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Title: Calm, Assertive
Rating/Warning: PG
Wordcount: 4,400
Spoilers: None
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Category: Derek/Stiles, Pack
Summary: Stiles tries to stealth-obedience train the werewolves. It goes about as well as can be expected
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
AO3
Stiles is sporting a black eye and a sprained wrist despite the fact that they haven't encountered anything dangerous in two weeks.
"They keep forgetting I'm a fragile, squishy person who can't knit bones just by scowling at them," Stiles complains, holding the defrosted bag of peas against his knee Isaac had offered him after he and Scott had knocked Stiles into the coffee table in their exuberance to greet him. "Your betas forget their own strength and my lack, thereof."
"I can talk to them," Derek offers, wincing a little. He knows he should probably suggest that Stiles stay away from them because of the constant danger but the words stick in his throat, unsaid. He can't quite go there yet. He knows he'll have to, despite Scott's protests but he's still at the stage of putting his own selfishness over Stiles' safety.
"You?" Stiles huffs and Derek bristles. Stiles seems to notice because he waves a dismissive hand. "Oh god, stop with the Alpha petulance. They bow down to your magnificence in all things except this one little area. I mean, c'mon, you're the reason I have a sprained wrist here."
Derek winces again, because it's true. The betas might not be the only ones that are a little over-exuberant when it comes to Stiles. "I didn't mean to hurt you," Derek offers, somewhat lamely.
"I was grateful for the save, believe me. I was taking a header out of a window so what I ended up with was probably the lesser of two ouchies, but still."
"What do you want to do?" Derek asks slowly. Now is the time for Stiles to take the decision out of his hands, to proclaim, somewhat like Jackson maybe, that he's just out and disappear from Derek's life like so many others.
The problem is, he's not sure if Stiles can see that Derek appreciates the kid sticking with them through his general grouchiness. He knows he comes off a little tense but Stiles is the kind of human you want in a pack. He's smart, resourceful and, if Derek is being honest with himself which he's trying to do more lately, not bad scenery. He calms the group, even though that's not exactly evident by his current condition. Stiles is as easy to please as he is to harm and Derek knows for a fact that the pack wants to please him, prefer when he's laughing and gregarious.
There might have been some ruffled feathers at the beginning, a little jostling for position and the betas not really understanding where someone like Stiles fit, but he made his own way, forged a place for himself with nothing but persistance and a perky attitude and Derek hates to see that dimmed.
Stiles huffs and stands with a determined set to his features. Derek braces for the worst, but all Stiles does is clap Derek on the shoulder with his good hand and give him a grin that scares Derek a little.
"I'll work something out," he promises and with that he's gone, out into the world where Derek can already hear Scott calling for him and the others laughing and thumping around. Derek rolls his eyes when he hears Stiles yell, "Ow, watch it!"
He might have that chat with his betas all the same.
*
At first, Derek thinks maybe Stiles has decided to just let it go.
He turns up to the next pack meeting with his wrist unwrapped and his eye only the faintest of yellows. Derek's sure of it, right up until he notices something he should have noticed from the start.
Stiles isn't talking.
Not only is he not talking, he's not interacting with anyone. Not talking, not touching, not even so much as eye contact. He's sitting on the edge of the one sagging couch Derek had curb-shopped for and dragged up to his new-ish apartment with a book on his knee, apparently oblivious.
Derek watches as the others talk about their days, bringing up any issues at school and any concerns they have. There's no monster of the week so Derek is letting them chat, having a furry group therapy session as Stiles has christened it when there's nothing else on the agenda. He watches all of them become increasingly unsettled and puzzled at the same time, not able to pinpoint the reason for their mild distress.
Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles who flicks invisible lint off his knee, reaches down into his backpack and brings out a highlighter, unconcerned.
Scott, the most in tune with Stiles and also the most forward when it comes to getting his attention, shuffles sideways until he's up against Stiles with a stumped frown. Stiles merely reaches out a foot, presses it to Scott's shoulder and gently but firmly nudges him back to where he was.
There's silence.
Stiles, after about ten minutes of this, makes a show of stretching, looking at his watch, and then he gets up and heads for the door. He doesn't say goodbye, ask if anyone needs a lift or steal the last soda from Derek's fridge which is his usual leaving ritual. He just pulls the door to, breezes out and closes it behind him.
Everyone, including Derek, are left blinking at the door, speechless.
*
"They think you're mad at them."
At the next pack meeting, Stiles had basically refused to talk to anyone again so Derek had been reduced to calling him.
On the phone.
Stiles makes the expected surprised noises at the fact that Derek does indeed own a phone and can dial without chipping a claw. Basically, he sounds like his old self and Derek didn't realize how much he'd missed it until then. When Stiles finally circles back to the original reason Derek called, he just snorts. "I'm not mad, I'm just laying groundwork, man."
"For what?" Derek asks, suspicious.
"Relax, don't get your fur in a bunch. I'm not planning a coup."
"Can you just... throw them a bone?" Derek asks, hates himself immediately for the metaphor but it's kind of apt.
"Believe me, they will be happier in the long run," Stiles says. "I have a plan."
"Isaac cried," Derek says. It's a low blow, and also untrue but no one likes seeing Isaac sad.
"I'm going to tell him you said that."
*
Derek invites everyone over for movies and pizza. Stiles had been the one to insist on non-meeting related gatherings for bonding purposes a while ago and Derek decides it's probably a good idea to start doing it now that everyone's worried and unsettled. Derek invites Stiles although he's not sure he'll come, suddenly sure that Stiles is slowly extricating himself from the group, but Stiles is the first to arrive with a Die Hard boxset under one arm and a party bag of peanut M&Ms under the other.
The others drift in over the next hour. Everyone's subdued but the mood lifts when Stiles greets the pack heartily. He's engaged and chatty, smiling at everyone and when they all settle down to watch the first DVD, the wolves settle around Stiles, wary but relieved. Derek finds himself shuffled closest to Stiles, almost unable to resist being involved in a juvenile scuffle with Scott and Isaac for the small bit of floor right next to Stiles and Stiles ends up getting stepped on in the ensuing melee.
Stiles stands, pointedly drags one of the bar stools out of Derek's kitchen and sits on it out of harm's way.
Derek, Scott and Isaac kind of hover awkwardly before lowering themselves down and getting as comfortable as they can. Boyd and Erica both roll their eyes so hard that Derek's surprised they don't injure themselves while Allison and Lydia look glad to have been prudent in their chair choice, squishing into the arm chair set to the side of the piles of cushions Derek had tossed over the floor.
When the pizza arrives half way through the second movie, Derek watches astounded as the wolves all hover back and look despairingly at Stiles and then the boxes, back and forth. Allison and Lydia appear to be as mystified as Derek feels. Stiles stands, wanders over and then snags a piece of three cheese before retreating to his kitchen stool.
The wolves devour everything after that, because they always do, but they don't look as pleased about their excess as they normally would. When Stiles leaves after the third movie, he takes a moment to peck both Lydia and Allison on the cheek before he's gone.
Derek is oddly bereft and he's pretty sure the others feel the same by their expressions.
*
"Now I think you're punishing them," Derek says. He doesn't add and me but he wants to. He wants to stomp his foot too but that would be pushing the bounds of the ridiculous.
"There needs to be a little rain before the sunshine," Stiles says nonsensically and Derek wants to shake him, but he's stuck talking to Stiles on the phone, again.
He doesn't like it.
*
Erica jumps on Stiles' bed when they've all jammed into his room to get a quick briefing on lake trolls before they try to take a group of them on. Stiles is already on the bed so he gets an elbow in the stomach as a result.
Instead of yelling at her, Stiles merely rolls and dumps her right back off onto the floor. Before Erica can turn around and bite him in the kneecap like she so obviously wants to, Stiles reaches out, tangles a hand through her hair and scratches.
Erica looks conflicted for a few moments before she goes limp.
Derek starts to understand what's going on, finally.
*
"You can't obedience train werewolves," Derek says flatly a week later after he's watched Boyd and Isaac distracted from an ugly fight with candy and Stiles with Erica and Scott following him like ducklings when he gives them both a hug after ignoring them for two hours. He's sitting at Stiles' desk and Stiles has just come home from school, tossing his jacket towards the closet and his bag in the other direction.
Stiles just raises an eyebrow at him.
"I know you think you can, but it won't work. They understand discipline, but only the physical kind. Not whatever it is you're trying to do."
"What am I trying to do?" Stiles asks mildly, reaching out and taking a handful of Derek's hair. He tugs gently and it sends prickles of pleasure through Derek's scalp.
"You're trying to get them to do what you want using treats and affec- hey, stop that!" Derek snaps, tugging out of Stiles' grip because he'd been leaning into it like a pet starved of attention.
Stiles has been brainwashing all of them, not just his betas.
Stiles grins and moves away, picking up his bag and dumping the contents on his bed so he can sort through his books. "I'm still adjusting the technique," he says. "I got some tips from television and youtube. If you're all too excited, you get no touch, no talk, no eye contact. If you behave in a way that is conducive to my general well being, I reward with affection and treats."
"Are you seriously trying to train us?"
"You teach them to fight, I teach them not to kill me."
"I'm going to kill you."
Stiles turns around to Derek, pulls a face. "Okay, it sounds a little dodgy when I say it out loud, but it's just until the others learn how to control themselves." Stiles is looking at his sneakers when he adds, "I want to stay in the pack but even my klutziness can't account for the sheer amount of bruising I endure and my dad is the Sheriff, he noticed."
"What'd he say?" Derek asks, a little worried. It's feasible the Sheriff will put his foot down about who Stiles spends time with. He's grudgingly excepted Derek's existence as a part of Stiles' and Derek doesn't want to move backwards on that score. He had a lot of ground to make up, what with the whole murder suspicion and everything.
"He started hinting around that maybe my older boyfriend was not being as gentle with me as he should."
"Boyf... Stiles!" Derek barks, aghast.
"His words, not mine!" Stiles insists. "The more I deny it, the more he believes it's true. Even Scott told him we weren't like that but we've been lying for each other since we were five."
"I can talk to him," Derek offers grudgingly. It's frankly the last thing he wants to do ever, but it's his job as Alpha to intervene when something threatens the pack, even if that something is an overprotective father who's armed and already thinks Derek is bad news.
"And say what exactly?" Stiles asks. He looks far too amused.
"I'll explain that we're not... doing anything."
"Oh my god, I know it's not true and even I don't believe you," Stiles says.
"I should try."
"Dude, this has disaster written all over it," Stiles says, but he's also sounding resigned. "Fine, I'll set up the most awkward meeting in the history of the world."
*
Derek assumes he'll have days to prepare what he's going to say to Sheriff Stilinski, has even been making note cards although he's very carefully hidden them from the rest of the pack because he would never hear the end of it. In short, he was going to have a plan but that gets all shot to hell when he happens to run into the Sheriff in the supermarket before Stiles can organise anything.
"Oh, hello," Derek says, wincing a little at how weird he sounds. He's hoping the Sheriff will just nod and move on by but he's never in his life been a lucky guy and that apparently hasn't changed. The Sheriff halts in front of Derek, plants his feet and looks like he'd also like to cross his arms or maybe rest a hand on the butt of his service revolver, except he's holding a shopping basket.
"Hale," the Sheriff says with a weird jerk of his head that Derek can't parse the meaning of.
"I was just-" Derek waves behind himself, desperately wanting to escape and do this when he's actually prepared but the Sheriff just moves smoothly sideways, trapping Derek against a shelf of broccoli.
"My son is very important to me," Sheriff Stilinski says levelly.
"I'm... sure?"
"So important, that if any harm were to befall him, or continue to befall him, then I might just have to do something about it."
"Sir-"
"Lord knows why, but my kid adores you and if you're doing something that means you don't deserve that kind of devotion-"
"No, I... no! I wouldn't harm Stiles, I would do anything in my power to make sure he wasn't," Derek splutters.
"Do you care about him?"
"Yes, I-"
"As much as he cares about you?" the Sheriff interrupts and Derek blinks for a second before the Sheriff seems to practically deflate before him, looking weary. "Hale, he doesn't need another Lydia."
"Stiles doesn't like me in that way," Derek denies, more than a little thrown by the direction of their conversation. He was expecting a lot more threatening, not for the Sheriff to be raising an eyebrow at him and looking disappointed.
"Are you kidding me?" the Sheriff huffs. Something in Derek's face must tell the Sheriff that he's not because the man does an impressive eyeroll-huff combination that any self-respecting teenager would be proud of. "Oh lord," he groans. "Why me?"
"Sir?"
"You can't be this oblivious," he says. He's not glaring murderously at Derek anymore which Derek would have thought would have been an improvement in their tense relationship but indulgent pity, surprisingly enough, turns out to be worse.
"Look, Stiles-"
"Is head over sneakers for you," Sheriff Stilinski says.
"No, that's-"
"Believe me, he is. If you could just pull your head out of ass for long enough to listen to what I'm saying, that would be helpful."
Derek's no longer backed into the supermarket shelving. The Sheriff has stepped away a little, looks like he might even want to pat Derek on the shoulder and shake his head. Derek slumps down, rubbing a hand over his temple and back through his hair. He still wants to deny what the Sheriff is saying, but the man knows Stiles, he knows what he's talking about.
It's not like it's a bad thing, or it is but Derek is being selfish again, thinking for a moment how nice it would be. He doesn't get a lot of idle thinking time, what with corralling a bunch of super-powered angst-driven teenagers, but the little he has certainly circles around the idea of Stiles as his on occasion.
Stiles has definitely smelled like arousal around him before, but Stiles has smelled like arousal around a sandwich so Derek hadn't really thought that much of it. Derek's just lucky that it takes a good few years to start detecting that kind of thing for werewolves or he's certain Scott would have sat him down months ago and had a very stern chat about not messing with his fragile, manic best friend.
It has been months, Derek is now free to admit to himself, that he would have smelled incriminatingly devoted.
"Oh," the Sheriff says, and Derek is yanked back into the here and now, embarrassed. "I was thinking that I was going to have to have the let him down gently talk with you, but we're going to have to have a whole other different talk, aren't we?" Sheriff Stilinski doesn't look exactly thrilled, but he also isn't reaching for his sidearm which Derek will take as a positive sign.
"Yes," Derek says, small-voiced.
"Well, let's just take as a given that if you hurt my kid, they won't ever find the body. Just want to get that out of the way before we discuss his curfew and how there are certain things I don't ever want to see."
Derek nods, lets the Sheriff lead him around the supermarket while he talks and they part ways not quite friends but definitely two people with an understanding.
*
Stiles has a spray bottle.
"Bad werewolf, no!" Stiles says, spritzing Scott in the face when he leans over to steal Stiles' toast. Scott looks hilariously surprised for a second, before he shrugs and uses the back of Stiles' shirt to wipe his face off.
Erica takes his distraction as an opportunity to steal Stiles' toast for herself. "You spray me and it's the last thing you'll ever do," Erica warns when the bottle swings her way. Stiles looks conflicted for a moment, before he glares at the bottle like it's disappointed him and then tosses it aside with a resigned sigh. He makes his way back into the kitchen presumably to make more toast and Derek waits for a beat before he follows.
"What happened to the no touch, no talk, no eye contact thing?" Derek asks.
Stiles shrugs, digging into Derek's bread bin and plucking a loaf of thick white bread free. Derek has to keep at least four loaves in the house at all times since his wolves go through the stuff like crazy. He felt horribly domesticated when he was forced to buy a bread bin.
"It felt kind of mean, and I challenge you to ignore either Isaac or Scott when they're giving you the face." Stiles turns so he can widen his eyes at Derek and give him an exaggerated pout.
"You could make more than one piece at a time," Derek says when Stiles drops a single piece of bread from the bag into the toaster, gesturing at the eight-slice behemoth he has in his possession. Isaac had found the thing and looked ridiculously proud about it.
"The point is to make me food, not everyone food," Stiles grumbles.
"It's just toast."
"It starts with toast," Stiles says, turning around to point a finger at Derek's nose. "It ends with a ten-course degustation where I have to source a sommelier in Beacon Hills."
"You're so weird."
The toaster pops and Stiles plucks the piece out and then blows on his fingers when he has to unceremoniously drop it on the plate because it's too hot. He shuffles past Derek to get into the fridge and comes out with butter and a pot of jam that Derek doesn't remember buying.
"I talked to your dad," Derek blurts.
Stiles stops buttering his toast mid-scrape, turns his head slowly and then his whole body follows, Stiles still gripping the butter knife in a fist. "What?"
"I didn't mean to, but he cornered me in the supermarket."
"He cornered you?" Stiles asks, sounding incredulous. He turns back to his plate, goes to dunk the buttery knife into the jam but Derek darts out a hand and stops him, replaces the dirty knife with a clean one.
"Your dad is stealthy. That particular trait must have skipped a generation."
"Har, har."
"It wasn't... I mean, it was fine," Derek offers although the tense line of Stiles' back says that he doesn't believe a word of it.
"Well, it must have gone better than I was expecting since he didn't shoot you." Stiles turns around, plate now in his hand and raises an eyebrow. "Did he shoot you?"
"No," Derek says and Stiles nods, takes a bite of his toast and then goes to exit the kitchen. Derek catches Stiles' elbow. "Don't you want to know what we talked about?"
"You talked about the fact that we're not dating, right? That was the plan, wasn't it?"
"Uh..." Derek is laconic by nature, but he's rarely lost for words. He's not sure how to tell Stiles that his conversation with the Sheriff didn't exactly go to any plan.
"Oh man, did you make it worse?" Stiles takes another bite, talks through his mouthful which should be disgusting but Derek only finds adorable which, ugh. He needs an intervention. Some kind of Stiles intervention. He's sure Scott would help. Scott would probably make a banner.
"No, just... hethinksyoulikeme," Derek gets out all in a rush.
Stiles blinks for a second like it takes him that long to parse what Derek just said, then his eyes widen and his cheeks fill with color. "You won't have to worry about him shooting you, because I am going to kill him," Stiles grates, obviously mortified. He tosses his plate back on the kitchen bench and rubs a hand over his face. "No, no, no, no, noooo," he groans.
Derek leaves Stiles to his mini breakdown for long enough to poke his head back out into his living room and flick his chin at Erica. She's far to gleeful not to have heard every single word of what just happened in the kitchen, and Scott looks a little ill. Erica rolls her eyes, pulls a spoilsport face at Derek when he just glares at her harder and gets up, snags Scott by the back of his shirt and tows him towards the apartment's front door. Scott looks like he's going to protest for a second, but then he's outside and Derek listens for the sound of their retreating heartbeats down the corridor before he re-enters the kitchen.
When he gets back to Stiles it's to see he's pulled up one of the mismatched stools Derek found on another curb-shopping jaunt and is sitting on it and thumping his head against the kitchen counter slowly. Derek puts a hand between Stiles' forehead and the counter when Stiles doesn't look like he's going to stop any time soon and Stiles stills with his temple resting in Derek's palm.
"My dad is totally wrong," Stiles says, but the denial is small and quiet and not very believable.
"He's a smart guy who knows you pretty well. I don't think he's wrong," Derek says gently, trying not to like so much that Stiles hasn't moved his head. He knows it's so Stiles doesn't have to look at him, but it's a sweet kind of contact all the same.
"Ugh, we don't have to talk about it. Spare me the I'm really flattered but speech."
"Why would you think I would give you that speech?" Derek asks, moves his other hand to the back of Stiles' neck so his head is bracketed by Derek's palms. Stiles sits up slowly and Derek lets his hands slide free naturally. He's gaping and then his mouth slowly slides closed and his eyes start smiling before the rest of his face gets with the program.
"Wait... what?"
Derek's realized something, that this can all be easy. There doesn't need to be angst or discussion or anything like that. He can simply grip the chair Stiles is hunched on, turn it around and drag Stiles into him. He curls down over Stiles and opens Stiles' mouth with his own, feels Stiles try and talk, which again should be infuriating but isn't.
Derek only pulls back when Stiles' mouth stills and his hands drift up to touch tentatively at Derek's sides, like he's not sure if he's entitled. Stiles looks startled and pleased, has fingers hooked in the bottom of Derek's t-shirt as if he's worried that when he lets go they'll break some kind of spell.
"Did you tell my dad we were dating?" Stiles asks, a little breathlessly.
"I told your dad I would sort my shit out... basically," Derek says. "Also that I would have you home by ten on a school night."
*
"You're not going to convince any of them to wear a perimeter collar," Derek says, eyeing the bulky thing in Stiles' hands. They're outside the old Hale house for a training session and Stiles is standing in front of the steps Derek's perched on, digging items out of his backpack.
"Nah, this is one of those citronella ones," Stiles says.
"Isn't that for barking?"
"I figured it would still be useful for Erica. It could activate every time she threatens me."
Derek has an excellent poker face, even if he does say so himself, so Stiles gets no warning when four beta werewolves pounce him from behind.
"Oh my god, noooooo!" Stiles protests as they lift him up between them and carry him off into the surrounding forest. "I need my spray bottle, help!"
Rating/Warning: PG
Wordcount: 4,400
Spoilers: None
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Category: Derek/Stiles, Pack
Summary: Stiles tries to stealth-obedience train the werewolves. It goes about as well as can be expected
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
AO3
Stiles is sporting a black eye and a sprained wrist despite the fact that they haven't encountered anything dangerous in two weeks.
"They keep forgetting I'm a fragile, squishy person who can't knit bones just by scowling at them," Stiles complains, holding the defrosted bag of peas against his knee Isaac had offered him after he and Scott had knocked Stiles into the coffee table in their exuberance to greet him. "Your betas forget their own strength and my lack, thereof."
"I can talk to them," Derek offers, wincing a little. He knows he should probably suggest that Stiles stay away from them because of the constant danger but the words stick in his throat, unsaid. He can't quite go there yet. He knows he'll have to, despite Scott's protests but he's still at the stage of putting his own selfishness over Stiles' safety.
"You?" Stiles huffs and Derek bristles. Stiles seems to notice because he waves a dismissive hand. "Oh god, stop with the Alpha petulance. They bow down to your magnificence in all things except this one little area. I mean, c'mon, you're the reason I have a sprained wrist here."
Derek winces again, because it's true. The betas might not be the only ones that are a little over-exuberant when it comes to Stiles. "I didn't mean to hurt you," Derek offers, somewhat lamely.
"I was grateful for the save, believe me. I was taking a header out of a window so what I ended up with was probably the lesser of two ouchies, but still."
"What do you want to do?" Derek asks slowly. Now is the time for Stiles to take the decision out of his hands, to proclaim, somewhat like Jackson maybe, that he's just out and disappear from Derek's life like so many others.
The problem is, he's not sure if Stiles can see that Derek appreciates the kid sticking with them through his general grouchiness. He knows he comes off a little tense but Stiles is the kind of human you want in a pack. He's smart, resourceful and, if Derek is being honest with himself which he's trying to do more lately, not bad scenery. He calms the group, even though that's not exactly evident by his current condition. Stiles is as easy to please as he is to harm and Derek knows for a fact that the pack wants to please him, prefer when he's laughing and gregarious.
There might have been some ruffled feathers at the beginning, a little jostling for position and the betas not really understanding where someone like Stiles fit, but he made his own way, forged a place for himself with nothing but persistance and a perky attitude and Derek hates to see that dimmed.
Stiles huffs and stands with a determined set to his features. Derek braces for the worst, but all Stiles does is clap Derek on the shoulder with his good hand and give him a grin that scares Derek a little.
"I'll work something out," he promises and with that he's gone, out into the world where Derek can already hear Scott calling for him and the others laughing and thumping around. Derek rolls his eyes when he hears Stiles yell, "Ow, watch it!"
He might have that chat with his betas all the same.
At first, Derek thinks maybe Stiles has decided to just let it go.
He turns up to the next pack meeting with his wrist unwrapped and his eye only the faintest of yellows. Derek's sure of it, right up until he notices something he should have noticed from the start.
Stiles isn't talking.
Not only is he not talking, he's not interacting with anyone. Not talking, not touching, not even so much as eye contact. He's sitting on the edge of the one sagging couch Derek had curb-shopped for and dragged up to his new-ish apartment with a book on his knee, apparently oblivious.
Derek watches as the others talk about their days, bringing up any issues at school and any concerns they have. There's no monster of the week so Derek is letting them chat, having a furry group therapy session as Stiles has christened it when there's nothing else on the agenda. He watches all of them become increasingly unsettled and puzzled at the same time, not able to pinpoint the reason for their mild distress.
Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles who flicks invisible lint off his knee, reaches down into his backpack and brings out a highlighter, unconcerned.
Scott, the most in tune with Stiles and also the most forward when it comes to getting his attention, shuffles sideways until he's up against Stiles with a stumped frown. Stiles merely reaches out a foot, presses it to Scott's shoulder and gently but firmly nudges him back to where he was.
There's silence.
Stiles, after about ten minutes of this, makes a show of stretching, looking at his watch, and then he gets up and heads for the door. He doesn't say goodbye, ask if anyone needs a lift or steal the last soda from Derek's fridge which is his usual leaving ritual. He just pulls the door to, breezes out and closes it behind him.
Everyone, including Derek, are left blinking at the door, speechless.
"They think you're mad at them."
At the next pack meeting, Stiles had basically refused to talk to anyone again so Derek had been reduced to calling him.
On the phone.
Stiles makes the expected surprised noises at the fact that Derek does indeed own a phone and can dial without chipping a claw. Basically, he sounds like his old self and Derek didn't realize how much he'd missed it until then. When Stiles finally circles back to the original reason Derek called, he just snorts. "I'm not mad, I'm just laying groundwork, man."
"For what?" Derek asks, suspicious.
"Relax, don't get your fur in a bunch. I'm not planning a coup."
"Can you just... throw them a bone?" Derek asks, hates himself immediately for the metaphor but it's kind of apt.
"Believe me, they will be happier in the long run," Stiles says. "I have a plan."
"Isaac cried," Derek says. It's a low blow, and also untrue but no one likes seeing Isaac sad.
"I'm going to tell him you said that."
Derek invites everyone over for movies and pizza. Stiles had been the one to insist on non-meeting related gatherings for bonding purposes a while ago and Derek decides it's probably a good idea to start doing it now that everyone's worried and unsettled. Derek invites Stiles although he's not sure he'll come, suddenly sure that Stiles is slowly extricating himself from the group, but Stiles is the first to arrive with a Die Hard boxset under one arm and a party bag of peanut M&Ms under the other.
The others drift in over the next hour. Everyone's subdued but the mood lifts when Stiles greets the pack heartily. He's engaged and chatty, smiling at everyone and when they all settle down to watch the first DVD, the wolves settle around Stiles, wary but relieved. Derek finds himself shuffled closest to Stiles, almost unable to resist being involved in a juvenile scuffle with Scott and Isaac for the small bit of floor right next to Stiles and Stiles ends up getting stepped on in the ensuing melee.
Stiles stands, pointedly drags one of the bar stools out of Derek's kitchen and sits on it out of harm's way.
Derek, Scott and Isaac kind of hover awkwardly before lowering themselves down and getting as comfortable as they can. Boyd and Erica both roll their eyes so hard that Derek's surprised they don't injure themselves while Allison and Lydia look glad to have been prudent in their chair choice, squishing into the arm chair set to the side of the piles of cushions Derek had tossed over the floor.
When the pizza arrives half way through the second movie, Derek watches astounded as the wolves all hover back and look despairingly at Stiles and then the boxes, back and forth. Allison and Lydia appear to be as mystified as Derek feels. Stiles stands, wanders over and then snags a piece of three cheese before retreating to his kitchen stool.
The wolves devour everything after that, because they always do, but they don't look as pleased about their excess as they normally would. When Stiles leaves after the third movie, he takes a moment to peck both Lydia and Allison on the cheek before he's gone.
Derek is oddly bereft and he's pretty sure the others feel the same by their expressions.
"Now I think you're punishing them," Derek says. He doesn't add and me but he wants to. He wants to stomp his foot too but that would be pushing the bounds of the ridiculous.
"There needs to be a little rain before the sunshine," Stiles says nonsensically and Derek wants to shake him, but he's stuck talking to Stiles on the phone, again.
He doesn't like it.
Erica jumps on Stiles' bed when they've all jammed into his room to get a quick briefing on lake trolls before they try to take a group of them on. Stiles is already on the bed so he gets an elbow in the stomach as a result.
Instead of yelling at her, Stiles merely rolls and dumps her right back off onto the floor. Before Erica can turn around and bite him in the kneecap like she so obviously wants to, Stiles reaches out, tangles a hand through her hair and scratches.
Erica looks conflicted for a few moments before she goes limp.
Derek starts to understand what's going on, finally.
"You can't obedience train werewolves," Derek says flatly a week later after he's watched Boyd and Isaac distracted from an ugly fight with candy and Stiles with Erica and Scott following him like ducklings when he gives them both a hug after ignoring them for two hours. He's sitting at Stiles' desk and Stiles has just come home from school, tossing his jacket towards the closet and his bag in the other direction.
Stiles just raises an eyebrow at him.
"I know you think you can, but it won't work. They understand discipline, but only the physical kind. Not whatever it is you're trying to do."
"What am I trying to do?" Stiles asks mildly, reaching out and taking a handful of Derek's hair. He tugs gently and it sends prickles of pleasure through Derek's scalp.
"You're trying to get them to do what you want using treats and affec- hey, stop that!" Derek snaps, tugging out of Stiles' grip because he'd been leaning into it like a pet starved of attention.
Stiles has been brainwashing all of them, not just his betas.
Stiles grins and moves away, picking up his bag and dumping the contents on his bed so he can sort through his books. "I'm still adjusting the technique," he says. "I got some tips from television and youtube. If you're all too excited, you get no touch, no talk, no eye contact. If you behave in a way that is conducive to my general well being, I reward with affection and treats."
"Are you seriously trying to train us?"
"You teach them to fight, I teach them not to kill me."
"I'm going to kill you."
Stiles turns around to Derek, pulls a face. "Okay, it sounds a little dodgy when I say it out loud, but it's just until the others learn how to control themselves." Stiles is looking at his sneakers when he adds, "I want to stay in the pack but even my klutziness can't account for the sheer amount of bruising I endure and my dad is the Sheriff, he noticed."
"What'd he say?" Derek asks, a little worried. It's feasible the Sheriff will put his foot down about who Stiles spends time with. He's grudgingly excepted Derek's existence as a part of Stiles' and Derek doesn't want to move backwards on that score. He had a lot of ground to make up, what with the whole murder suspicion and everything.
"He started hinting around that maybe my older boyfriend was not being as gentle with me as he should."
"Boyf... Stiles!" Derek barks, aghast.
"His words, not mine!" Stiles insists. "The more I deny it, the more he believes it's true. Even Scott told him we weren't like that but we've been lying for each other since we were five."
"I can talk to him," Derek offers grudgingly. It's frankly the last thing he wants to do ever, but it's his job as Alpha to intervene when something threatens the pack, even if that something is an overprotective father who's armed and already thinks Derek is bad news.
"And say what exactly?" Stiles asks. He looks far too amused.
"I'll explain that we're not... doing anything."
"Oh my god, I know it's not true and even I don't believe you," Stiles says.
"I should try."
"Dude, this has disaster written all over it," Stiles says, but he's also sounding resigned. "Fine, I'll set up the most awkward meeting in the history of the world."
Derek assumes he'll have days to prepare what he's going to say to Sheriff Stilinski, has even been making note cards although he's very carefully hidden them from the rest of the pack because he would never hear the end of it. In short, he was going to have a plan but that gets all shot to hell when he happens to run into the Sheriff in the supermarket before Stiles can organise anything.
"Oh, hello," Derek says, wincing a little at how weird he sounds. He's hoping the Sheriff will just nod and move on by but he's never in his life been a lucky guy and that apparently hasn't changed. The Sheriff halts in front of Derek, plants his feet and looks like he'd also like to cross his arms or maybe rest a hand on the butt of his service revolver, except he's holding a shopping basket.
"Hale," the Sheriff says with a weird jerk of his head that Derek can't parse the meaning of.
"I was just-" Derek waves behind himself, desperately wanting to escape and do this when he's actually prepared but the Sheriff just moves smoothly sideways, trapping Derek against a shelf of broccoli.
"My son is very important to me," Sheriff Stilinski says levelly.
"I'm... sure?"
"So important, that if any harm were to befall him, or continue to befall him, then I might just have to do something about it."
"Sir-"
"Lord knows why, but my kid adores you and if you're doing something that means you don't deserve that kind of devotion-"
"No, I... no! I wouldn't harm Stiles, I would do anything in my power to make sure he wasn't," Derek splutters.
"Do you care about him?"
"Yes, I-"
"As much as he cares about you?" the Sheriff interrupts and Derek blinks for a second before the Sheriff seems to practically deflate before him, looking weary. "Hale, he doesn't need another Lydia."
"Stiles doesn't like me in that way," Derek denies, more than a little thrown by the direction of their conversation. He was expecting a lot more threatening, not for the Sheriff to be raising an eyebrow at him and looking disappointed.
"Are you kidding me?" the Sheriff huffs. Something in Derek's face must tell the Sheriff that he's not because the man does an impressive eyeroll-huff combination that any self-respecting teenager would be proud of. "Oh lord," he groans. "Why me?"
"Sir?"
"You can't be this oblivious," he says. He's not glaring murderously at Derek anymore which Derek would have thought would have been an improvement in their tense relationship but indulgent pity, surprisingly enough, turns out to be worse.
"Look, Stiles-"
"Is head over sneakers for you," Sheriff Stilinski says.
"No, that's-"
"Believe me, he is. If you could just pull your head out of ass for long enough to listen to what I'm saying, that would be helpful."
Derek's no longer backed into the supermarket shelving. The Sheriff has stepped away a little, looks like he might even want to pat Derek on the shoulder and shake his head. Derek slumps down, rubbing a hand over his temple and back through his hair. He still wants to deny what the Sheriff is saying, but the man knows Stiles, he knows what he's talking about.
It's not like it's a bad thing, or it is but Derek is being selfish again, thinking for a moment how nice it would be. He doesn't get a lot of idle thinking time, what with corralling a bunch of super-powered angst-driven teenagers, but the little he has certainly circles around the idea of Stiles as his on occasion.
Stiles has definitely smelled like arousal around him before, but Stiles has smelled like arousal around a sandwich so Derek hadn't really thought that much of it. Derek's just lucky that it takes a good few years to start detecting that kind of thing for werewolves or he's certain Scott would have sat him down months ago and had a very stern chat about not messing with his fragile, manic best friend.
It has been months, Derek is now free to admit to himself, that he would have smelled incriminatingly devoted.
"Oh," the Sheriff says, and Derek is yanked back into the here and now, embarrassed. "I was thinking that I was going to have to have the let him down gently talk with you, but we're going to have to have a whole other different talk, aren't we?" Sheriff Stilinski doesn't look exactly thrilled, but he also isn't reaching for his sidearm which Derek will take as a positive sign.
"Yes," Derek says, small-voiced.
"Well, let's just take as a given that if you hurt my kid, they won't ever find the body. Just want to get that out of the way before we discuss his curfew and how there are certain things I don't ever want to see."
Derek nods, lets the Sheriff lead him around the supermarket while he talks and they part ways not quite friends but definitely two people with an understanding.
Stiles has a spray bottle.
"Bad werewolf, no!" Stiles says, spritzing Scott in the face when he leans over to steal Stiles' toast. Scott looks hilariously surprised for a second, before he shrugs and uses the back of Stiles' shirt to wipe his face off.
Erica takes his distraction as an opportunity to steal Stiles' toast for herself. "You spray me and it's the last thing you'll ever do," Erica warns when the bottle swings her way. Stiles looks conflicted for a moment, before he glares at the bottle like it's disappointed him and then tosses it aside with a resigned sigh. He makes his way back into the kitchen presumably to make more toast and Derek waits for a beat before he follows.
"What happened to the no touch, no talk, no eye contact thing?" Derek asks.
Stiles shrugs, digging into Derek's bread bin and plucking a loaf of thick white bread free. Derek has to keep at least four loaves in the house at all times since his wolves go through the stuff like crazy. He felt horribly domesticated when he was forced to buy a bread bin.
"It felt kind of mean, and I challenge you to ignore either Isaac or Scott when they're giving you the face." Stiles turns so he can widen his eyes at Derek and give him an exaggerated pout.
"You could make more than one piece at a time," Derek says when Stiles drops a single piece of bread from the bag into the toaster, gesturing at the eight-slice behemoth he has in his possession. Isaac had found the thing and looked ridiculously proud about it.
"The point is to make me food, not everyone food," Stiles grumbles.
"It's just toast."
"It starts with toast," Stiles says, turning around to point a finger at Derek's nose. "It ends with a ten-course degustation where I have to source a sommelier in Beacon Hills."
"You're so weird."
The toaster pops and Stiles plucks the piece out and then blows on his fingers when he has to unceremoniously drop it on the plate because it's too hot. He shuffles past Derek to get into the fridge and comes out with butter and a pot of jam that Derek doesn't remember buying.
"I talked to your dad," Derek blurts.
Stiles stops buttering his toast mid-scrape, turns his head slowly and then his whole body follows, Stiles still gripping the butter knife in a fist. "What?"
"I didn't mean to, but he cornered me in the supermarket."
"He cornered you?" Stiles asks, sounding incredulous. He turns back to his plate, goes to dunk the buttery knife into the jam but Derek darts out a hand and stops him, replaces the dirty knife with a clean one.
"Your dad is stealthy. That particular trait must have skipped a generation."
"Har, har."
"It wasn't... I mean, it was fine," Derek offers although the tense line of Stiles' back says that he doesn't believe a word of it.
"Well, it must have gone better than I was expecting since he didn't shoot you." Stiles turns around, plate now in his hand and raises an eyebrow. "Did he shoot you?"
"No," Derek says and Stiles nods, takes a bite of his toast and then goes to exit the kitchen. Derek catches Stiles' elbow. "Don't you want to know what we talked about?"
"You talked about the fact that we're not dating, right? That was the plan, wasn't it?"
"Uh..." Derek is laconic by nature, but he's rarely lost for words. He's not sure how to tell Stiles that his conversation with the Sheriff didn't exactly go to any plan.
"Oh man, did you make it worse?" Stiles takes another bite, talks through his mouthful which should be disgusting but Derek only finds adorable which, ugh. He needs an intervention. Some kind of Stiles intervention. He's sure Scott would help. Scott would probably make a banner.
"No, just... hethinksyoulikeme," Derek gets out all in a rush.
Stiles blinks for a second like it takes him that long to parse what Derek just said, then his eyes widen and his cheeks fill with color. "You won't have to worry about him shooting you, because I am going to kill him," Stiles grates, obviously mortified. He tosses his plate back on the kitchen bench and rubs a hand over his face. "No, no, no, no, noooo," he groans.
Derek leaves Stiles to his mini breakdown for long enough to poke his head back out into his living room and flick his chin at Erica. She's far to gleeful not to have heard every single word of what just happened in the kitchen, and Scott looks a little ill. Erica rolls her eyes, pulls a spoilsport face at Derek when he just glares at her harder and gets up, snags Scott by the back of his shirt and tows him towards the apartment's front door. Scott looks like he's going to protest for a second, but then he's outside and Derek listens for the sound of their retreating heartbeats down the corridor before he re-enters the kitchen.
When he gets back to Stiles it's to see he's pulled up one of the mismatched stools Derek found on another curb-shopping jaunt and is sitting on it and thumping his head against the kitchen counter slowly. Derek puts a hand between Stiles' forehead and the counter when Stiles doesn't look like he's going to stop any time soon and Stiles stills with his temple resting in Derek's palm.
"My dad is totally wrong," Stiles says, but the denial is small and quiet and not very believable.
"He's a smart guy who knows you pretty well. I don't think he's wrong," Derek says gently, trying not to like so much that Stiles hasn't moved his head. He knows it's so Stiles doesn't have to look at him, but it's a sweet kind of contact all the same.
"Ugh, we don't have to talk about it. Spare me the I'm really flattered but speech."
"Why would you think I would give you that speech?" Derek asks, moves his other hand to the back of Stiles' neck so his head is bracketed by Derek's palms. Stiles sits up slowly and Derek lets his hands slide free naturally. He's gaping and then his mouth slowly slides closed and his eyes start smiling before the rest of his face gets with the program.
"Wait... what?"
Derek's realized something, that this can all be easy. There doesn't need to be angst or discussion or anything like that. He can simply grip the chair Stiles is hunched on, turn it around and drag Stiles into him. He curls down over Stiles and opens Stiles' mouth with his own, feels Stiles try and talk, which again should be infuriating but isn't.
Derek only pulls back when Stiles' mouth stills and his hands drift up to touch tentatively at Derek's sides, like he's not sure if he's entitled. Stiles looks startled and pleased, has fingers hooked in the bottom of Derek's t-shirt as if he's worried that when he lets go they'll break some kind of spell.
"Did you tell my dad we were dating?" Stiles asks, a little breathlessly.
"I told your dad I would sort my shit out... basically," Derek says. "Also that I would have you home by ten on a school night."
"You're not going to convince any of them to wear a perimeter collar," Derek says, eyeing the bulky thing in Stiles' hands. They're outside the old Hale house for a training session and Stiles is standing in front of the steps Derek's perched on, digging items out of his backpack.
"Nah, this is one of those citronella ones," Stiles says.
"Isn't that for barking?"
"I figured it would still be useful for Erica. It could activate every time she threatens me."
Derek has an excellent poker face, even if he does say so himself, so Stiles gets no warning when four beta werewolves pounce him from behind.
"Oh my god, noooooo!" Stiles protests as they lift him up between them and carry him off into the surrounding forest. "I need my spray bottle, help!"
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There are not enough words to describe how much I adore this!