"I'm not really sure how becoming the world's best authority on the Rodriquez pack is helping me bond with our pack," Stiles grumbles. The current source of his frustration is a dusty tome borrowed from the California Gold Rush Museum. The Rodriguez pack (family, in the book) emigrated to California before it was California, and made their money in the gold mines.
They are also rich enough to make the Hales look like paupers.
Stiles is beginning to wonder if wealth and werewolves go hand-in-hand in some magical way. Derek is a little cagey when he asks.
"Not…not the way you think," he says. "It can be useful. Physical strength. Knowing when someone is lying about a business deal; feeling the blackjack dealer's heartbeat kick up, stuff like that. Most packs make a point not to take advantage."
"Draws the wrong kind of attention?" Stiles ventures, interested now that it's not all ancient history. Derek nods.
"It was easier in my parents' and grandparents' time. Now any hunter with a smartphone can google your life story in a few seconds. The rich and famous float to the top of any search engine results."
"But the Rodriguez's? And the Hales?"
"The Rodriguez's made their money from gold, way back before it would have flagged anyone. And our money-"
" 'Our'? " Stiles says slyly, but Derek just looks confused.
"Well, yeah. It's pack money. It was never mine."
Stiles opens his mouth to say something impudent about a new video game he's been wanting, but Derek is so utterly sincere that he can't bring himself to tease.
"You were saying…?" he asks instead.
"Um, yeah. The Hale money actually came from my dad. My paternal grandparents were filthy rich, and he was an only child. No lycanthropic misdeeds involved." He pauses awkwardly. "Then there's the insurance."
"So, we're new money," Stiles says hurriedly, before Derek can get lost in a dark place.
"I guess. Does it matter?"
"I was wondering if it would matter to the Rodriguez's, actually." Derek appears to give it a moment, but shakes his head confidently.
"No, I really don't think so. Like I said, they and my parents were friends."
Stiles nods, and goes back to the leather-bound asthma-inducer-the book, that is, not Derek-but can't stop himself from complaining again, mostly because someone's there to listen.
"Still don't know how this is supposed to help me with finding my balance," he mumbles uncharitably.
Derek sighs his most put-upon sigh, the one he employs when he actually has to deign to explain something to one of the pack.
"What?" Stiles says sullenly.
"You are what," Derek grinds out in return.
"Sorry, that you-you know-actually have to explain something once in a while. Not like the role of the Alpha is supposed to include things like guidance and education and sharing of werewolf lore and stuff," Stiles snaps.
"Do you have any idea how long you've been in here reading?" Derek asks, refusing to take the bait. The "here" is the newly finished library, which is Stiles' favorite room in the whole house. It's already filling with books, though it should be much more stocked. The lives of all but two of the Hales weren't the only things lost in the fire-nearly their entire family history burned as well.
"Coupla hours," Stiles shrugs. There are no clocks in the room, and he'd left his phone in his backpack, trying to avoid the temptation of Plants vs Zombies.
"Five and a half hours," Derek says with a small smile. "You missed lunch." He gestures to the nearby sandwich and water bottle Stiles hadn't noticed him carry in. "With no breaks, no bathroom, no internet, no snacks, no texts, no calls. When's the last time you did that?"
"Um, never, actually." He's a little stunned.
"Your big three triggers-what are they?" Derek continues, gaze narrowing on Stiles who shifts in his seat, uncomfortable for the first time in…well…five and a half hours, apparently. He doesn't answer, instead looking down at the floor, feeling his face heat. He'd basically asked for this attention from Derek, but now that he's got it he's not sure he likes it.
Derek pulls a chair over and sits down across from Stiles. He reaches out and gently taps under Stiles' chin, forcing him to raise his head and look at Derek.
"I can say it for you, if you won't. School, pack research overload, and encounters with other supernatural creatures."
Stiles gulps and nods, but doesn't say anything.
"Prepping for this visit is pushing on two out of three of these buttons. You're researching as much as you can to be ready for a position of responsibility-one which puts you in extended contact with other werewolves for the first time. Not to mention-" he pauses, "-one in which you'll be considered equal to them."
Hearing it like that makes Stiles' bowels churn, and he knows Derek can smell the sour fear. He's starting to realize he's got a fourth trigger now-the fear of letting Derek and the pack down.
Or maybe that's been a facet of the others all along.
"You're fucking nuts for giving this to me," Stiles says, meaning every word. There's a lot of evidence that Derek's sipping the crazy juice anyway. This is just one more thing. "I'm not ready."
Derek rises and toes the chair back to where it was before. Suddenly his hand is under Stiles' jaw again, but this time it stays, cupping his face gently instead of just tapping for Stiles' attention. It works just the same; Stiles couldn't look anywhere else if he tried.
"You know what you're doing Stiles," he says quietly. "And so do I."
Stiles feels a tiny frission of something skitter through him, not from his jaw, or even his dick, where something like that might be expected. Hot guy caressing his face? It's a totally natural reaction, after all. But it blooms instead from his belly and zings outward in a rush, a warm feeling of belonging and security and affection.
It has a sensual edge to it, but Stiles thinks that's from his own feelings toward Derek rather than inherent to-whatever it is-itself. But it is undeniably intimate-a connection that wasn't there before. He gently pushes back against it, not in rejection, but rather reciprocation, like taking a slinky in your hands and spooling it back into the direction it first uncoiled from. He peers up at Derek, who's still cupping Stiles' jaw, looking a little wide-eyed himself.
"You just whammied me, didn't you?" Stiles asks breathlessly. "Gave me a little Alpha-juice?"
"You did feel it," Derek says, and Stiles watches, amazed as a huge smile utterly transforms Derek's face. "I thought-I thought I felt something back. Finally…" Derek swallows.
And that makes Stiles ache a little; he wonders how many times Derek's reached out-even just in the last few weeks, here at the house-and Stiles hasn't felt him.
"Well, now that the Derek-Stiles Alpha-ooomph Express is operational-" Derek snatches his hand away, appalled.
"Please don't ever call it that again."
"Alpha-oomph Express?" Stiles repeats deliberately, just to see Derek twitch.
"I'll pay you money."
"But it's a very apt moniker, at least from my side of things," Stiles continues gleefully. Making Derek cringe is often the best part of his day. "What would you describe it as? From your point-of-view?"
"Ill-advised?"
"That's not very nice," Stiles admonishes.
"Temporary Insanity Highway? Lack of Foresight Cruiselines?"
"I'm kicking you out now."
"Pretty sure it's my library."
"OUT." Derek grins and ruffles Stiles' hair as he turns to go, like he's a puppy he's proud of or something. Stiles tries to be indignant about it but finds that he can't.
"Dinner's in three hours. Eat your sandwich before you pass out."
~~~~~~~
It was going so well, really.
If anything, Derek had undersold the potential of the visit, something that-if you know Derek at all-should not have been a surprise. After all, if you ask the internet for the definition of Pollyanna a picture of Derek will pop up under the 'antonym' heading. But apparently Alpha Marta Rodriguez does indeed have a soft spot for the Hales, which now means Derek and a bunch of borderline-delinquent betas she's never met.
There's a brief moment of solid awkward on the first day, wherein Derek just has to imply that the Rodriguez support sure would have come in handy a short while ago. Stiles is filled with an immediate sense of doom and despair; he's pretty sure this is the sort of thing a second is supposed to see coming and deflect gracefully. As it is he's left floundering for a way to intercede that does not involve fangs and bloodshed.
"Ah, Marta-I think what Derek is saying is-"
"Stiles, please. I understand completely," she says. Her bracelets clink musically as she waves a graceful hand in Derek's direction. "He's right to ask. I only wish the answer were not so…unkind." She turns to Derek, who's sitting next to her at the big kitchen table, steaming mugs of coffee between them.
"Derek, querido, the last we knew, your uncle Peter was Alpha, and had killed his own niece for her power. We-we were not eager to align ourselves. I hope you can understand."
It seems like the entire room is holding its collective breath until Derek gives a grudging nod. Marta continues, an outstretched hand gentle on Derek's forearm.
"But we were looking for you, Derek. You were not easy to find, not until we learned of the house being rebuilt; we thought perhaps you'd gone." She didn't say 'gone again', which was nice of her, Stiles thinks. That Marta hadn't considered looking in burnt-out buses or abandoned train depots surprises pretty much no one.
"I don't understand," Derek answers. "If you didn't want to ally yourselves, why look for me?"
"If things had gone differently, I would have offered you a place. I would not have left you alone. With him." She practically spat the word, instantly becoming Lydia's new best friend in the process. "Talia would never have forgiven me."
She says it like it still matters, what her dead friend's opinion of her would have been. Derek flushes and ducks his head-pretty much his typical reaction to any affection, but the effect is immediate and the tension dissipates.
"Thank you. It would have been an honor," he answers.
"But, happily," Marta says, gesturing around the room at the pack with a warm smile, "not at all needed now. Why don't you show me what you've done to the house?"
The next few days of the visit are a-ha!-goldmine of information for Stiles. Marta's mate is her mate, and her second her second, two separate entities completely. And though they are both wolves, she didn't bat an eye at Stiles' introduction. Stiles asks a million questions which could have been impertinent but the Rodriguez's are happy to talk about family and pack and don't seem offended at his curiosity.
In addition to the two of them, she also brought her two youngest children, four-year-old twin boys, who are currently racing with glee across the wrap-around porch while the adults finish lunch. Which is pretty funny, when Stiles thinks about it, that Derek's teenagers are being presented as responsible, grown pack members and are not somehow relegated to the kids' table themselves.
It was Stiles who ended up that first night whispering to the rest of the pack about the power of that gesture, something he'd learned in his endless hours of preparation. Bringing vulnerable children to another pack's den is the ultimate sign of trust and friendship. Marta really could not have paid Derek a greater compliment-or sent a stronger signal to other packs about the state of Rodriguez-Hale relations.
"It's the wood," their father, Omar, says, rolling his eyes with a sigh as the boys seemingly compete to see who can make the loudest smacks.
"What do you mean?" Boyd asks curiously.
"Our home is stone, with terracotta floors. Most southern homes are- the stone is cooler. They aren't used to hearing their little stomps thump and echo. I'm afraid their ears are finding it very exciting."
"Well then," Boyd says, sharing a smiling glance with Erica, "let's give them the whole experience." They slip out of the kitchen and a moment later the shrieks and stomps amplify times a thousand, as what sounds like a game of werewolf-tag begins.
Derek rolls his eyes but can't hide a smile. It makes Stiles wonder if most of his days had been like this before the fire-a full house, visitors coming and going, big meals, squealing children underfoot.
"I thought it might be nice to have the sound of children's laughter in the new house, yes?" Marta says with a soft smile. "Since it may be a little while before you have children in the pack…you're all so young…"
Scott and Allison moon-face dreamily at each other-ugh-while Lydia absolutely refuses to make eye contact with Jackson, but Derek is…staring at Stiles, with a studiously blank look on his face that could represent anything. Mortification? A plea for intervention? Constipation?
"Marta, don't embarrass them," Omar chides, and Derek shares some sort of a sympathetic man-smile with Omar before he answers.
"No, you're right. It is nice, and it will be a while before there are children in the house, since everyone is going to graduate college first." Derek gives the aforementioned 'everyone' the stink-eye, as if any of them would dare protest.
"But what about you, querido?" Marta asks Derek. "Surely you have plans for yourself?"
"Me?" he chokes, and Isaac coughs his coffee all over himself. "I didn't…I mean, I don't…I'm not seeing anyone at the-"
"Derek, man," Stiles jumps in hurriedly. "I think she means your plans for education, not procreation."
"Oh, um, yes. Of course," Derek says faintly, but is apparently too put off his groove to actually answer the question. Marta lets it go, smiling innocently at both Derek and Stiles, and by the shrewd way Omar is glancing at his mate Stiles is pretty sure the ambiguity was no accident.
He kinda loves Marta.
Which makes his epic fail the next night completely inexplicable. It's time for the formal part of the Rodriguez-Hale meeting…and the one thing that Derek really needs to walk away with from this visit-successful border negotiations. Derek had wisely delegated this discussion to Stiles a couple of weeks ago.
~~~~~~~
"I-I know we might have to give up some territory. We just aren't strong enough-I don't have enough betas, especially when everyone goes to college-to hold it all," he'd said grimly to Stiles.
"Well, if we have to cede some away, it makes sense for us to give it to a friendly pack that we don't think will try to take even more," Stiles agrees. He wonders if he's said the wrong thing, though, because Derek is staring at him.
"What? Um, was I supposed to disagree? Talk you out of it?" he asks, nervous. "Should I give you a 'not going down without a fight' speech? I've got Aragorn's whole black gate monologue from the Return of the King memorized. There's even a line about wolves!"
"What? Uh, no. No, you're exactly right," Derek mumbles, still staring. "And I want you to do it because I-I might be too close to it to do what needs to be done, to maybe have to give up part of the territory I grew up in," he grimaces. "I know you'll do what's best."
"Appreciated, thanks, and not a single square inch more of our land than we have to, you can count on it," Stiles answers. "But that doesn't explain why you're looking at me all weird and stuff."
Derek fidgets, looks down, fidgets some more. If only there was a conveniently placed patch of dirt nearby, he'd be scuffing a toe in it.
"It's just…" he looks up at Stiles finally, and his eyes are gleaming. "You said 'we'," Derek smiles.
"I what now?"
"You said 'we'. And 'us'. And 'our' and then 'we' a few more times after that," Derek elaborates. "Instinctively, that's what your subconscious put in your head. Instead of 'you' and 'they' and 'the pack'.
"Oh," Stiles says faintly. "I-yeah. I did." He grins. "This is a thing, isn't it? A pack thing?"
"Yeah," Derek reaches for him, pulls him in and inhales deeply, arms tight around Stiles' shoulders. "It's definitely a thing."
"Good," Stiles mumbles into Derek's t-shirt. "Because I'm ready."
~~~~~~~
It was probably that-that deep, burning desire to keep that pleased, proud look on Derek's face, that leads Stiles to pop the cap on the Adderall a second time that day. He'd have thought that it would go the opposite way, that his realization that the pack connections were solidifying daily would give him the confidence he needed all on his own.
But instead, somehow it just gives him another thing he could lose if he can't focus enough to hang onto it.
If Marta and Jamie, her second-in-command, notice anything-that Stiles is far less animated than he'd been before, or more apt to cut directly to topics instead of wander aimlessly in their direction-they don't react.
Maybe they chalk it up to a lack of finesse stemming from his novice status in such matters. Or maybe they even think it's a deliberate choice, that Stiles had disarmed them with charm and meandering conversation in the first days of their visit in order to surprise them with focus and a sharper-than-expected diplomatic mind now, when it counts.
Either way, the end result is a huge win for the Hales. Stiles knew going in that money wouldn't be a temptation to the Rodriguez's, so he offers them only other currency the Hale pack has: knowledge.
"I have the perfect person in mind for the-apprenticeship." Marta beams, after Stiles lays out the terms of his offer. He wonders uncharitably if said person will coincidentally be an attractive female of marriageable age. But Marta seems like an honorable person, and Derek turned her down on her offer already, so all he can do is hope for the best.
"I just-I feel like I should remind you that a lot of what I can do is dependant on, um, inherent ability. I'm willing to teach anyone, share spells, books, online resources, but unless you take someone into the pack with their own abilities in the meantime, they won't be able to replicate a lot of what I can do."
Stiles pauses, because to him that sounds pretty conceited, and also misleading. He's not Hermione Granger. He's only a smidge above Professor Lockhart, when it comes down to it.
"Which, well, it isn't really all that much, just so you don't get the wrong idea."
"I'm sure you're being modest, Stiles," Marta smiles. "Nevertheless, we currently have no practitioners in our pack, so anything we learn will be more than we had already."
"In that case…" he stumbles, unsure for the first time, because he hadn't thought this part through before, "-if you don't already have someone in mind-send a human."
He watches them carefully for signs of offense, trying to ignore the sudden prickle of nervous sweat in his armpits that they are clearly too gracious to acknowledge smelling. They don't seem ruffled, though, and Stiles breathes deeply in relief. He tries to center himself on the comforting vibe from his pack downstairs, but the Adderall makes the connection fuzzy and he can't.
"Why a human?" Jaime asks, but it sounds curious, and not like a challenge.
"Something I learned from-" he pauses, unsure if they know Deaton, or if Deaton would want them to know him, "-a mentor of mine. The wolf magic doesn't always play well with spellwork. There's a good deal of stuff about organic and manipulated magics clashing, things going boom." They nod. "One time I got hit over the head and Derek tried to finish casting the relocation spell to get us away from the mountain troll, and, ugh. He relocated the troll. We found parts of it in the grille of his car the next day. It was parked a mile away!" Stiles shudders and they both smile grimly in sympathetic understanding.
"Anyway, moving on…Allison will visit and give a presentation on hunter strategy tactics, and information on the latest in weapon trends," Stiles confirms.
"Two visits, please," Marta replies. "And charming Lydia, with her beakers?"
"Of course, two it is," Stiles agrees. "Lydia will provide the recipes for some of her weapons."
"Only some?" Jaime raises a brow.
"The ones safe for wolves. There are many that aren't safe for you to handle," Stiles explains. "Wolfsbane-based, or other things that aren't wolf-friendly. We even hide them from our own betas."
"Ahh, I see. Of course. And a demonstration, no? We would prefer not to explode the homestead."
"And a demo," Stiles acknowledges. "And I have a personal gift as well." He hands them a small box with a set of six charm-stones inside.
"You can place these wherever you'd like, the instructions are inside. Once you set them up to recognize your pack signature, they'll alert you to anyone non-pack who crosses nearby. They have a good range, about five miles in any direction."
"What a thoughtful gift, Stiles!" Marta exclaims, and then surprises him with a warm hug. "You must visit with Lydia or Allison and teach us how to make more of these. They'll be very useful to us while guarding your southern border."
And of course, Stiles can't say no to that, because the Hale pack is walking away with their territory intact and having purchased security for their entire southern border for the next ten years.
The pack celebrates long into the night after Marta and clan depart, but for every high five and hug Stiles gets there's a look of concern as well. Not quite disappointment, but worry, radiates from the betas. The irony is that he can feel it, now that the extra Adderall has worn off, like the emotions themselves have a physicality to them that he's never noticed before. Stiles doesn't even have to look at their faces to know.
Derek won't look at him at all.
Stiles finds him on the back porch after everyone else has finally crashed; no one's gone home tonight, either unwilling to let go of the victory high, or afraid to leave Stiles and Derek alone. Maybe a little of both.
"Guess this is the spot for deep conversations," he ventures. Derek doesn't say anything, but he's seated himself wholly on one side of the swing, so Stiles interprets it to mean he can take the other.
"So. You, uh, want to huff and puff about this?"
"Not really."
Stiles doesn't know where to go from there, so he ends up getting right back up. The chains squeak unhappily at his indecision.
"Oooookay then. Guess I'll crash. G'nite."
"Just about right on time," Derek says, looking pointedly at his empty wrist where a watch has probably never rested. That Stiles even recognizes the gesture of sarcasm is only due to all the hipsters bringing back wristwatches. No one Stiles' age has ever even owned one. Derek Hale: beholden to hipster fashion trends
"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles asks.
"You popped your extra pills, you defeated your enemy, you ate until you couldn't move-it's about time for you to crash. Same pattern as always."
Derek says it with a truly ugly sneer. Stiles has spent hours, days even, trying and failing to imagine how Derek could ever look anything but beautiful to him. Now he knows: he's the one with the power to put that look on Derek's face.
"Nothing has changed," Derek says flatly.
"That's-that's not true," he rebuts. "I can feel the pack. I AM pack, now. I feel you, Derek."
"I trusted you!" Derek snarls. "I trusted you, not your pills, to get this done. I believed in you, Stiles. Why couldn't you trust me?"
"Everything's not always about you, you know," Stiles snaps. "It's not about trusting you, it's about trusting myself not to fuck this up, okay? That's what this is. I'm the weak link here, not you, not the pack. Me."
"Then-fuckit, Stiles-" Derek rises, paces to the other side of the porch and back, and runs a frustrated hand through his hair before turning back to Stiles. "Fine. If you don't trust yourself, I-I can't make that happen. But the thing about having a pack is that you're supposed to trust them. You're supposed to trust your Alpha."
Derek's jaw works, some secret struggle to get the right words to come out that Stiles can't help, as much as he wants to reach out and smooth the tension away.
"You're supposed to believe in us, until you're ready to believe in yourself."
"I-I just knew I could make this work, I knew I could negotiate for help without losing any of our territory, I just had to stay sharp, is all-"
"Did I do this?" Derek interrupts with a soft voice.
"Do what?" Derek sits down again, pulls Stiles down with him and doesn't let go of Stiles' arms. He's gonna have thumb bruises on his biceps tomorrow.
"Did I do something to make you think that land is more important than you? Than any member of my pack? Is that how you see me?"
"What? No, don't be stupid, of course not."
"Then why would you sacrifice your health for dirt and rocks?"
"It's more than just that and you know it."
"Dirt and rocks, Stiles." Derek repeats. "And you're-" Derek squeezes his arms again. "You're more than that."
"I know, I really do. I didn't do this because I didn't think I was important, believe me."
"Then why? Why would you risk backsliding after all the progress you've made?" Derek sounds so deeply unhappy that Stiles imagines the betas whimpering in their sleep in subconscious empathy.
"I just…I wanted to surprise you, okay? Maybe I just wanted-for once in your life-for you to walk away from something with more than what you thought you'd ever get." Stiles hates the teary tremor he can feel in his voice, but dammit, he wants Derek to understand. "Instead of getting stuck just being grateful that you were able to walk away at all."
Derek makes a soft sound low in his throat and suddenly Stiles is being pulled forward, Derek's arms wrapping around him as he tucks Stiles' head beneath his chin. They stay that way for a long time, the swing squeaking softly as they sway.
"You could have done it. I believe it, with all my heart, that you could have made this happen without the extra meds." Stiles hears the words, even feels them rumble against the ear he has pressed to Derek's chest, but he doesn't know what to say in return.
"But the next time you think you can't, I want you to tell me, okay? This isn't just for you, Stiles. I need this too. So does the pack. Until you're willing to trust us when you're most vulnerable, it-things won't feel solid. Does that make sense?"
Derek's no idiot, as many times as Stiles has (with deep affection) told him he is. The surest way to get Stiles to do something is always to equate it with being a need for someone he cares about. And rubbing his stubbly jaw back and forth in Stiles' hair probably aids in the general feeling of contentment Stiles is experiencing.
Regardless, it does make sense, and even if it didn't, at this point he couldn't bring himself to say otherwise. He doesn't want to see that hurt look on Derek's face anymore tonight.
Or ever, really.
"Yeah, I get it. It-it makes sense," Stiles agrees. "I promise," he adds, even though Derek didn't ask him to. "I promise to trust you. All of you, from now on."
"Good," Derek says, pulling him to his feet. Stiles groans his unhappiness at the sudden verticality of his world. "Don't take this the wrong way, but: you stink. Go take a shower and get to bed."
Stiles remembers what Derek had said before, about smelling the medicine in his hair and on his skin, and appreciates the unscheduled cuddling even more. He sketches a salute that is probably too sloppy-tired to be considered jaunty, but whatever.
"Aye, cap'n," he says sleepily, only to be snagged by the wrist before he can go.
"I meant to say…I didn't like your methods, but…" Stiles saves Derek from his own awkwardness in the interest of getting to go to sleep as soon as possible.
"You're welcome, Pound Cake," he smiles. Derek, predictably, rolls his eyes, even though Stiles is pretty sure he doesn't know who Pound Cake actually is. He's got a sixth sense for insults, apparently.
"Not just for tonight," Derek says grudgingly. "The whole week. I'm proud of you. You were-"
"Awesome? Incredible? Deeply talented?" Derek sighs his most put-upon sigh and hauls Stiles in for one last nuzzle.
"I was going to say: 'Exactly what I expected.' "
He whispers the words right into Stiles' ear and then he's gone, leaping off the porch, stairs-schmairs. Stiles barely has time to hear the rustle of shed clothing before he sees a swift, inky shadow tear across the lawn and into the woods beyond.
The wind kicks up and makes the swing sway and squeak, seemingly in unhappy protest at Derek's departure.
"Me too, man," Stiles tells the swing. "Me too."
____________________________________________________________________
part five