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Stiles doesn't know why they're still set up here, in this run-down wreck of a train station; the months-long territory dispute has been over for weeks now, more than enough time for the pack to have moved on to somewhere else, somewhere more befitting their status. Maybe they have, he thinks. Maybe they just use this place for intimidation tactics, a way of saying that they could tear the world down around them without regret.
That's hardly news to Stiles, but he has to admit that seeing evidence of it is . . . effective.
“He'll see you now,” the girl guarding the stairs says; she smiles widely when Stiles jumps, her teeth bright and white and no less threatening for being fully human. There must have been some sort of signal from inside, something his weaker human senses can't detect, because she hasn't budged an inch since he got here and there isn't a sign he can see of another living soul. “Now now, don't be shy,” she says when he doesn't move. “He doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
She looks familiar to him—someone from school, no doubt. He doesn't remember seeing anyone like her before, all sleek blonde curls and bedroom eyes; but hell, he hardly even recognizes Scott anymore some days. Stiles might've passed this girl in the hallway every day, just another normal teenager until the upstart alpha started building his ranks.
“Thanks,” he mutters, edging past her to the stairs and trying to ignore the way her eyes feel like they're stripping him bare.
There's light coming from the bottom of the stairwell, just enough that he can keep his footing without having to pause on every step. Just enough to make out the dark streaks on the wall that he hopes, oh god he hopes aren't blood. He hadn't heard anything about a battle here, but maybe Scott just forgot to mention it. Or maybe Stiles is just letting his imagination run away with him because he's about to walk straight into the den of Beacon Hill's new alpha wolf and he has never, never been so terrified in his entire life.
The space opens out as soon as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, and Stiles tries to look everywhere at once, convinced that he can feel eyes watching him. It's not Scott, though he must be around here somewhere; this feels hungry, hostile, like predators waiting to pounce. Like exactly what it is, he supposes, and he squares his shoulders in defiance.
“I have to say,” a voice says dark and deep, echoing off of steel and glass and shattered stone so that Stiles has to fight the urge to spin around searching for the source, “you might actually be the single last person I'd expect to see here.”
Stiles swallows hard and lets his eyes skim over his surroundings, trying to find the wolf he knows is waiting. “You know why I came though, don't you?”
“I have a guess.” The answer is low, amused; Stiles's heart thumps hard in terror and fury.
“Yeah, well, maybe you and your guess could—”
The rest of his words catch in his throat as he turns, attention caught by a flicker of movement from the shadows, and lays his eyes on Derek Hale for the first time.
He's perched on a pile of rubble, dressed in tattered jeans and a leather jacket, half-lounging against the broken concrete as he watches Stiles with hooded eyes. It should be ridiculous; would be, if not for the power that he wears like a second skin. He looks like a post-apocalyptic king atop his throne, a comparison that Stiles feels is a little too apt, all things considered. Still, he can't shake it now that it's occurred to him, can't stop staring now that he's looked, and he watches a slow, sharp smile spread across Derek's face.
“Awfully mouthy for someone who's come to beg a favor.” He leaps down, prowling forward into the dim light—they must have a generator running, Stiles's brain supplies as the rest of him focuses on holding his ground; there's no way this place is wired to the city grid. “Shouldn't you be approaching all humble and penitent?” Derek's eyes flash red as his smile fades. “Especially considering why you're here.”
“My dad.” Stiles fights to swallow past a throat gone dry, keeping his eyes fixed on Derek's jaw, finding patterns in the stubble there as he tries to keep from accidentally making eye contact. Accidentally challenging. “You're going to do something, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
Stiles feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “Don't.” He balls his hands into fists, clenches them until his nails draw blood. “Please.”
“Is that really all you came for?” Derek asks, circling him slowly. “To beg for your father's life?”
“No. But I thought I'd start with that.”
“And when I say no? What's the next step in your brilliant plan, Stiles?”
They both know what he's going to say, but Derek seems to be enjoying himself, drawing this out. Stiles tries to think of that as a good thing as he takes in a deep, careful breath. His head spins with the scent of leather and dust and blood, with something warm and bright beneath it all. He chokes back the hysterical laugh that's trying to rise in his throat, because he supposes it's only fitting that he'll die as he lived: distracted by his worry over an inappropriately-timed boner.
“I'm here to offer myself in his place,” he finally manages, and there's a quiet release of breath near his ear before Derek circles back around into view.
“There it is.” He slides his gaze slowly down the length of Stiles's body in a blatantly measuring appraisal. “What exactly made you think I'd go for that idea?”
“I . . . it's allowed.” Keenly aware that each breath he takes could very easily be his last, Stiles struggles to remember the legal precedents he'd dug up in his father's library. “You made him a—a de-facto part of your pack when you took his oath. I'm his dependent, which means that it technically extends to me, too.”
“Technically,” Derek growls. The sound makes Stiles's legs tremble; he locks his knees and sets his jaw.
“An alpha can transpose punishment from a valuable pack member onto a weaker one, provided that the latter consents.” He dares to meet Derek's eyes for one second, two, three. “I'm consenting.”
“Well now.” Derek slips the fingers of one hand beneath Stiles's jaw, angling his face up. Stiles can feel the faint scrape of claws against his skin and has to swallow down a sudden wave of panic as he waits for those claws to dig in, to tear his throat out and end it. “This isn't entirely unheard of,” Derek says. “Though usually it's the rest of a family sending in a whipping boy; I've never heard of a lamb wandering in all on its own.” He grasps Stiles's chin tightly for a moment before abruptly releasing him. “Unfortunately for you, I don't seem to have much of an appetite. Sorry, kid; no deal.”
“Wait.” Derek is already walking away; Stiles tries to take a step in pursuit, but his legs nearly buckle. Fear and desperation are overtaking him, making his vision tunnel down to Derek's retreating back. “Please, just—take me instead. Kill me, I don't care, please, please, he's my dad—”
“You really think I'm going to spare him just because you ask nicely?” Derek turns to ask, incredulous. “He did more than undermine me, Stiles; he brought hunters in. The Argent family has a permanent presence here now because of him.” He advances again, striding forward until he's only inches away from Stiles, glowering furiously. “Do you understand what that means? My ability to hold this territory depends on my reputation right now. I don't have much of one to start with, which means I can't afford to be lenient. Your father could've been an asset; the best I can do now is keep him from becoming a liability, and killing you won't accomplish anything but getting him out for blood.”
“You . . . look, he made you lose face, I get that. But you don't have to kill him to get it back, do you? There's gotta be something else you can do. Something I can do, please, there has to be. Anything, just tell me.”
“Careful.” There's a growl back in Derek's voice that makes Stiles's stomach flutter and churn. “That's a dangerous offer to make.” He edges closer; Stiles can feel the heat from his body in the cool night air. “A wolf might be inclined to take advantage.”
“Might . . . uh.” Stiles can't think, can hardly breathe. Derek is so close; close enough to kiss. Close enough to kill. They feel like the same thing now, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. “I don't . . .”
“That would definitely be another way to balance the scales.” Derek's looking at Stiles like he's something he's contemplating eating, after all. “No one would question my authority over the sheriff, would they, if I was fucking his son?” He inhales slowly, visibly drawing in Stiles's scent. “It's been a while since I've had the time to find someone worth the effort; you might not be my usual type, but I could probably still find a use for you. What do you say, Stiles? Willing to sell yourself to the Big Bad Wolf in the name of the greater good?” Stiles stands, frozen in shock, and Derek's mouth twists into a smirk. “I didn't think so.” He's already turning away by the time Stiles finds his voice again.
“Yes.”
Derek freezes. “What did you say?”
“I came here willing to let you kill me.” Stiles lifts his chin, beyond caution as he lets his eyes lock onto Derek's. “You really think I believe my ass is worth more than my dad's life? I don't care what you do to me, okay; if it keeps him safe, there isn't anything that I wouldn't do.”
“Of course.” Derek turns slowly back, and he looks . . . Stiles doesn't even know. Dangerous; as if that's anything new. “Unfortunately, I'm not interested—”
“This body as compensation, to use or discard at your pleasure.” He watches Derek's eyes go wide and takes a daring step closer, heart in his throat. He'd memorized the words out of habit, but he never thought he'd use them. Now they're swimming through his head, racing in time with the pounding of his heart. “Subject to your whim and will, until my debt is paid, in loyalty or in blood.” Stiles takes another deep, unsteady breath. “It's your call. Fuck me or kill me, it's up to y—”
Derek's mouth on his stops him cold; it's hard and hungry, claws scraping at the back of Stiles's neck as he holds him in place. Stiles can feel his lips bruising, swelling, and he fists his hands in Derek's shirt to pull him closer. He's hard already, aching and eager and ashamed of how excited he is.
The kiss isn't gentle, it isn't kind or safe, and he shouldn't want this as much as he does. Shouldn't be shaking with anticipation because Derek wants this. Relieved, yes. For his dad; for this town; for the fact that for the moment, at least, he'll get to keep on breathing. But he shouldn't feel the sick, twisted thrill rising in him at the thought of giving himself over like this, shouldn't have to bite back a moan at the knowledge that he's put himself at the mercy of a monster.
Fingers slide up to cup his scalp, fisting in his hair and hauling his head back in a swift, vicious pull, and sharp teeth close around Stiles's throat.
“You're going to regret this.”
When Derek pushes him down Stiles goes without resistance, knees slamming hard against the concrete. A sharp, pained noise escapes him and Derek's fingers tighten in his hair, jerking him closer.
“Yeah,” Stiles manages, even as he starts to tug at Derek's belt. “I probably am.”