Fic: Teen Wolf: state of readiness | NC17 | Derek/Stiles (2/10)

[girlguidejones]

As much as he hates to admit it-and Stiles really does, because he's supposed to be Idea Guy in this pack, it's his thing-this plan of Derek's is actually pretty solid. Of course, that only means that the potential for any one of them to fuck it up in execution is comparatively high, but still. It has good bones.

Even though Stiles is feeling a little territorial about his resident brainiac status, he has to admit that it's good to see Derek finding some leverage with the whole leadership thing. Boyd and Erica coming back didn't hurt, but Stiles is pretty sure that Derek's finally getting his feet under him either way. Even Scott and Jackson-who probably won't be signing up for the Derek Hale fan club anytime soon-at least seem reluctantly interested in what's going on, instead of continually hovering one rung above coercion.

Derek starts the one-on-one discussions the next day, as promised, but not until they have another all-pack meeting at the house. It begins a lot more relaxed than yesterday ended; Derek waves them all into the living room where they sprawl in their favorite spots, trying to look casual. It's a lost cause; even Stiles' human nose can smell the apprehension in the room.

For his part, Derek seems to be trying to put them at ease. He deliberately sits on the sofa instead of the big, throne-like armchair they usually leave for him, squeezing between Stiles and Scott after they're already seated. He's barefoot, and even wears a shirt with color, a nice, autumn-y gold, which Stiles has to admit definitely does wonders for his own personal mood.

"Before we meet individually, I wanted to lay out some ground rules for how this is going to work," Derek begins.

Because he knows his pack, he pauses strategically that moment for the obligatory grumbles about rules, instead of trying to talk over them. He quirks a brow sarcastically after they trail off, but Stiles is pretty sure the left corner of his mouth twitches a little bit while he does it, and he gets some tentative smiles in return before continuing.

"And…" he pauses again, picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans before looking up at them, "…I thought I'd listen to what you had to say. About this. The sessions, I mean…"

Derek trails off uncertainly, while the jeans-picking fingers are moving more nervously. Stiles can see why.

Crowd-sourcing has never been Derek's M.O. He's traditionally been all "I'm the Alpha" and "Grrrr!" and for the most part, it's worked for them. But he was right about what he said yesterday…they got stupidly lucky with the Alpha pack. It was chance more than Derek's leadership style that saved the day and clearly he's realized that.

None of which is helping him now.

Self-awareness has always been painful as far as Stiles is concerned, and sometimes there's things about himself he wishes he was less aware of, frankly. But he never realized that participating in someone else's self-awareness could be worse. Apparently the pack is feeling the same thing, because no one answers, and everyone just stares at Derek as if he's grown a second head.

The silence stretches on so long that Stiles physically aches for Derek at this point, for opening himself up and because nobody's giving him anything back and…

"I think we should be able to keep it secret, if we want," Stiles blurts, running all his words together.

He only meant to end the endless silence, to-fuck-to have Derek's back, as hopelessly, mushily loyal as that sounds. But once it's out he realizes he means it. At the sound of his voice suddenly everyone's unstuck, thawing out from their frozen shock and chiming in to agree.

"Stiles is right." Jackson's voice, rising above the others, quiets everyone again with a different kind of surprise. Even Derek-who's not always the first to recognize a meaningful moment-acknowledges the weight of that endorsement.

"Agreed," he nods. Derek squeezes Stiles' nape for a moment in approval, but it's long enough for Stiles to feel the nervous tremor in his palm. Derek had to know Stiles would feel it, but he did it anyway.

Which is weird.

Now that everyone's talking and participating, they get a rough plan sketched out: they'll each take turns with Derek for one-on-ones; anybody who's not up that day will still practice together as a group using their normal schedule.

That, of course, starts the pack squabbling about who will lead the sessions in Derek's absence.

"What would be the best for the pack?" Derek raises his voice above the din, and for a moment no one answers. Usually Derek tells them what's best for them. And then tells them how they're going to do it. And that they'd better like it. Or else. Then Lydia clears her throat.

"I think we should take turns leading. It could be part of our development," she says. Stiles is pretty sure he's not the only one quaking in fear at the thought of being under Lydia's control, but he can't argue that it isn't a good idea.

"Good thinking, Lydia," Derek says quietly, and the discussion moves on.

They end up hashing out a lot of potential what ifs and developing solutions to problems before they actually occur, which, Stiles has to admit, is already an improvement over their usual method.

"What if your mom calls in the middle of your day because she needs a ride?" Scott asks.

"Really?" Derek smirks.

"It happens all the time, man!" Scott protests.

"We'll deal with it," Derek says. "Maybe on your days you make sure you don't take her car. I'll come and get you, or something."

It only gets really hairy right at the end, when Allison asks whether she should tell her dad what's going on; depending on her goals, maybe he can help. Everyone falls silent. The idea of Chris Argent furthering the pack's welfare is not exactly easy for any of them to envision.

"I think that's your call," Derek says calmly, but Stiles feels the tension rolling off of him. The hole in Derek's jeans calls to him; Stiles wants deeply to poke his finger through it and scrape his nail over the skin of Derek's kneecap.

Where does his brain get this stuff?

Allison stares at Derek for a long moment, and he stares back, but it looks like that was the answer she wanted to hear, and so when she nods once that's pretty much it.

Derek stands and reaches for his boots.

"Jackson," he says, "you're up. Let's take a walk."

~~~~~~~~~

It's full dark when Derek walks into the house and flops onto the sofa.

Whether by design or on a whim, Derek has saved Stiles' 'consultation' for last. No one returned to the house after their walks with Derek, and Stiles is pretty sure there's a ten little werewolves joke in there, but he's too sleepy to articulate it.

"We goin out, or…?" Stiles gestures vaguely from where he's sprawled on the other end of the couch, wondering where his coat and shoes are. He was the only one left when Derek walked out with Boyd, and he ended up dozing off. His head's a little cloudy.

"Nah," Derek says. "Nobody left but us…figured we'd just stay here if that's okay with you."

"Sure." Stiles answers. "You, uh, hungry? Unless you took a spin through White Castle with Erica, you missed dinner."

"Did you eat?" Derek seems a little hyper-focused on Stiles suddenly, as if he's trying to determine something, but Stiles is damned if he knows what it is.

"Made myself a roast beef sandwich." Stiles yawns and stretches. "How do you get roast beef that rare at the deli counter anyway?"

"I make 'em cut open a new block and slice it from the middle." Derek grins, all teeth. That smile makes Stiles' belly do a little flip, a bastard blend of fear and desire.

"So, basically you're a dick at the deli?"

"Pretty much."

"Quelle surprise." Stiles grins.

"Sandwich sounds pretty good," Derek says, lifting a foot up onto the coffee table like the heathen he is and picking at his boot laces. Stiles rolls his eyes but pushes to his feet.

"You must have one of those misprinted dictionaries I heard about, the ones with a picture of an anvil next to the entry for 'subtlety'," he calls out as he heads to the kitchen.

He does, however, enjoy the look of surprise on Derek's face when he comes back in less than thirty seconds carrying his dinner. Stiles sets a soda and a plate holding a giant sandwich down on the coffee table and throws a bag of chips at Derek's head.

"Awwww….you do care." Derek catches the Fritos and grins again, reaching for the sandwich. He's awfully smiley tonight, which makes Stiles nervous, as if Derek's disarming him intentionally, leading up to an attack.

If he'd known tonight was his last meal, he would have skipped the sandwich, maybe fired up the grill and thrown on a t-bone.

"Don't look so surprised, man. I've seen you eat. I don't actually feel one hundred percent safe in a room with you when you've missed a meal. All this-" Stiles triangles a gesture from Derek to the plate to himself and back-"is really just self-preservation on my part."

Derek mumbles a thank you around a gigantic bite of the gigantic sandwich that Stiles had made earlier and put aside for him. The roast beef really is rare; the blood has soaked into the soft white deli roll and is turning it pink. Stiles had to throw his in a skillet for a minute before he could eat it, but he's not telling Derek that. He steals a few handfuls of corn chips and munches from the other end of the couch while Derek basically inhales his sandwich.

"I didn't realize that hours of talking would make me so hungry," he says between bites. "That's a normal day for you. How are you not two, two-fifty?" He grins.

"Funny wolfie," Stiles grumbles, flicking a chip at Derek's face. "Go ahead. Mock the ADHD kid." Derek sobers immediately, setting his plate back on the table.

"I would never do that," he says, sitting up and leaning toward Stiles, as if to drive home his words. Stiles feels badly for accidentally ending the light-hearted moment.

"Dude, I know this," Stiles assures him with what he hopes is a manly smack to the shoulder. "We're cool. Jokey fun times, no problem." Derek stares at him long enough for it to be uncomfortable, but apparently hears the not-lying heartbeat and relaxes.

"Okay," Derek says, sitting back, but doesn't reach for his plate again. Not that there's much left, maybe a few human-sized bites. Or, alternately, one wolf-bite. "Good. Might as well get started then, I guess?" he says.

"Uh…"

Stiles is caught off-guard and ends up wiping his greasy Frito-fingers on his pants. He glances at the napkin he'd brought for Derek, but napkin-sharing seems like it would be a couples thing, like putting his mouth where Derek's mouth was and rubbing it would be stepping over the nice, safe line Stiles keeps in his head. Stealing a drink of Derek's soda, however, is totally a guy thing and Stiles doesn't hesitate. He's anxious and his throat is dry.

"You don't need to be nervous," Derek says with a smile.

Stiles wonders if Derek has any idea how terrible his "kindly, good-intentioned" man-smile really is. If he realized how scary and plastic it looks he wouldn't even try. He'd leave the awkward librarian-charming to Scott and his puppy-face. Stiles should make him do it in front of a mirror someday.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," Stiles cracks. Nervously.

"What do you think we should be working on?" Derek asks, ignoring Stiles' lame deflection. Derek's sad attempt at a soothing tone, coupled (ha! coupled!) with the fact that Stiles is semi-reclined on a sofa make him feel weirdly like he's seeing a psychiatrist. A hot, barefoot, underwear-model therapist who shares the sofa with you.

Stiles is pretty sure this is the plot of at least three percent of the gay porn he's seen.

"Look, why don't you just tell me what you want me to do and we'll get started, okay? We both know that's how this is going to go."

Stiles is gruffer than he means to be, but he's just on edge, what with the new fear of the process combined with the always-there fear that Derek will smell his interest and freak the fuck out.

If Derek figures out that the jailbait sheriff's kid has a crush on him, Stiles is certain he'd be out of the pack in a heartbeat. No way is Derek going to risk the entire pack's stability on one human kid.

The effect on Derek is immediate. Immediate, and also completely unexpected.

"That's not fair," he says, his face cloudy. And hurt.

"I don't hear you denying it." Stiles wants to kick himself at this point. It's like he's at Vegas and can't resist going all in now that he's picked a strategy, even if it's starting to look like a bad one.

"I thought-" Derek pauses, genuinely confused. Stiles has seen that face enough times to recognize it. "I thought you were with me on this."

"I am. The idea, it is good. It's a good idea. And the pack kids get one-on-one time with Daddy, which they desperately need and there is finally time for, thank God," Stiles agrees, struggling to stay calm and reasonable. He knows he's sorta close to being an asshole right now, and he hates it but can't quite walk himself away from the edge.

"Why do you say it like that?" Derek squints at Stiles.

"Like what?"

"Like that," he responds. "The pack kids," he mimics. "They. Like you're not one of them. One of us."

"I'm not." It hurts to say it.

"Since when?" Derek says softly.

"Since always," he answers, but he can't look Derek in the eye when he does.

"Because you're human?" Derek prods. "Do you think Lydia doesn't belong here either? Or Allison?"

"That's-that's not up to me. It's up to them if they feel that way."

"I'm pretty sure they don't," Derek says, like that will help somehow.

"Yeah, well, maybe they have more of a reason to belong than I do," Stiles says pointedly.

This is awful. It was never his intention to talk about this. He hadn't even been thinking about it, hasn't articulated it to himself yet, that he's the only one in the pack who is neither supernatural nor a sexual partner to someone who is. And now that Derek has helpfully illustrated it along with him, he can't unsee the gulf between him and everybody else.

He can't imagine what Derek is smelling and hearing right now. Stiles is sweating; he can feel his own erratic heartbeat in his chest and the heat of tears building up and the effort to keep them in is overwhelming.

"If you think-" Derek stops, raking a hand through his hair, obviously frustrated by Stiles' imminent breakdown. "If you think you are less valued than anyone else, just because-" he breaks off again, apparently at a total loss. And that's Stiles' pressure-release valve, right there.

The betas always key their moods off of Derek's. Stiles figures it's a wolf-thing, that they're wired to him and can't help it, and a lot of what he's read supports that interpretation. In practice, it means if Derek's grumpy-something with which they have a good body of experience-the rest of the betas are cranky as well. If he's calm, they're relaxed. If he's moody, they worry.

Stiles…has always taken the opposite approach, like tacking a sailboat into the wind to make progress. If Derek (and his pack) are grouchy, Stiles becomes a source of unending optimism. If they are giddy, he's chill. If Derek's sad, Stiles tells a happy story, or acts the fool until the pack's frowns turn upside-down.

He's a walking counterweight, is what Stiles is, and seeing Derek looking lost is enough to snap Stiles out of his self-pitying spiral.

"Look, forget it, okay? I didn't mean to dump all that on you," Stiles says, taking a deep breath. "It's my crap to carry, not yours."

Derek blinks at him, as if Stiles is speaking a different language. He shifts on the sofa, folding his bare feet up to sit cross-legged across from Stiles, elbows on his knees.

"You don't get it, do you?" he asks, staring at Stiles. It's apparently a rhetorical question, because he doesn't wait for an answer. "I'm supposed to help you deal with your crap. You're supposed to dump your shit on me. I'm-" and he stops himself, presumably just before uttering the three-word sentence that would prove Stiles' original point about who was really going to decide what Stiles' biggest weakness is. Instead Derek asks a question.

"What am I to you?"

Object of desire? Source of endless annoyance? Reason the bedroom windowsill is drooping? Stiles has no earthly idea how to answer that question without incriminating himself or making both of them more miserable than they clearly already are. He shoots for something neutral.

"My friend?" The question mark is clearly audible, and Derek frowns but sighs his acceptance, apparently unwilling to dig below surface-level for more.

"I can work with that," he says, his eyes on Stiles'. Stiles' relief is cruelly stunted a moment later. "But," Derek continues, "if I were doing my job right, your instinctive answer would have been 'my Alpha'. I guess it's no wonder you feel disconnected from the rest of us."

Stiles doesn't feel any great need to correct Derek on his reasoning; nothing he's said is wrong, per se. It just isn't the complete picture. It might not be fair to let Derek shoulder all the blame for whatever issues he has with inclusion, but at the moment Stiles is barely treading water in this conversation.

He'll take what he can get.

"It does, however," Derek says, "make a strong case for my original idea for your focus."

"Wow," Stiles replies. "You sure do know how to segue, don't you?"

"Shut up," Derek says, but it's cautious, like, he thinks things are starting to be more okay but isn't willing to take it for granted yet.

"No, really," and Stiles smiles widely, throwing Derek a bone (Ha! dog-puns: always funny, even in his head.) "That's some major brass wolf balls, there. Power right through the quicksand, boo-yah!"

"I didn't mean to-"

"Too late!" Stiles reaches out and flicks Derek's ear, which pack-evidence has shown is a sure-fire way to end up in a headlock. Sure enough, his next breath is actually a squeaky laugh from the vicinity of Derek's armpit.

"What were you saying about quicksand, pup?" Derek growls it a little bit, playful, and Stiles is so happy to be back in a good place with Derek for the moment that he actually feels like a puppy, gnawing obliviously on the Alpha's ear. Derek pokes him in the ribs for good measure, and Stiles warbles a protest, trying and failing to struggle up to his knees on the sofa cushion.

Derek noogies him in return.

"Uncle!" Stiles laughs breathlessly. He's still pinned against Derek, who has fallen back a little against the cushions, and smells…not armpitty at all, actually. "Okay, I give, I give! Uncle, dammit!"

Instead of letting him go immediately, which, hey, there's a code to these things, Stiles thinks, Derek stills. Stiles can feel Derek resting his cheek against the back of Stiles' head, rubbing it and the edge of his manly stubbled jaw against Stiles' hair like he's seen Derek do with the betas. It gives him a very weird, shivery feeling-but nice, definitely the nice feeling, not the creepy feeling.

He kinda gets the deal with all the ear-flicking, now. Light bulb: so on. It's an LED, even.

Derek still doesn't let him go, and when he starts speaking in the next moment-the words little puffs of air right behind Stiles' ear-the shivers change course and head straight to Stiles' dick.

"Will you just listen? Just listen to my idea, and if you hate it we'll do something else, I promise," Derek says softly. "Okay?"

Stiles is just putty at this point. A Stiles-shaped ball of goo. A lemon-lime Jell-O mold of Stilesness. If Derek had crooned 'I'm just gonna cut off your right arm, and see how it goes. If you don't like it, you can keep the left one, okay?' Stiles would have been all, 'yeah, okay, whatev, so long as you rub your face on me sometimes'.

"Yeah, okay, whatev," Stiles sighs.

He lets himself relax into Derek's side for a moment, like it's just part of his humiliating headlock defeat, instead of contact he's suddenly craving like air. The most Stiles is hoping for is to be tolerated there for a moment, so when Derek shifts and folds him a little more comfortably against him Stiles is lost. The headlock is definitely over, and whatever this is now is much nicer. It doesn't go so far as to be a snuggle. And it's not quite a hug either. But close. It's definitely hug-adjacent.

It's also fucking awesome.

Stiles has no idea how long they stay that way. There may be some sort werewolf stealth-endorphins hitting him right now that he experienced before and doesn't understand. He doesn't say anything because he doesn't want to be the one to break up whatever this thing is.

It isn't the first time Derek's touched him, but it's usually pushing him out of the way of danger or feeling him up strictly for purposes of discovering life-threatening injuries. There may have been-once or twice-a 'thank god you aren't dead, dumbass' hug.

But nothing has ever been…this.

"I should have been doing this all along," Derek says. Stiles jigs a little in surprise. He and Derek are so fundamentally different that it always shocks him when they end up thinking along the same lines. Derek pets him-there really is not another word for it, and Stiles tries really hard to find it but there just isn't-soothing him back to his previous position.

Stiles doesn't say anything. Speech is beyond him. Derek doesn't seem to expect a reply though, because he just continues. Funny. Alpha-snuggles make Stiles quiet and make Derek run off at the mouth. Who knew? It's like Bizzaro-world.

"I should have remembered. It's no wonder you feel disconnected," Derek mutters. "I screwed up."

Now this is familiar territory, Derek assuming all the guilt in the world without sufficient cause or explanation to anyone else.

"I don't know how not hugging me constitutes screwing up," he says into Derek's chest. "Not that I am advocating a return to the not-hugging state of affairs. In fact, I am highly in favor of the current activity. And, also, I offer blanket permission for any future acts of hugging that you may be considering." He feels the shake of Derek's silent laughter under his cheek. Mission accomplished. "I can even put it in writing, if you want."

"Noted," Derek says dryly. He finally straightens a few minutes after that, settling Stiles upright again, and Stiles immediately feels the loss. He feels it keenly, just like all the old romance novels say. He covers it like he covers everything…by talking.

"What did you mean when you said you 'should have remembered'?" Stiles asks.

Derek has settled them close enough for their knees to touch, like he knows about the keenness. Stiles imagines that the one of Derek's with the hole in the denim is a little warmer against his, because he's a layer closer to Derek's skin.

"You…remember that my dad was human?"

Stiles nods. Aside from what the pack has managed to pry from Derek himself (and what Stiles gleaned from the reports of the fire he lifted from the police station) he's read every scrap he can find on the Hale family. He even braved the wrath of Allison's dad by asking to borrow books from the Argent's private library.

"One of my sisters was born human, too. Some of the aunts and uncles who married in, a few cousins," Derek says softly, looking down at where their knees are touching. "It's not unusual in the larger packs."

Stiles nods, hoping it looks supportive and attentive. Derek's only ever willingly talked about his family in situations involving imminent death that required it.

"My mom told me once…she said that we had to hug them, spend time with them-touch them even more than the wolves in the pack," he explains. "She said they needed it more, and would ask for it less, than wolves would."

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that. He thinks back on all of his interactions with the pack over the last few years, seeing them through a new lens. How most of the physical contact was accidental on his part, but always intentional on theirs; how free they were with each other, but how Stiles himself rarely initiated anything. Even being part of the Puppy Pile o' Victory slumber party was a first for him, brought on by the high of winning, and having Erica and Boyd back.

He feels a little cheated, and then he feels crass for feeling cheated, like some asshole guy in the ice cream shop who gets mad and yells at the teenage girl scooping his rocky road because no one ever told him sprinkles were free on Wednesdays.

He could have been having free sprinkles all along.

"I should have remembered that," Derek says again. "I should have remembered and taught the rest of the pack, too. Lydia, and Allison...they do okay. They get touched anyway, since…"

"Uh, yeah, you really don't have to elaborate on that part of the theory, thanks." Stiles rolls his eyes, and gets a quirk of a smile in return.

"Yeah," Derek says. "But you don't. Ironically-"

Stiles can feel another clunky, Derek-style segue coming on, but seriously, at this point he'll take anything that'll move this conversation along. The alternative is that Stiles is going to start suggesting several various ways Derek can make up for the neglectful lack of touching and that's where the map says, "here be dragons".

Dark, GQ-esque dragons with cut abs and growly voices.

"Ironically?" Stiles repeats.

"Ironically, this is directly connected to my idea." He pauses to rub his face. "Even though I didn't make the connection until now."

"That would be the part where there's irony," Stiles grins, getting a reluctant twitch of lip-corners in return. "So what's your idea?"

"I wanted to work on strengthening your connection to the pack," Derek says. And, wow, there is pretty much nothing he could have said to make Stiles feel more like a heel at this moment.

Stiles had started off this whole confrontation out of a secret fear that Derek might kick him out of the pack.

Derek had started off this whole confrontation trying to figure out a way to tell Stiles he wanted to bring him closer into it.

Wires, they be crossed.

"Okay, but how does that work?" Stiles doesn't know how to apologize for thinking the worst of Derek (again) without confessing his secret lust, so the best thing to do is to swallow his guilt and forge ahead as long as Derek seems oblivious.

"We build the bonds," Derek says and stops, like that answers everything.

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Bond-building. Everyone knows that." Stiles drips sarcasm. "No way, buddy. You're gonna have to do better than that."

Derek crosses his arms and looks disgruntled. Stiles doesn't care.

"You're going to have to channel that other Derek who was just here, who put two or three sentences together at once, and start explaining this to me like I'm a five-year-old."

"Touching is a good start," Derek sighs reluctantly. "You need more contact with the pack, not just touching but also just being in physical proximity."

"Like, hanging out in the same room and stuff?"

Derek nods.

"And sharing meals. Games. Even sleeping. Basically, spending some time together that doesn't involve running for your life."

"Okay…" Stiles says expectantly. "And?"

"And-eventually you should be able to feel us. Be connected. Know when we're hurt, or happy. Maybe not as strongly as the wolves can feel you, and maybe it'll never work between you and Allison, or you and Lydia, but there should be something there, between you and the wolves," Derek says. "We need to work on that." He sounds almost a little regretful.

"At the very least, you should be able to feel me," he finishes grudgingly.

"Disappointed, pops, that I can't hear you calling without a cell phone handy?"

Stiles is only half-joking. He really wants to hear the answer. Well, he really only wants to hear one answer, but he put it out there; he can only blame himself if he doesn't like what he gets back.

"Sometimes," Derek says, staring at him. Stiles' throat is suddenly too tight. "I can feel you. When you're hurt or scared, confused…sometimes when you're happy."

He waits, maybe sensing the horrified frission of fear that races through Stiles, who's wondering just how finely Derek can parse the feelings he gets from Stiles. There are things Derek really should not know. But when he doesn't get any actual response Derek continues.

"It's not as clear as it is with the others, but you're always there. Buzzing around. Sort of like a fly." He grins slowly, carefully, and Stiles barks a laugh.

"Okay, okay," he concedes. "I guess it would be nice if it went both ways." Derek nods quickly.

"It would help steady you, too, if you could draw on the pack. When you're stressed, like when the alpha pack was coming at you from a dozen different directions, it could help." Derek is selling it now, coming down the home stretch like a used-car salesman who knows he's got a decent Carfax report to offer up.

"Or if you had a big exam you were studying for, or if you had to stay up late for pack research." Derek's left hand was back on him again, squeezing his bicep for emphasis. Stiles would like to get lost in that, but something was niggling at him.

Physical danger, school-related stress, lack of sleep…Derek had just hit his three biggest anxiety-inducers. Stiles doesn't think it's an accident.

"What made you think of this?"

Derek looks blankly at Stiles, but it's the careful blank, not the honestly-I-have-no-freaking-idea-what-you're-getting-at blank. Something inevitable starts to wash back and forth in Stiles' head, like when you hold a shell up to your ear and think you can hear the ocean. Stiles feels the dread building, circling ominously from below like a great white.

"You said you hadn't made the connection, about me feeling like I didn't belong. So, why did you come up with this in the first place?"

"I-I told you," Derek stammers, and Stiles' gut churns. He knows, just knows from looking at Derek's face, that the next words out of his mouth are going to be lies. It's horrible. Stiles is pretty sure Derek has selectively edited information before, no doubt in the name of keeping them safe and carrying all the weight himself, but he doesn't think Derek's ever outright lied to them. Until now.

"It was after the alpha pack attacked and you were all-"

"My god," Stiles sneers. "You are a fucking terrible liar." Stiles shoves at Derek's hand and leaps to his feet. He's so angry, he's shaking. "This is about my ADHD!"

"Stiles, no, you don't-"

Derek is still seated on the sofa, holding his hands up as if pleading for a chance to be heard, which is the only reason Stiles' punch lands at all. Not only does it land, it makes a sickening crack and sends a fountain of blood gushing from Derek's nose.

So much for that nice, golden shirt.

Derek blinks and shakes his head, trying to clear his vision. He doesn't wolf out, and that alone tells Stiles how guilty he feels, as if even his wolf knows Derek deserved it.

"You asshole," Stiles snarls. "You don't want to connect with me. You don't want me to be closer to the pack!" Derek's shaking his head, one pleading hand still raised in the face of Stiles' fury as the other holds the hem of his shirt under his nose. The quick bloom of blood that soaks it makes Stiles nauseous.

"You want to fix me," he grates, forcing back bile. It's so cruel, to have gotten that little bit closer to Derek tonight, just before it all gets ripped away. Derek's whole pack is a collection of broken or blemished teenagers, carrying both physical and emotional baggage. Until now, Stiles has always thought he fit.

"Stiles, I swear that's not it," Derek tries to argue, rising from the couch. It sounds all wrong through his broken nose, like he has a bad cold. "Please, just listen-"

Stiles is beyond listening.

"Liar." Stiles spits the word at Derek with a two-handed shove at his chest. But Derek's ready for it now. It doesn't even make him sway. He grabs Stiles by the wrists and shoves him back.

"Somehow you're always ready to believe the worst possible thing you can about me. Well, fuck you, Stiles," he grinds out from between quickly sharpening teeth. "Because you're wrong. Again!"

"Oh, there it comes. You think I'm scared of your pointy teeth? Why don't you just go ahead and bite me and have it over with?" Stiles goads. "Fix me for good like you did Erica. You wanna get rid of my ADHD forever, take all my weaknesses and distractions so I can just be a research machine for the pack, instead of a liability?"

Derek's red-eyed and growling a warning now, claws out and fangs fully dropped, but Stiles doesn't give a fuck. He's just done. Fucking done. Derek is shaking his head; it's either him fighting back the shift, or deny-deny-deny, but Stiles doesn't care either way.

"You want to build a better Stiles? Stronger? Faster? Your very own Six Million Dollar Man?"

He can't think of anything right now, can't feel anything but betrayal. He drops to his knees, which should mean surrender but it's pure defiance. Challenge. A slap in the face of an Alpha.

"Then go on, you motherfucker, do it!" Stiles rages. Stiles punches at Derek's thigh and turns his neck up, jugular bare and taunting.

"Fuckin' take your shot, you pussy-"

The massive roar rattles the china in the kitchen cabinets.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut instinctively. Something upstairs tips over and breaks. All the night sounds that were bleeding in through the screen door and open windows-the frogs, the crickets, the moths batting against the porch light-they all cease.

The momentary silence that follows is deafening, a physical thing, like a punch to your belly that takes your breath away. The next thing he hears is the rattle of both of their cell phones as they skitter across the coffee table, blowing up with messages and calls.

When he finally opens his eyes, Derek is on his knees in front of him, tapping out a text to someone before he tosses his phone back down. He leaves a bloody fingerprint on its surface that turns Stiles' stomach.

STAY AWAY, it says.

Their phones go as silent as the frogs.

Derek raises his head and looks at him. Stiles can see his nose is already healed, but the blood is still everywhere, the smell of freshly rubbed pennies overwhelming, even to Stiles. Derek's fingernails are crusted with it and his palms are turned up and open, resting on his thighs as he finally speaks, voice raw from the roar.

"I would never do that," Derek says, low and shaky. "I would never. If you were on the ground dying, bleeding out in front of me-if it was the only way-I still wouldn’t bite you," he chokes. "I'd let you go. I'd fucking let you go."

He's telling the truth. As sure as Stiles knew Derek was lying before, he knows he isn't now.

Stiles finally has to drop his eyes; the wounded look is too much. "I know," he says quietly. He ends up staring at Derek's throat, which is swallowing convulsively.

"How could you do that to me?" Derek says. He's not talking about the punch.

"How could you lie to me?" Stiles shoots back, but it's softer than the words he used before, more like a question than an accusation.

"I wasn't," Derek says, and he must see the protest forming on Stiles' face, because he hurries to continue. "Not the way you think."

The boiling fury has well and truly drained out of Stiles at this point. He realizes suddenly that they're both still on their knees beside the sofa, and he feels like he's going to topple forward into Derek at any moment. Groaning, he pushes himself to his feet, Derek following. He realizes when he's standing that he doesn't want anything to do with the sofa again tonight, and looks around the room at a loss.

"C'mon." Derek leads the way out through the kitchen, gesturing towards the back porch. "Go ahead, I'll get us something to drink."

Stiles wanders around the railing, listening to the night sounds slowly return as he lights the citronella lamps he'd demanded for the porch. Like most everything else, werewolves were apparently immune to mosquito bites.

Stiles hears water splashing in the kitchen sink. It puzzles him before he realizes, with a hot flush of guilt, that Derek is washing the blood from his face. When the screen door opens again, the frogs and insects go silent once more, sensing the arrival of the apex predator who scared the shit out of them a few minutes ago. It's a little spooky.

Derek sits down on the swing next to Stiles, holding two bottles. Stiles' eyes go wide.

"Are you giving me a beer?" he asks breathlessly.

Derek may turn a blind eye to what the pack gets up to with the contents of the Whittemores' bar, or the Martins' wine cellar, but he adamantly refuses to let any of them drink in the house.

"Everything that's gone down tonight, and this is what scandalizes you?" Derek rolls his eyes, holding out the sweaty bottle.

"But you're giving me a beer!" Stiles repeats stupidly, reaching for it before Derek changes his mind.

"If you tell any of the others I'll break your nose," Derek growls. He means it to be funny, and it is, but-

"Stop thinking about it," Derek says before Stiles can even apologize.

"But I am. Sorry, I mean. I'm really sorry," Stiles looks up to find Derek's gaze on him.

"It's okay," he shrugs.

"But it isn't," Stiles insists quietly. "And you know it isn't, so just say you accept my apology, okay?"

"I accept your apology," Derek says stiffly.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They're both silent for a while, sipping quietly as the night creatures finally decide that Derek's not going to eat them and re-start their chorus. It's long enough for Stiles to notice that Derek's got a clean t-shirt on. He's glad. The cushions on the swing are brand new -Lydia had chosen them. He doesn't want to think of her reaction if she came back and they were all bloodstained.

"So…" Derek offers, dragging a little more momentum into the swing with his heel against the floor.

The chain squeaks a little. Erica thought it was annoying, but Boyd had claimed that porch swings were supposed to squeak, and fought her off one day when she stomped out brandishing the WD-40. They'd ended up rolling around on the porch laughing, both of them covered in the stuff, and now there was a new, dark stain across two of the floorboards.

But the chain still squeaks. It makes Stiles happy.

"Erica-" Derek says, and not for the first time, Stiles wonders if mind-reading is part of the Alpha toolbox. Derek runs his hands through his hair, frustrated. "You know her epilepsy was serious? Life-threatening? That she could have died trying to catch the fucking bus?"

Stiles does know. He remembers the panic in gym class, the horrible, whole-body earthquake that went on and on.

"Yeah," he says quietly.

"So it's not the same. We leave her-and the fact that now her brain isn't going to randomly up and kill her someday-out of this, okay?" Derek bites the words out. "My offer to prevent that forever was not because I found her lacking." He's heated and Stiles can't blame him. It's an ugly thing to be accused of, and Stiles isn't proud of doing it.

Still, he's torn. Stiles' first instinct is to point out that any number of things are trying to kill Erica in her new life, and probably far more often than the epilepsy did. And he knows that Derek's original motives-regardless of how he feels about them now-for turning the betas were mostly due to self-interest. But he can't argue that Erica probably has a better chance of surviving than she did before-or that at least she's gained some agency over her potential demise-so Stiles lets it go.

"Okay," he nods. They fall silent again; only the rhythm of the chain fills the silence.

"So…?" Stiles says when he can't stand it anymore.

"Do you think you'd be willing to listen to me for a minute?" Derek eyes him over his beer as he drinks, waiting for Stiles' answer. A light dawns.

"Did you just give me a beer so I'd be all mellow?" Stiles asks suspiciously.

"Could be." Derek makes a small, cautious smile. "Is it working?"

"I'll let you know after the second one." Stiles wags the near-empty bottle under Derek's nose.

"You're evil," Derek complains as he heads back inside for another round.

"Must be the company I keep," Stiles counters.

They share a few more minutes of squeaky peace when the second bottles are opened.

"I have to admit," Stiles ventures finally, when it looks like Derek's chickening out, the bastard, "to being a lightweight. You should make your point soon, before I end up drooling on your shoulder and you have to tuck me in."

Derek shudders and the swing squeals, the perfect wolf-twitch detector. Stiles sees a glint of the Alpha-red in his eyes for just a moment, but then it's gone. Derek reaches out and sets his bottle on the side table, so Stiles does the same. If Derek doesn't think he can juggle a beer with this conversation, then Stiles doesn't stand a chance.

"Turn around," Derek says, suddenly, like he's just had an idea.

"Sorry?" The beer is taking effect quicker than he thought it would. "Turn where?"

Derek is clearly not of a mind to wait long enough for him to figure it out. He huffs impatiently and grabs Stiles around the shoulders, shifting him forward long enough for Derek to swing his leg up and extend it behind Stiles, so it's laying long-ways against the back of the swing. He shoves some cushions behind his own back, then he manhandles Stiles into laying against him, Stiles' back to his front.

"Oookay…?" Stiles says hesitantly. He can't see anything except the underside corner of the porch roof. It's pretty cob-webby. Stiles hopes that spiders sleep at night. Or that they're afraid of werewolves, like the crickets. But spiders are pretty badass, so he's not counting on it. "This is…nice."

"Shut up." Stiles has learned that Derek, when pressed, often reverts to a few favored phrases.

Derek seems to have used up all of his confident initiative from a few moments ago, and hasn't yet decided what to do with his hands and arms. They shift restlessly from threading through one slat of the swing to the next every few seconds. Stiles finally takes pity on him and grabs them, folding Derek's arms across Stiles' stomach and letting his own hands curl up around them. He's careful to keep them a respectable distance away from anyplace that could be problematic.

"I mean it," Stiles insists. "It is nice. Like before."

"Good," Derek says gruffly. "I-I just think that sometimes it's easier to listen if you can't see."

Stiles ponders that for a moment. "Is that a wolf thing?" he asks carefully.

"No," Derek huffs indignantly. "It's an everyone thing. You know, when someone goes blind their hearing improves, blah blah blah."

"Okay," Stiles says blithely. "I'm willing to go with it. Carry on."

"You're a terrible person," Derek grouses again.

"Literally lying on a werewolf here. Pretty sure the cosmic scale of goodness is going to tilt in my favor."

He deliberately snugs down an inch or so to a more comfortable position, making Derek gasp quietly, just to test his theory. Nope, no lightning bolts.

Still not the most evil.

"I can smell it on you," Derek says suddenly, blurting the words out like he's been working up to it and they finally popped loose.

Derek's right arm starts to drift slowly lower, toward previously unexplored territory and for one brief, terrifying second, Stiles thinks he means Stiles' arousal, but then Derek's fingers tap on something hard in Stiles pocket, and it rattles.

"The Adderall," Derek says quietly. "I can smell it. On your breath, in your sweat. Even your hair."

"So?" Stiles retorts, trying to brazen it out and knowing, fucking knowing he can't.

"So I know when you take extra," Derek says calmly, refusing to rise to the bait. "I know every time. You took some tonight, waiting on me to get back, because you were nervous. It crashed you and you got hungry and ate and then you fell asleep."

Somehow, without Stiles realizing it, Derek has closed his arms around Stiles again, with Stiles' arms pinned beneath Derek's.

He's not going anywhere until Derek decides to let him.

"It's none of your business," Stiles says through clenched teeth. "And nice try, by the way, trying to distract me. We're supposed to be talking about why you lied to me, asshole."

"We are," Derek says, still infuriatingly in control of himself. He gives Stiles a quick, listen-to-me squeeze. "This is why I wanted to try to teach you to draw stability from the pack…to give you another way to ground yourself that didn't involve abusing your meds."

"So you're calling me an addict?" Stiles struggles against him. He used up all of his hot fury earlier; now he's just cold inside, and hurt. "Let me up asshole." But it's useless, and Derek doesn't.

"Stiles," Derek says, holding him with very little effort. The swing's chains squeal in protest, ironically making it sound as if they're doing something else entirely. "Stiles!"

Eventually Derek loses patience, and crosses his legs over Stiles' shins, eliminating any leverage Stiles has.

He's defeated.

"Stiles, listen to me. Listen," Derek hisses. "I don't think you're an addict. And I know you don't use it for fun, or for kicks. I know when and I know why."

Stiles remembers thinking that Derek hit the trifecta earlier…school, epic battles, exhaustion.

"Then why are you even bothering me about it? If you know?" he asks.

"Because it could become a problem. It's already headed that way. You know this, Stiles, you're too smart not to know this."

"But-"

"You carry the fucking bottle in your pocket, Stiles!" Derek snaps at last.

"It's a once-a-day dose, and you carry it in your fucking pocket 24/7," Derek repeats, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, like the words are painful to him, cutting his throat on the way out. "That frightens me, and it should frighten you."

Neither of them say anything for a long time. So much time passes that Derek finally decides that Stiles is no longer a flight risk, and he drops his left leg back down to the floor and pushes off, swaying the swing back to life. Stiles takes deep, shaky breaths, timing his inhalations with the swing as it glides back and forth.

If Stiles is honest with himself, he has to admit that he knew this day was coming. There's just no way that a bunch of people who can sniff out what you ate for breakfast yesterday are going to stay oblivious when he's sweating out extra doses of legal speed.

He just thought it would be Scott.

Ending up being pinned down physically and emotionally by an Alpha werewolf was not in any of his imagined scenarios. And said Alpha seeming to be genuinely distraught about it instead of just pissed off is even further beyond anything he envisioned happening.

"I can't remember you ever saying you're scared of something," Stiles says at last. Derek's admission has played on a continuous loop in his head this entire time.

"I was telling the truth," he answers simply.

"I know." Stiles starts counting the squeaks of the chain.

"You weren't like this," Derek says, just as Stiles makes it to forty-two in his head. "Before."

"B.W.?" Stiles prompts, and Derek, bless him, laughs softly into Stiles' hair.

"Before Werewolves, yeah."

"It's not your fault," Stiles says. "You don't always have to be so quick to claim responsibility for everything that's bad in Beacon Hills."

"I stay away sometimes," Derek says a few minutes later, which makes absolutely no sense as an answer. Stiles only got to seventeen squeaks that time; he doesn't think he could have fallen asleep long enough to have missed that much of the conversation.

Or maybe he did, and that's why he only got to seventeen.

"I stay away when I need your help, or when I just want you to be around. I keep the pack away, too." Stiles suddenly sees the wisdom in how Derek's positioned them. He's dead certain that if they were facing each other right now there's no way he'd be hearing this confession.

"I don't want that," he says, but Derek ignores him.

"I do it because I can sense it on you, that tightness that tells me you're close, that staying up too late again or one more obligation or favor or thing to stress over is going to make that bottle rattle."

"That…it's not your responsibility, to keep that from happening. You know, that, right?" Stiles says softly. He closes his hands around Derek's wrists and squeezes. Somebody's trembling. He's not sure who.

"You want me to be more selfish? Less responsible?" Derek asks, rubbing his jaw against Stiles' head again. "To come through your window at all hours of the night? Text you whenever I think you can help, and send the pack to drag your ass out of bed on a Sunday morning just so we can have you with us at breakfast?"

"Yes," Stiles whispers immediately, without letting a single squeak pass. "I want that."

"Then I need to believe it's not hurting you to do it," Derek whispers back. "That I'm not hurting you."

It takes Stiles seventy-eight squeaks to answer him.

"I'll do it," he says.

"Okay," Derek breathes back, squeezing him again.

When they wake up in the swing the next morning, the last number Stiles can remember is seven.

__________________________________________________________________

part three