Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stiles shakes his head, wanting to get rid of the thoughts. But he lets one thought settle down—poor Kira. She deserves better.

He gets in his Jeep, closes the door, and looks out the window. Erica and Boyd are doing homeschooling after their stint in the basement, as is Cora—who is, surprisingly, alive—so they aren't here. He'd seen Lydia leave with Jackson as soon as the last bell rung, so he's not too worried about them. But what hurts is that Kira—seriously, she is the sweetest—is the only one who notices him leaving and waves goodbye, while the people he's known longer—Scott, Allison and Isaac—don't even care to notice the same.

He waves back to Kira with a slight smile which she returns full force before walking over to her dad, the other three not even looking at her as she does. Once she's settled inside her car, he turns on his Jeep's engine.

She sputters and dies.

"No, fuck, baby, don't do this to me," he runs his hands over the dashboard, trying to soothe her. He tries again, and again, she sputters and dies.

He lets his head hit the steering wheel, which results in him bumping so hard with it he presses the horn button. He quickly scrambles back and doesn't look out, already aware of the glares he must be getting.

"Damn it," he curses, and looks outside to see if Allison is still here. He could maybe get a ride back home with her. He won't get on Scott's bike, and he isn't a masochist like Isaac that he'll walk all the way home.

Allison is still here but it looks like... she's flirting with both Scott and Isaac? The two of them are glaring at each other behind her back, but the moment she turns to them, hand on both of their biceps—which, wow, being a werewolf does have some cool perks—they're all smiles again.

Yeah, he's not getting in the middle of... whatever that is. But his dad is working right now, so he can't call him. So who could he—

Oh.

He leaves a text message. Instantly, he gets the reply:

Be there in 10.

Stiles smiles and decides to spend his time waiting playing on his phone. Temple Run is a great game, to be honest.

He decides to wait by leaning against his Jeep because it was too hot inside, and right on dot, the Camaro slides into place behind his Jeep.

Stiles smiles as Derek lowers his window. He's looking hot as always, of course, and he even has sunglasses on.

Derek smiles cheekily and asks, "Hey, Stiles, want a ride?" Derek has been bugging him to let him repair his Jeep ever since the night after the warehouse, when Derek had stayed over and then promptly killed Stiles because his vehicle was not a getaway vehicle.

It's sheer luck that Stiles' dad didn't notice Derek lurking inside the Jeep while he walked down to his cruiser. Or heard the very pitiful whine of his dear Roscoe as she was pulled to a stop—Stiles hadn't driven her back home, so Derek took the job; Lydia and Jackson had dropped him off, seeing as his Jeep wasn't starting. Now that, his dad did see. Stiles shouldn't have felt as grateful as he did that night about being injured, but it did get him out of an interrogation, so he'll take the wins he can. 

Like right now.

If Derek is going to be cheeky about it, then Stiles is going to be, too. Two can play at this game—and Stiles can play better.

He replies, grinning, "Sure. Just give me a ride home after, 'kay?"

Derek blushes a sweet pink under his artfully styled stubble, and Stiles has to respect him when he says, voice sturdier than his appearance, "By when do you have to be home, because this ride is going to take a long time."

Stiles guffaws and quickly gets inside the car, kissing Derek's cheeks once he is. "That was amazing, you won, wow. Who knew you had it in you?"

"I think we should see if you have it in you."

Stiles will die of laughter. Not a bad way to go.

He pats at Derek's arms, excited. "Oh man, I love you dude,"

Derek starts the car and starts to lead them out of the school's parking lot. "Don't call me dude,"

"Oh no, are we back to your usual repertoire now?"

Derek sighs, but the small twitch of his lips says it all: he's fond of Stiles. Who knows why, but he is, and that's good enough for Stiles.

"Oh, and to answer your question, I haven't had it in me. Yet." He yells when Derek suddenly swerves, almost hitting someone in the process. "Derek, what the hell!"

Said werewolf glares at him. "Stiles," he says, and the way he says it, jerky control in grasp of the two syllables, has Stiles shivering in anticipation. He knows how he feels about Derek—and knows that there's something between them, a string tying them together—but he also knows neither of them are ready; they are free with their words and their touches, but they aren't ready to be free with their hearts just yet.

So, Stiles decides to do what he does best. That is, run away from his problems. Except this is not a problem—it's just something he won't have. For now.

He gets out of the Camaro. "We gotta check on the person you almost killed,"

Derek doesn't argue against it, and perhaps that's what Stiles loves the most about the two of them—they get each other; they're on the same wavelength and it's lighting him up inside.

Though Derek does say, "He's fine, they're both fine. They're just idiots who don't know about road safety."

Stiles gets what he means when he sees the person lying on the road, and the one hovering a few feet away. Scott, and Isaac.

Isaac beelines for Derek and asks him if he can get a ride back; Derek agrees and tells him to sit in the backseat, which he complies to. He doesn't whine like he normally does when he's made to sit in the backseat, so, progress.

Meanwhile, Scott stares at him like he hasn't seen Stiles before. It's kind of true—Scott hasn't been seeing him for a while now.

Stiles gives Scott a hand to pull him up. Scott takes it, then asks, petulant, "What are you doing with him?" He says him like he is saying poison; anger boils over inside Stiles, because honestly, what the hell.

Derek stays quiet as Stiles tears his best friend a new one in the almost empty parking lot.

"I'm with him," he imitates Scott's tone, and it feels wrong on his tongue, so, so wrong, "Because my Jeep died on me. Which you would've heard if you were paying attention to anything other than Allison, because my baby is loud. And, what the hell, Scotty, what has Derek ever done to make you hate him?!"

Scott completely ignores the last part. "So why didn't you just ask me to give you a ride home?" Scott always ignores the important bits.

Stiles shakes his head, rolling his whole head as he does. In doing so his eyes land on Derek, who is looking down at the pavement—an illusion of privacy for the sake of his benefit.

He looks back at Scott. "Because I didn't want to." He enunciates each word carefully. "Scott, I've known you for years, and I've gotten to love you like a brother. I've been blind to your flaws because of that love, but not anymore. And okay, yeah, I know you're going to say it was selfish on my part—I didn't have anyone but you, and I didn't want to lose you. But. That's not true anymore. We both have other people in our lives now, and I get that priorities change and stuff, mine have too, but it doesn't mean that we forget about each other.

"I don't want to forget you but I can't forgive you for some of your recent actions." He takes a deep breath in, concludes with, "I still want to be friends—but first I want you to learn what you did wrong and be sorry for it."

He waits for a reply that would make the ache in his heart go away. He knows there is no reply that can do that, but Scott can definitely make the ache lessen.

Except that's not what happens.

Scott focuses on the wrong bits of the conversations, and this has been a hilarious trait for all their shared lives. But right now, all it does is increase the ache.

"So, what, you love Derek now?"

"Scott, I swear to—"

"Stiles, let's go home," Derek interrupts, and Stiles wants to argue with him too. But Derek puts his hand on his shoulder, and all the fight leaves him. He's said all he's wanted to; there's nothing left for him to do here except wait for Scott to get his head on straight.

"Fine," he says, and turns back.

"Don't jump in front of the car again, Scott," Derek says behind him, and Stiles can hear Scott fuming.

"I'm not Stiles, you can't order me around."

His fingers spasm around the door handle, and he marches right back, right in front of Scott's shocked face. He pushes the 'wolf back and he stumbles, caught off guard.

"Why can't you hold onto things that are actually important?"

"Like what? Derek's hands?"

Stiles hears Derek mutter, "You really have a death wish..." and there's a squeaky sound, as if Isaac is adjusting himself in the backseat so that he can enjoy the show. He's not being subtle about it. At all.

Stiles internally rolls his eyes. Sometimes, Isaac is an adorable dork, and others, he's scarfboy, who Stiles hates with a passion.

"No, Scott, not Derek's hands. I meant me."

"I never dropped you," Scott says, and he sounds like he actually believes it.

Stiles scoffs. "Yeah. Right." When Scott still doesn't clue in, Stiles takes a step back and says, "I told you to reflect on your actions. Making me say it isn't the same fucking thing, Scott."

"You're avoiding answering me," Scott persists, and... and Stiles gives up. He's never going to get through to him.

He rubs his face. Asks, hoarsely, "What, Scott? What am I avoiding answering according to you?"

"About you and Derek. Are you two together now? Is he fucking you? Is that why you're going home with him and not me? Are you in his Pack?" Scott looks heartbroken at the prospect, and the look tugs at Stiles' heart. But no. Scott's made his choices, and Stiles has made his—some sad looks isn't going to wash it all away. "I thought we were a package deal, man."

Stiles only has one answer to this. One sure answer that he's felt in his bones ever since Derek stayed with him after helping Erica and Boyd sleep in that train depot, to pull his pain away even though Derek thought Stiles had known about Scott's plan.

He was hurt and nobody in that damn warehouse saw it, nobody except Derek. And he didn't have to come, to take care of Stiles, and neither did he have to drive back Roscoe, but he did anyways. Because a real leader doesn't only to think to eliminate the threats, but also takes care of their allies. And at the time, that's what he and Derek were—allies. And look at them now.

Stiles tells Scott, firm and with all the blood in his body rushing in joy, "Derek is an Alpha. He's my Alpha."

You might be an Alpha, but you're not mine. That's what Scott had said.

"So, yes, I am in his Pack." Scott looks heartbroken, but Stiles isn't going to cry here, damnit. Not in front of someone who only remembers him when it's suitable for him, and forgets about him the other times. So, he makes his decision. He declares, "Goodbye, Scott," and walks back to the Camaro, Derek right beside him. He's grateful when Derek slides his hands on his thigh, pre-emptively stopping his legs from getting jittery, and he smiles at his Alpha for it.

He's never said it out loud before. But it feels good. Perfect.

"Let's go home, Alpha."

Derek nods and smiles back at him, a genuine small smile, and Stiles can see Isaac's reflected smile in the rearview mirror as well. Isaac might grate on his nerves sometimes, but he does respect Derek. That's more than enough for now—Stiles can learn to play nice. Slowly.

Derek revs the engine, pushes his sunglasses back up from the nose, and takes them out of the parking lot in one swift motion. Scott scrambles to the side, and Stiles watches from the rearview mirror—Isaac scoots a little to one side to let him have a clear view—as they leave ahead of Scott.

The ache in his chest only grows at the sight, but the warmth coming from the hand on his thigh, and the soft humming from Isaac's lips is just comforting enough to keep him from crying.

Later, he cries his heart out while lying in the middle of a puppy pile—"It's not called that, Stiles," "Oh, shush, Sourwolf, and get in!"—with Erica on one side and Isaac on the other. Boyd holds Erica close while Cora snuggles up beside Isaac.

And Derek. Derek is on top of him, a comforting weight; like a very big, very fluffy teddy bear.

Their noses brush together when either of the four of them push and pull a little on the too-small bed, and Stiles has to bite his lip so that he doesn't end up kissing Derek's.

It's a hard battle, but soon it doesn't matter, because they're all almost asleep in minutes. The last thing Stiles sees before sleep takes him is Derek's rose-red eyes, and he sleeps with the biggest smile on his face (or so Erica tells him later).

Either way, when he wakes up, he feels good. Not the best, but definitely better.

He's going to be okay.