#multifandomwc

"Not here, no," Derek says, following her gaze. "The valley on the other side is meant to get hit by the rain though."

"Don't tell me your super sniffer is telling you that," Stiles quips.

"No, see, there's this little thing called a weather forecast…"

"Oh my god, can you two stop with the flirting or foreplay or whatever your bickering is," Jackson interjects, huffing.

"You're just jealous because Ethan isn't around and Danny said no sex without him here," Scott tells Jackson, a shit-eating grin on his face. "You'll have to grin and bear it."

There are some chuckles but then everyone turns quiet again. It's eerie, the silence of the space, despite so many people around. Like breaking it would summon something untoward, which Stiles really doesn't want to contemplate. After all, this is a peaceful bonding trip, one that's meant to bring together Derek's and Scott's pack so they can live in relative harmony. Stiles wonders how long into the night they can get to before someone inevitably attacks someone else, regardless of who is right.

They have been on mostly good terms over the past few years, but it's always a precarious balance to keep. At first it was only him in the space between the packs, trying to maintain that balance as an Emissary in training—that alone was a surprise to him, but apparently having a magical spark, or being one, he's not entirely sure how it works yet, is enough to be an Emissary for a werewolf pack—which only worked because Scott was prone to listen if he thought he'd lose Stiles entirely.

Derek had no such qualms or considerations, but he did appreciate the in with the Sheriff's Department that came with Stiles's presence. And he'd started to work with John on cases that had traces of the supernatural. All in all, the set up they had going in Beacon Hills worked.

Even with Isaac frequently spending time with Scott and with Kira drawn to Malia of all people. And Stiles being on the edge of both Derek's and Scott's packs, belonging to both and neither at the same time. The truth was that he didn't want to choose, not now, not ever, if he had any say in it. He just hoped—not that he had an expectation of anything—that if it ever came to revealing the reason why he was so torn between the two Alphas, Scott would understand.

This camping trip might just make everything come to a head, Stiles thinks as he watches everyone move around and put finishing touches on their circle of tents in the clearing.

"Hey Stiles, we need to get the sleeping bags sorted, you remember which one goes where right?" Scott calls out and Stiles grins when he sees him standing in front of one of the tents with a pile of sleeping bags by his feet, looking confused.

"Well, no, but I took notes," Stiles says and walks over, tugging his phone out of the pocket.

There's no coverage here, they're too far out in the woods, but his notes app loads quickly and with it the list of pack members and their respective sleeping bag descriptions. Stiles gives Scott instructions and the pile gets smaller fast and then vanishes altogether, leaving him standing in the circle and looking at the campfire in the middle.

"Right, mountain ash," he mutters as everyone starts settling onto the big stones around the fire.

They'd agreed that he'd begin a mountain ash circle for protection but not close it unless there's an emergency. He's the only one who can, still, despite Danny and Allison also being human. Danny suggested that they keep the circle closed and have one of them open it to let the werewolves and coyote and kitsune out if needed, but Stiles figured this was better. He knew that some of them didn't like the feeling of being contained in such a small space—big as the clearing was.

So he walks the edges of the clearing with mountain ash in hand and stops only a foot from where he started. It's enough that he can get to it and close it quickly, but the wolves can get out easily before he does. He already knows that they won't disturb the line if they step over it, it takes a spark to move the ash these days as his abilities grow stronger.

They don't have any plans for this first evening besides making some s’mores and hanging out by the fire. The full moon is still two nights away and they're in no rush since they're staying for the whole week. The hike to the clearing did take a toll on all of them though, so one by one everyone starts disappearing into the tents soon after. Stiles checks the mountain ash line one more time before he crawls into his tent—he's alone in it and for the purposes of this trip, he's Switzerland, the neutral zone. No man's land. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but when there's nothing but silence to keep him company, he's wondering if it was a good one. Then tiredness gets the best of him and he falls asleep, mind still full of worry.

He feels a little more settled the next morning, after a surprisingly good night of sleep—the air feels fresh and clean, like the rainstorm that did indeed hit the valley on the other side of the mountain spread the fresh scent all the way to them. But the rest of the group isn't as calm, at least not the shifters. As little as Kira and Malia are affected by the moon itself, they do feel the restlessness from the wolves and channel it in ways they don't really like to talk about.

It makes for an interesting morning with a few scuffles and a lot more glaring as they all wander down to the stream that's close to the camp they set up. The shifters calm a little once they're in the woods, but Stiles is the one who gets restless then, feeling the energy of the trees. It's not as strong as the Nemeton, but his spark still picks it up and makes him full of energy, like he should be running—not that there's anything to run to or from right now. He only calms down again when Derek sits down next to him and they both stare at the running water, not saying a word until everyone else has headed back to the camp.

"It's the Preserve," Derek says. "Mom always said that it had a mind of its own."

Stiles hums in acknowledgment.

"I thought it was the Nemeton, for a while," Derek continues quietly. "But then we fixed that and it didn't stop. It's like the forest itself feels us and makes itself known."

"Got any old Hale wisdom about that one?" Stiles asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek shake his head.

"I tried looking into it. Asked Peter," he adds with a sharpness to his voice like he's taken a bite out of a lemon. "He knows nothing either. It's probably because this land was ours for so long."

"Think your wolfy DNA seeped into the shrubbery?"

Derek turns to him with a glare that he doesn't seem to really mean if the twitch in the corner of his mouth is anything to go by. Stiles smirks at him, unable to resist the temptation of a joke.

"I mean, you guys rub yourselves on everything when you're all..." he makes pretend claws with his hands. "It wouldn't surprise me if you'd left traces of yourselves all over this place."

"For all I know, you might be right," Derek tells him and shrugs. "Or it's just because the forest is so big and there are too many things that happened here."

"I can feel it," Stiles says. "I didn't before, but now that I'm getting more attuned to the whole spark thing, it's like it draws me in."

Derek looks at him with an expression that makes Stiles think of panic. It's more subtle though, not like when he is on the verge of a panic attack. It's closer to worry and he's not sure what he's supposed to do with that. He's never seen Derek concerned like this about anyone, his own pack and family included.

"Don't let it—" Derek cuts himself off.

Stiles has a flash of a memory hitting him right in the face, the ice bath and the Nemeton and the sacrifice.... he shudders when he blinks himself back into reality.

"Yeah no, not going anywhere near sacrifices ever again," he says quickly. "Once was enough for several lifetimes. Worth it," he says, doing his best to ignore Derek's glare, "but not my best day."

"You mean you being a little dark kitsune shit was not something that came naturally?" Derek asks, sounding a lot lighter.

"Not the dark part," Stiles says.

"Don't go growing tails now either. Don't think you could get away with that in college."

"Eh, might be a nice little party trick. Kind of like you guys with the glowing eyes and all. Did you ever flash them at people when they were drunk?"

Derek grunts out a "no" but it's anything but convincing.

"Halloween has to be fun with that. Scott's claiming he's not taking advantage of the shift, but I think Kira messed with lightbulbs a few times, now that she can control them properly."

To Stiles's surprise, Derek is quiet and when Stiles looks at him properly, he notices the blush on his cheeks.

"Wait, you do, don't you? Get the fangs out, flash your eyes...." Stiles chuckles. "Oh man, the kids have to love that."

"No idea. They're usually too busy running away and screaming," Derek says.

The satisfied grin on his face is a sight to behold. Stiles does just that—he commits the image to memory. It doesn't happen a lot, Derek being relaxed and sharing these kinds of details. He's changed, they all have, but these little snippets of the Derek that he must have been before the fire, before the absolute disaster that some of the past few years were, they're still rare. Stiles cherishes them all the more when it's just them. He feels like he's being let in on a secret when he gets to see Derek smiling, relaxed, willing to just be a person rather than the Alpha.

"With great power," Stiles mutters to himself, then pointedly stares at the water again when Derek raises a questioning eyebrow in his direction.

"So, full moon tomorrow night," he says instead of reacting to Derek's unspoken query. "Please tell me we’re not going to do things like trust falls or other weird bonding things?"

"No. Just us, talking, catching food...."

"Wait, what?"

"Well, not you. Or Lydia. Maybe Danny. But mostly the wolves. We'll head out today and hunt down some food," Derek says with a completely blank expression.

"Like, rabbits? Or a deer?"

"Malia would love that," Derek deadpans. "But no, you idiot. We'll run down to town for some takeout."

Stiles lets out a relieved sigh.

"I'm all for you honing your hunting instincts and all, but I don't think anyone would know what to do with a whole deer. Or how to make it edible to humans," he says. "I'm sure you don't mind your steaks on the rare side, but I prefer mine well done, thank you."

"And I'm pretty sure we can't go hunting for curly fries anyway," Derek tells him. "Not the right season for potatoes."

"Oh ha ha," Stiles says, starting to get off the stone he was sitting on. "Come on, let's get back to the hungry horde before they start eating each other. I think the deer might be a better option than that."

Derek nods and gets up too, then walks by Stiles's side all the way to the camp, where the rest of the packs has settled around the campfire that someone managed to get going and boiled water for coffee. Stiles ignores Scott's curious glance, then Lydia's knowing smirk, and he focuses on the mug that Allison hands him instead.

"Wow, this is a business venture in the making," he says. "If one of you settles in San Francisco in the future, I bet you could make a living selling campfire coffee to hipsters."

"Beats a job in Starbucks," Jackson grumbles.

"Hey, someone's gotta do that," Kira protests. "After all, those are people who make half of you marginally more tolerable in the mornings."

"Not everyone is a morning person," Stiles tells her. "These guys are the things that go bump in the night, after all. Can't expect them to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.... oh wait," he stops with a smirk, then ducks when Scott and Isaac both throw crumpled up paper in his direction.

"None of you shift fully," Derek chimes in. "No bushy tails for you. I'd hope."

Stiles can't help but chuckle when he sees at least Scott and Jackson fail at being sneaky about throwing a glance at their own behinds, a mildly worried expression on their faces.

"So anyway, what's the plan for tonight?" He looks around at everyone in the clearing as he asks. "It's not running after squirrels night yet, are we doing anything specific?"

"Just taking a bit of time off, away from everything," Derek replies. "I'll go run the territory borders, make sure everything is fine."

"Alone?" Stiles frowns.

Something is telling him that it's not a good idea for any of them to be alone in the Preserve, not this close to the full moon. Or ever, really, but especially at this time of the month, it feels like asking for trouble.

"I'll go with," Scott offers, surprising everyone. "I've never done the full circle, you can show me that to look out for."

It's a bit of an olive branch, an opening to what they really came here for—to get the packs together and make them work as a team. Derek obviously sees that and nods.

"Afternoon," he says. "We don't need to rush."

After that, everyone relaxes again and they all focus on breakfast. By the time Derek tells Scott it's time to go, everyone has managed to find a spot of their own and there's chatter and laughter, some quiet conversations going on in the corners. Stiles can't help but look on as Derek and Scott vanish into the woods though. He walks the circle of ash, checking that it's still in place the way he set it up the day before, makes sure he has the rest of it in his pocket, ready to use at a moment's notice.

He's not worried that either of the Alphas will attack the other, but it's like something is out there, waiting to take on all of them.

As the afternoon slowly moves towards the evening, the clouds above them start thickening—another storm approaching, like the one on the other side of the hills the night before. It's another thing that makes Stiles uneasy, especially since he's not sure if it will hit them this time.

The sky is still bright enough when the first bolt of lightning strikes, thunder following some time after, telling him that it wasn't anywhere near. Then there's another one, a little closer.

And then...

Scott dashes into the clearing first, right as the first drops of rain start falling down, the cool water sizzling as it hits the campfire in the center. Derek follows him seconds later and both of them look like they're gearing up for something. What that is, Stiles doesn't know, but his anxiety spikes immediately after he gets a good look at their faces.

"What is it?" Allison asks hurriedly when she walks up to Scott and looks at his face. "I'm gonna.—"

"No, it's fine," Scott tells her, putting his hand on her shoulder to stop her from rushing into the tent.

Stiles figures her plan is to grab whatever weapon she chose to bring this time.

"It's nothing," Derek says. "Well, nothing bad at least."

There are several faces around the clearing that make it obvious that he's not convincing.

"The storm," Scott starts, then pauses to look up at the clouds. "It's closer than we thought it would be and with the lightning...."

His voice trails off and he glances at Derek.

"Forest fire," Stiles says glumly.

He doesn't need to look at the others to know that they all look alarmed.

"We're good here, for the most part. But if it expands, it would be hard to get out," Derek says, glancing around the clearing like he's trying to figure out if there's enough distance between the trees and the tents.

There's another crack in the sky and then the rumble of thunder almost immediately after. Stiles turns towards it quickly and huffs when it becomes obvious that he won't see smoke unless a fire is too close. Then he realizes what effect being surrounded by fire could have on Derek.

"Oh shit," he says and heads for his tent.

He doesn't pay much attention to anyone who's calling his name. There are more important things to be done.

"Where is the... oh come on," he mutters as he rummages through the bag he carefully packed, then the one he hastily threw together that has clothes and other supposed necessities. "Ah!"

When he crawls out of the tent, he sees that the others are glancing up at the sky in between throwing their things into the bags they brought with them.

"You guys can go if you want to, but I can make sure we can stay," he says, loudly enough to be heard by the humans as well.

He looks up and sees no sign of smoke, but he's not convinced that if there is one, it's going to pass them completely. Or that there won't be a fire at all, because he's lived in California his whole life and he knows it doesn't take much.

"The downside would be that we couldn't leave until it's all gone. Which might be a while," he adds, glancing at Derek and Scott. "But since the full moon isn't until tomorrow, it should be okay."

"You can't hold back fire with mountain ash, Stiles," Derek says in a sharp tone.

"I wasn't going to," Stiles tells him. "But remember how Deaton was teaching me about barriers and protective magic?"

"The stuff about mountain ash and the invisible walls?"

It's Scott who's asking, his forehead scrunched in a frown.

"Yeah, but kind of a little better and holding things out rather than keeping them in," Stiles explains. "I've been learning how to raise barriers against pretty much everything. Fire included."

Derek stares at him incredulously and he's the only one Stiles bothers looking at. It's not because he's afraid or worried about the reactions from everyone else. It's because the only reaction that does matter is Derek's. After all, Stiles looked into fire protection because of Derek, because of his history and the effect out of control fires could have on him.

If anyone does ask, Stiles's rehearsed answer is that considering the past, he would be wrong to not prepare himself for all the possibilities. It's an explanation that he knows will be met with understanding nods and will just be chalked down to his tendency to dive into all possible research of anything he comes across.

When Derek doesn't show any kind of a reaction, Stiles shakes his head and then marches over to the edge of the clearing. He carefully walks the line of mountain ash while he's reciting the incantation that he's got memorized, watching his every step and making sure that he doesn't disturb anything he shouldn't be disturbing. When he gets back to the start of the line he doesn't stop a foot away. The barrier closes with a ping that he's sure only he can feel.

"That doesn't feel like a mountain ash circle," Scott says almost immediately.

"It's not," Stiles tells him. "It doesn't hold you in, it just keeps out anything I want to keep out."

"So like, attackers—"

Stiles glances and Isaac, who's frowning and looking around the clearing.

"No, that would still require me closing the ash circle. This keeps out specific things, like fire and smoke," Stiles explains. "If there was a flood, I could keep water out too, but it would be more difficult. Water is a whole different amount of energy."

He looks around the clearing and at everyone. They've all stopped packing and he squirms a little under their gazes. Then, finally, he finds Derek. He's standing behind Boyd and unlike everyone else, his eyes are not on Stiles but on the forest. Then, like he can feel Stiles's gaze, he turns to face him and Stiles barely holds in a gasp that forms in his throat when he sees the expression in Derek's face.

"You did this," Derek says quietly.

The air feels like it's frozen around them. Stiles doesn't look away from Derek when he opens his mouth and talks to the rest of the packs.

"You guys can still go," he says. "Like I said, it doesn't hold you in."

Then, like someone snapped a whip and magically teleported them somewhere else, they all scamper into their tents, leaving only Derek and Stiles in the center of the clearing.

"You.... this is a very specific spell," Derek says, barely loud enough for Stiles to hear. "I know it. Mom knew it. I always wondered..."

As his voice fades out, Stiles cringes. He takes a step forward and doesn't miss the way Derek flinches at the movement.

"Deaton told me it was because he wasn't in the house," Stiles explains, feeling the ache that Derek must be feeling. "It doesn't work from outside."

Derek nods, but it's a small, aborted movement.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, taking a step back. "We can still go. There might not even be a fire tonight. I just... I wanted to... I know how much you..."

He stops himself. The words that were about to come out of his mouth would have given away the reason why he looked up and learned spells that protect this place and any other place from the elements. Specifically from the one element, from a fire.

"You.... this wasn't just a general precaution, was it?" Derek asks and this time it's him who steps closer.

Stiles shakes his head. If there's something he doesn't want to do right now, it's to lie to Derek. Not now, not ever.

"Why?"

There's a beat, then another one. Stiles takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but no words come out. Not the ones he wants to say, not the ones he's deliberately holding back, not words that would give Derek an answer without giving away Stiles's secrets.

"You didn't just do this because you wanted to learn whatever protective spells you can," Derek says, a statement and not a question.

Stiles shakes his head again.

"This was about fire. About me."

Stiles nods.

"Why?"

"You know why," Stiles finally manages to say, the words heavy on his tongue. "You know why it mattered."

"Tell me," Derek whispers.

He's suddenly right in front of Stiles, having crossed the space between them faster than Stiles's mind could process.

"I can't," Stiles mutters. "There's no going back if I say it."

"Tell me," Derek pleads.

He lifts his hand to Stiles's cheek, fingers hovering close enough to Stiles’s skin that the heat of Derek's palm radiates against it. Stiles jerkily nods his head and Derek rests his hand on his cheek, then puts his other hand on Stiles's side.

"I love you," Stiles says, the words rushing out with a breath. "I looked into everything I could to make sure that I knew all the ways that I could to prevent not only hunters but also things that could bring back memories."

"Idiot," Derek mumbles, then he leans in.

He pauses before their lips touch, waits for a beat, then closes the distance when Stiles nods again.

"Oh finally," someone says from one of the tents, loud enough that even Stiles can hear it.

They don't stop kissing, not until Derek pulls away and groans, his cheeks coloring in reaction to whatever it is that he heard.

"Your idiot?" Stiles asks when they lean their foreheads together, Derek's palm a steadying weight on his cheek.

"My Emissary?"

Stiles's eyes widen, his mouth opens and then closes. Then, instead of answering, he kisses Derek again, muttering an affirmation between their lips.

"So hey, you two wanna take it somewhere inside?"

It's sometime later—Stiles realizes he's lost track of time—when the question comes from behind Stiles, Scott's voice filled with amusement.

"I mean, I'm sure Erica is all up for getting a show, but if clothes are being lost..."

"Oh shut up," Stiles mutters, feeling his cheeks burn.

He's pleasantly surprised that Scott isn't angry or disappointed, that he's not asking about the whole Emissary thing. It doesn't seem important right now and Stiles knows that he'll try to figure out a way to make it work, to not have to choose an Alpha or a pack to belong to. But in the end, if he can't, if he needs to choose, he knows what choice he'll be making.

"Hey, the storm seems to be over," Kira says then, breaking the momentary tension.  "No more lightning."

"No fire," Derek whispers against Stiles's lips.

"Never."

Stiles says it with finality, with a determination that he can feel in his bones.

"Not on my watch," he adds, then chuckles when Derek kisses him again.

"Get a room!"

it's more than just one person shouting those words and Stiles blushes again. This time though, instead of staying rooted on the spot, he reluctantly pulls away from Derek after a quick kiss, then he links their fingers as Derek's hand falls away from Stiles's cheek.

"Come on, I have a tent all to myself," he says with a grin.

"Not anymore, you don't," Derek counters.

They both ignore the groans and cheers that follow them into the tent. Stiles grins when they're in and he pulls the zipper closed.

"Did you know that there are spells to soundproof a place?" Stiles asks.

“At least try to look excited, honey,” Sloane said as the car pulled up to the hotel. “I know you don’t want to be here, but it’s only today and tomorrow. We’re leaving the day after the wedding, by lunchtime. It won’t be that bad.”

“Sure,” Raven murmured to herself, quiet enough that her parents couldn’t hear her. “It’s only a whole day of my life wasted.”

In all fairness, it wasn’t quite a full day. More like forty-six hours, if you were being optimistic. Unable to help herself, she sighed. Forty-six hours of boredom, discomfort, and dealing her parents’ drunk friends. All because of a wedding.

As her father instructed their driver to deal with their luggage, Raven hauled herself out of the car, gravel crunching beneath her feet.

The hotel was really quite spectacular, in an old and stately way. It was a converted manor house, all light sandstone and sash windows, Georgian in style. For miles in either direction, it was surrounded by greeness.

It had a sense of tranquility that was destroyed by Raven stomping up the stairs to the entrance. The lobby alone was palatial and, as her mother remarked to her as they walked towards the concierge, it must have cost a fortune for the bride and groom and their families to rent the whole place out–they were even paying for the accomodation and food for all two hundred guests for both nights. Two hundred guests was, by the standards of her parents’ social circle, a small and intimate number; that didn’t change the fact that the cost of the whole event must have been astronomical.

Her father, controlling as ever, checked them in. In the meantime, Raven scanned the room, thankful that it was currently devoid of anyone that she knew. She realised that her luck wouldn’t hold in that respect–it was likely that she’d know a large percentage of the guests.

Once everything was squared away, her father handed her a key–a proper, honest-to-goodness key, not an electronic swipe card. She took it without question, desperately wanting to get some space to herself; an hour and a half with her parents in a confined space was enough to drive anyone insane. Hanging on the wall, behind the concierge’s counter, was a large analogue clock; as she excused herself, it was just hitting two o’clock.

She climbed the hotel’s central staircase to the first floor, checking room numbers until she found hers. Predictably, it was opposite her parents’ room. No need for her to stray far, in their eyes. Or something like that.

The room itself was more than alright. It was spacious and comfortable, with a good view across the front lawn and into the countryside beyond. Flopping onto the bed, she squeezed her eyes shut and huffed. This is such a waste of time, she complained to herself. I should be studying and trying to prepare for next semester.

Instead, she was at a hotel that was an hour’s drive from meaningful civilisation, at a wedding that she didn’t care about. Both of the couple were the children of her parents’ friends; her father’s company had invested in several joint ventures with the firm that the groom worked for. Given the type of people involved, the wedding was going to be gaudy and over-the-top, the kind of event that her parents had forced her to attend throughout her childhood. She’d hoped that she might be able to escape that once she was at college, technically an adult; alas, that was not the case. Her parents were still acting like she was a child, bound to their every whim.

The ceremony itself was the next day, but she didn’t even have that evening to herself. Before long, her mother was hammering on the door, insisting on a change of clothes and late afternoon drinks. Reluctantly, she obliged, not wanting to argue with her family so early on in proceedings.

She made it through the evening without major incident, took a long shower, then collapsed into bed and slept deeply.

She awoke to her phone’s obnoxiously loud ringing. It was a fumbling, bleary effort to get the device pressed to her ear. “What?” she mumbled.

“You need to get ready,” her mother’s voice, insistent and head-splitting at that time in the morning, instructed her.

“What? The ceremony doesn’t start until three o’clock.” Raven checked the time. “It’s only seven-thirty.”

“We arranged to have breakfast with the Fabians, remember? At eight o’clock.”

Vaguely, she did. It was a plan that her father and his friend had concocted sometime during the previous night. The Fabian family were old family friends; if her father could have had his way, Raven would have been married to their son, who was only a year younger than her. She had made it quite clear that she wasn’t interested, though her father still dropped heavy hints about it.

“Fine,” she replied, hanging up.

Against every desire in her body, she crawled out of bed and into the bathroom, dressing and dragging a brush through her hair. It was a haphazard process, but she was somewhat presentable by the end of it. She even made it downstairs and onto the veranda in time.

Breakfast was a passable affair, primarily consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Fabian quizzing her about college, especially given that their son would be enrolling later that year. The son in question wasn’t present; he’d been left at home. Raven would admit to her jealousy.

Their meal was cut short by Mrs. Fabian’s sudden panic about getting dressed and ready for the ceremony, which sent them all back to their hotel rooms, ostensibly to prepare.

Somehow, even with excessive amounts of time on her hands, Raven ended up behind schedule. She made it through the doors with only a few minutes to spare, still discreetly adjusting the bodice of her dress as she took a seat next to her parents.

The room itself was stunning–it was an orangery, all glass and wrought iron, decked from floor to ceiling with flowers. The flora lent a light perfume to the warm air. Rows of wooden chairs had been installed for the guests, divided by a velvet aisle.

It was beautiful. Truly, it was a shame that Raven wasn’t in the right state of mind to fully appreciate it all. In the true spirit of society weddings, everything had been exquisitely coordinated. The coloured belt on the bride’s dress matched the carpet that she walked on, as was the groom’s pocket square. The music was precisely timed with the bride’s arrival at the altar.

After that, Raven, quite unintentionally, stopped paying attention. They recited their vows, they signed on the dotted line, they kissed. Beyond that, she couldn’t recall much about the ceremony; her mind had always been active and she found it easy to slip into a daydream.

She was brought back to herself by a thunderous round of applause. By that point, the formalities had concluded.

The happy couple and the rest of the wedding party processed out, leaving the rest of them stretching and chatting, relieved that the ceremony was over. Now the reception, Raven told herself. The bit that’s marginally worse. Almost as if they’d read her mind, a small flock of hotel staff appeared, ushering them out of the orangery. “The reception will be in the ballroom,” one man politely informed her. “Still on the ground floor. Just past the lobby.”

By some miracle, all two hundred of them successfully moved from one space to the other. The ballroom, like the orangery, was stunning, all parquet flooring and wooden panelling and candelabra, lined with French doors. There was a dance floor at the centre of the room, surrounded by twenty or so round tables for dinner.

The three of them had been honoured, placed on Table Three, alongside more distant aunts and uncles, as if they were members of the family. When they sat down, Raven was seated to her parents’ left-hand side. On her other side was an empty chair. It didn’t worry her, but she mused on it for a while. To be fair, it wasn’t like she had anything more productive to do–the rest of the table was making polite conversation, one that implicitly excluded her.

Waitstaff flitted around the room, pouring drinks. She was restricted to water, thanks to her father’s hawk-like gaze and the fact that he still treated her like she was a child.

A member of staff, positioned in front of the double-doors that lead to the hotel’s foyer, rang a bell. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “The bride and groom.”

There was a round of applause, more polite than enthusiastic, as the couple crossed the threshold and took their seats. Once they had sat, Raven was hopeful that she’d be granted a reprieve from the pomp and ceremony, preferably in the form of food.

No such luck.

This, the best man decided, was the most opportune moment for his speech. And once he’d finished, it seemed that every other member of the wedding party had also written something to say.

The speeches seemed endless. They were boring, of course, despite their over-exuberance, but they also grated in a different way. They were telling, of their speakers and their audience; it was a jarring reminder of the opulent world of her parents, a world that she spurned now that she was older. Her parents paid her tuition fees and rent–which she was eternally glad for, seeing how others struggled with it–but beyond that, her life was identical to any other student’s. She studied, she worked, she socialised. She’d yet to find ‘her people’, as her mother termed it, but she wasn’t unhappy.

These people, though? On the one hand, she loathed them and their pettiness, their hypocrisy; on the other hand, she envied their absolute self-confidence and the way that they all seemed to belong. She’d never had that luxury, though it might have been the only one she’d ever lacked as a child.

The arrival of a plate of food halted her spiralling thoughts. She hadn’t even noticed that the speeches had ended.

A second shock came in the form of a man, pulling out the chair next to her and settling down. He didn’t introduce himself to anyone and wasted no time in attacking the plate of food that had just been placed in front of him, which raised several raised eyebrows from their table companions, though none seemed overly surprised. If he was related to the couple, Raven supposed, then the rest of the table would be his family–perhaps he always acted strangely. On her part, she followed his example, tucking into her first course without further delay.

When her plate was empty, she sat back in her chair and threw a glance at the man next to her. Having finished his food as well, he was solely concentrated on fiddling with his napkin ring.

“Hi,” she tried, tentative.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Hey,” he replied, sounding equally as unsure.

She found herself instantly drawn to the intensity of his expression. “I’m Raven. These are my parents.” A quick gesture towards them, which neither of them noticed, as engrossed in conversation as they were.

“My name’s Strat. These are my… relations.” At her quizzical, slightly perplexed, furrowed brow, he went on to elaborate. “Oh, I’m the bride’s cousin,” Strat drawled, by way of explanation. “I’m the black sheep of the family.”

Oh. I know who you are. While Raven would never have managed to match the face to the name, she’d heard of him before. He was a favourite gossip topic. Apparently he’d been quite the troublemaker when he was living at home, and not much had really changed when he’d moved out. “Right.”

“Life without risk is like thunder without lightning,” he continued, as if to explain, eyes flaring. “It’s just that most people don’t see that.”

“That was practically poetry.” Raven’s words were almost sarcastic, but something about the genuineness in his eyes took the meanness out of her voice. His words were odd. Yet, in a peculiar way, she thought she understood them.

At any rate, there was a flurry of action as their plates were cleared and their main course was delivered. They resorted to the routine of the first course–eating, not talking, not paying any attention to each other or anybody else.

It wasn’t until the mains were cleared and they were waiting for dessert that they spoke again. In the meantime, twilight fell beyond the French doors and the guests, helped along by large quantities of wine, grew steadily rowdier. Being sober made the situation all the more painful.

“You don’t seem very happy, Raven,” Strat said abruptly.

She pressed her lips together. “In all honesty,” she said, dropping her voice and casting a wary look at their tablemates. “I don’t want to be here. At all.”

He matched her volume, murmuring, “Why are you here, then?”

“I mean, my parents are paying for me to go to college, so I don’t have a lot of choice.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement, one that was neither positive nor negative. Somehow, it spurred her into explaining. “I hate this kind of thing. They’re so much effort and no-one ever really enjoys themselves. I can’t even have a drink when my Dad’s around, because he goes ballistic and tells me I’m being irresponsible,” she complained, still in a near-whisper. “So… I guess I’m just here for the cake.”

“Anyway,” she continued, now daring to raise her voice back to its usual volume. “This doesn’t seem like your kind of place, either.”

He threw his head back and laughed, almost manically. “It’s not. I’m just here to cause trouble. Stir up a few family feuds.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It can be.”

Ching, ching, ching.

Strat’s words were harpooned by the insistent chink of a knife rapping smartly against a crystal champagne flute. The best man, again, this time announcing the cake. “Ladies and gentleman, family and friends…”

The cake-cutting was a cue for the guests to stand, mingle, chat. Everyone began to drift about the room with no apparent purpose. For Raven, it was a chance to escape her table, to make a beeline for the opposite side of the room. Strat stuck to her side like a thistle. She was both astonished and completely unsurprised.

They didn’t pass unnoticed. How could they? Strat was related to, and hated by, half of them, after all. They got an odd stare here, a whispered comment here: what’s Falco’s daughter doing with that good-for-nothing louse? She’d only take a few steps before she realised that it wasn’t worth wasting energy on listening.

Nonetheless, they made it to the wall, turned, and faced the room. Strat waved down a waiter and got them two glasses of champagne; they raised them in an unspoken toast. Raven drank her first half of a glass in a single gulp. It was uncouth, for sure, but she felt that the situation called for it. For his part, Strat simply quirked an eyebrow and ordered her another glass.

As she was finishing her second, which she consumed at a much more civilised pace, Strat made a particularly witty comment about a man that was doing his best to drink the hotel’s wine cellar dry. She couldn’t help but burst into a fit of giggles. Clearly, she was loud; it made a few heads turn and she quickly stifled her laugher.

Across the room, she made eye contact with her father, who glowered at her behaviour; where she’d usually turn contrite, she instead shot back a jubilant grin. On the other hand, her mother, dare she say it, looked almost proud.

It was childish, she knew that. But there was something so thrilling about him, something so delicious about publically defying her parents, something so satisfying about scandalising everyone in the room.

See, Falco would usually love to see Raven interested in someone of Strat’s family, of their status and wealth. But Strat himself? Not a chance.

Just then, there was a commotion as a group of middle-aged musicians clattered into the room, equipment in tow. They’d probably call themselves a band, but Raven was doubtful; they looked like they were the kind of people who tortured their instruments, rather than played them. As they exchanged a sceptical look, Strat seemed to share her reservations.

Then she was struck by a thought. “I think I’ve seen these guys before,” Raven said in a tone of realisation. “They played at some event that we went to at the Fabian’s place. An anniversary, I guess.”

“And?”

“They were awful. They didn’t play anything under thirty years old. And they’ve got no stage presence.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father, finally unable to bear her behaviour, wending his way through the crowd towards them. She made a sound of disgust. “I hate weddings.”

Strat shot her a glance. “Let’s get out of here.”

--------

Alfred should have known that he didn't need to worry about him wearing a waistcoat; why would people stare at him when Victoria was there in a full-length ballgown? Jewels glittering from her wrists and neck, sparkling silver fabric, hair done in flawless twists - it was true Victoria style. Such a dress might have looked garish on anyone else, but they were all used to Victoria's extravagant tastes by now and she managed to pull it off. If Alfred were being honest, he was a little jealous of how naturally elegant both she and Albert looked together. They really were the perfect couple.

Besides, waistcoats seemed to be all the rage this year. Albert was wearing one, as was Ernest, as was... God above.

As was Edward.

Alfred cleared his throat and tugged on his collar a little. Was it just him, or had it suddenly got a little hot? Edward caught his eye and smiled slightly, causing Alfred to start, realising he'd been staring for far too long. He dropped his gaze and glanced around, grabbing a glass of champagne from the table next to him. He took a sip, then looked for Mina, noticing with dismay that she and Florence were talking with Edward of all people. Just his luck. Of course, he knew that Florence and Edward were old friends, but, well. He sighed and gulped down the rest of his champagne, setting down the glass and striding over.

"Alfred!" Mina exclaimed, throwing her arms round him. Alfred laughed and hugged her back, then turned to greet Edward and Florence once she had finally let him go. He peered round to see if Edward's date was hanging round anywhere, but, seeing no one, he frowned and turned to face him.

"Did you come with anyone?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Edward laughed. "Don't sound too happy about it," he joked, making Alfred flush. "But no. There was no one I wanted to ask, and no one asked me, so here we are. You?"

"Ah, I, uh, no," Alfred stammered. "I'm alone."

Edward laughed again, and god Alfred could listen to that sound all day. "Well then," he said. "We may as well be alone together now."

Alfred felt his face flame a bright red, but he managed a short laugh. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred saw Mina glance between the two of them, a small smile on her face. "Come on," she told her girlfriend, tugging on Florence's hand. "We've taken up enough of Edward's time. Besides, I want to go and dance!"

Florence smiled at Mina in exasperation, but went readily enough, the two of them joining hands and leaping about on the dance floor. Alfred shook his head at them ruefully. Damn you, Mina, he thought. She'd always been far too good at reading him. He turned back to Edward, all of a sudden feeling incredibly awkward.

"So..." he started, words abandoning him.

"So," Edward agreed. He gestured to a slightly less occupied corner of the room, giving Alfred a dimpled smile. "Shall we?"

Alfred tilted his head in asset and followed Edward, gratefully accepting the drink he handed him. Edward shrugged his jacket off, draping it over a nearby chair and holy fuck Alfred was so very gay. He hadn't thought that Edward could possibly get any hotter, but, seeing him in just his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, he was starting to have doubts about that. He coughed slightly and took a sip of his drink - he wasn't sure what exactly it was, but it tasted surprisingly refreshing.

"You're looking very dapper," Alfred said, internally wincing. Dapper? Who even says that anymore?

Edward chuckled. "Thank you. I wondered if the waistcoat was a bit much, but it seems I would have been the odd one out without one."

"Indeed," Alfred said. Edward's waistcoat was a lot simpler than his own, just a plain burgundy colour that matched his tie beautifully.

They stood in a companionable silence for a few moments, watching everyone else dancing and talking and oh look Ernest and Harriet were making out in the corner. Typical. Alfred turned away, only to find Edward suddenly a whole lot closer than he had been before. His heart rate seemed to triple as he looked into those beautiful brown eyes, breath all but stolen from him.

"You know," Edward said conspiratorially, "now that it's just the two of us, there's something that I need to confess."

"Oh?" Alfred managed, confused.

"Yes. I actually did want to ask someone to come here as my date, but I never quite managed to get up the courage," he said, a sly smile spreading on his face.

"And who might this lucky man be?" Alfred breathed, eyes flicking down to Edward's lips.

Instead of an answer, Edward leaned forward, bridging the centimetres between them and kissing him. It only lasted a second before Edward pulled back, searching Alfred's face uncertainly. Alfred smiled and wound his hand round his neck, pulling him back down.

When they finally broke apart, Alfred pressed their foreheads together, smiling widely. "I thought you'd never ask," he murmured, and Edward laughed, the sound echoing through Alfred's entire body. He touched his nose to Edward's, sighing happily. He found that suddenly he didn't mind being alone, as long as he could do it with Edward.

Tagging: @tinderboxboys @naruthirnith @holisticagent @sherlockisnewsexy @thedowagerstarkofthetardis @lady-needless-litany @raggedy-girl-in-the-tardis @overflowingmind-welp @hedgehog221b @paynendlessly @midnightanddiamonds @northqueensguard @somosinevitables @eyesuponthesecondhand @rycbarmerlin @bingecrafting @georgiastanstmi @otakudessertsaddicted @automationbaby @winterfellmaiden @emsypi @thcschei @anotsodelicatelady @thekaeru @apalesheep @twocandles @riveter-rose @lostlibraryofalex

Magnus is older than he, Alec doesn’t know exactly how much older as he’d been unreliably informed that he’s already a hundred years old. Which is laughable and absurd.

Alec sits against a tree at the edge of the clearing, raking his eyes over the almost perfect circle that the lack of undergrowth leaves.

It’s quiet, only the light rustle of leaves and birds tweeting interrupt the silence.

Alec relaxes.

“Alexander,” a voice ripples from behind him. Alec looks around but doesn’t see who called his name. He smiles though because there’s one person who calls him by his full name that isn’t his father or other royal dignitaries. It’s Magnus.

He’s supposed to be his personal servant, but away from prying eyes, Alec can’t help to see Magnus as he closest friend.

“Magnus? C’mon, don’t play games, I don’t know how long I have before they come searching for me.”

Magnus emerges from behind the last tree of the Orchard, a giant apricot tree.

“Hello, Alexander.”

“Magnus,” Alec breathes, smiling and pulling him into a hug. It feels good to have the warmth around him when most other people around him are cold. His brother and sister also provide some of the only warmth he gets in this castle, he likes training with them, teaching them new skills and playing games with them. He wants to give them more of a childhood that he ever got.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you the past few days, Ragnor had me running all his errands.”

“It’s okay.”

“Let me make up for what I’ve missed.” Magnus’ eyes flickered gold and the irises changed shape. Alec smiles, watching Magnus carefully as to what he’ll do. “Sire,” he bows and Alec laughs a little, calling him sire as if he were the King isn’t something he’d dream to get away with within the castle walls, but out here in the dappled sunlight of the Orchard, it’s playful and amusing.

Magnus snaps his fingers and dramatically sways his arms until a perfectly ripe Apricot falls from the tree and halts in mid-air before Alec.

“For you, Alexander, the ripest apricot.” Alec picks it from the air and takes a bite through the velvety skin and flesh, the musky sweetness hitting his tongue.

Alec finishes his fruit and he and Magnus chat for the next hour until the sun begins to dip over the canopy, leaving them in a dusky light. The moon is already out, just peeking through some clouds. It’s probably about time they head back to the Lightwood Castle. He would rather remain out here forever, shoulder to should we with Magnus, the man who is masquerading as a servant but is truly a powerful warlock and a lover in a city where magic is forbidden and where young women will be brought before him when the time for his marriage arises.

He wishes these moments would last forever, staying too young to marry, and simply training and teaching his younger siblings. But, time will have to move on, and all he will be able to do is fight for what he loves, no matter what happens.  He knows, when the throne is passed down into his command, the rules will change. He won’t have to marry some noblewoman and he’ll be able to love who he likes.

Magnus is important to him, he thinks, as Magnus bumps his shoulder. In Magnus’ hand there’s a flower, small and purple, delicate and beautiful. Magnus’ fingers rubbing together gently and with sizzling orange sparks another, an identical flower is produced.

“Beautiful flowers, for a beautiful Prince.”

They kiss, eyes closing against the darkening sky, and the sound of the gentle breeze in the Orchard fading out to the sound of their breathing.

They break apart, both flushed, and stand up. They should get back to the Castle, as much as he loves Magnus, he doesn’t like the almost certain idea that his mother and father will want to know where he’s been all afternoon. Avoiding his Princely duties is, unfortunately not a good excuse.

At 7am sharp, while Stiles was stumbling out of the door and into his Jeep so he'd get to a class on time, the front door across the street opened and out walked... Stiles's wildest dream and his worst nightmare all rolled into one man. Who was obviously heading out for a jog, if his skin-tight shorts, loose tank top and trainers were anything to go by. He didn't say hello, didn't seem to even acknowledge Stiles's presence and he set off into a run, leaving Stiles watching his tanned back and the flashes of a black tattoo on the man's back. Stiles absolutely did not glance below the man's waist to see the curve of his delightfully bubbly ass.

That would have been extremely rude.

It's also why he's sitting on the couch in the living room now, curled into a slightly uncomfortable position, instead of taking advantage of the perfectly positioned desk and the chair that makes hours spent in it seem like nothing.

Because the desk is right at the front window. The same window that faces the house across the street. And while it's not 7am—their new neighbor is punctual with his morning jogs—it seems that it's perfect lawn-mowing time instead. Just as it was car-washing time the day before, house-painting time a few days earlier, window-washing time another afternoon. There's been something every single day, as if the man across the street knew when Stiles had to be sitting at his desk and having the perfect view of his muscled back and wide shoulders, the dark swirls of the tattoo on his back—a triskelion, as Stiles found out on the window-washing day when tank tops were apparently unnecessary—and the swell of his ass whenever he bent over.

"I must have been an awful person in my past life," Stiles mumbles to himself, the empty house offering no sound of consolation.

It's been the longest week, catching glimpses of their new neighbor no matter how much Stiles tried not to. He didn't even know the man's name—Rafael only remembered that there used to be a family years ago, then he mentioned something about a fire and how the house was rebuilt—but he did see the tall and beautiful woman who made an appearance one of the mornings. She'd been in casual clothes and kissed the man's cheek as he left for his jog, then she got into a shiny Jeep—a model way newer than Stiles's—and drove off.

"No wonder he's taken," Stiles muttered then, any dreams of a meet-cute with the potential of getting to know the man in every way possible dashed into smithereens.

He's about to give up on the essay and grab himself something to drink when he hears the rumbling of Scott's bike.

Dinner time, Stiles thinks.

He sets down the laptop and heads towards the kitchen, figuring that now that Scott's home, they might as well figure out something to eat. Stiles is looking at an all-nighter the way his essay is going, so he's going to need the energy. His head is stuck in the chest freezer as he rummages through whatever they have that's easy enough to make when the voices from the front door carry all the way to his ears.

"It's not a bother at all," Scott says to someone who's obviously coming into the house with him. "We should have that spare bulb. Anytime you need anything man, just knock. Stiles is home most of the evenings, I'm home in the mornings, one of us is bound to be around."

"What's a Stiles?"

It's a soft voice, one that Stiles doesn't recognize, but a vague sense of panic washes over him. He knows all their other neighbors by now and since this is someone new, it can only mean...

"Hey Stiles, where are you?" Scott calls out from the living room when he finds it empty. "Come meet our new neighbor Derek!” Then he adds more quietly, clearly to Derek, their neighbor: "Stiles is my housemate and best friend."

"Is he the one who owns the death-trap Jeep?" Derek asks, amusement ringing through his voice.

"Yeah, it's one he had since he learned to drive," Scott says, then adds something more quietly.

Stiles figures it's the fact that the Jeep used to belong to his mom, if the acknowledging hum from Derek is anything to go by. Scott calls his name again and Stiles hisses when he startles and hits the back of his head on the chest freezer's lid.

"In the kitchen," he replies just so Scott doesn't call him again.

The thing is though, he's been home all afternoon, trying to write his essay. And his studying clothes are very much comfort over style, so he's in his pajama bottoms—the soft and worn out ones—and a T-shirt that has more holes and stains than fabric. Which is not really the best first impression he wanted to make on their hot new neighbor. Then again, said neighbor already noticed Stiles's old Jeep and clearly had reservations about its functionality or looks or whatever, Stiles doesn't care. He loves Roscoe and would go to bat for him, especially to snobby owners of shiny Camaros who—

He doesn't get to finish the thought because Scott strolls into the kitchen with Derek right behind him, still in his sweaty and loose tank top and the running shorts that have been driving Stiles to distraction. Who even wears running shorts to mow the lawn? Stiles has been asking himself that question every time he glanced out of the window.

"Hey, Stiles, this is our new neighbor from across the road, Derek," Scott says with his usual cheerful demeanor. "Derek, this is my housemate Stiles."

"Hey," Stiles says, glad that he managed to at least open his mouth without making a complete idiot of himself.

Then again, the day's not over yet.

"Hey," Derek replies, eyes roaming up and down Stiles's body, eyebrow rising as he takes in the state of his clothes.

Stiles can't help it, he returns the same look to Derek, pointedly looking at the clothes he is wearing. To mow the lawn. Because what the hell.

"Derek's lightbulb in the garage blew, so I offered one of our spares," Scott says, glancing between the two of them as they continue their glaring stand-off. "Are they still in the hall cupboard?"

It's only reluctantly and with yet another pointed glare at Derek that Stiles looks away and turns to Scott instead.

"No, the shelf in the garage, above the washing machine,” he says. "Remember your dad moved all that crap so we had space in the hall?"

"Right, yeah," Scott replies, then he glances at Derek. "I'll be back in a moment."

Then he looks at Stiles and gives him his patent what are you doing? look. Stiles knows that one, it's been a constant presence in his life throughout high school, usually when he was lying to his father about something. He disappears before Stiles can—even just nonverbally—defend himself.

And it's Derek and Stiles in the kitchen, alone. With Derek and his tank top and his dark hair and big expressive eyebrows and tanned skin and why is Stiles even looking into his eyes like a creep and trying to figure out what color they are?

"So, uh, you all moved in?"

It's the only question he can think of, most of his mind spinning around the fact that the hot neighbor whom Stiles thought was completely unapproachable is now in his kitchen and probably judging Stiles's dress sense. For a good reason, really, not that Stiles is about to admit that out loud.

"Yeah," Derek says, then he smiles and glances towards the window.

Oh my god bunny teeth! Stiles’s mind supplies very unhelpfully when his eyes land on Derek's smiling mouth.

"My sister will probably say that my interior design skills are severely lacking and she'll redo everything," Derek keeps talking, "but the house is livable now, at least."

"Sister?"

Stiles's mind is reeling from the lightness of Derek's tone, such a a contrast to the distant man he seemed to be whenever Stiles saw him heading out for his runs in the mornings.

"I think you might have seen her a few days ago," Derek says, frowning. "You were headed to... school? Work?"

"School, yeah," Stiles says, then his brain catches up. "That was your sister? And I didn't think you noticed me, like, ever."

"Yeah, that was Laura. My older sister, as she likes to point out frequently, though it's only by a few minutes," Derek says, sounding a little grumbly, like siblings tend to be about each other.

Stiles would know, that's been his relationship with Scott even before their parents started dating and made their brotherhood official. There's fondness in Derek's tone though and Stiles remembers the news he saw about the fire at their house and the amount of casualties that there were. If his internal math is right, Laura is the only family Derek has left.

"I did notice you," Derek says. "At the risk of sounding creepy, you have classes—" he pauses and there's the most adorable blush rising in his cheeks and down his chest, "—on Tuesday and Wednesday morning. And you tend to be barely awake that early in the morning. You probably shouldn't be driving like that."

"I've been driving since I was fifteen, I'm good," Stiles says defensively. "And not everyone is up and jogging at an ungodly hour like that. Every day."

Oh shit, Stiles thinks, realizing that Derek only knew about the mornings when Stiles was actually outside and leaving his house at the same time as Derek was heading out for his run. But now he knows that Stiles is aware that the runs are daily. Which he clearly realized, if the way his eyebrow shoots up is any indication.

"Have you been driving that Jeep since you got your license?” Derek asks instead, then he pauses and narrows his eyes. "You're Mrs Stilinski's kid."

Stiles's eyes widen in surprise because he hasn't heard his mom being referred to that way in years. Since before she died, really, because she hadn't been teaching for the last few years.

"You knew her?"

"She was my year's homeroom teacher, when I was in Beacon Hills," Derek says quietly.

"Oh. And yeah, I've been driving Roscoe from the first day I was allowed to," Stiles says, not wanting to dwell too long on the past and memories that probably aren't pleasant for either him or Derek.

"Does it still run on duct tape and prayers?" Derek asks, smirking.

"How do you know about that?"

"From her, actually," Derek tells him. "She used to refuse any help from the guys who were fixing their own cars and offered to look at it. Said getting it fixed properly would ruin the car's integrity."

Stiles smirks to himself and feels a pang in his chest accompanied by fondness.

"That sounds like Mom," he says, quietly.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Derek says then, just as quietly. "She was my favorite teacher."

Stiles nods. There's not much else he can say—it's been years since his mom died and he still gets the occasional comment like Derek's, from people who remember her—and he's a little thrown by the link that Derek has to Stiles's past. But then he can't help it, his curiosity too strong to just let it go.

"It's weird, I didn't realize there was anyone in the area who knew Beacon Hills," he tells Derek. "Just Scott and I. And Rafa," he adds, then explains when Derek's eyebrow lifts in confusion. "Scott's Dad. He owns this place, we're just renting."

"Ah. Not many renters in the area, usually," Derek remarks. "We moved here before I finished high school. Mom's job pulled her out."

Stiles doesn't ask about her. Or about the fire. It's not a "just getting to know you" conversation, despite the fact that they've already touched on Stiles's loss of a parent.

"So, you'll be here for another few years?" Derek asks then.

"Two more, probably, depending on how college goes," Stiles replies. "Scott's in vet school, so he'll stick around."

"You won't?"

"Depends on which academy I get into," Stiles says, then realizes that he needs to elaborate. "Police academy. Following in Dad's footsteps, hopefully. Or at least a similar direction. Might be Quantico, for all I know."

"High hopes," Derek says, smiling. "So, will it be weird to ask you out?"

Stiles's mind screeches to a halt.

"What?"

"Coffee. Maybe dinner, if you'd be up for it," Derek says, like he didn't just completely blow Stiles's mind. "If it's not something you want to do, forget it. And I hope it won't make things awkward."

"Only if you don't really mean it," Stiles says. "You're not like, pulling my leg because you know that I noticed you beyond what's casual and normal."

"Why are you talking about normal?" Scott asks, just walking into the kitchen. "That can't be about you."

Stiles groans in frustration. Like it's not bad enough that his first few impressions were less than stellar, Scott's now driving the stake into an already shaky image. Which Derek obviously didn't hate. Until now.

"Normal is overrated anyway," Derek says and grins. "So, coffee?"

"Oh no, did I walk into something?" Scott asks, looking alarmed and apologetic. "Here's the lightbulb, don't mind me, I'll just go... park the bike or something."

Stiles watches his best friend stumble out of the kitchen and towards the already perfectly parked bike outside—Stiles knows this because he's never seen Scott not be careful with it—leaving Derek and Stiles there, in awkward silence. That doesn't last too long though.

"So, coffee," Stiles says, forgetting to make it a question.

"If you want to," Derek tells him and he looks hesitant and like he's bracing himself for a rejection.

Which makes zero sense at all, because who would refuse an offer like that? Not Stiles.

"That would be great," Stiles says, maybe a little too fast.

He's way past trying to look like a regular and well-adjusted person though. All things considered, it's pretty pointless anyway.

"Tomorrow? Or is that too soon?" Derek asks, his hesitation turning into a hopeful expression.

"I want to say yes. I really do," Stiles tells him, apologetic. "But I have this essay due tomorrow and I'm pretty sure that I'll need an all-nighter to finish it because I got nothing done this afternoon."

Since you were outside, mowing the lawn and being a distraction, Stiles doesn't say.

"Well, good luck with that and... let me know when you're free?"

"I know where you live," Stiles blurts out, then he feels his cheeks heat up. "I mean, in a completely non-stalkery and non-creepy way, because you're right across the street and I see you all the time. Because you're always outside, doing things."

Derek chuckles.

"I'll see you soon," he says. "Maybe in the morning? Around seven?"

Then he walks out of the kitchen while Stiles is still looking at him with an open mouth and wide eyes.

—

They get coffee the next day, when Stiles stumbles to Derek's front door right after he gets home from handing in his essay. He's barely awake, his hair looks like a mess and his clothes are only a step above what he was wearing when they first met properly. But there's the promise of coffee and getting to look into Derek's eyes and well, Stiles's sleep-deprived brain thinks it's the best idea ever.

Allison chuckles at Scott's question, but Stiles sighs.

"Not quite, but you're close. This one is a frost fairy apparently."

"Oooh, like in that other Tinkerbell movie," Scott says, his face lighting up.

"What?"

"Hey, quit your judgment, they're fun," Scott protests. "There was a whole series and in one of them Tinkerbell found a secret twin who was a winter fairy and could freeze things."

"That sounds about right," Stiles says. "Are you telling me that Disney got things right?"

"Well, it does look like we have Periwinkle wreaking havoc around the Preserve, so maybe?"

"Peri-what?"

"The winter fairy," Scott says, sounding exasperated.

"Right. So, we have a frost fairy on the loose and zero information on any fairies or how to deal with them," Stiles says, slumping in his chair. "What now?"

"Go out, try to find the fairy, talk?"

"There's the Scott I know and love," Stiles says. "With the optimism and positivity."

"Hey, it might work," Scott tells him. "They're not bad in the movies."

"We're not exactly in a movie, Scotty. And our history with creatures of all kinds is not exactly giving me much hope of the fairy being of the cute and sweet kind."

"Well, do you have other ideas?"

"Not as of now, no," Stiles admits.

Allison chuckles, getting both their attention.

"You know," she says, "we could try Scott's way. But have someone who can run fast enough to get away be the one to try, in case Stiles is right and the attempt for diplomacy goes horribly wrong."

"It would also need to be someone who's good at diplomacy," Stiles says. "So not Isaac or Erica."

"Boyd?"

"Not so good with the talking in general thing. Lydia won't go trekking through the woods," Stiles points out.

"Maybe Derek should..." Scott starts but stops when both Allison and Stiles give him an incredulous look. "It is his land, after all, that should hold some weight."

"That might be true, and as you know I'm a fan of Derek's everything, but diplomacy isn't his strong suit," Stiles says. "Not when it comes to someone causing trouble in the Preserve."

Both Scott and Stiles grimace at the memory of their first meeting with Derek, when they went looking for Scott's inhaler.

"Still, maybe he should try? Bring someone who's less likely to bite the fairy's head off?" Allison asks, looking pointedly at Stiles.

"Why are you both looking at me?" Stiles asks a beat later.

"Because it's got to be you two," Scott says. "It's that or Ally and I. And Derek has a claim to the land, while we would probably just piss the fairy off, what with the Argent connection."

Stiles sighs, realizing that he's been defeated and somehow Scott's logic holds firm.

"Fine," he says. "But you're telling Derek."

It turns out that Derek—despite not knowing what it was that was causing havoc in the Preserve—was already planning to go out and track down whatever it is out there. Stiles cringes when he listens to the phone call that Scott makes and when he tries to follow the explanation about fairies and Derek's unimpressed huffs when the Disney connection comes up. He's not at all surprised that Derek doesn't buy the possibility that the fairy is nice, but eventually they both agree—Allison's logic works a lot better than Scott's attempts—that it will be best to at least try to talk to the fairy before sending in the hounds. Or wolves.

That's why a day later, Stiles finds himself trekking through the woods, wrapped in his warmest jacket but still shivering from the cold. It's only in one corner of the forest, luckily, but the reason they all rushed into research and trying to find what creature settled here is that the frost has been steadily expanding over the past few weeks. Derek, naturally, doesn't seem to be affected by the ice or the low temperatures at all which makes Stiles grumble.

"Come on, the sooner we get to the fairy, the sooner we'll be out of here," Derek tells him when Stiles catches up to him.

They've been walking like this from the moment they entered the Preserve—Derek getting ahead, then waiting for Stiles to catch up, then walking ahead again—and it's why they haven't talked much. Stiles huffs and pulls his jacket tighter around himself, then glares at his shoes and hisses when he tries to move his toes in them.

"My toes are froze," he mumbles as he starts walking again.

Derek turns around to look at him, then smirks. "Good thing you don't have a tail then," he says. "Also, wrong movie."

Stiles stops in his tracks and his jaw drops as he processes the words.

"What?"

"Fairies are in Peter Pan and the Tinkerbell series, not the Dalmatian movie," Derek tells him, completely blank-faced.

"What?"

"You said that already."

"You know Disney movies," Stiles states, surprised.

He starts to move again, but it's for self-preservation and to prevent his everything to freeze, not because he's over the shock of what Derek's comments revealed. It shouldn't be such a confusing thing; after all, Stiles is pretty sure that before the fire, the Hale kids were just regular kids on the outside, watching movies and listening to music like any other kids their age. But it's been a long enough time of him seeing Derek tense and angry and hurt that the idea that his mind contains references to cutesy cartoon movies completely baffles Stiles in ways very few things ever did before.

"Yes, Stiles, I know Disney movies," Derek says, rolling his eyes as he waits for Stiles to catch up to him. "I also saw all the Star Wars movies and Voyager is my favorite Star Trek."

"Damn right, Janeway is the best," Stiles reacts automatically, then stops when he's reached the spot Derek stopped at. "Sorry, I guess I can't quite shake the sourwolf version of you. You know, the one who wouldn't be seen doing or saying anything that's fun."

Derek sighs but doesn't comment on Stiles's admission. Instead, he nods in the direction of where the frost seems to be originating from and starts walking again, a little slower this time so Stiles can keep up. They stay silent for a while, the only sound around them the rustling of the few leaves that aren't frozen and Stiles's chattering teeth. As they keep walking, more and more snow and ice surround them and the wind picks up, blowing snowflakes in their faces.

"So, uh," Stiles starts, then pauses when Derek whips his head around, a finger across his lips.

His ears must be picking up something, Stiles thinks and despite an urge to ask, he stays quiet. Derek turns back towards whatever it is that he's hearing and Stiles can see his shoulders tense even under the thick fabric of the jacket he's wearing. Then he walks on, slowly and quietly, until he reaches a line of shrubbery, obviously surrounding an open space as Stiles guesses from the light that's a contrast to the shade of the trees behind and around them.

Fairy? Stiles mouths when Derek glances at him. He gets a nod in response and before he can ask anything else, Derek's eyes widen and he turns to the clearing. Stiles doesn't manage to even step closer when the wind picks up enough to make them both sway and move forward unwillingly. Derek is the first one to emerge in the clearing, but Stiles is right behind him, both of them staring at the small figure in the center, surrounded by a whirlwind of snow and ice shards.

It's a fairy and she's tiny. Not that Stiles doesn't know better than to underestimate someone's power based on their size, but still, she's small and looking fragile and soft. The wind around her, however, looks strong enough to knock a whole pack of werewolves off their feet. Stiles has no intention of reenacting Dorothy and flying to Oz, so he tries to step back.

"Oh no, you're not leaving, are you?"

it's the fairy who speaks, her voice tinny and high-pitched, making Stiles think of jingle bells and shattering glass. He frowns but stops moving away and shuffles to Derek's side instead.

"We'd appreciate if you did," Derek says gruffly. "And stopped making it snow."

it's a lot more polite than Stiles expected, but he can't fault Derek for being cautious.

The wind stops, the snowflakes float to the ground, and almost immediately the air around them feels warmer. Stiles tries to hold back his relief, but he doesn't miss the way the fairy's face falls, eyes open wide and she clasps her tiny hands over her mouth. When her wings flutter and she flies towards them, Stiles winces a little, expecting it to get colder.

"I'm so sorry!" She speaks when she hovers in the air in front of them. "I've just been trying to make a portal to get home. I didn't know it would cause trouble!"

"Well, it did," Derek tells her.

Stiles nudges his side, hoping to get his attention and to stop him from antagonizing the fairy, who looks genuinely apologetic.

"You're in an area that doesn't get this cold a lot," Stiles explains through chattering teeth, his body tense as he tries to ignore how cold he is. "It's a bit worrying to suddenly have all this snow."

"Oh no, I swear I didn't mean to," the fairy exclaims. "I just... wanted to get home."

"Where is home?" Stiles asks, his mind already whirring with possibilities.

"Neverland, of course! Oh, how rude of me, I didn't introduce myself," she says, sounding a lot more cheerful than a moment ago. "I'm Peri, a winter fairy from Neverland," she says, following it up with a little mid-air curtsy.

Stiles's eyes widen as her words sink in.

"Wow. Wow okay," he says, then he shakes his head. to clear it. "I'm Stiles and this grumpy wolf here is Derek. You're on his pack's land, which is why we came here to investigate."

Derek huffs, but he doesn't say anything.

"I do apologize," Peri says. "Oh, you have magic!"

Her words make Stiles frown. He is a Spark and he's been training to harness that energy, but no one has managed to just guess it from looking at him.

"The dust," Peri tells him, then flies around his shoulders so fast that it makes his head spin a little.

But he does notice the way that the sparkles that surround her also seem to latch on to him like he's a magnet for it.

"Maybe you could help me with the portal?"

"I wouldn't know how," Stiles admits. "I don't do magic."

"But your spark can harness it," Peri says. "Please?"

"Does that mean that you'll be able to leave?" Derek asks, speaking to her for the first time.

"I should," Peri tells him. "I wasn't supposed to be here, but the ley lines..."

"And the Nemeton," Stiles finishes her sentence. "The magic of it must have pulled you here."

What follows is a quick negotiation of how exactly Stiles can help center her and focus the whirlwind of snow that will open up a portal that Peri will be able to use to get back home. They immediately get started once Stiles understands what he needs to do—he's aware of Derek's eyes on him the whole time, but he's more eager to get it over and done with to get home and get warm instead of spending time reassuring Derek that it's all safe.

"Well, it's been a pleasure, Peri," Stiles says. "Though if you ever make it here again, maybe try to contain the frost a little?"

"I'll try," Peri replies and giggles, the sound bouncing off the trees around them.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Derek asks before the whirlwind picks up properly.

"It'll be cold, but it's okay. And it will only last a moment," Stiles tells him, glancing at Peri. "But maybe you should step back so you don't end up in Neverland. Or frozen."

Derek reluctantly does as he's told, his hesitation obvious. Still, he doesn't look away from Stiles and seems prepared to jump in and pull Stiles to safety the moment it looks like something's going wrong. Nothing does though—Peri spins faster, the snowflakes twirling around her as Stiles crouches down and touches the ground. That tightens the whirlwind like he's grounding it and the snowflakes and ice shards look like a tornado surrounding Peri.

"It's been a pleasure," she calls out and then she's pulled up through the wind tunnel and disappears.

The wind dies down and it's almost immediately warmer in the clearing, the ice shards melting before they drop to the ground. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and slumps further, knees hitting the damp grass underneath him. Derek's by his side in a blink and Stiles feels more warmth—Derek's jacket around his shoulders surrounds him with a cloud of Derek's body heat—but his teeth are still chattering from the cold that seeped through his whole body.

"Hey, Stiles, come on," Derek urges him to get up and move. "Come on, we've gotta get you warmed up."

"It's fine," Stiles says, shivering. "I'll just take a quick nap here."

He's scooped up from the floor almost immediately—Derek lifts him up like he weighs nothing—and they start moving away from the clearing that isn’t covered in snow and ice all over anymore, though there are still patches of white. He starts feeling tired now that he's no longer focused on channeling his energy into the fairy's whirlwind and it starts sinking in how cold he is.

"Don't fall asleep," Derek tells him as he makes his way back to the path that led them here. "You can't fall asleep, Stiles."

"'kay," Stiles mumbles, but his limbs feel heavy even as he wraps his arms around Derek's neck and burrows his face into Derek’s shoulder. "'m awake."

He doesn't remember much after that, not until he's surrounded by heat and he opens his eyes to find that he's inside Derek's place—the newly built house at the edge of the Preserve. He sneezes and his whole body trembles hard then it settles into weaker but steady shivers. There's a weight holding him down to the bed he's on—blankets, he realizes as his eyes focus—and more heat at his back. Stiles turns slowly and comes face to face with Derek's worried expression.

"You're still cold," Derek whispers, pulling on the blanket that Stiles's movement dislodged. "But your heart sounds steadier."

"You been playing heart monitor?" Stiles asks, meaning to sound like he's joking, but he knows he's failed.

"I could barely hear it when you were out there," Derek says quietly, closing his eyes. "Couldn't hear your breathing either."

"No wonder, the wind was pretty strong," Stiles tells him, starting to feel a little more conscious and steady. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For getting me out of there. For this," he says, nodding at the blankets he's wrapped in.

Derek doesn't say anything, so Stiles moves a little closer, right against Derek's chest. Then he tilts his head and moves his hand—still cold but not feeling like it's frozen anymore—to Derek's cheek.

"Thank you," he whispers.

A smile dances on Derek's lips as he mirrors the position of Stiles's hand and cups his cheek before he leans forward. His thumb brushes over Stiles's bottom lip and he lifts an eyebrow in question. Stiles nods and closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against Derek's in a tender kiss. When Derek returns it, warmth floods Stiles's body and he smiles, then lets himself melt into the kiss for a while. Then he pulls away as a thought hits him.

"Man, I can't believe Disney got it right with the fairies," he says, his voice filled with shock and awe.