#*s:sterek

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Click.

Cursing softly under his breath, Stiles flicks the light switch up again. Down. Up. Down. Up. “Fucking hell.” Stiles massages the bridge of his nose. His stupid light. Everything else – even exorcising this damned place – worked out beautifully. Which is a miracle. Thanks to the residual demon, who infested this place after the previous owners fucked around – and found out – with a Ouija board in the late 50s, this house has been in a nightmarish state. Every inch of this place was a deathtrap. Rotten wood. Broken stairs. A ceiling, roof and second floor so unstable, a gust of wind could cause everything to collapse in a heartbeat.

Stiles spent more than one night in a tent in front of the house.

A bark cuts through the silence of the house, startling him out of his thoughts. Drawing his brows together, he looks past the stubborn ceiling light to the second-floor landing. The puppy he’s found under the house, white fur crusted with dirt and blood – aptly named Bobak, Bo for short – and who has refused to leave Stiles’ side ever since he fed him for the first time, is staring at him almost expectantly. Although some dog owners most likely won’t be happy about his lifestyle – flipping and clearing out haunted houses and constantly moving around – Stiles refuses to give Bobak away. Bo might not be the cuddliest or most social of dogs, he still makes Stiles’ life less, much less, lonely.

Bo barks again.

Stiles quirks a brow. “What? It’s not dinner time yet.”

Wagging his tail, Bo bounds down the stairs, nearly tumbling down the last two steps. He catches himself, jumps up the front door once before all but flying around Stiles’ legs then, finally, making a mad dash out of the backdoor and into the yard. There, he keeps zooming around, causing colored leaves to fly into the air, and barking his adorable little head off, too big ears fluttering in the wind. He’s going to miss Bo’s floppy ears once he’s grown into them.

Before Stiles can follow him, there’s a knock on the door. He glances up at the clock, narrowing his eyes once more as it passes the current bane of existence – maybe he should just get an electrician this once – and turns to the front door. It’s not late, per se, but darkness is setting in, and people are still keeping their distance to this place. So, he isn’t usually expecting anyone to swing by, even less since his closest neighbor lives around a mile away, but the person he never imagined to come over is Derek Hale.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles swings the door open.

“Hey.” Derek’s smile seems strained. To be honest, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else – not unlike the first time they met at the only diner in town. Well, met might be stretching it. That day, Derek couldn’t finish his lunch fast enough, even Sally was surprised by his precipitate behavior. So much so, she commented on it while serving Stiles his food.

He had chalked it up to Derek sensing something about him the same way Stiles clocked him as a werewolf the second he laid eyes on him – aside from noticing that the guy is a walking and talking Calvin Klein advertisement. Instead of avoiding him, however, Derek kept showing up all over the place. It seemed accidental, but Stiles has dealt with enough supernatural creatures and grew up with a sheriff that he can recognize stalking behavior when he sees it.

Derek’s never been lurking around here, though.

Well, not until today, that is.

And Stiles’ heart is having a field day with it, which is rather unfortunate with Derek’s supernatural hearing and all.

Stiles manages to clear his throat about thirty seconds into the terribly awkward silence. “Hey.” He sounds like an idiot. He feels like one too. “Can I- do you-” Bo interrupts him with a slew of excited barks, zooming through the hallway and back out again, sending more leaves flying around; it gives Stiles a few seconds to gather himself. “You wanna come in?”

“I bought dinner,” Derek says at the same time.

They both stare at each other, and the silence makes Stiles’ neck grow uncomfortably warm.

Luckily, Derek cuts it short. “I’d love to.”

Stiles steps aside and gestures for Derek to come in. This is happening. He’s not entirely sure how or why, but it is, and Stiles is not about to complain. The last time a hot guy walked into his home was – when? Stiles doesn’t really remember. Which is sad, honestly. Sure, he’s been aware that both his social and love life have sailed off a cliff once he started dictating his life to ghost and demon hunting, but now, watching Derek stroll into his kitchen, he realized for the first time how bad it’s really gotten in the past four years.

“Looks good,” Derek remarks, almost curious in the way he’s taking everything in. “You did an excellent job keeping the old charm alive.”

Crossing his arms, Stiles leans against the large doorway leading to the kitchen. “You’ve been here before?”

Derek shrugs as he puts the bag with the takeout on the dinner table. “Teenagers and haunted houses.”

“Werewolves too?”

If Derek is surprised that Stiles knows, he doesn’t show it. Instead, an almost cheeky grin curls around his lips. “Werewolves especially.”

Stiles snorts and crosses the room. “I expected you to be smarter.” He glances at Derek, smirking briefly, and steps in front of the only cupboard he uses. The good thing about moving around so much is that he never collects any clutter. As a teen and college student, things looked very different. Two boxes, a couple of suitcases and his backpack fit into Roscoe anyway. Now that Bo is traveling with him, he’s got to figure out the new logistics.

“How’d you do it?” Derek asks as he takes the two plates from him.

Their fingers brush, either on purpose or entirely accidental. Stiles doesn’t know, but the touch sends a tingle through his whole body. A good tingle, great even, and Stiles hates to realize how touch starved he really is.

Stiles opens the fridge, scowling a little as he’s greeted with emptiness. He really needs to go grocery shopping. “Very carefully,” he replies and grabs two bottles of beer. “And lots of research." Once he's figured out where to look, finding pictures of old houses isn’t that much of a struggle. Often, he meets the previous owners, who either think he’s suicidal or are very happy to help.

Derek watches him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “The demon or the house flipping?”

“Ah.” Stiles sets the bottles on the table and leans against the edge. “That’s why you’re here.”

Derek merely watches him, eyebrows climbing higher as his expression turns more and more expectant. An alpha after all. He’s probably used to people jumping at his command.

It might be fun to let him stew for a little longer. “You know, you could’ve just asked.”

“I just did.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh, “I meant ask me about why those werewolf senses are tingling whenever you’re around me.” He cocks his head to the side and decides to put himself out there, for once, “unless, of course, there are other reasons for that.” He’s got Derek in his house already and considering that he leaves as soon as it is sold, there’s no harm done, no awkward darting around each other needed in case he’s rejected. Two months tops, and he’s out of this town, where everyone knows everybody, and nothing ever stays secret.

Derek’s lips twitch.

Good. So, Stiles didn’t exactly imagine the lingering looks whenever they, clearly not entirely accidentally, ran into each other absolutely everywhere. In a town with less than 100 people, it’s impossible to hide anyway.

“Tingling?” Derek echoes, more amused than in disbelief.

Stiles lets his head fall back, watching out of the corner of his eye as Derek’s gaze drops to his neck then back up again. “You’re a poor conversationalist.”

“And you’re dodging the question.”

Stiles clicks his tongue, rolling his head to the left to look at the werewolf again. “Geez, D, you can’t just ask people why they’re making you feel weird.”

A flicker of annoyance dances over his features, either at the nickname or his refusal to give him the desired reply. Still, Derek props his hands on the table and leans closer, one eyebrow raised. “I can if I consider them a danger to my pack and territory.”

Fair point.

However, “I literally exorcised this fucking demon.” Although nobody has died in this house in almost a decade, Stiles considers it future deaths prevented.

Derek taps a finger against the table, allows red to bleed into his eyes.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles pushes away from the table and faces the werewolf, arms crossed firmly in front of his chest. Although Derek didn’t outright threaten him, Stiles is fully aware that this evening could easily turn into his last if the big bad alpha considers him too dangerous, which would very much be the exact opposite of how he’d prefer this evening to go. He sighs. “I was possessed by a nogitsune when I was sixteen.” Stiles doesn't miss as Derek’s expression return to stoic, listening, waiting. He sees the way his shoulders tense, the way something in his eyes shift, ever so slightly. The moment of truth, always and forever. "It did some weird shit with my body, cracked my mind like an egg, hence the whole-” he waves his hand around. “Thought I could do something good if I can pierce the veil, you know?” It makes him feel less guilty about the shit the nogitsune did while using his body like a meatsuit.

But that’s something nobody else needs to know about.

Derek straightens.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Satisfied? Or do you need my social security number too?”

Still, Derek stays silent as he looks at him. It’s not particularly comforting – that is, until his gaze drops to Stiles’ mouth then flicking back up again, a slow smile curling around his lips.

Stiles’ heart jolts in his chest, and he clears his throat. “Delighted my trauma amuses you,” he mutters, disregarding the fact that he continues to make jokes about it as well.

“Delighted I don’t have to kill you.”

“You think you can kill me?” Stiles chuckles, playing pretend. Dealing with demons is one thing. They’re very capable of murder, more so than ghosts, but depending on their strength and rank, they need time – time to get into your head, time to fuck with you. They have to chip away their target’s defenses. Knowing and being prepared for a demon makes dealing with them a lot easier. Plus, if he’s learned anything from his own possession, it’s how to keep things out of his mind. Werewolves are a different beast entirely. If they want someone dead, all they have to do is pin them down and rip their throat out.

Derek pushes away from the table and all but stalks closer to him, narrowing the small distance the table offers. “Of course, I could.” He runs his fingers along the edge of the table. It’s one of the few things Stiles could repair from the old furniture, so, luckily, Derek keeps his claws in check.

Stiles swallows drily and rips his gaze away from Derek’s hand, locking eyes with him again. “Awfully confident there, buddy.”

His words are met with a near predatory glint in the hazel eyes. Beautiful hazel eyes, at that. Easy to get lost in.

Focus.

“You don’t scare me.”

Derek stops directly in front of him. They’re nearly chest to chest, and although Derek isn’t necessarily taller than him, Stiles feels weirdly small. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but the way he is holding himself, the way he is looking at him – as if Stiles is a rabbit cornered by the big bad wolf. Red bleeding into his eyes accentuates the whole predator predicament.

Fucking werewolves, seriously.

“Cute,” Stiles comments anyway, uncrossing his arms and straightening his shoulders and spine. “Still not scared, though.” They’re probably both aware that’s not entirely true, but he’s never been someone to back down from a challenge. “You gotta do more than creeping around in the bushes and stare at me with your alpha eyes.” Especially since the latter is actually pretty damn hot, which isn’t exactly helping the situation.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” Derek informs him in a casual yet amused tone.

“Really? Could’ve fooled me, big guy.”

Derek chuckles, letting his head fall forward as he does so – and Stiles can’t help but watch his mouth move. It’s fascinating. Every time he’s seen Derek, the guy has been scowling. Stiles didn’t think he could chuckle, much less laugh.

Fuck, he’s pretty.

Beautiful even.

His heartbeat picks up when Derek locks eyes with him again. “You’re not very attentive.”

“Oh, really?” Now, that is just plain rude and so uncalled for. “How do you think I’m finding these demons? By paying very close attention to details. So, I am attentive. I’m actually the most at-”

Derek kisses him. No ifs. No buts. No hesitation. He just does, and his lips are so soft and warm, their touch makes Stiles’ stomach twist with anticipation. Derek moves his hands and cradles his cheeks, thumb tracing a slow, ever so gentle line along his skin. All of Derek’s hard edges are replaced by something tender and raw.

Stiles’ heart stutters in his too tight chest, and his mind blanks, every single thought swept away by the warm lips pressed to his own. He melts against Derek, pressing closer as he curls his fingers around Derek’s bicep and his eyes flutter shut. A soft, almost helpless sound escapes his throat as a warmth floods through him, followed by a kind of ache Stiles doesn’t quite have a name for. They both settle deep inside of him, spreading into every part of his body. His entire body lights up with a want he hasn’t felt in what feels like forever, a need for closeness more than just desire.

When Derek pulls back, Stiles moves with him, desperate to hold onto the kiss just a little bit longer.

Derek regards it with a soft chuckle, his warm breath ghosting over Stiles’ lips.  

The sound alone makes Stiles wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t, clears his throat instead. No words come, which in itself is quite the curiosity, and Stiles is almost relieved at the sound of paws hitting the wood. Here to interrupt any possibility of an awkward silence. Stiles glances over his shoulder, watches as Bo enters the room and sniffs the air. It’s probably best to be upfront.

Once more, he clears his throat. “I’m not staying.” He crouches down and can’t help but smile when Bo bumps his head against his leg, demanding attention. “At least not forever. Until the house is sold, and I found the next… target, I guess.” He runs his fingers through Bo’s soft fur as he tries to ignore the way his heart aches at the thought of leaving.

For the first time in years.

Which is ridiculous. He doesn’t know Derek; not how he is as a person, that is. He only knows superficial stuff. What happened to his family, that he’s a werewolf and that he owns the only garage in town, and that he doesn’t need to crawl under cars or get car grime and oil all over himself because he’s loaded. So, he’s either doing it for fun or for the people living in this town… or both. Derek seems to be a good person, but so is Stiles, and Stiles won’t lie — he’s not only a handful, he’s also not particularly nice. Many people called him an asshole. They’re not entirely wrong.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” Derek says as he slides onto the chair at the head of the table, very clearly indicating that he’s not planning on leaving soon. “But maybe I can convince you to come back.” 

Stiles blinks up at him, scratching Bo behind his ears. “You don’t know me.”

“Yet,” Derek adds and looks down at him with a smile.

This fucking guy is going to give him a heart attack before Stiles has figured out his favorite color. Aside from that, it dawns on Stiles that he may have misjudged the guy. “So, you stalked me because you like me.”

The tips of Derek’s ears turn the slightest shade of pink. Adorable. “I never stalked you.”

Bo barks.

“He says you’re a liar.” Stiles raises to stand and pulls a chair out. “I think you followed me around, but didn’t know how to approach me.” Smirking, he sits down as Bo uses his chance to curl up under his chair.

Instead of replying, Derek opens the bag of takeout and pulls out only the best of Sally’s diner. His ears turn just a shade darker.

The night air rustles the papers in his hand. With all the windows and the door to the garden wide open, it is finally cool enough that Stiles doesn’t want to crawl out of his skin when Derek craves contact.

Half an hour ago, they’ve settled on the couch. Stiles on Derek’s lap, arms loosely curled around his shoulders, head gently propped against his boyfriend’s as he studies the tasks for the next couple of days while Derek is breathing him in and watching one of the classic movies Stiles added on his list of need-to-watch list. Although he doubts Derek is paying much attention to it, Stiles is satisfied about the effort he’s putting in.

Bo is curled up on the mat by the open door, content with his dinner and the group of ragtag werewolves they’re now traveling with occasionally.

The muted sounds of the movie, the leaves rustling outside the windows. The soft breeze bringing in the smell of cut grass and blooming flowers.

It’s perfect.

Almost.

A prickling sensation spreads across the back of his neck. A shudder dances down his spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.

Rubbing the nape of his neck, Stiles flips to the next page. The hauntings of this house have been pretty straightforward. Flickering lights. Whispers in the night. Objects being moved just enough for someone to notice. The sensations of being watched. He taps a finger against the back of his small stack of papers and scrunches up his face.

“I can hear you think,” Derek murmurs against the nape of Stiles’ neck. “Never a good sign.”

Stiles drops the papers on the couch next to them and scoots back as much as Derek allows him. “I don’t know.” Which is a lie. He knows very well what’s bothering him. “I just– it’s like the house is spying on me.” He gestures around them. They got rid of the little girl haunting the place very early into their renovation. But something about it doesn’t seem quite right — or rather, the place feels like the first time Stiles set foot into it.

Air thick, a silence too heavy, like the house is doing it’s very best to get rid of them.

Leaning back, Derek raises a brow. His hands rest loosely on Stiles’ hip, thumbs sneaking under his shirt. He merely raises a brow in question.

“The house is old, from the 18th century, to be exact. But the girl? Her death was pretty recent. The first haunting? No idea. History gets muddled. People make up stories.”

“It’s been quiet,” Derek reminds him.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “It’s not impossible. Just... I have a weird feeling about this place. It doesn’t feel clean.”

Derek hums, runs his hands up Stiles’ side until the cool breeze causes goosebumps to spread on his skin. “You’re the one with the eggy mind.”

“Hilarious.” Stiles flicks his forehead. His eyes rake over the wall. Scrunching up his face, he collapses onto the couch, arms wrapped around Derek, who has moved with him seamlessly.

Derek kisses a trail down his neck. “If you’re having a bad feeling,” soft words painted against his collarbone, “we’ll check it out tomorrow.”

In moments like this, Stiles can’t help but wondering how he deserved Derek. He’s not used to people believing him just like that. It used to be a fight, every time. But not Derek. Smiling, Stiles closes his eyes, runs his fingers through Derek’s short strands — enjoys the mouth and blunt human teeth paying very close attention to every inch of his neck.

But there’s this nagging feeling in the back of his mind, like nails on a chalkboard, unable to ignore. He scowls, opens his eyes and-

“What the fuck?”

Something in his tone must’ve alarmed Derek because he’s on his feet in a heartbeat, looking around. The sudden movement brings Bo to the scene, barking and jumping around in a frenzy.

Yet, Stiles can’t pay any attention to either of them. His gaze is glued to the ceiling, following the lines scratched into the wallpaper. Soundless. Invisible. Jagged, violent lines. So deep, as if something wants the house to bleed.

Got him.

And the screaming starts.

Derek all but flies upstairs.

Bo, due to Stiles’ strict training, darts outside, barking at the house from the safety of the garden.

Stiles jumps off the couch, passing by the fireplace to grab a poker. Then he follows Derek upstairs, towards the hysterical screaming, taking two steps at a time. Within moments, he arrives inside the first bedroom by the stairs and utter chaos.

Air curdles in his lungs. The sour stench of rot clings to the back of his throat.

There are Isaac and Erica, standing by the door, screaming over each other, words overlapping and incomprehensible. Boyd and Derek have a death grip on Jackson, who is dragged inside the floor-to-ceiling mirror inch by agonizing inch.

Stiles stares at the creature; the thing with two endlessly dark holes for eyes, a mouth with too many razor-sharp teeth. Talons for fingers, black nails buried deep in Jackson’s legs. Skin the color of cracked parchment. Its silhouette ripples like molten glass, like it doesn’t belong in this realm despite carving itself a home inside this house.

Jackson’s feet slip into the mirror, despite his trashing. There are black lines on the back of his calves. An infection creeping through Jackson’s veins, just like it infected the house, and Jackson will be eaten alive by it.

Despite Boyd and Derek holding on for dear life.

Isaac jumps into action. He hurtles across the room, grabs Jackson by the belt.

Everyone is screaming as Stiles stands there, locked into place, pinned by the sense that the thing is staring at him despite the pits of darkness where its eyes should be.

The creature is old.

So much older than this house.

Erica rushes forward, bumping into him. It startles him out of his stupor. Blood rushing in his ears, Stiles lunges at the mirror. His grip around the poker is white-knuckled, almost painful as he raises it and smashes it into the mirror. The impact rings out, cutting through Jackson’s panicked screaming, the exhaustion of the pack, before the mirror explodes into a spray of cold shards.

Without warning, the creature disappears. Its screech rattles Stiles to the bones.

Boyd and Derek are flung back by the sudden lack of resistance. They crash to the ground in a heap, Jackson dropping on top of them.

For a few heartbeats, Stiles stares at them. Chest raising and sinking quickly, a sheen of sweat glinting in the light of the ceiling lamp. He watches as the holes in Jackson’s legs close.

Anger churns under his skin. Anger directed at Jackson because he knows, knows, that this didn’t happen because the creature just got bored. His knuckles turn white, and he turns back to the mirror, brings the poker down on it again.

Again.

And again.

Until the mirror is nothing but splinters of glass on the ground and his muscles ache and the anger has dimmed. It hums right underneath his skin, dangerous, yet to be unleashed. He doesn’t turn, stares instead at the broken remains of the mirror — and the shards glare up at him, casting judgment on him.

“Well,” Isaac lets out a weak chuckle, “that looks like many years of bad luck.”

Stiles sucks in a breath.

“Seven,” Boyd informs him.

Stiles breathes out. Anger rising and falling with every breath. This is why he tried to convince Derek to keep doing it alone. Too many people bring risks. They’re impossible to control, and it only needs one fucking idiot.

Clearly, Jackson fills that role.

“What did you do?” Stiles forces himself to sound casual, but his jaw is locked so tight, he doubts his being successful.

“Sorry?” At least Jackson is aware he’s fucked up.

Stiles tears his gaze away from the shards and points the poker at Jackson, sharp end only inches away from his face. “What did you do?” he asks through his teeth.

Gently, Derek wraps his fingers around the poker and pushes it down. His eyes, however, are locked on his beta. “Answer him.”

Jackson sputters, opens his mouth and closes it. A fish out of water. His desire to talk his way out of the whole thing clashes with his need to follow his alpha's command.

“He mocked it.”

Jackson whips around. “Erica! What the hell?”

Raising his brows, Stiles locks eyes with Derek. I told you so, dances on the tip of his tongue.

Derek tugs the poker out of his hands. “You wanted to go looking for it anyway.”

“Oh, don’t even start.” Stiles crosses his arms. “I could’ve drawn it out. Now, it knows we’re looking.”

“So, what do we need to do?” Erica twists a blonde curl around her finger, tugging at it.

Stiles draws in another deep breath, trying to drown his anger with something fresh, calm. “Destroy everything that can cause a reflection.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“But the fridge—”

Stiles stares at Jackson. “If you look at it and see your stupid fucking face, it needs to go.” This will set them back weeks. He crosses the room. “I’ll deal with the vanity.”

“Stiles—“ Derek lifts a hand.

“Nope. No.” Stiles shakes his head for emphasis. Although Derek didn’t do anything, he’s not in the right headspace to be around anyone right now. “Get your pack straight. I’ll take care of this fucking thing.” Next time, he’s going to deal with the supernatural alone again. They can help with the house flipping itself - in fact, having five werewolves do the heavy lifting makes a huge difference in the long run - but getting rid of ghosts, demons, and other paranormal critters will be something he’ll do on his lonesome. No distractions, nobody to worry about, and most importantly, no fucking idiots.

———

The house looms over them in the darkness, windows gaping like open wounds. The air is thick with the scents of leaves and grass and earth, something fresh hiding underneath. 

A gust of wind brings smoke and ash. The scent of melting plastic ruins the fresh night air. All that progress in the last weeks. Gone. Burning in a skip mere feet away from them. It makes the air even heavier, sticking his clothes to his skin.

Somewhere in the distance, the hopeful rumbles of a summer thunderstorm roll closer.

What a perfect way to round out this night.

Stiles scratches Bo behind the ears, watching the reflection of the moon in the dark pool of the vintage mirror; the only thing in thing here that is older than the house itself just like the creature living inside of it. He curls his fingers around the poker, waiting for his time to strike. It might take some time, after all, the demon is very aware of the happenings around him, it’s very aware that Stiles will lure it into a trap. They’re in a stalemate. If it doesn’t appear, Stiles will find a way to trap it for the rest of eternity.

But nothing lasts forever.

“So…” Isaac shifts his weight from one foot to another, glancing around at his packmates. None of them is looking back at him, all staring at their feet. “Are we just going to… twiddle our thumbs?”

Derek shoots him a look.

Isaac ducks his head and clears his throat.

There are a few things that might draw it out regardless. Weakness, strife and hurting its pride. Demons, for one, are very proud creatures. They do not take kindly to insults. Jackson has learned that the hard way.

“What if we put it in cement and send it to the bottom of the ocean?” Erica suggests, crossing her arms, eyes briefly glancing at Stiles then Derek and back to the mirror between them.

Boyd raises his gaze to meet Stiles’. “How do we lure it out?”

Stiles lets out a breath and drags the poker over the surface of the mirror. The shriek of metal against glass makes his teeth ache and the beta’s flinch. Derek’s jaw tightens noticeably, the only response to the sound.

As well as Stiles’ behavior. It’s petty, he’s aware, but part of him can’t help himself. After all, it is their fault they’re in this position in the first place. He drags it over the mirror again, agonizingly slow, hoping that it serves more than one purpose.

But the surface stays undisturbed.

Jackson winces.

Derek places a hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck, both in warning and as an attempt to ground him.

“I’m sure we’re going to laugh about this in a few weeks,” Erica says, once again tugging at the curl wrapped around her finger. Her gaze darts from the mirror to Stiles. She lingers on him, eyes growing a little wider as she takes in his silence. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and it drops off her face when she turns to look at her boyfriend.

Boyd nods slowly and wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.

“Oh yeah,” Jackson drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, “real funny. Ha Ha.”

Something else mixes in with the pungent smell of melting plastic. Sweeter. Sharper.

Angrier.

The surface of the mirror seems to ripple, just for a second.

Biting back a smile, Stiles drags the poker once more across the flat surface. This time, he uses enough force to leave a thin white scratch.

Derek’s fingers twitch around the nape of his neck. Not tightening necessarily, but with the desire to.

“Yes,” Isaac agrees. “It’s about the memories we’ve made together, right?”

Jackson whips his head around. “I could've died!”

“That’s going to be my fondest memory.” Stiles smiles, cocks his head slightly.

The moon’s reflection vanishes. A blink, and it’s back again. 

“You-“ Jackson’s anger overpowers the stench of the plastic. A second. Another. He lunges forward — and is brought to a cold stop by Derek’s hand around his throat, a warning growl nearly drowning in the rumbles of thunder in the distance.

Jackson’s legs dangle over the mirror.

Stiles looks up, smirking, and is met with burning yellow eyes and sharp fangs; a werewolf struggling against his alpha’s hold.

A perfect treat, dangling over a pool of hungry sharks.

Bo jumps to his feet, growling and barking and—

Stiles brings the poker down. The squelch is all but nauseating as the iron sinks deeper into its white flesh. Something sour and putrid taints the fresh air as the things starts sizzling, burning from the inside out. Heat swells, stripping the early morning of everything fresh and clean.

Derek yanks Jackson away. The rest of the pack takes a step back, watching in horror, noses covered, as the demon rots and rots until there’s nothing left but the poker stuck inside the mirror.

A raindrop hits the broken glass, innocently glinting back at the stars.

Stiles yanks the poker out then brings it back down. Once. Twice. Three times. Until this mirror, too, is nothing but a pile tiny shards staring back at the sky with hundreds of little moons slowly vanishing behind the clouds.

The air remains tainted, stench clinging to his clothes and skin, and if asked, he’d swear, it’s clogging his pores. He’s desperate for the thunderstorm to scrub it off him.

“Damn,” Isaac mutters.

Boyd looks at Stiles, gaze searching.

“That was anticlimactic,” Erica notes, finally releasing her hair.

Stiles lets out a breath. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Derek drops his beta back onto his feet. “Jackson will pay for everything.”

Although Jackson whips around to stare at his alpha, he has the right idea not to argue. Impressive, really.

Stiles didn’t expect that of him. Then again, he doesn’t expect much of people who consider it a bright idea to fuck around with demons. “It’s not about the money, Derek. I don’t have the time to play babysitter while getting rid of the devil’s freaky spawns.” He’s lost people before. Naive owners that wanted to stick around, watch him do the work, give him pointers — that was before Stiles decided that he’d work better alone.

“Jackson,” Derek repeats, and something in his tone catches Stiles’ attention, “will pay for everything.”

“Just... make sure this won’t happen again. Or I will.” Stiles doesn’t want to argue with Derek, doesn’t even want to put them in this situations. But they’ve had this discussion. Many times.

Jackson scoffs. “And who made you the alpha?”

There it is.

Stiles’ role in all of this; the fine line of partner and something, of member of the Hale pack that’s not part of the hierarchy between alpha and beta. Stiles hovers at the edge of it. A trusted member of the pack, yet a fox, a lover, a part they’re not entirely sure where to put, settling somewhere between alpha and beta and nowhere in-between.

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac exchange a glance. All three of them look like they'd rather continue dealing with the creature of hell than be part of this particular conversation.

And yet, here they are.

In the exact situation Stiles wanted to avoid.

“Just... deal with it, please.” Stiles steps away from the mirror, pressed the poker against Derek’s chest for him to grab. “I’ll go for a walk. Any special wishes for breakfast?” Since they can’t use the stove any longer, and it’s nearing the morning hours anyway, he might as well grab something from a diner or a bakery somewhere.

“Waffles?” It sounds more like an offer than a request.

“Sure.” Stiles glances at the others but they merely nod.

Waffles it is then.

“Bo, come on.” Stiles presses a kiss to Derek’s cheek as Bo jumps to his heel and follows him with his head raised, almost as if to prove that he knows exactly how to behave. Stiles scratches him behind the ears, smiling softly down at him.

———

After a relatively calm breakfast, during which Jackson tried his very best to be overly polite, and a long nap, Stiles pads down into the kitchen. He grabs a warm bottle of water and goes looking for the pack. It’s awfully quiet. Not even Bo bounds out of the corner to greet him.

He finds Derek in the garden eventually. Bo following him around dutifully dragging off whatever Derek hands him. Surely, he’d be faster to do everything alone, but Bo seems delighted to be included in bringing what seems to be window frames to the skip.

Leaning against door frame, Stiles watches Derek work. Shirtless, sweat glistening in the sun. The scent of wood and suncream dance on the warm midday’s air. Nothing but memory reminds him of the thunderstorm hours ago. The sun dried out every last drop of rain.

Yet, watching a sun-kissed Derek work, he finds it hard to complain.

Bo drops the frame at Derek’s feet, waving his tail excitedly. A second later, his ears perk up and he spins around, barking delightfully as he sprints over to Stiles.

Smiling, he crouches down and catches the whirlwind, running his fingers through the soft fur.

Soft steps signal Derek’ approach as well. Stiles looks up, smirking. “Oh, please. Don’t stop on my account.”

Laughing, Derek bends down to kiss him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Good.” Stiles smiles, offering Derek the bottle of water. “It’s awfully quiet. What are the others up to?”

Without any comment, Derek offers Stiles his phone. When he enters the pass code, it opens at once on a chat with Jackson. An onslaught of pictures of mirrors, fridges, electric stoves, and a variety of kitchen appliances jump out at him. The sea of pictures is broken up by pleas to help and “do you think Stiles will like this?” and Derek’s one-word replies.

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “You’re torturing him.”

“Boyd asked me to stop.”

“The voice of reason.” Stiles takes the offered bottle and takes a sip. “Will you?”

Derek merely shrugs.

They move to the edge of the patio and sit down. Bo props his head on Stiles’ thighs despite the sun’s attempts of roasting them alive. Stiles keeps caressing him, closing his eyes.

“You know why he did it, right?”

Stiles squints at Derek, more because of the sun than the question. “What?”

“You know why Jackson antagonized you?” Derek raises his brows.

“Because he’s a prick?” Stiles never lost any sleep over Jackson’s behavior, especially since it’s only ever been him. He’s gotten along well with the others from the very beginning despite his nature. So, he doubts it’s because of the part Nogitsune left behind.

Derek chuckles. “Jackson is the first beta I turned. He’s given everyone a hard time.”

“So,” Stiles concludes, “he is a prick.”

This time, Derek gives him a look, fond, yet exhausted.

Stiles raises a hand in surrender. “Okay, what’s the issue then? I don’t speak werewolf like the rest of you.”

Derek leans back onto his elbows. “It’s not unusual for first betas to show issues with new pack members.”

“Why?”

“Their position in the pack is threatened. Or so they think.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “You want me to be nicer?”

“I want you to know it’s not personal.”

“That’s good to know.” Stiles scratches Bo behind his ears, watches as his eyes flutter shut and he yawns. “Still, if he can’t get it under control, I can’t-“ His voice does this annoying little crack, and he swallows around the anger and frustration threatening to bubble up again. “He won’t join us a second time. I don’t, I can’t worry about him on top of everything else.” There’s a reason he trained Bo to dip the second things go haywire. He needs to focus. Worrying about someone distracts him, and that’s what causes him to make the worst type of mistakes.

Sitting back up, Derek runs his fingers through Bo’s fur then captures Stiles’ hand, kisses his fingers. His lips are soft, gentle, and he locks eyes with Stiles. The gentleness in them all but kills him. “Good,” he whispers, running his lips over Stiles’ knuckles, “because I don’t want you to do this alone. I want to do this with you, so do the others.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek.

“If you’ll have us.”

“How could I say no to that?” Stiles intertwines their fingers.

Derek smiles and kisses him.