#scottderekstiles

Star Wars

|| Gen ||

Bodhi adopts Finn oneshot | T | 1,314 words | Complete |

| 1 |

|| RebelCaptainPilot ||

untitled angst ficlet | T | 1,813 words | WIP |

| 1 |

|| RogueCaptainJedi ||

A New Hope AU notfic | G | 477 words |

| 1 |

|| SniperPilot ||

Bodhi Rook’s Guide to Love | G | 2,521 words | Complete |

| 1 |

Hearts in atrophy | M | 8,560 words | WIP |

| 1 | 2 |

My Heart is Calling | G | 3,063 words | Complete |

| 1 |

Something so magic about you | G | 6,746 words | Complete |

| 1 |

Spy notfic | G | 325 words |

| 1 |

Standing Invitation | G | 2,617 words | Complete |

| 1 |

Teen Wolf

|| McHaleinski || 

My Head is an Animal - Side A | T | 14,782 words | WIP |

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

My Head is an Animal - Side B | T | 19,151 words | WIP |

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |

You don’t have to love me | E | 27,973 words | Complete |

| 1 | 2 | 3 |

|| Scerek ||

I’m giving you all | M | 10,021 words | Complete |

| 1 |

|| Sterek ||

All of me uncharted | E | 13,351 words | Complete |

| 1 | 2 |

Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name) | M | 60,242 | WIP |

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 |

Code Sea Witch | G | 4,975 words | Complete |

Hunting down the rogue witch in their territory had been the easy part. Controlling his heartbeat, keeping Scott from noticing how nervous he was - that was harder. But none of that matters now, because like everything else in Derek’s life, it’s all gone to hell in a handbasket. All it had taken was the witch blasting a spell at them as she made her escape - and Scott shoving him just of out the blast radius.

And now…

There’s a child staring at him. A cherubic-faced child is frowning at him from the spot where Scott once stood. And there’s no doubt who the child is because that’s Scott’s frown in miniature, and Scott’s nose wrinkling cutely, and Scott is a kid.

Derek breathes deeply. Fuck.

He regrets everything that has led him to this.

“Scott,” he greets cautiously.

The boy’s brows furrow. “Who are you? Why are we in the woods? It smells funny.” He rubs his sleeve over his nose. Derek can’t really blame him for that. The sharp, crackling smell of magic is overpowering in the air around them - and will be for days.

Derek kneels slowly, eyes never leaving Scott’s - as if the boy were a frightened wild animal rather than a lost child. He’s… not sure that’s a good way to approach the situation. Especially not when the little boy backs away a few steps, his eyes flashing Alpha red.

The anxiety hits Derek like a brick wall. The whine gets stuck in his throat, his eyes flashing in deference to his Alpha. He raises his hands gently, fingers spread in an attempt to show Scott he doesn’t mean him harm. “I’m Derek,” he says. “I’m your... friend.” The word hitches on his tongue. He doesn’t know what he is to Scott. Has never known exactly where he and Scott stand.

“I don’t have a friend named Derek.” And if Derek’s heart sinks a little, he ignores it. He doesn’t even know to what extent Scott is a child. Or what he remembers. “But you um…” Scott continues, almost bashfully, “you smell safe. Like Stiles too.” So he’s attuned with his powers, as young wolves so often are.

“Yes… Stiles and I are… friends, too. And we need to go home, okay?”

“I’m… I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

Shit. “Okay… what if I call Stiles and your mom? Would that be okay?”

Scott hums, his tiny mouth pursing. “Um… okay, I guess.”

He fishes his phone out of his back pocket, quickly thumbing through his contacts to Stiles’ number. It barely gets through the first ring before Stiles picks up.

“Hey, sugarplum. How’d the boyfriend bonding go?”

Derek has to shut his eyes to keep from rolling them. “Don’t call it that. Don’t call me that.”

“But honeybunch! You’re my boyfriends and you’re bonding. What else do you want me to call it? ‘Hoping my boyfriends will man up and make out?’”

He’s going to kill him. “Stiles,” he growls.

“That doesn’t sound like Stiles,” the high little voice pipes up.

“...Derek, who is that.”

“Slight problem,” Derek replies through gritted teeth. He clicks the phone onto speaker. “Say hi, Scott.”

The child waves at the phone after a moment’s hesitation. “...Hi!”

“Holy shit!”

Scott’s eyes go comically wide, and then he giggles, like a perfect little cherub.

“Stiles!” Derek barks.

“Oh, like Scott’s never heard that word before.”

“Scott is currently, what, six--”

“I’m seven!”

“--seven, and shouldn’t be exposed to that language, Stiles.”

He can practically feel Stiles rolling his eyes. “Oh, excuse me. Hand me to Scott, then, Mister Proper.” Derek clenches his jaw shut to avoid saying something equally damning. He passes the phone into Scott’s hands. The smartphone dwarfs them now. “Hi, Scotty!”

“Hi… are you really Stiles?”

“Yeah, buddy!”

“How old are you?”

“I’m nineteen, just like you were when I saw you last. You feeling okay? You remember what happened?”

“Um… no. I don’t know where I am. Or who Derek is.”

“That’s okay. Derek, what happened? Trap, spell, what?”

Derek leans forward just slightly. This time, at least, the boy doesn’t try to back away from him. “The witch escaped. She tried to hit us with something, both of us. But Scott…”

“Don’t tell me - he was very heroic and shoved you out of the way.”

He lowers his head. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” Scott whispers. “I saved you?”

It’s Stiles that has to answer. The words get caught in Derek’s throat. “Yeah, you did, dude! Because Derek’s my boyfriend and your Second. He’s really important to us, so you can trust him, okay?”

Though Scott looks less dubious about the idea, he still hesitates. “I’ll call your Mom next,” Derek soothes.

“That’s a good idea,” Stiles agrees over the phone. “Hey, dude, can you pass me back to Derek so I can tell him about the witch thing?” As soon as the phone is back in Derek’s hands, he clicks the speaker off and brings it to his ear. It’s pointless, thanks to Scott’s heightened senses, but the illusion of privacy is comforting. “So we have the five points taken care of. If she does try coming back, she’s going to have a hard time siphoning energy from the ley lines.”

“You didn’t have any trouble?”

“Not nearly as much as you had. Lydia said the warding spell was a little bitchy with her Banshee magic. But it’s Lydia, so she handled it with poise and grace and scary intellect. Everyone’s safe and headed home. I’ll meet you at the loft tonight, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll… talk to you then.”

“Right. Good. ...Bye.” Derek winces as he hangs up. The strain of the words “I love you” feels heavy in his mouth. Neither of them has said it yet. Neither of them have ever been good at communicating emotions without sarcasm or anger. But Derek can feel it coming, can feel it boiling over with every aborted attempt.

Scott’s staring at him as he dials Melissa’s number. Derek tries not to shift nervously.

“Derek?” Melissa’s voice is worried as she picks up. “What’s wrong, is everyone okay?”

It suddenly occurs to Derek that he’s never called Melissa unless one or more of the Pack are in need of medical attention. He cringes, because even if Scott doesn’t need a nurse’s touch, he’s still in trouble. “Mostly…”

“MOM!” Scott shrieks. And then he’s nearly on top of Derek, practically climbing onto his bent knees to get to the phone.

“....Scott?!” Derek passes the phone over once more, and stands back. Melissa’s high, urgent voice is still crystal clear even from four feet away. “Is that really you-- what happened? Are you alright?”

“Derek says there was a witch!” Scott chirps brightly. “A witch that tried to put a spell on us and I saved Derek and now I’m seven? Stiles says I’m nineteen. Am I really nineteen, Mom? Is Derek really my friend?”

“I… yeah, baby, you’re really nineteen. Derek’s your friend. Have him bring you home, okay?”

“Okay.” Derek’s just starting to relax, relieved that Scott trusts his mother’s words, when the boy wanders right up to him with the phone still pressed to his ear, and slips his free hand into Derek’s. And then Derek’s tense all over again.

This… no. He can’t handle this.

Scott’s big, brown eyes are even bigger as a child. And twice as soulful and innocent.

He regrets everything.

--------------------2---------------------

They manage to make it back to Derek’s SUV without incident. Scott holds his hand the entire way back, kicking through the leaves with his sneakered feet and generally just… being a kid. Derek has no idea how to handle that - the child thing. He hasn’t interacted seriously with a child since he was sixteen and Cora was nine and Mattie was four. Scott doesn’t seem to mind his silence any, though. He chatters to his mother over the phone halfway back, and then to Deaton once they get on the road.

Deaton is as gentle and infuriatingly vague as always. But Scott loves talking to him. He doesn’t mind answering questions about what he does remember of the spell (a painful, full-body itch; fear; blinding light; the smell of ozone and, oddly, chocolate fudge) and what he remembers of himself (he knows he’s a werewolf, he remembers Stiles and the Sheriff, but nothing about the Pack). Derek offers what little additional information he can about the spell - which isn’t much - and promises to meet Deaton at the loft.

The universe, as always, seems to have a keen sense of irony, because it’s only after Deaton’s hung up that Derek desperately wants him back. Because once there’s nothing to occupy him anymore, Scott begins to stare at him. the complete silence stretches for several minutes, until Derek can hear the steering wheel creak under his white-knuckled grip. “What?” he snaps, dragging his eyes from the road. His instant worry that his raised voice upset the boy is unfounded. Scott only blinks at him.

“You and Stiles are boyfriends?”

“...Yes…”

“Do you love him?”

‘Oh, fuck, not this again,’ he thinks miserably. The first time he and Scott had a conversation like this had been painful enough. “Yeah…”

“Does he love you?”

“I think so?”

“Do you live together? Are you married?”

“No. No. He lives with you. Why are you asking so many questions?”

Scott completely ignores his question, eyes lighting up. “He lives with me?! Are we still best friends?”

Well, shit. He doesn’t know how to explain that one. How do you explain open relationships to a child? “You’re very… close,” he hedges.

“I bet we’re still the best! Do we still hang out all the time? Do we have the same job? Do I have a job?”

“You’re… both in college right now. You’re studying to be a veterinarian. Stiles is going to school to be a cop like his dad.”

“Wow…” Scott breathes, the simple details of his adult life having dazzled him somehow. It’s… okay, it’s actually kind of cute. The revelation seems to tide Scott over for a few minutes. But soon the restless energy is stirring from the passenger seat all over again. “If I’m an Alpha, does that mean you have to do what I say?” he asks.

“No,” Derek replies, his tone flat. “It means you’re my leader, but I can say no to you.”

“Buuuuut… if I say we should get ice cream, you’ll do it?”

“No, Scott.”

“I’ll be good! I won’t even wolf out or anything, I promise.”

“No, Scott.”

“...You’re mean. Why are you being so mean?”

“I don’t know!” he snaps. “I don’t handle change every well. Stop asking.”

“I want to go home. When are you taking me home?”

A growl works its way up his throat. “God, you’re seven and this is still like every conversation we’ve ever had.”

Scott sinks lower in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest in a Grade-A sulk. The car falls into blissful silence once more… or what should be blissful silence. Instead Derek keeps glancing over at the little boy beside him, waiting for him to speak again. He doesn’t.

And Derek’s werewolf ears do not miss the quiet growling of a tiny stomach.

He turns into the next In-N-Out they pass, and orders Scott’s regular from memory. Complete with large strawberry milkshake. Which, apparently, is still seven-year-old Scott’s favorite.

“How did you know?” Scott gushes, voice muffled with a mouthful of cheeseburger.

“Lucky guess,” Derek lies.

--------------------3---------------------

Both Melissa and Deaton are waiting outside the loft when they get there. He has to stop Scott from leaping from the car before he pulls it to a halt. Not that it matters, because Melissa is at the door as soon as Derek throws the SUV into park, flinging it open and catching her son as he leaps from the car at her. “Mom!” he shrieks. And then Scott is going a mile a minute all over again, telling his mother everything that comes to his mind - gushing about everything he’s learned and about what’s happening to him.

Even Melissa looks a little dazed by it. “I’m glad you’re okay, baby,” she says, ruffling his hair. “You’re not hurt anywhere, right?”

Scott shakes his head. His attention has already shifted to Deaton, who’s been standing quietly by. Scott peers at him from around his mother, eyes wide and guileless.

Deaton smiles. “Hello, Scott. My name is Alan Deaton. You talked to me earlier, remember?”

“Yeah… I work with you, right? And I’m gonna be a vet’rinarian like you?”

“Yes. You’re working very hard to be one.”

Scott beams, in that same incomprehensible way he always does under Deaton’s praise. It’s not something Derek can understand, has ever been able to understand.

“How about we go upstairs, so I can ask you a few questions?”

Scott nods, and reaches for his mother’s hand.

Deaton gestures to him. “Derek,” he greets. “If you would lead the way.” He says it with measured politeness. But for some reason, it still rankles Derek’s nerves.

“Sure,” he grunts in return, and makes a brisk start for the door. He makes sure he stays a few feet ahead of them at all times, and tries not to feel self-conscious about the state of his building. He’s put some money into it since the Pack (minus the pups) graduated high school, so it’s mostly liveable now.

At least he doesn’t have a gaping hole in his wall anymore.

Deaton already has an idea what he’s dealing with by the time they get up to the loft, Derek can tell. The light behind his eyes has turned calculating. “The spell is remarkably stable,” he begins as Derek slides the door shut behind them.

“So you know what it is?” Melissa asks.

“I have an idea, based on Scott’s and Derek’s descriptions and the traces I can still detect. Whatever spell she used certainly didn’t go as she expected. But the enchantment is still stable, and so I don’t see Scott being in any immediate danger.”

“Why does he remember being a werewolf, but nothing else from this time?”

Derek answers this one. “Children who are bitten or born are usually attuned to the Wolf. More than a bitten adult. It’s a survival mechanism. Children never have to be taught to shift.” His gaze is drawn down to Scott, just as it always is. From day one, everything within Derek has gravitated towards Scott - as Pack, as an Alpha, as a friend, as… someone precious and unattainable. It’s something so natural, like turning to face the sun.

But Scott’s never felt that way. As evidenced by the way his eyes are locked on the door, rather than Derek. The way all of his senses are zeroed in on the too-familiar footsteps storming up the stairwell towards the loft. It’s not a surprise. Of course it’s not. Derek will never be that person for Scott.

Scott already has someone.

And that someone flings the door open in a flurry of limbs, eyes casting wildly about the room until they land on Scott’s small form. There’s a moment of utter silence, where the two of them just look at each other. And then the light shifts in Scott’s eyes, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Stiles!” he squeals.

“Scotty!”

There’s a sour burn in Derek’s throat as he watches the two of them run to each other - as if the sudden twelve-year gap in memories doesn’t matter - and it’s immediately swallowed up by cold guilt. Stiles scoops Scott up easily, swinging him around once before setting the dazzled boy back on his feet. “Whoa,” Scott gushes, “you’re so strong--”

“Well, yeah, I have to keep up with you big, strong wolves--”

“And you’re so pretty--”

“I-- you think I’m pretty? Like, actually pretty? Aww, Scotty--”

“Yeah! You don’t look goofy at all!”

“Are you… are you saying I looked goofy when I was seven?”

“...Noooo…” he breaks off in a shriek of laughter when Stiles pokes him in the sides, squirming to get away from the touch. Even altered as they are, their bond is unshakable. And no one in the room is surprised at all by that.

Derek isn’t sure if it’s the jealousy or the desire that stings the worst. He’s forced to swallow it back as Stiles finally looks his way. The smile on his face goes shuttered for an instant, and then Stiles is rising to his feet and coming closer. He steps into Derek’s space with ease, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth even easier, and that helps to soothe the frazzled nerves biting at him. “You okay?” Stiles asks quietly as they separate.

And Derek… doesn’t even begin to know how to articulate the swirling turmoil that’s been building in him long before this. How to explain the dread at how deceptively simple this magical fuck-up seems to be. So he nods, because there’s no other answer to give. Stiles is okay. His Pack is okay. And Scott…

Scott’s handling it with a surprising amount of strength, just like he always has. Even being a child doesn’t change that. He doesn’t even seem jealous to have Stiles’ attention on someone else. Instead only watching them with a child-like mixture of awe and disgust at their display of affection. Derek leans into Stiles’ side just a bit more, and just lets himself take solace in the feel of him. He doesn’t zone back into the conversation until Scott proclaims, “I wanna stay here tonight!”

Oh no.

“It may be a good idea, actually,” Deaton agrees. “If something should go wrong, or should the witch attempt to return, it would be best if Scott were in a safe place.”

Shit.

“Yeah, buddy, it’ll be like a sleepover!”

“Yeah!!”

Two pairs of brown eyes turn to him, and Derek knows he’s doomed. “Is that okay, Derek?”

“Sure…”

Fuck everything.

Possibili(tea) (tumblr post) by dragon_temeraire (@dragon-temeraire)

| Complete | 1,096 words | T | Mutual Pining | Humor | Tea Shops | Shy Derek Hale |

Stiles might have a crush on his co-worker, who always brews him amazing tea.

*Put Down in Words (tumblr post) by paintedrecs (@paintedrecs)

| WIP 13/31 | 69,324 words | M | Slow Build | College AU | Human AU | Professor Derek Hale |

“Oh,” Stiles said, his voice coming out low and breathy, “fuck me.”

“I don’t think that’s on the syllabus, but we can check to see if there’s a spot open in any of his classes,” Scott said, grinning.

“This isn’t an actual professor, though,” Stiles insisted, unable to resist brushing his thumb over the sharp line of the man’s bearded jaw. He was laughing at something off-camera, the shot taken in three-quarters view, his coat collar casually rumpled and opened to reveal a sliver of a simple grey t-shirt. The whole thing was deliberately calculated to lend him a more accessible feel, and god help him, Stiles was falling for it.

*

When Stiles signed up for Dr. Hale’s intro to history class, he had two goals: knock out the credits his advisor was bugging him to complete before he graduated, and spend a few hours a week daydreaming about his sexy professor’s salt and pepper beard.

Derek, a few months away from turning forty and not sure when his life had started feeling so damn lonely, had never encountered someone like Stiles before. Bright-eyed, sharp-tongued, determined to throw Derek’s carefully cultivated world into disarray…and absolutely the last person Derek should be falling in love with.

Separation by @nogitsunelichen

| Complete | 635 words | T | Tumblr fic | Angst | Violence | Kidnapped Stiles Stilinski | Kidnapped Derek Hale | Hunters | Nongraphic Torture | Established Sterek |

“Stop! Just stop it please—STOP!” Stiles screams, fists banging against the wall, his voice hoarse from his pleas.

The thick concrete wall (built with mountain ash, Derek tried punching through it several times) separating their cells stood between them, the only constant within the bleak four walls that caged them in. He was covered in blood, sweat, dirt, and everything inbetween. His mouth tastes vile and he can’t remember the last time he inhaled a breath of fresh air.

Derek had been keeping tally marks on the wall with his claws, it was the only way to tell how many days had passed. It’s been two days, or at least one, Stiles doesn’t know. The reason he doesn’t know is because two days ago (or one?) hunters entered Derek’s cell and did something to him, something to cause him to scream and growl in pain for the last twenty, thirty, hell forty something hours.

Werewolves were strong, but Stiles didn’t know if Derek had much left in him.

Sexually Precocious Teenagers (tumblr post) by dragon_temeraire (@dragon-temeraire)

| Complete | 2,054 words | T | Fluff | Getting Together | Asexual Stiles Stilinski |

Stiles is pretty sure his asexuality is a deal-breaker that will keep him from having a relationship with Derek. (Spoiler alert: it’s not.)

untitled by @bibliosexxual

| Complete | 1,660 words | T | High School AU | Fluff | Meet-Cute | 

Prompt: “We both tried to grab at the last copy of that desired book at the same time and had a tug of war.”

untitled by @captain-snark

| Complete | 1,216 words | T | Tumblr fic | Humor | Misunderstandings |

kavesinisukka replied to your post “So my husband has a doppelganger that does gay porn”

untitled by @captain-snark

| Complete | 1,927 words | M | Tumblr fic | Stripper Stiles Stilinski | Lap Dances |

The funny thing is, Derek didn’t even want to go. He’d paced around his loft staring down at his cell phone and debated calling Boyd back, refusing, he had work tomorrow, some people had legitimate jobs they had to get to in the morning. He knew Boyd would show up anyway so he figured there wasn’t a point to pointing out just how absolute shit Derek was at actually socializing.

So, that’s how he’d gotten dragged to ‘Python’ in the first place, and he was definitely not even touching that name. It was loud, as was to be expected, Go Go boys dancing along the stage that wound itself around the edges of the club. It smelled like booze and cheap cologne and Boyd had laughed openly at the look of hostile displeasure Derek knew must be plastered across his face.

untitled by @thepsychicclam

| Complete | 1,170 words | G | Tumblr fic | Established Sterek | Kid fic | Domestic fluff |

Stiles watches Derek sometimes. When he’s in the living room, Patrick lying on his chest like a tiny newborn extension of the two of them. Stiles leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest and just watches. He knows that Derek feels him nearby, but Derek doesn’t move, doesn’t let on that he knows Stiles is there at all.

“I was trying to save us all,” he snaps. “Not just a few of us.”

“No, you were trying to save yourself.”

Derek thinks of Isaac, stabbed and tossed around the building as if he were nothing. About Boyd and Erica tortured in an Argent basement. About Stiles beaten and dropped on the street as a warning, about him driving his Jeep through a wall despite his injuries. And Derek’s fury wells up inside him, a spitting, feral thing that claws up his throat. “You’ve got no right to say that. You were so concerned with your stupid little plan that you didn’t care who got hurt. Did you even stop to look for Stiles? Or Boyd, or Erica?”

“Hey,” Stiles mutters from where he’s swaying into Boyd’s space. The taller boy is supporting him at the elbow. “Leave me out of this.” But Scott swivels his head around to look at Stiles anyway. Derek watches as the boy’s expression shudders and crumples, seeming to finally realize that the state of his best friend’s face didn’t come from crashing the Jeep. That the scents of blood and pain on him are hours old.

“Stiles…”

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Come on, man, not with the Face. I’m okay, see? Just…” But he winces as he goes to gesture reassuringly. “Just fine.”

“What happened?” Scott persists.

Derek cuts off Stiles’ inevitable dismissal with a snarl. “Gerard happened. While you were worrying about your precious girlfriend, he was kidnapping your best friend and beating the shit out of him!”

“She’s not… we’re not anymore--”

“All you cared about was her, and she stabbed us all in the back, Scott!” He gestures angrily at the Argent girl, who flinches and squares her jaw. “Or do you even care that she was torturing your friends? Did you only care about keeping your secrets and that Gerard made some bullshit promise in exchange for my life--”

“He was gonna hurt my mom, you hypocritical ass!” The words explode out of Scott with enough force that Derek’s mouth clicks shut. “You think I owe you the truth when all you’ve done is keep secrets too? When you were working with Peter to kill Jackson?”

Peter steps forward, smarmy grin in place already. “Actually, there was a plan there. Several legends reference shifters being ‘cured’ by calling their name - by reminding them of who they are. That’s why Lydia was so important--”

“Peter,” Derek barks, his eyes never straying from the irate teenager in front of him. “Shut up.”

“Don’t talk to me about Stiles getting hurt,” Scott continues with his tirade, “like you care. You sent your Betas after him before, remember? You didn’t care about him getting hurt then.”

Derek cringes. “I didn’t--”

“And after then you tried to kill Lydia - because you suspected she was the kanima. You didn’t even have any real proof, Derek! The only thing you cared about was how quickly you could make this go away. You didn’t care who had to die for it.” Scott throws up his arms, his expression twisted in distress. “I was trying to keep anyone else from dying! I was doing everything I could.”

“You could’ve told me,” Derek growls back. The hint of desperation in his own voice alarms him. The squirming, anxious feeling in his chest that begs to fix this, to hope that Scott doesn’t actually want him dead is something he doesn’t want to examine.

“If I thought you would listen, I would have! But you would have just… just growled at me and then do whatever the hell you wanted - and get some of us killed. You’re not my Alpha, Derek. I don’t owe you my trust when you sure as hell haven’t earned it.”

So that’s it, then.

A hopeless frustration rises like bile up his throat. “Why should I bother earning your trust when all it gets me is being turned into an Argent’s tool?” he finishes. His voice comes out icy, and not at all hurt, which is… better.

And Scott flinches back, as sure as if Derek had struck him. The righteous anger gives way to pain and guilt and for a quick, infuriating moment, Derek’s own guilt rises to meet it. He shoves the feeling down ruthlessly, squaring his jaw.

Stiles chooses that moment to step between them, or attempt something like it. He more sways into their space, cringing and balancing himself with a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough. Both of you need to shut it. This entire thing was a barely mitigated disaster and you both fucked up royally. We managed. The end. Can we go home now, please?”

Scott turns to the boy with wounded eyes. “Stiles, you’re--” he stops, and Derek can actually see the words “you’re taking his side?” starting to form. Whether or not he stops because he sees Derek’s glare, or something else, is yet to be seen. Scott’s brow puckers in hurt and betrayal - something that satisfies the most vindictive parts of Derek’s mind. “Are you mad at me?” he asks Stiles, his voice small.

“No,” Stiles answers emphatically. “You did your best, dude. And we all survived. But you didn’t let me in on this either.” He reaches out for Scott’s shoulder. “He was threatening your mom, man. I would’ve helped. Somehow. I know I’m just the token human, but I’m not useless.”

“You’re not just the token human,” Scott protests.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Stiles agrees, his tone clearly distant and disbelieving. But before the other boy can work up an argument, his eyes zero in on Derek. “Are we done here? I want to go home.”

And Derek, really, can’t think of any reason to deny him. Not after everything.

Stiles takes his silence as assent, and tugs on Scott’s arm. “Cool. You’re comin’ back with me, right?”

Scott nods, seemingly unable to deny him either.

------------------------------------------------------------

His dad is waiting on the porch for them when the Jeep pulls into the driveway. Luckily, the Roscoe is a sturdy old girl and the darkness hides the new scratches on the front end. On top of everything, Stiles really hates the thought of trying to come up with an explanation for them that doesn’t include driving through a flimsy steel wall and an actual goddamned lizard monster.

Every muscle in his body wrenches as Stiles slides from the driver’s seat. His head swims, but he manages to stay upright this time, aware of his dad watching him like a hawk from the house. He waves sheepishly as he rounds the car towards Scott, who’s trying and failing to look casual about the whole thing.

He keeps hold of Scott’s arm the whole way up to the porch. It’s all he can do not to topple over. Everything hurts. “Heeeey, Daddio,” he greets.

John isn’t impressed.

“So, sorry for running off. Emergency, you know. Scott was stranded.” Stiles leans forward, the illusion of a conspiratorial whisper ruined by his inability to keep his own balance. “He and Allison split.”

It’s mostly true, anyway. Scott had been left without a ride home and Stiles can safely say his and Allison’s relationship is over after this. And Scott is looking suitably guilty and dejected to go with it.

His dad doesn’t even blink. “And Miss Reyes and Mister Boyd?” he asks.

“Oh, they decided they’d go home tonight after all. Called Derek over to take them.”

“Mmhm.”

Stiles nods in unison with him. “Right. So we’re just gonna… go to bed. It’s alright if Scott stays over?”

“Sure, son.”

Stiles fights to keep his smile in place. Because even though his father is agreeing, he’s humoring Stiles. His tone is full of that careful patience that he only uses when there’s a Discussion coming as soon as it’s just the two of them again. He nudges Scott’s arm to get him moving. “Night, Dad!” he calls, a little too brightly.

“We’re taking you to the hospital to get you looked over in the morning!” John shouts after them. “And we’re getting your statement too.”

“Sure thing, Dad!” Stiles already has a passable story lined up to take care of that. He knows how this works. It was dark, he’ll say. They weren’t wearing school jerseys but they talked about the game, he’ll say. He didn’t recognize them from Beacon Hills, but they could’ve been at the game. He’ll tell them they had average builds and wore hoodies. He couldn’t see their faces. It was over too quick. And that’ll be the end of it.

Except for the fact that his dad isn’t going to be letting Stiles out of his sight any time soon. But he’ll deal with that when they come to it.

“Are you okay?” Scott whispers after they’ve slowly hobbled their way up the stairs.

“M’fine,” Stiles grunts.

“No, you’re not.”

No, he’s not. Every step makes his ribs pull, and he’s seriously regretting his knee-jerk decision to drive his poor Jeep through a wall. The jarring definitely didn’t help the injuries he’s already working with.

“I’ll live,” he sighs.

But Scott’s got that hangdog look on his face, eyes sad and pleading. “Let me see?”

Stiles considers deflecting again. But the fact of the matter is that he’s exhausted and his whole body aches, and fighting with his best friend over stupid shit just really isn’t on his list of things to do right now. “Yeah, okay. Gonna need you to help me change, anyway.”

This doesn’t seem to reassure Scott in the least, because his eyes go, if possible, even rounder and sadder. “Is it that bad?”

Stiles hunches his shoulders without answer. He can’t quite make it to a shrug, because his back seizes and makes his breath catch in his aching chest. Instead he beckons Scott over as he starts to work his flannel off and the shirt up over his torso. Scott has to lift it over his head, his fingers warm where they brush against his chilly skin. He suppresses a shiver, if only because it would hurt like a bitch. Stupid, warm-running werewolves.

He steels himself for Scott’s horrified gasp, pointedly not meeting his eyes. “It looks worse than it is,” he tries.

Scott doesn’t say anything. Stiles busies himself with balling up his shirts and tossing them away, trying very hard not to be aware of how his best friend hovers in horrified silence beside him.

The hesitant caress of fingers across his side makes him jump, and nearly collapse as his body violently protests. “Sorry!” Scott chokes, sliding in closer to support Stiles’ weight. His hold is firmer, but still gentle. Like Stiles is going to break if he doesn’t have a good enough grip. Which is… embarrassing. Yeah, he’ll go with that. The flush rises high on his cheeks.

“Dude--” His dismissal cuts off, because the pain abruptly fades away. There’s a rush of warmth and relief, sending gooseflesh up and down arms. His mind blurs as it tries to comprehend what’s happening to his body, a dizzy but not unpleasant feeling.

The veins on Scott’s arms have gone black.

“Stop that.” Stiles swats weakly at Scott’s hands. His fingers are sluggish, like they’ve been filled with syrup instead of blood.

“He hurt you,” Scott says thickly. And Stiles can’t tell if that’s a statement or a question. He watches the emotions play across his friend’s face, too many and too intense for him to catalogue them all. “He hurt you because of me.”

“What? Hey, no…”

Scott’s eyes swing sharply up to meet his and they’re suspiciously bright. “You’re lying.”

Stiles huffs, dismayed. “You didn’t even let me say anything!”

“Your heartbeat was already off.”

“At least let me come up with one first!”

“He did, then,” Scott persists. “He hurt you because it’d get to me.”

“Well… well, yeah,” Stiles rambles helplessly. “But, y’know, he’s a raging asshole. Even by Argent standards. He gets his rocks off by performing nasty hemicorporectomy procedures - and not having the decency to call it straight up murdering people - and brainwashing his granddaughter and torturing teenagers, so he can’t be expected--” Scott’s expression crumples abruptly, and Stiles’ heart does a terrifying flip. “Oh no. No, come on, Scotty, please.”

“It’s my fault,” he declares miserably. His breath hitches around the words, the telltale beginnings of a sob, and it makes Stiles’ chest wrench painfully, even worse than his bruised ribs. There’s tears gathering at Scott’s lashes, and it’d be almost pretty if it weren’t so awful.

“H-Hey, no way. It’s not like that,” Stiles tries desperately to soothe. It doesn’t seem to help, because the first fat tear escapes, followed by another and another. Stiles’ eyes trace their path, his lungs squeezing tight. “Scott.” He does the only thing he can, and pulls Scott into him. The boy goes willingly, easily, all but molding himself into Stiles’ side.

There’s a moment of horrible silence where Scott holds his breath, trying to suppress the sobs that are already fighting to break free. The drip of hot tears on his bare shoulder has Stiles shivering; he presses his hands to Scott’s back, so utterly unsure about how to help, how to fix this.

“It’s okay,” he attempts helplessly.

Scott is disturbingly quiet for a long while. “I’m sorry,” he whispers once. And then quieter, almost inaudibly. Stiles can feel it better than he can hear it, as it’s pressed into his shoulder over and over again like he’s trying to imprint the words into Stiles’ skin.

“Hey,” he calls gently. “I’m okay. See?” His voice comes out slightly frantic despite himself. “Hey, look at me.” Stiles nudges him until Scott leans back - which is a good thing, because Stiles doesn’t currently have the balance or strength to support both of them. The vulnerable, anguished sheen in his best friend’s eyes is enough to scatter his thoughts. He’s so close, so hurt and so fucking miserable and guilty and all Stiles wants to do is…

No. Not a good idea.

“I’m alright,” is all he manages to come up with. He plasters on a self-deprecating grin and aims for humor when all else fails. “We’ll just call it payback for me dragging you into the Preserve and getting you Bit, right? I get you viciously attacked by a crazy - now zombie - werewolf, the hunter who comes after you for it attacks me. Now we’re even.”

It seems to be the exact wrong thing to say. At the very least, it does the job of getting Scott’s tears to dry up and for him to give Stiles a wet glare instead. “It’s not… It’s not about payback.”

“Sure it is. You don’t have to worry about me getting hurt because I’m the one that started this. It’s my fault you got Bit, Scott. You would’ve been… I dunno, still fighting to make the first line and trying to impress Allison if it wasn’t for me.” Their lives are so fucked up now that the both of them being social nobodies are considered happier times. Three months ago that would have been unthinkable, laughable even.

“It doesn’t work like that!” Scott reprimands, his voice still thick with tears.

Of course it does, Stiles wants to explain. People, if not the universe in general, have always worked like that. Cause and effect work like that. People’s mistakes sometimes cause pain and misfortune. Or sometimes people just hold grudges.

Sometimes the universe punishes you for not being a good enough son, spacey and hyperactive and not observant enough to the things that really matter. Sometimes your mom dies when you wander off for that one moment where the hospital has become too painful and too boring. Sometimes your dad can’t take how bad of a kid you are, and sometimes you’re sure he’s adopted your best friend as the better son.

But none of this… none of this is anything Stiles can form into words. Or wants to.

And Scott, damn him, reads his sullen silence like an old pro. “Do you really think you’re the weak link with us?”

He shrugs uselessly. “Well, y’know. Human. Not even a useful human. At least Allison is trained to fight. Even… even if she wasn’t really on our side at the end this time.”

“You’re not useless,” Scott insists. His brow furrows stubbornly when Stiles’ frown only deepens. “I would’ve died so many times if it wasn’t for you. I never would’ve made it to getting Bitten if I didn’t have you.” He says it so earnestly, without even the barest trace doubt in his voice. And Stiles can’t help the little tendril of warmth that curls around his heart.

“Aw, geez,” he huffs.

“It’s true.”

“Just… let’s just shut up and go to bed okay? It’s getting hard to keep standing.” He’s not above using his (minor! Totally minor!) injuries to get his best friend to stop that line of thought.

Predictably, the blossoming affection on Scott’s face slips away into worry. Just like that his hands are on Stiles’ arms again. “Right! God, I’m sorry, Stiles. Here.”

Stiles rolls his eyes as he’s led to bed. But his protests are just met with tutting and gentle hands supporting him as he kicks out of his pants and climbs into his bed at a glacial pace. Scott even tugs his socks off to keep him from twisting painfully and pulls the covers up over him.

“You’re the best, dude,” Stiles sighs happily, patting the space beside him.

Scott snorts quietly - like he doesn’t believe it. What a hypocrite, giving Stiles The Eyes when he can’t even take a compliment himself. He does his best not to watch as Scott tugs his shirt over his head; to not let his eyes trace the rippling lines of muscle that hadn’t been there just last year. He picks at the blanket, resolutely Not Looking. (If he doesn’t look, he doesn’t have to confront the increasingly apparent notion that he is really, really Not Straight.) The last thing Stiles needs on top of everything else is to make this awkward.

It still doesn’t stop him from sliding into Scott’s space once the other boy climbs into bed with him. Because now this is familiar. Lying curled up facing Scott, close enough to whisper and smother laughter into the pillows long into the night is something he’s done since pre-school. Scott’s never voiced any worries about it being “weird” yet, and Stiles isn’t about to ask.

The bone-deep exhaustion takes hold once they’ve settled. The adrenaline has long since drained from Stiles, and even the anxiety isn’t going to keep him awake for long. He wonders, briefly, if Scott is even capable of being exhausted now. Does his new healing keep him alert and painless? Or does he still feel the aches and pulls even after his wounds heal? Does he have the ghosts of catastrophic injuries even after the skin and muscle and bone has knitted back together?

The syrupy, weightless feeling is back. Stiles blinks open his eyes, and finds Scott watching him, his hand resting gently on Stiles’ outstretched arm. “Quit,” he admonishes.

“You’re in pain, though.”

“And now you are, and that doesn’t make me feel better. Okay?” He shifts his arm, grasping Scott’s hand. But he thinks better of pushing it away when the black streaking veins fade back into his friend’s smooth skin. “I’ll let you take a little in the morning. If I’m having trouble.”

“Okay.”

The silence is kinder this time as it settles around them.

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

Scott sniffles. “I’m sorry I never told you about the plan.”

He sighs. “I forgive you, dude.” He does, even if it still hurts. “I would’ve helped, y’know?”

“I know. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. But you did anyway.”

“Yeah, I did. But I got hurt because Gerard was a gigantic fuckwad and not because of anything you did.”

Scott clearly ignores his attempt at placing the blame (where the blame belongs), because his frown becomes determined. “It’s not going to be like this next time.”

Stiles lifts his head off the pillow slightly. “Hm?”

He’s still holding Scott’s hand, and Scott doesn’t seem to want to let go. “I haven’t been… the best person, since all of this. I haven’t been the best student, or the best son, and not the best friend either.”

“Hey, no--”

“I want to be better,” Scott steamrolls on, as if Stiles hasn’t even opened his mouth. “I know I can be better. I can work harder, and learn more. I’ve got all this new power but… but the only thing I’ve been using it for is playing lacrosse and trying not to die.”

“We’ve all been trying not to die, man,” Stiles urges.

“I know. But I… I want to be better. If this is supposed to be a gift, then I need to start making it one.” Scott’s eyes are far off, even as he absently plays with the pads of Stiles’ fingers. Stiles has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep still, to keep from drawing attention to it. “I’m sick of feeling like this is a curse. And it’s not gonna change unless I change it.”

“You don’t need to be ‘better,’” Stiles defends. “You’re already better than anyone I know.”

But Scott isn’t convinced. Stiles isn’t even sure Scott has heard him. His eyes are far away, and Stiles can’t suppress the swell of petty distaste - not directed at Scott, exactly. ‘I’m right here,’ he thinks. ‘Look at me. Listen.’

Scott hasn’t been “here” for months, even though he’s never left Stiles’ side. And Stiles…

Fuck, he’d give anything to have that boy back, the one who wasn’t burdened by murder and invasion and the lives of everyone he knows.

Because Stiles could help that boy - the boy with the normal teenage problems like lack of popularity and finding a girlfriend. This… Stiles can only hang on and hope Scott doesn’t realize he has no idea what he’s doing.

------------------------------------------------------------

The breathing of the boys inside slows and deepens, but it doesn’t make Derek feel any better. He sits on the Stilinski rooftop, tucking his leather jacket around him to fight off the early spring chill, and shrinks away from view. The last thing he needs tonight is for the Sheriff to find out he’s up here - another disappointment to the man in a long string of them.

After everything, and maybe even despite everything, Derek had to know that Scott and Stiles made it home unharmed. (Or not any more harmed, in Stiles’ case.) He’d directed Boyd, Erica, and Isaac to the B&B for the night, and had backtracked all the way to the Stilinski house instead of joining them. He’d just wanted to check on them. But what he’d found hadn’t made the sick feeling deep in his belly go away at all.

“I want to be better,” Scott had said.

“I know I can be better,” he’d said.

“I’ve got all this power, but all I use it for is trying not to die,” he’d said.

“The only thing you cared about was how quickly you could make this go away,” he’d said, back in the warehouse, his eyes flickering a defiant Beta gold. “You didn’t care who had to die for it.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t belong, Derek. You’re the only piece that doesn’t fit,” Gerard had sneered as Scott held his head back, forcing him to bare his throat, eventually - Derek had been so sure at the time - for a blade.

He feels sick all over again, and leaps down off the roof. He sets off at a run, desperate to feel the burn in his lungs and the pull in his muscles, anything to drown out his circling thoughts. Derek is halfway to Celina and Eliza’s before the coherent thought surfaces:

He’s nothing like his mother. Or Laura.

He has none of the traits he so admired in them as Alphas. His mother had been a shining beacon for so many people, both magical and mundane alike. Both the people of the town and Packs across the country looked to her for guidance. She’d embodied everything Derek thought an alpha should be: kind and steadfast; firm when it was needed; open and loving to her Pack. Brave and strong as the hardest steel towards threats, but never seeking violence. And Laura, who’d become his Alpha in the aftermath of fire and death that had ripped their world apart, had done everything she could to be the Alpha they both needed. She may not have been their mother, but Laura had all the traits and abilities that a good Alpha was supposed to embody.

And Derek… Derek has none of that. The only thing he’s done is swing wildly between one life-or-death situation and the next, scrambling just to keep his head above water let alone keeping his own Betas alive.

They deserve more than that. They deserve more than a fuckup of an Alpha. The memories of his mother and sister, and his whole Pack, deserve more than that.

They deserve better than what Derek has given them up until now.

How he could possibly begin to fix that, though, is another question entirely. And not one he has the energy to dwell on tonight.

He absently pats the garden gate as he nears the Marcella’s Bed & Breakfast, not in the least bit surprised when it seems to swing open of its own accord. The moment Derek steps foot inside the property line, a wave of soothing warmth rushes over him, like easing into a soft bed or a hot bath at the end of the day. “Hi,” he sighs under his breath.

The lilac bushes near the veranda rustle in answer. They’re going to bloom soon, the flower clusters fat and already fragrant to Derek’s nose. The air smells of spring, of earth and growth and comfort, perhaps even more so inside the property line due to the house’s strange magic.

The door eases open as he’s climbing the front stairs, but not because of any supernatural force this time. Eliza’s soft eyes sparkle at him from just beyond the doorway, Celina standing mere steps behind. He takes one look at their solemn faces and flinches despite himself. “I’m sorry for not calling ahead about Isaac, Boyd, and Erica,” he says guiltily.

Celina waves his apology away. “Your Betas are asleep upstairs. We put them in the family suite near your room.”

“They fought sleeping while you were still out,” Eliza adds gently, “but the house took care of that.”

“It can do that?” Derek asks, giving the seemingly benign house a dubious look.

“Not in so many words.” Eliza pats the door frame, beckoning Derek inside. “It only does a remarkable job at making people feel safe within its walls.” That, at least, is a feeling Derek recognizes. Almost immediately so as the door closes behind him. The old Victorian house is soothing in a way no house has been since his family’s home had been destroyed.

“Here, let us have a look at you,” Celina urges brusquely. She steps into Derek’s space without a thought, hands cupping his face so she can get a good look into his eyes. The unwavering touch shocks him, his whole body jerking, but not necessarily away from her. Her hands are warm and soft.

The last person that had touched him with such gentleness had been Laura. The realization makes his throat grow tight. Everything since then had been violent or nauseatingly sexual. Not even Scott or Stiles have ever touched him outside of force or desperation - dragging his injured or barely conscious body around not because they’d like to, but because they had to. Or like what happened tonight--

Derek shuts his eyes against the thought.

“Can you feel him?” Celina asks gravely. “Argent?”

He sighs. “Not yet.” He doesn’t ask how she knows about what happened tonight. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Well, if we are lucky that means it didn’t take. Even if Scott’s little trick doesn’t kill him.”

‘How much do you know? Were you in on it too?’ The questions are on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t voice them. Derek can’t take another blow like that tonight. “Scott wouldn’t do that,” he answers instead.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Eliza agrees.

“But he’s not going to have to,” Celina adds pointedly. She smoothes down Derek’s lapels, a gesture so motherly that his heart aches.

Derek blinks at them. “What do you mean?” Celina doesn’t answer, but her smile is sharp as she steps back.

Eliza takes his arm, guiding him towards the stairs. “We’ve offered our aid to Doctor Deaton, in ensuring that Gerard Argent is no longer a threat,” she says sweetly.

“You--” Derek lets out an incredulous breath. “You’re going to hunt him down. With Deaton.”

“Oh yes. Alan’s given the typical speech about the balance being threatened, but I feel he’s doing it for the same reason as Celina and I.”

“And that would be?” Irritation and exhaustion gives his voice an edge. He doesn’t mean to be rude, not to them, but he’s just had enough tonight.

“On top of being a reprehensible abomination of a man,” Eliza explains patiently, “he’s gone and threatened those we love.” She squeezes his arm, her smile sweet and knowing, and somehow just a touch wicked. “And we can’t have that.”

It’s not fear, but guilt that immediately swamps Derek. Of course, they would know about what happened to Stiles. Of course, they’d know that the Sheriff had been attacked at the station. Of course, they’d know that Gerard had threatened Scott.

Surely, they’d also know that was just as much Derek’s fault as Gerard’s.

The apology stalls at his lips, just long enough for Celina to scoff. “She means you too, silly boy.”

Derek stares at her, and then at Eliza, who nods reassuringly at him. His lips part, but no words will come out. He can’t even begin to quantify the curious mix of emotions rising in his chest, making this throat grow tight. For a moment, his eyes burn, but he blinks it away and swallows down the swell of emotion. “I… Really?”

There’s a sad understanding to Celina’s smile. For what, Derek can’t fathom. He can’t even understand what’s transpiring in himself, let alone between them. “Of course, dear,” she soothes.

He sucks in a shaking breath. “Thank you.”

They accept his gratitude with soft smiles, and usher him up to bed.

------------------------------------------------------------

Next: Side A, Ch7

A week goes by. The town goes quiet. Jackson Whittemore is not, in fact, declared dead. His father sues the hospital for malpractice. The EMTs who declared him dead in the first place are nowhere to be found. Stiles is taken to the hospital and his injuries checked over - bruised ribs are the worst of them, the rest are deep bruises that they’re instructed to watch carefully. Stiles gives his infuriatingly generic statement.

Another week passes. The string of murders goes quiet. The mystery of who attacked his son is a cold case even before it starts.

------------------------------------------------------------

At the very least, Derek seems affected by his tirade. Even remorseful - not that it matters in the long run; remorseful or not, Derek Hale still continues on with his shady business that’s so strange John can’t even put a name to it yet. “It wasn’t me,” he croaks out. “You have to believe me, I wouldn’t hurt Stiles.” It’s actually a passable attempt at imploring.

“But you know something.”

Derek is tellingly silent for a moment. And John wonders how this man has ever gotten away with anything. He may not babble or stumble over his lies like both of John’s boys do, but his tells are obvious all the same. There’s no deception in his stony silence whatsoever. “Boyd and Erica have gone missing,” Derek admits at length. “I know it’s connected with what happened tonight. That’s why I’m here.”

If John thinks to wait for an elaboration on that - on who killed Jackson Whittemore, on who has taken Stiles, it becomes a futile effort. Because Derek says nothing more on the matter. “So Stiles was taken,” he insists.

“Yes.”

“Okay. ...Okay.” He can work with that. He will solve whatever Derek is involved in, but right now this is enough. “Do you know where?”

Derek shakes his head, dashing any hopes John had of a quick resolution to this. “But I’ll help look for him, if you’ll help me look for Erica and Boyd,” he says.

Well, maybe John can get through to this boy after all.

-----------------------------------------

They agree to split up in their search. Derek advises him to pay special attention to the neighborhoods with access to the Preserve and any of the abandoned industry yards. Exactly why is only met with vexing silence. And while John desperately wants to shake the man until he talks, he’ll take that advice if it helps him find his son faster.

He drives around for nearly two hours with little to show for it. It had been a long shot, going out with a search criteria that included “ three missing teens” and “anything out of place.” But still John continues to patrol the streets of Beacon Hills. The idea of doing anything else, of sitting at his desk at the station or, even worse, at home only makes him feel ill.

John’s taking Route 32 along the edge of the Preserve when the howling starts. It’s so loud that he hears it over the cruiser’s engine, almost making him put on the brakes.

Wolves? In California? No, that’s impossible. Coyotes, maybe. Or even some hounds that have gotten lost in the Preserve. But it’s louder than a family of coyotes or a couple of lost dogs, and sounds like more of them. And they’re close.

Two figures burst from the treeline, and John nearly swerves left of center in shock. The headlights illuminate the pair for a brief instant. And then he really does slam on the brakes.

It’s Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd.

They look ready to bolt as John pulls the cruiser over, cringing away from the bright headlights. Now that he’s closer, John can see just how terrified they are, clinging to each other as if fighting to push the other behind them. Shaking, panicking. Their clothes are torn.

A thousand awful scenarios leap into John’s mind as he climbs out of his car. “Are you kids hurt?” he calls to them.

At least some of the fear seems to ease at his voice. “M-Mister Stilinski?” Erica calls back.

“It’s me. Do I need to call an ambulance?” He moves a few steps out of the way of the glare of the headlights, if for no other reason than to reassure the obviously frightened teenagers. “Are you alright?”

Something moves in the forest off to their right.

Their bodies snap into taut lines of tension, heads whipping to stare into the dark forest mere yards from them. The forest is eerily silent.

“Get in the car,” John quietly orders them, his eyes trained on the treeline. The teens hesitate for barely a moment before ducking behind him towards his cruiser. He hears them climb into the backseat, a flurry of fearful whispers. John stays where he is, all of his senses honed on the shadowed forest, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He can’t see anything past the first foot of underbrush. But every instinct he has tells him that something is out there. His hand lowers to his holster, flicking it open.

“Sheriff,” Boyd calls from the car. “Sheriff Stilinski, please get in the car.”

“Please,” Erica begs. Their voices are desperate, high-pitched and afraid. “Please.”

John lingers for another moment, breaking out in chills, before he thinks better of it. “...Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he concedes, and hurries back into the driver’s seat. The cruiser is swung around with more force than is probably necessary, and soon they’re speeding off back towards Beacon Hills.

There’s only the sound of the wind whipping past the car outside. John wonders, for a dizzying instant, if he’d somehow just imagined the howling.

But there are two scared, hurt teens huddled in his backseat. John watches them in the rearview mirror. They shake and cling to each other, sometimes their mouths move in tense whispers. Their faces are drawn and dirt-smudged. And while John can’t see any wounds, they move as if they’re both in pain, and there are faint bloodstains on their ripped clothes.

“Should I take you both to the hospital?”

The pair shake their heads at him.

“You’re not hurt?”

“No, sir,” Boyd answers. John wants to see a lie there, but there’s only fear.

“Alright… want me to take you both home then?”

“No!” This time the answer comes from both of them in matching panicked cries.

“Sheriff, please. I don’t want them to see--” Erica stammers, hands tucked close to her chest protectively. “They’ll follow us home. I can’t-- Our families--” She takes a deep breath, and John can physically see her pulling herself together. “We need to see Derek.”

And John really shouldn’t be surprised by that anymore, that these kids all answer to Derek. And yet it’s surprise and horror that fills him. “Who’s following you?” he asks. That’s the most pressing matter. He can sit them all down and order them to give him some goddamn answers when everyone is out of danger.

Including his son.

The teenagers are frustratingly silent to his question. It seems to be another thing they’ve picked up from Derek Hale - the inability to share important information. If John wasn’t so worried about them, he might have considered taking them straight down to the station for some real questioning.

“Did Stiles tell you to come get us? Did he make it out?” Vernon Boyd’s hesitant questions have John swiveling around in the driver’s seat even before he finishes.

“Were you with my son?” John asks, his voice low. When he feels the lapse back into silence coming, he grits his teeth. “Listen to me. I don’t want lies and I don’t want silence. I need to find my son. Do you know where Stiles is?”

Boyd’s jaw clenches, and John can see the conflict being worked out in his face. “They let him go before we got out,” the boy says at last. “They said they were letting him go. You haven’t…” And now he looks truly worried, which does nothing to ease the panic that is rising in John’s throat. “You haven’t found him yet?”

This time it’s John that falls into telling silence. In the rearview mirror he can see the two of them hunch closer together, sharing glances that are now dreadful and far, far too old on their teenage faces. John’s hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

And then his phone rings, startling all three of them.

“Stilinski,” he grunts after fumbling to retrieve the phone from his coat.

“I found him.” Hale’s curt voice in his ear sends his heart rocketing, doing a dizzying swoop that actually hurts.

“Stiles?”

Derek hums a low affirmative, but it’s not a happy sound.

“Where?” he chokes out.

“Greenvale Park,” Derek says roughly. And then he utters the words that might as well drag the soul from his body: “He’s hurt, Sheriff.” His voice is thick when he says it, as if each word is like a knife between his ribs. But John barely registers it over the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

“I’ll be there,” he says, and hangs up without further warning. The phone is carelessly tossed onto the passenger seat. He flicks the sirens on and guns the engine. “Alright back there,” he says over his shoulder. “Hold on. We have a detour to make.”

The questions, he decides, can be answered later.

-----------------------------------------

Greenvale is nearly pitch black at this time of night. The city park is lit by only a few lamps, and is generally deserted after sunset. The Preserve and the more abandoned sections of the industrial districts are more attractive to both the nefarious population and to teenagers looking for stupid thrills after curfew, and so the now-familiar black Camaro is easy to spot in the otherwise empty visitor’s lot. It’s not until he rolls the cruiser up alongside it that he sees its driver. And his son.

Stiles is sitting hunched against the concrete garden box that’s across from the cars. He’s still in his lacrosse uniform, a detail that somehow baffles John, as if it’s unthinkable that Stiles has only been missing for a few hours. Derek is a black shape crouching in front of him, invisible until the cruiser floods the area with light. They might have been talking, John considers distractedly as he throws the car into park. But they’re… close. They’re in each other’s space.

And there’s the fact that Derek has a hand cupped around the back of Stiles’ neck.

The sight has John frowning as he lets Boyd and Erica out of the back. It’s not the first time he’s seen casual, intimate touches between his son and Derek. He’s not sure he would call it a problem by itself. But considering how Stiles keeps insisting that he’s not wrapped up in whatever mess Hale is in…

Well okay, it is a problem.

It’s not until John moves closer that Stiles raises his head, and he gets a good look at his son’s face. That stops him in his tracks. He looks even paler than usual in the car’s headlights. It makes the bloody side of his face stand out so much more. His cheek is scraped and inflamed, blood pooling under the skin where it hasn’t broken. It goes from his brow all the way to his jaw, like someone has struck him repeatedly. Stiles is keeping that eye closed, and at best it’s going to be a horrible black eye in a few hours. At worst… John doesn’t even want to think about it. His lip is split in more than one place on that side, and there’s dried blood that has trickled from his nose all the way down to his chin.

Stiles’ expression pulls tight in pain as he stands, favoring his side like his ribs are hurting him. Derek rises with him, still standing only a step away, as if he’s ready to catch the boy if his legs give out. And John cannot be blamed for how his throat goes tight. Or how the anger and the pain chokes him for a moment.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles rasps.

Something in him breaks, and he lunges forward to pull Stiles into a hug, mumbling an apology when his son winces in pain. He wants to cry. He wants to rage. But mostly he just wants to take his son home and lock all the doors - keep him safe.

“Who did this?” he hisses through clenched teeth. He reaches out to cup Stiles’ chin, gently examining the scrapes and forming bruises and praying that nothing’s broken.

Stiles’ eyes go down and away. It throws the injured side of his face into even starker contrast with his pale skin and glassy eyes. “There… There were these guys, you know? From the other team. They were pissed off and sore over the game. And I was running my mouth, y’know? Like always.”

“Stiles,” he growls in warning. All it is is another lie. There’d been no time between the game ending in Jackson Whittemore’s death and Stiles going missing for members of the opposing team to grab anyone, let alone three teenagers. And especially not to keep them captive for hours.

“Dad, seriously--”

“So they grabbed you, huh? And Mister Boyd? And Miss Reyes?” Stiles isn’t the only one that flinches. But, predictably, no one offers an explanation. And just like that the rage comes pouring out of his mouth, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw starts to ache. “I swear, I’m going to find out who did this, and I’m going to pistol whip those sick bastards so hard they won’t know what day it is--”

“Dad!” Stiles’ voice pitches high. “Dad, I’m okay,” he pleads.

“You are not-- okay, Stiles.” And to John’s horror, his voice cracks around the words. “Look at you. You’re not okay.”

Stiles’ eyes take on a telling wet gleam, and it reminds John so much of the little boy he’d scoop up in his arms to soothe skinned knees and bumped heads. He wants to badly to do it now, but there’s so many things in the way. Too many secrets and too many lies. Including the one’s spewing from his son’s mouth even now. “I will be. I just wanna go home.”

“We should be taking you to a hospital.”

“It’s not that serious. I promise. It’s just a few bumps and bruises.”

John relents, not because he wants to, but because he’s just tired of fighting. “Okay. But I’m going to have Melissa look at you when we get home. Got it?”

He relieved when Stiles doesn’t fight him on that one, only nodding with a soft, “Okay, Dad.” He slips past John, walking stiffly towards his classmates. Erica is the first to reach him, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug that makes Stiles suck in a sharp breath that probably hurts just as much as the embrace does.

“Sorry,” Erica mumbles into his shoulder. She loosens her grip only fractionally.

“Nah,” Stiles huffs back. “S’okay. I’m pretty sturdy for being the squishy one. Gotta show some love for Catwoman, right?” He steps out of the girls arms, his eyes turning to Boyd. He seems to move before his thoughts catch up with him, as Stiles is wont to do, and he throws an arm around the taller boy’s shoulders. Both of them stiffen, for about half a moment. And then Boyd carefully wraps an arm around Stiles’ back for a decidedly awkward squeeze.

“Uh.” Stiles clears his throat as he steps back. “You guys okay? I was going to… I tried to call for help after they threw me out, but, y’know.” He waves his hand, and with an icy jolt John can see that his fingers are stiff and bloody, the faintest scrape of a shoe tread pressed into the back of his hand.

“We’re okay,” Erica says quietly. Her mouth opens, and closes the instant her eyes land on John. “We… um, one of them-- he let us go.”

“He--?” Predictably, Stiles goes quiet as well once he remembers John is there. He turns back to Erica and his hands to a series of gestures that… don’t seem to mean anything. “Really?” he says in a pseudo-whisper. “He just let you go.”

“He said ‘you’d be surprised what side you end up on,’” the girl replies.

“Oh. Good. Great. Does he want point for not being as much of an asshole as he usually is?”

Do they think they’re being subtle?

“Alright, enough,” John declares irritably. “Everyone pack up. You’ll be heading to my place tonight.” His words are met with silent stares. “If Mister Boyd and Miss Reyes refuse to go home, I’m not letting them roam the streets. And no, Derek, you cannot keep them tonight.” The young man’s shoulders hunch, looking particularly guilty. “You’ll be staying with me. We’ll call your parents in the morning. Got it?”

They nod, eyes downcast. None of them, it seems, want to look him in the eye.

Horrible liars. The lot of them.

-----------------------------------------

John lets Erica and Boyd pile into Derek’s backseat, because he’s sure his silent glares and express instructions to follow him home are enough to keep Derek from running off with the two teens. The ride back to the house is awkward to say the least. Stiles slumps against the door, visibly drawing in on himself for the interrogation he knows is coming. And John doesn’t know how to ask without getting lies or making his son shut down entirely in return. So he refrains from the questions buzzing incessantly around his head. Leaving them to sit in painful silence.

‘Who hurt you like this?’ he wants to ask Stiles, over and over again until Stiles actually gives him an answer. ‘Just what have you gotten mixed up in? How does it connect to the murders - not just the ones perpetrated by Matt Daehler, but the ones since the beginning of the year as well?’

He’s not going to get any of those answers, he knows that. At the very least, the suspicion that Stiles was involved with Matt Daehler has been long put to rest. If anything Stiles and Scott had seemed interested in apprehending the other boy. At first, it’d only seemed like one of their invasive fascinations with a case involving their classmates. But now...

Now John wishes he had put his foot down harder, and kept them completely out of the case.

Once home, he helps Stiles from the car, wincing in worry and sympathy as his son’s face goes bone white with pain. “It’s okay, Dad,” he soothes, as if John is the one who needs comforting. “It’s just sore.”

His voices lodges in his throat, making arguing difficult. It’s all he can do to hover at Stiles’ side as they all head up the front steps and into the house. Their guests haven’t said a word since getting out of Derek’s Camaro. They stand in the doorway once inside, quiet and watchful. John would call them stoic, if not for the fact that Boyd and Erica keep huddling into Derek’s space.

They continue to hover even as John beckons them into the living room, where he goes about fixing them places to sleep. Erica can easily fit into Stiles’ sleepwear, but Boyd is a bit harder to provide for, being both broader and taller than John has ever been. He ends up giving the boy the biggest pair of sleep pants he owns in hopes that it will fit comfortably.

“Thank you,” Boyd murmurs, with this awed little gleam in his eye. As if John has offered him something much more valuable than a place to sleep for the night. Erica has the same look reflected in her eyes when John presents her with her borrowed sleepwear. The pair of them share a glance with Derek, as if John is a strange mystery the other man can somehow solve.

John, overwhelmed with worry and questions, leaves them to puzzle it out, whatever it is.

Melissa isn’t answering her phone - odd, since she’s not on shift. He’d just seen her at the lacrosse game. Two tries later and still nothing, John settles for leaving her a short voicemail for her to call him as soon as possible and tries to squash the anxiety knotting in his stomach.

“Bullshit. I’m fine,” Stiles’ low hiss comes from the living room.

“Stiles.” And that’s Derek, admonishing his son in a tone that he recognizes from his own - part weary exasperation, part threat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Uh. Right. Okay, sure. Keep telling yourself that, big guy.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’ve got that surly, danger brow thing going on there. It doesn’t mean you’re getting what you want. I’m fine.”

“I wouldn’t call this… fine,” Erica says next. “Boyd and I were there, remember? This looks pretty bad, Stiles.”

“He hurt you to prove a point, Stiles,” Derek begins again.

But this time Stiles cuts him off, his voice harsh and desperate in a way that John hasn’t heard in years. “You seriously think this was meant to hurt me--?!”

He returns to the living room to find his son shirtless and going through the contents of their first aid kit. They all go quiet the moment he enters the room, but that’s not what has John pulling up short - has icy fury curling around his heart all over again. There are forming bruises all along Stiles’ side. Nasty, painful looking things that speak of bruised ribs, if not fractured ones, and will be horrifying and dark come morning. And, as John takes a subtle step to the side, a vivid red boot print squarely between his shoulder blades.

It’s a man’s footprint. Too large for a teenage boy, unless they’re talking about one who’s matured fast.

But John is pretty sure the teenage style runs more towards combat boots these days, and not pointed toe boots.

Stiles has a packaged alcohol wipe between his teeth, in the process of passing a rolls of bandages, gauze pads, and an ointment tube to Boyd. His face is clean of blood now, revealing the inflamed, raw skin. Erica is standing beside him with a pack of frozen vegetables and a towel, face drawn and eyes sharp. He watches with a kind of sick fascination as his son cleans the scrapes on his face and hands, taking the burn of the alcohol with only a mild hiss, and starts slather the ointment on the broken skin and bandage them with ease.

Stiles is… frighteningly proficient at patching himself up. And not just in a “I learned how to ice sore muscles after practice” sort of way. John dreads to consider where he learned it.

Through it all, Derek paces the length of the living room, shoulders hunched and hackles raised. His body is a line of tension. An anxious predator. His eyes flick from the Stiles, Boyd, and Erica, to John, to the windows and back again. Over and over in an endless cycle. As if he’s expecting something horrible to come crashing through the living room windows.

But John can’t help but notice the way Derek, even as he paces, never seems to stray far from the teens for long. Whenever he stops by them, he hovers, always reaching out to squeeze Erica’s shoulder or Boyd’s arm, or even just the briefest brush of a touch against their sleeves. John catches him reaching out to Stiles on one pass, but the move is quickly aborted, Derek’s hand curling into fist and returning to his side as if he’s been stung. It’s a peculiar little sequence that Stiles doesn’t even appear to notice - too busy cursing under his breath as he fiddles with wrapping his hand.

John watches it all without a word, mind fitting his previous observations together and coming up with a new question:

Just what is Derek’s relationship with his son?

‘Ah, shit,’ he thinks despairingly. It’s just one more thing to add to the growing pile of topics he and Stiles need to have an honest discussion about. This one no less distressing than the last.

Derek’s phone chimes as things are starting to settle down. The simple sound has all the effect of sucking the air out of the room. The kids go tense, watching avidly as the older man slips the phone from his pocket and glares at the screen for a moment. He taps something out, his jaw clenching into a painfully taut line.

“I have to go,” he says evenly.

No one asks him where or why. John figures they don’t have to at this point. Whatever strange business they’re all involved in isn’t done for the night.

“Son,” John says wearily. “Don’t let anyone catch you out tonight.”

Derek flinches as violently as if John has struck him.

“My deputies are out looking for whoever killed Jackson Whittemore,” he continues. His meaning is clear: if Derek is arrested for whatever nefarious shit he’s going off to do, John isn’t going to protect  him.

Derek stuffs his hands into his pocket, straightening his stance defensively. “Yes, sir. Thanks… for looking after them,” he ventures after a length of silence.

‘Not doing this for you,’ John wants to reply. At least… it would only be half a lie. He watches Derek the whole way out, even as that showy Camaro pulls out onto the street. After that, the house is painfully silent. The kids don’t make a sound, just stare out the window even after Derek’s car is long gone.

“Well,” he attempts to break the silence, “I can order us some pizza. It’s late, but you three could use some food, I bet.”

No one answers him.

“Just, uh, get comfortable. I’ll go place the order.”

“You’d better be ordering veggie pizza for yourself!” Stiles calls as he leaves the room.

Typical. Beaten and bloody and still a mother hen. “Whatever, kid.”

He can hear them talking in hushed tones while he’s on the phone, too quiet for him to make out anything. The tv comes on, and everything quiets down. At first, John thinks nothing more of it.

And then, John realizes a little too late, it’s too quiet.  

By the time John comes back into the living room, they’re already gone. Only empty space greets him.

He heaves a sigh.

“Shit.”

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Next: Side B, Ch5

Everything about the rest of the evening is a blur. Until it all comes to a crashing halt, with Gerard on his deathbed, the kanima impaled on his claws, Jackson Whittemore’s miraculous revival and Scott…

Scott. Fuck.

Just thinking his name has Derek feeling ill all over again.

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