Chapter Text
“I thought I'd find you here,” Laura says, gently pushing a branch out of her way. Derek doesn't reply, staring at the water lapping his toes. Laura exhales and comes to sit next to him on the boulder. She's wearing leather slippers and a rich red dress, so she must have just come from a council meeting. Their feet dangle above the water, Laura's further above it than Derek's. Sometimes Derek still can't believe that he's taller than his larger-than-life older sister.
“I know you're not happy about this,” Laura says. Derek doesn't look at her face, focuses instead on the weeds and bracken gently rocking with the water. Laura lets the quiet be, for a moment. The birds are trilling and the wind rubs the leaves together, and the clear scent of the water mixes with the more complex notes coming off his sister. She smells like dust and old books, and a little bit like Human.
“You know I wouldn't ask you to do this unless I really believed it was the best choice,” Laura says, brushing her shoulder against his. The heavy fabric rasps against his skin, and Derek exhales. He refuses to call it a sigh, refuses to admit that he's been moping.
“I know,” Derek says.
“This will be good for you,” Laura says, voice full of confidence. Derek snorts. She bumps her shoulder against his, harder this time. “It will be! You thought the Argents would eat Scott alive, and look how that turned out.” Derek snorts again.
“His betrothed had to defend him from both her aunt and grandfather trying to kill him. And her mother put him in a dress for the mating ceremony,” Derek says, finally looking at Laura with his eyebrows raised. Laura smirks at that, briefly amused.
“But he found his mate,” Laura says, and the amusement is gone. Derek stills.
“It's unlikely that the prince is my mate,” Derek finally says. Laura sighs.
“But you don't know,” Laura says, “And you'll never know unless you try.”
“You're just doing this to get the council off your back,” Derek snaps, then immediately feels guilty. He doesn't look, but he can guess that Laura is giving him the sad, thin-lipped look she reserves for when he's acting like a child. He glares down at the water.
“Sorry,” he offers.
“I would never do anything to purposely hurt you,” Laura says, soft, “I know that when Lady Katherine - “
“Don't,” Derek says, sharp. Laura cuts off, watching him. Derek keeps his eyes on his hands, focusing on keeping them flat and not clenching them into fists.
“I'll do it. I'll go,” Derek says. “I'll find out if the prince is my mate.”
'But that doesn't mean I'll like it,' goes unsaid. Laura doesn't say anything, still watching him. Her attention prickles across his skin, and Derek can't stand the concern right now. He stands to go.
Laura's hand snaps out and clutches his wrist. “Derek,” she says. Her mouth opens, then closes. Then, simply, “I love you.”
“I have to pack,” Derek says. He shakes off her hand and jogs for the path to the castle. Laura lets him go, and Derek's last glimpse is her staring out over the lake.
________
“Stiles,” says the king. “It's okay to be nervous.”
“What? Nervous? Me? Pff. I've never been nervous in my life,” Stiles says, flapping his hand. His father gives him an exasperated look.
“Right,” he says.
“I mean, it's not like I'm about to meet my maybe-future-husband for the first time in six days, or like I have to go through some sort of weird sweat lodge ritual so I don't offend his delicate nose, and not like the entire future of the kingdom is riding on my ability to charm a werewolf prince I've never met before. An in case you haven't noticed dad, my charms are sort of limited.”
“Stiles,” his father says, looking slightly pained.
“I'm not nervous,” Stiles insists. His dad sighs.
“But if you were, you know you can come to me, right?” he says.
“Of course,” Stiles says. His father waits a beat, but Stiles just fiddles with the cuff on one of his sleeves. His father sighs again, then stands to leave the little alcove they've been sitting in. This bench was Stiles' mother's favorite spot in the garden, and one Stiles always returns to in times of stress. Which is probably why his dad knew right where to find him today.
His dad is only a few feet down the path before Stiles breaks.
“Isn't there another way? Any other way? At all?” Stiles asks. And if he sounds a little desperate, well, you can't blame a guy getting maybe-engaged to a werewolf prince, can you? His dad turns back to him, and he looks – tired, Stiles notices. Tired, and maybe a little old.
“I wish there were,” he says. “But with the attacks in the south... If this has a chance of working out, I think we need to give it our best shot.”
Stiles swallows, can't take his eyes off his father's haggard face. He knows how each death in the south weighs on him. He takes a deep breath.
“I'll be find, dad,” Stiles says. “Now shoo. Don't pretend you're not avoiding kingly paperwork.”
His dad affects an innocent face, but Stiles perfected the 'Who, Me?' so he just shakes his head.
“Nice try. But if you don't hurry, you know Harris will send Finstock after you,” Stiles says.
“He wouldn't,” says his dad. Stiles gives his father a pitying look, because, really? Steward Harris would do almost anything to keep the castle running like clockwork, including sending their overly-enthusiastic stable master to corral the king.
“He would,” Stiles says. He tries raising one eyebrow, but damn, both go up instead, again. One day, one day, he'll manage that.
“Right. Well. I have to – go,” Stiles' dad says, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. He looks uneasily around, once, like he's afraid Finstock will pop out of the garden bushes. Which, to be fair, has happened before. He focuses briefly back on Stiles. “We'll talk later, settle the last of the details for the prince's arrival.”
“Yeah, yeah, talk to you later,” Stiles says, waving him off.
His dad trots off, probably still scanning the bushes for Finstock. Stiles watches him go until he's out of sight around a bend in the path. Then he lets his head fall onto the back of the stone bench, and blows out a gusty sigh.
It's a beautiful midsummer day, with Midsummer itself only six days away, which is when Prince Derek of the Hale Pack is set to arrive. Stiles lets his head loll on the bench, one heel moving restlessly up and down, jiggling his knee. It's early yet, not even eleven, so the summer sun has yet to really crack its knuckles and go to town on the day. There are only a few fluffy clouds up in the sky, not big enough to make shapes or patterns, which is disappointing. Stiles could use the distraction.
Stiles had come out here to be alone with is thoughts, which in retrospect, seems like a silly idea. He'd even gone so far as to give Danny the slip, even though Danny was possibly the most unobtrusive manservant/bodyguard ever.
But being alone with his thoughts doesn't make Stiles feel any better, and his head doesn't feel any clearer. He still has this thick ball of dread in the bottom of his stomach, because who the hell is anyone kidding? There's no way Stiles is going to charm anyone by being clumsy, geeky, and completely unable to shut up when it's good for him. And judging by some of the careful verbiage the Hale ambassador used, Prince Derek wouldn't be the easiest person to charm.
Stiles stares down at his hands, clasped between his knees. Really, though, honestly, what else can he do but try? He's the son of the King, Crown Prince of the land, and his people need him to make this work. So he will. Stiles knows his duty.
And who knows? Maybe Prince Derek will be the most easygoing, easily-charmed werewolf ever. It could happen, right?