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The forest is silent. No birds, no animals, no wind. Nothing, nada.
Bullshit.
"I know you're out there," the perfect bait. Annoying, stupid, perfect.
Derek will kill him. Skin him alive, bite him with his teeth.
Derek isn't here right now, though.
"So you're the human they talk about."
But the rogue wolf is. Bingo.
A snap of a twig, and Stiles turns, ducks and dodges. Sharp, wicked claws fly inches above his face, a small arc, and he kicks his legs out, the act making the rogue wolf's legs give out. But oh, he's a wolf, and Stiles is only human.
The wolf doesn't fall. Follows after Stiles who runs; a desperate, quick chase that ends with Stiles pinned down beneath the wolf, breathing hard because the fucking weight.
The wolf's whole body is on his back, his arm twisted and behind him, blue with the grip the wolf has.
"You're not much of a human, no?" Stiles struggles, breathes out his mouth, spits out leaves and mud. Ew. "I have seen much better. Stronger, faster. Nearly wolf-like in their stature, in their nature. Such beauty."
The grip on his arm loosens, and suddenly Stiles is looking into very feral, ecstatic eyes. "I thought you'd be more feral." The wolf opens his mouth, fangs out, gums black, teeth dripping a deep red. Spoke too soon. "That's what I'm talking about."
The wolf grabs his chin, thumb and four fingers squeezing the lower part of his face, as if inspecting him. Stiles doesn't mind — both his hands are free, now, and he's always loved the cargo pants; It has many pockets.
"Now that I've seen you up close, I get why Hale's kept you near. You're exquisite."
"Thank you." Stiles is, really. He's grateful for yet another villain monologue. Gives him time for planning and escaping, which he is. Escaping, that is: mountain ash in his left hand, a knife in his right, and with just the right force and a hopefully right aim even with his eyes focused on the wrong part of the target...
He escapes.
Rolls away from the howling wolf, blood on the mud and leaves, making a path from the wolf's back to Stiles' knife, still in hand, now glinting nearly bronze in the sunlight — from the tip to the hilt, a bloody win.
He throws the mountain ash, quick and efficient, into a circle around the angry, in pain, feral wolf, and he grins.
The wolf regards him coldly.
"Exquisite, aren't I?"
The wolf in the mountain ash circle says nothing.
The wolf out of Stiles' eyesight? That one does.
"You'll be more so when I'm done with you."
"What the—"
"My Alpha is here."
There's a sharp pain on his stomach, his eyes capturing three slashes when he looks down, and then there's another on his neck — a deep, horrifying pain of his worst nightmare coming true.
He loves werewolves. He's part of a pack, the Hale Pack, and he loves them to death.
To death.
Not to loses his mind every month (anchor pending).
Derek's going to kill him, but before that, Stiles thinks he'll just die on his own.
Red eyes.
Out of the corner of his eyes, between the black and white spots, he sees two red pinpricks. Hears that mighty, familiar howl down to the tremors going through his body. And before he falls, thrown by the feral alpha as the threat approaches, Stiles says, "My Alpha is here, too."
There's nothing but darkness after that.
***
It's difficult, adjusting. Not to being a wolf, but to knowing.
It's easier to just let everyone berate him and comfort him at once. They yell, whisper, soothe; his dad's the worst of them all, looking at him with red-rimmed, cried-out eyes like he's gone already, a shadow of his former self, a shell. Melissa, despite the rocky relationship they share now, the Stilinski’s and McCalls, stays — the sons have had their joining thread frayed, but the moms' thread had been indestructible, iron-clad even after death.
So, Melissa stays. Supervises. Calms and soothes and puts things down too loudly. Derek tells her not to, that Stiles' hearing is still adjusting, and Melissa still puts things down too loudly.
Lydia comes, finds him silent and brooding on Derek's bed. Behind her, Isaac jokes, "Guess we know what Derek's bed's superpower is now." Stiles doesn't even look at him. Derek does, a steady rock beside Stiles, a constant presence, and he sends Isaac away with a look.
Stiles had believed Alphas had this sway over their wolves. This undeniable "forever command me or die" contractual bond, but he knows better now.
Isaac went of his own accord, a kicked puppy who'll be back soon.
Lydia promises to Stiles: "I'll find you a cure. A fucking cure, Stiles, okay? Will that make you feel better? Stiles! Answer me!"
Derek gives another look, this time to Erica, and she takes Lydia away, murmuring softly to her. Stiles doesn't hear the words because he chooses not to; he's adjusted already. It isn't that hard.
Jackson notices this.
"You heard what she said?"
Stiles stares at him. Then Derek. Back to Jackson. Shakes his head no.
Jackson stares, stupefied and awed. Doesn't say anything; leaves with Melissa, "Will give you a home ride, Ms. McCall. You shouldn't be hated for your son's actions."
"Which one?" Melissa asks, an innocent question that brings back a piece of Stiles' heart from a place he'd long believed gone forever.
His dad looks at him, and even without the super-senses Stiles would have known he was thinking the same. There's still hope.
"Boyd, could you take my dad home? Thanks."
His voice comes out raspy, but there's a command to it, a steadiness that feels steadier than his brain right now. His brain is in shambles; too broken over pros and cons and fears.
Boyd heeds his words, gently jumps over his dad's, and then it's just them.
A whole house, three stories big in the middle of the Preserve, with rooms and rooms and rooms; Derek's room, spacious, the bed king-sized. And it's just them, sitting so close together they're almost on top of each other.
There's no space between them, and Stiles enjoys it. Has been the whole time. It centers his wolf.
And that thought centers him.
"Oh."
Derek is smart. Has always been, even if he's not the most emotionally intelligent person. He's — Derek Fuckin' Hale, and somehow, he's the one person in this entire world who can follow Stiles, footsteps to footsteps, nerve-endings to nerve-endings.
Derek is the spark that lits up Stiles' cells, and he's the seer, the oracle, the goddamn follower of Stiles' words and thoughts.
Even if Stiles never said a word again, Derek would understand him like he's written a 1000-page book in the easiest language known to life.
So Stiles isn't surprised when Derek says more than asks: "Found your anchor."
"Yeah." How'd you know? How do you always know?
"Your heartbeat's slower. Normal pace. Your breathing is better. You look like you looked the time you found out why the glue doesn't stick inside the bottle."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
They sit in silence. Derek's left leg is on his right, a warm, bearable, welcome weight. Derek's palm is on Derek's thigh, an open invitation, a deliberate move.
Stiles takes it.
Their fingers intertwine like their lives: clumsy at first, slipping and almost fitting against each other, making them giggle in high-pitched voices. And then, just like that, their fingers slot in together like they were never apart, nor were they meant to be.
A fated invitation; A calculated acceptance.
"I know that you know that I know that we're mates, Derek."
Derek sighs but doesn't deny. Squeezes their hands, his other hand coming up to linger on Stiles' neck, right where the other Alpha had bitten him — before getting killed in the most brutal way possible by Derek.
If the others hadn't arrived when they did, there would have been a million more pieces of that piece of shit.
"When were you going to tell me?"
Derek's got to answer this one — no way is Stiles letting him go now. Or ever, for that matter.
"I don't know. But someday. Someday when I wouldn't- I-" feel guilty.
Stiles can fill in the blanks, the stammers Derek only shows when they're alone. When they're together.
When Stiles is being-
His anchor.
"What did you figure out this time?"
Stiles has one hand free, too, and he brings Derek's hand, the one still on his neck, to it. Encloses them together and brings them towards his mouth, kisses the still-bruising purple parts of Derek's knuckles.
He got them for me.
"That I'm your anchor."
Derek breathes out slowly. "Oh." Looks at Stiles like Stiles is going to leave, like this is the last he'll ever see: a last sip before an endless walk in the desert.
Joke's on him, though. Stiles is never going to leave Derek's side. Ever.
"Do you know what mine is?"
Derek's mouth works, but no sounds come out. It's like he's stuck: does he stay in the moment, drink it in, or does he move forward, indulge Stiles and end this perceived pain as quickly as possible?
Stiles ends his misery. He can't do much else about Derek's life as a whole, but he can do everything in his power to brighten up Derek's life whenever possible.
"It's you. Der, you're my anchor."
Derek stills. On the contrary, his insides flow like a stream: too-quick heartbeat, rushing blood.
"We're each other's anchors. We're both fucking idiots."
Stiles kisses Derek's hand again. That spurs his Alpha into action: stammering words, quick breaths, nervous limbs. Stiles sits still, lets Derek come back to himself.
When Derek does, he scoffs. "We are idiots," he agrees, voice a little shaky.
"You're the bigger idiot, by the way."
"Me? No way." Derek pushes him, careful of his strength, but wait, his biceps only scrunch when he's using too much of his strength, like when he's lifting his king-sized bed for cleaning purposes—
"I'm a werewolf now." Even though he's let the whole day go to mourn his humanity, this hits him like a freight train now: he's shaking, his mangled soul on the tracks, the embodiment of them in his body-wracking, painful, howling tears. "I'm a fucking werewolf now."
Derek instantly does his best to comfort him. Manhandles him against his own broad chest and lets him cry, lets him feel. Lets him thrash and sob and utter half-tangible non-sensical words.
Derek hears the reason: how he can't be like his mom, a mindless, forgetful, out-of-control monster on the loose. He tells Derek werewolves aren't monsters, and neither was his mom, but that was before and what if? There's always a what-if.
Derek doesn't stop him, doesn't counter him. And Derek isn't surprised, because this is a truth known to all. Stiles isn't afraid of anything, except to follow in his mom's footsteps.
She had a voice in his head, and now Stiles has too.
It's not exactly a voice, it's not a tangible force, not a culprit. But there's his anger, and there's his impulsive, volatile nature, and there's now all this power at his fingertips. He fears the day his intrusive thoughts would win, or when he'll just be done enough to not care anymore, to let his instincts take over.
Derek doesn't say anything the whole time. But once Stiles is done, Stiles says this: "Still want me?" His voice is hoarse and empty, a barely-there thing. His remaining energy determined to hate himself, now and forever.
Derek whispers, "Always. A thousand times: Always. You're Stiles, you're my anchor and you're brave and loyal and stupid. You're the biggest fucking idiot I've ever known and god, you're so clumsy but you have this belief, this fire in you that's clear to see and impossible to extinguish. You know right from wrong except when it comes to your self-preservation skills. You'll save everyone else, at any cost, but give hardly any thought to yourself.
"I'll always want you. At your worst, at your best, at your mediocre. When you're eighty and admiring the world with me because we'll be young, thanks to being wolves. When you're thirty and still discovering things you can do as a wolf. What you can do with your life. What we should name our kids. If we should let them have desert even if they've not had their vegetables because they're your kids, and when you'll be angry at me because I gave them desert anyways because they are tricky little bastards who have your eyes.
"I want you now, right this second, and every moment forward. I want you now as you figure out this new part of yourself, the ugly and beautiful parts of being a wolf. As you realize that you're your mother in many ways, but not in that one way you fear. You'll not lose your mind, because I won't let you, I'll do everything in my power, Stiles, I promise. I know you hate losing control, and I promise you, that as long as you'll have me in your life, you will always, always have control. Or a strong set of shoulders to cry onto when you don't, and a back to scratch whenever you want to regain control."
By the time Derek finishes his long-winded speech, Stiles' tears have dried, and he's looking up at Derek without any mask. His self-hatred has dissolved, leaving behind clear skin and clearer thoughts.
"I love you, too, Der."
Derek's mouth, set into a concentrated, concerned frown turns into a small, beautiful smile. Stiles holds onto those strong set of shoulders, and Derek holds onto his waist, a silent promise of always holding on to each other.
"I like the sound of scratching your back. But first..."
Derek is the one who leans in first, because even though Stiles hates losing control, fears it really, he can give it up for Derek.
Only for Derek.
They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and only stop when Lydia's heels tap-tap-tap on the front porch of the house.
Derek whispers to him, "Are you okay?"
Stiles isn't, and he's not going to be for a long while, but he knows that one day he will be. If he falls, Derek will be there to pick him up. If he pushes someone, Derek will be there to bring him back to his right senses. And if he forgets who he is, Derek will be there to make him remember.
So Stiles replies, "I will be." And he smiles.
When Lydia comes in and sees them, entangled together, she doesn't even blink. Just looks at Stiles and says, "I'm sorry, Stiles. There's no cure. Technically, there are ways, but they're too dangerous—"
"Lyds. It's okay. I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
Stiles looks at Derek and back at her. "I will be," he repeats. This time, he's even more sure of it.
Lydia comes and sits beside them. Stiles is reminded of why he once loved her with his whole heart: she's determined. She won't ever let go of her goals.
She won't ever let go of him, either.
He doesn't love her like that anymore, but he does still love her. And he knows that she'll be right behind Derek in saving him.
She slaps him now, though.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"You could have died today, dumbass." She slaps him again, and Stiles looks at Derek for help.
Derek just laughs. Traitor.
Soon, the whole pack is back: his dad, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Jackson. Cora's on a videocall on Isaac's phone. Stiles told them to not disturb Chris, Peter, Malia and Kira before because they're on a romantic vacation in Europe, the two couples having gone together but enjoying separately. They're on video calls now too, excited and disturbed and sad.
Point is, they're all together.
Today's been rough, but it hasn't been bad exclusively. It's been good, too. Stiles sees it now. Learns that not everything bad leads to something worse, and that things perceived as bad aren't necessarily so.
His pack is here, celebrating Stiles' new chapter in life, crying and laughing in equal measures. Making Stiles' fear their own, his concern their own, his acceptance their own. Derek is beside him, like he always is, and always will be.
Stiles finds peace in the chaos of his packmates, his family, and hopes with every fiber of his being that the good will outweigh the bad in his life.