#sterekweek2017

But this year, a hint of a scent draws him in before he has even unpacked his bags. There’s a faint hint of cinnamon wafting through the hotel that leads him straight to the big conference room where the Mixer takes place. It’s already filling up, Alphas and their Betas either staking their claim on one corner of the room as their temporary territory, or prowling around the room, looking for an opportunity to demonstrate their strength. Derek always comes alone; Boyd is his second, but Derek needs him more back home to take care of things there than he needs his support here for posturing in front of conceited Emissaries.

The Emissaries have not yet arrived in full, usually the high powered, highly sought after ones come last, waiting for everyone else to arrive so that they can have their big entrance. Then they settle down around the room and hold court, letting the Alphas come to them. The less sought after Emissaries walk around the room to talk to prospective Alphas and possibly awake their interest. But even those usually wait until most Alphas have arrived.

But the scent Derek is following is definitely coming from them room already, and there’s no doubt that this is the scent of an Emissary, the cinnamon underlaid with the metallic tang of sparks upon a sword, the fiery taste of ash on his tongue. For their scent to be this strong and easily discernible, the Emissary has to be very strong, and that makes it just the more surprising that they are in the room already. The Alphas must be fairly salivating over the fresh blood - because Derek would remember if he’d had ever met that Emissary before.

Indeed there’s a small crowd in one corner of the room, Alphas and Betas shoving each other aside to get closer to the person in the middle, flexing and snarling and growling, claws and fangs readily on display. Derek rolls his eyes and keeps to the edges of the crowd at first, trying to catch a glimpse of the Emissary that has all the wolves in such a tizzy. But the mass of bodies is too thick and Derek can’t see more than a head of messy hair and long fingers running through it nervously.

The crowd gets thicker as more wolves join it and the spike of anxiety souring that sweet and spicy scent is enough to make him shoulder his way to the center of the mob, making judicious use of his elbows and claws when the flare of his eyes is not enough to move people aside. One young Alpha with an obvious need to prove himself tries to get in his way but a snarl and a feigned attack is enough to deter him.

And soon enough Derek is right at the front of the crowd, face to face with the one whose scent has drawn him in from the first hint. The Emissary is probably a couple of years younger than him, a hand’s width taller and much more slender, though the muscles along his exposed forearms are wiry under the copious tattoos that curl up his arms from his wrists to his elbows, colourful lines disappearing under his sleeves. Derek can't quite tell what symbols or images this Emissary has burnt into his skin, as they start moving dizzyingly if he stares at them too closely. It's a trick used by many Emissaries to hide which symbols give them special powers and strength, but with most you can look past the illusion with some concentration. But in this case the tattoos just get ever more indecipherable the longer Derek looks at them.

When Derek finally looks up at the face of the Emissary, the first thing he notices are the golden brown eyes, almost beta yellow, a little overwhelmed but also defiant, just waiting for the one stupid wolf that goes too far and asks to be taught a lesson. Then Derek's eyes dart along the series of moles splattered across the Emissary’s cheeks and he surprises himself when he wonders whether there are more moles hidden beneath those enticingly tight clothes and how long it would take to find them all. And then he sees those plump and pink lips and fervently hopes that one of the powers hidden beneath those ever shifting is not mindreading.

The satisfied smirk that curls those pretty lips upwards doesn't bode well for him, though.

Derek swallows and then gets himself together. He pushed himself to the front of the crowd for a reason and, no, it wasn't ogling the Emissary - even if he's very ogle worthy.

The Emissary raises an eyebrow as if to ask what Derek is waiting for, so Derek takes that last step forward that brings them face to face. He bares his neck and ignores the murmurs behind him. These young upstarts better watch and learn how you treat an Emissary properly. It certainly doesn't involve crowding them and salivating - at least not if you are serious about possibly building a pack relationship.

And for the first time ever, Derek is completely serious about approaching a prospective Emissary.

He raises his hands, palm up to present the vulnerable part of his wrists and formally says: “I am Derek Hale, Alpha of the Hale Pack from Beacon Hills. Do you grant me your favour?”

“My - favour?” The Emissary asks slowly and then seems to remember the traditional exchange. The Alpha is supposed to ask the Emissary for a favour; if it is given, that means negotiations - or as Erica calls them, dates - can go ahead. Over the last few decades it has also become acceptable for the Emissary to offer their favour to an Alpha of their choice. Finally, if both Alpha and Emissary come to an agreement, the Alpha will return the favour - not literally the favour given to them by the Emissary, but another gift, ideally symbolising the bonds now newly forged between the two.

“Right, my favour,” the Emissary mutters and leans down to grab something. Traditional favours are pieces of jewellery, flimsy in appearance but strengthened with spells and potions, but the favour this Emissary presents to Derek is a baseball bat.

“I, Stiles Stilinski, Emissary to none, grant you, Derek Hale, my favour, as a symbol of the protection I promise to give you and that I expect in return from you.” The Emissary, Stiles, winks at Derek and mouths ‘get it? Protection?’ and for a moment Derek seriously doubts his decision to pursue this particular Emissary, but then Stiles smiles and his scent hits Derek again, the cinnamon hot and spicy in Derek’s nose, warmed with mischief and joy.

Derek breathes in deeply and smiles back at Stiles, suddenly sure that this is the last time he’ll have to attend the Great North Atlantic Supernatural Mixer. He reaches out and accepts the bat Stiles is still holding out to him and with it the hope that this favour will eventually be returned and Alpha and Emissary become one.

Derek tries to think of something he did or said since he’d incredulously looked up to see Stiles in an FBI vest of all things rush into the warehouse along with a dozen agents, but Derek hadn’t even really been injured. He’d taken a few blows to the head, but they’d been relatively minor compared to what he was used to and he’d healed almost instantly. He’d barely even bled. And he’d gone along with whatever lie Stiles had come up with to get them out of the situation without either of them getting arrested. Stiles had even managed to cajole the head agent into writing him a recommendation later.

They can’t make as good time as Derek would like. Stiles’ right foot is injured, and while he could probably still drive in a pinch, Derek doesn’t want to make him do so if for no other reason than he doesn’t like to see Stiles in pain if he doesn’t have to. He’d tried to tease Stiles about it being a minor injury back when an EMT had been bandaging it, but Stiles hadn’t taken the bait, instead had turned back to charming the EMT. Derek had stalked off. It was immature, but he knew he had no right to feel jealous, so he’d made himself leave, even if he’d stayed where he could still see Stiles.

He drives for almost fifteen hours, making it to just outside Kansas City. They’d stopped only for gas and the bathroom, eating crappy gas station junk food that Stiles hadn’t even complained about. Derek springs for a genuine hotel room, not some crappy motel. He has the money and he thinks after the day (week, year, life) Stiles has had, he deserves to sleep somewhere clean and nice. He only gets one room. Even if Stiles is mad at him, and even if Derek is pretty sure they haven’t been followed here, he’ll only be able to sleep if he can keep Stiles close, and safe.

Stiles at least lets Derek help him hobble up to their room on the fourth floor. He lets Derek herd him over to the bed by the bathroom, so Derek can take the bed that will put him between Stiles and the door. They shower, and Stiles at least deigns to tell him what he wants to dinner when Derek orders room service. They eat in silence and don’t turn on the tv. It’s late, and Derek’s exhausted from driving and imagines Stiles is probably tired from the raid and the pain as well, so they get ready for bed quickly, moving around each other in an effortless routine, before climbing into bed. Something in Derek’s chest aches as he looks over and sees Stiles turn away from him. He turns out the light.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Stiles says finally, into the darkness.

“It’s not exactly my fault that hunters were after me, or that the FBI picked it up,” Derek replies quietly. He’s lying on his back and keeps himself from looking over at Stiles.

“No, not that,” Stiles huffs angrily. “I know your life is always going to be a shitshow. Mine is too. I understand that. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Derek asks. Stiles is silent for a while, but Derek doesn’t push. He knows sometimes you have to let Stiles gather his thoughts and find his words in his own time.

“You keep leaving,” Stiles says. “And I know why. I understand it. I think it’s good. You’ve been so much healthier, happier, since you left Beacon Hills. I get it. Beacon Hills is poison. You should leave Beacon Hills. Everyone should leave Beacon Hills and they should burn it down behind them.”

“Okay so…” Derek isn’t sure what he’s getting at. He lets himself shift to his side so he can stare at the back of Stiles’ head in the darkness. Stiles still has his back to him, and the air has the faintest hint of salt to it, like Stiles is holding back tears.

“Every time you leave you say that’s it,” Stiles says. He sniffs and his eyes must have welled up because now there’s a burst of sorrow and frustration. “You say so long, this is it I’m leaving forever. And you leave the keys to your loft behind and you change your phone number and you leave. And I deal with it. And then you fucking come back.”

“I didn’t come back this time,” Derek points out. “You found me. That time in Mexico too, you were the one to find me and bring me back.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Stiles says. He finally turns, sitting up and leaning against the backboard of the bed. “I found you. I found you back then because you needed me to, and I found you now even though I wasn’t even freaking looking for you. I tried to move on. I left Beacon Hills myself, I thought hey, fresh start, Derek said he was leaving forever, maybe it’s time that I do too. And then the first day, the first day of my internship, not five minutes in to our first lecture and who do you think they show video of.”

“Me,” Derek says.

“You,” Stiles sighs. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“So you want me to...leave?” Derek guesses.

“Christ, have you even been listening to me?” Stiles says. Derek lets himself get up and walks over to sit next to Stiles. Stiles flinches slightly, but doesn’t tell him to move. “You tell me you’re leaving me forever, and every time I have to deal with it like it’s the truth. Every time I have to get over you like I’m never going to see you again. And then I do see you again. Over and over and over, and when you’re back it’s like you never left. And then you leave again. Okay, do you understand what I’m saying? Derek, if you say you’re leaving forever one more time, I swear to god I will…”

“Okay,” Derek says, catching Stiles’ gesturing hand in his. They’ve touched each other hundreds of times probably. In anger, in sorrow, occasionally in enthusiasm or happiness. Never like this though, just the two of them in the intimate dark, a moment of safety and warmth. “Okay.”

“You finally get it now?” Stiles asks, his voice quiet in the inches between them. Derek isn’t sure which of them started to lean forward. Maybe both of them.

“I won’t leave again,” Derek says. “I can stay in Beacon Hills.”

“I meant it when I said Beacon Hills was poison,” Stiles says. “I know we’re going back there now to help out, but you staying there is not the solution I was going for.”

“Okay,” Derek says, smiling now because he finally gets it. He does. “So while you’re there, I’ll stay in Beacon Hills. And when I leave I’ll take you with me. And if we ever have to go our separate ways for a while, I promise, Stiles, I promise I’ll always come back. I’ll always come back to you.”

“That’s it,” Stiles murmurs. He leans forward and Derek meets him halfway. It’s a lot more gentle than Derek had imagined their first kiss would be. Derek lets himself trail a line of kisses down the beauty marks on Stiles’ cheeks, on his neck, grateful that he can see them even in the dim room. Stiles lets out a groan that’s half pleasure, half frustration.

“I would love to take this further, but neither of us have slept in like thirty-six hours, and we still have a lot of driving to do tomorrow,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek leans his head against Stiles’ shoulder.