Chapter Text
Stiles woke up feeling dazed and very much too warm. His body felt unduly heavy, but the pain he was very much expecting to feel was absent.
It took multiple blinks to process the sight before him as he craned his head to see why he felt so heavy, finding three teenagers draped over his bed and, thus, him, in somewhat precarious positions. Erica curled into his side like a house cat, with Boyd behind her, stretched out with his arm flung over both Erica and Stiles. If Boyd were dog shaped, Stiles was sure his legs would be in the air. Isaac had lain himself down horizontally, across Stiles and Boyd's legs, and one of Erica's hands had reached out of her balled up body to tangle in his hair. All three of them had hands, resting on Stiles with faint black lines trailing up their arms, sharing his pain between them, apparently.
Stiles stared.
When the image didn't change or miraculously begin to make sense, he huffed, wiggled to push the covers away from him, ignoring the pathetic whines of the werewolves in his bed—wait, was this his bed? His bed was not this big.
But that was definitely his ceiling. And those were his walls.
He examined the bed and comforter with pure confusion. This was not his bed, but a surprisingly comfortable queen sized one with a proper wooden headboard. It also wasn't his mattress. Or his sheets, a plain navy set that, while it was something Stiles would buy for the colour, felt far too nice and expensive for him. He was pretty sure it was his pillow at least, comfortingly familiar in the strangeness of the early morning.
Whose goddamn bed was in his room?
There were, realistically, two probable answers. One was that Derek had somehow developed a nice streak and aimed it at Stiles. That was unlikely, but possible, especially if creepy uncle Peter was involved talking about the pack and Derek had been told about Stiles, Erica, and Boyd's bonding escapade. The other option was Lydia had been so offended by his twin bed when she'd been here she'd somehow organised this. Equally possible, given Lydia's disposition, but far less likely.
Stiles wished he could remember much about the previous night after Erica had knocked out Gerrard. He had a vague memory of creepy uncle Peter quietly dragging the old hunter's body away, presumably to revenge kill. Stiles couldn't bring himself to feel too bad about that. Gerrard deserved it.
He was pretty sure he had driven home? Even given the menagerie of wolves on his bed, the total number of driving licences totalled one, Stiles was the only one who could legally drive. He shouldn't, with the concussion he was pretty sure he'd had, but he couldn't see how else they'd gotten home. The concussion might also partially explain the wolves in his bed, if they were monitoring him to make sure he didn't die. Which would explain the bed and, unfortunately, make Derek the most likely source of it. Meaning Stiles now had to thank the older man. Gross.
He debated trying to get up, wiggling slightly to test his mobility.
Boyd grumbled in his sleep, turning towards Stiles, pressing his arm down so Stiles couldn't move as easily.
Stiles gave up, and tried to go back to sleep.
A few hours later, based on the increased light, he woke up again, all three puppies still in their same positions, though Erica had shuffled closer to have her head on Boyd's arm over Stiles’ chest, the increased weight just enough for Stiles to feel the sharp pain of his injured ribs protesting.
Right, this time he actually needed to get free.
He wiggled and twisted and turned until he'd successfully dislodged Erica, who grumblingly turned to curl into Boyd's side instead, and began to work his way out from under Boyd's pinning arm, Isaac's hand on his ankle falling away pretty quickly as he managed to make his escape.
He slid out of bed and sat on the floor for a moment, just breathing as the wolfy pain drain began to wear off.
His ankle was still killing, he felt like one massive bruise, and his ribs were still complaining very loudly about probable fractures and/or breaks.
Stiles made a mental note to go see if Melissa or Doc Deaton might be willing to check him over. He then decided to skip Melissa and just hope the vet was feeling generous, since he'd be less likely to insist on a hospital.
He was just debating getting up when he heard footsteps in the hall and went still, trying not to glance guiltily up at the three bodies on his bed as his dad knocked at the door.
Dad opened the door, peering through the door at the new bed and its occupants with an expression of pure confusion.
“You know, I said it last night, but if you needed space for your guests, we have an air mattress.” Dad's voice was a mix of gruff amusement and honest bafflement. Stiles kind of agreed with that tone. “Son, where'd you get the bed?”
Uh oh. That was the Sheriff voice, not dad voice.
“Uhhh… would you believe me if I say I don't remember?” It was worth a try, and even true for once.
“Given the lump on your head, yes. Knowing you, no. Solid maybe.”
Yeah, Stiles was doomed. Utterly doomed.
“I really don't remember. I don't even remember Isaac showing up at all.” He said, completely and truly honest. He didn't remember Isaac coming back to his place.
Dad stared at him for a few more moments before just sighing, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, kid. Look, Dean Whittemore called, apparently Jackson, after waking up from his near death experience, has admitted to the whole prank war you had going on. He's going to drop the restraining order, said something about you helping Jackson last night. Care to explain?”
Boyd snored.
“Can I explain downstairs?” Stiles asked, not looking behind him at the sleeping werewolves.
Dad agreed, if somewhat grudgingly, casting one last suspicious look at the bedroom before making his way down to the kitchen.
Stiles briefly debated telling his dad the truth, werewolves and all, but with his show and tell werewolf firmly snoring away, taking up all the room on the new bed, he quickly dismissed that idea. He'd never be believed.
Or, that was what he thought, until he spotted two familiar faces sitting at the kitchen table. He stopped on the last stair, staring ahead.
Derek wore the universal guilty dog face, eyebrows pinched, sour but tainted with fear, eyes wide and upset. Stiles blinked, confused to see so much emotion in Derek, and something in his brain clicked. It was like seeing double, Derek staring unnerving and cold, and Derek filled with obvious naked fear and guilt. Stiles really felt broken, head filled with ideas about pack and dog behaviour.
Peter, sitting next to Derek, just looked smug. The upwards curve of his lips, the flinty look in his eyes, even the careful coif of his hair felt like a particularly spiteful little dog, standing in the wake of its own destruction. Maybe a pomeranian or a yorkie, just pure gleeful malice and puffed up ego.
Dad watched him stare, most definitely in Sheriff mode, not dad mode, which was unfair. After the lizard incident of 09, they'd mutually agreed that dad wasn't allowed to use Sheriff tactics on his son unless he wanted Stiles to use his full range of sneaky criminal abilities. Which, given Stiles had spent more than one evening in the Sheriff's station, entertaining himself by chatting to those in lockup that Tara told him were safe, were actually fairly broad.
Stiles wanted to call it out, but just finally stepped down off the stairs, beelining for the coffee machine, having noted an uncharacteristic lack of mugs on the table. It was unlike his dad not to be hospitable.
“Stiles, sit down so we can talk.” Dad said, ordered really.
“Dad, it's 8am on a Saturday. I'm entitled to coffee as we talk and I know for a fact Derek is dying for his morning tea.” Stiles shot back, not willing to bend on this. He knew his rites. They included caffeine.
Derek did indeed look relieved when Stiles fished out the earl grey tea bags he'd bought after hearing Isaac whine for a week straight about how Derek was grumpy before having a cup in the morning, and how the smell made Isaac sneeze. He put a mug of water in the microwave, pointedly ignoring Derek's slight wince.
Derek was squatting in an abandoned train cart. Derek didn't get to be precious about tea.
“Stiles,” Peter practically purred, “I'm offended, nothing for me?”
“Keep talking if you want a mug full of rat poison, furball.” Stiles’ mouth worked before his brain. Peter looked even more smug. Derek hunched in his chair slightly.
Dad stared at Stiles in shock.
Stiles turned to Derek again. “If we ask Deaton nicely, you think we can get uncle perv over here neutered?”
Dad coughed. Violently, choking on spit. Derek, casting wide eyes at Stiles, leaned over to pat him hard on the back to help relieve the discomfort.
Peter had stopped smirking though. Win for Stiles!
The following conversation, revealing the existence of werewolves, Stiles’ involvement, Scott's involvement, the three teenage werewolves currently occupying the new bed that had, indeed, been delivered by Derek with the help of Peter, who had been scheming to set up a proper pack property for some time, was one of the least comfortable experiences Stiles had ever had. Including being beaten up by a grandfather.
Worse was when they got to that point in the story and Stiles had to admit that the psycho principal granddad had in fact kidnapped three teenagers and assaulted them.
“Oh, don't worry.” Peter smiled, casual as anything, when Dad started to get up to go get his gun, “he's dead. The body should be found in the next couple of days. It seems the principal decided to go on a little hunting trip, hit a deer driving home, and got torn up by coyotes. Very sad.”
Dad blinked. Then he settled slowly back down into his chair.
“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. But good.” He said, giving Peter a significant look and a pleased nod.
At some point in the story, the train cart came up.
“Oh hell, kid, please tell me you aren't living in an abandoned train depot?” Dad asked, very distinctly in his dad voice and not his sheriff voice, like Stiles had expected, giving Derek a look of deep paternal disapproval.
Derek stammered. “I, um, well—”
“I have us rooms booked at the hotel on Granger Street, Ruby's place.” Peter smiled. “My nephew will be using his room until we find our own space.”
Derek, pink around the ears, started to protest.
Dad cut him off. “Kid, you're only 19. You aren't sleeping in an abandoned train depot.”
Stiles gaped. “You're only 19?!”
Derek looked affronted.
Dad looked tired.
“All this, werewolves and kaniamias—”Stiles pointedly did not correct his father's pronunciation—“and that's what surprises you?”
“Aren't you like, 23 or something?” Stiles asked Derek, ignoring his father.
“No!” Derek practically shouted. “You thought I was 23 and hanging around you and Scott and a bunch of teenagers? That'd be weird.”
“Yes! Why do you think I thought you were so weird?” Stiles shot back.
Derek's eyes flashed red and he snarled, shifting into his beta form, to prove his point. Dad tensed.
“Pfft, you're about as scary as Lydia's papillon.” Stiles scoffed, and dad relaxed. Before Derek could reply or notice the shift in tension, dad banged his hand on the table, staring between the two of them like something had just clicked in his mind.
Peter leaned over to whisper something, and dad just sighed and nodded, while Derek snarled at his uncle.
“We'll talk to Deaton.” Derek grumbled. When dad and Peter ignored him, Stiles figured he was the only one that realised Derek was referencing neutering uncle creeper.
Despite himself, Stiles snorted. Derek smiled, just a small slight twitch of his lips, and Stiles had to resist the urge to pat him on the head like the puppy he so clearly was.