FIC: Teen Wolf -- Pack Up; Don't Stray (2/6)

[the_deep_magic]

Title: Pack Up; Don’t Stray (2/6)
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Warnings (this part): themes of slavery, references to violence and minor character deaths

One

When Stiles got back home, he found Derek curled up on the couch, looking to be about three-quarters of the way through The Illustrated Man.  Stiles held up the shopping bags and grinned.  “It’s absolutely your lucky day.  Hawaiian shirts were two-for-one.”

Okay, now Stiles knew what murderous looked like on Derek’s face.  Good to know.  Didn’t slow Stiles down any, though.  “Oh my god, lighten up a little.  And give me some credit.  I know that you’re more of a… a monochromatic guy.”  He set the bags down at Derek’s feet.  “You can go try those on whenever, let me know if something doesn’t fit or otherwise offends your delicate sensibilities.  I’ve got to get the groceries out of the car.”

As Stiles was finishing stashing the groceries in their proper place in the fridge and cupboards, he heard the stairs creak behind him.  It was deliberate, because Stiles knew very well that Derek could sneak up behind him without making a sound if he wanted to.  When Stiles turned around, the sight made him drop a large can of tomato sauce right on his foot and didn’t even have the presence of mind to say “ouch.”

Because the clothes fit.  Hot damn, did the clothes fit.  If this detective thing didn’t work out, Stiles might have a future in tailoring, or personal shopping.  That was a thing, right?  Personal shopping?  Maybe Stiles should list that under “special skills” on his resume.

Stiles had somehow managed not to say any of that out loud, but he had been standing there with his mouth hanging open for an inexcusably long time, and he knew he was turning redder by the second.  Derek glanced down at himself, face betraying the tiniest hint of uncertainty.  “Are these okay?”

Okay wasn’t quite the word Stiles would have used for the way the soft gray fabric stretched across the expanse of Derek’s chest.  Stiles allowed himself a brief moment to envy that shirt (though couldn’t even think about the jeans, the way they hugged Derek’s ass just like Stiles wanted t—no, none of that) before hiding his sudden arousal behind a smug smile and proclaiming in a slightly shaky voice, “Am I awesome at picking out clothes or what?”

The look on Derek’s face made it clear he’d rather swallow wolfsbane than agree with that, but he seemed much more at ease.  And due to Stiles’ refusal to stop grinning like an idiot, Derek’s own expression eventually softened.  It wasn’t a “thank you,” but really, the way that shirt showcased Derek’s perfect shoulders was thanks enough.

“So, I got us pork chops for dinner,” Stiles said, fighting the urge to step over and smooth a wrinkle out of the shirt that just happened to be right over Derek’s stomach and possibly find out whether it was as rock-hard as it had looked the previous evening.  “What if I just made yours… extra rare?  Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” Derek said, obviously enjoying seeing Stiles flustered.  Well, fuck the Xbox, Derek was certainly going to get plenty of entertainment over the next few days.

“Okay, great, excellent,” Stiles said, attempting to swing his arms casually and ending up smacking the back of his hand into the cabinet.  But he was actually rather proud of himself for keeping his voice from cracking like a teenager’s when he asked, “And the rest of the clothes?  Did you try them on?”

“They fit,” Derek said simply.

Excellent, Stiles would be treated to more of this.  Surely he’d get used to it after a while and stop blatantly ogling Derek’s biceps when he crossed his arms… just like that.

“Right!” Stiles exclaimed, forcing himself to look away long enough to pick up the can of tomato sauce.  And once all off his focus was no longer on Derek’s body, Stiles realized that both his hand and his foot really fucking hurt.  No wonder people thought wers were dangerous; they were just completely wrong about the reason.

“So I’ll just get started on the pork chops,” Stiles remarked as he stood… and realized he was talking to himself.  Derek had slipped out of the kitchen unnoticed.  “You’ll have to teach me how to do that,” Stiles said loudly.  “’Stealth’ is not high on the list of my many detective-y skills.”

There was no response, and Stiles shook his head to clear it before turning his attention to the food.  He peeled some potatoes and put them on the stove to boil, then got out the pork chops.  He seasoned his own, but left the other two plain and put them all in the oven, setting a timer so he’d remember to remove Derek’s food early.

Stiles planned to heat up some green beans as well, but he figured he ought to talk to Derek about his conversation with Deaton first.  There weren’t a lot of specifics that Stiles could give, but he could at least let Derek know that he’d set things in motion.

Stiles found Derek in the living room, near the fireplace.  Derek had taken one of the pictures off the mantle and was studying it.  He took Stiles a little off guard by speaking first. “Your parents?”

Derek had asked neutrally, but as always, Stiles felt a hole open up in his gut at the subject.  “Yeah.  They were wer rights activists, actually.  That’s how they met, back in college.  She got arrested for trying to break into the Washington State Services compound, and he was so in love with her, he bailed her out.”  Stiles took the picture frame from Derek, careful not to smudge the glass.  “I wish I were half as brave as she was.”

When Stiles glanced up, Derek was gazing at him through narrowed eyes.  But then he asked, “Was?”

“Yeah.  She died of cancer when I was 13, and my dad, he never really—” Stiles shook his head; the pain was blunter now than it used to be, but it would always be there.  “Cirrhosis.  Three years ago.”

Derek nodded and carefully took the picture back, his fingers brushing against Stiles’ as he did.  He respectfully set the frame down where it had been before and continued to study it.

“Do you—?” Stiles began without thinking, but stopped.  Wers were usually separated from their parents and sold at birth or shortly after their first shift, and it was unlikely Derek knew anything about his family or how to find them.

But Derek heard what Stiles didn’t ask.  “They’re dead.”

“Maybe not.  How do you—?”

“All of them.  One by one.”

Oh Jesus, Stiles was terrified to know what that meant, but Derek, unsurprisingly, didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and for once Stiles was grateful.  “I—I’m sorry.  I know exactly how comforting that’s not, but… I’m sorry.”

Derek stared into the middle distance, tugging at the silver collar around his throat.  “I wasn’t always an alpha.  It wasn’t my choice.”

Stiles was unsure of exactly how that worked – if it fell upon the senior member of the family or the pack, or if it went to the strongest beta, or if packs even had to be blood-related.  He did know, however, that now was not the time to ask.

“There’s so little I know about wers,” Stiles admitted after a long silence.  “So much I could have asked my parents, but I didn’t even think.  I’m pretending like I know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I’ve never really known a wer, let alone spoken to one.  I realized that today.  The wers—”

“Werewolves,” Derek interjected softly.

“Excuse me?” Stiles asked, genuinely surprised.  Derek usually wasn’t in the business of interruptions.

“That’s what we are: werewolves.  Humans try to erase the fact that we’re half wolf, even while they treat us like animals.”

“Werewolves,” Stiles repeated, the word feeling foreign in his mouth.  Surely that’s the word Stiles’ parents must have used, but after his mother died, his father had rarely spoken about the cause they’d shared.  It had been too painful.  So werewolf sounded… uncomfortable, almost taboo.  But Derek was right – trying to deny the wolf was insulting at best, outright hostile at worst.

“I always thought that was kind of odd,” Stiles said, thinking out loud.  “Because the ‘wer’ part is the prefix that means ‘human.’  But, yeah, just let me know if I do or say something stupid or offensive.  I’m used to it.  And I want…” Stiles didn’t even know what he wanted; he just knew that his eyes had been opened to something that was very, very wrong, and for the first time in his life he understood the need his parents had felt to try to make some of it right again.

Derek looked thoughtful, like he was about to say something, but then the kitchen timer went off and his expression closed off again.  He nodded over Stiles’ shoulder toward the kitchen.

“Oh, right,” Stiles said, trying not to sound disappointed.  “Can’t overcook yours.  And I’m making mashed potatoes and green beans to go with the pork.  You can eat them or not.  I promise I won’t be offended.”

Derek just nodded, and Stiles resigned himself to the fact that the conversation was over for the time being.  It wasn’t until he was removing two of the chops from the oven that he realized he hadn’t even mentioned Deaton.  But the potatoes were just about soft enough to be mashed, and Stiles still had to heat up the beans.  They came from a can, which wasn’t ideal, but the pork chops and potatoes were already pushing the limits of Stiles’ cooking ability.  Normally, he didn’t bother with much more than microwave dinners or crock pot concoctions.

So he timed everything terribly, overcooking his own pork chop while he was dealing with the potatoes, and the beans were nearly back to room temperature by the time everything else was ready and on the table.  As was quickly becoming the norm, one second Stiles had his back turned to get the serving spoons, and the next, Derek was calmly seated at the dining room table.  Stiles just barely managed to keep from flinging the spoons across the room in shock.  “I hate to be rude,” he said sharply, “but would it kill you to make a little noise when you come and go?  All this appearing and disappearing is bad for my heart.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow.  “Last time I gave you warning, you still dropped a can on your foot.”

Touché.

Changing the subject while he dished out the food, Stiles told Derek about his talk with Deaton, glossing over the parts about Derek possibly maiming Stiles.  “So he says he’ll get back to me,” Stiles finished, sitting down to a satisfyingly full plate of food.  “I know that’s not terribly comforting, but my parents were friends with Deaton for a long time.  I thought he’d given up the cause, sort of like my dad did, but when I talked to him a few months ago about the stray wers – sorry, werewolves – that get brought into the station, he told me there was a way to get them out.”

Stiles had been cutting into his pork chop – though it took a little bit of effort – as he talked, and stuffed a piece in his mouth.  A little chewy, but that was his own fault, and it wasn’t that bad.  He hoped he hadn’t cooked Derek’s meat too much, but when Stiles looked up, he had to chomp down on his lower lip to keep from bursting into laughter.

He’d just automatically given Derek silverware when he’d set the table, and now Derek was awkwardly holding his knife and fork, glaring at them as if he could will them to cut the meat with the sheer force of his anger.  It was like watching a frustrated four year old trying to use a knife for the first time, and though Stiles’ eyes were watering with the suppressed need to laugh, he was pretty sure Derek wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.  And Stiles had promised Deaton he’d try not to get mauled.

Stiles had to look away and cough into his hand until he was composed enough to look back at Derek, who had obviously not been fooled and was now glaring at Stiles, eyes beginning to glow red.  “Sorry!  Sorry!” Stiles gasped.  “Totally my fault.  You don’t have to use those.  We’re all guys here – just pick it up and go for it.”

Fortunately, the glare gave way to mild irritation, and Derek picked up one of the pork chops with his hands and began to eat.  Stiles nearly collapsed with relief, and also noted that Derek was eating much slower and more carefully than yesterday.  He had to use a fork for the veggies, but that was much easier to operate than the coordination of both the fork and the knife.  It sent an unexpected pang through Stiles’ chest, and he thought of all the stupid little civilities he must take for granted.

Derek ate both pork chops and most of the green beans, but left the potatoes nearly untouched.  Maybe there was too much milk and butter – his stomach probably wasn’t used to handling dairy.  But Stiles didn’t say a word as he cleared the table, packing away the leftovers.

He fully expected Derek to have vanished again by the time he finished.  But no, Derek was still sitting at the kitchen table, watching him, which was actually far more disconcerting than the vanishing.  Stiles had just begun loading the plates in the dishwasher when he remembered the peaches.  Keeping his back to Derek, he quickly washed one in the sink, then looked over his shoulder and yelped “Think fast!” while tossing the peach at him.  Stiles’ aim was off, but Derek caught it anyway, and Stiles got the pleasure of watching Derek’s eyes go wide when he realized what it was.

Stiles meant to continue cleaning up, but he found himself unable to look away from Derek, who was holding the peach delicately, almost reverently, turning it over and over in his hands.  “Go on,” Stiles said softly.  “It’s not going to bite.”

Derek scowled – whether at Stiles’ lame joke or the fact that he’d sort of phrased it like Derek needed his permission, Stiles wasn’t sure – but the scowl disappeared the second he actually sank his teeth into the peach.

And the sound he made, Jesus.  It was a sound of long-denied sensual pleasure, rumbling deep in Derek’s chest, and it hit Stiles across the room like a punch to the solar plexus.  Stiles had never heard anything so shameless in his life, and his knees threatened to buckle.  And the way Derek continued to eat it – slowly, deliberately, his eyelashes even fluttering a little with helpless delight – didn’t exactly do wonders for Stiles’ composure.  He had to lean forward onto the kitchen island to remain upright – and to hide the extremely inconvenient erection starting to tent his jeans.

But Stiles was riveted to the spot; he stood there and watched Derek eat the whole thing, sucking the last of the sweet flesh off the pit and – oh, fuck – licking up the juice that had spilled down his hand and wrist.  And it was a damned good thing that Derek was focused on the peach to the exclusion of everything else, because Stiles realized he’d been vicariously licking his own lips for at least the last minute, and they were starting to chap.

Stiles quickly wiped the back of his hand over his mouth just before Derek seemed to remember that the rest of the world existed.  He looked over at Stiles, his gaze unfocused, his lips still shiny with juice.

A shaky smile crossed Stiles’ face, and he was very proud of the fact that his voice didn’t squeak in the slightest when he asked, “Another one?”

The dreams started that night.

&&&

The next morning, Stiles had to go back to work, but he was surprisingly comfortable leaving Derek alone in his house again.  Derek had his stack of books and plenty of food (there were two peaches left, and Stiles selfishly hoped Derek wouldn’t finish them off while he was gone), and Stiles had a full day of interviews ahead of him.

The Beacon Hills PD wasn’t big enough to be split into departments, so Stiles and Scott had to handle investigation work for pretty much any crimes that came through the station.  Today they were gathering evidence against a contractor who’d been swindling his clients – using cheap materials, sometimes not even doing the work.  NYPD Blue it was not, but an old lady had broken her leg when a staircase collapsed, so the case had gone beyond simple fraud.

Taking witness statements required Stiles to actually wear a suit to work.  Stiles hated the damn things – he could normally just wear plain clothes as long as he didn’t dress like a hobo – but Chief Martin insisted on the suits because “they’re the only thing that doesn’t make you look like a twelve year old.”  Stiles chose to take that as a compliment.  It was pretty much the best he was going to get from the Chief.

Derek was already perched on his spot on the couch, book in hand, when Stiles was ready to leave.  Derek looked up at him, and for once, Stiles couldn’t think of anything to say.  “So, um, yeah, I’ll be going to work now,” he mumbled.  Well, anything intelligent to say.  “Uh, bye?”

As expected, Derek said nothing, didn’t even nod.  Instead, he just looked Stiles steadily up and down, then went back to his book.  It wasn’t until Stiles got into his Jeep that he noticed the light sweat on the back of his neck, the slight tremor in his hand as he went to grip the gearshift.  Had Derek been checking him out?

Fortunately – or not – he had a long day not to think about Derek.  Sobbing old ladies tended to send Stiles into full awkward mode – he never knew where to look, what to do with his hands.  Interrogations he could handle; weeping he could not.  Luckily, Scott was better at the whole “people-person” aspect of the job, so Stiles just had to remember to keep the questions short and his face neutral.  When they got in sync, they worked tremendously well together.

By the time they finished, both Stiles and Scott were exhausted – Scott much more so because he probably hadn’t slept more than a few hours over the past few nights.  He didn’t even have to say anything, just turned his best puppy dog eyes on Stiles and Stiles groaned.  “Again, dude?  You are not allowed to use that stupidly adorable kid to get out of paperwork for the next 18 years.”

“Just until she starts sleeping through the night.  Please?  Do you want me to beg?  Because I can beg.  I will grovel—”

Stiles cut him off with a slap on the back that made Scott sway on his feet; Stiles was never going to say no anyway.  “Go home, Scott, get some sleep.  And give Allison my deepest sympathies.  Just, for the love of god, please don’t report back to me on the baby’s every single bowel movement.  Consider me impressed across the board at your daughter’s healthy digestive system.”

He could swear he saw Scott start to tear up.  “I love you, man.  I really, really do.”

“I know.  That’s how the rumors got started.  Now get the hell out of here before you pass out on me.”

Scott nodded dazedly and walked out on slightly unsteady legs.  Stiles briefly wondered whether he ought to see if Boyd or Reyes could drive him home, but they were out on patrol and if Scott hadn’t managed to wreck his piece-of-shit car yet, he probably wasn’t going to do it tonight.

It was past nine by the time Stiles got everything squared away.  It didn’t help that he was a little obsessive-compulsive when it came to the details in his reports, but that kept the Chief happy, and when Lydia Martin was happy… well, nobody got ripped a new asshole, and that counted as a good day in Stiles’ book.

Stiles had very nearly managed to forget that he was harboring a fugitive wer – werewolf – until he got home and saw the plates in the sink that hadn’t been there when he’d left that morning.  It looked like Derek had eaten the steak raw and polished off an entire bunch of carrots, but at least he’d attempted to clean up after himself.

When Stiles flicked on the light in the living room, he was surprised to see Derek not on the couch, but standing by the window, looking out of the open blinds.  Stiles quickly turned the lights back off – less of a chance of anyone seeing Derek through the window, even though it faced the backyard.

Derek hadn’t so much as glanced in Stiles’ direction, though he had flinched a bit when Stiles had flipped the lights on.  “You all right?” Stiles asked quietly, slowly making his way through the dark room and silently congratulating himself for not cracking a shin on the coffee table.  “The full moon’s not for at least another two weeks.”

Stiles was kind of hoping that would get Derek to give him some idea of what to expect during the full moon – if Derek was still around by then.  But he remained silent and still.  Well, he was usually still, but now he was almost preternaturally so.  When Stiles got close to him, he got that same feeling radiating off Derek that he had in the holding cell: one of carefully suppressed power.  Derek was holding himself so motionless he was practically making the air tremble, and it was downright unnerving.

Stiles stood next to him, close enough that he could feel the unnatural heat of Derek’s body, and stared out the window, trying to look for whatever Derek was seeing.  It took Stiles a few minutes to piece it together.  “Oh, you want to be out there, don’t you?  You’ve been trapped in this house for two days.  It’s got to be driving you nuts.”

“I’ll live,” Derek replied drily, but his irises glistened with red for a split second and Stiles felt like he’d just gotten the tiniest glimpse of what Derek really was – civilized, yes, but also a wild creature meant to be able to run freely through the woods and let loose with a primal howl when the urge took him.  Still the same person with a fondness for leather jackets and Ray Bradbury, but also something… more.

“I wish I could let— I mean, I wish you could go out, at least for a little while.  But Deaton said it was dangerous if there were other wer…wolves who could track your scent.”

“There are,” Derek said, his tone painfully neutral, and Stiles was caught between sympathy and the desire to shake Derek by the shoulders until he spoke more than two words at a time.  But Stiles had just enough foresight to know that wouldn’t end well.

So they lapsed back into silence for another few minutes, and for once, it wasn’t a silence Stiles felt like he had to fill.  But eventually a question did pop into his mind, something he’d been wanting to ask since doing what little research he could.  “Do you— I mean, are there others out there in the woods, other werewolves who’ll be wondering where you’ve gone?  Your pack?”

Derek snorted bitterly.  “I tried, in the beginning.  We’re stronger together.  Alphas especially, but all of us, really.  But they kept getting taken, found by the police or their owners or… worse.  And then it wasn’t worth it anymore.”

God, that must have been horrible.  Derek losing his entire family, then trying to build some type of surrogate family, only to have them continually ripped away again.  One by one, Derek had said.  One by one until there was no one left.

For once, Stiles didn’t have the words, and even if he did, they’d be less than worthless.  Without thinking, he lifted a hand to Derek’s shoulder, squeezing gently.  Stiles was about to jerk his hand back, mortified by what he’d done – he didn’t want Derek to think he was pitying him or, worse, petting him or something – but to Stiles’ astonishment, Derek leaned back into the touch until he was nearly pressed against Stiles’ side.

Stiles’ heart shot into his throat as his mind raced.  The werewolf information he’d gathered hadn’t said anything about this.  In fact, it had warned against touching a werewolf.  But wasn’t that something that wolves – just plain wolves – did to bond with their pack?  And Derek had been without a pack for so long, not to mention the utter lack of human contact.  It had been a long time since Bio 101, but Stiles was pretty sure all mammals needed at least occasional physical closeness to thrive, and god knew how long it had been since Derek had felt the touch of someone else just for comfort’s sake.

So, taking a deep breath, Stiles moved forward, barely half a step, until the entire side of his body from shoulder to thigh was pressed lightly against Derek’s.  Stiles’ heart was threatening to hammer its way out of his chest, but he could’ve sworn he heard just the barest hint of a sigh escape Derek’s mouth, so Stiles stood firm, soaking in the heat of Derek’s body.  They stood like that for a long time, the tension in Derek’s shoulder gradually softening beneath Stiles’ hand, both gazing silently at the half moon until it finally slipped behind the clouds and the night went dark.

&&&

Something changed after that.

Part of it was obvious – Stiles started touching Derek.  Stiles had always been a tactile sort of guy, so it wasn’t a huge stretch to squeeze Derek’s arm as Stiles passed him in the hallway.  Or let their hands touch as he handed Derek a mug.  (The knife and fork thing was still a work in progress, but Derek sure as hell remembered coffee.  Stiles couldn’t tell if it genuinely made Derek less grumpy or, now that he was drinking it again, his pre-coffee morning scowls had just gotten extra-scowly.)

And Derek reciprocated in his own way.  He didn’t suddenly start giving Stiles bear hugs (which, frankly, Stiles wouldn’t have m—no, best not go there), but when Stiles insisted they watch the original, un-fucked-around-with Star Wars trilogy, Derek sat close enough to him on the couch that he could feel the unnatural heat radiating of Derek’s body.  They weren’t touching, not quite, but they were definitely closer than the approved minimal distance dictated by Guy Law.

Stiles tried not to think about how he hadn’t been this close to another person since Danny (well, except Scott, but occasionally clobbering his partner to establish dominance was an exemption under the Bro Clause of Guy Law) and Danny had been… god, two years ago.  Allison and Isaac had both independently been badgering Stiles to “get back out there,” whatever the hell that meant.  But Stiles’ dedication to his job meant most of the people he met were actual criminals, and he was pretty sure if he ever actually took Reyes up on one of her offers, he’d wake up chained to a basement wall in a latex suit with no solid idea of how he’d gotten there, and that wasn’t a line he was ready to cross just yet.

Which wasn’t necessarily a hard no; Stiles just liked to think he was still several poor life choices removed from that particular scenario.

But with Derek, it wasn’t just the touching.  Stiles felt something in his shoulders, something that was perpetually wound tight (ever since Dad died said a small voice in the back of his head, one that he chose to ignore) gradually began to loosen.  A week passed without word from Deaton, and Stiles should have been worried, but he wasn’t.  Even Scott – sweet, oblivious Scott – noticed a difference, and Stiles had previously been certain that Scott wouldn’t have noticed if Stiles spontaneously grew a second head.  And that was before the baby.

“That was awesome, man,” Scott said one afternoon after Stiles had smoothly coaxed an important bit of information from a reluctant witness.  “You’re totally Zen this week.  What gives?”

Stiles still hadn’t mentioned a word about Derek to Scott, much as he wanted to.  “Yoga,” Stiles lied easily.  “You’d be amazed what downward-facing dog does for your chi.” He was pretty sure he was mixing cultural references there, but Scott was highly unlikely to call him on it.

And it wasn’t like Stiles and Derek were suddenly buddies or anything.  Derek was slowly starting to string more than half a dozen words together at a time, and Stiles was doing his damnedest not to push, but they’d had an actual almost-conversation the other night.  Derek had been tugging absently at his collar, and Stiles just couldn’t keep the question from popping out of his mouth.

“Does it—does it hurt?  The collar?”

“I’m used to it,” Derek said cryptically.  Well, practically everything he said was cryptic, but Stiles took it as an in.

“But when you first got it?”

“I was twelve.  Before my first shift.  Got a new one every year until I was eighteen.”

“It’s not an alpha collar.”

“No,” Derek said simply.

Stiles decided not to push that particular line of questioning and went for another.  “But how did they put it on?  There’s no clasp.”

Derek gave him a piercing look.  “How do you think?”  And he turned the collar until Stiles could see the thin welding line across the metal.

Jesus, what kind of monster took a welding torch to the neck of a twelve year old, even knowing he’d heal?  Stiles shivered, and the conversation, such as it was, was over.  He quashed the sudden urge to put his arms around Derek.

Derek still spent at least a few minutes every night staring mournfully out the window, and it made Stiles’ heart twist in his chest even as he racked his brain to think of something he could do, something that would make this feel less like imprisonment, however temporary.

It took another week of coming home after work, hanging up his jacket, dropping his keys on the front table, and immediately starting to gripe about his day, knowing that Derek could hear him from pretty much any room in the house, before the truth of it hit Stiles.

He had someone to come home to.

Never mind that that someone was a fugitive werewolf who would be leaving any day now to travel thousands of miles north and never return.  Stiles had to keep from knocking his head against the wall.  He really had no emotional self-preservation instincts at all.

Derek came into the front hallway, making his footsteps loud enough to hear because… right, Stiles had come to this revelation mid-sentence.  At least he hadn’t said it out loud.

A warm hand rested on the back of Stiles’ neck, and as good as it felt, it made Stiles’ chest ache.  Derek sensed it somehow and sought to comfort Stiles the way he knew best, which seemed to involve Derek nuzzling against Stiles’ throat.

Stiles had to choke back a pained laugh.  Derek couldn’t possibly know how his closeness was affecting Stiles.  Or at least Stiles hoped he couldn’t, because the only thing worse than being attracted to a skittish, potentially dangerous werewolf was broadcasting that attraction to said werewolf.  Stiles had no idea how Derek would react to that, but he couldn’t imagine it would end well.

“I’m okay,” Stiles said, trying to keep his voice light, though Derek’s breath huffing across his throat was making Stiles’ blood rush to inappropriate places.  He patted Derek gently on the shoulder, caught helplessly between the desire to push him away and the need to pull him closer.  “I’m fine, buddy.  Just… a rough day.”

Derek nosed his way up to the extremely sensitive spot just below Stiles’ ear and Stiles was rapidly approaching his breaking point when Derek suddenly pulled away, his face even less readable than usual.  Stiles smiled weakly.  “If I don’t hear from Deaton soon, I’ll call him again.  He said not to, but I know you hate being locked up in here.”

Derek shrugged.  “Could be worse.”  Then he turned and walked back out of the hall.

If Stiles had had enough hair to grab, he would have been tearing it out in clumps.

&&&

Unbelievably, Stiles had a magnificent stroke of luck in the unexpected form of dumpster kittens.  The fat cat that hung around the back of the station turned out to be a pregnant cat, one that didn’t survive for very long after giving birth.  Isaac, who must have had some kind of radar for neediness, was the first to spot them.  It was a slow day, so eventually everybody save Scott, who had already gone home, was out back, cooing over the poor little orphaned kittens.  Even Chief Martin – well, not so much with the cooing, but she looked distinctly less murderous in the presence of half a dozen helpless balls of fur.

Boyd, though.  Boyd was cooing and tickling a kitten that was small enough to fit in his palm.  If Stiles’ own hands hadn’t been full of kitten, he would’ve tried to get video of it on his phone.  As long as Stiles didn’t put it online, Boyd probably wouldn’t beat him up for it.  Not too badly anyway.

When Reyes asked, “Do you think I could take one of these little guys home?” Stiles saw his chance.

“We probably ought to take them to the vet first, make sure they’re healthy,” Stiles piped up.  “I can drop them off on my way home.”

Chief Martin chose that moment to shift her frankly terrifying focus on Stiles.  “Didn’t know you were one for taking in strays, Stilinksi.”

Stiles fervently prayed to whoever or whatever would listen that his nervous gulp wasn’t audible.  There was no way Lydia knew about Derek.  How could she?  Then Stiles realized that, while he’d filed a report on the return of the stray Isaac brought in – giving a fake owner’s name and everything – he hadn’t actually put down an address for the owner.  Which wouldn’t be an unusual omission, if it were anyone but Stiles.  Still, the odds that the Chief had combed through the stray wer reports and noticed the discrepancy were slim, and even slimmer that she’d make sly hints about it rather than just give Stiles a straight-up tongue-lashing.  And not the fun, spanky kind, either.

All of this flashed through Stiles’ mind in an instant – perks of a hyperactive brain – and Stiles managed to come out with, “I didn’t say I was adopting them, just taking them to the vet.  Besides, I think Reyes would pistol whip me if I bogarted the kittens.”

“Damn straight,” he heard Erica mutter through the nauseatingly adorable mewling.

Whether because of perceptiveness or just excellent timing, Isaac – god bless him – took that moment to shove one of the kittens into Chief Martin’s hands and, really, there was no universe in which Stiles could compete for her attention when the scrawny little thing yawned and stretched its tiny paws.

After work, Stiles – with the help of Boyd, who might actually have a shot at a second career as a cat whisperer – rounded up all the kittens into a cardboard box and put the box in the Jeep.  “I’m sure Dr. Deaton will just need a day or two to check them over.  I’ll let you know what he says.”  Isaac had already made a sign-up sheet for adoption and was arguing with Erica over a two-kitten limit.

The vet’s office was closed by the time Stiles got there, but he knew Deaton would still be around.  Stiles carefully balanced the rocking, mewling box against his hip while knocking on the back door.  “Dr. Deaton?” he called out.  “Special delivery.”

After a few moments, the door cracked open just enough for Stiles to see Deaton’s wary face.  “Stiles…”

“Kittens!” Stiles said, a goofy grin on his face as he held the box out.  “Tiny, homeless, orphaned kittens that Isaac found behind the station.  Helpless, adorable—”

“Just get in here, Stiles,” Deaton sighed, opening the door the rest of the way.  He led them back to the kennel, where there was an empty incubator on a cluttered table.  Deaton turned it on to a low setting and began moving the kittens one at a time into the warmth.

To Stiles’ credit, he managed to keep his mouth shut until Deaton looked at him expectantly.  “I really am here because of the kittens,” Stiles insisted.  “But I was also wondering if there had been any word.”

“I’ve made some calls, but as you can imagine, there aren’t a lot of people willing to transport a fugitive alpha, particularly with the rumors floating around.”

That stopped Stiles in his tracks.  “What rumors?”

Deaton narrowed his eyes.  “What do you know about him, your werewolf?”

“Not… not a lot,” Stiles stammered, suddenly suppressing a blush at the phrase your werewolf.  He trusted Deaton, but the little that Derek had shared with him seemed… private.  “He still doesn’t talk much, but it’s obvious he spent most of his life with humans – apart from recently, I mean.  He seems sure that his family’s dead.”  One by one, Stiles thought, but he didn’t say it.  “But there were other werewolves in the house, other packs, I’m guessing.  At least one knows his scent well enough to track him.  I’ve looked in the police databases – there aren’t any alphas reported missing.”

Deaton’s expression was grave.  “Well, there wouldn’t be.  Anyone who owns an alpha wouldn’t go to the police if they were foolish enough to let him or her escape.  They’d call Services directly, or… take care of it themselves.”

That wasn’t hard to decipher.  “And this rumor?”

“It could be nothing.  There are always rumors, but the timing of this one… It’s only surfacing now because word’s going around in our circles that someone’s found a stray alpha.  Supposedly, a very dangerous alpha escaped from the Argent family three years ago.”

“Dangerous?”  Stiles felt the blood drain from his face.  “How dangerous?”

“Allegedly, this one killed a family member to take over as alpha.”

“Was—was there a name?” Stiles asked, his chest constricting.

“No,” Deaton sighed.  “There doesn’t even seem to be a consensus over whether the alpha is male or female.”

“Well, Derek wouldn’t—” Stiles choked on the words, immediately wishing he hadn’t given away Derek’s name.  “He said all his family was killed.  And that he never even wanted to be an alpha.  It can’t be him.”

“Maybe not,” Deaton said, and Stiles realized he’d entirely stopped breathing until he heard the doctor’s words.  “But the Argents themselves are dangerous.  That’s not a rumor.  Be careful.”

Stiles’ head was reeling.  “But… Allison.  She’s married to my partner.  I’ve known her for years.”

“So have I.  And I don’t think she’s involved.  But some of her family… they’re as ruthless as they are powerful.”

“Christ,” Stiles breathed.  “What do I do?”

Deaton looked grim.  “Just keep doing what you’re doing.  Even if this Derek did belong to the Argents, if he’s untagged, there’s no legal proof.”

“So there’s also no connection to the Argents if he ends up dead,” Stiles realized.

“They know what they’re doing.  They’ve been doing it for generations.”

Part of Stiles wanted to ask exactly what it was the Argents were doing, but he suspected he already knew, and he didn’t especially want to hear Deaton say it.  “Please,” he said, dangerously close to begging.  “Find somebody to take him.  Hell, I’ll take him myself if I have to, but I don’t think the Jeep could even make it up to Canada.”

When Deaton closed a hand over his wrist, Stiles realized he was shaking.  “Don’t do anything right now,” Deaton said firmly.  “You’re not stupid, Stiles.  Just keep him safe and hidden.  I’ll contact you the minute I find transport.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said weakly.  He couldn’t quite manage a smile, but he nodded.

He had just turned to leave when he heard Deaton call his name.  Stiles looked back, and Deaton had a painfully nostalgic look in his eyes.  “They’d be proud of you, Stiles.”

The thought of his parents was the only thing keeping him together as he drove home.  In all those years, he’d never taken the time to ask them why they fought so hard for werewolf rights.  But those untagged bodies that were found in the woods from time to time… They usually weren’t collared, so it was assumed that they were the offspring of the fugitives nobody wanted to admit lived in the woods.  But if they were untagged, it would be simple enough to cut off the collar and leave the body untraceable to any owner.  Stiles had never had to process any of them, thank god, but he was pretty sure that if there was no tag, the coroner didn’t even bother to record cause of death. 

It was technically a crime to abuse or assault a werewolf, but they healed so quickly that there was rarely any physical evidence.  And killing a werewolf carried harsher penalties than killing an animal, but Stiles had never known the few humans who were actually prosecuted to be tried for anything more than manslaughter.  Stiles had only worked one or two of those cases himself, but from others he’d seen, the owner was almost always able to successfully plead self-defense. 

If the Argents were doing what Stiles suspected, if they really were keeping untagged werewolves and dumping their bodies in the woods… it would be damned near impossible to convict them without catching them in the act.

When Stiles got home, Derek met him in the hallway, but didn’t reach for him this time.  It was like Derek could sense Stiles’ distress before he even walked in the door.

“Derek,” Stiles said, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice – more for his own sake than Derek’s.  “We need to talk.”

Seeing the change on Derek’s face was like watching a door slam shut.  Stiles hadn’t seen Derek’s expression that closed off since he’d been sitting in the jail cell.  “I’m sorry.  I know you don’t want to talk about… well, a lot of things.  That’s why I’ve tried not to ask too much.  But if we’re going to get you to safety, there’s some things I need to know.”

Derek’s face remained carefully blank, but he nodded and followed Stiles into the living room.  Stiles sat down on the couch, expecting Derek to take his usual place right next to him – but Derek sat in a chair halfway across the room.  Stiles didn’t realize how accustomed he’d become to Derek’s warmth at his side.

“Okay,” Stiles began weakly, his knee starting to jiggle.  “Okay.  I know you were living with humans before you escaped into the woods, but obviously I don’t know where.  And I wouldn’t care, except… it matters now.”

For once, Derek wasn’t being silent because he didn’t have anything to say.  This was Derek being silent because there was something he didn’t want to say.  It looked like Stiles was going to have to say it for him.  “They haven’t reported it to the police, and they’re almost certainly not going to, but supposedly the Argent family lost an alpha about three years ago.  Is it you?”

Stiles was expecting Derek to stall or lie or just flat-out refuse to answer, so he was shocked when Derek simply said, “Yes.”

Deep down, though, Stiles wasn’t surprised at the answer itself.

That didn’t stop him from burying his face in his hands, though.  Jesus, where to even begin?  He couldn’t be angry at Derek for not telling him, because Stiles had never asked.  He could only be angry at himself – he was a goddamned detective, and he had never really tried to find out why there was a collared but untagged werewolf running loose at all.  He should have known something was seriously fucked up from the beginning.

Stiles ground the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until he saw fireworks, trying to decide which question – that he didn’t want the answer to – he should ask first.  “Is it—is it true?  About the Argents?”

Derek was maddeningly calm.  Or at least he looked it; there was really no telling what was going on behind the blank mask of his face.  “Which part of it?”

“That they’re…” Stiles choked on the word.  “Hunters.”

“Some of them.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Even the people who treated their werewolves as little more than slaves or animals were mostly disgusted by hunting them for sport, though Stiles had heard there was an underground subculture that still practiced it.  It was like something out of the Dark Ages, which was why Stiles hadn’t wanted to believe it went on in a place like Beacon Hills.

“My partner, Scott,” Stiles blurted, “he’s married to—”

“Who?” Derek demanded, his voice deeper and more terrifying than Stiles had ever heard it.  Derek’s eyes were glowing blood red, and he was half out of his chair, about to advance on Stiles—

“Allison!  He’s married to Allison, Chris’ daughter.  Please, god, please don’t tell me she’s—”

“She’s not,” Derek said, his voice mostly normal again.  His eyes, too, had returned to their normal indefinable hazel-green, though he looked distinctly tired, almost pained as he sank back down into the chair.  “Neither is Chris.”

“Oh thank god,” Stiles groaned.  “But they— Do they know?”

“Chris does.  He chose not to… follow in the family tradition.  And as far as I know, he kept Allison away from it.  I haven’t seen her since we were both children.”

Stiles’ adrenaline was starting to ebb, leaving an unpleasant tingling in the palms of his hands.  “Then… who?”

“In Beacon Hills?  Chris’ father, Gerard.  If I legally had an… owner” – Derek spat the word out like it was poisoned – “it would be him.  And his youngest daughter, Kate.”

The mention of Kate made Derek’s eyes flicker red again briefly.  Stiles knew her as Allison’s aunt, of course, but Kate Argent was also well-known to the entire Beacon Hills PD as being constitutionally unable to obey traffic laws.  Strangely enough, though, she rarely actually got tickets.  Stiles vaguely remembered letting her off a few times back when he’d been a beat cop.  He’d always been left dumbfounded, feeling utterly stupid and manipulated a few minutes later.  He’d never suspected her of violence, but if anyone could hide it behind a smile and a flash of cleavage…

“Scott doesn’t know you’re here,” Stiles reassured Derek quickly.  “Even Isaac – the officer who brought you in – doesn’t know what happened once we left the station.  I just told him I took care of everything.  Deaton’s the only one who knows I’m harboring an untagged alpha, but he doesn’t know you’re connected to the Argents.  Not yet.  He might put the pieces together, but I trust him.”

Derek didn’t look particularly comforted, and Stiles probably should have tried to come up with something to comfort him.  But Derek was actually talking to him, and he figured it was time to face the reality of what they were up against, no matter how uncomfortable it made either of them.  “You said, about your family…” Stiles began, his voice cracking.  “You said ‘one by one.’  What did you mean?”

Derek stared at the floor, staying silent for so long that Stiles was about to go out of his skin.  He couldn’t (and wouldn’t) force Derek to talk.  Eventually, though, Derek did.  “My family has belonged to the Argents for generations.  And we’re not the only ones.  They own several packs, and they bring in new omegas sometimes, to keep the bloodlines going.”

Stiles had known some wealthy families owned entire packs, but he’d never really thought about how that would work over a span of decades.  If you kept bringing in new blood to keep the family alive, eventually you’d either have to start selling some off, or…

“And when the packs get too big,” Derek said, finishing Stiles’ thought.  “They… cull the herd.”

Stiles had been half-expecting it, but he still couldn’t help exclaiming, “Jesus, that’s… that’s illegal!”  It was a stupidly obvious thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else.  And he didn’t even have to ask how the Argents got away with it – Stiles was the very authority that should be aware of this shit, and he’d been unknowingly looking the other way for years because he couldn’t stomach the thought long enough to take it seriously.  They were just rumors, so he’d just ignored them and left the strays for State Services… “Services?” Stiles croaked.  “Do they know about this?”

Derek’s laugh was cracked and humorless.  “From what I could tell, they practically condone it.  Does their job for them.  Without the hassle of paperwork.”

All those untagged bodies in the woods.  How many of Derek’s family members had come through the station in bags?  “And the fact that you’re not tagged… That’s not by accident.”

Derek shook his head.  “No official owners, no suspects.”

Stiles’ vision began to go gray around the edges and he realized his heart rate had sped up dangerously.  He hadn’t had an attack in years, but—

“Stiles.”  Someone was saying his name, gripping his clammy hands.  “Stiles, come back.”

It wasn’t a voice Stiles could ignore.  He nodded and tried to get his breathing under control.  He hadn’t had to use the techniques for a long time, but his body still knew them, and they still worked.  He was left shivering with cold sweat, but he could breathe again.

“Sorry,” Stiles gasped.  “I’m sorry.”  For everything, he wanted to say.  For everything you went through.  For everything I didn’t see.  For every time I looked the other way.

“It… it wasn’t always like that,” Derek said, now sitting next to Stiles and still gripping his hands, and what the fuck, Derek was trying to comfort Stiles.  “I think it used to be only a few at a time, never entire families, not until Gerard.  And until I was about 16, we were treated well enough.  Like servants, but no worse.”

“What changed?” Stiles asked, forcing out a choked whisper.

Derek pulled his hands away, sliding to the other end of the couch, and his expression went as cold as Stiles had ever seen it.  “Kate Argent came of age, which is apparently 21 in whatever their tradition is.  Gerard decided that we needed another… culling, and that Kate ought to learn to hunt, since Chris had refused and moved out.  She didn’t need much convincing.  Gerard’s property extends far out into the woods.  It’s surrounded by electrified fencing.  They let us out and then hunted us down, one by one.”

“One by one,” Stiles repeated dully, his eyes refusing to focus.

“It took years.  They only took one of us every three or four months.  My parents were able to hide what was happening from me for a while.  Said my cousins were sold, my aunt went to live with some of the Argents down south.  Until my parents were taken, about a year before I manage to escape.  I don’t think they knew Gerard meant to kill us all.”

“But… why?” Stiles asked, feeling irredeemably ignorant.

Derek’s shrug could almost be mistaken for nonchalant, but Stiles caught the hard twitch of a muscle in his jaw.  “He hates what we are.  Thinks we’re unnatural and dangerous and need to be put down.  I’m pretty sure he just decided to start with my family.”

Stiles tried to run back through what Deaton had said in case there was anything else Stiles needed to know right now.  Fuck, Deaton had said that the Argents’ werewolf had killed family to become an alpha.  Derek sat perched on the edge of his seat, every muscle tensed like he was ready to run.  Or attack.  He looked like he was capable of anything.  But Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to believe that Derek could have killed anyone in his family – that seemed to be the only thing important to him, maybe even more so because they were gone.  Stiles knew the feeling.

“So…” he began slowly.  “You’re the only one of your family left.”

“Yes,” Derek said.

It was a flat-out lie.  Stiles couldn’t have said how he knew, but he’d interviewed plenty of people in his career, and there were tells.  Derek was just getting used to speaking again; he probably hadn’t gotten the hang of lying yet.

What the lie meant, though, Stiles couldn’t even begin to imagine.  It was probably significant, since he’d felt no indication that Derek had been less than brutally honest about everything else, but it was all too much for Stiles to process.  He sat in silence just to give himself time to think.

The Argents – some of them, at least – hunted their own werewolves for sport, and Derek had managed to escape.  There was nothing to tie Derek back to them, but Stiles couldn’t imagine they would simply give up looking for him.  Derek didn’t have the right to press charges himself, though he could, theoretically, make a statement to the police and possibly start an investigation, but the Argents probably weren’t worried about Derek going to the authorities.  If they had any brains, they’d be more concerned with Derek coming back to tear them apart. 

Hell, Stiles wasn’t sure why Derek hadn’t tried already – he was certainly angry enough.  Maybe he thought he’d be able to amass a pack in the woods to help him.  But everything Stiles had seen made him think Derek just wanted to run, to put as much space between himself and the people who slaughtered his family, going as far as he could without crossing county lines, which were patrolled by Services.  Good for him.  If he tried to go up against the Argents, all he’d get was dead, and Stiles hoped that living free of them, just living free, would be revenge enough for Derek.

“Okay,” Stiles muttered to himself, staring at his shoes as he tried to figure out the next step.  Things had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated, but the basic plan was still the same – keep Derek safe until Deaton could get him up north.  “Okay.  I’ll figure this out.  We’ll just… keep doing what we’re doing until I get word from Deaton.  It’ll all work out.”

When Stiles finally glanced up, Derek didn’t look convinced.  But Derek didn’t really look anything, so Stiles had nothing to go on.  When he scooted towards Derek’s end of the sofa, Derek didn’t move away.  But when Stiles stretched out a hand to squeeze Derek’s shoulder like he normally would, Derek stiffened, and Stiles pulled his hand back.  “Thank you,” Stiles said softly.  “For telling me.  I know it’s not… Just, thank you.”

Derek nodded stiffly, Stiles nodded back, and then Stiles went to his computer, not sure he would ever want to eat again and aware it would be hours before he could fall asleep.  He scoured the internet for reliable sources on werewolf hunting until his eyes burned and he was too disgusted to read any more.  He dragged himself to bed and got in still wearing his clothes.

When he woke up the next morning, Derek was gone.

Continue to part three.