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The door slammed open and hit the wall with a groan.
“Into the kitchen!”
“I’ve got him.”
“Clear the table!”
“Careful. I said careful!”
Empty cups, long since cold and coated in dried coffee residue, went crashing onto the hardwood floor without any care. The wolves dragged the body onto the table. The surface soaked up the first dribbles of blood as if in hunger — within seconds, it became beyond saving.
If Derek even thinks about paying for that shit…
“Move,” snarled Stiles, shoving the alpha aside. He shouldered past the pack’s emissary, grabbed Derek’s collar with both hands, and tore the shirt apart. “You’ve got the aid kit?”
The alpha, a burly black man with white streaks in his beard, nodded at one of his wolves. “In the bathroom, Bill, now.”
Someone ran upstairs. There were too many people, all basically strangers, either standing still in shock or heaving from the frantic run. Some were splattered with blood, some winced at the cuts and wounds, flocking together to ease the pain with wolfish camaraderie. They were all moving and talking, and Stiles wanted to take each and every one and smash their heads against the wall so they would all shut the fuck up!
“I need pincers,” he barked as he rushed toward the kitchen sink. The water splashed against his shaking hands, swirling the redness away. Thick, cloying blood soaked into his shirt, making it stink; it stuck to his neck in splatters, to his arms in rivulets, to his cheek in one nasty splotch from when he fell onto Derek’s chest, praying for a clear heartbeat. “Threads, a needle, bandages—”
“We’ve got it.”
Stiles swallowed.
They’ve got it. Everything would be fine. Fine!
Derek’s guts glistened in the warm kitchen light. The table under him grew burgundy. His eyes stayed closed no matter how hard Stiles drilled them with his gaze.
“Give me a fresh sponge or a towel,” ordered Stiles. A girl rushed past him to open the cabinets. “Some water as well. For fuck’s sake, careful!” he snarled as the said girl put the basin on the table, nudging Derek’s head. He tore the hard sponge from her hands and set to clear around the wounds. He did not need any dirt in Derek’s bowels. “Where is the—”
“Here,” the guy from earlier, red from running, plopped the aid kit on the other side of the table.
“Braeden, thread the needle—”
“I can do it,” said Stiles and snapped his head to the left as he heard James sigh. “If you think I’ll let you anywhere close to my alpha after whatever the fuck happened out there—”
“Stiles, we told you…” started Braeden.
“We thought we got rid of every harpy weeks ago,” said James.
Stiles barked a laugh. “So they, what, flew by and just decided to stop and have a little chat? At the same time and same place to where you’ve led us?”
“Of course, not,” bit out Braeden. Her gaze fell on Derek’s half-naked body, and she winced. “Let me help you stitch him up.”
“No.”
“I finished the nurse courses.”
Stiles did not even bother to reply. He took the threaded needle from her hands, took a steadying breath, and leaned over Derek’s torso.
Next to him, he heard James mumble a small, “Leave him,” but ignored it in order to focus on the most important thing — Derek’s life.
The harpy got him good. It would’ve gouged Stiles’ eyes out if it weren’t for Derek, who slammed him out of the way and subsequently got himself screwed onto the talons. The beast let out a sharp wail as the alpha grabbed onto its legs, broke them in half, and tore them off the harpy’s body. James’ pack did the rest of the job. Only, the talons got buried deep into Derek’s torso, and before Stiles could yell at him to leave them alone, the alpha pulled them out. Perhaps, there was some logic to Derek’s actions, as the harpy’s talons were dripping with poison, yet now nothing was stopping the blood from pooling out of his body. And of course one talon broke off and was now stuck inside Derek’s guts.
Leave it to Derek to think he was so invincible. Oh, big bad alpha, the talk of the state, the most desirable bachelor in the werewolf community — fuck that shit! As of now, Derek Hale was nothing but a shish kebab. Oh, Stiles was so gonna sic Lydia on him when they get back, see how the alpha sits through her boring lectures without howling from boredom…
“Pincers,” Stiles muttered, raising his hand. Someone placed them into his palm. Swallowing the bile at the sight of bubbling blood, Stiles held his breath and carefully dug into the wound.
“Let me—”
“Shut up.”
Braeden did not speak again. Stiles grit his teeth, hating himself for every inch that went further in search of the talon. Perhaps it was a blessing that Derek remained unconscious. The less pain, the better.
Suddenly, the pincers clinked against something hard.
Gotcha.
Slowly, Stiles pulled out the curved talon, probably scraping the hell out of Derek’s insides on the way back, and dropped it into the basin near Derek’s head. It hissed at the contact with water and sank to the bottom with a soft thud.
“Here,” murmured Braeden. Stiles took the offered cotton slab and pressed it against the wound, soaking up all the blood that poured out at an alarming rate. “His body is rejecting the poison,” she said in a soft voice as if talking to a rabid animal. “We should wash it out and apply sutures. Wolves recover quickly.”
Stiles nodded. When Braeden returned with the antiseptic liquid, however, he stepped in her way and offered his hand.
They stared at each other, disappointment and fierceness clashing between their eyes.
“Allies are supposed to trust each other,” said Braeden.
Stiles’ smile was cold. “We are not allies.”
“Not yet.”
“I know we were supposed to establish it tonight, but, you see, my alpha is somewhat occupied.” Stiles shrugged. “He hasn’t given you his final answer, and until then…”
“Did he not share it with you?” asked James from the corner. The man stood there the entire time with crossed arms. “His decision?”
“Oh, he did. But he can change it at the last second, and I will still stand by it. And I have no authority to establish the alliance in his name.”
“Well, you can’t, but his soulmate can.” Braeden stood straighter. “Did he find one?”
Stiles grit his teeth. “Unfortunately, it’s just me this time. Sucks, I know. Guess, you’ll have to tolerate me for a little longer. Now, can I please clean my alpha’s wound? I am not in the mood for speedy burials.”
Braeden pursed her lips and handed him the antiseptic.
Her pack mulled around but stayed clear of the table as Stiles worked on patching up Derek. Stitch went after stitch until the flesh began to lazily mold together. He cleaned Derek’s skin, softly wiping around the wound. Someone changed the water twice. Stiles was grateful, he really was, but couldn’t master anything beyond a grumbly “thanks”. He cleaned Derek’s hands, his arms, his chest, wiped Derek’s unnervingly slack face, trying not to focus too much on the paleness of his skin.
Derek was a tough cookie. Hell, he was an entire beefcake! He would make it. Stiles would force him to.
Exhausted, Stiles fell on the chair next to the table and exhaled. His glassy gaze dropped to his hands hanging listlessly between his thighs. His fingers shook. A thin coating of blood covered them, crawled under his nails, spread to his wrists in ugly smudges.
Derek’s blood on his hands, again. Derek, throwing himself in front of Stiles. Again.
Stiles wasn’t going to talk to him for the rest of the week. There. Despite what Cora said, he knew that Derek absolutely hated Stiles’ silent treatment. As the pack’s emissary — and due to the so-called lack of Derek’s soulmate — Stiles was the first person that Derek talked to whenever something happened. Another pack requesting entry? There goes Derek, dragging and locking Stiles inside his office. An illegally smuggled, runaway pack of kelpies asking for help to get back to Scotland? Stiles, get your ass into my room. And so on, and so on.
Stiles did not know what to expect when Derek asked him to be his emissary, and, although it was an immediate enthusiastic “yes!”, the reality turned out to be kind of boring. There were less saving fairies and more politics, long-ass meetings, weird etiquette, and ancient traditions that the packs had to uphold. Derek thrived in this stuff, while Stiles was more of a hands-on, bat-swinging kind of guy. Sure, they could argue about how to kill the bad guy, but never about whether they should do it. Different approaches, same goal, same morals. That’s why they worked so well together.
That’s why they were soulmates.
Not that Derek knew, of course.
*
The chair scraped softly against the floor, yet it was enough to make Stiles jump. Blinking blearily and with his heart thudding, Stiles cranked his neck and breathed out when he saw Braeden’s apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” she murmured, settling down on the opposite end of the table. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“S’ alright.” Stiles licked his dry lips and sat straighter. It was now well past midnight. His back was killing him. He was about to rub his face when he remembered the dried blood on his hands, and wiped the sleepiness of his eyes with his arm instead.
“How is he?”
“Sleeping.” Stiles lifted the edge of the blood-soaked bandage away. “Healing.”
“That’s good. I was worried.”
Stiles glanced up.
Braeden’s soft, concerned gaze was locked on Derek’s face, her head inclined just a touch. Her wavy black hair glistened in low light, lying delicately on her shoulder. Stiles watched as her eyes ran up and down and all over Derek’s exposed torso, then sighed and settled his chin back onto his hand.
“It’s on his back,” he muttered.
He could feel Braeden’s gaze snap onto him. She did not try to make excuses or apologize, which was honestly a point in her favor — he would not have been able to tolerate lies, not this time.
“The triskele?” she asked. Stiles nodded. “I didn’t know they could be that big.”
“It’s a tattoo. His real soulmark was on his wrist. The hunters burned it off, so he tattooed it on his back.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.” Stiles reached out and swept his thumb across the droplet of blood under Derek’s chin that he missed. It was on the edge of his beard, partially hidden, so Stiles only now saw it.
They sat in silence for a while. When Braeden spoke, her voice was quiet.
“Are you not going to ask me whether I am a match?”
Stiles did not look at her. “No.”
“Mm. I’m not, by the way, sadly.” She tapped her fingers on her knee. “But you are.”
Stiles’ entire body froze. The blood rushed away from his head, making it spin, and his heart plummeted into his stomach. Slowly, he rose and pinned the woman with a stare.
“H-how did you know?” he croaked.
Braeden smirked. “Oh, so you really are.”
“Fuck…”
“Dad suspected it, but I wasn’t so sure. Guess, he was right.”
Stiles bit at his tongue, trying to calm himself. His leg jiggled. He cleared his throat. “How?”
Braeden pointedly lowered her eyes. After following her gaze, Stiles saw his hands encasing Derek’s slack hand and fought the urge to take them away. Instead, he tightened his grip and sent Braeden a glare.
“He’s my alpha,” he insisted.
“And a soulmate, apparently,” Braeden kept smirking. “No wonder he was fine with you two sleeping in the same bed.”
Stiles’ face warmed despite the frown. “It doesn’t mean anything. Wolves like to pile together.”
“Does he pile with everyone on his bed?”
“Well, no.” Stiles shifted in place. “Everyone in our pack is paired off; it would be weird. Besides, I’m his emissary.” We never sleep in different beds while visiting packs, he wanted to add, but snapped his mouth shut.
“Emissaries don’t usually cuddle with alphas,” drawled Braeden with an annoyingly knowing look. “And wolves don’t let just anyone into their bed, either.”
“Derek’s quirky like that.”
But Braeden didn’t take the bait. “So he doesn’t know.”
Stiles scowled and put his chin back onto his hands on top of Derek’s. He watched his alpha’s chest rise and fall. He did not reply.
Braeden hummed. “Why on earth would you hide it from your soulmate?” she asked with genuine incredulity. “That’s… cruel.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know it’s not fair.”
“Listen,” snapped Stiles, glancing at her again. “You are the last person I want to discuss this with—”
“Have you told anyone else?”
Stiles bared his teeth in a wolfish manner, but Braeden only chuckled. She shook her head and picked at the hem of her purple robe, spreading it on her knee.
“Is he against the fate?” she asked. “Got something against soulmates?”
“It’s not really a topic for a casual discussion, you know,” muttered Stiles.
“Are you afraid that he is?”
“I didn’t sign up for twenty questions with Vogue.”
“You know he’s prime for picking, right?” Braeden kept fueling the artillery fire. “Ever since he established the pack and started going out there, all the talk’s been about the Hale alpha.”
“I was there, so skip it.”
It was wild how quickly Derek’s popularity grew. All Hale mail was going through Stiles first before it got to the alpha — that’s just how it came to be. And Stiles, who was not above skipping on his privileges, burned all the courting letters. Call him spiteful; he did not care. Derek saw him doing it once, but didn’t comment, so it wasn’t like he cared, either, right?
At least, he never asked. And if someone was bold enough to ask for courtship right into Derek’s face, he rejected them so gently that it made Stiles jealous. God, he was just a feral, possessive, jealous freak. Good thing he hid it well.
Until now, apparently.
“Can I see it?” asked Braeden.
Stiles unconsciously looked down at the band covering his soulmark. Some people wore them, some hid their soulmarks with jewelry or watches, and some wore them openly, especially those who had already found their soulmates. It was considered rude to ask why it was covered or uncovered, for that matter. It was even weirder to ask someone to look at it.
“No,” bit out Stiles.
Braeden hummed as if she didn’t expect him to agree. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Derek remained blissfully unawake. At last, Braeden got up with a sigh.
“Just so you know,” she started, “we were gonna ask for permission to court once the alliance was established.”
“And now?” Stiles lifted his gaze, but not his head.
Braeden’s smile grew colder. “And now I know not to back out. Who knows, maybe he will agree, after all.”
She left. With her every step, the warmth left Stiles’ body until the only living thing was Derek’s hand under his palms, hot and strong.
With his heart stuck in his throat, Stiles watched him breathe, and sleep, and live. The sheer strength of this man, in all its beauty, had never failed to take his breath away. The way he got hurt again and again, shattered to pieces, only to get up and lift his chin up high. The amount of hope Derek had, his strength and sheer resilience, his small, kind smiles, and his gnashing blood-covered fangs — every little thing that made up Derek Hale — Stiles was in awe of it.
He loved it.
He loved Derek.
It wasn’t this young puppy love. It wasn’t lust, though it was there. It was a years-long, deep, chronic ache. Bittersweet. Overwhelming. Sometimes, it didn’t let Stiles breathe, and other times it was the only thing that made him do it.
Nobody knew. Not even his Dad, or Scott, or Lyds. Not because he was embarrassed or ashamed, but because you don’t usually expose your raw, bleeding wound to the world. Ironically, the only person Stiles would have been comfortable showing it to was Derek, but, well… Derek did not handle the sight of Stiles bleeding very well.
They went through so much together, that’s the thing. The pack’s first Christmas, awkward but endearing; the first round of birthdays, first jobs and dismissals, graduations, and hospital visits. Derek let Stiles see his tears and his family’s graves, let him — and only him — patch his wounds, gritting at everyone that he didn’t need any help only to take shaking Stiles into the bathroom and shove the aid kit in his hands. Derek did not let anyone question his decisions, not even Boyd, his right hand, or Peter, his left, but when Stiles dragged him to the office and locked the door so no one could hear, Derek allowed him to argue and question and doubt. And Stiles respected him too much as an alpha and a leader to air the dirty laundry out in front of the pack.
Derek let him talk, and Derek listened. He pulled Stiles close and let him in on his secrets. He fell asleep on Stiles’ lap on quiet late evenings, he ate from Stiles’ hands, and, when they were visiting the packs to establish alliances, Derek did not let him out of his sight. More than once, Stiles woke up to Derek’s nose in his neck and Derek’s leg between his thighs.
Stiles was at the lowest point in his life when Derek returned from his trip with Cora and asked him with a strange, hungry, desperate glint in his eyes to be his emissary. When questioned, he replied that one day he realized it was something he could not live without.
“Beacon Hills?” Stiles asked him that day.
“Yeah,” Derek answered quietly. “Beacon Hills.”
Stiles loved him then. Stiles loved him when he left with Cora, even if it proved to Stiles that Derek may have needed a soulmate, but he didn’t need Stiles. He would never need Stiles the way Stiles wanted him to. So, maybe the emissary would be enough.
Stiles did not try to distract himself with someone else. It would be futile, and it would’ve led him away from the pack. It was a simple luck that Derek thought the same, at least for now. Everything was about the pack, building the house, and establishing allies. Queue some circus action once in a while in the form of skirmishes and someone’s exploding heads, and Stiles could assuredly say that he and Derek had their hands too full to let them wander onto someone else.
Sometimes, Stiles thought about telling him. It wasn’t even a thought, but a fantasy of him kissing Derek first thing in the morning and kissing him goodnight, of not going into separate bedrooms after a tiring day. He dreamed of making that one step further and putting not only his chin on Derek’s shoulder when the wolf cooked breakfast, but his hands around Derek’s waist, dreamed of taking his hand and threading their fingers, dreamed of kisses and sex and shared life.
Stiles pushed his chair closer to the head of the table. His chin went on Derek’s shoulder, his hand into the wolf’s ruffled black hair. Softly, he stroked it, letting his thumb caress Derek’s forehead.
Stiles’ confession would destroy them. It would ruin the pack’s structure, so carefully and meticulously crafted over the years. It would put a stop to the alliances, as Derek would for sure need a new emissary. It would uproot Stiles’ life and force him to get his own apartment and ruin his reputation among the supernatural community because no one in their right mind would leave the Hale pack.
It would destroy them, but not Derek. Because Derek would get up and lift his chin again.
Stiles’ smile was a bitter thing, his throat tight and stomach sour. He leaned over and pressed his lips against Derek’s forehead, closing his eyes and inhaling the familiar smell. Derek always somehow smelled good, even when sweaty. But Stiles was biased. He would always be when it came to Derek.
Silently, Stiles pulled away. He checked the wounds, changed the bandages, then sat down again like a goddamn guard dog. He put his cheek against Derek’s naked shoulder and stared at him for a long time until his eyes inevitably closed.
If Derek was brave enough to cover Stiles’ body from an imminent threat, then maybe it was time for Stiles to get brave, as well. The wounds may never close, but if Derek rejected him… it wouldn’t matter.
Nothing ever would.
*
Stiles woke not with a startle but with a bang. Of his forehead against Derek’s.
“Ow!”
“Easy, easy.” Derek chuckled softly. His hand fell from Stiles’ neck. Ah, that’s what woke him, then. “No one’s coming to bite you.”
Stiles’ heart thundered across his ribcage as he tried to remember what year it was. He blinked at Derek sitting fully dressed in front of him on the… on the guest bed. Which he was also lying on. Covered in blankets.
“Derek,” Stiles breathed out hoarsely, not yet fully awake.
Derek, devastatingly handsome as always, squinted at him playfully, then snapped his fingers.
“Stiles, right?” he asked, then laughed when Stiles punched him in the shoulder. “Oh, someone’s grumpy.”
“You almost died yesterday!”
“Yeah? Well, you did, too.”
“Those weren’t my guts that went through a grinder! What the fuck were you thinking?”
“That it would be funny.”
Stiles pulled his hands away from his forehead and stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What would be funny?”
“This.” Derek flicked Stiles’ nose.
“Hey!”
Derek’s smirk settled into a warm grin. His eyes glinted in bright morning light. He grabbed Stiles’ hands and squeezed them between his own, leaning closely.
“It’s my job to protect you,” he said quietly, and when Stiles opened his stupid mouth, spoke over him, “My job, get it? My guts can grind themselves backward. You, on the other hand, would have bled out within seconds.”
Stiles let out a low growl, but that only made Derek snort.
“Cute,” he quipped. “Get up and gather our things. I can’t quite bend yet.”
Stiles blinked down at him. “Why are you dressed? Did someone change your bandages?”
“I’m a big boy, I can do it myself.”
“Show me.”
Derek sighed, but got up. The small wince did not go past Stiles, and he quickly pulled Derek’s shirt up when the wolf came closer. He hummed and inspected the bandage, nodding at the lack of blood — Derek likely did not even need it, but put it on because he knew Stiles would worry. Cute.
“Happy?” Derek arched an eyebrow and smiled when he saw Stiles’ glare. He pushed his finger under Stiles’ chin, causing Stiles to swipe at him. “Let’s get something to eat and then go home.”
As he got dressed, Stiles’ mind slowly came online, at least enough to think of what happened yesterday — well, beyond the traumatic experience and blood everywhere.
“But the alliance?” he asked, tugging on his sneakers.
Derek was lost in his phone, frowning at it like a grandpa. “Oh, we got it.”
Stiles’ foot fell on the floor. “What? You mean you got it without me? Why?”
Derek didn’t even glance at him. “Because I knew you would agree. And you looked tired. Didn’t even wake up when I carried you upstairs.”
“You car— Derek! You had your innards halfway to the floor!”
“So?”
Stiles spluttered. “Wh— You—”
“I’m Derek.”
“Oh, fuck you…”
Derek smiled. He put away his phone and looked down at Stiles’ red, angry face with his head inclined. “The alliance is done, we are done, let’s go eat. I can hear your stomach growling. It’s annoying.”
“Your face is annoying.”
“Eloquent, as always.”
The whiplash of seeing Derek so alive and well and strangely cheery sent Stiles reeling. He gathered their clothes and toiletries in a state of fog, made the bed, and only then remembered something else.
He turned on his heels and looked at Derek with his throat suddenly closing up.
“Wait, had they offered court—”
“Courtship?” said Derek. “Yeah.”
Stiles was going to throw up. “And?”
Derek gave him a studying gaze. “And I politely refused, Stiles. As always.”
The air left Stiles’ lungs in one big whoosh. Stiles licked his dry lips and nodded. “Right.”
“Right.” What on earth was so funny?.. “Shall we?” Derek opened the door and turned toward him with an expectant face.
Stiles swallowed. He gripped the sports bag with their clothes so that his hands wouldn’t tremble.
“Derek, I—”
He couldn’t. Derek looked so earnest in his desire to finally go home; he looked healthy and almost healed. Besides, they were in a strange territory. Granted, Braeden was an ally now, but still. They would never be completely safe outside their home. Stiles couldn’t uproot their life in some stranger’s bedroom and leave the alpha vulnerable and disoriented.
But even then, as Stiles stared at Derek, he realized that suddenly, he couldn’t keep it in anymore. It wasn’t fair. Derek needed to know. And Stiles would burst if he hid it any longer.
“I… want waffles,” he finished in a hoarse voice.
Derek’s eyes narrowed as he looked him over, undoubtedly picking up on his racing heartbeat and his pale face.
“Then let’s get you waffles,” he said softly.
Maybe this exact softness would be the thing to kill him in the end.
*
They were just outside Beacon Hills when Stiles could not handle it anymore.
“Derek?”
“Mm?”
“Can you stop the car?”
Derek glanced at him. His eyebrows twitched in concern. His eyes snuck over the road and the sides as he searched for a threat. The alpha knew better than to ignore such a request, so after checking in the mirror, Derek swerved the Camaro to the dusty side of the road and stopped.
“What’s wrong?” he said tersely.
Derek was headed straight into a protective mode, Stiles could just feel him tense. For some reason, he couldn’t look the wolf in the eyes. With a sigh, Stiles nodded at the window.
“Let’s get some air,” he muttered, opened the door, and exited without waiting for a response. It was a bad idea to trap a wolf in a metal box when the conversation promised to be tough. Besides, Derek liked to pace.
Stiles leaned on the closed door and crossed his arms on his chest. He kicked the dust with the tip of his dirty white sneaker and waited until Derek came around. The looming didn’t help, but Derek did not know how to behave any other way.
They stood in silence for some time. The cars rode past, swirling dust along their legs.
Stiles’ heart thundered in his ears, his stomach clenched tight.
“Spill,” said Derek at last.
Stiles rubbed his hand down his face, then raked it through his disheveled hair.
“You—” he cleared his tight throat. “You’ll probably hate me for this. And you’d have the full right to be mad. And if, after this, you want me out, then I’m out.”
“Stiles.”
Derek rarely used that alpha voice on him, and it had never failed to make him shiver. This time was not an exception. Stiles licked his suddenly dry lips, shifted from foot to foot, and finally lifted his gaze. His heart skipped a bit at the worry in the hazel eyes, the deep wrinkles in Derek’s forehead, and the downturned corners of his lips hiding in the beard.
It’s not fair.
“I’m… I am your soulmate.”
A car swept past them, blaring a pop song. Dust coated their shins.
Derek stared at him, and stared, and stared.
Stiles swallowed. He fiddled with the band on his wrist and tugged it off. The patch of skin hidden for years under the band was white, almost deathly so. In the center of the wrist, pulsing with the blood running through his veins, was a small, dark-brown soulmark. A triskele.
Stiles’ heart was pulsing in his throat as he waited for Derek to shout, scream, or punch him — whatever it would be, the alpha was justified in his reaction. People just… don’t hide something of this magnitude.
With his shaking hand hanging uselessly and disgustingly naked in the air between them, Stiles started to talk. What else was there to do?
“I… I knew it since the beginning.” His voice trembled, painfully thin. “Remember when you asked me to chop your arm off? I recognized it right away. But I figured, it… It wasn’t quite the right time.”
His breath hitched when Derek slowly took his hand. He handled it carefully as if it were made of glass — that, or as if it was made of shit and disgusted him so bad he couldn’t bear to touch it—
Stiles did not know. He could not tell what Derek was thinking, as the wolf’s face was a blank canvas, a marble bust frozen in time. His thumb swiped over the triskele. Did he think it would smudge? Did he want it to be a prank? Did he—
“I didn’t think you’d want a neurotic teenager as your soulmate. You had enough on your plate back then, so I… didn’t want to add another punch. Then, you know, with the possession and you leaving, and then returning, I…” he shrugged. His breath came in short spurts. The only things holding him together were Derek’s grip on his wrist and his stare pinning him to earth. Stiles’ chest tightened so hard, it became hard to—
“Breathe,” ordered Derek.
Stiles’ bodily reaction was automatic. His alpha’s command reached his brain faster than his mind processed the words. He inhaled through his dry lips and even drier mouth and had to clear his throat not to choke on the silence.
“Is…” Derek swallowed. “Is it something you don’t want?”
His voice became so guarded, so tight with hidden emotions. It was a voice Stiles hadn’t heard in years, and it killed him.
“No,” Stiles shook his head with fervor. Something flickered in Derek’s eyes. “No, Derek, I… I wanted you then, and now, and always, and… I’ve always wanted you. Us. But it was never the right time or place, and then too much time had passed, and how do you even say it?”
“Breathe.”
Stiles’ lungs expanded. “I’m not embarrassed, or ashamed, I can never be, because it’s you, like, are you kidding me? Scared shitless? Yeah, kind of. But you go out there and shove yourself on harpies for me, and I… It’s not fair, and I am sorry. I know you probably wanted it to be some fucking… long-legged brunette—”
“You are a long-legged brunet.”
“Wh— What?” Stiles blinked. “Why are you smiling? Blink twice if you’re spiraling into insanity.”
Shaking his head, Derek chuckled and dropped Stiles’ wrist. Instead, his hands rose and settled on Stiles’ neck. The claws of his thumbs dug into Stiles’ cheeks. He could feel them tremble.
“Aren’t you mad at me?” asked Stiles.
Derek’s eyes were squeezed shut. His mirthless laugh coated Stiles’ neck as he shook his head again.
“Oh, I’m mad.”
“Okay, yep.”
“So mad.”
“Got it.”
“You’re saying I could’ve had you all this time...”
Always that damn hope. In his eyes, in his voice, in the way he held himself.
Stiles shrugged, shaking all over from the adrenaline. “You kinda… still can? If you want to.”
“If I—” Derek snapped off, let out a short, low growl, and surged forward.
Warm lips over his. Beard prickling his chin. Breath upon his cheek.
So, this is what it’s like. Kissing the love of your life.
After a second of stupor, just when Derek started to lean away, Stiles let out a wounded noise and leaned into him, into his body, embrace, and their kiss. He caught Derek’s waist, reveling in the feel of strong muscles under his grip, and pressed his chest to Derek’s. God, how warm he was…
“Breathe,” Derek smiled into his lips.
Dazed, Stiles could only obey. Not long after, Derek kissed him again.
It was as if both couldn’t bear to spend a second apart. They needed to taste, to give and take. They had all the time in the world to figure each other out, to learn and feel.
Stiles could feel his face getting red from the sheer heat emanating from the werewolf’s body. Damn, he was going to have a serious case of beard burn for the rest of his life. And Derek’s claws didn’t help, oh god, did it have to be so fucking hot?..
“Still mad?” murmured Stiles, panting into Derek’s lips when they parted.
The wolf, however, kept pressing kisses to the corner of his lips, along his jaw, and down his neck, as if he couldn’t help but satiate himself. As if he waited for this. As if he had the same fantasies as Stiles.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Derek bit at his jaw, and Stiles fucking whimpered.
“Oh, fuck,” he whined, burying his hand in Derek’s hair. “Let’s pretend you didn’t hear that.”
“Too late.”
“Shit…”
Derek’s chuckle tickled Stiles' neck. When the wolf emerged, the smile kept breaking on his face like it rarely did. Derek’s pupils were blown wide. His fangs peeked from under his top lip. He had never looked more beautiful than now. Stiles blinked at him, fully aware of how stupid and splotchy-red he probably looked. His lips pulsed from all the action, halfway to numb.
“I love you,” he said.
Derek bit his lip. His hand curled around Stiles’ neck, his thumb stroking along Stiles’ sharp jaw.
He looked radiant. Happy.
But he also looked like he wanted to take Stiles and shake him to slot his brain into the right place.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, quietly this time.
“I forgive you,” answered Derek as if it were that simple.
Stiles swallowed the lump that stuck in his throat and smiled tentatively, all but drinking in the sight of Derek, standing so close. Holding him.
“Already?” Stiles chuckled.
Derek shrugged. “For all I know, we could be dead tomorrow. I think you’ve wasted enough time for both of us.”
“Ouch.”
“I’d rather just have you.”
“Oh, anytime.”
Derek snorted. He gazed at Stiles with his head inclined, as if it were the first time he was allowed to look his fill. Stiles knew Derek could be soft, but this softness in his gaze took his breath away. How much did the wolf hold himself back?
“Soulmate,” wondered Derek.
“Yeah.”
“Soulmate,” Derek shook his head and leaned in for a short, hard kiss, chuckling all the way. “And here I was, wrecking my mind about how to keep you tied to me.”
“We have handcuffs in the basement.”
“You know how to get out of those.”
“I’ll forget it if you ask nicely.”
“Idiot,” muttered Derek and pulled him close.