Fic: Teen Wolf: state of readiness | NC17 | Derek/Stiles (8/10)
Barring Derek, everyone in the pack has called him at least five times and dropped by at least twice. Even Jackson. It's Stiles who doesn't go to the house anymore or show up for training or meetings. He returns only the bare minimum of texts-just enough to keep them from assuming he's dead in a ditch somewhere and starting a manhunt.
He was scheduled to start his next round of sessions-(learning to 'better evaluate' his potential for safety in battlefield situations before acting)-with Derek last week but he didn't show and Derek never sought him out.
It's been three weeks (and two days and four hours), of feeling like part of him's been amputated, and he can't concentrate enough to study for his economics final. The lure of extra Adderall whispers seductively to him, not for the first time since the Rodriguez visit, but it's the first time he hasn't been around pack to help him through it. He's severed himself from the wolves, can barely even feel Derek. He can't draw on the pack-the family-like Derek taught him, and he needs something. He needs help.
He knocks on his dad's bedroom door and hands the bottle over.
"I-I need you to take these," he says. His dad drops his book to his lap, takes off his glasses. His hand is as steady as his gaze as he reaches out and gently accepts the bottle.
"Just lay my dose out before you leave, okay?" His dad's eyes go wide and he stares at Stiles for a long moment, like he's finally putting something together, but he just nods slowly. Stiles flees back to his own room before his dad can say anything, and thankfully, he lets Stiles go.
The look his dad gave him was telling, and Stiles feels it like a punch-the irrefutable knowledge that Derek had never said anything, that he'd kept the secret like he'd promised.
It only makes him ache more.
Stiles sits at his desk and stares at the principles of micro- vs. macro- economics all night, absorbing nothing.
In the morning, he flunks his test.
~~~~~~~
"So," his dad says, over that night's meatloaf, and from that one syllable Stiles knows this conversation isn't going anywhere Stiles wants to be. "I haven't seen Derek around for a while."
"The swimming lessons are over," Stiles says around a bite of mashed potatoes. Stiles has drowned them in gravy, but they're still stuck in his throat, refusing to go down until he gulps half a glass of milk.
"Son, I may be an old man, but I'm not blind yet," his dad says kindly. "I'm pretty sure that's not all that's over. You wanna talk about this?"
That right there? That makes it tough. Because he wants to be as mad at his dad for this whole thing as he is at Derek, but he also needs his dad. Derek's got the pack for solace, and Stiles has nobody.
(Whose fault is that, Stiles?)
"I don't know what that will accomplish," Stiles says quietly. He lays his fork down, certain that if he tries to dry-swallow more food and talk at the same time he's going to end up getting Heimliched by his father.
"Maybe you're right," his dad agrees easily. Too easily. "Maybe I'm not the one you need to talk to."
"Why did you think it was appropriate to make decisions about my body with my boyfriend?" Stiles blurts out. Huh. Turns out he had things to say to his dad after all.
His dad looks at him, his own mouth open a little in surprise.
"No one did that, Stiles," his dad says. "I don't know what you think we talked about, but I didn't do that." He pauses. "As much as I might want to."
"It's not your call! Jesus, Dad," he shouts.
"I know that."
"And it's not Derek's either!" Stiles shoots back.
"And there's where we part ways," his dad raises a hand, giving Stiles the universal slow-your-roll gesture that cops everywhere possess. "Just because you're younger, doesn't mean yours is the only consent that's important. It's Derek's body too, Stiles. And, frankly, his decision to break the law with it or not. With a sheriff's son, no less."
"He should have talked to me first. And…or…we should have talked to you together. He had no right…" Stiles trails off.
"Now we're back on the same page," his dad agrees softly, nodding.
"How can you start out on my page and then go hang out on his page and then come over and be back on my page again?"
"Every page isn't the same, Stiles. They all tell a different part of the story."
"I-I just don't think this one has a happy ending," Stiles whispers. He feels like he's going to burst into tears at any moment.
"Son, I want to be very clear on this," his dad says, squeezing his shoulder. Stiles looks up, blinking and praying he doesn't lose it right here in the middle of his meatloaf. "There is no power on earth that could make me choose anyone's side over yours. In no situation, in no way, ever," he says firmly. "When this book cover closes, you and me are always going to be in that epilogue together. On the same page. You get me?"
He pauses, to make sure that part's sinking in, and Stiles nods carefully.
"I have absolutely no problem believing that Derek did a crap job handling this. He made some poor decisions, and it's clear that he didn't communicate well at all with you. Because of that, both of you-probably even the others in your pack-are hurting. And trust me, the dad in me is furious about that."
"But?" Stiles says, because he's pretty sure there's one coming, and so far his dad's been pretty much a champ in this situation and he figures he can take that one word off his plate.
"But…" his dad acknowledges how Stiles steps up with an appreciative nod, "I believe that he's head over heels in love with you, and was trying to do the right thing-by you and your family. And I think not factoring that into whatever decision you end up making would be a mistake."
He rises and pulls Stiles' dinner away without asking. Neither of them have finished their meals. Stiles helps, covering the plates in cling wrap for late-night microwaving ease while his dad clears the table.
"Dad?" His dad shuts the fridge on the last dish and leans against it, watching Stiles carefully. Stiles feels badly; it seems like he's put more lines on his dad's face just since last night. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"What answer d-did you give Derek?" Stiles stammers. "About being with me?" His dad pulls him into a hug.
"You mean after I chewed him out for not talking to you first?" Stiles feels the smile against his forehead and nods against his dad's shoulder.
"I told him that I had a smart son who was ready to make decisions like that for himself."
"And?" Stiles prompts.
"And that I trusted him to do right by you, whatever the two of you decided." Stiles squeezes tighter.
"Annnnd?" Stiles repeats, looking up at his dad.
"And that there wouldn't be enough wolfsbane in the world if he ever made me feel I had misplaced my trust." his dad grins.
"That's my dad." Stiles laughs softly and steps back. There's still a Derek-sized hole in the middle of his chest, but he feels a million pounds lighter. "You uh, ready for that movie?"
"Nope, going to the station," his dad answers briskly, assembling keys and badge in the beginnings of his usual leaving-the-house routine.
"But it's movie night!" Stiles isn't even faking disappointment at this point. He'd really like some father-son time right about now.
"Son, between last night's thing with your meds-and we are so going to be talking about that in your very near future, don't even think you've gotten off the hook on that one-and tonight's angst-filled heart-to-heart, if Derek Hale isn't already standing on the porch freaking out when I open that door I'll eat my hat. I do not want to be here for that reunion."
Sure enough, Derek is quite literally shuffling from foot to foot on the welcome mat when his dad opens the door.
"Sheriff," Derek says, dipping his chin respectfully.
His dad shoots Derek a dark look.
"Don't fuck it up again, Hale," he growls. Stiles can't remember laughing at anything in the last few weeks, but the look of sheer terror on Derek's face actually has him holding it in.
"N-no sir," he stutters.
Stiles steps back to let Derek in, closing the door behind him. Paternally-induced panic aside, Derek looks like shit. His face is almost gaunt; if somebody told Stiles that Derek hadn't eaten or slept since that night in the pool he'd believe it instantly.
"I suppose you heard all that," he says, not doubting it.
"I-I tried not to, but-" Derek shrugs.
"I know."
"I was worried." Derek almost pleads to be understood, and Stiles hates it, hates seeing his grumpy, defensive sourwolf transformed into someone so broken.
"I know, it's okay, really. I'm not mad," he says, offering up a crooked smile that Derek drinks in greedily, staring.
"You hungry?" Stiles says. It's idiotic, but it's the first thing he could think of to say. Derek is already starting to shake his head, then stops, apparently reconsidering. His expression looks suspiciously like he's remembering getting instructions from someone, like maybe that he's supposed to be 'approachable' or something. Stiles suspects Lydia.
"I made meatloaf," Stiles cajoles, not about to surrender the advantage. "But you're supposed to cook ground beef well-done, so, you know, maybe not your thing."
"I could eat," Derek says, and his slow, hopeful smile immediately makes Stiles feel better than he has in weeks.
Derek sits at the table while Stiles makes a ridiculously huge plate and nukes it for a few minutes while he pours the biggest glass of milk he can find. Derek arches a skeptical brow at the mound of food placed in front of him.
"What? You're skinny!" Stiles says defensively and Derek raises a hand in surrender, digging in with a tiny smile. "Have you eaten anything?! I'm gonna kick your betas' asses when I see them next."
Derek smiles again (that's three, three smiles in five minutes and Stiles is now counting them with single-minded, Sesame Street determination) and shakes his head, digging in.
"They miss you," he says between bites.
"I know."
"So do I," he says quietly, glancing up at Stiles from under his lashes as he gulps down a good quarter of his milk. "Stiles…even if we aren't going to work…you belong with the pack. You are pack. They're miserable without you there."
Stiles is miserable too, and, judging by Derek's appearance, it's been a round-robin of misery for everyone. He doesn't know what to say to fix it, though, so he thinks back to his lessons, Derek's voice echoing in his head.
"Being pack means sometimes you don't have to talk at all. Just be with each other. Be happy, be sad. Hurt. But do it together."
Stiles stretches his arm out, lays it on the table-top. Reaching.
Derek reaches back, tentatively, thumbing the small bone on the outside of Stiles' wrist, the pads of his fingers seeking the pulse on the underside. Stiles feels it like a live wire, like Derek isn't just touching the surface of him, but his very atoms and molecules themselves.
Having physical contact with Derek again-and yeah, Stiles has to admit that part of it isn't only Derek, but the pull of the Alpha, too-after so long without is a nearly overwhelming high; if he could distill or grow or compound it somehow he'd be a drug cartel of one, the richest in the world.
"Are you okay?" Derek asks, eyes bright and wide on Stiles' face. "Last night…I could feel…"
"I know. It was close. But I didn't, just so you know. And I told my dad. But I know I made you worry. And the pack. I'm sorry-" Stiles apologizes, and Derek's grip tightens just a fraction.
"No, don't be sorry, I'm just...fuck. I'm glad you told your dad," Derek says, then sighs. "This is hard."
"Can't we just eat first?" Stiles says plaintively. He really does want to see Derek with a full belly when he leaves, regardless of what else ends up happening.
"We?" Derek asks, amused. On cue, Stiles' stomach growls loudly.
"Wow, you wanna try that again, little wolf? I'm not sure the pack heard that growl back at the house," he grins. (Four! Four smiles for Stiles, mwah-ha-ha!)
"Shuddup and gimme that spoon," Stiles grumbles.
Derek's smiles have warmed his belly, and he's suddenly ravenous. Derek laughs softly (five, mwah-ha-ha) and moves his chair closer, scootching the plate to middle distance between them and tangling their legs together under the table.
They eat in near-silence but it's a comfortable one. Stiles loses track of the smile-count after it hits double digits and they end up clinking flatware together as they go after the same stray kernels of buttery corn, knocking knees under the table. The meal's demolished in short order; they wash it down by sharing the same glass of milk. It isn't sexual in any way, and yet it feels like the most intimate thing Stiles has ever done.
He stands and Derek does too, pushing back his chair with an appreciative groan that makes Stiles smile. There's a tiny smidge of milk moustache in the corner of Derek's mouth that's tormenting Stiles. He can't decide if he wants to leave it there and let Derek look like a little boy after ice cream, or if he wants to lick it off and then continue to make his way into Derek's mouth.
"You wanna come upstairs?" he asks softly, finger catching in Derek's belt-loop.
"Very much." Derek leans in, like he's not close enough unless he's breathing in the same air that Stiles breathes out. Derek kisses his temple, hands light at Stiles' waist.
"Okay then," Stiles turns, not letting go of the belt loop, and leads Derek across the hall. He turns back and pauses at the bottom of the stairs. "You sure you wanna do this?" he says, jiggling the belt loop for emphasis.
Derek looks panicked for just a moment, but then he leans back to get a better look at Stiles as his eyes narrow suspiciously.
"Why do you ask?"
"I just thought you might be more comfortable going outside and climbing through the window, is all," Stiles says innocently. Derek growls.
"Stiles…"
"What?" Stiles shrugs, grinning. "Maybe you have, uh, stair-phobia. It's a thing."
"Move." Derek forcibly turns Stiles toward the stairs and crowds him right up the two flights to his room.
________________________________________________________________
part nine