Fic: Teen Wolf: state of readiness | NC17 | Derek/Stiles (3/10)
When Stiles shows up at the house after school on Monday, he's not sure what to expect. He doesn't know how his personal little war is supposed to be a secret if he needs to connect and build bonds and whatever else passes for new-agey with werewolves.
No one seems all that surprised to see him, though. Curious, maybe, but not surprised. Isaac and Boyd give him a chin-nod and go back to the Xbox, and Erica ignores him altogether, engrossed in her Facebook wall. Jackson strolls in just behind him and shoulders rudely past Stiles to get to the fridge.
It feels like any other day, really.
Stiles' first instinct is to head upstairs to the room he usually claims when there's pack shenanigans and it's too late-or he's too bloody-to go home. He's pretty sure he's not going to get any homework done sitting around the main floor with the betas, and it's his first session night; Derek will be here for dinner and then god only knows what will go down at that point. If he doesn't get it done now, there'll be no getting it done.
He knows it's a bad idea, though. The whole purpose is to spend more time with the pack, and there's no point driving across town just to hide away in a half-finished bedroom. He plops his backpack down on the granite bar-top and pokes around for a snack of his own, settling on a banana and a cheese stick.
He gets lost in an essay for American History, and is surprised to find himself three thousand words in when suddenly he feels a hot gust by his ear.
"You better put something about the watershed period in there, or Hartel will take off at least ten points," Jackson offers, exhaling Cool Ranch Dorito-breath as he continues reading over Stiles' shoulder.
"Since when do you care about my academic future?" Stiles snipes, pulse still racheting back down after being startled out of his writing zone. "And how do you know anyway?"
"Had it last semester," Jackson answers, shrugging and backing off. "It's your GPA, dude," he says, and wanders away into the living room.
Stiles does a couple three-sixty-degree spins on the stool, trying to decide whether to trust Jackson's advice, before sighing and looking up "watershed period" in the text's index. Derek doesn't get involved in a lot of their teenage squabbles, but it's a pack rule that everyone do their best in school. Bad grades would draw the attention of parents and teachers whose obliviousness is crucial. He doesn't think Jackson would risk Alpha-wrath by deliberately tanking Stiles' grades.
On the other hand…he didn't have to help, either. Jackson could have just walked away and not said anything. Stiles shrugs off that confusing train of thought and goes back to work. He doesn't pause again until the pack invades the kitchen, Derek at the center of their noisy orbits, like he's their sun or some other stupidly mushy analogy.
"Stiiiillessss," Erica sing-songs, draping herself on Stiles' shoulders and hooking her chin over the tendon of his neck, "cook us a real dinner, pretty-please? There's only so many nights a week a girl can eat pizza and still look this good." Her blond curls cascade over him, and she smells nice.
"Yeah, man," Boyd chimes in. "Real food would be awesome." Stiles looks questioningly at Derek, who shrugs and gives him a tiny smile.
"Fridge is stocked. Pretty sure you can find something to work with," he says. Stiles remembers what Derek said, that sharing meals was important. He figures if sharing food helps the pack bond, that giving them food he made himself is probably even better.
"Alright, alright, let a man work, then," he says, extricating himself from Erica's embrace and checking out the fridge and pantry. He ends up making Mexican meatloaf (two actually, because they'll cook faster than one giant one). It's just regular meatloaf with Rotel and black beans blended in, coated in salsa instead of ketchup and cheddar broiled on top of that.
A huge pot of cilantro rice goes with, mixed with tomatoes and chiles and a can of sweet corn that he threw under the broiler for a minute. Stiles has no idea who in the pack would have put avocados in the grocery cart, but all is revealed when Derek takes them out of his hand. When he turns back around Derek has expertly slipped them from their skins in perfect slices.
"You did that with your claws, didn't you?" Stiles says suspiciously. Derek flat-out grins.
"Cool, huh?" Stiles rolls his eyes, but can't keep from smiling back.
Jackson and Isaac disappear outside with a pack of flour tortillas. Stiles hears the clank of the grill lid and they return shortly, tortillas diamond-seared on both sides and stacked high on a plate covered with wet paper towels.
By the time the meatloaf's being pulled from the oven Scott and Allison arrive with Lydia, and it's time to eat.
Stiles has to admit he'd never conceived of meatloaf burritos but they end up being pretty tasty, and there are a lot of oooh's and mmmmm's around the table so he's feeling pretty good about his culinary endeavors. There's the usual banter but Stiles stays quiet and tries to soak up the general vibe.
He's shared a lot of meals with the pack, but it's usually junk; fast food or post-apocalyptic pizza, fueled by adrenaline and ego and seasoned with a spicy survival high like red pepper flakes. He isn't sure what to do with this nice family feeling, and keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He should have known it'd be Derek's big black boot.
"Sooo…." Derek says, and even though he didn't raise his voice the pack stills. They feel something, even Lydia and Allison, and it makes Stiles jealous that he has nothing but their bleed-off to go by.
"I got a call from the Rodriguez pack."
The Rodriguez pack is old, Stiles knows, as old as California itself. And huge. Their territory butts up against the traditional Hale southern border-the one they've barely maintained in the last few years. Not because they had any particular trust of the Rodriguez wolves, but simply because a) no other pack was stupid enough to invade through Rodriguez territory, and b) if the Rodriguez's themselves decided to encroach on Hale land there wouldn't be a damn thing Derek and his ragamuffin betas could do about it.
Except die. There's always that.
The table erupts all at once in frenzied discussion.
"-need to stockpile wolfsbane-"
"I'll ask Mom for any med supplies she can-"
"-Deaton won't help unless one of us is already dying, that's a waste of time-"
"-to get Stiles and Lydia on reinforcing the spellstones along that side of the territory-"
Stiles, however, doesn't say anything. He just watches. Derek, that is. Derek who doesn't look at all grim, nor like he'll be standing in front of a mirror later, practicing a dozen different ways to die bloody while hot and shirtless.
"They wouldn't call," Stiles says thoughtfully, although he doubts if anyone can hear him over the din. Derek can though, because he's been watching Stiles watch him. He gives Stiles a tiny nod and an even more miniscule smile, jerking his head indicating the rest of the pack.
"They wouldn't call!" Stiles repeats, louder, as the pack begins to notice him. And then, as they quiet, "They're not attacking. If they were, they'd have hit us already, when we were at our weakest, and they sure as hell wouldn't give us a courtesy call first."
Everyone's heads swivel to Derek, who leans back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head, the soul of relaxation.
"And that," he says, looking right at Stiles, "is why Stiles will be sitting as my second while they're here."
"But I-I'm-" Stiles stutters.
"Annoying?" Jackson finishes immediately.
"Scrawny?" Boyd adds.
If anyone should be Derek's second, it should be Boyd. But everyone-including Boyd-knows that Derek can't very well present a recently-runaway beta as his right hand to a visiting Alpha. No matter how thoroughly the pack has re-embraced Boyd and Erica, it sends the wrong message to another Alpha who's not privy to all the circumstances. Derek may as well sit in a rocking chair on the porch, sipping from a teacup and braiding daisies into a chain.
"I was going to say 'human', thank you all very much." Stiles says, grinding his teeth.
"You know it's not unusual to see a human in the role of second," Derek says serenely. Everyone else shifts in their seats, murmuring, but no one argues. It's not uncommon. However-
"Those humans are usually mated to the Alpha," Isaac says, with a careful look at Derek. Stiles feels his face heat. Erica skewers him with a sharp grin.
"Usually," Derek says, completely without inflection, existing somewhere out on his little island of calm, his atoll of Zen. "But not always."
"You said 'while they're here," Lydia interjects. "You invited them? Isn't there some sort of a hierarchy, like, the lesser pack goes to the stronger?" Derek raises a brow and directs a chilly look her way. "No offense meant, of course," she adds.
"None taken," he says tightly. "We are the lesser pack. Currently. But they knew my parents, and I get the feeling they are curious about the revival of the Hale pack."
"Curious?" Scott repeats.
"I might even go so far as to say 'cautiously supportive'," Derek allows.
"And," Stiles adds, "curious about how a ragtag bunch of teenagers most everyone else has written off managed to defeat a pack of Alphas, no doubt."
"No doubt," Derek agrees. "But, if we can establish, or, I should say, re-establish, good relations with them, they could prove to be valuable allies."
"Well, lord knows those are thin on the ground," Erica says dryly. "What do we have to do to impress them?"
"Maybe…" Allison trails off, but as intuitive as they may be, no one picks up on her train of thought this time. Everyone just looks at her, until she has to continue. "I think I should sit this one out," she says more firmly, squaring her shoulders. "Having an Argent around can't be helpful. And if they know about the fire…"
Stiles has to hand it to her. Most girls, hell, most people, fuck the gender distinction bullshit, would be a little woe-is-me, I'll take one for the team, blah-blah-weepity-blah about it. But Allison is a BAMF, so of course she just up and says it, all blunt and matter-of-fact. Stiles wants to be president of her fan club. Which is probably why he exclaims…
"Fuck that!" at the same time that Derek says…
"Not happening."
Derek gives him the hairy eyeball and a grudging nod before continuing.
"No one is hiding or pretending to be anything other than what they are-a full-fledged, equally valued member of my pack. If the Rodriguez's don't respect that, then we'll go on without their support."
Bless him, but sometimes Derek accidentally stumbles on just exactly the right thing to say.
"Except you, Isaac," Derek adds darkly. "If you don't get a haircut I'm telling them you're one of the contractors."
~~~~~~~
Opportunities for disguising Isaac as a plumber aren't actually that much of a stretch. What has been a long, haphazard remodel process turns into an outright frenzy of electricians and painters and landscapers traipsing in and out of the house at all hours of the day. Apparently sheetrock guys work after dark if you've got more money than God, which, as it turns out, Derek does.
Derek is antsy and restless in the house because there are strangers roaming all over it and he can't watch them all at once. Whenever he's not occupied with somebody's war-on-weakness session (they call them WoWs-as in 'I'm getting WoWed today'-but only where Derek can't hear), he stalks from one end of the residence to the other. He spends most of his time in the open loft that branches the two upstairs sections of the house, where he can see as much as possible all at once.
Derek paces and scowls, occasionally following a particular tradesman to see if he does anything unacceptable around one of his pack, before returning to beetle his brows at a different one. It reminds Stiles of a momma cat when her humans come over and start picking up her newborn kittens and carrying them around in every direction.
It's really kind of adorable.
All of his anxiety means Derek is completely useless at any home improvement efforts himself. He rips open the hardware packet that goes with the new bunk beds with such aggression that the pieces scatter everywhere, and it takes Stiles and Scott twenty minutes to find them all. Jackson and Danny look at Derek in horror when he offers to help set up the media room, so he stomps out of there with a growl. Then Lydia outright bans him from painting when he presses the roller so hard it leaves furry tracks in the satin sheen.
Derek is so uptight that when the landscaper plants the wrong bushes along the back walkway the pack actually fears for the man's life, and comes to Stiles instead.
"What the hell do you want me to do about it?" Stiles hisses, surrounded by betas.
"You're the second-in-command," Jackson snipes. With quote fingers. "Fix it."
"Yeah," Boyd chimes in, but he's not as obnoxious as Jackson, just genuinely worried, going by his expression. "Before Derek gets home and sees it. He's already fired two landscapers. Beacon Hills isn't that big."
"Exactly," Scott says, which irritates Stiles. Scott should be taking his side, dammit. "At this rate we're going to be hiring the Beacon Hills FFA to finish the yard."
And, seriously, this is weird, because he's a seventeen-year-old kid that doesn't even own this house, and yet they're all staring at him like he can deal with this, like he's their freaking den mother or something. Stiles squares his shoulders and approaches the landscaper, who's been watching them sourly as they whisper-argued.
"So, um, dude, not trying to be a jerk about it, but these are the wrong bushes."
"No they're not. Says so here on the requisition."
"We did not order sago palms."
"Paper says you did." Stiles sighs and reaches deep into his patience-vault. It's sort of weird having to do it when Derek's not even around.
"I can guarantee you we didn't. I know a little about plants. And those kind are poisonous. To dogs."
"Don't see no dogs around here," the guy says grudgingly, looking around warily just in case. Stiles slaps a friendly hand on plant-dude's shoulder and turns him towards the nearest offending mini-palm. Then he smiles at the man, hot and slow like he's got a really good secret to share.
The landscaper freezes under his gaze, suddenly about two shades paler under his sunburn.
"Trust me, man, you don't get those bushes outta here by the time Tall, Dark, and Terrifying gets back? You're gonna meet the scariest frigging dog you have ever, ever seen."
~~~~~~~
Despite his pack's utter dismay when he tries to help, Derek still seems to want them around as much as possible. He comes up with little jobs that he absolutely wants done on some particular evening, no exceptions. Or he tempts them with late-night pizza and they all fall into food comas and end up sleeping over. One night he suddenly declares the new media room must be tested, and they all smoosh together on the leather sectionals with bowls of popcorn and watch Jurassic Park.
"You're not fooling anyone, you know," Stiles says teasingly as the two of them wait by the microwave for the next bag of popcorn. "Check that. You may be fooling some of them, because they're not me. But Stiles knows better."
"Self-referential third-personing is weird." Derek replies.
"Whatever. You play it like this is just regular pack stuff. But you want us here because it doesn't smell like us and it's driving you nuts. It smells like Horacio the subcontractor and Jenny the electrician and mostly a lot like plaster and paint."
Derek flushes as the microwave dings, turning his back to fish out one popped bag and immediately start the next one.
"So?"
"You do realize you don't have a subtle bone in your body, right? You have to know this. You can't possibly be that un-self-aware."
"Shuddup," he grumbles, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he leans back against the counter. Stiles smiles softly and steps into his space. Derek goes very, very still, but he doesn't actually stiffen.
"You're the one teaching me about pack bonds and den and smells and scenting and security," Stiles says. "You can't expect me to ignore it all just because it's inconvenient for you at the moment."
"How about because I'm the Alpha?" Derek says, half grouchy and half hopeful.
"Fat chance," Stiles says, and tackle-hugs him. He rubs his face against Derek's chest, feeling the buttons on his henley scrape his cheekbone. Slowly, Derek's arms stretch around him, resting lightly in the small of Stiles' back, but he inhales deeply right away, nosing against the crown of Stiles' head.
"Better?" Stiles grins into Derek's collarbone.
"Maybe," Derek says grudgingly.
"What do I smell like?" Stiles asks as the microwave dings again. "Something manly, like cedar, or bourbon, am I right?"
Derek inhales deeply, dropping his head a little to nose at Stiles' temple. Stiles can feel the grin gathering, Derek's cheek muscle bunching up against the side of Stiles' face.
"Artificial butter," Derek laughs.
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part four