biles the spark

“I don't think I know how to love,” Derek confessed one night to Peter of all people. Two years ago, he never would have imagined this. Even as a boy, he hadn't been very close to his uncle. But suddenly, Peter was the last family Derek had. And he'd never admit any of this to his pack. Boyd might understand. Erica would laugh. And Isaac… Isaac had gone through enough. 

Derek could smell his uncle's surprise. Feel it. Could almost see his dumbfounded, yet amused expression at the sudden vulnerability. He ignored it. Derek didn't look up, fiddling with his hands.

The silence stretched on for a moment before he spoke again.

“What do you turn to?” Derek asked, still staring — or glaring — down at the floor. “When the anger doesn't work as an anchor anymore. When the pain doesn’t tether. What do you use?”

Peter was silent for a moment. Staring, watching. Derek braced himself, expecting a laugh. A mockery. Something that would make Peter, Peter.

He was surprised when that didn't happen. Not right away, at least. Instead, Peter hummed. If not with a touch of amusement. Which made sense. After all, it was Peter.

“I don't,” the man finally said. “I don’t turn to anything.”

Derek's eyes snapped up, brows raising with surprise. Peter looked even more amused. 

“What would drive a werewolf sociopathic enough to kill his own niece, Derek?” Peter asked, the words almost amused. “Nothing. Or more so, not having anything. No love. No family. No anchor. It’s maddening.”

Maddening.

Derek stared at him for a moment. He worked his jaw. “Nothing,” he said, almost irritated. “You have nothing?” He didn’t believe that. A werewolf had to have something.

But Peter just shrugged.

“Nothing,” the older man said, eyes twinkling as he studied him back. Derek thought for a moment, then scowled. That didn’t help him. Not at all.

“You’re about as useless as you were dead,” Derek said, somewhat angrily.

Peter laughed. “Ah, and there we go,” he said. He didn’t seem offended in the slightest, only amused. “Returning to how things used to be, aren’t we? What, are you angry, dear nephew?”

Derek growled and pushed himself up. Suddenly, all his vulnerability was gone. Just like that. Because Peter was Peter. Why did Derek think he could get anything from the man? 

Before he could stalk off to his room, however, Peter spoke again. This time, he sounded more curious. Less amused. “If you don't have anger anymore, Derek, what do you have? What’s your anchor?”

In the darkness, Derek paused. His shoulders went tense. He looked down the hallway, where his betas were asleep. Their doors were dark. Quiet. No one was listening. No one was awake. For a moment, his chest ached but he quickly snuffed that emotion out. 

Derek was done loving. He was done falling in love. That would never keep him tethered. It would never keep him sane. It never had. Not for long, anyway. It had always hurt.

It had always set him loose.

But he wasn’t angry enough for that to keep him tethered either. Not anymore. Peter’s question rang through his ears and Derek clenched his jaw.

“Nothing,” he said finally, and Peter’s scent changed. It changed to something Derek didn’t recognize. Something unlike Peter. Something concerned.

That unsettled him.

Instead of saying another word, Derek stalked into his bedroom, slamming the door shut. The frame shook and then the air went silent. Outside, Peter didn’t say another word. The betas stayed asleep and silent in their rooms.

Derek wished he’d never said anything in the first place.

Nothing.

That thought almost terrified him. But no more than the idea of love did.

Derek was done falling in love. 

-

Derek could easily pretend the earlier conversation didn’t happen.

Peter didn’t spend much time around the loft. He wasn’t unwelcome, but he wasn’t welcome, and Derek could tell he knew that. The man spent as much of his time as far away as possible, and that was fine with all of them. 

Derek didn’t know where he went. And he didn’t care. That’s what he told himself.

Erica, Isaac, and Boyd were in their final year of high school. In fact, it was tapering down. Graduation was on the horizon and he knew they were excited. They were all staying in Beacon Hills. Attending the local community college, continuing their training.

They were shaping up to make excellent betas. He’d never tell them that out loud.

And Derek was doing fine.

Since that unfortunate realization in the presence of his ex-sociopathic uncle, Derek had been doing fine. He trained his betas. He loitered around his loft. He trained himself. He met with Scott McCall and his pack, and together, they worked to keep Beacon Hills safe. Just like his mother would have done. Just like Laura would’ve done.

Derek felt the tensions between them had lessened. 

He felt Lydia didn’t blame him as much for the previous attempts on her life. He watched as Jackson drifted between the two packs, more omega than beta, which seemed to be his preference. He watched as Scott still spent most of his time with Allison, head over heels.

He watched Stiles. 

Stiles.

Stiles Stilinski. Skinny, defenseless, Stiles. Sarcastic, ingenious, Stiles. Derek hadn’t gotten a good read on him. He’d never gotten a good read on him.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Derek thought the last time he’d understood the boy, it’d been after saving Jackson from the Kanima. When he’d looked up, the taste of Gerald in his mouth, and seen a beaten and bruised face of the teen boy. Lip cracked, body trembling. Red sweatshirt covered in blood.

Something about him had smelled like sorrow.

Derek felt the same.

Or maybe, it had been in his loft. That one night when Stiles stared at him, eyes swimming with tears. Staring between him and Jennifer blake. Quietly pleading with him to understand. To believe Stiles and not the woman Derek thought he was coming to love.

Derek believed him. He believed him instantly.

That’s the night he’d sworn off love. 

And soon after, Jennifer betrayed them all. Showed her true self. She turned to be the Darach and Derek had felt such anger and hurt, it didn’t make sense. Because he hadn’t fully loved the woman yet, he didn’t think. But still, it overwhelmed him. It made him feel sick. Suffocated. 

And then, it made him feel nothing. Those anchors were gone. He felt nothing. He had nothing.

Nothing. Just like Peter had said. Maybe Derek had been too hard on the man.

Or not. It didn’t feel like nothing. He didn’t feel borderline sociopathic. 

Derek wasn’t going to go on a murder spree. He wasn’t going to rip out Scott’s throat or slaughter a bunch of innocent people. Instead, he stuck to what he knew. Training the betas. Loitering around his loft. Training himself. Working with the McCall pack.

Watching Stiles.

Derek did it without thinking. He watched Stiles for three years. From the first day in the preserve, when he’d been standing beside Scott, all hyperactive tendencies and anxious twitches. To the second time at Beacon Hills high, when he’d picked up Erica after she’d been turned, and Stiles had stared back at him open-mouthed, slightly turned-on. To the third time at a random pack meeting, when Stiles had talking with a twizzler in his mouth, hands making random motions like an inflatable advertising man.

Completely normal. Completely Stiles Stilinski.

Derek watched. He stared. He didn’t think about it as the full moon rose high in the sky that night, and Derek didn’t feel a touch of fear — or anger. His control never slipped and he felt no urges to run rampant through the night.

Derek was twenty-two years old when he decided to stop loving. And he was twenty-two years old when he fell in love again.

It took a while for him to realize it. But when he did, Derek was terrified. And angst ensued.