has been for weeks, as pulled tight as he’s been. They’re so damn close. He needs something to do with his hands, needs to swing the odds of this rat race in their favor. He pulls his penknife from the sleeve of his flannel and in a few strokes cuts a thumbnail sized sigil into the soft wood on the underside of the counter in the space of a breath. He puts the slights push of his spark into it, feels it flare to life and settle. 

Even with their technology these days, few things are as effective as a just the quick physical touch of a sigil. Probably an unnecessary risk, leaving a trace of himself on the scene, but when has he ever edged on the right side of the rules? 

Ashton Kutcher heads back to the bar to grab... new beers? He’s left his own on the table, notably. 

Danny Māhealani, 10:02 PM: I saw that.

Murph would be having a fit if she had the visuals. 

He chances another casual glance over his left shoulder, as if re-assessing the bar while he waits for the fickle attention of the person in charge of his beer intake. Copperhead - aptly and appropriated named by Stiles, of course - who is more visible on the edge of the booth is looking like Leather Kink is a pork chop about to be barbecued and masticated by her perfect white teeth. Stiles grimaces.

He’s almost impressed by the audacity of the two of them. Anybody with functioning eyeballs can see this is a goddamn interview, the body language of the casual power-trip versus the way DHKL’s hands are clenching beneath the table in fits and starts. And yet when he looks around nobody at the bar is paying the slightest attention. It’s truly mind-boggling, what average people miss when it’s right in front of them.

Werewolves, man. 

There’s a crystallized moment of tension, before Copperhead laughs bright and long and the energy around the table shifts. 

The new target turns his head slightly, wary wryness writ into the very way he leans over the glass, and Stiles catches just the edge of his profile before he is tipping his head back, throat working as he swallows.

No. 

There’s a body on the floor of the elevator and Stiles knows in the space between heartbeats and he’s running, skidding on the linoleum and squeaking his sneakers, rib cage like barbed wire, tumbling to a fall next to his prone body before his brain catches up with his instinct.

Scott’s carrying someone slung across his shoulders, and the size is all wrong, but he looks up and Stiles is shocked out of his skin in recognition.

No. 

A dark profile etched in agony as blood paints the rocks out among the scorpions in Mexico. It’s those nightmares that he still can’t shake off. Takes him full minutes to come back to himself and remember that there was no death that night.  

He knows his heartbeat has stuttered. It’s kicking itself a hole in his chest. 

It’s not possible. He knows. He knows. The minute Stiles had access to the FBI database, he looked. Scott had always needled at him how he couldn’t let it go. 

The longer he thinks about it, the less he can breathe. 

Derek Hale’s trail of existence disappears in the middle of the summer of 2012. 

A week after Braeden and Derek left Beacon Hills on the back of her bike. 

It’s not possible. It’s not fucking possible. This is his brain’s own hopeful ideation. Running on too little sleep, too many canned double-shots and far too many blurry and eviscerated crime scenes. Too many missing kids. This is his brain conjuring up comforting hallucinations from a time when someone else had the answers, someone else was driving the get away car. 

The bartender finally makes eye contact and Stiles fumbles his order, his mind already tracing contingency plans, already re-routing what they know. And what they thought they knew. 

And what he is going to be asked to do.  

Zach greets Derek with his usual restless energy as soon as he steps foot into the alley, his hands buried deep in his pockets, and sunk so far back into the shadow under the fire escape that he’s all but screaming attention to himself in his effort to stay hidden. He moves like a junkie hyped up on pure energy, nodding to Derek and leaning to peer behind him, bouncing on the soles of his feet and sniffing a few times like he’d heard once that doing so made a person seem casual and held onto it ever since.

Derek can’t think of any other reason for it. A bitten wolf, Zach’s not any more susceptible to colds or the chill air than Derek. But he’s always been that way –– restless and sniffing his way through nerves –– even way back when Laura had met him, tried dating, and retreated fast to friends instead.

He draws in a loud breath now and says “Hey man,” nodding twice quick. Derek arches his brows in answer.

“They inside?”

Another bob.

“Yeah, man. Well, I think. Got a text confirming times, and it’s time so…”

“So why are we waiting?” Derek starts toward the rusted side door but Zach’s hand shoots out as he passes, fisting into Derek’s sleeve, stalling him. Derek glances down at his arm and back up slow, and Zach grimaces, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Look, man, I just… I told them you’re cool, and I know you’re cool, but these guys are big time, ok, so just… just be cool, got it?”

Derek doesn’t react long enough for Zach to wince, sniff, and shuffle, and then smirks, peeling his old friend’s hand from his arm and clapping his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

“Trust me, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m just as invested in their cause as you are.”

The sounds of the city retreat as Derek pushes his way into the dimly lit bar, replaced by a murmur of voices, glasses clinking, and an actual jukebox in the corner, crooning out some billboard topper from the eighties. The air tastes sour with sweat and spilled alcohol, and Derek’s eyes sweep the room, taking in a half-dozen patrons in varying degrees of drunkenness until a restless elbow jabs into his side, pulling his focus to a quiet pair nursing drinks at a booth near the back.

“That’s them,” Zach hisses unnecessarily, like Derek couldn’t feel the power and danger radiating off them just by looking. They stand out as much here as Zach had in a still shadow. No amount of tacky lighting and low-key locale could cover up what these two are. Alphas. With the echo of so much blood under their claws it’s a miracle the whole bar doesn’t stink of it.

The woman’s lips curl as she scans over Derek but the man’s steady, assessing gaze is the one that catches his focus. He lifts his chin faintly, holding his gaze as Zach bustles him over.

“Hey, uh, so… this is the guy I’ve been talking about. You know, how he watched my back on the job last week and he’s always been good with… well we go way back and––”

“Thank you, Zachary,” the woman interrupts. Her smile is bright and sharp in the shadowed room. “Why don’t you order us all some drinks while we get to know your friend.” It’s a clear dismissal, and Zach bobs twice fast before leaving, stalling two steps off to hazard, “So what do you all–– I’ll figure it out.” And then he’s gone again.

The man stands up slow, offering out a hand.

“Mr. Hale,” he says in a velvet-smooth voice, layered with elements found all over Europe. “You can call me Damian.” It’s a name he’s heard in whispers for months now. Just pretentious enough, with an edge of dark mystery, to probably be fake. Derek takes the man’s hand, and finds himself pulled into a strangely warm, empathetic hug. “We all know your story. Tragic losses. A great family, taken by hunters and such pointless hatred.”

There’s no way for Derek to hide his spiking heartbeat or the sudden tension in his shoulders.

“The humans responsible paid for it,” he growls. Damian hums, releasing him and stepping back.

“We heard that too.” It’s the woman who answers, an edge of approval in her tone, as she gestures for Derek to sit across from them. He inclines his head, sliding into the booth.

Two things happen simultaneously as Stiles spins his phone in his hands. Danny and Trevor come traipsing through the front door, laughing a little too loud and the rusted metal side door to the left of the bar opens. There is an energy shift, imperceptible except for the way the targets shift to a predatory sharpness. Stiles loses his sightline of the door for about 10-12 seconds as the bartender moves towards the two techies to ostensibly take their drink order.  

Fuck. 

It’s slight pandemonium for a second. Paradise City is playing at an unreasonable volume in Stiles’ ear, but he has the excuse of originally being strategic when picking this booth. He had been banking on the sound interference surrounding his table, while their targets were situated in the far back insulated from the cacophony and far easier to surveil. 

It’s unexpected, these two interlopers, but not unheard of. It just means Stiles’ job tonight leveled up to something a little more his speed.

The light from the back table is now obstructed by two silhouettes, facing directly away from Stiles, and he is flush with irritation that they managed to get back there without showing their faces. Without being ID’d. This is exactly why he’s here, and Stiles is already getting that tightness at his temples that means the job is going sideways. 

To the right, the bartender is smiling at Danny, her blonde bangs hanging in her eyes and Stiles affords himself a few seconds to be genuinely affronted. Her nod when he placed his order was nowhere near as genuine as this flirty head tilt. Why is it always Danny getting all the love when he doesn’t even appreciate it enough to swing both ways? 

Trevor’s lanky frame is braced nonchalantly against the bar and his hands, Stiles knows, are tucking a pencil eraser sized wireless microphone under the wood trim.

Stiles’ phone lights up with a text. He restlessly drums his fingers on the carved and splintering wood of the table.

That them in the back? God save them all from analytics programmers trying to do field agents jobs for them. 

Got it in one. Maybe I should retire, think I’m obsolete at this point? Trevor laughs quietly as he reads, taking his beer from Danny before they slide into the booth opposite Stiles and the view opens up again. 

When Stiles catches the full backs of the two that entered from the side door, his breath stutters painfully in his chest.

One of them is fairly nondescript. He reminds Stiles somewhat inanely of a younger version of Parrish, and he has a tension in the cords of his neck that Stiles can spot from hundreds of feet away. There’s a certain predatory alertness. Something that could read as high strung anxiety in anybody else...but Stiles has been running with wolves since he was sixteen and knows a bitten one on sight alone.

The other...

The other has a head of wild, dark hair. And a set of impossibly stubborn shoulders. A leather jacket, and suddenly Stiles is sixteen again and on private prop— 

“How was work, man?” Trevor’s voice cuts through the clamor of the bar, sucking Stiles violently back to the present. He shakes his head for a second and lets the cobwebs and disintegrating memories re-settle. There’s no possible way. 

Stiles picks up on Trevor’s meaning immediately. There’s a fairly basic communications course that the three of them took in their first year with the bureau for double speak moments when you’re too close to a target, but need to be able to communicate clearly.

‘What have you got for us so far?’ goes unsaid. 

The three of them exchange a fairly routine set of banter, as the bitten wolf turns and Stiles gets a good look at his face. He’s on the shorter side, likely around 5′9- 5′10, with slightly unnaturally wide eyes, a cleft chin, but otherwise fairly average. His build doesn’t bely his likely strength as he’s far more wiry than expected, with no differentiating or obvious marks and his dirty blonde hair is edging on the longer side of socially mainstream. He’s a little frenetic in his movements, even when practically leaning over the bar to flag down the bartender. 

Because their targets have such sensitive hearing Stiles picks up his phone, like the sneering millenial he’s supposed to be, and texts Danny while still at the table with him. He debates whether the low light will enable him to take a picture, but with only his iPhone he doesn’t want to risk the lens flare from the wolf’s eyes. 

Got a visual on 1/2. B-side blonde Ashton Kutcher, probably 27/28. Definitely rocking a butt chin and jeans that belong in the early 2000′s. Not a recognizable associate, we’re dealing with newcomers.  

Just as he sets the phone down, he focuses on the movement from the back booth. The pair has stood, dark eyes glinting even in the low bar light, and there is an off kilter intimate moment before Dark Hair, Leather Kink clearly joins them. It reeks of a business transaction, and Stiles can’t hide how restless he is to edge closer to the conversation. There is something simmering and smoking just out of reach and he’s careless about the potential for a full on fire. 

[For someone who claims he doesn’t like to fight, Derek fights a lot. And maybe he was always lying when he said he didn’t enjoy a good fight on occasion. Just not as frequently as they’ve been happening lately.

He walks away from this one with a slight limp, but in much better shape than the alpha he leaves behind, curled over himself to heal alone for a couple hours - he’ll wake up in a couple hours, embarrassed about his rabid territorial behavior. Derek almost decides to keep walking for hours, shake away the adrenaline crash, but his leg still twinges with pain, and he drops to lean against a brick wall just inside an alley. Exhaustion threatens to overtake him.

But something doesn’t feel right. Death always lingers in the air now, but this is darker. More immediate. He looks around and quickly realizes that he chose the wrong place to rest. He stumbles to his feet, but it’s too late, and he’s too shaken for a moment to react. He’s shoved against the wall face first, the rough brick scraping cold against his cheek as he’s cuffed. It would be easy to break free, but he’s not ready to reveal what he is. Not when he wants to blend in. He’s tired and he can be patient.

There are people whispering about a murder and pointing at him and that’s… that’s definitely not good. But Derek doesn’t protest. Doesn’t snap at them, doesn’t fight, and definitely doesn’t bare his fangs. Doesn’t even speak.

He just waits. And he does, until others start arriving on-scene. The scents from so many people overlap the smell of decay, masking it. One smell is nostalgic, reminds him so sharply of family that Derek grimaces. He looks up, seeking distraction, and finds it in a pair of dark eyes that are already staring him down. It takes him a moment to register the words that come out of the man’s mouth – a pretty mouth, if Derek had the chance for that sort of distraction. But he doesn’t.]

I did. That was me. You can let me out of these now. [He jingles his cuffs. Wow. Definitely the wrong attitude to have towards police. He’s fucked. Laura would be so proud if she had come along.]

I’m covered in blood. I know. But it’s mine and a guy’s down the street. Mugger. Lot of that around here lately. [Brilliant. Comments about the city’s security when you’re in fucking handcuffs. Might as well go ahead and tell that guy he should be the one who’s tied up, he admonishes himself. Still, Derek can’t help but a cursory glance at that long, lean frame. Derek wishes his hands were free so he could slap himself.]

[Stiles doesn’t stop the way his eyebrow climbs his forehead. Jesus, the fuck-off vibes are strong with this one. It’s a surprise he isn’t physically growing hackles and porcupine spines. Not that that would be surprising either, in its own right. Stiles is bizarrely hyperaware of the rise and fall of his own chest. The need for another cigarette shudders at his fingertips. There’s the beat of a single breath before he pulls a smirk across his face and tips his head in acknowledgement.]Bold declaration there, buddy. Points for finding the body… [He turns, half feigned disinterest keeping those shoulders on the very edge of his vision as he studies the body again, his eyes tracing the seemingly inconsistent blood splatter being photographed by forensics. The maul marks and ragged edges consistent with claws. He’s seen enough of those to identify them on sight alone. There’s a dried trickle of blood on the perp’s cheekbone from a shallow wound getting thinned by the rain.] Although… spoiler alert, I have to warn you that this is the kind of game that ends in a death sentence if you’re lucky… [He shrugs, lets that drop lamely..]   

[…Lot of that around here lately. Stiles barks out a laugh. And he’s not sure if it’s pretty.] Goddamn, you hear that Martin? This guy wants to report a mugging. Maybe we can take his statement while you extract a DNA sample. Or better yet, maybe you can find the mugger who probably needs his own body bag. [Lydia eyes him from where she’s got her latex fingers in the victim’s mouth inspecting the hollows, and he’s not sure he’s doing a good job convincing her he’s not entirely unhinged. Whatever. She cuts up bodies for a living.] Listen pal, if we had any resources to spare for routine muggings, I sure as shit would not be dicking around in this misery. And that girl right there would probably be eating a $35 brunch somewhere that only serves chia seeds and hemp yogurt soufflé. [He knows he’s pushing the outrageous. He knows his eyes darken as he says it, voice hard, and there’s that rush through his joints as much as he tries to strangle it down. To not waste the energy.]

[Stiles glances at Cercone who’s got her hands on those shoulders and the cuffs in a routine stance, and like that tall-dark-and-fuck-you is on his knees, gutter slush thickly swirling under them. Stiles gets a hand in that hair, damp and surprisingly not as coarse as he anticipated, and pulls hard enough to hear the creak of his throat as it strains. He crouches on his haunches, and fuck those eyes up close are really something. His knuckles itch.]  You want to know what I think?