Archive of Our Own ^beta

The thing about going from really just having Scott as his very human best friend to being surrounded by Werewolf Bullshit™ pretty much 24/7 is that Stiles has had to get used to a lot.

Falling into research rabbit holes all night, trying to sort truth from unsubstantiated legend from pure fiction? Check.

Scott getting slightly murderous during his brand new time of the month? Check.

Knowing that a decent chunk of the lacrosse team can smell when he pops a random boner in the locker room shower? Unfortunate check.

Derek Hale, with his tragic backstory and stupid growly assholery, becoming a major part of his life? Double check, with extra check sauce on top.

It comes with some perks. Stiles’ life is never boring now, a blessing as much as it’s a curse. He went from a friend group called “pretty much just Scott” to a built-in gang of at least acquaintances who are willing to do things like have his back as they face down terrifying supernatural horrors trying to kill them all in the middle of the night and let him copy their chemistry homework. Lydia Martin talks to him now.

But man, there are just some things he was not prepared for.

“Scott. Dude.” Stiles shoves ineffectually at Scott’s head where it’s buried in the crook of his neck from behind. He and Scott got thoroughly over their ‘no homo’ phase after a miserably awkward stretch in middle school, so he doesn’t care about sharing bedspace, but usually Scott’s not quite this… clingy. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Sorry,” Scott mumbles, not moving his arms from where they're snaked around Stiles’ waist. Scott is a lying liar who lies. He doesn't sound even a little bit sorry.

They’d crashed together in Scott’s bed after their latest round of Dealing With Supernatural Bullshit on a School Night, mostly because he’d kinda twisted his ankle on a tree root in the Preserve, so the thought of trying to limp his way into his house without waking his dad had sounded like a terrible idea at 2 in the morning last night. It's not like Stiles doesn't have spare clothes here anyway.

He hadn't counted on Scott glomming onto him at some point in the night and deciding that a Stiles Bear was his new favorite comfort item. “Dude, we gotta go to school.”

“No. Y’need to stay safe in the den,” Scott mumbles, clearly still half asleep.

Stiles feels his mouth drop open. “In the den??? Dude, what the hell?”

“Hmm?” Scott wuffles a sleepy breath into Stiles’ neck, sounding for all the world like one of the dogs he cares for at the clinic. “Yeah. You’re hurt. Gotta stay safe. C’n protect you here.”

“I-” Stiles blinks rapidly. “Scott. Is this because I twisted my ankle last night? It’s not even bad! I can limp along just fine! We gotta go to school, man.”

Scott’s arms tighten around his waist fractionally, but it seems like his brain is coming more online, because the grumble he lets out sounds significantly more human. “What if we skipped and stayed in bed though? Sounds better than school.”

“Duh, everything sounds better than school.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “But my dad and your mom would flip, and I'd rather not have Mama McCall out for my blood on top of all the supernatural things that want to kill me on the daily.” A growl rumbles through Scott's chest at that, and Stiles rolls his eyes harder. “Oh my God. I will be perfectly safe at school. Let go of me so I can go piss and put on pants.”

Scott finally seems to really register their position and unlocks his arms, unwinding them from Stiles’ waist as he flops into his back. “Sorry,” he says again, rubbing one hand over his face and sounding a little bit more like he means it this time. “Just. Went to sleep with you smelling like pain. I think I was trying to keep track of your scent in my sleep.”

“Weirdo,” Stiles says affectionately, thumping Scott gently in the shoulder. “I’m fine. I know I don't have super werewolf healing mojo, but I'm not made of glass.”

“Yeah, I know, but-” Scott shakes his head, cutting himself off. “I didn't mean to. I’ll try not to do it again.”

“Nah, it’s whatever. Not like it bothered me or anything.” Stiles finally sits up, stretching his arms over his head. “I wasn't kidding about having to pee though, let me out.” He doesn't wait, clambering over Scott to get free sooner. He lets out a little hiss as his bad foot hits the ground, Scott’s hands hovering anxiously by his hips. “It’s fine, I'm fine, it's all good. Just tender, not even really painful anymore. Just gotta walk it off and I'll be golden. Hey, Coach would be so proud, right? Rub some dirt on it!” Stiles grins at Scott before heading for the bathroom, calling back softly, so he doesn't wake Mrs. McCall. “Seriously, stop worrying.”

Scott eventually stops hovering by about 5th period when Stiles shows no signs of even walking funny, so Stiles chalks it up to a fun new werewolf-y side effect and promptly forgets about it.

~*~

Erica starts it and honestly, Stiles doesn't want to bring the gender thing into it, because that sucks, but it probably is because she’s a girl and didn't get taught that the only correct way to make contact with other human beings was manly back slaps and having sex with girls.

It’s also definitely a werewolf thing, since all of Stiles’ other werewolves start doing it, but it's still Erica who starts it.

Anyway, “it” is Erica draping herself all over whoever’s closest, just because she can. She sits in Boyd's lap at lunch and goes to sleep on Isaac’s shoulder in their history class and lays her entire body over Stiles’ when he’s lying on the floor trying to do homework.

Derek, interestingly enough, is the first to pick it up after that, almost like he was just waiting for permission. Stiles figures it had to have been something he was used to, that he didn't get from a pack made up of turned-wolves, two humans, and a banshee. It feels like one day, he turns around, and Derek is doling out casual touches like he isn't the poster boy for toxic masculinity.

Isaac, touch-starved puppy that he is, doesn't take long to follow, and if Boyd doesn't exactly instigate a ton of touching, he never complains when pack members cuddle up against him or Lydia drops into his lap because she and Jackson are in a snit. Allison and Lydia don't get as into it as the wolves, but they don't seem to mind Isaac’s head in their laps at movie night, Scott leaning against them at the lunch table, or Derek gently ruffling their hair. (Okay, Lydia actually minds that last one a lot, but that's a hair-specific grievance.)

And sure, Stiles and Scott have always been close enough for casual touch, enough that upgrading to holding hands and cuddling during hangout sessions isn’t too far out of left field. But there’s just something undeniably weird about Jackson throwing his arm over Stiles’ shoulder unconsciously at an after-game dinner and leaving it there for half an hour, tugging Stiles into his side like he’s not even thinking about it.

Jackson. Jackson Whittemore. Is casually touching Stiles. Like it’s no big deal. He has to duck out to go to the bathroom, stare at himself in the mirror, and wonder what it says about him that this is what makes him question how weird his life has become.

But you know what? Fuck it. When in the Roman wolfpack, do as Roman wolves do, or whatever.

So he goes back to the table, and he ducks back into Jackson’s side. Jackson just lifts his arm without breaking stride in the story he’s telling Danny, who gives them a slightly bemused, slightly amused look. Stiles closes his eyes and tilts his head against Jackson’s shoulder because he’s tired, dammit. He’d been up until 3:30 last night researching rusalka, and Jackson puts off heat like a furnace. So sue him.

“So,” Danny drawls when Jackson wraps his story of some sanitized version or other of something Isaac and Scott did during werewolf bootcamp the other day. “This is new.” Stiles cracks one eye to see Danny gesturing to the way Stiles is half asleep, cuddled into Jackson’s side.

“Hmm?” he says, the questioning noise sleepier than he wants to admit. Jackson makes an amused and distinctly non-human chuffing sound in the back of his throat.

“Yeah, it's ‘cause Stillinski’s a baby who gets tired when Coach puts him in the game for five minutes,” Jackson says, jostling his shoulder enough to be annoying, but not enough to dislodge Stiles.

Without opening his eyes, Stiles bares his teeth in Jackson’s general direction and does his best approximation of the rumbling growl he hears all the time from Derek. It apparently doesn't sound very intimidating coming out of a purely human chest, given the laughter he can feel shaking Jackson’s side. “Jackass,” he mumbles, shoving his face harder into Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson just nudges the top of Stiles’ head with his nose, clearly scenting him. Another thing Stiles has gotten more used to than he probably should, given that he’s tucked his own nose into the crook of Jackson’s neck like he can smell anything other than gross teenage boy sweat.

There’s a pause from Danny, long enough that Stiles has just enough time to remember that they're not acting like normal fucking humans. He’s gathering the strength to haul himself upright when Danny’s voice comes again, carrying a teasing pout in the tone. “Why don’t you ever snuggle me like that, Jax? You love Stillinski more?”

Jackson’s chest rumbles in an irritated growl, shifting as he clearly lifts his other arm to drag Danny into his opposite side. “Course not, c’mere.”

And oh. Oh. Stiles recognizes that tone, the Pack Tone that most of his werewolves get when they're tugging one of the non-wolves some dogpile-type bonding. Between Jackson and Lydia, Danny is at least periphery to the pack already. They should probably just read him in at this point. Cracking one eye to get a glimpse of the smug contentment on Danny’s face, Stiles is pretty sure he’s already guessed something. Well. That's a Later Stiles problem, his favorite kind.

He drops into a half doze with the comfortable rumble of Danny and Jackson’s continued conversation in the background.

~*~

“Erica Reyes, is that a hickey?” Stiles gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls when he spots her at her locker before first period.

“Where?” Erica whips out her phone, holding it out in camera mode to examine the bruise on her neck. Her furrowed brow smooths when she spots it. “Oh, that. Derek gave it to me before he dropped me and Isaac off this morning,” she says nonchalantly, stuffing her phone back in her pocket. “Boyd’s car’s in the shop, so he had to catch the bus.”

Stiles freezes. “Derek. Derek Hale gave you a hickey? Derek, an adult alpha, gave you, a minor and one of his betas, a hickey?” he asks flatly, already planning a front assault on the loft. Allison will definitely help him, and Scott probably won't even protest when Stiles tells him why they're doing it.

Clearly over this conversation, Erica rolls her eyes. “It's not even a hickey, Mom, it’s just a little bite mark.”

“How is that better, Erica?”

“Because it’s just a friendly little bite? Y’know, ‘stop being a little shit and get out of my car,’ kinda thing. Like-” She snaps her teeth at him playfully, grinning. “It’s already fading, see?”

True, the dark spot is smoothing away into pale skin. If Stiles had caught Erica even five minutes later, it would have been gone. “Erica, I don't think-” The warning bell rings, making Stiles glance up and Erica wince.

“Fuck, I have Harris first period. I gotta go, dude. See you in History, Batman.” She slaps him on the arm, probably a little harder than she meant to, taking off down the hall at something reasonably close to human speeds.

“Ow,” Stiles mutters under his breath, staring after her as he absently rubs his shoulder. He should be concerned about that, right? He should definitely be concerned about that. He’ll be damned if he lets Derek get away with being an asshole just because he's the Alpha.

His first few classes are a blur. He’s nearly late for Trigonometry, so he doesn't get a chance to talk to Lydia, who sits across the room anyway. He has Economics with more than half the pack, but Finstock is already on a roll before the bell even rings, so he’s stuck scrambling to take notes instead of finding out if Derek’s been getting nippy. History he shares with Isaac, but also with Erica, and he doesn't want to bring it up near her again. 

When he gets to the lunch table, Boyd, Scott, and Allison are the only ones there. Not who Stiles would have started this line of questioning with, but Isaac is in the lunch line with Erica, so beggars and choosers, etc.

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat next to Boyd. “How goes it?” Stiles winces a little. Yeah, smooth opener.

Scott grins at him while Allison kicks him fondly under the table. “What are you, 47? Since when do you say, ‘How goes it?’”

“I’m trying something new,” he says defensively, digging his sandwich out of his bag. He has no time to make this delicate, with the lunch line trucking right along, so he decides to jump right into it. “Hey, have any of you noticed Derek getting kinda bite-y lately?”

Scott instantly bolts upright in his seat. “What, is he trying to give you the bite again? I know you said no-”

“No, not with me.” Stiles waves his hands frantically. “Just, like. In general. With other wolves.”

“Oh, that.” Scott slumps against Allison’s shoulder, and she takes his sudden weight with a quiet grunt. “Yeah, he’s just like that.”

“He just… bites you? And you're okay with that?” He eyes Scott and then Boyd like they're crazy. They shoot him the same look back.

“Yeah? It's usually during training.” Boyd shrugs. “It’s not even hard, more like an attention-getting thing.”

“Honestly, I kinda get the urge,” Scott adds. “Sometimes, you just like. Need to drive the point home that you're winning in a spar? Or you just get excited and it just, like, happens, dude.”

Allison snorts suddenly, covering her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Stiles leans forward. “What is it?”

“You guys are play biting,” she gasps out between giggles. “Like puppies do!”

“I- we’re not- I mean, it’s not just puppies!” Scott gapes at his girlfriend. “Boyd, back me up here!”

“I dunno man, I'm pretty sure it's a thing puppies do,” Boyd says slowly, dragging a French fry through the ketchup on his tray.

“It’s- Okay, so maybe it is-” Allison laughs harder, elbowing Scott. Stiles’ eyes widen as Scott leans forward, nipping at Allison’s cheek before seeming to realize what he’s doing and leaning back with a red face.

Allison just grins harder and turns to fasten her teeth in Scott’s shoulder because she’s actually hilarious. Stiles has to hide his own snort at the absolutely soppy look Scott has on his face. Only he’d look that besotted because his girlfriend bit him.

“Oh, are the humans fair game now?” Isaac asks, setting his tray down beside Stiles as Erica takes Boyd’s other side. “Because Boyd and Jackson told Derek you all probably weren't going to like the biting thing, but it's just fun.” He snaps his teeth at Stiles, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Down, boy. I will bite you back, don't test me.”

That is absolutely the wrong thing to say, because Isaac’s eyes glint, and he lunges forward, luckily human teeth grazing the edge of Stiles’ jaw as he flinches away on instinct. He turns his head fast enough to get some of Isaac’s t-shirt sleeve, shaking it between his teeth before letting go. “Jesus Christ, you people are turning me into a dog,” he moans, slumping onto the table dramatically. Boyd pays his head consolingly. Stiles gives in and turns to nip affectionately at his arm.

When Boyd just grins in return, Stiles has to admit, it's kinda fun.

Heaven help the first person who tries to bite Lydia though.

~*~

It really isn’t fair to the schools they play that the Beacon Hills lacrosse team is about one quarter werewolves at this point. Stiles thinks they even the scales by not being very good at the human strategy side of the game due to all their late nights dealing with supernatural monsters and missing practice to catch up on homework missed because of said supernatural monsters.

Stiles is very good at the human strategy side of lacrosse. Comes with the near-permanent seat on the bench; he has lots of time to watch the ways plays unfold.

Which is why he’s in the unique position to notice when his idiots start deviating from the normal playbook.

It starts with Isaac, cornering number 17 on the opposing team. He absolutely looms over the relatively small kid, making it impossible for the guy to make a pass. Isaac easily steals the ball, lobbing it back and forth with Boyd and Scott, ignoring the non-pack members of the team until he can send the ball slamming into the back of the opposing team’s net. Stiles’ eyes narrow as Isaac sends a feral grin toward 17 and Jackson, Scott, and Boyd’s heads all snap towards him, making the kid take a step back.

The ball gets tossed back into play, and Stiles relaxes slightly as the next minute seems relatively normal.

Then 17 stumbles slightly, just a vague misstep, and Jackson and Scott converge on him at once, Jackson slamming into his side while Scott scoops up the ball and tosses it to Isaac. Once again, no out-of-pack tosses until Boyd sends it to Danny, who’s out of goal for once. Danny, who is not an utter asshole, passes to Paulie Miller, finally allowing the human members of the team to actually play.

This time, Stiles doesn't let himself relax, watching his pack members like a hawk. The metaphor extends uncomfortably well as he watches them circle number 17 like hawks. Or, well, like wolves.

Jackson gets a personal foul for slashing. Boyd dogs the kid step-for-step, even when the ball is nowhere near him. Stiles has to actually stick his leg out onto the field and trip Scott to keep him from ramming into 17 a second time for what seems like no particular reason.

“Woah, hey!” he yells with everyone else as Scott eats absolute shit. He winces, both because that is so against best friend code and also because Scott running over his shin at just-over-human speeds hurts like a son of a bitch. He hops up, waving his arms. “Yo, Coach, ref, time out! Hold on, thank you!”

The ref blows a confused whistle, since Stiles definitely does not have the authority to call timeout, but is clearly jogging onto the field with Scott’s arm in a death grip anyway. He ignores Coach’s hissed, “Bilinski!” to round up the rest of his idiots, grabbing Jackson by the ear just because he can.

“Quit fucking stalking 17, you assholes. I don't care if he’s the shortest player on the other team, you all are playing like you're stalking wounded prey, not paying attention to the actual lacrosse game.” The four of them freeze, all suddenly looking anywhere but at Stiles. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses. “This is high school lacrosse, not National freaking Geographic. Play the game and quit harassing 17. I'm pretty sure you're like one PF from a racial discrimination case, too, since the dude’s last name is Nguyen, which makes him probably Vietnamese. Play the game normal, you absolute heathens. Unbelievable.” Stiles pulls away, jogging for the sidelines with a wave and a beaming grin. “He’s okay! Time in, play ball, ándale!”

The pack (minus Danny, who is perfect, and Stiles is glad to have him here) still watch 17 a little closer than pretty much anyone is comfortable with, but they stop nearly fouling him every three seconds, so Stiles will take the win.

“I’m still mad at you idiots,” he grumbles when Scott, Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson converge on him in the locker room after the game. Danny hovers nearby, half listening, half blocking anyone else from getting too close.

Scott whines in the back of his throat, and goddammit, he did not need to make his puppy eyes more effective, nature! “Sorry, we didn't even realize we were doing it.”

“We stopped when you told us to,” Isaac grumbles, but from the way he’s digging the toe of his shoe into the ground, he’s definitely sure he’s in trouble. Jackson refuses to look at Stiles. Boyd won't stop looking at him. Jesus fuck, why is this Stiles’ life?

He drags his hands over his face with a groan, dropping his head back against the lockers. “Look, what even happened?”

Jackson shrugs one shoulder, still not making eye contact. “The game just got everyone’s blood up, Stilinski, no need to make a big deal about it.”

“You were all stalking a human teenager,” Stiles points out flatly. “And I don't even mean that in the somehow creepier yet marginally more normal way. I’m talking full on wolfpack circling for the kill, energy, here. Are you going to get like this every game?”

Jackson snorts. “Please. We’ve played lacrosse as werewolves before. It’s just- I don't know, he smelled like blood, and pain. It-” His nose wrinkles.

“Wires got crossed,” Boyd finishes. “Something about the competitive game and the constant smell of an injury, it just-” He links his fingers in front of himself. “It was the perfect storm. It shouldn't happen again now that we know to watch out for it.”

“It better not. God. I should make you write that kid apology cards.”

Isaac’s lips twitch. Stiles mentally cheers being non threatening, for once. “Okay, Mom.”

“Not you too,” Stiles groans. “I’ve already got Erica doing that. Couldn't you at least have stolen ‘Batman’ from her if you're going to steal one of her nicknames? At least Batman’s cool.”

“Hate to break it to you, Stilinski,” Jackson drawls, finally looking at him. “But it makes you sound like an absolute dork.”

Stiles flails in offense. “Rude! Uncalled for! Just for that, we are absolutely finding 17 and you bastards are apologizing before we leave.”

The four werewolves exchange a glance, then Boyd grins, and yells, “Scatter!” The four of them bolt in different directions, Danny flattening himself to the lockers with a laugh as Isaac careens past him. Coach Finstock turns into the aisle just in time to see Jackson and Scott round opposite corners as Stiles starts banging his head on his locker.

“Wow. Do I want to know what happened here?”

Danny claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder with a shit eating grin, forcing him to stop knocking into the door. “Just the trials of single motherhood, Coach.”

Stiles groans, grinding his forehead into cool metal. “Danny, I'm revoking your Favorite Child status.”

“Ouch, dude.”

Coach makes a face. “Yeah, whatever weird roleplay you degenerates are into, leave me out of it.” He walks away, muttering under his breath.

Stiles starts banging his head against the lockers again.

~*~

“All these fucking wolves around, trust you to be a cat,” says Stiles, nudging Danny with his foot. The other boy is sprawled next to him on the floor of the loft, basking in the sunlight that Stiles is using to look like he’s doing his chem homework.

Danny grumbles, a little sleepy. “‘S warm, Stilinski. Bite me.”

“No thanks, not my kink, go talk to Jackson,” Stiles hums distractedly, trying to make his brain focus on the formula for atomic weight.

“Not his kink either.”

Stiles slams his book down, whipping his head around to stare at Danny. “Well I’m never going to focus on chemistry now. Danny. Danny have you and Jackson fucked?”

Danny snorts. “No, he and Lydia just tell me way too much about their sex life.”

“Please, you love the gossip.” Stiles does not jump and swear as Jackson appears out of nowhere to lay bodily on top of Danny. From Jackson and Danny’s matching smirks, he’s not fooling anyone.

“I am being disrespected in my own home.”

“This is Derek’s loft,” Jackson points out, far too reasonably, tucking his head into the crook of Danny’s neck. A slight sound rumbles out of his chest when Danny reaches up to scratch his nails over Jackson’s scalp.

“If you're gonna bring that attitude, you can go sun yourself somewhere else, lizard man.” Stiles rolls onto his hip to shove Jackson’s leg lightly with his foot. Jackson retaliates with a half-hearted and mostly boneless kick, still rumbling contentedly as Danny keeps running his fingers through short blond hair. He turns his head slightly, and Danny freezes, recoiling a bit.

“Jackson Kyle Whittemore, what the fuck. Did you just lick me?”

Jackson and Stiles both freeze and then Stiles throws his arms in the air in celebration, cackling. “Finally! Finally someone other than me has to figure out one of their weird impulses! Also, of course your middle name is Kyle.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jackson grouches, avoiding both their eyes. 

“Dude, you are such a Kyle. The only thing you are more than a Kyle is a Jackson.”

Jackson finally looks at Stiles to shoot him an unimpressed look. “Stilinski, none of what you just said means anything.”

“Do you want to talk about what licking Danny means then?”

Instantly, his eyes dart away. “No.”

“I would also like to know what the licking was all about,” Danny puts forth. Jackson groans, rolling off Danny to grind his forehead into the carpet.

“I don't know, it just kinda happened, okay? You were scratching my head and it just felt like the right thing to do.”

Stiles, who has been reading up on wolf behavior since the play biting incident, chokes on a laugh, shoving his hand over his mouth when Jackson glares. “Dude, you were grooming him,” he says, voice cracking in delight. He clears his throat, struggling for a straight face. “It’s a very important social behavior, you know, it means you consider Danny part of your pack and you want to maintain strong bonds with him-”

“Stiles. I'm just gonna remind you that I still have the paralytic venom claws.”

“Which can't technically stop me from talking-” Stiles swallows hard as Jackson holds up a hand and lets his claws grow out. “-but I will drop it because I am such a good packmate and friend.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Oh, bite me.”

Danny, watching their back and forth like a tennis match, smirks. “Don't you mean ‘lick me,’ Stiles?”

When Derek comes home five minutes later to find Jackson yelling as he chases a laughing Stiles and Danny around the loft, he just makes the world's most tired face and slowly closes the door again.

~*~

Stiles awakens on Monday with a sore throat, feeling shaky and weak, and okay, maybe running around the Preserve at night in January isn’t ideal for his health, but in his defense, he doesn't control the alignment of planets and their subsequent magical bullshit. He was just lucky that it happened on a Saturday.

So yeah, by Monday, he’s not feeling too hot. His dad takes one look at him trying to shove his feet in his shoes and missing four times in a row and sends him back to bed.

To: Scotty McScottFace

hey home sick today wont be in let everyone else know im not dead

From: Scotty McScottFace

r u ok do u need anything?

To: Scotty McScottFace

mostly just sleep ill be fine

Stiles is halfway into a doze when another text rattles him awake.

From: Scotty McScottFace

im outside ur house let me in

From: Scotty McScottFace

i have souo

To: Scotty McScottFace

what???

From: Scotty McScottFace

*soup

To: Scotty McScottFace

dude i cant believe THATS what u think i was questioning

From: Scotty McScottFace

never mind im coming in ur window

“Why are you at my window with soup and not in first period?” Stiles rasps as Scott slides his window open. He shivers at the blast of cold air it lets in, and Scott is quick to hop inside and slam the thing shut.

“Because you need soup. You’re sick. Sick people get soup,” Scott says like it's the simplest equation in the world. Stiles + sick = soup.

“I don't want 8am soup. You could have come after school. Or, fuck, I dunno, skipped during lunch if you really felt like it. Harris is gonna kill you.”

“Harris wants to kill me anyway.” Scott shrugs. “I’m gonna go put your soup in the fridge to heat up later.”

“Scott!” Stiles calls after him, straining the edges of his voice. “Scott, go back to school! Scott!” He groans when all he gets in return is the clatter of Scott absolutely knocking something over in the kitchen. Stiles drops his head back on the pillow with a groan just as he gets another text.

From: Catwoman

hey do u kno where scot is??

From: Catwoman

hes not here n hes not called out, harris is gonna give him detention

To: Catwoman

yea hes at my house being an overprotective loser bcos i have a cold

From: Catwoman

ur sick??

To: Catwoman

yes but its not a big deal ill b e fine in a couple days

Erica doesn't respond, but Harris is an asshole about phones in class, so that's not surprising. Scott appears in the doorway, face sheepish. “I cleaned it up,” he says defensively.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don't wanna know. Alright, if you're not going back to school, get over here and make yourself useful. I’m so freaking cold, dude.”

Grinning, Scott shucks off his jeans, grabbing a spare pair of sweats from Stiles’ drawers before sliding into bed with him. Instantly, Stiles tucks himself into Scott’s front; the boy puts off heat like a furnace, and he’s not above taking advantage.

He’s almost asleep again, when he hears the sound of the window sliding open.

“Wha’?” he asks blearily, turning over to see Erica halfway inside. “What’re you doin’ here?” he asks, sleepily rubbing a hand over his face.

“You said you were sick. I brought tissues and cold and flu medicine and orange juice.”

“It is-” Stiles slaps a hand around his side table until he finds his phone, squinting angrily at it, “-8:57 am, why are you not in class?”

“Harris sucks. At least this way, I'll be in detention with Scott.”

“Aw, I got detention?” Scott pouts.

“Your own fault,” Erica points out, pulling a plastic bag out of her backpack. It does, in fact, have a drugstore cold care package, from the looks of things. “I can call the school and try to pretend to be your mom, but Harris already counted me present, so I don't think you can do the same back. Move over.”

“Or you could go back to class and say your bathroom break took extra long because you started your period,” Stiles grumbles, not resisting as Scott wiggles them both backwards. Instead of an answer, a bottle of OJ and a pack of medicine hit him in the chest.

Erica doesn't bother with stealing sweatpants, just wiggles out of her jeans and does boob wizardry to get out of her bra without taking her shirt off, hopping in to bracket Stiles on his other side. Her nose wrinkles. “Ew, you smell gross, Batman.”

“Well sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors.”

“Not like that, it's like. Weird and sour. I think I can smell that you're sick.”

“Huh.” Scott leans forward and sniffs. “Yeah, I get what you're talking about about.”

“Okay, Doctors Wolfenstein. No more sniffing of the Stiles. Let me sleep in toasty, toasty peace. But hand me my phone first, Erica.”

To: Scream Queen

dont let anymore wolves leave school

From: Scream Queen

Who left school? WHY did anyone leave school?

To: Scream Queen

i told scott n wrica im sick n now ive got a wolf on either side of me in bed

To: Scream Queen

so

To: Scream Queen

trying to keep the rest of the pack from getting detention

From: Scream Queen

I just saw Isaac booking it for the doors between first and second period, I'm pretty sure you're already screwed.

To: Scream Queen

im gonna kill him

From: Scream Queen

No you're not.

To: Scream Queen

fuck

“No,” Stiles croaks flatly when Isaac slides his window up. “Go back to school.”

Isaac whines, half in, half out.

“Come in and close the window,” Scott overrides him. Stiles jabs him in the ribs with an elbow, and he doesn't even pretend to feel it. Isaac slides the rest of the way in, looking down at the ground with one shoulder half hitched like he’s expecting to be thrown right back out.

Stiles doesn't heave the world’s longest, heaviest sigh, because it would give Isaac the wrong idea. He thinks about it though. “Alright, get in here.”

Isaac doesn't question him, even though Scott, Stiles, and Erica are already crammed pretty tight. He just eels his way in, lying half on Stiles and half on Scott, their legs banging together as Erica laughs at them.

“Shush. Zhush,” Stiles slurs, slapping his hand in her general direction. “Wolves skipping school do not get to laugh at me while I'm sick. Cuddle quietly.”

She muffles her giggles in his shoulder and, completely warm for the first time since he woke up, Stiles falls into a doze.

He pulls out of it some unknown amount of time later to his window sliding open yet again. “Door,” he grits out grumpily. None of his werewolves pay attention to him, greeting what sounds like Boyd with sleepy mumbles.

“Lunch was boring without the pack.” He can practically hear Boyd’s laconic shrug. “Figured I might as well get detention with the rest of you.”

“Izzit lunch time?” Scott slurs from the other side of Isaac, who’s somehow managed to flip around so his feet are in Stiles’ face. “Soup! Gotta get you your soup, man.”

“Soup?” Stiles asks, brain not fully online.

“Hell yeah.” Scott wiggles free, making Stiles whine when he accidentally grinds a knee into his hip bone. “Whoops, sorry, dude. Be back soon.”

Stiles flails around until he can grab Scott by the shirt, eyes only half open. “There's like… super mega bag of pizza rolls in the freezer. ‘Nough for werewolves.”

Scott pats his hand, voice fond. “Thanks, Stiles. I’ll grab those for us.”

“‘Kay,” Stiles mumbles. He's being a terrible host, but in his defense, he’s super out of it and also his friends are less guests and more home invaders. So he's pretty okay with how everything's turning out so far.

Boyd settles into the space Scott left open, elbowing Isaac until he snuffles, flips around, and buries his head in Stiles’ neck. “Hey. Go back to sleep for a bit, Sti. Scott’s gonna be a minute.”

“Mmf. Phone first.” Erica groans a protest but shuffles around to reach Stiles’ phone and hand it over to him. He’s got a text from his dad and one from Mrs. McCall checking in on him. He sends a jumble of mostly positive emojis to both of them. He shoots off a few more texts before his eyes droop close and he lets his phone fall into the pillow.

The next time he blinks, Boyd’s nudging him awake to Scott, juggling a regular bowl of soup and a huge mixing bowl chock full of pizza rolls. He grumbles, but pushes himself upright as Isaac protests. They settle in a little cross-legged circle, Stiles slowly spooning up reheated diner chicken noodle as the wolves tear through the pizza rolls.

Stiles is just setting aside his empty bowl when his window slides up yet again. He gapes at Jackson sliding inside.

“Why,” he grits out.

Jackson just grins at him. “In my defense, you just texted me ‘don’t you dare.’ What was I supposed to do, let you boss me around?”

Flailing for his phone, Stiles pulls up his messages. There is, in fact, a text to Jackass that reads ‘dont u fukig dare >:(‘ accompanied by a second text to Sourwolf that only says, ‘u bit too many :(‘. Derek’s reply is a single question mark, and while Stiles will admit that his own text was spectacularly unhelpful, he’s not going to dignify that with an answer.

“Yes,” he answers belatedly. “You should always let me boss you around. I'm right.” Jackson rolls his eyes and moves for the bed, but Stiles holds up a hand. “No, nuh uh, officially too many wolves for one bed. You can go get the cushions from the couch for the floor.”

Erica bolts upright, clapping excitedly. “Pillow fort! Yessss.” She grabs Isaac’s wrist, dragging him off the bed as Boyd rolls his eyes fondly and follows.

“Do not destroy my house,” Stiles croaks as loud as he can. At least he knows the wolves will hear it. Whether or not they'll listen is another matter.

It doesn't take them long to return with what appears to be every soft thing in the house apart from his dad’s bedding. Erica bosses Isaac and Boyd into setting up some sort of nest contraption that takes up most of the free space on Stiles’ floor. Jackson refuses to be bossed, but does toss pillows and blankets around according to his own agenda.

Yeah, this might as well happen. Stiles takes another dose of medicine.

The nest of pillows isn't as comfortable as a bed, but with everyone piling in around him, Stiles can't bring himself to care. He drifts off to sleep once more with the sounds of quiet talking and laughing in the background.

The sounds of Danny, Allison, and Lydia arriving after school brings Stiles drifting close to the surface, just enough to hear Lydia’s teasing, “Don't enjoy this too much,” as she lays down next to him.

Finally, Stiles wakes up for real, feeling better than he has all day. He’s less achy and it feels like his fever broke at some point. It’s dark, and when he cranes his neck, Stiles can see that his bedside clock reads 6:18 pm. The room is quiet around him, save for the muffled snuffling of breathing and someone somewhere in this pile snoring gently.

Stiles nearly shatters that quiet when he turns his head back to the rest of the room and suddenly sees Derek, sitting cross legged on his bed and watching all of them.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles hisses, trying not to wake anyone else up. His voice sounds better than it has all day too. “Hi Creepy McCreeperson. Are you over there brooding for a reason?”

“You’re sick.”

Stiles waits, futilely hoping that Derek is going to elaborate on that. “...yep, sure am. I'm doing better than I was, though. Did you come here to diagnose me with human disease, or what?”

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch together. “You didn't tell me you were sick.”

“...no? Dude, it's just a cold or something, I'm fine. You're all just a bunch of worrywolves who can't leave me alone to wallow in peace. I didn't mean to tell anyone but Scott.”

“Right.” Derek glances away, and Stiles’ sluggish brain finally boots up enough to translate Derek Non Speak into English.

“Oh. Oh.” He grins. “Dude, are you jealous?”

“Don't call me ‘dude.’” Derek glares, crossing his arms.

“Oh my God, you totally are, holy shit. Fine, I’ll text the group chat next time I fall prey to the dastardly clutches of a completely normal cold and you all can invade my privacy much more efficiently.”

Derek keeps glowering, but his lips twitch slightly, so Stiles knows he’s actually very endeared. “You should eat. You need your strength.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles shuffles slightly to create room between him and- he squints slightly. He’s pretty sure that’s Danny’s ass pressed into his hip. “Get in here, Sourwolf. Cuddles first. I'm sick, so you have to do what I say.”

Derek’s glower softens just slightly, and he crawls into the offered space with no further argument. That's how Stiles knows he was really worried, because Derek loves to argue with him. “Hey. I'm sick, not dying.” He ignores Derek’s subtle flinch. “I might be human, but I'm not delicate. You're all just overprotective furry bastards.”

“Just making sure everyone in the pack is okay, Stiles. It's my responsibility as an alpha.” Stiles can't pretend that his heart doesn't warm hearing Derek just casually claiming him as pack. It's the first time the man’s ever said it out loud like that.

He opens his mouth to say something unbelievably stupid to avoid having feelings-

“If you two don't shut up, it’ll be my responsibility to stab you in the kidneys,” comes Allison’s grumpy voice from just behind Stiles.

“Seconded,” Isaac grumbles from somewhere above his head. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Stiles grins. “We have our marching orders.”

Derek’s return smile is rueful. “Guess we do.”

Stiles snuggles into Derek’s chest without hesitation, grinning when Derek’s arms come up to slowly tug Stiles closer. He can feel some tension leak out of the other man’s shoulders as he feels the tangible proof that Stiles is completely fine, surrounded by pack and taken care of.

Man, he is so good at this werewolf whispering thing.

~*~

There are very few things that can motivate Stiles to do something like running a mile, which is so unbelievably boring that he wants to tear his eyes out by the end of the first lap of the track. It's why he sucks enough at lacrosse to permanently warm the bench. Scott got abs and endurance as a side effect of his furry little problem, but Stiles has to work for whatever shape he’s in.

Fortunately, there’s nothing quite so motivating as constant near-death experiences. So Stiles is in the best shape of his life, even if the reason for it sucks ass.

But for the first time, he's not just going to be using it to save his sorry hide.

Stiles shares a slightly manic grin with Allison as the pack gathers next to the ruins of the Hale house. She grins back, a little too wide and just as excited.

The wolves around them are keyed up. Scott and Jackson are wrestling on the ground, Erica dancing around Boyd and shadowboxing while he rolls his eyes. Isaac can’t stop bouncing on his toes, shaking his arms hard enough that Stiles is a little worried they're going to fall off. Derek is the only one who doesn't look ready to shake out of his skin, sitting stoically with his eyes closed on a convenient boulder.

When his eyes snap open, they're the blood red of Alpha command. “It’s time.”

Scott pops off the ground with an excited holler, ripping his shirt over his head and tossing it in the general direction of Stiles’ Jeep. The other wolves follow suit, even Erica stripping down to a sports bra with a whoop.

Derek shoots Stiles and Allison a lopsided smirk. “You two should go. You're going to need the head start.”

Stiles and Allison glance at each other. Then, without warning, Allison takes off for the trees, Stiles only a beat behind.

Despite knowing that the wolves can easily catch them at a full sprint, neither of them run all out just yet. Instead, Stiles laughs giddily as he leaps over roots and downed branches, nearly stumbling on an unseen stump. Allison hauls him up by the elbow, excitement caught between her teeth just like him.

Behind them, a howl splits the air, two, three, more. Maybe a year or two ago, the sound would have felt chilling. Now, it just spurs them faster, matching wild grins on their faces. Stiles throws his own head back and heaves enough air in to let out an answering howl, Allison’s higher note twining around his a second later. He’ll probably feel weird about doing that later, but for now, he just wants to call out to his pack.

A rustling in the bushes is his only warning before Isaac flies out of the darkness, tackling Stiles and knocking the wind out of him. They go tumbling, Isaac easily rolling to absorb most of the impact and snapping playfully. Stiles latches onto his shoulder with blunt human teeth, and Isaac’s laughter rumbles out of his chest with a hint of a growl. Besides them, Scott has caught Allison around the waist, twirling her as she shrieks with laughter.

Erica sprints towards them, barely slowing as she yanks Stiles to his feet. Isaac springs up beside them, and they’re off again, careening through the trees. Stiles bounces off more than one trunk in the darkness, barely even feeling the impact. The wolves tug him around obstacles, taking turns keeping pace with him and Allison as they run full tilt. Sometimes, somebody tackles somebody else, the growling sounds of the play fight fading into the distance until they catch up again. Allison laughs as she leaps over a creek bed, turning to help Jackson catch Stiles as he fumbles his own landing. Most of Stiles’ impressions of the night are blurred branches, laughing mouths, and helping hands.

Eventually, though, he has to admit defeat, slowing to a stop to plant his hands on his knees and pant. Allison slows too, but she clearly has the stamina to keep going for a bit longer, so Stiles weakly waves her on. She vanishes into the darkness after Scott, Boyd, and Erica.

Surprisingly, Derek is the wolf that slows to a stop to keep Stiles company. The wild grin that Stiles has never seen on his face before fades into something softer as he leans against a nearby tree trunk. “You lasted longer than I expected,” he says around his fangs. Stiles knows he has the control to shift back to fully human-passing, but that's not the point of tonight. 

“Fuck… you…” he wheezes, lifting one hand off his knee to flip Derek off.

He just laughs. “It was a compliment,” he says, voice oddly warm and underpinned by the slight gravel that always seems to come with a shift. “Not many humans can keep pace with wolves for an hour and a half.”

“I was running for an hour and a half? Oh fuck me,” Stiles gasps, sinking to the forest floor.

Derek’s in front of him in an instant, holding out one clawed hand. “No, c’mon, no sitting. You'll cramp up.”

Groaning, Stiles takes Derek’s hand and lets him haul him to his feet, following as Derek starts to meander into the forest. “I think my feet are going to fall off,” he complains, feeling the ache start to radiate through his soles.

Derek, stupid, cocky werewolf, just smirks at him. “You’ll be fine. That's the price for running with wolves.”

It’s not fair for Derek to be an asshole AND right. Stiles is filing a complaint. Who does he even file a complaint to in a pack? “Werewolf packs should have built-in HR departments.”

“What?”

“HR.” Stiles gestures expressively, as if that makes his conversational leap any easier to follow. “Or I guess WR, since it's not human resources. Though not all of our members are werewolves either. PR, for Pack Resources? That could get confusing. We can workshop it.”

Derek looks confused, but thankfully also amused, side eyeing Stiles. “Stiles, why would we need an HR department?”

Stiles whacks him in the arm, chest heaving just a bit less as he continues to suck in air. “PR, pending a better idea. Because I need someone to formally complain to about you being an asshole.”

That startles a sharp bark of laughter out of Derek. “As alpha, your complaint is noted.”

“See, but that feels like a conflict of interest. You're not going to use appropriate disciplinary action on yourself.”

“If you have the breath to complain, you have the breath to run.”

“Oh fuck.” Stiles plants his feet, lungs still aching. “Nuh uh, no way. I'm designating Danny as the PR department. I'm gonna complain to Danny about you being a dick and then he’s gonna look at you all disappointed. Do you want Danny to be disappointed in you, Sourwolf?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You're such a baby. Alright, get on.” He turns his back and holds his arms out slightly behind him, wiggling his fingers. 

No. No way is he offering what Stiles thinks he’s offering. “Are you trying to give me a wolfy back ride?” he asks, voice cracking high in delight.

He can hear the eye roll. “I don't want everyone else to get too far ahead. I can take it back and make you run-”

“No, no!” Stiles lurches forward, planting his hands on Derek’s shoulders. “So how does this work, you just want me to climb up, or-?”

“Just jump, Stiles.”

On instinct, Stiles follows the thread of Alpha command in Derek's voice, jumping up and clamping his legs around Derek’s sides as Derek grabs him under the thighs. “Oh, dude, not cool. I can't believe you actually got me with The Voice.”

“You're Pack, aren't you?”

The matter-of-fact certainty, makes Stiles choke up for a moment. “I- Yeah. I am. Thanks, Derek.”

“No problem.” Stiles hears the way Derek’s smirk curls around his voice as he shifts his stance. “Hold on tight, spider monkey.”

“Ha! You said you hated those movi- oh shit.” The rest of Stiles’ jab is lost to him clamping his arms around Derek’s neck as he takes off at a sprint into the woods.

Stiles might wake up in a moaning, regretful heap tomorrow morning, swearing that he’ll never join a full moon run again (knowing full well he’ll be here next month). But right now, in this moment, all Stiles knows is that he wouldn't give up this flying feeling for the best Werewolf-Bullshit™-free life in the world.